godsofthepillowtalk

[earlysunshines]

fright night

kim minji x reader

synopsis: in which your university’s halloween festival leads to you and minji beating around the bush — finally.

warnings: making out. like the best makeout scene i've written in a bit i think. ohmygdoajsdf ; minji is a loooooser but we all know this ; pining ; dumb gay women ; FLIRTING. they want each other SO BAD i was giggling writing this im ngl ; SO cute i loved writing this ohmygod ; anything else not mentioned ; not proofread

a/n: lately i’ve been going insane bc of minji like she’s just so gf… so… she’s so… i need her

kim minji is an idiot, she’s literally the dumbest person you know.

well, academically she’s actually a genius, but she’s clumsy and clueless nine times out of ten. unfortunately yet fortunately(?) for her, this is only more of the reason for you to be completely in love with her.

which is why your roommate is dealing with another one of your little attempts to deny your feelings again.

“i think i should just die.” you groan into yunjin’s bed. she watches you, your body lifeless after you roll over to face the ceiling. “everything was just normal.”

“‘just’ as in… a month ago…?” your roommate snickers, folding a t-shirt and placing it next to your torso. “i think you’re the only person i know who doesn’t enjoy being in love.”

yes: you’re in love with kim minji.

no: you do not enjoy being in love with her at all.

it’s not that she’s an asshole, it’s just the fact that everyone is also in love with her. she quite literally has a line of girls (and men, but none of them stand a chance) waiting for her. she’s kim minji, one of your mutual friends who happens to be the captain of the university’s soccer team—which is why the clumsy aspect of her is often overlooked. so to most, she’s just hot, but she’s more to you, much more.

and you? you’re just trying to get by. you’re not in the spotlight, you haven’t gotten hit on in months — you and minji are two worlds apart.

“this is a waste of time. she only sees me as a friend, she’s cute and athletic. compared to her the most astonishing thing i can do is make a t-shirt and wide-legged jeans to sell on depop.”

“you should make a t-shirt that says ‘kim minji i want you so bad please marry me—“

yunjin is cut off when her just-folded shirt is thrown right at her face. she groans and throws it right back at you.

“i hope you get the same fate as a side character in a horror film.” you groan, sitting up and glaring at her.

“aw, thanks.” she says dryly, rolling her eyes. “hey, speaking of horror… the halloween festival is soon. are you going?”

“i fear.” you sigh, shoulders sinking a bit.

your partner in crime outside of your dorm, danielle, had convinced you with a look filled with sparkly eyes and a sweet smile to help out with face painting. there would be a variety of people passing by and you were notoriously known for being able to draw really well despite being a fashion major. “art is art,” danielle had shrugged, and so she bribed you with some coffee to really commit to it.

“danielle got me to do the face painting stall.”

yunjin’s eyes widen as she sets down a sweater. “did she?”

“yeah. i’m the only one within the circle – other than hanni – who can draw more than a stick figure.”

“you’ve got that right.” yunjin snickers. “you think your wife will be there?”

“minji?” you tilt your head, to which yunjin responds with a raised brow. she got you there. “oh, um. maybe? why?”

“don’t act all unbothered now.” your roommate scoots you over so she can pick up a pile and stack them somewhere else. “if she’s also doing something for the event, i see it as an opportunity.”

“why would i willingly do that to myself? im going to look desperate.”

“minji is an idiot, we both know that. why would it matter? i think she’d be flattered to have you there. hasn’t she literally taken you home like… three times? girl, stop overthinking.” yunjin scoffs. “plus, you never look desperate. you’re a little too good at acting like you don’t care. don’t you think you’re driving her away? it’s like, you’re so normal and even distant in real life, i don’t want to say nonchalant because it’ll boost your ego, but unfortunately, that’s what you are.”

“you—“ yunjin raises both brows as you start to speak.

“she probably wants you too. i’ve noticed you guys talking more — don’t think i don’t notice you guys next to each other in between classes, even if it’s with your circle. kazuha asked if you were dating actually.”

“really?”

yunjin giggles, turning away from her closer and back at you. she stands right in front of you, towering over and looking into your eyes scarily.

“you want that girl so bad.”

“i can’t.”

“no, no. listen to me, you’re going to take this halloween thing as an advantage to make a move and also look hot. i don’t know how many more complaints about you being a bomosexual i can take.”

“i hate you.”

“okay then pay full rent.”

“i love you?”

yunjin laughs, picking up another pile of clothes and putting it away.

—

hanni is the one to text you out of nowhere the day after, something about “minji wanted you to eat with us, but heeseung is at the cafe.” 

you squint at the message. you had just reached your class, and now you’re being invited over to grab a bite with the girl you want so bad while the guy who wants you so bad is in the same area. there is no way you should be saying yes, you can’t. one: you need to get over minji. she’s out of reach, a mere dream. two: heeseung will be checking you out the whole time and might throw in a compliment or two. 

“i’ll be there in five.” you respond, sighing and pinching the bridge of your nose.

…

the café seems a little busy, but that’s not surprising considering it’s around lunchtime and the cafe is not too far from the university. the second you step in, your eyes find minji across the room. she’s mid-laugh with hanni, but the moment she spots you, her smile stretches wider, something bright and giddy in her gaze. it’s that soft, familiar look she gets sometimes—too open, too much—but you’re just as bad, trying not to look like you’re seconds away from smiling like an idiot as you walk up.

“hey, you,” she greets, her voice warm as she sidles closer, her shoulder bumping yours as you both look over the menu.

“hey loser,” you reply, nudging her back a little harder, a playful rhythm forming between you. she pushes back with a smile, and you retaliate, each shove barely more than an excuse to keep lingering in that small space between you two. she laughs, cheeks a little flushed, and you can’t help but feel like coming over was the better decision.

you order first, dismissing minji’s offer to pay for your lunch. she frowns but nonetheless lets you order first. you order a sundried tomato and mozzarella panini, stepping to the side after and glancing at minji, who’s still staring at the menu.

hanni and danielle have already ordered, so you wait near the counter for minji so the two of you can meet up with the rest together. 

much to your dismay, heeseung’s voice breaks through your little bubble. he steps closer, leaning against the counter a little too casually. “so, do you always come here, or did you just need an excuse?” his smile is easy, maybe a little too practiced, and his gaze lingers as he looks you up and down, more intense than friendly. 

you try not to visibly cringe, offering him a polite smile. “not really—just here with friends today,” you say, keeping your tone light but cool. but he doesn’t quite take the hint, his eyes not quite leaving yours. he definitely thinks there’s something in the air, something other than his cologne that is way too strong for your liking.

“you look cute.”

“oh um, thanks?” you purse you lips into a forced smile, watching him smirk confidently. 

“what are your plans after this? got class?”

before you can think of another way to steer the conversation away, you feel an arm slip around your waist, pulling you close, and you look over to find minji at your side. her smile is wide and a little mischievous, and there’s a hint of something defiant in her gaze as she looks right past heeseung, keeping her hand snug on your hip.

“oh, y/n!” she says brightly, voice layered with just enough enthusiasm to sound like a joke but there’s an edge that makes it feel like more. “i remembered something so funny, it’s about yunjin. you know, during practice she got hit in the head.”

she doesn’t even look at heeseung as she tugs you back toward your group, keeping her arm around you a beat longer than necessary. heeseung’s face twists slightly, frustration crossing his features, but minji doesn’t give him a second glance. she launches into a conversation about her classes, her hand slipping away from your waist as she nudges you with her shoulder once more, an unmistakable grin still tugging at her lips.

you two get the chance to converse and danielle and hanni, who are more than happy to have you there. you can feel heeseung and his group eyeing you from a mile away, but that doesn’t matter because minji is in front of you and keeping eye contact the whole time you complain about him.

both your order and minji’s are called out at the same time and for a second, it’s just the two of you again as you both walk up to the counter. her voice and her closeness are enough to erase the last few awkward moments.

 “you looked like you were having fun back there,” she murmurs, half-laughing, and you can tell by the gleam in her eyes that she noticed everything. 

you laugh, trying to shrug it off. “couldn’t have done it without you,” you say, brushing her shoulder with yours. she looks down, almost bashfully, a hint of pink coloring her cheeks as she smiles—a smile that lingers long after heeseung fades into the background once again and you two rejoin the others.

…

before you make an excuse to leave, although it’s not really an excuse more than a complaint about your professor assigning a grueling reading, you hug everyone. when it’s you and minji, you two hold onto each other for a split second longer than social norms until she pulls away. minji smells like flowers and vanilla – you could drown in her scent.

“are you going to the halloween festival this weekend?”

“oh, yeah. danielle is forcing me to volunteer.”

“that’s funny,” minji chuckles, “because hanni is forcing me too.”

“is that so?”

“uh huh, pumpkin carving moderator or something.” she says, biting the inside of your lip. “we should um, do you wanna walk around after? maybe drop your shift early and i’ll do the same.”

you grin, pushing minji’s shoulder with two fingers playfully.

“couldn’t find any other girl lined up for you to hangout with?”

“what other girls?” minji asks, genuinely confused. 

you’re being an idiot. yunjin would so punch you in the face right now, so you come to your senses.

“i– nevermind. i’ll see you around.”

minji waves. “bye.”

…

after you leave, minji settles into her seat beside hanni and danielle, trying to keep her expression neutral. she fails, the smile on her face noticeably smaller and her eyes a little more dim. her friends have known her too long; hanni catches on first, a knowing smirk spreading across her face.

“you look like a disappointed puppy,” hanni says, nudging minji with a grin.

“what? no,” minji replies, clearly flustered. “what are you saying bro.”

“you were practically glowing when y/n walked in,” hanni teases, leaning in. “and then suddenly turned into a sad little puddle when she left. you want her soooo bad.”

minji’s cheeks turn a soft shade of pink, and she tries to laugh it off, glancing at danielle as if for backup. but danielle’s watching her too, a gentle, encouraging look on her face.

“it’s okay, minji,” danielle says softly. “it’s… pretty obvious, you know? you like y/n a lot.”

minji rolls her eyes, looking away. “maybe i do. but it doesn’t matter. y/n’s just… she’s too… normal, you know? she’s always so unbothered, so unfazed by anything. she probably doesn’t even want me. i’m always chasing her.”

danielle shakes her head, a knowing smile touching her lips. “i wouldn’t be so sure, minji. just because y/n’s good at hiding her feelings doesn’t mean she doesn’t have them.” she places a reassuring hand on minji’s arm. “trust me, i think there’s more there than you realize.”

minji lets out a small sigh, her gaze dropping to her hands. “it’s just… sometimes it feels like i’m the only one who’s feeling this way, you know? like i’m the only one getting flustered or waiting for her to look at me like… like i don’t know, she see’s me as a good friend.”

hanni wraps an arm around her, squeezing her shoulder. “please. y/n’s about as subtle as you when you’re around. i don’t know how you don’t see it.”

danielle laughs softly, nodding. “give it time, minji. y/n might just need a little nudge, and besides…” she pauses, glancing around conspiratorially before leaning in. “if y/n didn’t feel something, you wouldn’t have caught her staring at you like that when she thought no one was watching. plus, the whole nudging your shoulders the whole time. you two are like fucking thirteen year olds in love, it’s kind of gross.”

minji looks up, hope flickering in her eyes as a faint, shy smile tugs at her lips. maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t imagining it.

—

“im literally going to kill myself.” is the first thing yunjin hears when you get home, followed by you dropping your bag and crashing against her on your couch.

“girl what happened?”

“kim fucking minji. she’s insane, she wants me to die, i can’t do this, i resign from being a lesbian can i please resign.”

“well!” yunjin laughs, pulling you in. you lean on her shoulder and cover your face with your hands. “do you want to tell me what happened?”

through your hands, your voice is muffled as you explain, “basically hanni invited me to grab lunch with her and dani and minji. she looked so cute and like, we kept bumping shoulders and she kept smiling when she did it and then i ordered and—”

“you’re rambling–”

“and then i waited for my order while she ordered and heeseung started flirting with me,”

“ew, heeseung?”

“the bane of my existence— yes. i told him i was a lesbian at least three times! oh my god, anyway that doesn’t even matter, i don’t even care because—yunjin. huh yunjin.”

yunjin blinks at you as you stand up, pacing back and forth on the carpet now. she can’t help but laugh at you when you stop in front of her and groan, “jennifer huh.”

“wow, this must be serious.”

“minji fucking grabbed me by the waist like some wattpad story and then kinda shooed heeseung away and yunjin her hands are so nice and they were on my waist and i want her so bad. yeah. i’m gonna just die.”

yunjin pulls you by the wrist so you’re back next to her. she looks at you with a raised brow, waiting for you to recover from your high (if that counts as a high, but maybe you’re just insane). 

“she wants you.”

“she’s playing with me.”

“you’re insane. you know hanni asked if me if you like minji earlier, right? talking about how minji looked so devastated after you left.”

“what?”

“oh my god. you know what, i’m done with you. you’re such an idiot that it’s pissing me off.”

you whine, pulling yunjin by her forearm and pulling her back, which earns a scoff. yunjin looks at your little pout and puppy eyes, but doesn’t give in. instead, she pushes you off, leaving you to deal with the events of the day on your own.

before she disappears into her room, she sighs, “you’re gay and useless.”

you sink into the couch a little more. “thanks.” 

—

the weekend comes by all too fast. even with your time consuming assignments, it feels like you’ve blinked and now you have to deal with the whole festival.

you’re in a snug white cropped baby tee that shows a decent amount of your abdomen, your hair is styled just a bit, and the makeup on your face is a little more glittery and highlighted than usual. on your back there’s angel wings that complete the look. 

(“she’s going to want you so bad, trust me.” yunjin assures as she does your eye makeup.

it’s nothing much, just some darker warm tones with a faint hint of purple and highlighter to make you really look like an angel.

“and…” yunjin adds a bit of highlighter to your cheekbones. she pulls away and gazes at her work, bringing her pointer to her lips and biting on it jokingly. “heyyy gorgeous.”

“shut up.”

“minji’s going to want you so bad.”

“shut. up.”)

yunjin drives the two of you to the festival, she also looks really good. while you’re an angel, she’s a devil, showing off her toned body from soccer so she can pick up some girls that night.

(“you’re such a hoe.” you groan, doing her makeup to make her eyes smoky and lips plump. 

she rolls her eyes while putting on her little horns in her hair, checking herself out in the mirror. 

“how do i look?”

“like a hoe.” you assure firmly, earning a shove. then, you slide a finger down her collarbone teasingly, winking at her. “a really hot one.”

your roommate chuckles. “save that for minji, y/n.”

“i hate you.”)

the halloween festival is lively, lights flickering under dark skies, and you slip through the crowd in your angel costume with yunjin. you’re not even sure if anyone’s noticed your costume details, but the reactions make it clear you look… well, good. or maybe that’s just yunjin who’s doing the attracting, but a man winks directly at you and you have to force back a look of disgust.

as you make your way to the face-painting stall, you catch sight of minji leaning against a booth, dressed as patrick bateman. she’s really hot, that’s for sure, and it’s nothing new. the loose, slightly unbuttoned dress shirt shows her collarbone, and you can’t help but think about how your lips would feel on them. the loosened tie around her neck makes her look really good; you feel like she’s pulling you in without trying. despite the purposeful tousled look, she looks effortlessly put-together, but the smudge of fake blood on her cheek adds a wild edge (and makes her look even hotter). 

her eyes land on you, and her expression shifts just slightly before she pushes off the booth, walking over with a slight smirk.

“wow,” she says, looking you up and down in a way that feels way too intense. “you’re really… pulling off that angel look. you look really good, y/n.”

you giggle, trying to play it cool. “you look pretty good yourself,” you reply, letting your gaze drift over her from the blood on her cheek to the undone buttons of her shirt. “i didn’t know patrick bateman could look this… hot.”

a faint flush creeps onto her cheeks, and she lets out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “yeah, well, didn’t know ‘angelic’ could look so irresistible,” she teases, but her voice softens as her eyes linger on you.

for a beat, the two of you just stand there, the energy between you charged. you’re painfully aware of the way she’s looking at you—like she’s holding back from saying or doing something, thouh—and you can’t stop yourself from mirroring that, a hint of want in your gaze. she clears her throat, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“well, i better get to moderating— i don’t want people accidentally slicing themselves instead of a pumpkin.” she murmurs, finally breaking eye contact but not before giving you one last once-over, her eyes lingering a moment longer than necessary. she brings her hand to your hair, using a finger to push away some of the strands framing your face. you gulp a bit, then again after she brushes her knuckles against your cheek. “i like this. the makeup.”

i like you. you fight back the confession.

“thanks.” you swallow, nodding. “well, i should,” you start, playing with her tie out of a burst of confidence. you tug on it just a little, catching her by surprise. her breath hitches just barely. “--get going. i’ll see you.” you say, dropping the piece of fabric in your hand. 

as you head toward your booth, the thrill from your brief encounter with minji lingers, leaving you more than a little distracted and hoping she feels it too.

…

you’ve painted more faces than you can count on one hand in only an hour, much to your surprise. if you were to do this full time you’d for sure develop arthritis the second week on the job. 

after your tenth person — some kid who just wanted two flowers on her cheeks — danielle taps your shoulder. you turn around, humming in response.

“you look beat,” she says.

your shoulders are drooping, your posture is much worse than when you started, and you’re moving your wrist in a every angle to stretch it out and relieve the soreness. 

“you think?”

“hanni says she’ll be over in a bit.” danielle assures, patting you on the back and massaging your back lightly. “the stall will close soon so we can all hangout after.”

“thank god. are the other activities closed?”

“not until before midnight – i think.” you sigh in relief, but danielle adds, “could you grab some stuff from the supply closet though? maybe some more white, blue, and red paint? maybe grab yellow and green too.”

she gives you those eyes again, earning a chuckle. “yeah, yeah. okay.”

“great! just go down and turn right, there’s a brown shed — it’s not creepy, i swear. it’s kind of modern actually.”

“something tells me you’re lying.”

“me? lying?” 

you roll your eyes and stand up, then you trudge on over down the gravel. you roll your shoulders back and massage your neck a bit, then fix your costume a bit. it’s funny; you’re at a whole festival and this is the only time you’re exposed to the groups of people, bright lights, and excitement all around — at least for longer than a minute.

turning the corner you reach a shed, one that matches danielle’s description. 

danielle isn’t a liar, she never lies — well, she never lies about anything serious. it’s quite modern inside, seemingly new due to the fresh paint smell. it’s lined with wooden shelves, each holding different items. the corners are filled with various decorations, ranging from not only halloween decor but also christmas and even valentines day themed trinkets. you laugh at the little cupid poster in the back, but recollect yourself and focus on the “task” at hand.

you have to rummage through the costumes in the corner to find a small box with face paint in it. the light in the shed isn’t on (there isn’t a switch, only some rustic-type light hanging from above in the middle of the building), so you use your flashlight to help you see clearer. 

it takes a bit more time to find the yellow bottle of paint, which is in your hand until you drop it from the sound of the door opening so suddenly.

you jump, gasping ever so lightly before turning around to see a very striking patrick bateman.

minji stands in the doorway, still looking as good as before, looking at you with a perplexed expression.

“what are you doing here?” she asks, looking around the area.

“minji,” you close your eyes, “you scared the shit out of me!”

“i’m sorry…” she says, jutting out her bottom lip and suddenly every ounce of fear is drained from your body. “i didn’t know you were in here.”

“danielle sent me to get more paint.”

“that's funny,” minji steps towards you, looking at the two paint bottles on the floor. “hanni sent me to grab trash bags.”

you don’t respond for a second because minji steps under the antique light above her. it illuminates her face in the best way possible, highlighting the smeared on fake blood and her features. you feel your throat tightening as you stare.

minji’s gaze softens, she steps closer.

“do you know where i could find trash—”

“yes, um, yeah, probably in the corner.” you choke out.

she chuckles, you swallow lightly. 

you take the stretch of silence to pick up the two bottles that had dropped out your hand and turn the flash on your phone off. you fix your tank top because minji is still within radius, but she’s busy looking for the trash bags, still.

“i’ll see you later?” you say softly. minji’s head whips around, and there’s a slight frown on her face. before she can respond, you hear a click coming from the door, then stare at the handle with furrowed brows. you reach over to twist the knob, but it barely budges. “what the hell?”

“what?”

“i think it’s locked. did you lock it?”

she shakes her head, her brow furrowing as she steps over, nudging you aside to try the handle herself. she pulls, twisting the knob a little harder than you did, but the door still doesn’t move an inch. 

“it’s locked.” she mutters, glancing at you with a hint of worry. “i think we’re stuck.”

you both stare at each other for a beat, the realization sinking in, and suddenly the small shed feels much smaller. you look away first, sighing before turning on your phone.

“i’ll call danielle.” you say, voice steady, though there’s a slight tremor as you dial.

“i’ll try hanni.”

you both dial. danielle doesn’t answer and you huff. you wait for minji, her phone against her ear, and the defeated groan is enough to tell you whether hanni answered or not.

“i guess they’re busy.” minji says, slipping her phone back into her pocket. 

for a moment, silence stretches between you both again, an awkward tension settling in. minji shifts, making a weird noise as she brushes dust off her shirt. you can’t help but find it cute. then she adjusts her loose collar, making you clear your throat and glancing around for any other possible way out; there’s none.

the only thing you catch is a window, a window that’s far too small and high for anything to happen.

“we’re stuck.” you mutter, looking back at minji.

“do you think dani and hanni will realize we’re missing?”

“they might be busy…” you pinch the bridge of your nose, resting your head against the door. “i have no idea how we’ll get out.”

you’re stuck with minji. kim minji. the hottest and cutest girl you’ve ever laid eyes on. the girl you think of way too much for it to be platonic. the girl who’s in a costume that genuinely has you considering ruining a friendship. the girl who’s leaning back against the shelf behind her right now, crossing her arms, and who’s eyes are flickering over you as she smiles.

“your costume is really something.” her voice is casual, like you’re not stuck in a shed. there’s also a warmth in her tone that isn’t hidden in the slightest. “i like it a lot. you look heavenly.”

if minji’s trying to ease the tension, she’s doing it very well. her stupid dad joke earns a laugh from you, and now you’re leaning against the door with one side of your body as you keep eye contact.

“thank you minji, your looks could really kill.”

she laughs, gums showing and eyes crinkling. you want her so bad. 

“that one was worse than mine.”

“no it wasn’t!”

she rolls her eyes. “it was.” she steps closer leaning her head against the same door and staring hard at every single feature of your face. she glances at your lips briefly, then back up. “bet you’ve turned more than a few heads tonight.”

“maybe,” you feel your voice growing quieter. “but i was stuck at the booth.”

“if i were at the booth i think i’d purposely stay just to see you. you look really pretty tonight y/n, i mean it.”

you blush. “maybe.” there’s a grin that you can’t keep off your face. “i’d say the same for you.”

she chuckles again, looking down at her slightly blood-stained dress shirt. “yeah, i think i took the pumpkin carving part a bit too seriously. got more guts on me than on the pumpkins.” she holds up her hands, still faintly stained with an orange hue, and shakes her head. “i’ll probably smell like pumpkins for a week.”

minji watches you turn to the side, covering your mouth to stifle a giggle. 

turning back, you’re mid-laugh when your eyes catch on a smudge of blood across minji’s cheek, just barely out of place. your hand moves without thinking, reaching up to brush it away with your thumb. the laughter fades, the shed shrinking around you, and everything slows, the only movement her skin warming under your touch.

minji’s gaze locks onto yours, intense and unblinking, and there’s something behind it that makes your heart skip. her eyes are barely liddied now, she swallows, biting down on the inside of her lip, before a slow, uncertain smile begins to take over her face. 

“you look so good right now,” she murmurs, her voice low, almost rough. her hand reaches up, covering yours, holding it there against her cheek, like she’s trying to commit the moment to memory, almost like it’ll end anytime – soon, or now.

you’re close enough to feel her breath, the slight catch in it. “good enough for you?” you ask softly, a smile playing at your lips, your words teasing, but your heart racing.

she chuckles, but it’s quiet, and her gaze doesn’t waver. “better than good,” she whispers, her hand falling from yours, trailing down to your waist, her fingers grazing the bare skin there, gentle, hesitant, like she’s testing the feel of you, seeing if you’ll pull away, but you don’t. minji smirks. “are you… seeing anyone?”

the question hangs between you, heavy and thrilling. you shake your head, your pulse pounding beneath her touch. “no one at all.”

she exhales, her voice barely above a whisper. “good.” her fingers press into your waist just a little more, her gaze flickering down to your lips, and you watch, almost dizzy, as she wets her own, her tongue darting out, just barely, the movement so subtle you’d miss it if you weren’t so close.

your hand moves from her cheek, trailing slowly down to the open collar of her shirt, brushing along her collarbone. her breath hitches, and her head tilts slightly, just enough for your fingers to press against her skin, her eyes closing for the briefest moment before she meets your gaze again. you don’t realize how close you’ve drawn until you feel her breath warm against your lips.

she glances at your lips for what seems the tenth time. you two are clearly vibrating on the same wave length, it’s evident.

then, with the faintest, almost imperceptible smile, minji closes the space between you, her mouth soft, warm, pressing into yours, a little unsure, like she’s savoring every second of it. her hand at your waist tightens, pulling you closer, her fingertips grazing the curve of your hip as she leans in, her other hand moving to cradle the side of your face, her thumb grazing your cheek. the world around you slips away, and all that’s left is her—the warmth of her lips, the feeling of her touch, and the overwhelming sense that every daydream you had is getting outdone by this moment. this real moment.

it’s so real when she pulls away with rosy cheeks. she looks at you nervously, as if she didn’t just take the oxygen from your lungs.

“was that alright?” she asks, sounding unsure. it’s cute, she’s cute, god she’s so cute.

“perfect.” you mumble.

your hand moves to where her tie is, it’s loose around her collar, making it easier for you to tug her right back into you. she gasps from surprise and groans into your lips, kissing you hard.

her fingers press into your skin and you shiver, parting your lips ever so slightly to sigh softly. minji smirks against your skin, trailing to your jawline with light pecks as you release your grip on her tie and snake your hand around her neck.

“i’ve–” a kiss to the side of your throat, “wanted to—” a kiss lower, “do this for—” and a soft kiss to the base of your neck, “so long.” 

your breath shakes after she finishes the sentence, she kisses your neck once more.

minji parts, moving you over so you’re is against some random, heavy box on the side of the shed and now both arms are around your neck. you’re a few more kisses in, mixed with content sighs and groans and handfuls of hair before you two almost bite each other’s lips off from the sound of the door opening. 

you barely have time to pull away, minji’s lips are still a breath from yours, her hand lingering at your waist. you both turn to see danielle, hanni, and yunjin standing in the doorway, eyes wide. you and minji spring apart, the movement so fast that it would be funny if you were witnessing the situation.

danielle’s shock morphs into a grin as she exchanges a look with hanni, and yunjin just has a hand over her mouth.

hanni’s mouth drops open before breaking into a smirk, her eyes flickering with pure satisfaction. 

“oh my god.” hanni breathes, relief in her voice. “it actually worked.”

before you or minji can respond, utterly confused considering they all look relieved rather than disgusted, yunjin takes one look at you and minji and bursts out laughing,

“i knew it! i knew you two would finally do something if we left you alone long enough.”

minji blinks, looking as if she’s still processing. you glance between them, your cheeks warm. “what?” you say exasperatedly, “what do you mean ‘finally’? what— what is all this?”

The three of them exchange looks before danielle nudges yunjin forward, her grin growing. “so uh, we might’ve had a little something to do with the door locking. maybe on purpose. maybe. perchance.”

“definitely on purpose.” hanni adds, crossing her arms. “we were all tired of watching you guys dance around your feelings. you two needed a push.”

minji stares at them with a mix of embarrassment and dawning realizaiton. then she glances at you, her face flushing before turning back to the trio.

“you all planned this?”

hanni nods, looking like she’s enjoying this way too much. “you guys are hopeless. you know? everyone could see that you two wanted each other except you two. who the hell nudges their friends like that? you both are like middle schoolers with their first crush.”

you exchange yet another glance with minji, who’s biting her lip. there’s a surprise mirroring on her face, and honestly it’s really cute. adorably cute. 

despite all the embarrassment, you can’t help but laugh, a little breathless.

“so… this was all a setup?” minji says, looking at them with a half-laugh, half-disbelieving shake of her head.

danielle shrugs, stepping aside to give you both room to leave the shed. “well, it worked, didn’t it?”

yunjin’s grin is teasing as she waves you both out, her eyes bright with excitement. “yeah, finally,” she echoes, a satisfied smirk on her face. you glance at minji, who’s still looking at you, and a shy, almost playful smile tugs at her lips.

and as you both step out of the shed, shoulder to shoulder, the knowing smiles of your friends after they glance behind, there’s a giddiness accompanying the space between you and minji.

they all explain something about your booths being over because you two were too busy making out — you barely listen — and minji nudges your shoulder again when they’re far enough to not hear her.

you turn, tilting your head a bit before she leans down a bit to mumble, “you know, i heard that if you don’t kiss me again, for at least an hour, bloody mary might show up in your room tonight.”

a laugh escapes your lips and you push minji, who’s grinning at you like an idiot. you roll your eyes and reach out to hold her hand, she squeezes yours excitedly. 

“that’s a new one. are you sure it’s true?”

minji quickly cups your cheek and steals a kiss, parting away to make sure your friends don’t turn around and tease you two relentlessly.

“that one just got rid of all the bad energy from before.”

“what bad energy?”

“the one that’s building up every second you don’t kiss me. it also builds up if you don’t go out with me for lunch tomorrow. or ever.”

you roll your eyes once more, then glance at your friends before kissing minji’s cheek.

“i can’t risk any of that, can i?”

[revelboo]

Happy Late(?) Birthday!I noticed you do mass displacement and i absoluly adore it!Everybody prefers holoforms and i cant seem to find people who do mass displacement alot!Maybe something with Jazz with mass displacement?

I can write either, but I’ve always preferred mass displacement/shift 😁

Over It Now Pt 7

IDW Jazz x Reader

• Snagging an energon cube, he almost misses Blaster as the other mech falls into step beside him. “Haven’t seen you about in a while,” Blaster says, one corner of his mouth twisted up in a half smile that doesn’t dull the edge in his voice. Especially when Blaster very deliberately vents and he knows he should have hit the wash racks. Your scent where he’d handled you is clinging to him still, faint enough he’d felt safe not scrubbing it off. And truth be told, he hadn’t wanted to. Wanted to keep the little reminder of you. “If command figures out what you’re up to, your little pet’s going to be on lockdown like the rest. You know that, right?”

• Tension drawing him taut, his lazy smile doesn’t waver even as he knows he’s made a mistake. A dangerous one. Of course he knows about Optimus’s mandate, but he’s watching you. Knows you haven’t tried to betray his trust, yet. And he can’t just take away your freedom for his mistake. He’d never been great at following orders, anyway. “No idea what you’re on about, pal.”

• “Yeah, sure.” Blaster shakes his head as he walks away, leaving the unsaid liar hanging between them. “Didn’t figure you for the selfish type.” Tipping back the energon he almost laughs because Blaster has no idea how selfish he can be. That he likes your company. That you see right through him when he’s lying and call him out on it. That maybe you already have guessed the truth about his smile and that you wouldn’t judge him if he dropped the act. Didn’t need him to keep that smile firmly in place just so you feel better.

• Leaving the base, he knows exactly where he’s going as soon as he transforms, wheels hitting asphalt. Driven this road so many times it’s almost habit now. How long has it been since he spent an actual night in his own berth rather than cramped in his alt mode in your drive way? He should resent that, but he just needs to see you. Check that you’re okay and hear your voice. You’d gotten under his plating at some point, becoming a necessity in his routine.

• When had you started looking forward to seeing your liar? You’re not sure, but it had been so subtle a slide you hadn’t even noticed at first. Heart beating a little faster as you see him pull down your wooded driveway, a breathless sort of pleasure spilling through you that’s absolutely silly, because it feels suspiciously like a crush. Like you like him, a compulsively lying, too charming for his own good alien. And you freeze as he transforms, his lips in a thin line before he notices you and grins crookedly. Because you realize that’s exactly right. You like him.

• “Out here waiting on me, kitten?” Kneeling, he reaches out to brush the back of his servo against your cheek and you lean away, eyes wide. Avoiding his touch just like you’d done before you’d finally gotten used to him. Face reddening, your eyes drop to your hands folded in your lap. “Suddenly shy?” He teases to hide his own discomfort, because why now? Why avoid his touch? Reaching to touch your arm and his smile almost fails completely at how cold your skin is. How long have been sitting out here waiting for him?

• It’s not like you can just tell him why you’re so flustered. You’re definitely not in the mood to be laughed at, even if you don’t think he actually would laugh at your feelings. He’s staring at you, smile wavering and you have to say something. Anything but blurt out the truth. You inhale when he reaches for your cheek again and then just becomes smaller so fast your own stomach drops and you squeeze your eyes shut as motion sickness smacks you silly. And then a warm hand cups your cheek. When you open your eyes, he’s right there. Somehow much smaller as he moves his hand to press his fingers against your throat and you can’t move, can’t breathe. “You shouldn’t be out here, doll,” he says, the words almost a growl, sounding concerned now not teasing.

• You’re just staring up at him and it clicks. He’s shocked you with mass displacing and it’d be funny if he wasn’t so worried. You’re always colder than him, but never this chilled and you’d made it abundantly clear all the times you’d leaned into him that you like his body heat. So he slides his hands down to your sides and lifts you carefully from your chair, ignoring the little sound of protest as he sits down and pulls you into his lap, his chin on top of your head and his arms curled around you. Playing heater as your stiff body slowly relaxes in his grip. “Jazz, a little cold won’t kill me,” you mutter, shivering when he catches both of your little hands in one of his, rumbling at how icy those tiny fingers are.

• “Humor me,” he says, venting as he carefully rubs his servos over your hands and you relax further. Turn your little face into his neck until he can feel your cold cheek against his mesh, the warmth of your breath. And becomes very aware of the softness of you against him, the way your little form fits against his as he rubs his chin against the softness of your hair and his own tension eases. It’s the contact, spreading warm through him, because how long has it been since he’s held someone else? Been able to actually relax, not having to constantly play a part? You need his heat, but he needs this, his arms tightening around you. Your scent and touch soothing old wounds that had never quite healed.

Previous

[volcanoesmelting]

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐘 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐄 | 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺 𝖺𝗎

— 02. THE POD EPISODE

summary - you and spencer talk, sort of, but things still feel off.

pairing - spencer agnew x (fem!)reader

content warnings & tags - fem pronouns / angst / fluff / jealousy / potentially unrequited love / reader is a tiktoker/comedian who has freelanced at smosh for a year / lmk if i missed anything!

a/n: this chapter has some actual writing, lol. if you are an employee of smosh or affiliated with them do not read this- for both your sanity and my own.

[ SmoshCast Uploaded: Clearing The Air... | Smosh Mouth 58 ]

EARLIER THAT DAY

SPENCER AGNEW SENT YOU A MESSAGE ON TEAMS!

​​Outside of Spencer's office, you linger for a moment, trying and failing to pre-plan out this whole conversation in your head. You watch him as he stares at one of his screens, headphones on. 

How do you ask if things are weird without making them so? Sucking it up, you rap your knuckles against the frame, announcing yourself. He hears you through the massive headphones over his ears, pulling them to sit around his neck as he turns to look. 

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

You pause, rocking on your heels before entering and plopping down in the seat beside your friend—the one that you’ve spent hours just silently watching him cut and splice and sync audio in. Your eyes scan the space as if it could've changed all that much in the past few weeks. Spencer goes back to looking over a final edit for a games video.

“Feels like it’s been ages since I've been in here.”

He nods, “Yeah, feels that way.”

“I’ve been a little caught up recently, with work and stuff.”

“Stuff,” he sighs, then, perhaps a little snippily, adds, “Yeah, I've seen your Instagram.”

He still isn’t looking at you. You wince. 

You ask what you came here to, hoping it’ll help smooth things over, “You wanna get dinner tonight?”

Finally, thankfully, he looks at you. “Yeah?”

“Then you can meet Cooper, if you want.”

“Cooper…” for an unknown reason, he seems to clam up a tiny bit once again. His eyes go back to the screen, typing notes for the final polish, “That’s the guy?”

You try to approach it as if you're setting out cheese in a mouse trap, hoping to lure him in, “Yeah, I think the two of you will get along really well. You’re a lot alike.”

You play a little dirty, “Wanna see a picture of his cat?”

That draws his attention. He shrugs, but you know you've got him. “Sure.”

You pull your phone out, scrolling to find a recent photo of her. Leaning in close to show him, your shoulders brush. “This is Marty.”

Spencer gives in further, smiling a little as he says, “That is a pretty cute cat.”

“Told you,” you laugh slightly. 

The conversation wanes there. The air is quiet for a moment as you look at each other—so very close—your smiles tapering off. You watch him as he watches you, each of you waiting for the other to break the silence. 

You count off the seconds, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, and when you get to fifteen, you break eye contact and speak, “I’m sorry that I haven’t been a very good friend as of late.”

He scratches at his beard, sighing, “It’s fine, I get it. We’re adults; we have other priorities.”

“Yeah, but you are one of my top ones. Easy.” You bump your shoulder into his, “So, dinner?”

He looks at you. “Sure.”

You try to take it as a win, despite the swirling feeling of anxiety that still sits in your stomach. Setting your hand on his arm, you give him an appreciative squeeze as you get up. 

“I’ll text you so we can pin down details, I've gotta be on set.”

A/N: thank you for reading! if you'd like to be tagged let me know!

TAG LIST: @missflufffanfics @babble28

[burningcheese-merchant]

"Hair Care" - BurningCheese Short #6

I promised a "Burning Spice is snuck into the Golden Cheese Kingdom" story, and I've come to deliver. I also promised wholesomeness, which... I mean, I hope it comes across that way. These two have their own brand of "wholesome", I think lol.

Special shout-out to @cheesecakemermaid1048 for coming up with the original concept of "bonding w/ Burning Spice via brushing his hair" (although I did go an extra mile in my interpretation here lol). Thanks so much again for letting me use this as a writing prompt! I hope you enjoy it especially!

"Grrrr..."

"I already told you that giving me attitude won't change anything, Burning Spice."

"Would razing your palace to the ground change anything?"

"Leave behind even a single scratch on a single one of my walls or columns, and I shall impale you with a thousand earthen spears on the spot."

"Do you promise?"

"It's inevitable."

"Even better, then."

Golden Cheese quickly shot him a pointed glare over her shoulder before turning her attention back to the hallway ahead of them. Completely empty, thank goodness; no one traversed this particular one at this hour of the day, she remembered. Or... they didn't tend to. Usually.

... It was a gamble she knows Mozzarella would've taken, had she been in her place. Calling for the palace to be temporarily emptied and closed would have been too easy, too simple. Daring to challenge one's own understanding of time and people's habits was a far greater risk, with a far more satisfying reward. Guaranteed victories are boring, after all.

Mozzarella wasn't there with them then, but Golden Cheese nevertheless found herself smiling and thanking her old friend for inspiring her in such a way.

Burning Spice, meanwhile, was currently the most miserable man on the face of the earth, and has been since Golden Cheese had the nerve to dictate where she would be taking him today (and instead of having their scheduled duel, as well, to add insult to injury). His petulant stomps left charred imprints all throughout the desert sands where they reunited - she demanded he control himself when they made it to her kingdom, so as not to draw attention and to not ruin her precious walkways - and echoed through the glittering halls and corridors as she dragged him along. How they haven't been spotted by any of her countless little subjects until now, he did not know, nor did he really care. He was frustrated enough that he almost preferred them being caught then whatever fresh hell she had in store for him in the rapidly approaching future.

So irritated was he, that he couldn't even bring himself to enjoy the fact that they were holding hands.

She eventually led him through some fancy doorway - past sky blue curtains and an archway and columns decorated with intricate carvings - and waiting for them beyond it was their promised destination: a fairly large and airy room with a great pool at the very center, with gold and white lilies and dotting its calm surface and reeds sprouting in its corners. Surrounding it was an array of ornate stone and wooden tables, towel racks, smaller pools and individual baths, as well as beautifully carved shelves that seemed to be stocked with soaps, oils and incense. The afternoon sun shone through a massive hole in the ceiling, bathing much of the room in a warm, bright, golden light.

Burning Spice observed it all with a look of cranky disinterest. "A bath, huh?" His mouth twisted into a wry smile. "If you wanted to see me naked, little bird, all you had to do was ask."

"A spa, Burning Spice," Golden Cheese retorted. "This is the primary room for rest and relaxation here within my palace. My attendants are free to come in and put their minds and bodies at ease while they're on break, or after they've been relieved of their duties. They're also welcome to bring their friends and families, so long as they ask for permission first."

"'Ask for permission?' Pfft." A low chuckle rumbled deep within his throat. "How generous. How... soft. Of you AND them."

"It's civilized. That is what civilized behavior is like, Burning Spice. As we both know you've long since forgotten."

"'Civilized behavior'... heh. You think I care about such a pretentious, meaningless thing?"

"No, and it's evident by your appearance. Moreso than even the sun shining in the sky on a desert morning, in fact."

"Oh, don't pretend you don't enjoy seeing me- huh?!"

She didn't wait for him to finish his flirty diatribe and began dragging him over to one of those little baths, tightening her grip on his hand enough to earn an honest wince. When they reached it, she used her spear to nudge a nearby chair over, then whipped around, grabbed Burning Spice by the shoulders, and forced him down onto it before he could protest.

"Wait here a moment," she told him. "Let me go grab what we need."

"Who's 'we'?" he called after her indignantly as she walked off. No use; she moved along as if he'd never spoken in the first place.

To tide himself over and pass the time - that one minute that bore the weight and ache of an eternity - he made a game of letting his eyes go back and forth between scanning the room more closely and drinking in the sight of Golden Cheese's alluring backside as she gathered supplies from a shelf.

She seemed to sense his enamored gaze right away, though, and bristled accordingly. "Keep your eyes to yourself," she snapped at him without turning around.

"Or else what?" he fired back with a smirk, still raking his eyes up and down her body without remorse. "I'm already being punished, am I not? Now you can punish me with all this nonsense for a REAL reason."

"Clearly you aren't," she said as she made her way back to him, a towel hanging from one arm, and a bottle and hairbrush in each hand, "if you still feel bold enough to behave like this."

"But of course I do. How can I not, with such a pretty bird perched in front of me? Only the blind would ignore such beauty, do you not agree?"

She set the supplies down with a huff, her cheeks flushing pink at his words. "Well then, let's see if you still feel that way after we're done."

His flirtatious smile evaporated as she gathered all of his long, wild hair into her arms and narrowed her eyes at it. "Honestly, Burning Spice," she said, "how do you tolerate this... this mess?"

"By ignoring it," he said flatly. "So long as it isn't cut off, then I don't give a damn what happens to it otherwise."

"Well, I'm not tolerating this barbarism any longer. If you won't do anything about it, then I will."

"I could just get up and sit in the bath myself, you know." That suggestive look made a brief return. "And you could join me, if you wanted."

"I'd sooner join you in Hell," she said.

With that, she tossed his hair into the bath, watching as it floated and waved along the water's clear surface. She reached for the bottle, stowed away underneath the chair for safekeeping; the smell of eucalyptus wafted through the air as she popped it open and poured its contents into the water, turning it a pale green.

"What the hell is that?" Burning Spice asked, making a face as he sniffed at the air.

"Soap, you filthy animal," she snapped. "Shampoo and conditioner mixed into one solution. This particular bottle is from a very high-quality brand that is well-liked in my kingdom. I suggest you act grateful."

"Me, grateful? For what? For you kidnapping me and forcing me to endure a... a spa day that I wouldn't ask for in a million years?"

"Precisely," she said, staring down at him with a confident smile.

...So enchanting did Burning Spice find that smile of hers, that he softened just enough to let her work without further resistance.

She worked slowly but deliberately, the calm focus written on her features and the deft movement of her hands betraying her years of experience. His hair was thick and unkempt, practically an untamed jungle; so desperate for love and care that it almost seemed to seek her out on purpose, jet black tendrils creeping and coiling around her fingers and wrists as soon as her hands touched the water.

"When was the last time you even brushed your hair? These knots are atrocious."

He didn't answer her right away, instead scowling and shifting uncomfortably in his seat as she tugged on the strands closer to his scalp. "What does that matter?" he eventually scoffed. "Fussing over one's appearance is a complete waste of time, anyway."

"One's appearance is a cornerstone of one's overall well-being," she countered. "In my kingdom, cleanliness is seen as a form of godliness. It's all a matter of pride, of confidence, of proper self-esteem. Always look your best, always put your best foot forward, and others will be encouraged to see the best in you."

"You think taking a bath makes you a god? HA! Such foolish arrogance- OW!"

"Oh, stop it," Golden Cheese chided him as she pulled on and unraveled a particularly terrible knot. "To think you'd be such a big baby about something so trivial! If I'd known this while we were still enemies, I would've gone ahead and acted like a baby myself, and spent all of our battles pulling on your hair to make you cry."

He grunted in frustration, staring daggers at her as she freed the last remaining strands from that dreaded knot. She ignored him and continued on undeterred.

When she finished the first lather and rinse, working her way up to the top of his head and back down again, she shook her head. "Honestly, Burning Spice," she sighed. "I'm disappointed in you. Even a brute ought to take proper care of himself. How have you allowed this to stand for so long?"

"Because it doesn't matter to me at all," he muttered. "I'll give you that answer as many times as I need to, to get it through your pretty head."

"Of course it matters," she said, her eyes narrowing in annoyance again. "How can you even say that? Do you not hold yourself in any high esteem at all?"

"No."

She stopped, the wad of hair she'd been tending to now sitting limp in her hands. She looked at him in genuine shock - and he returned her look with one of... not quite anger, no. He was not angry. What she saw on his face, in his eyes, was... resignation, tinged with bitterness.

An awkward silence hung over them both before Golden Cheese cleared her throat. "Well, then," she said slowly, "If you can't be bothered to take care of yourself... then I shall do it for you. Alright?"

He softened again, a glimmer of pleasant surprise shining in his eyes. The silence quickly returned, right after Golden Cheese herself returned to her work... but it felt lighter this time.

Soon enough, she was quietly tapping on his shoulder. He understood what she wanted, no explanation necessary, and he slowly lifted his head up, sitting up straight once again. She gathered his hair in her arms and wrung it all out the best she could, then lifted it out of the bath, letting it fall and cling to his back. The soft pitter-patter of water droplets dripping from rogue strands of hair onto the floor filled their ears.

The silence otherwise persisted as Golden Cheese dried Burning Spice's hair with the towel she'd tucked away beneath the chair. He sat still, arms crossed, and neither said nor did anything to disturb her efforts, much to her continued surprise.

Soon enough, she traded the towel in for the hairbrush and quickly set about combing through those still-unruly locks. "It really is a shame, you know," she murmured. "You have gorgeous hair. You shouldn't treat it so poorly."

"Hmph..." He shrugged. "Whatever."

"I mean it, Burning Spice." She combed through another knot - more carefully than she'd done to the others in the bath, out of a newfound sense of concern for his comfort. "Even animals groom themselves better than you. I know you care enough to at least bathe, but there's more to self-care than just that."

"I bathe. I eat. I sleep. Those things are enough to keep me alive, are they not? I don't need anything else."

"They're enough to survive, yes..." She paused. "But... not to live, I don't think."

"You think bathing makes you a god," he muttered. "Of course you would say that."

She set the hairbrush aside for a moment and placed her hands on his shoulders, giving them a light squeeze. Instantly - perhaps instinctively - he leaned back, further into her grasp. Silently reveling in her touch.

"Burning Spice..." She sighed softly. "I have long since vanquished you. You're no longer a threat to this world." She hesitated, searching her mind for the right words to say next. "You... you can't hurt anyone anymore. Not on my watch. Perhaps... it's time you included yourself there, as well."

At that, he tensed, but still said nothing. She pulled her hands away (did she sense... disappointment from him when she did so?) and grabbed the hairbrush again, once more returning to grooming the man in front of her. She tried her best to be efficient, but still gentle; combing through each and every lock, more eager than ever to leave them looking better than they did before.

She took longer than she probably should have. (Perhaps she'd started allowing herself to enjoy how... soft and luxurious his hair was.) But even so, when she was finally done, she set the hairbrush down again and circled around to the front.

"There," she said. "What do you think?"

Burning Spice ran a quick hand through his hair and gave her a nod. "More pleasant than before."

"Wonderful." She beamed at him. "I'm glad."

His breath caught in his throat at the sight of that bright, warm smile. It stole all of the light in the room. It outshined the sun itself.

If this was what it took get her to look at him like that, then Burning Spice would gladly let her fuss over his appearance every single day for the rest of his life.

"Now, then..." She clapped her hands together, her eyes now glinting with mischief. "How about we take care of your wardrobe next?"

"My what?!"

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

What GC said about cleanliness was something Ancient Egyptians actually believed. They were very, very fussy about hygiene and legitimately thought that cleanliness was godliness. They didn't have spas or bathhouses or the like, though (not before the Greeks and Romans stopped by), they usually just bathed in the Nile. They used something called natron (it's like a salt mixture you get from dry lake beds, tastes like baking soda) as soap and shampoo. There's your history lesson for the day. You're welcome. I have more if you're interested.

And... well. I'm sure it's common knowledge that depressed people can start really letting themselves go if it gets bad enough. I don't really get the impression that Burning Spice is happy, even with that Joker smile he's got on and how much he enjoys trashing everything... I think all the Beasts are plagued with a certain melancholy, really. They're handling it entirely incorrectly, but even so. (And I think the Ancients can and should be the ones to help them overcome that. They're just the right ones for the job, in my opinion. But that's probably just me trying to bait you all into asking me about my Reformed Beasts AU again lol)

[nebulawebb]

MY MOUTHWASHING HEADCANONS

—

Hello everyone, so I'm writing a little kind of story of a "Reader/Yn" in the world of mouthwashing, so I have headcanons for my story that yall might like! I'm not going to separate them by character so they'll all be mixed up lol

𔓕 Daisuke loves drawing and is really good at it, but he never paid much attention to it because he doesn't think he has enough talent.

𔓕 Anya had a stuffed animal on her nightstand facing the door, when Jimmy's SA thing happened she turned it around and now her stuffed animal faces the wall.

𔓕 There used to be drawings that Daisuke made of Anya, But Jimmy looked at them "weird" and Anya removed them.

𔓕 Swansea definitely only has daughters, so Daisuke was like the son he always wanted.

𔓕 Jimmy definitely knows how to make those knockout cocktails and has used them before.

𔓕 Curly assigned the room to each one, but Jimmy argued that he wanted Curly's room and Curly ended up changing rooms with him so as not have problems.

𔓕 Daisuke was definitely a basketball player.

𔓕 One time Jimmy tried to copy Curly's curls with a curling iron, and he burned his whole hand.

𔓕 Swansea doesn't see Curly (after the accident) because he can't stand the smell (Burned skin or just old blood...)

𔓕 Anya tries not to sleep for fear of what might happen while she sleeps.

𔓕 Daisuke was in his room when the crash happened, despite everything being in tatters he took a risk and took out his gameboy and more stuff without hurting himself due to his good luck. — "You took out your stupid little game and not clothes or something useful, kid?"—

𔓕 Swansea is a dog person.

𔓕 Curly actually used treatments to maintain his hair pretty...

𔓕 Jimmy is a narcissist.

𔓕 Daisuke tried to draw Curly (after the crash) since no one wanted to be drawn. It didn't turn out well.

𔓕 Jimmy is a bad drinker. Every time he drinks he gets aggressive.

𔓕 Even after the accident, Curly continued to suffer from insomnia, so not being able to rest in that condition was even worse.

𔓕 Jimmy has thought about giving Curly some mouthwash to see what happens.

𔓕 Swansea was the one who amputated Curly.

𔓕 Daisuke tried to play the board game with Anya again, but with the stress of the crash and Jimmy, she started crying when she lost. Daisuke never asked to play again.

𔓕 Jimmy has a Polle stuffed animal............

𔓕 Anya wanted to take mouthwash to see if that could help her get an 4bortion, but she was afraid that she would faint and that Jimmy could find her.

𔓕 Daisuke had a hamster that died because he didn't know they hibernated. He didn't know until Swansea told him...

THAT'S IT. It's almost two in the morning, I took off my glasses and I only see dots...Tell me if you liked it so I can make more or post that little Reader x mouthwashing story! Sorry if you don't like my hc or are cringe, I really try!

[streetlvght]

the warmth of a hearth | scb

pairing: seo changbin x reader (one-shot)

genre: tooth rotting fluff, no really i mean it

warnings: none except for some cuddling, smooching, binnie lovingly being a menace, reader being cuddly

word count: 875 words

a/n: so. so :} hi! this is my very first piece of writing since.. forever (ye olde days of rp back in the day) and essentially a mishmashed love letter to binnie! i don’t know what came over me to bring this out of the catacombs it’s been marinating in. binnie’s is such a cuddly guy i just wanna squeeze him (affectionately) and it’s manifested into this thing existing (malicious). also falling asleep on his chest would proooobably fix me. probably.

all photos have been taken from pinterest!

warm.

warm, warm, warm.

your sheets were always warmer when he was in them.

his chest was a curling light in your eyes, heart thumping under your ear. if you squeezed your eyes hard enough and shut out the sound, you could feel it buzzing in his skin. flowing from his forearms, down his wrists and through his fingers. they drew up and down your side, almost floating. if he moved a hair of an inch’s away from you, a whine would fill the air, “too far. come back,” and as always, he’d comply.

“you’re gonna suffocate, y’know.” changbin snorted at the shapes you nosed between his pecs, a tickle wedging under his ribs. he knew it you were at your most comfortable in his hold, free hand stroking the back of your head. he would hem and haw, whine and complain playfully when he got too hot but never willingly unwind himself from you.

“mmm, aaand?” the half mumble obscured by the worn cotton of his shirt somehow made the man snort harder, if not for the upward inflection. as if you wouldn’t be satisfied with siphoning off his body heat and nuzzling into him for the rest of your lives. you wouldn’t.

“what if i want to see my pretty yeobo’s face, mmh?”

he knew how to work you, the scamp of a man. how he’d worm his way in through you and knock on the inside of your chest. and much to your chagrin and his enjoyment, it worked every single time. you huffed, an indignant grumble wedged against him despite the way your feet overlapped his own.

“aren’t you used to it already?”

you could just about feel the haughty gasp he let out even at your half jibing words, literally clutching his figurative pearls. changbin? being used to you? especially when you were practically a limpet a fused to his body?

it was impossible, simply and utterly impossible.

“yah, how could you even say such a thing?”

the smile in his voice was more than noticeable over his outrage, just about resisting the urge. you knew the way changbin’s cheeks ruffled up when he smiled, his dimple prominent and that downward curve to his lips. all the more when he annoyed you lovingly.

a grumble pushed deeper into his shirt, drawing a nasal tinkling laugh out of him. it interrupted the spirited rant he was amping up, too busy (and infatuated) to fully go on a tirade. all you wanted to do was bury yourself in his cosmic heater of a body and begin to fossilise against his chest.

was that so bad?

“binnnnnnnie!” the drawling whine from your lips made the arc of joy in his chest leap higher, bowing under your head with his laughter. it made you smile despite trying not to, head rising from his chest to meet his eyes. those coffee brown eyes you were so certain there were stars embedded in he got you up, he got you.

“bun—nyyyyyy!” he whined in kind, tone mirroring your own. there were equal parts schadenfreude and equal parts pure affection in them, so bare and unfiltered. it wasn’t even a question, even in his arms, the stocky man loved your eyes on his. your attention, your lips. your lips.

those dolly lips of his curved up just for you, your palm travelling to the plushness of his tummy. he knew how much you loved it, loved him and all of him. digits finding the shape of your own, he squeezed once. you squeeze back twice. the glassy look in his eyes he always got when his love for you was validated by a simple action. it usually followed a deep kiss you’d feel in your chest, your lips finding the semi-circled scar on his chin making the man all but gasp instead.

the needy look you’d sported earlier was turned on you, palm sliding up to card through his messy curls. his lips instinctively curled into a little pout, popping at you like a little fish under water. it was hard to say no to changbin, more so when he looked like you hung every star in the sky just for him.

and the sweet nothings you muttered so sweetly against his lips proved every single point. so much so without question and red tipped ears he chased your lips for another kiss and another until all his world consisted of were the bedsheets and you.

“mhm, c’mere, you little troublemaker.”

with all the gentleness of a man whipped, changbin tucked you back against his chest. back in your safe space and him in yours. not a single peep or protest out of the either of you. there could be nothing better than the love of your life in the palm of your hands, bodies so close you could be mistaken as one.

the worst feeling was a space once occupied now bare, a slip of the hand after being held too long or a empty space in bed come morning. not on a crisp night with a nip in the air and rustle of dried leaves outside your window.

you could always trust him to keep you warm. especially on nights like these.

thank you sm for taking the time out and reading my work! feel free to drop into my asks if you wanna froth about bin or otherwise :D

[warrioreowynofrohan]

This is one of the best articles I’ve seen yet on Trump, Trumpism, and the upcoming election. It’s directed at the right and centre-right (whereas most tumblr posts on this are directed at the left), but it’s saying – with detailed analysis and evidence – exactly what needs to be said, to everyone. This is not a normal election. How you vote this November determines whether you ever get the chance to vote in a democratic election again. This is not a game. Fascism is not a buzzword or a rhetorical device to hurl at anyone and everyone you disagree with. It is real, it is dangerous, and Trump is openly running on a fascist platform.

There are only two sides in this election: those who want the United States to be a fascist dictatorship and those who do not.

I live in Canada. I do not want to live next to a fascist state (especially since the Comservatives here are way ahead in the polls and their leader gives every sign of wanting to cozy up to Trump).

Please, stop this while you still have a chance.

Today we’re going to look at definitions of fascism and ask the question – you may have guessed – if Donald Trump is running for President as a fascist. Worry not, this isn’t me shifting to full-time political pundit, nor is this the formal end of the hiatus (which will happen on Nov 1, when I hope to have a post answering some history questions from the ACOUP Senate to start off on), but this was an essay I had in me that I had to get out, and working on the book I haven’t the time to get it out in any other forum but this one. And I’ll be frank, some of Donald Trump’s recent statements and promises have raised the urgency of writing this; the political science suggests that politicians do, broadly, attempt to do the things they promise to do – and the things Trump is promising are dark indeed.

Now I want to be clear what we’re doing here. I am not asking if the Republican Party is fascist (I think, broadly speaking, it isn’t) and certainly not if you are fascist (I certainly hope not). But I want to employ the concept of fascism as an ideology with more precision than its normal use (‘thing I don’t like’) and in that context ask if Donald Trump fits the definition of a fascist based on his own statements and if so, what does that mean. And I want to do it in a long-form context where we can get beyond slogans or tweet-length arguments and into some detail.

Now the response from some folks is going to be anger that I am even asking this question and demands for me to ‘stay in my lane.’ To which I must remind them that the purpose of history and historians is, as Thucydides put it, is to offer “an exact knowledge of the past as an aid to the understanding of the future, which in the course of human affairs must resemble if it does not reflect it” (Thuc. 1.22.4). This is my lane. Goodness knows, I’d much rather be discussing the historical implications of tax policy or long-term interstate strategy, but that isn’t the election we’re having. And if hearing about these things that happened is unpleasant, well, Polybius offers the solution: “men have no more ready corrective of conduct than knowledge of the past” (Plb. 1.1.1). We must correct our conduct.

The author, Bret Devereaux, lays out the history of the rise to power of Hitler and Mussolini and draws out the lessons

What I want to note here are two key commonalities: First, fascists were only able to take power because of the gullibility of those who thought they could ‘use’ the fascists against some other enemy (usually communists). Traditional conservative politicians (your Mitch McConnell and Lindsey Graham types) and conservative business leaders (your Elon Musks) fooled themselves into believing that, because the would-be tyrant seemed foolish, buffoonish, and uneducated that such an individual could be controlled to their ends, shaped in more productive, more ‘moderate,’ more ‘business friendly’ directions. They were wrong; many of them paid for their foolish error with their lives (Victor Emmanuel III paid for it with his crown). Mussolini and Hitler would not be ‘shaped,’ – they would be exactly the violent, tyrannical dictators they had promised to be – to the total and utter ruin of their countries.

Note that these men were not exactly subtle about what they wanted to do. Mein Kampf is not a subtle book. But they both knew how to promise violence to their followers while prevaricating to their temporary allies; be wary of the fascist who promises violence in his rally speeches but assures you that, if you just give him power, he won’t hurt anyone (except the people you don’t like) – because it is a lie, of course.

Second: once these fascist leaders were in power it was already too late to stop them. Precisely because fascists had no respect for democratic processes and the rule of law – things they had declared openly in seeking power – once in power, they were unconstrained by them and swiftly set about converting all of the powers of the government into a machine to keep them in power. And the conversion from democracy to dictatorship was remarkably swift, in Italy, Mussolini marched in October of ’22, rewrote the election rules in November of ’23 and by December of ’24 had effectively dropped even the pretense of democracy; just two years. Hitler was faster: appointed chancellor in January 1933, by March of that year he had suspended constitutional protections and ruled by fiat; just three months.

The time to stop an authoritarian takeover of a democratic system is before the authoritarian is in office, because once they are in power, they will use that power, to stay in power and it becomes almost impossible to remove them without considerable violence (and difficult to do even with considerable violence).

That, however, creates a tricky situation. With most political ideologies, voters can adopt a strategy of judging by outputs: “if you don’t like the current government’s policies, let these other fellows here have a go at it and see if they do better. If not, you can always vote them out next time.” But with fascists and other authoritarians there may not be a next time and this strategy fails: by the time the actions of the fascists make it clear they are dangerous, it is too late to vote them out.

This is why it is important to listen carefully to what fascists say and what they promise and most importantly to take their threats of political violence and authoritarianism seriously.

Which is not to say that everything on the right is fascism (just as not everything on the left is its own authoritarian variant, communism). Ronald Reagan was not a fascist, nor was George H.W. Bush or George W. Bush or John McCain or Mitt Romney. They were conservatives within the liberal tradition (again, ‘liberal’ here in the old Jefferson-Locke-and-Washington sense). Most Republicans today are not fascists, although a distressing number appear ready to repeat Franz von Papen’s mistake of assuming they can achieve their goals through an alliance with fascists. Only the devil wins such a devil’s bargain.

How is one to tell the difference? Listen to the things they promise to do and understand that they make speak out of both sides of their mouth: promising violence to one audience and then toning down their rhetoric to another. But politicians speaking from within the tradition of liberty don’t need to speak that way because they don’t promise violence in the first place.

Listen for the promises of violence, the promises to suspend press freedoms, the promises to persecute political adversaries and when you hear them believe them.

I strongly recommend reading the whole article, as the author goes on to lay out two of the more common definitions of fascism and analyze, point-by-point, how Trumpism fits them.

There is a reason why some Republicans, even some of the people who were in Trump’s inner circle in 2016-2020, have jumped ship now. The Republicans who are willing to vote for Kamala aren’t doing it because she’s conservative – they’re doing it because they’re anti-fascist. It would be deeply ironic if people on the left who have been calling themselves anti-fascists for the last eight years proved to be less so than those Republicans. This may be one of the most crucial moments in American history. Take it seriously.

[baddiewiththebook]

Over the Years | e.m x reader | p. 8

-> The origin story of Eddie Munson, and how he fell in love with the worst person he possibly could - his best friend.

-> eddie munson x you (she/her)

-> friends to lovers, slow burn, angst

-> warnings - strong language, suggestive themes, smut [18+]

a/n I'm so sorry for the hiatus. My mental health isn't where it should be, and my brain isn't in writing mode. I finally got this written down, and I left it alone for a while until I felt a bit more creative again. Hopefully, this chapter is good enough. Love you all!

-> <-

June 1983 . . . again

It’s so silly to be upset about something as ridiculous as a birthday. Big deal! You’ve had plenty of those in the past.

This morning you crumpled up a piece of paper taped to your fridge into a tight enough ball that your fingers began to pierce the flesh of your hands. Then, you toss the stupid note into the trash. Your mom left again. This time she and Brad are going to his vacation house.

Brad is yet another nobody she met after her shift at the strip joint in the sketchy part of town. Rich men flock to escape unhappy marriages, and pray on the poor sad strippers. Your mom keeps having too much hope that one of these men will pay-out and he will buy her a big fancy house. Unfortunately for her, their ruse will always draw her in. She does a few lines with them, and lays on her back for less than she’s worth. How could she even bring herself to this?

Eddie does try to cheer you up when he shows up to your house for the annual birthday celebration and the lights are dim throughout the house, and you’re slumped over your sofa like a deflated balloon. Somehow he coaxes you to get off of that couch. He encourages you to get yourself dressed by handing you shirts and handing you pants until he gets a grunt of approval out of you.

After you put on your clothes, you’re practically carried out to his van. You hesitate. After your mom swore something bad would happen if you get into his van, you’ve been sneaking rides now and again. Eddie’s also been giving you lessons when she’s not around. You frown. Gripping the handle tight, and with purpose, you swing open the passenger side door.

“Yes!” Eddie pats the seat next to him. Your boldened confidence sparks joy in him. That is until you give him the meanest mug known to man. And, you don’t mean to be harsh. You actually don’t realize that Eddie’s heart sinks when you grouch like this.

Rubber hitting gravel tunes out your huffing and puffing. When you hit the pavement, the shocks thud underneath you. Eddie says he’ll fix those eventually. He can’t fix the band equipment rolling in the back though. That’s something that just happens because he’s the only one in the band with a big enough rig to store all of this junk.

“I forgot to ask if you’re hungry,” Eddie says over the gray cloud covering your head.

You thunk your head against the window. It’s nearly eleven in the morning, and you haven’t had anything to eat. You’re not hungry. But, your stomach disagrees letting out the most aggravating groan. Why do bodies do that? The moment that someone mentions food, or when the room gets quiet - your stomach growls. It’s humiliating!

“I could eat,” you hold your stomach.

The way through to you is almost always food, or a brand new book. Eddie doesn’t have the time to drive all the way to Indianapolis to get you books from The Bookshelf, which is your favorite place to receive books from (or so Eddie can guess because he hasn’t gotten you anything you hate yet). So, he instead takes you to the next best place; Benny’s Diner.

It’s a hot spot. That’s mostly because it has been almost the only spot since ‘53. Yes, you’ve heard enough of Wayne’s stories from his younger years. He and his brother, Al, spent enough time downing milkshakes and getting brain freezes there. A part of you wants to ask Eddie more about his father, and if he is truly as bad as this town says he is. Eddie pretends not to recall a lot of his youth that was spent with his father, but behind those big brown eyes he’s got stories he could tell if he wanted too.

You slide your way into a booth across from Eddie after being seated by a snooty waitress with low hanging jowls and no patience for the teenagers, who, arguably, gives Benny’s the most buisness.

Some jock from the basketball team clambers over the back of the booth like a monkey to scoop fries off an innocent girl’s plate. Rightfully so, she swats at him, then aims a bottle of ketchup at his nose.

“Hey Wheeler,” the man dubbed ‘King Steve Harrington’ cups his hands around his mouth like a bird call to get the attention of Nancy Wheeler, who is just a booth and a half away with a thick chapter book between her fingertips.

Nancy meekly looks up without saying a word.

“It’s summer time,” he snorts. “What are you reading for?”

Tommy, another bone-head, clocks Steve in the shoulder with an open palm. This seems to encourage Steve’s prepubescent behavior. And, Steve jogs over to the table to bother Nancy some more.

What more is there to say about Steve? Steve Harrington. The man had enough brain cells to form one thought, and that was usually “party at my house!” Yes, after every basketball game that the Tigers won (which is a lot of games to be fair), you could find almost every member of the student body at his house.

It seems that Steve doesn’t care that his parents are never home. You wonder what they do to live in such a cushy house that’s bigger than most of the houses combined in Hawkins. Maybe you wouldn’t mind living like this if your family was rich too.

“What can I get you?” The waitress holds her pad of paper in one hand, and a sparkling red pen in the other. She puts all of her weight on one hip, so she can tap the other foot on the tile below. Her patience is running thin, and those kids on the other side of the restaurant are really starting to make her angry.

You speed through the menu, “strawberry milkshake and fries.”

Eddie orders a burger that he asks to be left a little bloody. When she glares at him, he moves on to order a vanilla milkshake without a wince when she snatches his menu from his hands.

Usually, Eddie will order some kind of burger that he has to add extra bacon and extra onions on top of. His favorite line is usually “bloody and stinky.”

If you weren’t feeling so bummed about your birthday, you might ask him if he’s on a diet. That always revs him up to push his stomach out and to talk with his belly button. Sometimes Eddie can be so childish - and really, you find him funny.

Today you wanted to be under five feet of dirt. You could finally get some peace and quiet after all that humming and worrying that goes on in between your ears. Your mom should be worried about you - not the other way around.

Eddie watches you become the booth behind you. Someone might as well have thrown water on you, and he wouldn’t be surprised if you started sobbing ‘I’m melting!’ right about now. Not like he’s seen the Wizard of Oz or anything. It’s not important enough to ever be mentioned out loud.

“Happy birthday?” Eddie tries to cheer you up. “Look, I know it’s not a cake and some candles. I don’t know. My dad and I never celebrated my birthday, and look how I turned out.”

You try not to be mean, so you let a sarcastic comment slide off your tongue. “You have tobacco in your teeth.”

The habit Eddie promises himself to quit. It’s just cigarettes, weed and the occasional sip of beer or two (or downing half a case by himself) for him. He’s got to stay healthy if he wants to make it to fifty. That’s high balling his life span. Okay, let’s say Corroded Coffin makes the big leagues in a couple of years, and Eddie at least wants ten good years with them - thirty. Thirty years is well enough for Eddie Munson. Er- that math isn’t right. Is it?

Eddie sucks the tobacco leaves out from his teeth, while you pick at the napkin in front of you. Seeing you so down nearly tears him in two. Having an absent parent himself, he knows the disappointment that’s eating you from the inside out. For years, Eddie would wake up in hopes that his dad would just show up completely sober. If he’s really optimistic that day, then his mom would come too. They’d be a big happy family and live in the suburbs. There would even be space for uncle Wayne.

Eddie knows the fantasy is just that. But, it isn’t about him. Your head is nearly touching the table, and he’s not so sure how to fix this. There isn’t really a way to fix this, is there?

The waitress returns with two shakes that she places down in front of you. A straw emerges from her apron pocket. She leaves you.

Your milkshake is questionably pink, but the real chunks of strawberries pressing against the glass make you forget what you’re about to consume. A glass of whatever the chefs get in those prepackaged containers that come in powdery. With a little mix of some milk, you’ll hardly taste the chemicals. with chunks of strawberries pressing against the glass. A wedge of whipped cream towers atop the shake with a strawberry dipped right on top.

Something that Eddie realized recently is how bright your eyes get when you’re excited. Inflating like a balloon, you sit straight up to stick the straw into the thick shake. Your lips kiss the straw without much thought, as Eddie begins to drift away from the restaurant.

In front of him, Eddie could dive deep into why he’s chosen you as his best friend. Because at first Wayne was just babysitting the neighbor kid and you could have easily been ignored from the next day after. Eddie finds you interesting.

Your lashes flutter away from him to the space behind him. As though in slow motion, his fantasy snaps.

“Jeff!” The sugar has already rushed to your brain in the absence of food, and in a fog you hiccup, “Hi, Gareth!”

Eddie whips around in time, before the two boys get too close to the booth. Their clothes are sticking to their bodies, and a fair amount of sweat graces their foreheads. Aside from being sticky, their mood is pleasant. Jeff tucks a helmet under his arm, as he approaches in a cool step.

Gareth swipes the sweat from his brow because really the hair sticking to him makes him itch, before causing a rash due to him mindlessly scratching his forehead off. He resists the tempting sting.

Meanwhile, Gareth also refuses to admit that the reason he stopped Jeff on their bike ride into town is because you’re sitting at a booth across from Eddie. Despite knowing how close you are as friends, there’s a grumpy troll deep in his belly that’s stomping on his gut that tells him to ‘just make sure.’ He rolls his shoulders back, and begs his face to quit frowning.

“Who knew the circus was in town?” Jason Carver cups his hands around his mouth. “Freaks!”

Chrissy Cunningham whacks him across the chest for being rude. As much as she likes Jason, his attitude towards the nerdy group that they all share the same high school with does really bother her. She puts up with him because she’s already introduced him to her parents, and maybe in a few years he’ll calm down.

While Jeff, Eddie and Gareth are more or less used to the treatment they receive from the goon squad, you can’t help but notice the way Gareth shoots a glare behind himself. This goes ignored by Jason, as one of the girls at the table has a spilled her soda. Surely, Jason would have caught the venomous stare and thrown Gareth halfway across the room. You don’t go looking for that sorry of trouble.

“‘Sup!” Jeff greats Eddie and yourself. “What are you two up too?”

“It’s her birthday,” even though he does like Jeff and Gareth, Eddie wishes the boys could take a hint and scram. Jeff has other intentions and does the polar opposite by plopping down nearly on Eddie’s lap.

“Happy birthday, girl!” Jeff wishes. “Got any big plans for the day?”

You shrug, “my mom is out of town, so I don’t really have anything going on.”

“What’s she out of town for?” The boy scrunches his nose up, and Eddie elbows him in the side. A desperate attempt on his part to get Jeff to shut-the-hell-up. “Business?”

“Sort of,” if only the business your mom conducted brought more money back to the house, instead of drugs.

A tickle lifts inside your throat that you swallow down. Perhaps the glossiness in your eyes could be hidden behind your lashes, and suddenly your drink becomes a lot more interesting. Flicking the condensation on the glass, Jeff leans over to whisper to Eddie about something.

“Gareth,” Jeff turns to the boy standing awkwardly at the head of the table. He hasn’t dared sit next to you, yet. “Can you entertain the birthday girl? I gotta talk to Eddie about something out back.”

Gareth opens his mouth to protest, but the words die flat on his tongue because Jeff and Eddie have already scooted from the booths. Their “business” is a classic exchange. Gareth’s been apart of a few of these dealings. In some ways, Eddie’s a bit of a douche come pricing on his supplies.

Everyone at Hawkins has bitten into the apple per se. It’s only when they need him that Eddie’s treated decent. So, Gareth supposes Eddie has his reasons to up-charge certain clientele.

There’s no word as to why Gareth gets the treatment, but he supposes there’s a reason or two.

Someone loudly clears their throat behind Gareth. It’s the waitress from earlier holding two hot and heavy plates of food. Gareth apologizes to her rolling eyes, before sliding into the booth across from you without much thought. The waitress drops the food off, then without another word she scurries off back to the kitchen.

“Jesus,” Gareth stares at the grease pile in front of him. “What did Eddie order this time?”

“They definitely spat on that,” you question your fries. “You know Eddie.”

“Oh, yeah,” treating society like they treat him, as always.

Gareth pushes the plate to the right where the sun kisses the burger through the window. It doesn’t look any more appealing in the light than the shadows in front of him. The silence between you and he is filled with drumming that comes from Gareth tapping the table.

You offer him your fries just to get him to knock it off. It’s not annoying, but his fidgeting is making you just as anxious. The tension subsides when Gareth pops a fry into his mouth.

“Can I ask?” He swallows, before speaking.

You raise and drop your shoulders unsure you want to answer. But, Gareth takes this as permission.

“Your mom has been out of town for a while?” It slips as more of a question, but the statement is put out there. Your mom is an absent parent. The only one you have.

“She came home for a short time with-,” you don’t know why you’re still defending her. Maybe she’ll come around one day and she’ll realize how great having a child has been. Doubtfully, “her coworkers. Er- but she suddenly had to go out of town. Meetings.”

The coworkers in question are the bums that stay after hours to give her a reason to party. Lately, the parties have bled into the living room. You’re stuck holding out in your room until they sober up enough to slobber out onto the street like a pack of dogs on the loose.

Dogs behave better than them.

“Meetings,” Gareth repeats as a mutual agreement not to press anymore questions, then quickly pops another fry into this mouth. This time he misses the landing, and the fry darts off of his cheek.

It’s hard to remember when the two of you hardly got along. That Gareth had been stubborn enough to decide that you would become a distraction for Eddie and the band would suffer. It now seems that there’s a different storm brewing instead of the one before it.

You cover your mouth, but the sweet melody brushes past your lips. Gareth goes a bit pink in the face, as he covers up the glee that he has at least amused you today.

The diner has quieted by the large group of teenagers getting up, and leaving through the front door. Nancy stays at her table reading a chapter book, and is most certainly grateful they’ve all gone. She won’t admit to keeping Steve Harrington’s phone number, but she will tuck the napkin tight in her pocket.

Music plays overhead that you hadn’t heard when you first came in. It’s fifties. An appropriate theme for how old the diner looks. Bright red booths. Checkered floor. Stainless steel instead of gold metal. It’s classic.

Gareth watches your eye wander away from him, as he decides how he wants to pull your attention back in. If he didn’t know any better, Jeff and Eddie were taking a suspicious amount of time to get back. That’s not to say he’s complaining. Any time getting you away from Eddie is getting Gareth that much closer to becoming bolder about his intentions with you.

Your heart skips inside your chest when Gareth’s knee knock into yours underneath the table. In not so many words, you hear him out and you understand him. A bit of relief settles your belly, but not before another aggravated weight of tension.

Pavlov and his damn dogs! That familiar jingle of the front door has both Gareth and you scooting back in your chairs. The heat from his body fades away from you.

Eddie and Jeff return.

“I told you they wouldn’t kill each other,” Jeff snorts.

Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Actually,” Gareth stands, so Eddie could have his place in the booth again. “We should get going.”

“I got something to do later,” Jeff pats his left pocket at his hip. No one is as amused as he is by his joke, but you pity him a laugh.

Before they can leave, a hand swings out to grab Gareth by the wrist. Eddie’s got wild eyes and a goofy grin. The boy is devilish, but he’s not the devil.

“What?” Gareth raises his brow.

Eddie retracts his grasp, and instead replaces it for an open palm reaching towards Gareth. “You owe me ten.”

“Eddie,” you scold. “He didn’t even touch your burger and he only ate a bite off of my food.”

Over the last couple years, Eddie has gotten better and better at the theatrics. When your at school together, he has this little habit of standing on top of lunch tables. You’ve gotten cautious now, and you’ll move your lunch before he kicks goalie kicks it across the room. Does he practice these monologues? One will never know with him.

“Not for breakfast, sweetheart,” his tone is firm. You’ve never been ‘sweatheart’ before. Sure, you have nicknames for each other. That’s just - weird. “I saw you with Jeff the other day. Ten bucks, big boy.”

Jeff and Gareth smoke sometimes from the stash that Eddie gives Jeff. After upping the charge for Gareth, they have a method that outsmarts Eddie. Or, at least their method used to outsmart him. Despite flunking a few classes, Eddie’s quick as a whip in his street smarts. There’s no getting around him!

“Come on,” Gareth protests, but reaches around for his wallet. “You can’t share amongst your good friends?”

“There’s nothing in the rules that says you can’t,” Eddie explains, “but, when you’re explicitly smoking from him to snag a free deal - Gareth, I feel duped!”

“Eddie,” you scold with open palms face down on the table. “It’s my birthday, and you can’t torture my friends on my birthday.”

Eddie snorts in disbelief, “it’s Gareth.”

You’re stone cold. That look might just pop Eddie’s head clear off. When did you give a shit about Gareth?

There hasn’t been a time yet that you’ve expressed any concern over Gareth. Jeff - yes. There was the time that Jeff had a paper due, you went through his mistakes in red ink, so that he could make corrections. You’re really good at writing. You should be with all the time you’re stuck in those notebooks writing away, and never letting anyone take a peak. Or, when Jeff needed to learn how to bake cookies for his Home Ec final. You were there too. But Gareth? Were you ill?

Eddie’s expression softens as he releases Gareth.

“Fine,” he sighs, “I’ll let it go.”

Gareth isn’t quite sure if he should thank you in front of Jeff and Eddie. Mostly because Eddie keeps one-eyeing him over his burger. Jeff wants to ask how you learned that trick on Eddie, as he can be quite persistent when he wants something done his own. Meanwhile, you’re snacking on another fry like it was nothing.

Before Eddie wants to start any more trouble, Jeff whisks Gareth away in a flash. They’ll probably smoke together, while digging an even bigger trench that they’re in with Eddie.

You’re left to enjoy a quiet meal with your best friend. Occasionally, you beg him to chew the food in his mouth with his lips shut. You’ll give up sometime when the burger is halfway down and done with.

Eddie won’t let you pay even though he’s practically down to dimes, quarters and dollar bills. It’s your birthday, and you’re going to be treated like the golden princess you are. Anything to let Eddie see your gleaming white smile is a win to him.

You don’t have a chance to spend much time with Eddie because he’s got an unspecified “something” to do today. It’s probably the band. They’re practicing this afternoon.

With that, you hop back into the passenger seat of his van. Eddie takes the long way around to your house, so you can practice your drum solo on his dash board. Slowly, you’ve picked up on a few of Eddie’s favorite songs. One day you might out-drum Gareth, and you could join the band.

Only in Eddie’s fantasies - not that he has a lot of fantasies about you. There’s an occasional rip in his friendship with you, as he likes to put it. A fluke. You’re not a fluke. It’s all him.

Anyway, you’re landing flat foot in the dirt right in front of your abode. Eddie wouldn’t let you walk the few steps across from his trailer. It’s silly how he does that. You wave like he’s going to be leaving for a journey to a far away land, instead of driving a couple feet and parking his van in front of his trailer.

You’ve got plenty of clean-up left to do inside of your home. There’s dirty dishes piled in the sink, the counters are covered in food and you might as well sweep the floor since you’re in there. The bathroom could also use a mop. Oh, but you might as well clean the entire bathroom. Because what’s the point in mopping if the bathroom isn’t clean?

The clock on your mother’s bed stand reads close to four in the afternoon when you finally finish making her bed with freshly washed sheets. It’s taken you hours, but the home is just starting to smell less like dread and a little more like hope - and lavender. You got a deal on room spray from the bargain store in town.

Stretching your arms way above your head, you decide to celebrate with a hot shower. The water running over your aching shoulders would feel good right about now. Plus, the towels are fresh from the wash as well.

Clean.

It’s such a simple, yet rewarding feeling. You don’t get to experience it all that often.

Cigarettes have stained the walls of your home, and buried themselves deep into your carpet fibers. There’s even a few burns here and there from your mother’s habit of falling asleep with a cigarette between her fingers.

You wrap yourself in a towel and forget about that for a moment. It’s just you and a bottle of lotion across your skin.

From your bedroom window, you can see Eddie pulling into his trailer once again. Back from band practice, Eddie skips up the steps to his trailer. You stop in the moment when Gareth jumps out of the passenger side. A dark t-shirt with missing sleeves and a pair of worn down denim shorts differ from this morning’s sweats. You don’t mean to stare, but really is it that awful to look over the menu? You’re not even ordering anything.

Snorting at yourself, you close the curtain for your own privacy to change and to loosen the thoughts bleeding your innocence. You throw a shirt over your head, and suddenly hear a single knock at your front door. It’s loud like a knock anyways.

Dressing yourself decently in a comfortable pair of pajamas (you have no plans to go anywhere), you head straight to the front door to figure out what the noise could be. Maybe your mom had come back, and she drunkenly forgot her keys.

Actually, the knock is a much prettier sight. There’s a bouquet of flowers in bright rich purples. You wonder who remembered your favorite flowers are these little orchards with the white center. There’s a card poking from the center of the bundle with Eddie, Jeff and Gareth’s nearly illegible handwriting. You hate to call their new band-mate ‘Freak,’ but he has signed the card as well. It says ‘Happy Birthday,’ and you coo.

You pick the bouquet off the porch by the glass vase the flowers are displayed in. Inhaling sweet aromas of warm days reading a good book in a field, you could cry.

“Thank you!” You wave to Gareth and Eddie, who are hiding neck deep in the engine of Eddie’s van pretending not to watch your reaction. They don’t really know much about girls, but you are one and so they try to make you feel different than them. They want you to feel special.

Eddie half waves like he’s too cool to admit what he’s done, but Gareth pops his head from the van and spins around to get a good look at you.

You hardly notice Gareth’s lingering gaze, as you’ve already closed the front door of your house with you inside.

It doesn’t take long for the phone to ring.

“Hello?”

“Are you ready?” Robin’s voice comes through clear and bouncing with energy.

You snicker. “Ready for what?”

“My mom is on her way to pick you up, you’re sleeping over at mine tonight,” she says as a matter-of-fact.

“Am I?”

“Eddie called me,” she explains, “Happy birthday by the way - oh! Your mom is a bitch.”

Robin begins rambling about the times your mom has irritated her because that’s what you two do. Among all things, Robin is your sibling by terms of the longevity of your friendship. She’s the only person to get away with calling out your mom directly to you.

“Robin,” you pause her rant. “If you want me over, I need to get an overnight bag ready.”

“Oh, right,” she clears her throat. “Five minutes.”

“Five?!” You exclaim. The line goes dead.

Oh, Robin. How you love her.

-> <-

[to be continued]

tags -> @leelei1980 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @jesuisbuginette @starrywhitenight @meetmeatyourworst @munsonburn3r @5tud10-54r4h @pvdulmol @loveryanax

[santaricotta]

They’re having another reading session!

It’s almost been a year since my first ever post, so I figured it’d be the perfect time for a redraw! The original is… um… well… I’ve definitely improved lol

(Some updates and stuff below the cut)

I’ve been having a bit of art block when it comes to Luca stuff lately (besides the FDM comic). It’s not because of a lack of interest (this fixation has been going on for over a year now and isn’t stopping anytime soon), I just don’t have any ideas on what to draw. I have been thinking of writing, though. I have an entire doc filled with random ideas (shout out to the notes app), maybe I could flesh them out? I have one in particular I’d love to write, about Luca and Giulia’s time in Genova. It’s basically what I’d want out of a Luca series; seeing how the Underdogs spend their time apart during the school year. I might start working on that, actually! We’ll see, lol.

Festa Del Mare updates may slow down? I’ve had the whole thing written since I came up with the idea (thanks notes app), but now that it’s been a bit, I want to go back and rework the story a little. Not too much, though. I mainly just need to redraw the thumbnail sketches for the rest of the pages, which is gonna take a bit of time. Trust me, though, I do not plan on stopping this project. It’s way too much fun for me!

I also just want to thank you all so much for your support, it means the world to me! Each reblog and comment I get brings the biggest smile on my face, and can make even a horrible day turn into a good one. You guys are the best ♥︎

That’s enough rambling from me, lol. Have this extra doodle as a thanks for reading it all. Ciao! ★彡

[iatnen]

Thank you for replying to me! 🙈

Do you have character sheets for Daniel? I’d love to see how you characterise him and what kind of personality he has. I have no artistic talent AT ALL so I live vicariously through different artists on tumblr who draw their MC, so thank you for entertaining me ❤️

HI AGAIN ANON

I actually did not have a character sheet ready when you sent this so I had to scramble to make one for you LMAO I sorta based it on @choccy-milky’s char sheet since I had no idea how to make one…… Also kinda crazy how he looks so different than when I first drew him just a week ago…

But erm yeah I guess I can try to tell a little bit about Daniel’s character even though I still haven’t thought too deeply about it. I’ll try to keep it brief 😰

Basic description of Daniel’s personality:

Competitive: likes to win/be the best, loves sports (Quidditch ofc 😼 !!!), a bit of a perfectionist, gets frustrated with little mistakes

Stubborn: doesn’t know how to quit, the type of guy to go to Quidditch practice even when he’s sick, needs a lot of convincing to get him to listen 😅, when he’s locked in he’s LOCKED IN

Independent: prefers to handle things on his own, doesn’t like receiving help from others, can work in a team but would just be off doing his own thing

Emotionally reserved: isn’t great with emotions especially his own, bottles up feelings/ignores them, often leans more towards being logical in decision-making situations rather than emotional

Awkward: ………yeah 👍

Lowkey just a chill guy who doesn’t gaf (but actually does secretly gaf)

As for his relationship with Sebastian aside from the canon game events, they both love quidditch so that bonded them even closer together as teammates. I think that slowly they both begin to mutually notice each other but don't want to speak up in fear of ruining their friendship and also they’re just in denial…. So they resort to just teasing each other and being like “let’s kiss each other to see what kissing a girl feels like” 😅

I’m so sorry it’s not really detailed…. Like I said I haven’t thought much about it/still in progress of building him and also cuz I didn’t want to make this post too long cuz who wants to read all that yap. BUUUUT I am drafting up a fanfic about them, not sure how long I want it to be tho 😰 Hopefully that will give you guys more info of his character and see their dynamic in action. WRITING IS SO HARD kudos to all you writers !!! If only I can write as good as I can draw 😿 Don’t expect it to be up anytime soon tho IT MIGHT NEVER EVEN BE POSTED WHO KNOWS !!!! DON’T EXPECT ANYTHING !!!! I PROBABLY SHOULDN’T TELL YOU THAT IF I CANT PROMISE IT BUT WHATEVS !!!! 😰😰😰

[atimesfeeler]

I loved @twilightkitkat 's post SO MUCH I just had to add to it. It reminded me of a fic I'm working on rn.

I especially liked the part with Vanessa because I don’t think she just left him because of the reason Wade thinks. She didn’t just want him to be a superhero or whatever- in the flash back, she’s begging him to open up to her, to be present, to let her help him and I don’t thinks Wade could do it.

He felt like, incorrectly, that he couldn’t burden her with it. He has so much baggage and pain and issues, and he can’t corrupt her with that. He had cancer and instead of spending his last days with her, he left her. And when he survived he avoided her until she was literally kidnapped.

Everyone thinks Logan runs but really Wade does. He doesn’t want the people he loves to know he’s in pain. At his birthday party, he’s obviously miserable but everybody’s together! And smiling! So he’s going to be happy and pretend he’s just fine. But he’s not even very good at hiding it bc, like mentioned before, it’s a little bitter. His jokes don’t land or they come out passive aggressive and tense. But nobody calls him out for it except Logan. Logan who tells him in the meanest way that he’s a clown but that he’s sad, pathetic, and attention starved. He’s not buying the clown act.

And when Logan moves in, I love the idea that he starts noticing Wade when his mask falls or he gets too tired to pretend.

I’m writing a fic where Wade deals with chronic pain in less healthy ways and, of course, he tries to hide it. It's more brief and censored on tumblr bc I don't want to get my account terminated again, but it will be more detailed on ao3.

…

He dealt with it in other ways. The pain.

After all, a little bit of death couldn’t hurt, right?

Treating himself gently only sometimes worked. If he did everything right, if he did all the steps then maybe, maybe it would ease up. Sleep well, wake up at the right time, eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, draw a scalding bath, and take some hard hitting drugs.

Most days, Wade was much more impatient. Most days, Wade failed. It was too hard to take care of himself when waking up felt like dragging himself up from glacier water and pounding on the underside of the ice. Cooking was a nightmare he didn’t even want to consider tackling, and he was rarely patient enough to wait for the bath to fill or for sleep to take him as his body wracked with pain.

There were faster, easier, more instant ways of relieving the pain.

Any pain that didn’t stem from his own body was good.

With Vanessa, Wade had tried the healthy way. The three meals, ten hours of sleep, and taking his vitamins. The whole mile. There was this urge he constantly resisted that told him it would release the tension in his skull if he carved under his eye into his cheek where the migraine pulsed, like he was some sort of fucked up carpenter with voices in his head.

Vanessa didn’t understand it. If he was in pain, why would he want to be in more? She understood his masochistic tendencies in bed where they mixed pain and pleasure, but just pain? Just harm for the sake of being harmed? They got into a lot of fights about it.

He resisted the attempts. Hid them from her where he could. Sometimes he’d miscalculate, and she’d walk into the bathroom before he could heal and clean up his brain splattered on the bathroom tile. She hated it, and Wade hated that he was hurting her.

He reeled back any anger or snippy comments that stemmed from the sheer newness of having his body feel like it was dying all the time. It was so hard to interact when pain rippled through him like a feedback chamber. It made his fuse short and curt. His witty remarks turned snappish and bitchy. People asked stupid questions and made even stupider comments when he was having a Bad Pain Day, and everything felt a bit more raw and oozing. Wade didn’t have the energy to keep up the act and while his mind rarely stopped running, it shifted into something darker when pain was on his mind. His jokes fell flat, laced with a bitter ending. Sometimes, Wade didn’t even want to talk. He wanted to punch someone. Maybe even himself. And every time he snapped or said something he didn’t mean, he wanted to hurt himself even more.

Quickly, he grew exhausted putting on a brave face, and he had never been good at letting people help him. There was this awful clash of wanting to be comforted by the people he loved and hating that he needed comfort. It made him feel weak and pathetic, and Wade already hated so much about himself that he didn’t want anyone to see the twisted, fucked up parts of him. How ironic that he always had an audience anyway. He couldn’t hide it from you or whoever was watching him those days, but he could hide it from the people he loved. Shield them from it, almost.

On Bad Pain Days, Wade didn’t want anything to be different. He didn’t want to acknowledge the pain he dealt with, and seeing that pity on her face set his teeth on edge. It both hurt to be babied and, later, it hurt to be ignored when he stubbornly insisted he was fine.

Obviously, it didn’t work out.

It was better with Al.

Al tried to help. Once or twice. Her motherly instincts kicked in, maybe, Wade didn’t know. He shot himself once in front of her while they were watching the Bachelorette together, and she cursed him out and told him to stop and never do it again. Wade took his little attempts to the bathroom after that. He cleaned up after himself. He went out. Wade tended not to do the more dramatic methods that draw attention.

Wade had it down to a science. A decent chunk out of his frontal lobe sent Wade into a pleasant, almost subspace-like place. He would just… float and forget that his body hurt all that bad. It was good for Bad Brain DaysTM too when Wade’s thoughts were louder, faster than normal, and the voices stopped sounding like himself. When the fourth wall was a little too easy to see, and it got to him, being the doomed comic relief, when his head was trying to split his consciousness in two.

If his temporal lobe was nicked, then Wade would start hallucinating and hear a banger of a song while time, space, and movement sort of fucked up for a second. It felt like getting high, but he didn’t need an entire bag of cocaine and to hot box weed to get there.

If something happened to his parietal lobe, the pain wouldn’t know where to go. A bear could literally be eating his insides, but the pain signals couldn’t register if they had nowhere to go.

He did most of his questionable coping methods in the stereotypical bathroom spot. It was private, and Al got onto him for getting blood and bits all over the apartment. He once left his liver or his kidney in the kitchen sink, and Althea threatened to call the cops on him - her coke stash be damned. Now he’d drape himself in the empty tub, play music loudly, and expertly deal with the pain.

The system he had was fine. Regulated. It was working. It was fine. It wasn’t going to get any better.

Until Logan.

...

I haven't posted it on ao3 yet, but it will be apart of the series for my fic where Wade cries in the Honda instead of fighting.

[charbies]

linktober 31 - HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

I thought for the last day I'd write a little retrospective on what this whole thing was like and what I learned. I'm too tired to draw literally anything else I'm due for a break lol

So this was my second time ever attempting a linktober/october drawing challenge, but my first time managing to complete all the days and prompts. I feel super proud of myself and accomplished for pulling it off.

There were a number of things that were surprising and that were challenging for me that I wasn't expecting this month. If anything, I think this challenge really highlighted my flaws and mental blindspots with how I approach making art.

For one thing, I came away from this not liking everything I made. I think I only like about 9 or 10 of the 30 pieces I put out there. When I don't like my art, I tend to get stuck in this mental stalemate of refusing to finish a piece until I like it, but also refusing to retrace my steps and erase/rework what I have so far for fear of losing progress or not being able to replicate the line/angle/color/etc that I liked.

It was surprisingly hard to accept when I didn't like a piece but had to move on for the sake of time and post it anyway. But once I did it a few times, it got easier. I realized prioritizing my standards over my available energy is not gonna promote progress. If I kept sinking myself into one piece and not moving on until it was optimal, I never would have finished anything-- that was the pitfall that ultimately made me bail out 10 days in last year.

I also realized my sunk cost fallacy/"what if I erase this and can never redraw it good again" stems from some real lack of confidence in my knowledge and techniques with art. I'm self-taught, and I think I tend to believe that everything I make is a dumb happy accident, even though I have mental rules when I draw, use tons of references, and have a process lol. There are a few pieces I started over 2-3 times before I got them right, and that's starting to feel liberating instead of like failing to me now, which I never expected to come out of this experience so that's cool.

Another place I had to learn to let go of control in this was with allowing for style variation. I really wanted each and every piece to be coherent and painterly, like they all came from the same book or something. But then I couldn't decide whether I wanted to do all/no lineart, all/no detailed background, all/no heavy rendering, etc. At the end I settled on just keeping the same canvas dimensions and just prioritizing filling up the space. Glad I ended up doing this, because I really would benefit from continuing to chill out and scale back how much I default to making dramatic, high-render pieces. I gotta break out of my comfort zone and make more sketchy little guys!

Sometimes my attachment to the prompts fluctuated; some prompts I thought I would love and then just wanted to get them over with. Some prompts I thought I would hate and subsequently half-ass, then I ended up redoing them and putting more effort & time into and loved the end result!

It was funny to also see how some pieces that I loved straight up did not get a whole lot of notes or attention. Some pieces I was "meh" about did crazy numbers lol. I'm used to posting maybe 5-6 times a year on here, so I'm usually indifferent to getting notes (by which I mean, I'm super grateful for likes & reblogs and the super sweet & funny messages in y'alls tags, but I'm not butthurt when I don't get notes because whatever happens, happens). Churning out 30 pieces in 30 days made me sometimes get bewildered by what did and didn't get notes, but frankly in the end I think it helps reaffirm that I should continue putting whatever I want out there because it! is! not! graded!!!

So would I do Linktober again? Probably not, sorry! it was a lot of time & effort and took me away from fall festivities more than I would have liked. I kinda only managed to pull this off because I was transitioning between jobs this month and had a week off to just draw. But I also completely see the value in taking on a challenge like this and finishing what I started, I'm super glad I did this, I think my art improved from it. I would definitely do future drawing challenges/prompt things that are quicker or have less prompts!

My advice to prospective future linktoberers: pace yourself and be gentle; this is a great chance to do something exciting and new with your art, but above all it's about you having fun. There are no prizes at the end except for what you've learned and how you feel about it, and that's for the best!!

One thing's for sure, I am zelda'd out lmao so I'll be branching out towards some little projects I have lined up for personal art and other fandoms I'm into right now

So anyway thanks to all of you who read this or who gassed me up this whole month, I appreciate you!!!!!!!! ヾ(＾∇＾)

[muletia]

[tfp] optimus prime x reader

summary: you feel insecure about your boring life. optimus is quick to make you feel better about yourself

cw: angst, fluff, yapper (reader) x listener (optimus), optimus is fucking obsessed with you, bad writing, silliness

word count: 1033

The last thing you expected to see after leaving work was a massive red-and-blue truck parked perfectly at the curb, just a few meters from the entrance. You’d recognize that color scheme and vehicle type anywhere — someone had come to visit. You didn’t even try to hide the smile that crept onto your lips.

"Is that your boyfriend?"

Your coworker’s voice pulled you out of your brief trance. You’d completely forgotten she was even there, though just moments ago, the two of you had been making small talk.

"Yup."

"You never mentioned him."

Because he’s a damn alien, you almost blurted, but you bit your tongue in time.

"He’s a long-haul truck driver, so he’s rarely in Jasper. Hey, thanks for the recipe, but I’ve gotta go. See you tomorrow!"

After a quick hug, you headed briskly toward the truck. She’d surely grill you for details tomorrow, and you’d need to have your excuses ready, but that was a problem for later. You had far better things to do now.

You opened the passenger door to avoid drawing attention to an empty driver seat and climbed inside. The familiar interior immediately put you at ease, and when the owner of the truck spoke, butterflies that had been dormant in your stomach suddenly came to life. You’d known him for years, yet his voice alone still made you feel like a giddy teenager. The perfect man, as it turned out, was actually an extraterrestrial being.

"Greetings, my dearest."

"Hi, love. To what do I owe this visit?"

Optimus started the engine and took the route toward the base. You knew it by heart, having traveled it countless times with Bumblebee or Bulkhead when you needed an escort. Yet, despite being your partner, Optimus rarely had time for dates. You didn’t hold it against him; you fully understood the duties that came with being a leader. But there were moments, many intimate moments when Optimus wished he could spend more time with you. He wanted to be there for you through every good and bad moment, but he couldn’t, and it tore at his spark.

"Front lines have been quiet for now. I wanted to take the opportunity to see you."

You reached out and caressed the panel in front of you. You didn’t miss the momentary, louder hum of the engine. Adorable.

Out of habit, you started recounting all the work and life events that had happened during your time apart. You summarized the movies that had intrigued you, bored you, or changed your brain chemistry. You talked about books and poetry, focusing mostly on those he probably would enjoy as well. Optimus then offered his thoughts, sharing his perspective and making a mental list of works to study when he has the time, so he could discuss them with you in depth later. Maybe, if he got lucky, you’d agree to analyze them together, curled up against his neck.

After catching up on the past few weeks, you naturally transitioned to today’s events, animatedly describing how a certain Cameron had gotten on your nerves.

"I asked him a few times to fix my work computer because, you know, it’s his job, but no! Every time, he came up with some stupid excuse just to avoid—"

"Optimus," Ratchet’s voice broke in over the radio, interrupting your rant. "I hate to disturb your rendezvous, but your presence would be helpful at the base. No rush, though."

Oh, right. For a moment, you’d forgotten about your partner’s responsibilities, bombarding him with stories about work that didn’t even begin to compare with Optimus’s adventures. A pang of guilt hit you. The enthusiasm drained away, replaced by a sudden self-resentment. Instantly, the story that had been the highlight of your day shrank to the size of an atom, meaning absolutely nothing in the grander scale of beings you shared a relationship with. It wasn’t the first time these thoughts had interrupted your fun, but you’d never voiced them out loud, burying them deep within. Too bad they always found their way back to the surface.

You hoped Optimus hadn’t noticed your sudden change in body language, but deep down, you knew he had. He always did. Always perceptive and caring.

Trying to mask your discomfort, you gave a small smile.

"Hi, Ratchet!" you greeted.

The medic grumbled something under his breath.

"I am on my way to the base," Optimus reported, and the connection cut off.

"[Your Name]," he began, his tone changing. From the usual military formality, it softened into a gentle warmth. He’d seen right through you, as always. "Is everything alright?"

You didn’t want to perform tough. Not today, not in such a raw and tender moment.

"No. I don’t think so? It’s just… in your life, everything is so grand and significant; there’s always some action. My workday is interesting if a bird lands on the windowsill by my desk. Sometimes, I feel like my stories bore you because, let’s be honest, they’re boring. My job is boring."

"I understand. I am sorry you feel that way. It was never my intention to belittle you."

As always, he put all the blame on himself. You wished you could hug him, to take away at least a fraction of the guilt he carried every day on his shoulders.

"I know," you sighed. "You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry for getting all worked up."

"There is no need to apologize. I am grateful that you opened up to me. Personally, I do not think your life is uninteresting. It is yours and yours alone; no one else in the world experiences it in quite the same way. To me, your stories are unique, as they differ so drastically from the realities of my life. I wish you could think of them the same way—to be proud of who you are and what you represent."

"You always give me something to think about before bed," you laughed. "Thank you, love. I’ll try to work on myself."

"There are still a few Earth minutes before we reach the base," he informed you, and you raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to finish the story about Cameron?"

[fandomstatewrites]

— IGNITUS (I)

pairing: sauron | annatar x narien (original elven female character)

summary: after the fall of eregion, narien flees with sauron, finding brief repose in a mountainside. they both must decide what to do with the blooming alliance between them.

warnings: mention of nudity, lowkey stalker-ish vibes from sauron, angst, wound + wound care

word count: 6.8k

author's note: this has absolutely no plot lol. i wanted to just write whatever came to my head so I gave myself a blank doc and said go crazy. maybe it will eventually turn into something more structured but alas. also narien and her people are my own creation and i did my best to build them within the realms of the canon. if you want to learn more about her check out my art account @nataliabdraws this was not beta read and may contain errors

The Misty Mountains rise before them like jagged teeth, snow caught in the ridges, in the deep furrows of ancient stone. Narien's breath comes short in the thin air, crystalizing in front of her face. Her fingers, though wrapped in wool and leather, have long since gone numb where they grip the wyvern's reins. The creature's wings beat a steady rhythm against the bitter wind, each movement drawing them closer to their destination. Far now from the burning wreckage of Eregion.

The Deceiver is a weight at her back, pressing close enough that she can feel the unnatural heat of him even through her cloak and armor. Close enough that when she chances a glance over her shoulder, she can see how the shadows pool beneath his eyes, how they gather in the hollows of his face. There is something hungry in his expression—something that makes her think of wolves in winter, lean and patient.

"Where are you taking us?"

His mouth is fever-hot against her neck when he speaks, and she can feel the shape of his teeth behind his lips. The urge to bare her throat wars with the instinct to pull away. She does neither.

"Not much farther," she manages, voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. Despite how the air seems to thicken around them, pressing down like storm clouds, like the weight of his attention focused solely on her.

The sound he makes is neither human nor beast—a low vibration that she feels more than hears, traveling up her spine. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or anticipation.

When the pillars come into view, Narien's breath catches. They rise from the mountainside like the remains of something once-holy, now desecrated. Rain and wind have left their mark in deep gouges, in twisted shapes. The entrance they frame is black as pitch, a mouth opened wide in the grey stone. Waiting.

The impact of Angruin's landing shudders through stone and bone alike. Narien's dismount is less graceful than intended—her legs lock beneath her, muscles screaming from hours astride. 

The cold here bites deeper, settling into her bones, clinging to the marrow like a starving thing. She can’t quite swallow the sound that escapes her—half pain, half exhaustion. The mountain swallows it, unmoved by her weakness.

When Sauron slides down from the wyvern’s back, something is wrong in the way he moves. His limbs shift too smoothly, each motion practiced, precise, almost unnatural. He pauses, his gaze resting on Angruin with an intent that borders on childlike fascination. For just a moment, she glimpses something beneath the mask—a hint of wonder, perhaps joy, before it sinks back into shadow.

His gaze finds her, and the weight of it pulls the air from her lungs.

The wind does not simply blow here—it keens, high and hollow, a sound like grief made manifest. It plucks at their cloaks with greedy fingers, scattering loose stone into the endless dark of the chasm below. The shadows gather thick in the doorway, viscous as old blood, beckoning them closer with promises that taste of ash and defiance.

"What... is this place?"

Inside, the mountain's chill presses against Narien's bones, seeping through wool and leather until her teeth ache with it. Her words emerge as mist in the stale air: "Erair’s Hold." She can feel him listening, the weight of his attention heavy on her neck. "My uncle carved these halls. A monk's devotion made flesh in stone."

The corridors swallow their footsteps, hungry for the sound of life after so much silence. Narien's fingertips brush the wall—rough stone worn smooth by countless hands before hers, each touch a prayer or plea long forgotten.

When the passage opens, the darkness is absolute. Like being swallowed. Guttering torches cast more shadow than light, their flames cowering in their sconces as though they know what manner of creature walks among them. The pillars that rise into the gloom above are twisted things, corrupted by time or something worse—she cannot bear to look at them directly.

"And what gods," he says, inquisitive, "demanded such devoted emptiness?"

The statues watch them pass with blind eyes, their faces worn to nothing by centuries of mountain wind. Once they might have been kings, or saints, or demons. Now they are only stone, bearing silent witness to this new sacrilege.

"I know not," she whispers, though the words catch in her throat like thorns. The air here is thick with age and endings, pressing down until each breath feels like theft. As though the mountain itself rejects their presence, knowing what they bring into this sacred place. What they will take from it.

Each pulse of pain in her side brings memory: blood-slick grass in Eregion, the singing flight of arrows, the moment steel found flesh. The spear has become her crutch, though pride keeps her from admitting how much of her weight it truly bears.

 "A refuge," she says, the words thick in her throat. Her uncle's faith seems distant now, fragile as spring ice. Sacred spaces. As if anything could remain untouched by what stalks these halls.

The wound makes each step a fresh torment. Black spots dance at the edges of her vision, and she can feel wetness seeping through her bandages—blood or something worse. Her strength bleeds away like water through cupped hands, impossible to hold. Soon the stone itself will have to catch her.

Better here, she thinks with bitter humor, than tumbling from Angruin's back into the void.

"I need to tend to myself." Her voice sounds hollow. He remains perfectly still in the cavern's mouth, a dark shape cut from darker night. Only his eyes move, following her with an intensity that makes her skin prickle with animal awareness. Like being watched by something ancient and patient. Something that has all the time in the world to wait.

"Stay if you wish." The words catch in her throat when she meets his gaze. "Or find your own refuge."

She turns away before he can answer, but she can still feel the weight of his attention like hands pressed to bare skin. Like ownership. Like hunger.

The darkness swallows her whole.

2.

Smoke knows him. It curls around his form like a devoted pet, seeking the spaces between his fingers, the hollow of his throat. Sauron breathes it in, letting ash coat his tongue, settle in his lungs. Victory tastes like this—bitter and sweet at once, familiar as an old lover's touch. How fitting that destruction drapes itself over him like a second skin, like something earned. Once, he had drawn fire from nothing, bent the world's bones to his will with barely a thought. Now the evidence of ruin clings to him, desperate, as though afraid he might try to wash it clean.

But why would he? Eregion laid broken beneath his feet, ground to dust and scattered like seeds that will grow nothing but grief. Just as it should be.

Blood has dried his robes stiff as armor, crackling with each movement. An inconvenience, nothing more—this flesh is merely borrowed anyway, a vessel to contain what cannot truly be contained. Soot works its way beneath his skin like prophecy, like promise, even as the wind tries uselessly to sweep it away. As if he could be made pure again.

And then there is Narien.

She wears battle's aftermath like a crown, all savage grace and unspent fury. Grime and blood paint her skin in patterns that please him—war-marks that speak of efficiency, of brutality barely leashed. Her eyes catch torchlight like a beast's, reflecting something wild and hungry back at him. Something he recognizes.

Something in him stirs watching her move through her domain—the way she commands both beast and blade with such easy grace. Admiration would be too simple a word for what he feels. Too mortal. No, she is more like a particularly fascinating specimen, the way she cuts through her enemies without hesitation, the way power sits so naturally on her shoulders.

He might keep her, he thinks. For now.

The thought brings a particular satisfaction he chooses not to examine. Like Galadriel had been, all righteous fury and blazing light, believing herself his equal. His mouth curves remembering that defiance, how sweetly it had crumbled in the end. Even stars can be devoured, given time.

The leather pouch finds his fingers like an old lover's touch. Inside, the rings wait with patient hunger—each one a perfect trap, destiny shaped in metal and stone. His touch has already darkened the leather, the way everything he handles eventually stains.

His thoughts turn to Narien despite himself.

Queen of the dragonlords, they name her. Queen. The word tastes unfinished on his tongue, waiting to be remade. She carries authority well enough—that particular way she has of bending others to her will with nothing but a glance. But he wonders what she might become with proper guidance. If she would accept his gifts with grateful hands, or if some trace of older power might make her... resistant.

The possibility pleases him more than it should.

Time enough to shape her properly. After all, corruption is sweetest when it comes slowly, drop by careful drop.

Until even queens learn to yield.

A ring would sit pretty on her finger. He imagines how the corruption would spread—slow at first, sweet as honey in wine, until she belonged to him entirely. Though perhaps—and this thought warms him more—she might resist. His little queen, proving herself worth the effort of breaking properly. If nothing else, she promises better entertainment than the pathetic creatures who call themselves her allies.

She's vanished while his mind wandered, but he can still feel where she's been, like heat lingering on skin. Blood marks her path across stone—bright drops scattered like rubies. His eyes narrow at the sight. She hadn't seemed badly wounded in their flight, but then, Narien hoards her weaknesses close as dragon-gold. Pride makes her foolish that way.

Something dark coils beneath his ribs. If she thinks to run now, when he still has need of her, when her part in his design remains unfinished—well. His plans cannot afford such... rebellion.

The leather pouch burns against his palm, rings pressing sharp through fabric. He tucks them away with careful fingers that betray none of the hunger building in his chest. No. She will not slip from his grasp so easily. She's far too precious for that.

Her defiance kindles something ancient in him. Something that remembers exactly how to teach such lessons.

He follows her blood like thread through shadow. Like tracking some wild thing that hasn't learned it's already his.

After all, everything here belongs to him.

She'll understand soon enough.

The Hold remembers its own antiquity—dust thick as sin coating his tongue, cobwebs trembling at his passing like old prophecies waiting to be fulfilled. He pays little mind to the decay. His attention fixes solely on the blood trail leading him forward, each drop still wet enough to catch what little light remains. How quaint, that she thinks to hide from him here.

The chamber opens before him with an exhale of stale air. A bed drowned in shadow, its linens gray as burial cloth. Her spear watches him pass with its dragon-eyes, abandoned like everything else she's left behind.

For a moment, silence stretches tight as a bowstring.

Then—

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

He follows the sound, each step careful, deliberate, savoring the strange intimacy of the moment. Behind an old oak wardrobe, tucked into the rock itself, he finds it—an alcove with a bath carved straight from the mountain stone. Steam rises in soft, twisting wisps, curling and vanishing into the still, stale air. Her clothes lie in a blood-streaked heap at the foot of the bath, abandoned, half-forgotten, in a state of disarray. 

Narien sits curled in water gone pink with her own essence, knees drawn to chest like some half-feral thing. Wine-dark hair spills loose, catching what little light remains until it burns like ember-glow against pale skin. 

She doesn't notice him yet. Too lost in whatever fury keeps her spine so straight, her jaw so tight. He finds himself oddly pleased by the sight—this strange, savage creature wearing anger like a crown. There's something almost... endearing about her attempt at dignity, even now.

He stays in the doorway, content to watch. To study how she holds herself together with nothing but spite and will, glaring at stone as if it might crumble under her gaze alone. Such delicious defiance in every line of her body, even as blood seeps steadily from her wounds.

The gash in her arm weeps steady crimson, each drop a small sacrifice to the bathwater below. He follows its path with ancient eyes—the way it winds over her chest, between her breasts, dispersing into pink-tinged water like wine into clear spirit. Her body tells stories in its scars, a history written in flesh. So young, to wear violence like fine jewelry.

He can taste the copper-sweet scent of her blood in the air, mixing with steam until it coats his tongue like memories of older wars, older wounds. The tension in her shoulders speaks volumes—some deeper hurt than mere flesh, some weight that presses against her bones until they threaten to crack beneath it.

"Narien?"

Her name falls from his lips—gentle but unmistakably a command. She takes too long to find his gaze, lost somewhere in that peculiar mortal tendency toward introspection. When she does look, her eyes are dark as wells, pupils blown wide with something that isn't quite pain.

How fascinating, to watch her fragment so quietly.

The war has carved pieces from her, yes, but it's the loss that interests him more—the way it sits beneath her skin like a fever. Eregion's victory carries a price she hasn't finished paying, one that writes itself in the fine lines of her face, in the careful way she holds herself together.

"Narien?"

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Her blood keeps time between them, steady as a heartbeat. Something old and hungry stirs in him at her continued silence—he is unused to being denied attention, especially by creatures who should know better. He moves forward with careful intent, each step measured until he towers over her bath, close enough to catch the heat rising from her skin.

Still she looks through him, past him, at something he cannot see. Her stillness is almost perfect, save for the steady seep of red that paints the water in spreading rings.

His eyes trace the path of her blood, the vibrant streak against her pale skin. Her lips part slightly, just enough to suggest a whisper waiting to escape, but nothing comes—only the relentless drip, drip, drip echoing in the still air.

Without a word, Sauron reaches for the rag draped over the rim of the tub, his fingers curling around it. He dips it into the water, watching the fabric darken as it soaks up her blood. Slowly, he drags the cloth along her arm, wiping away the crimson with meticulous, deliberate strokes, the heat stinging his fingertips. Narien flinches—a small, involuntary jerk of her elbow—but she doesn’t pull away.

When the blood is finally gone, wiped clean from her skin, he leans in closer, his fingers reaching out to brush lightly against the wound. The contact is delicate—a mere touch, but enough to send a jolt of pain through her, enough to make her eyes snap to his with sudden, startled awareness. For a moment, her dark gaze locks with his, pupils blown wide, her expression caught somewhere between shock and suspicion.

With a faint, almost imperceptible shift of his fingers, the wound begins to close. Shadows stir at the edges of his touch, knitting her flesh together with an unseen thread, pulling the skin tight and whole as if it had never been torn. The injury vanishes, erased by a power older than the mountains that cradle them, a power as subtle as it is terrifying.

He expects relief in her eyes, perhaps even gratitude. For most, the sight of such healing, the sudden absence of pain, would have elicited thanks, or at the very least, a softening of the gaze. But when he looks up, he finds nothing of the sort.

She stares at him with eyes gone dark as wells, terror written in every line of her face. Not the meek fear of mortals faced with power beyond their ken—no, this is older. Primal. The kind of recognition that lives in blood and bone, passed down through generations since the First Age.

"Get away!"

Her voice cracks like ice in spring, high and sharp and desperate. Water surges over the bath's edges as she recoils, the sound of it against stone echoing like broken bells. Each breath comes quick and shallow—not the measured control of elvish grace, but something raw and animal that pleases him despite himself.

He remains still, letting her panic fill the space between them. How fascinating, to see her stripped of that careful pride, that cultivated strength. Here, bare of armor and pretense, she is almost... delicate. He hadn't meant to frighten her quite like this, but the knowledge settles sweet as honey in his chest.

The bloodied cloth drops from his fingers with deliberate care. Such a small thing to break her composure so completely—but she watches it fall as though it carries all the weight of prophecy, all the terrible truth of what he is beneath this borrowed flesh. Her chest heaves with each breath, tears cutting clean tracks down sharp cheekbones.

"Narien."

He shapes her name carefully, lets it carry just enough command to remind her what she is, what she was before terror took root. He has no interest in offering comfort—but there are other ways to gentle wild things when necessary.

Still that haunted look remains, that bone-deep recognition that speaks of memories older than forests. How unexpected, these tears on her proud face. This trembling in limbs made for war. Has he truly reached past her carefully constructed walls so easily?

“Begone! Leave me!” Her voice splinters on the brittle command, high and sharp, cracking like a blade against stone. She throws it at him, but the words scatter, hollow, hanging in the air with no weight behind them. It’s fear speaking—raw and cracked—not the queen of dragonlords. 

For one indulgent moment, he considers disobeying, a test to see if any trace remains of the woman who had once fixed him with a glare aflame with fury and pride. Instead, he lets the silence press between them, savoring how her defiance falters, fraying beneath the heat of his gaze.

This—this is not Narien. Narien is fierce, proud, unbreakable; she does not retreat, does not tremble. The sight before him unsettles him, worms beneath his skin in a way he cannot quite name. His mind twists around the image of her—her blood diffusing like ink in water, the tremor in her fingers as she gripped the edge of the tub. She has faced death, she has weathered storms that would break any other. Yet here she stands, shrinking from him, eyes wide with a terror that clings too close to her skin, fragile as frost.

For the briefest moment, he hesitates. Uncertainty coils within him, unwelcome and unfamiliar, stirring something he cannot name. He does not know what to do with this fractured, fearful creature that glares back at him with eyes both desperate and defiant. He does not understand this sudden collapse, this breach in her carefully maintained armor, or why panic blooms from her like smoke. Had he miscalculated so disastrously? What had cracked her open like this, this queen who ought to wear her wounds like a crown, who had spilled blood at his side? Why now does she pull away from the hand that could steady her.

Perhaps it’s the realization of her own fragility—the understanding, finally sinking in, that her pride and strength mean little when the body fractures. Or perhaps it’s the weight of her failures pressing too hard, deep enough to crack that self-made armor she clings to so stubbornly. Or perhaps, he muses with the faintest smirk, it’s the sheer contrast that unnerves her—her blood, her pain laid bare in the steam, while he stands unscathed, untouched, as if nothing in this world could lay a finger on him if it tried.

He rises slowly, unfolding to his full height with a languid, deliberate ease. This moment unsettles him, he admits. Her disorder, the chaos of her brokenness creeping into his presence, feels like an unwanted guest in the carefully ordered halls of his mind. Her fear lingers in the air, thick and tainted, and for the first time in an age, something in this world dares to move just beyond his control. He knows only that it cannot linger.

Whatever this is—this fracture in her—it must end.

Without another word, he steps back, letting the quiet pull her brokenness away like a severed thread. 

And he leaves.

3.

The bathwater has gone cold, though Narien barely notices through the tremors wracking her frame. 

Strange, how silence can press against skin like a physical thing, how it fills lungs with each breath until even thinking becomes an effort. Her thoughts move thick as sap, dragging themselves through her mind as though weighted with lead.

The water around her has turned to dirt-dark soup, blood and earth painting patterns she doesn't care to interpret. Iron coats her tongue, familiar as home, as victory—but this taste speaks only of defeat.

Her fingers find the place where his power touched her.

The skin lies smooth now, perfect as new-fallen snow. As if the wound had never existed, had never bled her essence into his keeping. But the memory of his touch lingers like frost—precise and gentle in a way that makes her stomach turn. His fingers had been unexpectedly soft against her flesh, like the first kiss of a blade before it bites deep.

She hadn't meant to bare her teeth at him like some wild thing. Hadn't intended for those jagged words to tear themselves from her throat, each one raw as a fresh wound. She can't even remember what she said—only remembers how it felt, like swallowing broken glass, like screaming into void.

The water ripples with her shivers. Or perhaps it's laughter. After all, what is there to do when you realize the monster wearing a friend's face has just shown you its teeth?

But she cannot forget the terror that had flashed through her like lightning, quick and blinding, the moment he touched her. It was irrational—dog-like, as she bitterly thinks now—and yet it had been real, the kind of terror that seizes the body before the mind can make sense of it. That sudden spark of fear, so foreign to her, still burns at the edges of her consciousness, refusing to be snuffed out.

The water runs cold, fingers pressed to the unblemished skin of her forearm. The unmarred flesh mocks her—pristine and perfect where moments ago blood had welled dark and thick from the gash. She presses harder, as if she could conjure back the wound through will alone, restore the honest pain of it. But there is only smooth skin beneath her touch, only the persistent memory of his fingers there, gentle and sure.

She hadn't meant to let him so close. Hadn't meant to give him the satisfaction of seeing her hunched and bleeding, hadn't meant to feed that hungry light in his eyes when he reached for her arm. The wound had sealed beneath his touch like wax melting backwards, flesh knitting whole in a heartbeat. Her gorge had risen at the sight—not at the healing itself, but at the intimacy of it. The presumption.

The room feels too small now, the walls pressing in as her thoughts circle, and she can’t shake the feeling that Sauron, even after leaving, is still here, lingering in the air, watching her unravel.

The bathwater drains with a wet, gasping sound—like something dying, watching the clouded water spiral away. Blood and dirt disappear down the gullet of stone, but the memory of his touch remains, stubborn as a bruise beneath her skin. Narien fills the bath again, hardly waiting for the steam to rise before she's working the soap between her palms, scrubbing at her flesh as if she might scour away more than just the battle's remains. As if she might wash away the crawling sensation of flesh knitting whole beneath his fingers, the way her body had betrayed her by accepting his aid so readily.

It takes three attempts to rise—her body protesting with each movement, her limbs slow, heavy, reluctant to obey. The exhaustion settles in her bones, thick and unyielding, as though each muscle has turned to stone. She towels off quickly, her motions mechanical, almost detached, and wraps herself in a soft pale gown and  midnight grey over robe she finds in the wardrobe, the fabric soft and worn, as though it’s been waiting for centuries to be touched again. She runs her fingers over the material absentmindedly, wondering how long it has sat there, forgotten, gathering dust in this decaying fortress. It smells faintly of age, of disuse—of a place that once thrived, now lost to time and neglect.

Pulling her cloak tighter for warmth, she grabs her spear and steps out into the corridor. The hall is empty, dim, the light barely enough to cast shadows, but at least the air is fresher here, not thick with the stagnant dampness of the bath. She pads along the cold stone floor, her footsteps soft, but the silence is so absolute that even the smallest sound seems to echo, bouncing off the walls in a ghostly whisper. 

The fortress holds its silence like an old secret, and Narien finds herself counting heartbeats, breaths, the soft whisper of cloth against skin—each sound unnaturally loud in spaces meant for armies. No servants hurry through these halls, no guards stand watch. Even the dust seems to pause in its endless falling, as though waiting for permission to settle.

The walls remember greater days. Now they lean inward like dying things, their strength turned brittle as old bone. She pulls her cloak tighter, though the chill that follows her has little to do with cold.

Since the bath, he has played at shadows—there and gone, like trying to catch smoke between fingers. But his presence fills every corner of this place, thick as incense, patient as stone. The weight of it presses against her skin, against her thoughts, until she can taste it on her tongue.

When she finds him, he's arranged himself with careful precision behind a scarred table—every fold of his robes exactly where it should be, as though even fabric knows better than to defy him. His hair catches torchlight like spun gold, while she still wears battle's grime beneath her skin. The contrast pleases him, she thinks. This evidence of how unlike they are.

A scroll sprawls across the table's surface, its edges curling with age. His fingers drift across ancient words with casual possession, as though everything here exists solely for his touch.

"Have a good bath?"

The question falls sweet as honey from his mouth. He doesn't bother looking up from his staged disinterest. Narien narrows her eyes at him, the irritation flaring hotter now, her fingers tightening around the edge of her cloak. There is no warmth in his tone, no concern, no acknowledgment of the vulnerability she had shown in the bath—in her panic. Only this mocking, this dismissal, as if her struggles, her pain, were nothing more than a momentary inconvenience to him, a passing amusement.

"I could have done without being interrupted by you." The words come steady despite the water's chill seeping into her bones, despite how her body aches with battle-memory and lost blood.

She shouldn't provoke him. Not when exhaustion makes her limbs feel like lead, not when she can barely hold her head up. But something in her refuses to yield, even now—especially now—with his eyes on her skin.

"It is nothing I have not seen before," he says, voice rich with that particular casualness that makes her teeth ache. As though her nakedness were some quaint thing to be observed and dismissed. As though she were another curiosity in his collection of ancient things.

His indifference burns worse than the wounds. Something hot and dangerous coils in her belly, tasting like copper, like pride.

Heat floods her cheeks, a deep flush that she knows betrays her anger. It rises fast, hot, and sudden, and she is sure she must look as red as her hair now, her temper unraveling in her chest like fire. Without thinking, without hesitation, she leans her spear against the table with a loud, deliberate CLANK, the metal tip of the weapon clinking sharply against the stone floor—a declaration of her distaste. 

"You have a curious knack for forging alliances, I do not need your care." 

Her gaze holds steady, unwavering, piercing through his composure with a silent demand—as though, if she only stares long enough, she might unearth whatever lies beneath that smooth, practiced mask. Yet the Maia meets her gaze without a flicker, his expression molded into an unsettling calm, observing her with the cool, idle interest of a scientist studying a specimen: something curious, yet ultimately trivial.

"Perhaps not," he murmurs, his voice soft, laced with a shadow of private amusement. "And yet, here you are. Seeking me out once more."

Her lips tighten, a flash of irritation sparking behind her eyes. She reins in the impulse, her voice emerging in a measured, deliberate tone. "Mind yourself. I am the one who offers you shelter and I am the one who can take it away." 

He lifts his hands, palms outward in a placating gesture, though the smile that tugs at his mouth is knife-thin, predatory. “Forgive me. A careless choice of words.” 

The sound she makes is all spite and steel, bitter enough to cut. She lets quiet fill the space between them, feeling the weight of it settle in her chest expanding until she is forced to expel it. "I have an offer for you." 

The deceiver’s lips split, wolfish. “Indulge me,”

She does: “Come the dawn, I will leave. I offer to take you wherever in this middle earth you wish to be delivered and we go our own ways.”

“Or?”

“You return with me to Aldrast—as a guest.”

This pulls his spine straight. “A curious proposal. Might I know the terms of this… offer?” 

It seemed nothing in this world came without clauses. Narien knew as much. She drew her own.

“At Aldrast, you are under my rule as Queen. No chaos shall be sewn amongst my people. No bloodshed.”

She watches as the offer turns in his mind, like dark tides shifting behind those eyes. A muscle flickers in his jaw, his expression unreadable until he finally nods, relenting.

"Very well. I will go with you."

Narien tempers her small victory with a curt nod, her fingers closing around the haft of her spear where it rests. The weight of it is reassuring, grounding her. “We will meet at dawn,” she says, her tone clipped, businesslike.

Without another glance, she turns on her heel, the spear tapping softly against the stone floor as she leaves him behind. "Goodnight."

-

Sleep refuses to find Narien. She lies in the moth-eaten bed, staring up at the weathered canopy above. The faded green fabric has a sickly hue, as though someone had died in these very sheets and, with twisted decency, allowed themselves to be buried beneath the earth. The blankets itch against her skin, the pillows are misshapen, and the mattress beneath her feels more like stone than anything meant for rest. Even the faint, cloying scent of age and disuse unsettles her. How long had this room been abandoned? How many visitors had once laid in this bed?

Narien’s fingers absently pick at the embroidery on the pillow clutched to her chest, the threads unraveling beneath her nails. She rolls the offer she made to Sauron over in her mind, the words heavy, clinging to her thoughts like damp fog. Inviting him into her home—into Aldrast—was not a decision she had ever imagined herself making. But the truth is clear enough: the Elves are untouchable without his help. He now commands an army of Uruks, a force she needs. There’s no point in lying to herself. The alliance between them isn’t born of trust or choice—it’s a necessity.

If Sauron poses a threat to her, to her people, she will handle it. She must. She would keep him contained—at least, she would try. Yet beneath the surface, something hums inside her, not quite fear, not quite anger—something akin to excitement. The thrill of ambitions she had long since buried, the kind she told herself were out of reach. There had always been reasons, hadn’t there? Her husband, her son, the fragile threads of duty that kept her from clawing at the desires festering beneath her skin since exile.

But now, with Sauron’s power so near, she feels it again—that itch—the one that had waited all along. If it was a monster the Elves had seen in her all those years ago, perhaps a monster was what she would become.

—

Morning breaks with a cruelty that feels personal, the sky a brittle blue, as if made to shatter. The cold sinks its teeth into Narien’s skin, sharp as any blade, leaving only the sting behind. Her breath clouds in front of her, thick and fleeting, a ghost in the dawn—a reminder she is still here, still breathing.

The sun rises slowly, hesitant, its light creeping over the horizon as if unwilling to chase away the night. The scent of wet stone lingers, mingling with the dampness of old earth, the memory of last night’s rain refusing to let go. Narien pulls on her war-stained clothes, the fabric stiff with dried blood and grime. The weight of it all presses down on her, but she wears it like regalia.

Her fingers split the tangled waves of her wine-red hair, combing out the knots with methodical care. The heavy mane falls back as she ties it with a worn strip of leather, the braid settling down her spine. She has always worn it long—always—and its weight is a comfort, a small piece of herself she still knows.

Her hand finds the spear, the cool metal grounding her, stilling the faint tremors that linger in her limbs. The sanctuary looms ahead, a dark hollow against the cloud-choked mountains. Far below, shrouded in mist, lies the Gap of Rohan—and beyond that, home. But here, high above the world, there is only the fortress, the wind slicing through the silence, and the weight of what is to come.

Sauron stands in the archway, black and gold robes whipping violently in the wind. His hair, like spun gold, catches the dawn, turning into molten fire under the light. He waits, unmoving, until her footsteps draw near. His gaze finds hers, sharp as the morning chill, already calculating the distance she has traveled, the weight of every step.

“Did you sleep?”

“Well enough.” Narien adjusts the scabbard on her hip. His eyes are on her, reading her, seeing too much. She wonders how much of her restless night he already knows.

“Good.”

“And you?”

He shrugs, the movement lazy, almost indifferent. “It’s not something I require.”

Of course not.

“Your beast will not settle,” Sauron murmurs, his voice roughened by an edge of irritation, the kind that seeps through despite his best attempts to conceal it. His gaze drifts towards the horizon, narrowing, as if the answers he sought lay somewhere beyond the world's edge. For a moment, the calm facade wavers, the ancient patience of a Maia, cracking. Overhead, a bellow rolls through the sky, low and resonant—a defiant challenge that thrums against the quiet dawn.

“It has been restless all night.”

Beast. The word digs beneath Narien's skin, raw and barbed, leaving behind a sting that burns. Her jaw tightens, a cold fire simmering low, kindled by the insult. Her response, when it comes, is sharper than she intends:  “She is not a beast.”

Sauron’s gaze shifts back to her, slow, deliberate. Dark eyes hold hers, probing, a hint of something that could be amusement or disdain. He presses, every syllable chosen to push, to test. “What else would you call it?”

“She is family.”

The conviction in her voice allows no room for debate. There is nothing left for him to say. Narien moves before he can think of something to provoke her further, two fingers lifted to her lips. Her whistle slices through the air, keen and commanding, echoing off the rock walls and cutting through the cold like a stone skipping across water. Silence, for a breath, and then—a deep rumble answers, unfurling across the sky like a promise made of thunder. The beat of wings follows, powerful and rhythmic, the sky’s own pulse.

The wyvern bursts through the layer of cloud, her scales a dark silver, shimmering beneath the first touch of sunlight. She is radiant, her roar splitting the air, a sound that shakes the earth beneath Narien’s feet, dislodging stones that tumble down the mountainside.

“Angruin,” Narien calls, her voice steady, a note of command mingled with something softer—something almost like reverence. The wyvern’s beady black eyes meet hers, bright and fierce, and Angruin shakes herself, the great wings folding in as she descends, shedding the sky’s weight as if it were nothing. She is not as large as her dragon kin, not as thorny or colorful, but her presence is every bit as formidable, something out of an old tale, something forged from myth.

Angruin strides forward, her steps deliberate, her movements carrying a grace that belies her size. The air shifts, the scent of rain and stone thickening as her bulk fills the cavern. Sauron’s gaze follows the wyvern, his expression a mask, cold and impassive. There is no awe, no flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes, just that same unreadable stillness.

“At ease,” Narien murmurs in Nareni, her voice softer now. 

The great wyvern settles onto the stone, her vast wings folding with a rustle of leathery sinew, the sharp talons of her hind feet clicking softly against the rock as she shifts her weight. Her eyes, molten silver, never leave Sauron. Wary and unblinking, the spines along her back ripple as her muscles coil with tension, a living current beneath her gleaming scales. The saddle on her back, crafted from thick leather and reinforced with iron and polished steel, looks both battle-worn and indomitable, fitted for the creature it adorned.

It is her hand that steadies first against Angruin's neck, fingers finding the familiar ridges of scale and bone.

"Behave," whispers Narien and the wyvern's muscles coil beneath her palm like storm clouds gathering.

The beast's growl starts low, trapped and thunderous; but when Narien's eyes find Sauron where he stands among the weathered stones, his form remains edgeless, drawn in shades of shadow and smoke. Angruin's tail—thick as ancient heartwood, twice as merciless—cracks against the mountain face, and suddenly there are pebbles raining down like tears of stone, each one marking the seconds of their shared hesitation.

Something raw trembles in the space between predators. The wyvern watches him as wolves watch their own kind—all leashed violence and barely-contained knowing, silver eyes tracking each minute shift of his form. Her wariness bleeds into Narien's awareness even as muscle memory guides her up, the motion of mounting carved so deep within her bones that her body moves without thought. The leather beneath her thighs whispers its history: here where they first learned trust, there where they earned it, each scar and smoothed patch telling of leagues flown together.

She reaches down to the Maia—just as she had that day above Eregion, when smoke had painted the world in shades of ending—something flickers across his face, quick as summer lightning, gone before she can name it. His hand finds hers, and she pulls.

He settles behind her, and the ancient saddle creaks beneath their combined weight. His presence burns through leather and steel and all her careful distance until she can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing matching hers, beat for treacherous beat.

Angruin turns with a tug of Narien's hand, each step a percussion against stone. When they leap, the earth releases its greedy hold and sky rushes in to claim them, the world softening at its edges until freedom tastes sharp as newly-forged steel on her tongue.

In that space between heartbeats, between ground and clouds, Narien allows herself to forget everything but wind-song and wing-beat.

that's part one! Hope you enjoyed! I have a part two I'm working on where we discover Aldrast.

[pekoehoneyncream]

Ghoaptober # 31

Prompt: Knife

Words: 1500~

TW: Allusions to Torture (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

This is the last one folks! All good things must come to an end, I suppose. This has been really fun to do! It's been great to stretch my writing skills, I feel like I improved over the course of the month, at least I hope I did, I definitely had to do less grammar and spelling corrections as we progressed, so there's that.

I wanted to thank everyone who's left such kind comments for me, you're feedback really does mean the world to me, Thank You!

If you want me to write more please do drop me an ask, I'd love to hear from you!

And with all of that said, onto the fic

Enjoy!

A shriek echoed out from the microscopic kitchenette crammed into the back of the disused officer’s rec room that the one-four-one had co-opted, Ghost and Price launched off the sagging sofa towards the noise. They charged into the kitchenette, Ghost wielding a knife and Price his hand-gun, ready to end any threat to their Sergeants.

There was no threat, just Soap trying to hide his awkward blush in his mug of coffee while Gaz stared at him with something close to abject horror. 

“Tav, mate, what the fuck is wrong with your tongue.” Gaz demanded, willfully ignoring that he’d just screamed like an arachnophobe confronting Shelob and the fact that his superiors hadn't hesitated in running to his hypothetical rescue. 

Price huffed and reholstered his gun, Ghost putting away his knife much more slowly. “Just what exactly is going on?” He demanded with an edge to his voice that suggested he was already regretting that he’d asked, “Why are you screaming over Soap’s tongue?”

“Well, Cap,” Soap started with a lewd tilt of his eyebrows and a goading grin,

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gaz cut over him with a biting tone, “but, I didn’t expect to be confronted by the fact that Soap is an actual fuckin’ demon on a casual Thursday afternoon, Price.”

“Garrick, we talked about this,” Price scolded,

“Yeah,” Ghost agreed, “Johnny can’t be a demon, his rosary'd burn him.”

“Wha!” Soap sputtered in sheer disbelief, “Youse thought Ah’m a demon?!”

“No one’s that lucky, Tav.” Gaz said with flat seriousness, “There’s gotta be some kinda something going on.” 

“Would a deal with a demon make you demonic?” Ghost mused in an exaggeratedly ponderous tone, casting his gaze up to the ceiling tiles so that the flabbergasted expression Soap’s face was stretching into couldn't make him laugh.

Gaz perked up, snapping and pointing at Ghost in a eureka-esque motion, “Yes! That’s totally it!” He exclaimed, practically bouncing on his toes with his triumph. 

“Riley-”

“I cannae make a deal wit’ a demon!” Soap cut over Price, slamming his mug down to free up his hands for incensed gesturing, “Mah Grannie would disown me!” 

“Then how do you explain-” Gaz flailed a hand in the direction of Soap’s mouth, lacking the words to describe just what in fuck was going on in there, “-that!”

A look of cartoonish offence slid onto Soap’s face. Ghost watched him brace his hands on his hips and draw himself up to his full height, hamming it up. Trying to make it into an easily deflected joke. Concern kicked at the back of Ghost’s sternum, if Johnny was deflecting it meant the real answer was nothing good. 

Ghost had learned early on that Johnny was one of the most open, shameless, oversharing freaks that walked this earth. Ghost had watched him laugh his way through retelling stories and anecdotes that would have sent consummate exhibitionists blushing through the floor on multiple occasions. Ghost had also been quick to cotton on to the fact that it was for the best to follow up on the things that Johnny tried to deflect, as they were generally things that would have a therapist crying and Johnny really was better off getting them off his chest. Ghost usually tried to circle back around to these things when they were alone and Johnny was feeling safe, but with Gaz latched onto this like a starved dog with a butcher bone that wasn’t an option. 

Sure, Ghost could probably distract Gaz and help him wiggle out of this, but debriding old wounds is always a good team bonding experience. 

Gaz and Soap had stagnated into their usual pattern of bandying insults back and forth. Having a grand time of pretending to be sputtering in high dudgeon whenever the other would quip back with something particularly clever. Ghost cut his eyes to Price, and jerked his chin at Johnny upon catching the Captain’s eye. 

Yes, Ghost wanted Johnny to talk about it, but he didn’t want his boyfriend upset with him either. 

“Right,” Price cut in after giving Ghost a roundly rancorous look, “Soap why is Garrick accusing you of having a demonic tongue. Without!” He hastily amended when Soap turned overblown fuck-me eyes on him, “any chirpsing if you would.”

“Aye, right. Uh-” Soap hesitated, staring down at the table and rubbing at his nape as he tried to gather the right words to explain this, “Reckon he mean’ this.” He gave up and just stuck his tongue out. 

Soap could admit that he got a bit of a kick out of watching their uncomprehending looks warp into horrified incredulity when his tongue split down the middle. He wiggled the two sides up and down in opposite directions of each other and briefly twined them into a coil to drive the image home, then retracted it back behind the safety of his teeth with as much casual finesse as he could muster. 

There was a beat of silence, then a cavalcade of questions. Soap’s personal favourite was Ghost’s ‘how didn’t I notice that?’ said in the tone of a man on the edge of a revelatory breakdown. A close second was Price’s muttered ‘that can’t be within regs.”, but topping the charts for sheer volume was Gaz.

“What!” He shrieked, “What the fuck! When’d you get that!?” his voice dripped with a queer mix of awe, horror, and morbid fascination. 

Soap hummed uncertainly, casting his mind back, swallowing against the phantom taste of blood creeping up his throat to pool at the back of his mouth, “Mus’ a been aroun' twenty-sixteen? Some’hing like tha’,”

“Twenty-sixteen.” Price muttered, mentally rifling through Soap’s file, there was something about that year that had the klaxons spinning up in Price’s subconscious, “Not October twenty-sixteen?” 

“Aye,” Soap nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground, “Tha’d be the one.”

“Corporal MacTavish was detained by enemy forces eighth October twenty-sixteen and was successfully recovered twelfth October twenty-sixteen. In enemy custody, Corporal MacTavish was subjected to physical maltreatment, most notably manifesting in substantial damage within the oral cavity. Injury permanent but non-disfiguring. Corporal MacTavish states that no intelligence was provided to the adversary while in custody.” Price quotes -impressively word for word- from the truncated after action report that had been the script for far too many of his nightmares, “That October twenty-sixteen?” 

“Got ‘er in one, Cap.” Soap confirms, idly grinding his tongue between his teeth, “Yanno, they did offer tae fix it. The medics.” He spoke on just to break the heavy silence that had conquered the room, “But they’d have tae open it up again, cause it’d been cauterized, so Ah said not tae bother.”

They’d said as it was a 'non-invasive procedure' only local numbing would be provided and Soap would not be letting anyone else come at his tongue with a knife unless he was unconscious, dead, or dying. 

“Tav," Gaz pressed out slowly, hesitantly, “That’s fucked, mate.”

“Aye,” Soap nodded, staring down at the kitchenette’s cheap linoleum. Blinking to force the floor back into dingy tiles when his brain tried to twist it into stained concrete. He huffed a small flat laugh, more to force the scent of iron and dank stone from his nose than anything else, “Aye, twasn’t mah idea ae fun neither.”

“Johnny,” Ghost drew his name out into a devastated whine and lunged forward to coil around Soap in a protective embrace. Heart splitting at the shakiness he could feel in Johnny’s shallow breaths as he clutched his boyfriend to his chest. 

“Ah’m alrigh’,” Johnny assured, but the tear-fighting sniff he tried to conceal in Ghost’s pecs said something different. 

“You’re alright,” Price agreed, lay a grounding hand on Soap’s shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Gaz poked at Soap’s sensitive sides to force a wet giggle out of him, “Course you’re alright, Tav. You’ve got us and if those fucks aren’t already dead I’m sure Ghost is drafting up like ten different plans for how to track ‘em down and kill ‘em slow.”

Ghost was glad that Gaz’s joking was making Johnny feel better, and gave an intrigued pensive hum into the fluff of his warhawk to play along. 

It was actually fifteen different plans. 

“Okay. Okay.” Soap barked, shaking them off once he was absolutely positive that he wasn’t about to start bawling like a bairn as soon as they let go, “Mah goddamn coffee’s gonnae be fuckin’ cold now ye muckers.” 

“Do you want me to make you a new cup, so you don't have to microwave it?” Ghost offered, love surging in him for the wide blue eyes that swung his way. 

“Would ye, mo chridhe?” Johnny begged prettily. 

Ghost hooked a thumb under his balaclava, lifting it over his mouth just long enough to press an adoring kiss unto Johnny’s lips, then turning away to make him the promised fresh cuppa, fluidly stealing his mug to dump and refill it.

Both men were content to ignore the way Gaz faked a retch over their sappy mush, as he practically stepped on Price’s heels following after the Captain on his tactical retreat back to the sofa.

Thank You For Reading!

Some nice hurt/comfort to round off the month. It didn't make it into the fic but the reason that his captors split Soap's tongue is because he wouldn't stop talking back, just a fun fact for y'all.

Did anyone want me to make a masterlist for all of these? with ratings and short descriptions or something? there's already links to the full series on my masterlist, but that just has the prompts, so I was wondering if a masterlist would be helpful. Let me know!

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[dark-konohagakure2]

If the requests are still open, can you write obsessive Anbu!Itachi breaking into the house of his civilian crush (f) just to record her being passionate with her actual bf and then use the tape to blackmail her into secretly getting with him instead? 👀

tw: noncon, stalking anbu!Itachi, voyeurism, blackmail, blowjobs, facials, nonconsensusal photography, threats, yandere, victim blaming, stalking, power imbalance

All characters depicted are 18+

Itachi is nothing but grateful for his promotion to the role of captain on the Anbu Black Ops, it is both an honor and a great responsibility, one which allows him to keep close eye on and protect those dear to him, such as his village, his younger brother, and his future girlfriend.

Of course doesn't know that she's going to be his girlfriend very soon, but he does, but there is one annoying little problem standing in his way, her current so-called 'boyfriend'. Itachi can't wrap his head around why she would deign to be involved with someone so painfully average. He isn't as smart, powerful, or handsome as Itachi, and if what Itachi has seen through her window in the late hours or the night is true; he's certainly not as good in bed as Itachi.

It enrages Itachi to no end that his beloved has already lost her virginity to such an inferior man. While a pacifist at heart, Itachi would love nothing more than to show that whelp what never ending terror is, to make him pay for stealing Itachi's property, but the Uchiha holds back on his more vengeful urges, instead deciding to rectify the situation with a little bit of negotiation.

Itachi has fancied himself as a something of a photographer lately, being a part of the Anbu he needs to occasionally snap photo's for evidence, or in more insidious cases: blackmail. He doesn't delight in blackmailing people, especially not the object of his affections, but her infidelity has left him with little choice but to go to these measures, and he'll be sure to chide her for being such a bad girl as he shows her all the photos he's collected.

"Don't be so dramatic now, you should have known better than to keep your curtains open like that. I can make these photos go away, if you just get on your knees, that is..."

Itachi is still resentful of the fact that he didn't get to fuck her pussy before that pitiful excuses of a lover of her's, but he's able to look on the bright side of things; at least he gets to fuck her throat first. In all of his time spent stalking the couple, he's only seen them have plain old penis in vagina sex, how utterly boring. Since he's getting her throat first, he's going to make an impression on it, one that will render her throat so sore that she won't be able to talk without thinking about him.

He'll force his cock in and out of her mouth at a pace that is nearly impossible for her to adjust to, his balls slapping against her chin as he claims her throat as his personal cocksleeve. Part of him, the more malicious part of him, wants to snap a photo of her choking on his cock and send it to her worthless boyfriend, but he holds back for the time being. After all, what's the point of blackmail if he can't hold it over her head for as long as possible?

He'll draw it out as long as possible, wanting to savor the feeling of deflowering his beloved's throat, so he'll use every last ounce of his endurance to hold back his climax for as long as he can. When Itachi finally does finish, he'll cum all over her face, leaving her face and mouth reeking of his cock, he hopes that her boyfriend is able to taste it next time he kisses her.

He's glad that they were finally able to consummate their relationship, even if she wasn't even aware that they had any sort of relationship, but regardless of her playing coy like the silly girl she is, he'll make sure that she knows that her status as his fucktoy girlfriend is now official, whether she likes it or not.

"Good girl... I'm sure that pitiful boyfriend of yours has never fucked you that good... Speaking of him, I don't think you want to hang around him anymore, unless you want your parents seeing these pictures..."

Itachi is glad that he was able to establish a relationship with her, although it is more unconventional than he originally planned, but regardless of the means, he's still able to have his girlfriend all to himself now, and that's how it's going to stay if she values her reputation.