#but enough that i can fathom posting. i can handle it. i can do this

[skullcfusher]

When u tlked about the toby n kate HCs u gave us Kate angst HCs do u have any toby angst HCS I'm obsessed w sibling relationship kate toby its the best 100 percent

Ok I tried typing out a huge thing but it's not letting me post that SOOO you're getting the short version, if anyone is interested in a long version dm me or smth idk BUT here they are

Toby struggles like crazy with masculinity, vulnerability and authority figures, between his father smacking him around and verbally abusing him, the bullies not only at school when he was there but actually trailing to his neighborhood and any time they could find him and all of the neighbors and older folk who saw what was happening but stayed silent, he felt crazy weak, especially when most of the things Frank said to him were always related to him not being man enough in some way, and it didn't help that Toby was a scrawny boy because food was hard to come by, it's not like he was starving by any means but they were kinda just getting by. This follows into his proxy life, always having to be stronger than everyone else in the room, killing people in horrific ways to show his strength and pushing himself to an extent to show that no one should fuck with him. Toby was born into a dog eat dog world but now the point he's at, all of the other dogs aren't hungry but he's still eating even if he's full. No one is trying to hurt him, don't get me wrong not a whole lot of creeps like him all that much but no one is looking to hurt him, but he can't fathom that. He has to fight, no matter how tired he is of fighting, he just doesn't recognize a world outside of that and it scares him. The only being he can't fight is slender, he's horrified of slender because slender has the capability to make that boy feel pain, not in the sense he can just flip the switch and he feels everything now but he can give Toby the most earth shattering, mouth frothing, skin peeling headaches. It's not just some small shit, Toby's feeling throat curdling pain for the first time, if feels like he's burying his own axe into his head. Punishment is bad for all proxies, but this shit is really new to Toby, Tim and Brian usually have to leave when Toby goes under cause they can't stand to hear him when he screams and thrashes he doesn't just fall to the ground and scream either he bites and rips his skin off and throws shit and gets fuckin crazy, Kate tries to stay and comfort but Toby pushes her away, he can't let her take care of him like that he's supposed to be able to handle it how can he not be able to handle something the rest can

Ok that's all for now I think, just cause I'm trying to make it short but if u want more or have any questions or even requests for other creeps I'm SOOOO OPEN I love answering shit

#creepypasta #ticci toby #ticci toby creepypasta #ticci toby headcanons #creepypasta fandom #creepypasta headcanons #dyl speaks #they could never make me hate u tobias

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

people practice w Them <3

#posting this and then shoving my head into a hole Bye #i am! Not Confident!!! in my people scribbling abilities!! #but im trying!!! im fucking trying!!! #i already see improvement #not enough to make me go 'wee the masses are gonna love this' #but enough that i can fathom posting. i can handle it. i can do this #if i dont do it now then i never will!!!! #im still gonna scream into a pillow rip it apart and then eat the stuffing!!!! #ah... the mortification of Existing... of Being Perceived... #it is ever present and inescapable! youd thing id be used to it by now!!! #ill be on my death bed asking people to leave the room so that i can die w/o feeling horribly self conscious and Seen #no seriously every time i think about my potential death and or coma should that happen #i prematurely cringe at the Attention. people potentially crying at my bedside Eugh No Thank You Please Do That Elsewhere #either call me a loser and drop off a single flower or leave me be <3 #THIS IS A WELCOME HOME SCRIBBLE POST. IM SORRY I FORGOT #scribble garnish #uh um uh so uh wally and barnaby am i rite fellas- #in my mind they're picking up takeout for dinner <3 #yeah no im not tagging it with a fandom tag. i dont want to be perceived As We've Established #im somewhat satisfied with that first wally.... swag <3 #& do i have major gender envy for barnaby? yeah #im not used to drawing people but i should be... i need to be... #THERE ARE GUYS I WANNA DRAW! mine and others!!! ngl mostly mine!!!

[gosmigenergy]

KINKTOBER 2023 / Day Two

FROTTAGE / SEXUAL FRUSTRATION / VIRGINITY

( Triple Frontier Boys x F!Reader )

Summary: After a conscious decision to stop dating, your friend invites you to fight night where more than one person catches your eye.

Rating: 12A?

Warnings: Mentions of dating/bad relationships, allusions to a non-monogamous relationship, language, drinking, teeny bit of masturbation, no use of Y/N

Word Count: 4.4k

Notes: When @absurdthirst announced their Kinktober 2023 list, I actually got inspired to start writing and I’m now taking the plunge by posting them online. It’s been a few years since I wrote smut so bear with me. If there is anything spoken in italics, it’s Santiago or Francisco speaking in Spanish, I didn’t want to just Google translate and butcher it. My brain also didn’t do this in numerical order hence why there is no Day 01 though this story seemed more of a fitting start.

I may not complete the entire list so be ready for sporadic updates, enjoy!

(P.S. Hi Moyra!)

The story of how you ended up in an open relationship with four, rather handsome guys was a simple one.

You were lonely and horny but also indecisive.

Your notable chastity came after a series of shitty relationships and dates with men. After being ghosted, catfished and caught up in a quick partnership with a toxic dom, you had pretty much given up on the male species. Except, once a few months had passed, the sexual urge came back, you couldn’t fathom the strength to go out and find people but there is only so much a toy can do.

“A cage fight? What are we going to do at a cage fight?”

“I don’t know,” your friend spoke with a tone that indicated she knew something you didn’t. “But there will be plenty of men.”

You roll your eyes, she was desperate to get you back out there, she also knew you well enough to know fighting your sexual nature was soon going to become a struggle and she couldn’t handle the idea of another crap hook up for you.

“Fine.”

That evening you found yourself outside of town, in front of a sorry looking hanger with your friend waiting for the rest of the group, watching the slim picking choices of men. 

“If I wanted a frat boy, I could have just gone to that one bar.”

Your friend scoffed, “Frat boys are not the only option here.”

They weren’t but they seemed to be the better option. 

Every other man you saw, you wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. Amongst the Frat boys was portly bikers who could barely remain on their bikes, those who you could only describe as rednecks and guys so terrifying, the idea of approaching them didn’t even come to the forefront of your mind.

“How long do you think the girls are going to be?”

“Fashionably late,” she shrugs.

“There’s a strong possibility they’ll miss their guy.”

You have flashbacks to when you went to a concert and they arrived so late, they only made it in time for the main act. The pair of you had sworn never to attend anything with them unless you had your tickets and could make your way to the venue without them. Tonight, you were both a little worried about how they’d be when they turned up and in an event like this, they’d stand out in the crowd.

You hugged your frame, bobbing up and down on the balls of your feet.

“Could we just get them to message when they’re here?”

“We’ll give them another 20 minutes.”

The flurry of people thickened and you stood to one side to allow everyone to pass without having to go around you. You were watching the time pass by on your phone when your friend’s announcement interrupted you.

“They’re here.”

“Thank fuck.”

You raise your head, about to look passed the incoming audience when you caught sight of someone.

He has his head ducked low underneath a baseball cap, his outfit in shades of navy and grey, hands stuffed in tight jeans pockets. Under the brim, his brown eyes flicked up to yours like he knew he was being watched. A smile came to his lips, brightening his five o’clock shadow, the moment between you was brief.

He carried on walking and you kept your eyes in front, swallowing as you felt his gaze still on you.

“Are you ok?” Your friend queried.

“I’m fine.”

The temperature rises in your cheeks.

“Uh-huh.”

In the venue, the group of you squeezed into a middle row on one side of the cage. The rest of the girls had already arrived a little bit ‘squiffy’ as they put it and on the second round of drinks, you’d offered to head to the overcrowded bar.

You had spent the evening rejecting offers from all sort of men, the cheesiest chat up lines plugged to you in every kind of way - ‘when do you get in the ring’, ‘what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this’ etcetera, etcetera. Your mystery man was nowhere to be seen and you think he was just a figment of your imagination.

Pushing your way through the throng, you manage to grab onto the trim of the makeshift bar and haul yourself forward. You lean your weight on your elbows and wait patiently for one of the bar staff to finish serving another drunkard.

“So, what’s a little girl like you doing in a place like this?”

The way they said ‘little girl’ made your skin crawl, even the guy next to you clocked your discomfort.

“Out with friends and would rather be left alone, thank you.”

“Aw, come on, I just want to talk.”

“I’d rather not, I’ve had plenty of men try and talk to me tonight and I told them the exact same thing. Please leave me alone.”

There was movement behind you but you thought it best not to make eye contact. You felt the air pass your shoulder as the guy next to you threw up a hand and caught the other man’s wrist that was inches away from your body.

“Hey, she’s already asked you nicely to leave her alone.”

Oh god, was a fight going to start because of you?

The growing tension had your heart pounding and your knuckles became white as you held your nerve.

“Who are you, her boyfriend?”

“If I was, would it stop you harassing her?”

The man behind you mumbled something incoherently before squirming out of the guy’s grip and staggering away.

“Thank you,” you finally look his way, giving him a smile.

He smiled, giving you a gestured nod, “You’re welcome.”

Even in this light, he had baby blue eyes and delicate freckles along his cheek bones. His upper body was wide, holding it’s own against wave after wave of people coming in to wait along the bar.

“You have some pretty quick reflexes, are you sure you’re not meant to be in that cage?”

He laughs, shaking his head.

“Nah, not my kind of thing. How about you? That look could have knocked him dead.”

“There’d be a lot bodies on the floor if it worked,” you quip. “I’m here as chaperone to the group of forlorn looking girls waiting for their man.”

His smile broaden, digging dimples into his cheeks.

“And who might that be?”

“Benny Miller,” you shrug.

You’ve been invited to watch him fight but actually have no fucking idea what he looks like, the girls have just been swooning about his ridiculous six pack.

“Really? He’s going to be thrilled.”

“You think?”

“I’m his brother, of course I know.”

You cock your head, eyebrows arching, maybe you could understand the fascination with this fighter if his brother is anything to go by.

“Oh god, how many Millers are there?”

His laugh is contagious.

“Only the two of us. If you count brothers in arms, there’s four.”

You should have guessed with those reflexes he was some sort of military.

Just as you’re about to speak, a bar man appears and he allows you to order your round first, five shots should come quickly. Juggling to get a grip of five tiny plastic glasses in two hands, you flash him another smile.

“Thanks…” You falter, “Sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

“Will.”

You introduce yourself and thank him again before slipping into the stream of people, excusing and apologising to anyone who got in your way.

“You were gone a while,” you friend said inquisitively after taking a shot of sour cherry flavoured liquor.

You hum, “I got harassed at the bar and Benny Miller’s brother stepped in as my knight in shining armour.”

She laughs, checking quickly to see if the other girls heard.

“What is with you tonight? First that guy at the entrance, now the brother.”

“His name is Will and I haven’t seen that other guy since.”

It was nice to know he wasn’t imaginary.

There were a few rounds before Benny’s, the girls squealing and looking away as two guys beat the living daylight out of each other. They shouldn’t have been there, too much blood, too much violence and too much sweat from the crowd washing over them and it wasn’t like they could talk either.

The break came and as the other girls insisted on another drink, you politely excused yourself to breath some cool outside air.

You refused the offer of a cigarette when you stepped out the doors, eyes flitting to see if there was an empty bench or some patch of grass where you could escape the huddle of people congregating. Wandering around, you found yourself at the side entrance of the hanger, a lone person leaning a brick low barring wall.

There couldn’t be any harm sitting with him, he seemed harmless enough.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

The man glanced over, brown curls flicking from under his cap.

“Go ahead.”

You side, jumping to rest your ass before taking a massive swing of water from the fountain you’d discovered on your way out.

There was a moment of silence before he spoke.

“No offence but you don’t seem one for violence.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You look too sweet and innocent,” he shrugged.

You hum, “Who says I’m innocent?”

He laughs, dropping his head before taking a swig of beer, eyes in front of him.

“I apologise.”

“That’s ok, I get what you’re saying, it’s been pretty brutal so far.”

His tongue flicked over his bottom lip, “I’ve seen worse.”

“Well, for the sake of the girls I’m with, I hope Benny Miller don’t get the shit beaten out of him.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t.”

He sounded so sure and that’s when your brain made the connection to what Will said earlier.

“You’re one of his brothers in arms, aren’t you?”

The man leaned back, placing one hand on his thigh, the little target tattoo on his hand stretching. He faced you now with a furrowed brow and parted lips, his eyes dark as you could see his mind working out how you knew.

“I bumped into Will at the bar.”

His expression seemed to soften.

“He told you about me?”

“Not specifically,” you winced, trying not to hurt his feelings. “We just got talking.”

The corners of his lips twitched, “He did mention meeting a pretty girl at the bar.”

You had to look away, your cheeks and chest immediately on fire, a spark that travelled your lower belly, spreading with desire. Will said you were pretty and he just clarified the comment, your friend was right, what is with you tonight?

He was just about to speak until the heavy swing of the door made you jump, he barely moved an inch.

“You better get you ass in here, Benny will lose his shit if you ain’t there to walk him in.”

For a brief moment, you couldn’t see who was attached to the voice but it was smooth.

They step out from behind the door and you saw the edge of a blue bomber jacket and the navy peak of a cap, his soft slopping nose and the five o’clock shadow along his sharp jawline.

Oh no.

It was if he caught something out of the corner of his eye, like he saw his friend and wondered why there was another person sat next to him, who was the other person sat next to him. His one eyebrow was arched, his lip straight until he recognised the face.

“Didn’t I catch your eye earlier?”

“I’m sure it was the other way round,” you remark wittily.

He smiled, nodding, “Agree to disagree.”

“If you say so.”

“Are you going to chat up all my guys tonight?”

He points between you and the other guy.

“I think you’ll find they keep chatting to me.”

He laughs, nodding again.

Both of the men shared a look, understanding each other though no word was exchanged, it was annoying yet somewhat enticing.

You wished you could know what they were thinking.

“Come on, Fish, he’s going on in a couple of minutes.”

He got up from the wall, abandoning the empty cup but he glanced one last time at you.

“Fish?”

“Nickname,” he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “It’s Frankie to everyone else.”

You tell him your name and he smiles, nodding as he walked away. Frankie pats the other man on the back, stating ‘hermano’ and sauntering away, readjusting his cap before he disappeared into the venue.

Slipping off the wall, you went to say goodbye before he gestured for you to come through the back.

“Thanks.”

The door slammed behind him and he followed you, body unbelievably close, his breath mixing with the heat contained in the hanger.

“So, do I get to know your name?”

Glancing over your shoulder, he still has that soft smile, eyes roaming what was in front of him that caused goosebumps to arrive on your skin.

“No.”

You walked passed rows of lockers and tired wooden benches before he stopped, letting you walk a little further.

“Go to your left and follow the corridor to the double doors.”

You nod, “See you in there?”

His smile grew, “Sure.”

Following his instructions, the corridor felt like it went on for miles, the music muffled through the brickwork, the only sound your shoes squeaking on tiles. You were trying to wrap your head around what was going on, how had you met three guys in one night who all knew each other and seemed, to you anyway, to be caught in your gravitational pull? Or was your friend right, were you just that ridiculously horny after months of your own hand or toys?

You shake your head, taking a deep breath before joining civilisation again.

“They wanted to get closer,” your friend said, rolling her eyes.

“Aren’t we technically in the splash zone now?”

“D’you think they’re bothered?”

She was right, the rest of the girls were far too gone to even worry about being covered in sweat, beer and possibly blood, all you prayed for is none of them got ahead of themselves and flashed the fighter at the worst time.

After Benny’s name got introduced over the speakers and the match started, you finally saw the other three from the group, distorted opposite by the wire hexagons that followed the cage. Even they were sensible enough to sit several rows back, they cheered and backed Benny the whole way through and when the opportunity arose, fleetingly looked to you.

A heat washed over your body.

“They said this is the way!”

The girls were giggling, tottering up the corridor as fast as they could in heels. You and your other friend held back, mostly to ensure you weren’t connected to the fangirls who were trying to find a battered and bruised man.

You pretended you didn’t know where the locker room was though you were there moments earlier, you couldn’t face the queries from your friend.

“He’ll be in here,” a friend beckons everyone over.

“And I’m out,” you hold your hands up. “I’m not sneaking into the boys locker room.”

“Really? I thought you’d quite like a photographic memory for tonight.”

You shake you head, “I have the internet for that.”

She laughs, nudging your hip.

“I’m just going to see how this all plays out.”

“Sure.”

She pushes you away and you stagger to an empty space on the wall, leaning against it and allowing the cold to spread across you back. Tipping your head back, you close your eyes, taking a breath.

“Don’t want to join your friends.”

A familiar voice breaks the silence.

“Do you always hang round in the shadows?”

He scoffs, “No.”

“I’d rather not be associated with,” you wave a hand. “Their actions.”

He moves to the wall opposite you, copying your stance, his smile curling as he can hear the chaos in the distance.

“You know it’s a shame,” he looked at you through the corner of his eyes. “He would have liked to have met you.”

You scowl, tilting your head.

“You’ve been talking about me?”

“Will and Fish are quite enamoured with you.”

“And you?”

Your heart was pounding, the blood rushing to your head. You were nervous to hear his answer, tongue sweeping over your dry lips and all he could do was smile, breaking eye contact.

“I don’t think you could handle me.”

You hum, “I like a challenge.”

He pursed his lips, cocking his head to one side.

“You look too sweet for me, honey.”

The way he said ‘honey’ was intoxicating, smooth with a hint of his Spanish pronunciation, it made your heart flutter. You push yourself off the wall and take a few steps over to him, folding your arms across your chest, standing tall.

You look him up and down, your expression scrunching, you’d seen someone like him before not exactly like him but they all appear the same.

“Maybe that’s just what you need… A good girl who’ll do as she’s told.”

He turned to face you, eyes almost black and you swallowed. His smile crocked into a smirk, he noticed the falter in your otherwise firm stance. Moving his body close, he leaned forward, hands placed to his hips. He brought his lips to the shell of your ear.

“Then give me your phone.”

You do as you’re told, unlocking the screen as you hand it over.

Taking it in one hand, he gives you space and taps away before giving it back. You check the details on the phone.

Santiago Garcia is a new contact.

“Give us a message if you need anything.”

You blinked at the screen then up at him, his face had softened.

“I’ll hold you to that, Santiago.”

He winked and walked away, out of your vision, he shooed the girls away.

—

“So, did ask her?”

The guys had driven to a late night diner after the match, part of Benny’s post match routine was stuffing his face with a load of carbs.

“Not quite,” Santiago took a bite of a fry. “I gave her my number.”

Benny practically made a raspberry noise like a child.

Santiago shook his head, throwing his hands up, “The balls in her court.”

“You should have just asked her.”

Frankie took a swig of his coffee, “This isn’t the kind of thing you just walk up and ask, she would have run a fucking mile.”

Benny pointed with his fork, “This is why I should have done it.”

Frankie burst into laughter, Santiago and Will shaking their heads, he has no fucking idea.

“What?”

“There’s no way she would have taken the offer from you,” Will was trying to contain his laughter, cheeks turning a faint hue of pink. “I trust Pope, the balls in her court now.”

Benny ladled the last of his food onto his fork, “Do you think she’ll bite?”

Santiago was praying to every god that you did even though he was far from religious. This is the first time back since he felt anything, it was unusual that he found himself vying for attention with the other boys.

This was new territory for him and he’s done a lot of shit.

He thinks back to the conversation with you, he didn’t expect what came out of your mouth and it was like the lure of a siren to a sailor. It’s why he reconsidered you as an option. Sure, you cracked a little when he got close yet who wouldn’t and that’s when he guessed you may have seen it before.

His fingers have been twitching to check his phone all night.

“You’re guess is as good as mine.”

And you were laying in bed contemplating whether it was too early to message him.

After the fight, you thought you’d just go home and crash, you thought wrong.

Stripping off, you decided to take a shower to get rid of the grime from the night. You had an idea you were wet, you just didn’t realise how much your arousal had pooled. There was so many factors you could blame - several matches where two sweaty, semi dressed men were in close proximity to each other, three men’s eyes watching you and your eyes met, Santiago centimetres from your face.

The water fell soothing down your skin and you settled two fingers against your clit, rubbing gently. Closing your eyes, you pictured the fine details, the blonde of Will’s hair, the wideness of Frankie’s hand, the musk of Santiago’s aftershave.

You dragged your fingers along your folds, gasping as you sunk them into your burning cunt.

It was embarrassing how quickly you came to the thought of them, you hands reaching for the cool tiles of your bathroom as your legs threatened to give way. Your breath was shaking, your body vibrating as the warmth travelled up your spine.

“Fuck.”

A message popped up on your phone from your friend, hoping that you had a good night, the winking face emoji a hint to the boys. Messaging now seemed desperate, your teeth grazed you lip.

Rolling over, you prayed that sleep would take you.

You decided against messaging Santiago in the morning, you were groggy and unmotivated with suggestions of a possible meet up would fall on deaf ears. It was in the afternoon, after some good food and a walk in the fresh air that you felt ready.

‘And when you say anything, what did you have in mind?’

That was the question that lead you to the bar tonight.

As it was a dive bar, or so you and your friends believed, you didn’t wear anything fancy however it didn’t mean you under dressed. You wore a dress that accentuated the curves of your body, hiding it with an oversized jacket and trainers. Taking a breath, you pushed through the doors, the vision of Santiago stood at the bar ordering.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

“I’m fashionably late,” you retort, taking a note out of your friends’ books.

He laughed, “What are you drinking?”

He bought you a drink and you went to join the boys at the table, finally being introduced to Benny.

“I was kind of insulted you didn’t want to meet me but I’ll forgive you.”

The five of you talked about everything and anything, you learned that Frankie was a pilot, Santiago chased cartels for years after being in the military because he couldn’t stand still and the Miller brothers spent their youth on a family farm. After food and another round, Benny decided that it was the perfect time to get the conversation rolling on to why you were here.

“Are we gonna do this or not?”

He was straight to the point.

“Christ, Benny,” Will could have kicked him under the table. “Always thinking with that dick of yours.”

You guessed the implication would be something sexual, you got that from Santiago last night but his text gave you nothing, actually the whole evening gave you nothing. It was just nice to be in the company of four very different yet very attractive men who hadn’t push any boundaries.

Frankie lifted his cap and ran his fingers through brown curls, his focus pulling to Santiago.

“You want to start? You’re better with words.”

It’s also more his kind of thing, is what he left out, but it wasn’t easy.

Your eyes flicked to every man around the table. Frankie couldn’t make eye contact, Benny glanced between you and Santiago while Will seemed to be the calmest of the lot.

“We got talking yesterday about a girl we saw at the fight and it turns out we were talking about the same one. Now, the guys haven’t really done this before, I’ve shared before but not quite like this —“

“Wait, did you just say shared?”

It was alarmingly hot all of the sudden.

“Yes, I did,” he rubbed the scar along his neck.

Frankie chuckled to himself, “I guess there is no easy way of saying it.”

Santiago could see your mind working overtime, the knot in your brows tightening. Your lips opened before you stopped and thought over your words again.

“Do you guys want a five way?”

You wouldn’t complain if they did.

Benny and Santiago’s brows seemingly raised.

“Not quite, sweetheart,” Will lowered his tone, closing in on you so his frame blocked the rest of the bar from your vision. “We’re thinking more, we share you out evenly, four ways.”

You blink, tongue running over your dry lips, just the thought alone had settled between your thighs.

“So, a different guy every night?”

“If you want,” Benny chimed in.

Santiago shrugged, “I was thinking more of a weekly schedule.”

That would make sense.

Your mind was processing the concept, it could be good, yet it could also be bad, catastrophically bad. That’s what happened with that dom, they made all these promises, that they’d buy you all these rewards and gifts if you did what they wanted, they never came. They had you running round in circles, doing a load of shit you thought you wanted to do when in actuality, you didn’t. They manipulated you until you finally said no and then they gaslighted you into thinking it was all your fault when it never was.

Could these guys do that too?

“What are you thinking, querida?” Frankie broke through the silence.

“Just the string of bad relationships that came before this,” you take a swig of your drink, catching his puppy dog eyes. “Not that I’m saying this is a bad idea, it’s just…”

You chose your words carefully.

“I’d need to see the terms and conditions.”

He nodded, “That’s fair.”

“I’ll get the papers to you in the morning,” Santiago joked.

“I better not see any spelling mistakes or the deal’s off.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, Will’s my copywriter.”

You tried to keep the upper hand but you broke, the smile cracking on your lips.

“Sooo, is that a yes?”

Benny’s eyes were darting from person to person, this conversation was too cryptic for him, he wanted a firm answer.

“It’s a maybe.”

He pouted, nodding, “I’m taking that as a positive, celebratory shots on me.”

The rest of the boys groaned as he slipped out of the booth towards the bar, Will apologising for his brother’s enthusiasm given the fact you didn’t give a solid ‘yes’. You thought you’d pretty much ruled men out and then suddenly the universe had gifted you four of them.

Maybe this was the end of that dry spell, the possibility of your sexual awakening and more and honestly, you didn’t mind at all.

#kinktober 2023 #triple frontier #triple frontier x reader #reader insert #santiago garcia #frankie catfish morales #will ironhead miller #benny miller #slow burn #kinktober #first time posting #im gonna post this and log off

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

IV ║ Strawberry Roan

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ Part 3: Dapple Grey | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 5: Appaloosa }

Rating: E

Summary: Jack pulls out all the stops for your birthday. All of them.

Warnings: Flirting, yearning, insecurities, sexual tension, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, use of dating app, sexual innuendoes, fingering, protected sex, dirty talk, language, mention of food, drinking, mention of breakup, mention of hair, no use of Y/N

Word count: 8.4k

Notes: It's here. See you on the other side 😉 Palomino will be taking a little break, if you want to see what I'll be up these few weeks, check it out here. See you in November!

I forgot to link to it when I posted this - a deleted scene from this part is published as a drabble - Béarnaise.

Strawberry Roan: A horse with a reddish coat that is liberally flecked with white hairs.

Day 3

The next time you wake up, the sun is high in the sky and Jack is nowhere to be seen. You tap your phone for the time and sit up groggily - by this hour, you’re usually already saddled up and ready to go.  Grabbing your toiletries and riding clothes from your bag, and a bottle of water, you trudge barefoot towards the nearest treeline to get ready.

Jack has his back to you, cooking breakfast, when you make your way towards the camp in jodhpurs with mint on your breath. You stop by the horses grazing in the shade, giving all three scratches behind the ears and a pat on the neck good morning, mindful not to get your toes trodden on by accident.

‘Morning,’ you call out as you approach the reignited fire.

Jack twists around to smile at you. ‘Mornin’, darlin’.’

Bending over, you roll up your sleeping bag. ‘Why didn’t you wake me? It’s late.’

‘It’s your birthday, you deserve a lie-in,’ he answers over his shoulder. ‘We’re not far from the Halfway House anyway - we can take it easy today.’

Sitting cross-legged next to him, your eyes light up at what’s sizzling in the pan. ‘A lie-in and pancakes for breakfast? You spoil me, cowboy.’

A bowl of mixed berries sits next to the pancake batter and maple syrup. You pop a raspberry into your mouth, the burst of tart sweetness sharpening your still fuzzy senses. With a tea towel, you grab the kettle carefully from where it’s sitting warm on the fire, pouring yourself a coffee and topping up Jack’s half-empty mug. 

Jack flips the pancake over theatrically in the pan, flashing you a smile with teeth. ‘Only the best for my birthday girl.’

You really shouldn’t - and you suppose you can blame it on the fact that you’re not quite awake yet - but your heart lurches at him calling you as his in any way. The kettle lands clumsily on the metal grill with a clatter as your arm gives out.

You’re still floundering when he asks casually, ‘How are you feelin’?’

With four little words, he unwittingly throws you into bedlam, and you go stock-still. Oh fuck. Is he asking you about the kiss? The chaste yet spine-tingling kiss which, in the bright light of day, you can't even quite believe actually happened - 

His calm drawl cuts through your panicked thoughts, oblivious to the turmoil inside you. ‘I’m a bit hungover myself, not gonna lie.’

Oh. Okay. Hangover chat. You can do that.

You clear your throat and force a smile. ‘I’ve been worse - just a tiny bit of a headache. Thought you could handle your liquor, cowboy.’

Satisfied that the pancake is done, Jack slides it onto a clean plate and passes it to you. He pours more batter into the pan, and the sweet smell of butter clings to the morning air. ‘Well, luckily, today’s ride is easily managed even while hungover. We chose a good night to drink.’

Except… you didn’t just drink. Revelations, too intimate to even fathom in the waking hours, confided in the dead of night - none of which you had the chance to discuss before throwing in the kiss at sunrise into the ring. And you’re not brave enough to bring up any of it.

Jack flips the pan again, sending the half-cooked pancake somersaulting through mid-air, and shoots you a triumphant grin. 

You can’t help but grin back. 

Later. You’ll worry about everything else later.

One thing you’ve come to realise about Jack is that he’s a meticulous planner. It’s easy with just the two of you, but the logistics of moving twelve horses and twelve riders across the mountains can’t be an easy feat. The way he equal parts encouraged and pushed you yesterday so that you can have a laid-back birthday today offers a glimpse into his firm grasp on the planning of the trip.

The unassuming way that he both literally and metaphorically takes the reins has you staring at his hands more than once today.

It’s just past half three when the Halfway House appears on the horizon. It has a red roof like the main lodge back on the ranch, and it is bigger than you expected - a sprawling single-storey house with a handsome veranda out front. There’s definitely plenty of space even for a fully-booked pack trip. 

A fenced paddock stands next to the house, and adjacent to it is a half-enclosed stables with a free-standing roof. There’s a small outbuilding on the far side which you assume is the tack room. Even from a distance, you can see that three stalls have been done up with clean wood shavings, and there is hay in the nets for the horses’ supper this evening.

It’s a well-rehearsed routine now when you go about untacking Scotch. After putting the tack away in the store room and leaving the damp saddle pad to air-dry on the fence, you give him a thorough hosing down, careful to brush out any sweat that has built up. Then with a rubber scraper, you skim it over his coat to wring out the excess water. By the time you finish, Scotch is impatiently tossing his head, and you let him into the paddock with an affectionate pat on his rump.

Jack’s just about done with Whiskey. Glancing up at you, he nods towards the house. ‘Go ahead, darlin’, your bag will be in there. There’s a bathtub if you feel like it, so take your time. I’ll come in when the horses are settled.’

‘Alright, I’ll see you in there,’ you reply, plucking your pack from where it’s lying on the grass, and a couple of others as well, and walk up to the house.

The stairs to the porch creak under your boots and the door grinds on its hinges when you swing it inwards. It’s stuffy, so you open a window to let the breeze in, and it sweeps through the space as you glance around appreciatively. The house is cozy with low-maintenance stone floors and plush rugs in front of a huge sofa and a wood-burning fireplace. A stack of logs sits neatly next to it.

The kitchen is open-plan and modern, surprisingly high-spec for a house in the middle of nowhere. There are multiple cooking hobs, a big double sink, and high stools are neatly arranged around the kitchen island. The more formal dining table can easily seat a dozen.

Despite the high ceilings held up by wooden beams, you can’t help but feel somewhat closed in with a roof above you.

As you move about the space, your ears pick up on the low hum of electricity, and your phone vibrates in your pocket from new messages coming in - it’s strange to be back in civilisation after just three days away. You idly wonder how Jack jumps between these two worlds. 

The bag you packed for the second part of the trip, with a fresh supply of clean clothes, is sitting in the living room. Hitching it onto your shoulder, you venture down the corridor on the far side of the house, ready to clean up for the day. 

Pushing open the first door of many, you peer into the comfortable space. It’s roomy and welcoming despite the simple furnishings - but if you’re being honest with yourself, you only need the king-sized bed in the middle of the room. 

The bedroom has a clear view of the paddock through the window, and you set your bag down on the desk next to it. You linger for a little while, half digging into your bag for a change of clothes and half watching Jack brush down Bourbon.

His sleeves are pushed up past the crease of his elbow today - the beginnings of the bulge of his biceps peeking from underneath the fabric. Then he bends over by the waist to lift up Bourbon’s hind leg, checking if there are any small stones or caked dirt in the hooves that need to be removed - granting you an unobstructed view of his pert backside and the strong columns of his thighs from behind. 

You turn around before you get too wound up. The last thing you need is him catching you masturbating in the shower too.

Taking one of the fluffy towels on the bed, you go in search of the bathroom, which is a couple of more doors down. Jack wasn’t lying - a stately clawfoot bathtub takes prime position in the space, but what you really need after three days in the wild is a deep clean in the shower. The bath will have to wait. 

You take your time, relishing the strong shower stream and hot water as it will be another few days before you get the chance to take another one. You condition your hair and run your razor over your legs and underarms. You tidy up down there as well - maybe a bit too hopefully.

There must be a second bathroom in the house. When you finally step out of the shower, you hear another one shut off. Towelling dry, you pull on the cutest outfit you brought on the trip - your favourite jeans with a flattering cut and a long-sleeved blouse that shows just a hint of cleavage.

There’s a hairdryer which you make full use of, and you dig into your sponge bag for the minimal makeup that you brought. You hear Jack puttering around while you dab concealer under your eyes and colour on your cheeks. When you’re done, you pace nervously in front of the mirror, picking off invisible lint from your clothes and studying your reflection critically.

You can’t put off leaving the safety of the bathroom forever. Taking a deep breath and squaring your shoulders, you open the door and walk into the living space.

It’s strange seeing Jack in a domestic setting. You haven’t even been indoors with him yet, if you don’t count the stables. He’s in clean jeans and a light shirt, wearing socks but no shoes. His hair is wet and sits a bit closer to the scalp than it does than when it’s dry.

Prepping bowls and crockery are spread over the kitchen island, but you’re sure there’s a method to his madness. He’s easily commanding the space, wiping a kitchen knife with a tea towel and setting it on the chopping board. He’s humming to himself with his broad back to you, unaware as you pad quietly into his space.

‘What’s that song?’ you ask as you sidle up to him.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat, even when you catch him by surprise. He hums a bit louder before answering, ‘It’s called Strawberry Roan.’

You grin at the name of the song. ‘I love it - cowboy music. I’ll play it on Spotify?’

‘Spotify what?’

You shake your head as you connect your phone to the bluetooth speakers, and brisk guitar chords fill the space. ‘I know you’re old-fashioned, but at least try to keep up?’

I was hangin' 'round town, just spendin' my time

Out of a job, not earnin' a dime

A feller steps up and he said, "I suppose

You're a bronc fighter from looks of your clothes"

"You figures me right, I'm a good one" I claim

"Do you happen to have any bad ones to tame?"

Jack dips in and out of the song as you watch him organise his mise en place, his throaty crooning has you leaning on the table as your knees wobble. A few choruses in, you remark, ‘It’s strange seeing you cook in an actual kitchen. All you’re missing is an apron.’

He narrows his gaze as you pat yourself on the back for your bright idea. You rummage through random cabinet drawers until you find one, in a gingham print with a loud, frilly border, brandishing it triumphantly like a prize.

‘C’mon, it goes with your plaid,’ you tease.

‘No ma’am,’ he says sternly. ‘I’m not wearing that.’

Ignoring his protests, you walk straight up to him and stand on your toes to loop the apron around his neck. You could’ve - probably should’ve - circled around to do up the apron from behind. But instead, grabbing the ends of the strings, you pull them back and tie them around his waist with your nose to his very warm chest, catching the whiff of soap on his skin and fabric softener on his shirt.

If you’re being honest with yourself, you miss the musk of his sweat and the scent of leather that he seems to wear like a second skin - but you might be crossing the boundary of reason if you begrudge a man for practising personal hygiene.

Drawing your hands back to rest on your hips, you tip your face up at him impishly. ‘The apron suits you, cowboy.’

He shakes his head, but a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips as he taps the tip of your nose with a spatula. ‘Don’t get used to this, darlin’.’

What does he mean by this, exactly? Him cooking for you? Him letting you do whatever you want, as long as you flirt your way out of trouble? 

Well, it’s too bloody late either way.

Reluctantly, you step back, rounding the counter to sit on a stool. His eyes follow you, and he says, ‘You look nice tonight.’

It’s not fair how even the most mundane of compliments from him sends your pulse racing.

‘Thanks, you too,’ you answer, a sudden shyness creeping in, and you twine your fingers together so they don’t fidget. Changing the subject, you ask, ‘So, what’s for dinner?’

‘Poppy really went all out.’ Jack spins around to open the fridge and heaves a fully-laden tray to the kitchen island, reciting the menu to you. ‘You have three options - a beautiful ribeye from our neighbouring cattle ranch, wild-caught salmon from California or a vegetarian lasagne with produce from our own farm. Or all three,’ he adds with a wink.

‘Steak sounds good,’ you reply excitedly. All the meals on the trip so far have been mostly vegetarian, which is understandable due to the lack of refrigeration, but you can do with some variety.

‘I was hoping you’d pick that,’ smiles Jack, transplanting the two thick steaks onto a chopping board, then pops the rest back into the fridge. ‘And of course, there will be Poppy’s famous chocolate cake for dessert.’

Your tummy rumbles - breakfast was a while ago. ‘Perfect.’

‘You want a drink while I cook? I’m not letting the birthday girl lift a finger today.’

‘Maybe a Coke if there’s one?’

Jack pulls a can out of the fridge and pops it open, then pours it into a glass with ice, setting it in front of you on the counter. ‘I thought you weren’t hungover?’

You take a sip, the carbonation bubbling on your tongue. ‘I’m not, just taking it easy. I’ll have a glass of wine with dinner.’

Elbows on the countertop, you watch Jack bustle about the kitchen, just as at home as he is in the saddle. Steady fingers turn the knobs on the oven at precise angles before five measured steps bring him back to the fridge. One large hand easily holds a bunch of asparagus, shallots and mushrooms from the vegetable drawer, the other grabbing a casserole dish of ready-made potato dauphinoise. There’s no hesitation as he plucks oils and condiments from the shelf, lining everything up on the kitchen island.

‘So, was cooking part of the job description when Champ recruited you?’ you ask conversationally.

Satisfied the oven is preheated, he slides the potato dish in to bake and sets the timer. ‘It wasn’t even a consideration when I first joined. It was sandwiches and cereal bars for a long time, but when Poppy came on board she really turned things around.’ 

‘When was that?’

Jack tilts his head to the side as if counting the years. ‘About seven years ago. It was like boot camp, we were cooped up in the kitchen all winter, all day long, to get up to speed before pack trip season started. Tequila still needs a bit more help, so Poppy preps more things for him when he’s on duty. But I enjoy doing it.’

The ice in your glass clinks as you swirl it around. ‘So you didn’t cook before that?’

He seasons the steaks with salt and black pepper. ‘Not much, my wife did most of it. But I had to learn to fend for myself pretty quickly. What about you?’

Your heart swells warmly at the spontaneous mention of his wife. It doesn’t escape your notice that it wasn’t accompanied by any wary glance or hesitation. Like he trusts you enough to bring her up in casual conversation with you.

Realising you’re slow to respond, you reply, ‘My ex and I used to take turns cooking, me more than him. It’s a bit more effort to cook for just one nowadays, so I’ve been getting a lot of takeaway.’

He looks up from the shallots he’s peeling expertly. ‘He called you last night, didn’t he? Your ex?’

You pinch your lips. ‘How did you know?’

‘Your face fell pretty spectacularly when your phone rang.’

Yeah, because he was just about to kiss you.

You shrug. ‘I told him not to contact me this week. It was probably about the house we’re trying to sell.’

Jack arches an eyebrow and cuts off the ends of the shallots. ‘You sure he’s not trying to get you back?’

You snort. ‘That ship has long sailed, cowboy. Boarded by pirates. Set on fire. Sunk to the bottom of Davy Jones Locker. Eaten by the Kraken.’

That draws a chuckle from him. ‘So - that’s a no?’

‘A hard no,’ you confirm.

Warm brown eyes hold yours as one corner of his lips ticks up in a smile. ‘Good.’

You chew the inside of your mouth. ‘Yeah?’

He nods in the affirmative. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Tension hums between you again, but before it gets too heavy, you sneakily slide a hand over to the asparagus. Jack raps you on the back of your fingers playfully. ‘No. You’re not helping tonight.’

You pout. ‘Please?’

He sighs and gives in with a lopsided smile. ‘Anythin’ you want, darlin’.’

The steak is delicious cooked, if Jack may say so himself. It was the right call to make the Béarnaise from scratch, even though it’s a pain in the ass - or rather, in the arm. Watching you happily smear the last of your steak through the creamy sauce makes all the whisking worthwhile.

The two of you are perched at the kitchen island, bookending an intimate corner, a vase of wildflowers sitting between your plates. Earlier that morning, he caught the way your gaze lingered on the meadow as you mounted Scotch, obviously finding it hard to leave. He cut a bunch of blooms with the Swiss knife he keeps in his shirt pocket while you weren’t looking, putting it away in one of the saddle bags. 

Your eyes softened when they alighted on the slightly crushed flowers as he laid the table, which in turn, softened his.

Red wine - one sensible serving each - sits low in the glasses when Jack clears the counter surface, setting the empty plates in the sink.

Drying his hands with a tea towel, he asks, ‘Can you give me a few minutes, darlin’?’

Polishing off your drink, you give him a quizzical look. ‘What for?’

He pulls an imaginary zip across his mouth with a shrug.

With a roll of your eyes, you slide off your seat and give him a little shove on the shoulder in warning as you pass by. ‘You better not be planning anything funny, cowboy.’ 

It’s getting chilly despite the windows being just cracked open. As soon as he hears your door shut with a soft thud, Jack starts with getting a fire going in the antique fireplace which Champ bought from an auction a few years back. He collects the cake from the spare room where it’s been left to thaw from the fridge chill for the past hour - under strict instruction from Poppy - and sets it down gently on the kitchen island.

Hands on hips, he glances about for the birthday candles. An inconspicuous paper bag sits untouched on the counter by the fridge. That must be it. He grabs it and peeks inside -

- only to find a spanking new pack of twenty extra-large condoms. 

Thinking he hears movement, Jack hastily closes up the bag and shoves it into the space on top of the fridge in a panic, spinning around with his heart thumping in his ears as he fully expects you to catch him red-handed and sweaty-palmed.

He sighs in relief when an empty living room stares back at him.

Fuck’s sake. He bets that it’s Tequila’s idea of a joke. He scoffs to himself as he shakes his head at his co-worker’s antics. He got the extra-large part right - he'll give him that. But a twenty pack? Really?

He eventually does find the candles in a drawer near the dishwasher, and he plants one delicately in the middle of the cake. Spotting the other party decorations in storage, an idea comes to him.

You’re reapplying a lightly tinted lip balm when you hear Jack call your name.

All the lights in the living room and kitchen are off when you emerge from the corridor, the only source of illumination being the roaring fire in the hearth. It’s strangely comforting to see Jack in the familiar firelight. You cross your arms. ‘What’s all this, cowboy?’

He tips his head towards the door. ‘Someone wants to say happy birthday.’

Only then do you realise that the porch light is on, and a laugh tumbles from your lips when your head finally makes sense of what you’re seeing.

All three horses are hovering at the door, birthday hats hanging from one ear, sparkly tinsel around their necks. They seem confused but not unhappy to hang about the doorway - with the air of teenagers being cajoled into doing something vaguely embarrassing by their dad.

You give each of them a well-deserved cuddle, promising them extra treats tomorrow for being such good sports. At Jack’s smooth baritone singing happy birthday, you turn around and watch him approach with a wicked-looking chocolate cake. Your cheeks ache at how wide you’re beaming when he stops in front of you.

‘Make a wish, darlin’,’ he prompts, eyes flecked with gold as the candle flickers in the breeze coming through the front door.

You do - eyes closed and hands clasped together - and blow out the flame.

‘Ginger did promise I’d have the best birthday ever.’

‘And did we deliver?’

‘You know you did. Thank you, Jack.’

The plush cushions laid out on the rugs are kind on your sore muscles as you lean back lazily against the sofa, the fire warming your bare feet. Your plate of half-eaten chocolate cake lies abandoned on the floor. It’s sinfully rich and delicious, but you’re so stuffed that you can’t bring yourself to have another bite.

A buzz from your phone draws your gaze.

‘You can reply to your friends if you want,’ Jack says.

You wave him off. ‘No, I’ll do it later. I want to send a picture to my parents though - take a selfie with me?’

‘Sure.’

He shuffles closer, draping an arm on the seat of the sofa, brushing the ridge of your shoulders. You fit into his side comfortably, the turn of his strong shoulder pressing into your nape. Boldly, you lean your head against his so his moustache tickles your temple, and snap the photo.

‘It’s a cute picture,’ he comments when you show him, chin brushing your shoulder.

Neither of you move away when you open up Whatsapp to send it to your mum. As you do, you accidentally brush the Tinder notification that appears on top of the screen, which takes you to the app.

You laugh and tilt the screen towards Jack. ‘Look who showed up on my Tinder?’ 

He snorts, amused. ‘Tequila. I'd be disappointed if he wasn't.’

You scroll through the photos while Jack watches, sniggering, ‘Why am I not surprised that he’s topless in four out of five photos?’

He rolls his eyes, but there’s an undeniable fondness in his tone. ‘That’s Teak for you - always the exhibitionist. We once had a bachelorette party book a private tour and Champ put him on it - he never did tell us exactly what happened on that trip.’

‘So… should I swipe right, or…?’ you trail off.

‘What’s swiping right again?’

‘If you like the look of someone, you swipe right. Like, they’re right for you.’

He stares at you closely. ‘So? What’s it gonna be?’

You swipe left unceremoniously and Tequila’s profile falls off the screen. ‘Not my type.’

You feel a rumble of a laugh in his chest pressed against your side. ‘What is your type then, darlin’?’

Is he being deliberately obtuse?

You nudge him in the ribs with your elbow for his insolence, and he grunts, pretending to double over in pain and catching your wrists to immobilise you. 

Heat runs up and down your spine at his touch, and you put your nose in the air. ‘Don’t think I’ll just spill my secrets like that, cowboy. Your turn.’

Any disappointment of him letting go of you is tempered by the way his weight pushes into your side as he struggles to get his phone out from his very tight jeans.

‘Alright, here goes nothin’,’ he grumbles and taps on the fire icon.

A woman shows up on his screen, exuding confidence and sex appeal. You make a noise of appreciation at her curls and red lipstick as he flips through the photos.

With a nonchalant shrug, Jack makes to swipe left when you stop him. ‘Whoa, hold your horses cowboy, what’s wrong with her?’

‘Nothin’, she’s just not my type.’

Your eyebrows reach for your hairline. ‘Not your type? She’s gorgeous.’

He swipes to a photo where the woman is holding a cocktail, wearing a plunging black dress. ‘Look at her nails. I can’t go out with someone like that.’

You scoff, ‘I’m not saying marry her. I’m saying, if you met her in a bar, wouldn't you pick her up?’

Jack gives you a long-suffering stare. ‘Darlin’, I’m not interested. Do I have your permission to swipe left? Please?’

‘Fine,’ you grouse, shrinking into yourself.

If a woman like that can’t sway Jack Daniels’ interest, you don’t know who can.

Certainly not you.

As he swipes the woman out of view, your profile pops up.

His fingers find your shoulder and he gives you a squeeze, along with a teasing grin. ‘Well, well, look who I found.’

You squirm at your own face smiling back at you on the screen. Coming after that beautiful woman, you feel like an absolute sucker. Like the kid who's unfortunate enough to go after the prom queen’s dance and musical number in the high school talent show. 

‘What were you doing here?’ he asks, pausing at one of the pictures where you have a champagne glass in hand.

‘It was my best friend’s wedding.’

‘It’s a great photo of you,’ he smiles at you.

‘Thanks.’

After clicking through the rest of the photos, you panic when you see where his finger is poised to go. ‘Wait - what are you doing?’

Jack turns to you, confused. ‘I’m swiping right.’

You shake your head. ‘No, you swipe right if you’re interested.’

He looks amused at how you drag out the word as if it’s four separate ones. He nods slowly, ‘I know, darlin’.’

You blink. ‘But… you weren’t interested in the last one.’

‘Yes, and?’

You squint at him. ‘She’s gorgeous. And I…’

‘What?’ he prompts you.

‘I - I look nothing like her.’

He throws his hands up in frustration. ‘I don’t know how many other ways I can put this, darlin’. I’m not interested in her.’

‘Why not?’ you ask, almost accusingly.

‘Why should I be?’

You sigh, agitated. ‘Because you’re so handsome and she’s beautiful -’

‘You’re beautiful,’ he interrupts you.

That shuts you up. Your heart is set to claw its way out of your chest any moment, especially when he’s looking at you like that.

‘You really mean to swipe right?’ you ask in the smallest voice.

A smile twists his lips. ‘I kissed you, didn’t I?’

‘I thought it was like - a happy birthday kiss,’ you admit with air quotes.

He laughs, the rich sound warming you. ‘You think I just kiss anyone who has their birthday on a pack trip? Like how you get a free dessert at Applebee’s?’

You flush. ‘I don’t know!’

He chuckles, reaching out to brush your cheek with the back of his fingers. ‘Darlin’, I can assure you, I don’t just go ‘round kissin’ guests.’

With that, he swipes right emphatically, and your phone buzzes with the notification that there are new potential matches nearby.

From the corner of your eye, you see his profile, which you set up for him just yesterday, come up.

You turn to meet his stare. Without even glancing at the screen, you swipe right - there’s a matching ping from both of your phones.

Jack’s voice drops an octave, raspy in the tense silence. ‘So - what happens now?’

If you were with another man, your mind would’ve wandered - thinking about how you haven’t been with anyone but your ex for the last three years. Worrying about how you haven’t felt a man’s touch in months, if you’d be any good.

But it’s not any other man. It’s Jack. And he’s kissing you, lips latched to yours wet and restless, every stuttering exhale sending your head spinning. One big hand curls around your waist, the other sliding down your denim-covered thigh to twist your body towards him. Your head is full of him - his earthy scent with a touch leather, hoarse grunts as he swipes his tongue into your desperate mouth. You taste chocolate on his tongue - and dark rum, must be Poppy's secret ingredient - as it moulds around yours.

You can only cling to him, one arm hooked around the back of his neck, fingers sneaking into his still damp hair as you angle your mouth to kiss him deeper. Your other hand finds the seat of the couch as you clamber atop of him, your knees on either side of his slim hips.

You haven’t made out with a man, fully-clothed, in years. Jack seems happy to keep kissing you - deeply and skilfully - like he has all the time in the world. You jump when he cups your bottom through your jeans, nails scratching a path down the back of your thighs, making you whimper.

‘Jack,’ you pant when you pull back for air, eyes struggling to focus on his intense gaze on you.

His next words are unexpected.

‘I have to tell you somethin’.’

Your stomach drops and your body, pliable under him just now, goes board-stiff as dread runs icy in your veins. You jump to the worst conclusion - was he just joking that he wanted you? Is this some kind of elaborate prank? You should’ve known it’s too good to be true -

Jack senses your anxiety and holds your face between his palms, calloused palms grounding you and resting his forehead on yours. ‘Darlin’, listen, it’s nothin’ serious. I just want it to be out in the open between us before anythin’ else happens.’

‘Okay,’ you exhale shakily.

He takes a breath, and says, ‘Champ - I think he meant to set us up.’

You blink. ‘How do you mean?’

He adjusts his grip on you, hands falling to your waist to pull you close. ‘The Kingsman have been comin’ to the ranch every year in the same week for the past ten years. There’s no way they just rescheduled - I know for a fact Champ changed their dates just so he can get us alone.’

A chuckle bubbles in your throat and you let out a low whistle. ‘That’s a bold move.’

He grins. ‘That’s Champ for you. Can’t say I’m too mad at him right now though.’

‘Me neither. In fact - I think I owe him a fruit basket.’

He’s still chortling when you kiss him again. And this time, he pushes your hips into his unequivocally, and you gasp at the hard bulge in his jeans that nudges at you insistently. You rub against him, the heat and tension quickly escalating between you.

Jack skims his teeth along your exposed collarbone and his palms find their way under your blouse. ‘It’s a very pretty top, darlin’ - can I take it off?’

‘Please.’

The hitch in his breath when your bra comes into view goes straight to your head. You bait him teasingly, ‘You’ve seen me in a bra before, cowboy.’

He tries to smile at you, but it comes out as a pained grimace. ‘I remember darlin’ - you made me just as hard that time.’

Your lips part in a question. ‘What?’

He drags a kiss over your neck as he confesses, ‘When you jumped on me in the lake, you got me so hard. I had to rub one out in the shower. Came all over my fist thinkin’ about your beautiful tits pressed up against me.’

You can’t believe what you’re hearing, but it’s alright because Jack kisses his way down the swell of your breasts before sucking a nipple into his mouth through the thin fabric, making you squirm. ‘Can I take this off, darlin’?’

In your delirium, your fingers skid uselessly off the buckle, so he reaches back to help you, working the clasp open with a practised flick. He peels the bra from you, and with reverential hands, he pushes your breasts together and his tongue laves a wet trail from tip to aching tip.

‘Jack,’ you whine. There’s too much denim between you, it’s not enough. You feel the slick dripping from between your legs, probably staining your jeans, even though he’s gone nowhere near it. ‘Want you. Now.’

‘Want you too, darlin’,’ he growls into your skin.

A thought strikes you suddenly, like thunder on a clear day, and you push him back with clumsy hands. ‘Wait - wait. Do you have any protection on you?’

Jack freezes, and your heart drops. It’s not like there’s a corner shop you can nip out to for a quick purchase -

He clears his throat and peers at you sheepishly from under thick eyelashes. ‘Ok this is embarrassin’ - but they sent a box of condoms with the cake.’

Relief floods you as you burst out laughing. ‘You wouldn’t believe the five-star rave review I’m going to leave on Tripadvisor.’

You bounce off the surface of the bed where Jack drops you, bare back hitting the soft duvet. Just that sensation alone is enough to make you moan.

Your top and bra are abandoned where he took them off you on the floor in front of the fireplace. His shirt is discarded somewhere between the living room and your bedroom.

Blood pounds in your ears as you watch Jack take off his jeans, pushing them down and kicking them off impatiently, together with his socks. He crawls over you, cock straining in the confines of his boxers. There’s just something about being underneath this man that has your heartbeat rioting in your chest. Blinking up at him through your lashes, so broad and all-encompassing that you can barely see anything other than his silhouette, you pull him down by the nape of his neck for another kiss. Your lips are swollen but you don’t care, wanting more.

You reach down to unbutton your own jeans and undo the zipper, the metallic purr loud in the stillness. His big hands join yours, shucking the denim from your skin, leaving you writhing in your soaked panties. A low groan echoes in his rib cage as he hovers over you, close enough that you feel his body heat, but not close enough to touch. You arch off the bed for contact, and he deliberately holds back with a cocky smile that has you letting out an almost bratty wail, which makes him grin even wider. Dragging his eyes over your almost naked form, he patiently kisses down your throat and sucks an earlobe into his wet mouth.

Jack drawls into your ear, his voice deep as sin. ‘I want you to show me how you touched yourself that night, darlin’. When you were thinkin’ about me.’

Your eyes widen, biting down hard on your bottom lip. Hooking your fingers into the sides of your panties, you slowly push them down your hips, bringing your knees up to untangle them from your ankles. Jack’s nostrils flare when you part your legs and his dark stare lands on your pussy.

‘You’re so pretty, darlin’,’ he praises you, one hand palming the back of your thigh before pushing it right up against your body, splaying you open to his hungry gaze.

You’ve never done this, never let anyone watch you touch yourself - the debauchery makes your pussy clench. But there’s no taint of embarrassment with the way he’s staring down at you, jaw slack and his hands gripping hard on your inner thighs as if he needs to keep them open - not that he has to, you want him to see.

Dipping into the wetness that’s pooled in your pussy, you trace a glossy trail up to your clit, just like you did that night in the dark. With two fingers, you circle and rub and tease, and you hope he can hear how wet you are over your panting breath.

‘That’s it, darlin’,’ he whispers fiercely, his moustache tickling your ear. ‘Tell me - does it feel good?’

Somehow, you muster the sass to talk back, ‘I bet your fingers will feel better.’

That unleashes a feral growl from Jack, and he surges forward to kiss you, before ripping away from your face to grab your wrist, sucking your fingers into his mouth. Pressing into the cradle of your thighs, his clothed erection grinds into your wetness, making you wriggle beneath him. ‘You taste amazin’. What about my tongue? Please - can I eat this gorgeous pussy?’

Self-doubt pins you to the mattress, unmoving. You avoid his keen eyes that have no doubt picked up on your sudden change in demeanour.

What kind of woman would turn down such an offer? That girl he swiped left on Tinder certainly wouldn’t have. What would he think of you?

A gentle kiss pressed to your lips dislodges your thoughts. ‘You can say no, darlin’. I can make you come with my fingers, and my cock,’ he groans when a shiver runs through you. ‘Or maybe even my words would be enough?’

You mewl, and he hums into your throat. ‘As much as I love these sounds you’re making, tell me what you want, darlin’.’

‘Can we take a raincheck on your mouth?’ you ask timidly.

A gentle thumb brushes your cheek. ‘Of course. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with the suggestion.’

Recovering your composure - or lack thereof - you give him a crooked smile and reach up to grip his broad shoulders, letting his weight anchor you to the present. ‘I’m far from uncomfortable, cowboy.’

He chuckles and retorts, ‘But I don’t want you to be comfortable, darlin’. I want to make you come so hard you can’t walk tomorrow.’

You choke on an inhale at his words, but somehow, you manage a brash comeback. ‘Good thing we’re travelling by horseback, huh?’

A laugh rumbles in his chest as he takes your lips again, and you sag under his ministrations. Easing your thighs apart, two fingers glide over your sensitive clit, mapping invisible patterns as he mouths at your neck, your hips thrusting into the contact. You feel him rut against your hip, a shudder running through your bodies in tandem as he pushes one finger into your heat.

‘Fuck,’ he husks as he sinks all the way in down to the knuckle. ‘Such a tight pussy, darlin’.’

‘More,’ you say bossily, and you breathe a yes - both in relief and also not enough - when he reenters you with two fingers.

He shifts, bracing himself on one side so he can watch him emerge from you, shiny with your slick, before pushing them back in. Your pussy is loud, squelching around his thick digits as he pumps deeply into you. You cry out when he brings his other hand to your clit, rubbing insistently, and he grunts at the gush of wetness he feels around him.

‘That’s it,’ he growls. ‘Getting so wet on my fingers, darlin’. Can’t wait to feel you on my cock - fuck, I’m so hard for you.’

‘Harder, Jack,’ you urge him, hips lifting from the bed to get more friction. ‘I’m gonna cum.’

No sooner do the words leave your mouth when you feel it - your stomach starts to tighten and the air gets knocked clean out of your lungs in anticipation of the fall. Jack eases up and over your body again, whispering encouragingly in your ear as you break, telling you in his delicious Southern timbre how tight your cunt is squeezin’ him, how you’re drippin’ on him, how he can’t wait to push his cock into you.

You seek out his mouth, teeth and tongue connecting as your high gives way to a drunken sluggishness. Your limbs are heavy as you pull him down onto you, caging your smaller body in his grasp, still inside you, relishing the snug fit even as your pussy stills.

He kicks off his boxers, and you jump when he brushes the velvety underside of his cock through your wet folds. He slurs against the shell of your ear, ‘Want you now, darlin’.’

‘Yes’ you beg, head thrown back into the soft bed. ‘Need you inside me.’

He fumbles with a condom packet, tearing it open with trembling hands before rolling the rubber over himself. You watch him, running your palms languidly up and down his firm back, which has him preening under your touch. ‘You definitely didn’t photoshop that nude pic, cowboy.’

‘As if I’d know how to do that,’ he chuckles, settling on top of you again. You hook your knees onto his hips, gasping when he runs a finger along your leaking seam. ‘Ready for me?’

With a nod, you reach down to line up his tip with your entrance, your noses bumping together, and you stop breathing as you both listen to the wet give of your cunt as he nudges just the head in. The air is pushed out of your lungs as he inches in, his grip bruising on your inner thighs as he grits his teeth. ‘So tight, darlin’. You feel fuckin’ incredible.’

Too full to make a sound, you can only stare when his face twist into pained pleasure when he finally fills you to the hilt. Your words come out garbled. ‘Jack - you’re so big.’

Something like possessiveness colours his tone, and he pinches your chin so that you have nowhere to look but at him. ‘Yeah, darlin’? Am I bigger than your ex?’

‘So much bigger,’ you whine.

He shudders like it’s exactly what he wants to hear, shifting just the tiniest bit inside you, which is enough to make you moan. ‘Good. You ready for me to fuck you with my big cock, darlin’?’

Remembering the way he reacted yesterday, you scrape together the last of your brain cells to say with all the cheek you can muster. ‘Yes, sir.’ 

Oh, the way his eyes turn completely black as your words sink in has you squirming and fisting the sheets. He swallows thickly, and you see his arms flex as he holds his body over you to watch your face. He draws back slowly, savouring the slow slide out of the tight clench of your pussy - mercy, even that feels incredible - before plunging back into you with a reckless snap of his hips, eliciting a loud cry from you that he swallows in a hard kiss.

Maybe you’re naive, but you didn’t know missionary can be like this. The way he’s groaning into your throat, into your tits as he sucks on them, makes your insides twist and your nails dig into the meat of his ass. When he’s had his fill, he plasters his firm front to you, pressing your foreheads and your humid, panting breaths together. It’s so intimate your eyes slide shut of their own accord, and you snag onto his dark hair to press him deeper into your skin as he scrapes his teeth from your clavicle to your shoulder, the sensation making you keen. The lewd, rhythmic slap of skin on skin makes you even wetter, the blunt drag of his cock in your pussy makes you keen for more.

‘Harder,’ you whimper. ‘I can take it, Jack.’

Pulling back suddenly, he sits up on his knees, and you have a split second to trace your heavy eyes over him - skin flushed in the moonlight, the firm lines of his arms swelling and contracting as he manhandles you clean off the bed, still buried deep inside you, rearranging your legs around his waist. Leaning over you, one hand by your head and the other holding your curve of your ass, he fucks into you, harder and deeper at this angle. He feels bigger like this, barely squeezing into you without a fight.

‘Like this, darlin’?’ he asks you, but by the way he’s smiling down at you - warmly but with just a healthy touch of confidence - it’s clearly a rhetorical question.

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ you call out anyway even though he doesn’t need the endorsement. You grab onto the pillows behind you as he jostles your entire body, making the bed shake on its frame. His lips catch one nipple after the other as they jiggle lasciviously under his movements.

‘Such a good girl, askin’ for what she wants,’ he grunts, regarding you with dark eyes. ‘Need to feel you cum on my cock. Will you give me one more, darlin’?’

You nod frantically as two of his fingers breach your swollen lips, and you suck crudely on them. You savour the look of utter abandon on his face as he watches your little show, tasting yourself on his skin. Now spit-slick, they retreat - almost reluctantly - from your mouth to find your clit again, sensitive as you shudder from even the gentlest touch. It won’t take much, his cock begins to hit somewhere deep inside that makes you quiver.

This one starts deep inside you. The beginning of a devastating high that swells and builds inside your pussy as he continues to pound into you, granting you no quarter - until you’re clenching desperately around him, tugging on his hair and screaming his name. His rhythm starts to stutter and broken words fall from his lips. ‘That’s it, darlin’ - you feel amazin’ - oh fuck yes, ride it out with me, ride it - I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna -’

Is it wrong that he wishes he’s fucking you with nothing in between? That he’s cumming into your bare, pulsing cunt, instead of the condom? That he wants to see you dripping with him, just so that he can swipe at the dribble and have you lick his fingers clean?

With one last push of his hips, his arms give and he crumples onto you, barely managing to hold his weight so he doesn’t crush you. He hums at the way your body rises and falls against him as you catch your breath. You squeak, voice hoarse from how vocal you’ve been, when he rubs his nose into your throat’s sensitive hollow. Your body instinctively seeks him out as you stretch languidly, movements slow as syrup as the adrenaline seeps from your system, only to leave a deeply sated exhaustion.

The sweat that’s pooled in the dip of his back is rapidly cooling, and he feels goosebumps break across your bare skin as the chill sets in. Shifting off of you, he presses his front to your back and yanks the duvet from beneath him to drape it over you both, pressing a wet kiss on the nape of your neck as his softened cock falls out of you, making you shiver. 

The condom is so slippery with your cum that he can barely get any purchase on it. Carefully removing it and tying it up, he throws it at the trash can by the bedside table when you twist around to smile at him. He returns it, leaning over to kiss you.

‘Did you - was it - good for you?’ he asks with a touch of insecurity that you find infinitely endearing.

‘I would count any day with two orgasms as a pretty good one,’ you joke with a lazy grin, your eyelids drooping as you slide your hand over his bigger one, tracing your fingertips over the ridges and veins. ‘But seriously - I think you’ve ruined all future birthdays for me. So thanks for that, cowboy.’

And if you’re being honest with yourself - he’s probably ruined all other men for you as well.

But that’s a whole other can of worms you can’t open right now.

‘Good. That was exactly what I was goin’ for,’ he flashes you a playfully smug smile.

He gathers you into his arms so that your head is tucked underneath his chin, his body bracketing yours with an arm around your waist. Wanting to feel every part of you, he wedges a leg between yours so that he’s entirely tangled up in you.

He knows, without looking, the exact moment you fall asleep - your soft body going pliant in his grasp and your breath evening out all at once.

More often than not, he can’t sleep after sex. In that midnight purgatory, his fingers almost always itch for a cigarette that he has long given up and guilt usually finds a way to settle deep into his bones when the pleasure dissipates, leaving him staring blankly at the ceiling until it’s light enough for him to sneak out and drive away.

But tonight, he lets go of all of that.

Neither of you move until the morning light spills in through the window at sunrise.

Jack's Tinder profile:

Horsey notes (optional reading): Temperament varies widely by breed and by personality of each horse. The school I used to ride at retrains racehorses for schooling, and I don't think any of the thoroughbreds would let you anywhere near them with tinsel 😂 One thing that you could do with a horse is desensitisation training. It's a wonderful thing to do and you have a much safer horse if they don't spook at every little thing or sound.

#jack daniels fanfic #jack daniels x f!reader #jack daniels x you #jack daniels x reader #jack daniels x fem!reader #jack daniels #jack whiskey daniels #kingsman golden circle #kingsman fanfiction #agent whiskey x f!reader #agent whiskey x female reader #agent whiskey x you #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey #jack daniels au #agent whiskey au

[lets-try-some-writing]

Okay, so, what would happen if Megatron met the sparkling kiddos? Thought of this before the posts of the sparklings growth spurts (maybe this ask could be set after their growths? Or when the team is rested enough so they don't pass out cold) and them being stolen by MECH. Also, that and the fact Starscream playing Uncle to Miko in the growth spurts post is funny.

I also think Optimus would use the kids Cybertronain names, honestly.

Well to keep with the timeline, I will set this little scenario after the sparkling's initial growth spurts and their run in with MECH. And yeah, I think he would use their Cybertronian names, and I would honestly like to start implementing them in my writing. But for the sake of keeping everyone on the same page, I have been using the sparkling's human names.

Of course if you lovely people would like me to start using their Cybertronian names instead, then I will gladly begin doing so.

Megatron and the Sparklings

After seeing Optimus completely toss any and all morals out the window during the MECH incident, Megatron was incredibly wary of going anywhere near the Autobots little ones. The closest analogy he could come up with for what would happen if he even tried was a situation the humans had. That being going near a mother bear and her cubs, which allegedly tended to leave more humans dead than alive. After witnessing what happened to the agents of MECH, Megatron found himself largely in agreement with the analogy.

As such he steered as clear as he could from the sparklings whenever they managed to get through a groundbridge or appeared out on the ground. There was an unspoken rule between him and the Autobots. He never touched the sparklings, and in turn Optimus didn't shred him and then crush him like a soda can. However due to a series of events Megatron couldn't even fathom, he ended up with the sparklings in his care after the Autobots were scattered in a groundbridge accident.

Unable to contact them due to the Autobots being scattered across the globe, Megatron was left with three very unhappy sparklings. As such he took the sparklings back to the nemesis for safekeeping while he hurriedly began hunting down the Autobots before Prime decided murder was the best option available to him. However since the Autobots were so far apart, Megatron found himself with the sparklings for over a week, a fact that he came to hate very quickly. He would never dare to touch the sparklings, not after what he saw with MECH... but Primus, did he want to strangle each of them after less than an hour.

Miko was the most irritating, her first response being to scream like a banshee and shred everything in sight. Megatron was half tempted to throw her off the nemesis in rage, but he controlled the urge by dragging Starscream over to deal with her instead. And while it did stop her from screaming, it did not stop her reign of destruction. If anything, Starscream being given the task of watching over her only served to make it worse. She and Starscream went about causing disaster after disaster, including but not limited to: An explosion in the reactor room because they were trying to play hide and seek and got carried away. A ship wide rebellion over the lack of guard rails on board after Miko fell off a ledge and got a dent in her plating. And the complete vandalization of the upper decks during a class in mural painting for Miko.

Oh the urge to blow them both to bits was strong, but Megatron restrained himself. They were irritating, but they were not outright harming him. It was fine, besides, it kept Starscream from trying to kill him for more than a day.

Jack however was by no means so easily placated. He was a warframe, built specifically for combat and physically incapable of controlling himself at such a young age without his Sire or other relatives. And as the only other warframe on board, Megatron was left with the task of handling Jack, a task that was not at all enjoyable. Jack didn't trust him at all, and that in turn meant that at every opportunity the little monster tried to attack, bite, kick, or otherwise harm Megatron. It didn't really hurt so Megatron mostly just let Jack chomp on his legs while growling, often dragging the sparkling behind him as he walked. Eventually Megatron put Jack in a box to keep him from breaking his denta, and through that method he got a solid hour of piece before the sound of shredding metal reached him.

When he looked at the box he had placed Jack in, there was a hole in the side and no sparkling to be seen. But evidently Jack only cared about attacking him since the first thing the sparkling did was chomp down on Megatron's leg as soon as he crouched down to examine the situation. From that point on there was no escape for long. No matter where he put Jack, the sparkling found a way out, often at the cost of the sparkling's plating, claws, and fangs. More than once he had to take Jack to Knockout, only to watch with fury as Jack only hissed at the medic and then proceeded to return to molesting Megatron the moment the repairs were complete.

Megatron: Why are you like this?

Jack: *gnawing on his arm and hissing*

Megatron: Ah yes, I almost forgot that you are Optimus's spawn.

Rafael in comparison was infinitely easier to see to... if it weren't for the sparkling taking all of Soundwave's attention. Rafael cried, refused to fuel, and screamed himself into recharge whenever Soundwave wasn't around. This when combined with Soundwave's increadible loneliness and desire to care for cassettes led the spymaster to be completely enraptured with the newspark. And this in turn meant that suddenly Soundwave's loyalty was questionable as the spymaster threw everything unrelated to Rafael onto the backburner. Soundwave grew to be extra aggressive, attacking anyone who came too close on sight, only begrudgingly allowing Megatron near. He even bodily threw a Vehicon that caused Rafael marginal distress across the hall. Megatron had not feared Soundwave since the days when they fought in the pits... but with his spymaster in a state of protectiveness, Megatron watched his steps.

The week that Megatron spent hunting down the Autobots and convincing them that "no he did not harm their sparklings, please put the blaster down" was hell. Without Soundwave to run everything, with Starscream and Miko destroying everything, and Jack being an every present irritant, Megatron wanted to drop dead by the end of it all. He very nearly cried tears of relief when the Autobots finally regrouped and he practically threw the sparklings at them. Of course Soundwave was very reluctant to hand over his charge, but after having a hushed conversation with Optimus, he did so (much to the relief of literally every Decepticon).

Silently Megatron swore that day that never again would he take care of the little abominations. He thought about it and decided that if there was a next time, he would risk being shredded by Optimus rather than take the sparklings with him. Besides, he was fairly certain the feral little monstrosities could fend for themselves if their chaotic abilities were any indicator.

Optimus: Thank you Megatron. This deed will not be forgotten.

Megatron: *having flashbacks to his week of pain* Next time I will kill the little vermin.

Megatron avoided the sparkling like the plague after that incident and tried not to think too hard on it when both his second in command and his spymaster vanished at times and returned covered in stickers.

#maccadam #transformers #transformers prime #tfp kids as sparklings #megatron #soundwave #starscream #decepticons #megatron aint ever having sparklings of his own now #the fear of the autobot's sparklings had rendered him incapable of caring for small things #he probably was so tired he didn't even buffer out all of Jack's bite marks until like a week later

[ddarker-dreams]

THAT GOJO FIC THOUGH??? an absolute masterpiece and soooo beautifully written. definitely felt super in character for him - equal parts eerie, entitled, and light-hearted? loved loved loved it.

i’m curious (not necessarily a request…unless?) just want to pick your brain about what that relationship between gojo and reader might look like as adults or a few years in the future. does his yandede tendency worsen? does reader ever try to leave or just accept how things are? what, if anything, would anger your interpretation of yan!gojo? how does he keep reader under his thumb for so many years? do others understand what he’s doing and what their relationship truly is? what even is their relationship? haha i’m so sorry i just loved your gojo so much and am foaming at the mouth for any more scraps you may have to offer

THANK YOU VERY MUUUUUUUUUCH there's something about questionable men that turns my pupils into hearts each and every time.

as for your questions, let's see... first and foremost, i've decided that the fic i discussed writing is like the 'baseline' universe with 'it's graduation, isn't it?' being a branching yandere narrative (or AU i guess)?? i came up with a backstory for the darling in IGII and thought it had enough potential to be explored further. so, all this to say that i'm working on the main story right now which will flesh out reader's relationship with shoko, geto, and gojo in particular. this'll give additional context to the relationship gojo and reader have in the yandere fic! for their time in high school, i've decided to split the story into three main arcs, each one taking place during reader's time as a first year, second year, and third year. (i have ideas for post high school-to the present day in when the main events of JJK pick up, but i'll focus on that later).

here's a general overview of the start of the fic. presently, its working title is 'golden girl.'

2005 — reader's first year arc.

takes place primarily from reader's perspective with the occasional shift to omniscient perspective. reader's from another country, so she's unfamiliar with all the politics/bureaucracy in japan's jujutsu scene. in-depth look at her first day at jujutsu tech, her initial impressions of shoko, gojo, and geto. gojo does something that reader views as irresponsible, kickstarting their decades long relationship with reader disliking him 😭

exploring the quintet's dynamic with one another. reader still thinks gojo is annoying, is okay with geto but finds something about him mildly unnerving, gets along best with shoko. gojo has intense 'kindergarden boy pulling the hair of the girl he has a crush on' energy. reader sloooooooowly warms up to him.

reader at this point has a rose-tinted view of jujutsu society. while she isn't ignorant to the reality sorcerers face when going about their jobs, she assumes everyone at the top must get along so everyone can best preserve the public's safety. can't fathom why it'd be any different. as such, the story's tone up until this point has a slice of life-esque vibe.

the first real conflict in this arc comes in the form of an assignment gojo, geto, and reader receive. a zenin sorcerer got whooped on what should've been an easy job, dirtying the family's image. to rectify this, the zenins pester jujutsu tech to send in the heavy artillery (aka gojo and geto) so it looks like the job was so difficult, some of the best sorcerers had to handle it. reader is also requested to join them for reasons that'll be revealed later.

(more under the cut because whewie this got long)

gojo and geto can pretty much see through the petty politics going on. they explain the machinations to reader, who decides to take the assignment serious regardless. gojo in particular is very blasé about the entire thing because one, that big ass ego and two, he's a teen. bad combo.

the assignment itself takes place in an abandoned nursery on the outskirts of nagoya. here, the three encounter the curse 'the caretaker' and its 'little ones.' now it's psychological horror time. gojo's arrogance exacerbated by reader's insistence on following protocol clash bad. the fight ends up not being so simple after all due to the curse's abilities. they eventually realize reader's cursed technique is Suspiciously best suited to work as a counter, but at grave risk and damage to herself. thanks zenins. ultimately, reader pulls it off, but receives heavy injuries in the process. gojo and geto are pissed about this entire thing. character development for the squad that'll play into their themes into adulthood (gojo's wish to upend the higher-ups, geto's disillusionment with jujutsu society, and a secret third thing for reader).

in what will serve as a parallel for post star plasma arc, the three are able to 'overcome' the event enough and grow closer for it. everyone's coping mechanisms kinda sucks but not to the degree it'll suck after the events of post star plasma arc.

reader's like oh boy, that was an eventful first year haha! i sure hope my second year isn't anywhere near as chaotic haha! :)

as for where the narrative would branch into a yandere AU, that'd take place mostly in reader's third year. personally, i think gojo would be a bit of an unhealthy weirdo no matter what in a romantic relationship, but just not to the Full yandere extent. so you'll see him up to some questionable shenanigans even in the main fic.

i apologize, i ended up laser focusing on gojo's relationship with reader so much that i didn't really answer your other questions GJSDKLFS i just feel like the events of the main story will go on to shape yandere and non yandere gojo's behavior with reader enough that without context, it won't make as much sense.

#sweet asks #yandere gojo x reader #answered #Anonymous

[swampthingking]

I saw your post about jeremy paying off jeans debt to moriyamas and im screaming

OBVIOUSLY jean would not want that because he feels like hes just being bought by another person (but a more healed jean might not. Depends on when it happens tbh)

And omfg,,,, yeah jeremy is probably very rich since he has a butler and a personel chef (which I find are VERY expensive in america for some reason. Especially such good ones) his family even has connections to congressmen. So to think he could probably pay off the mafia is a bit exaggerated, and it would take millions (jeremys entire bank account probably)

And its so,,,,, UGH can you Imagine how it would go. Neil would probably have to be present to help handle it (neil is officially jeans agent to handle mafia business imo)

Amd jeremy being free would also cause and existential crisis. What was jean going to do with his life was jean now jeremys puppet would jeremy still be nice to him now that he has control over jean what does he want to do now.

It also raises the question of what jean would think of exy now that he isnt obligated to play it.

(Sorry this is a lot lol)

this became so much longer than i anticipated BUT

do not apologize I LOVE THIS

ok so. jean would definitely not want jeremy to buy his freedom.

because…what is ‘freedom.’

i think the jean now, that we’ve met after tsc1, would be fucking pissed if jeremy bought his freedom. i think he would not feel…safe? around jeremy? because— now that he owns me, he can do anything he wants to me. i think that it would put such a rift in the precarious trust they’ve built. even at the end of tsc, jean tells jeremy “i trust you” and immediately thinks i have no choice but to. and then is like wweeeeelllll that doesn’t exactly feel true though. so i think jeremy doing that would be like a ‘what the fuck, was not expecting that’ moment.

but jeremy. jeremy. we have seen that if he has the means to do something, he will do it. let me push away my familial issues and answer lucas’s call. do you feel safe with your brother? he would have picked lucas up. he would have found somewhere else for lucas to stay. i will focus on others’ problems so i do not have to face my own. i will be your partner. i will buy two twin beds and move into your room.

so, sorry, to backtrack: i think jean will eventually tell jeremy the full truth. i think jean won’t be able to stop himself, same with his other confessions—i didn’t ask. they didn’t know. jeremy asks the right questions with so much care that jean’s mouth starts moving before he thinks through what he’s supposed to say. jean subconsciously feeling safe enough to speak freely around jeremy, cat, and laila is a WHOLE other thing but i digress

and jeremy will go into “fix-it” mode. will call kevin with the idea. and kevin will be like “do not fucking do that” and i think neil will somehow get involved (especially if jeremy went through with it anyway. neil will go just to make sure jeremy does not, y’know, get fucking killed. also? how do you contact the mafia?). jean will also tell jeremy “do not fucking do that.” 1, because. this is the. this is the fucking mafia. they could absolutely kill you. they could say, “aaaah. yeah, you can buy jean’s freedom, but [insert damning terms that indebt you to us.]” and you can’t just…deny the mafia. it’s a suicide mission. and 2 because…jean doesn’t think he deserves it. he’ll think he’s not worthy of it. i don’t think he would be able to fathom the word ‘freedom.’ i think he would think of it, exactly like you said, as being bought. passed from one owner to the other.

and, if jeremy did it, he would reassure him. would be like “no you can make your own decisions. you can do what you want. you can change your major. you can play exy for fun or go pro by choice.”

and jean, i think, would just crumble. he obviously doesn’t like being owned (who does) but that’s all he’s had for 5 years. that’s all he has survived by. i am jean moreau. i belong to the moriyamas. imagine the mantra that has kept him alive for 5 years just…not being true anymore. he would be going from who am i without the ravens? to who am i without the moriyamas? like you said, what a fucking existential crisis.

i genuinely think it would fuck up their dynamic. i think jean would feel like he owes jeremy something. and jeremy would tell him he doesn’t. but i don’t think jeremy would quite…trust jean in a romantic sense. like, is he just initiating [romantic or sexual act] because he thinks he owes it to me? or even as a friendship, honestly. is he just agreeing to [friend activity] because he thinks he has no choice but to listen to me?

so jean wouldn’t be able to trust jeremy because he would feel owned, and that’s trauma baby. and jeremy wouldn’t be able to trust jean because he would feel like jean is, well, trauma responding. fawn, freeze. agree, acquiesce, repent.

so yeah it is grounds for LOTS of angst and … i’m having many thoughts.

maybe these thoughts would change after tsc2 comes out, but either way, i definitely do not see jean being particularly grateful or thankful. i see it as jean being like “you are a fucking idiot” and “why would you do that to yourself” and “why would you do that for me”

oh hey and imagine if they have the “what were you thinking, why would you do that” conversation and a love confession happens. and jeremy is like “bc i fucking??? love you??? [or something]” and like??? it would be so conflicting for them BOTH because jean [in the case that he does love jeremy back]: do i say i love you back. do i push him away for his own safety. but i don’t want to be ungrateful (and get punished), and jeremy: oh god. he’s going to think he needs to say it back. how will i know how he actually feels.

and i almost forgot about the money part of it ok—

yeah so i think the only way ichiru would accept jeremy’s deal was if they calculated how much a pro exy player’s salary and multiplied it by… let’s say a 10 year career? that would put jean at roughly 30ish when he retires? i think they would be like “ok, pay us for what we would have gotten for jean’s career.” (if they even entertained the thought).

dude i cannot even conceptualize how much money that would be. millions upon millions. and i guess jeremy could pay them in increments? but? idk. i did the math for like if jean made a million a year but my fucking brain. hurts. so i can’t get into that

but YEAH!!!

oh the angst. especially if jean said “there is no fucking way in hell you are doing that” and jeremy said “okay i won’t” and did it anyways …..

there’s also the thought that jeremy just…didn’t tell jean he had bought his freedom. if he just let jean live thinking he was cut loose. but then. the guilt jeremy would feel, keeping that information from him. jean has never been able to make his own decisions, and here he is, building a life for himself and not even knowing the real reason why he’s able to do so.

would they just be able to talk and move past it and rebuild that trust? would this be like some kind of fuckin shakespearean tragedy???

in this hc i just have to believe that they work past it and communicate because. holy shit this is messy

#mail #tsc spoilers #tsc #the sunshine court #jean moreau #jean yves moreau #jeremy knox #all for the game #jerejean

[spittingbloodandscreaming]

Motel Sex (Gerard Way x Male reader SMUT)

Was supposed 2 post this erleir forgor about the passage of time please forgive me will work on requests tomorrow I haven't slept in 3 days

WARNINGS: nothing much really? Mild hair pulling?

AN: This has been sitting in my docs for a WHILE so I thought I'd finish it up and throw it here so there's atleast something while I work on the other requests

Gerard sighs at himself and looks around the empty motel room. The guys have left him the space to "Have some alone time with your ‘friend’. wink wink,” Frank said, emphasizing the wink out loud before leaving. Gerard glances at the time on the half-broken electric clock on the nightstand—only fifteen minutes until you planned to arrive. No big deal, right? He can wait.

Enough time has passed, and Gerard is watching one of the limited channels on the TV before he hears you knock on the door. Excited, he jumps up to answer.

“Hey, Gee!” you say as the door opens, revealing your boyfriend, a look of relief on his face as if he had been half expecting you to not show up. He greets you happily and hugs you tight before welcoming you in. “Where are the guys?” you ask, sitting down on one of the two queen-sized beds in the motel room.

“They went out for a while, givin’ us alone time. Should be leftovers, though,” he says, leaning in to kiss you as he finishes his sentence. “But I think I’ll be pretty full by the time I’m done with you.” Gerard leans further into you, pushing you fully onto the mattress. It’s very clear how amused by his own joke he is.

“What are you implying there, Mr. Way?” you say before giggling back into the next kiss.

“Oh, you know,” Gerard says, mischievously smiling before grabbing you around the waist and getting on top of you. He’s straddling your legs, keeping you in place against the bed. Gerard grins wide, kissing all over your face. He’s utterly thrilled to be with you, to have you in his arms, even if it’s in a dingy motel.

Gerard can’t keep himself contained, giggling like a madman as he moves down to gently kiss your neck. He’s so caring with his touch, or at least tries to be. He keeps his hands in yours for the most part, squeezing them lovingly. Eventually, though, his hands travel up to your neck, long fingers resting on your pulse as he gently nips at the base of your jaw.

As the moments pass, Gerard’s kisses get progressively more intimate and prolonged, and eventually, his fingers start to dig into the soft flesh of your neck. You can’t tell if he’s doing it on purpose, or if he’s just that into it. Either way, you don’t mind, and that’s evident by the soft whines each one of his kisses pull from your throat. Something about those sounds make Gerard snap, grinding his hips against yours as he lets out a long drawn-out whine of his one. He licks a long line from the base of your neck up to your mouth, turning it into a rough, sloppy kiss.

Gerard trails his hand down your torso, hooking his fingers in the waistband of both your pants and underwear, pulling them down just enough to reveal your half-erect cock. He wraps his hand around your cock gingerly, and, ignoring the action, just the way he handled it was gay. 

Your muscles tense as Gerard keeps his movements steady, slow high-pitched whimpers filling the motel as he slowly moves himself down, putting his face at crotch level. He rests his head on your upper thigh. He looks up at you, face just inches away from your cock as he smiles oh so sweetly. You look down at him, voice trembling; “Please.” Gerard needs no other encouragement. He runs his tongue up the length of your dick slowly before shoving as much of you in his mouth as he can, which is, admittedly, a lot.

He sucks you off so perfectly, you can’t fathom how one man could make you feel this good. He has you grabbing handfuls of the sheets, bucking your hips and in turn making the back of your cock hit his throat. You arch your back and grab a handful of Gerard's hair, the other hand hitting the mattress. You’re practically screaming—you wouldn’t be surprised if the guys got a noise complaint because of you.

You only last a few more minutes before your moans begin to catch in your throat, and Gerard notices. He digs his nails into your thighs as he takes your whole length in his mouth, throat contracting around your cock as he does so, ripping a loud, broken scream from your throat. You use the handful of his hair you have as leverage, shoving him all the way down as your dick twitches—one final warning before you cum down his throat. 

Gerard stays in place until you’re done, swallowing around your cock before bringing himself up. He has drool and cum dripping down his chin, and his hair is a mess, and he’s smiling so wide you’d think he just got a million-dollar check and a puppy. He crawls back up to kiss you gently before laying his head on your chest and sighing. He stays silent for a moment, before clearing his throat and whispering. 

“I love you.” You can feel him smiling against you still.

“I love you too,” you say, sighing and closing your eyes.

“Y’know, we should probably get your pants on before the guys get back.”

#my chemical romance fanfiction #my chemical romance #gerard way x reader #gerard way x male reader #gerard way x reader smut #gerard way x male reader smut #mcr smut #nsft fanfic #nsft #mcr x reader #mcr fanfiction #my chem fanfic

[dewedup]

Long time reader, first time requester 👋

³²⁾ “people who’re just friends don’t do shit like this, and you know it.” with Cirrus and Cumulus, please?

- @ghouletteanon

hi!!! thank you for the lovely prompt! i hope you enjoy it as much as i did writing it 🖤

the working title for this is “3 times swiss thinks the breeze babes are mates and 1 time he’s actually right”

³²⁾ “people who’re just friends don’t do shit like this, and you know it.”

breeze babes, swiss is determined, the ghoulettes will fuck anywhere

Cumulus runs her hands through her hair, claws falling down to her neck and trailing down to her naked chest. She grasps tightly to her breasts, pinching and pulling her soft pink nipples as she moans deliciously. Her hips cant forward as she finds the perfect spot, putting more weight on her lower half as she throws her head back in ecstasy. 

The sound of the door slamming open startles her, jumping slightly as she turns to glare at the intruder. 

“Where is it?” Swiss hisses from where he pokes his head in the door, eyes narrowed and roaming over Cumulus’ neck. She doesn’t even bother covering her chest, just sighs, tits bouncing lightly as the person she’s resting on starts struggling. 

Cirrus finally maneuvers enough to stick her head out, gasping deep breaths of air as Swiss continues to look for something.

“Where’s what?” Cirrus asks breathlessly, irritation lacing her tone as she tries to raise her head to peak over Cumulus’ thigh.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Cumulus scolds, weaving her hands in Cirrus’ hair and forcing her face back to her pussy, lifting slightly and then dropping back down to continue sitting on her face until she blacks out. Unless Cirrus can make her come before that happens, but the interruption doesn’t bode well for the ghoulette face deep in Cumulus’ cunt. 

“You’re mating mark, I just know you guys are hiding it I can practically feel it.” Swiss whines from the door.

"We're just friends Swissy," Cumulus tosses out, trying to focus on the tongue picking her apart down below.

"People who're just friends don't do shit like this, and you know it!" Swiss challenges, eyes roaming Cumulus’ neck one last time before he pouts and leaves.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you, doll,” Cumulus sighs, raising her fingers up and starting to circle her breasts again, trying to give the ghoulette a helping hand. 

-

Cumulus kneels at the end of the couch, tongue diving into the asshole in front of her as she hums encouragingly. Cirrus whines from where she’s bent over the armrest, a fist deep in her cunt as she cries out unintelligibly. They’d barely made it into the green room after the show before Cumulus had bent Cirrus over and started having her way with her. The other ghouls were still doing the post-show bow, but Cirrus was so dripping wet after staring at Cumulus all show she couldn’t fathom trying to keep it together before the fans without the security of her higher stage and keyboard to hide behind. 

 “So wet for Mommy,” Cumulus pulls back to praise her ghoulette, rubbing a hand fondly over Cirrus’ spine as the other continues to pump wrist-deep into her soaking pussy. Cirrus babbles, craning her chin over her shoulder to look back at Cumulus with hazy eyes, pupils blown.

A commotion from the hallway breaks their eye contact, both ghoulettes turning to look as the handle of the door they forgot to lock turns and soon the remaining members of the band are walking into the room, pausing as soon as they see the scene before them. 

“Shit sorry,” Rain mutters, covering his eyes and turning around to push Aurora and Phantom out of the room with him, Phantom stands on his tip toes, trying to peak around the water ghoul at the display before him but is instantly reprimanded with a smack to the head from Aurora. 

“Looking for an extra pair of hands ladies?” Dew smirks, flicking his tongue out and wiggling his fingers to show them the goods. Cirrus, even with a fist deep in her cunt, somehow manages to roll her eyes at the offer. Dew takes the rejection in stride, letting Mountain grab his arm and lead him from the room. The last ghoul standing is Swiss, and he doesn’t seem phased by the intimate setting at all, stepping a little closer to examine Cirrus’ exposed back, likely checking her spine for any hint of a mating mark. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He asks as he shakes his head, turning around and slamming the door shut behind him. The ghoulettes share a giggle, before Cumulus’ smirk turns sinister, doubling down on her efforts before they were so rudely interrupted. 

-

Cumulus giggles as Circus boops her on the nose, leaving a flour fingerprint in her wake. They finish cleaning the spilled batter from filling the pan and check on the cake in the oven, seeing it was close to being done. Cumulus places the dirty bowl in the sink and grabs the silicone rolling pin, running it under the water and washing the residue from their cake making.

“Lussy, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Cirrus purrs, sliding up behind Cumulus and reaching around to grab a handful of her breasts in either hand. Cumulus groans, pushing back into the lean body behind her, eyeing the rolling pin in her hands with a contemplative look. 

“I think you should hop up on the counter,” Cumulus singsongs, making sure to run the pin under the water one last time. Cirrus presses a quick kiss to her cheek before spinning around, pulling her underwear down from underneath her skirt and hopping up onto the counter. 

Cumulus saunters forward, testing the weight of the rolling pin as she tosses it from hand to hand, looking at Cirrus from under her lashes.

“Absolutely the fuck not,” Swiss states as he enters the kitchen, eyeing both the ghoulettes warily. “This is the kitchen, a shared eating space.” He implores, eyes briefly trailing Cirrus’ legs but the frustrated look on his face shows that he can’t see what he’s looking for.

“Oh Swissy, don’t ruin the fun.” Cumulus pouts, hand moving provocatively up and down the rolling pin as she smiles sensually at him. He visibly deflates before turning and making his way down the hallway.

“Your cakes burning,” Swiss calls over his shoulder.

-

Swiss sighs as he makes his way to his room, the day weighing heavy on his shoulders, looking forward to a nice, relaxing evening. He pauses at his door, cocking his head to the side as he thinks he hears something, but can’t place what it is. He waits a second, but after hearing nothing else he pushes open the door, freezing once it opens.

Cumulus lays back on the bed, a hand in her hair while the other drags down her face, mouth open ready to release another deep moan. Cirrus kneels between her legs, licking into her like it’s that only thing she was put on the earth to do. Swiss feels his cock stir slightly at the scene, but he’s just ready to curl up and go to bed.

“Why my room?” He whines, tugging at his hair in frustration as he watches the ghoulettes from the corner of his eyes, exhausted but still mildly interested.

“We h-we fuck we have a gift for you,” Cumulus grits out, legs shaking as Cirrus finally pulls back, turning to look at Swiss with a smirk, slick coating her chin as she flicks her tongue out, catching whatever she can. 

“Yeah Swissy, come over here and get yourself a taste,” Cirrus beckons, sticking out a finger and curling it at him, turning to point at the wet cunt before her. 

You can say no, you don’t have to do this, just go sleep in-ah fuck it, Swiss thinks, cracking his neck and pacing towards the bed, the ghoulettes eyes burning holes through him as he kneels down to pray to Cumulus’ pussy. 

“Satan help me,” he mumbles, already knowing he’s going to need a second, third, and fourth wind to keep up with them both. As he pushes closer something catches his eye and he freezes. He stares openly at Cumulus’ skin, rearing his head back like the information needs more room for him to take in.

“He got it?” Cumulus calls from the head of the bed, boredom lacing her tone as she reaches down to start idly playing with her clit, waiting for further stimulation from her partners. 

“Oh, he got it,” Cirrus confirms, grinning wickedly as she sees the multi ghouls train of thought speeding behind his eyes. 

“You mean… You mean I was actually right?” Swiss asks in disbelief, eyes widening before they narrow to tiny slits, pushing his face up against Cumulus’ wet cunt, staring at the marred skin at the apex of her thighs. 

“Been mated for years, we assumed it was just common knowledge, but I suppose we never really confirmed it. It became a game when you started asking, but short attention spans, we got bored of it. Thought this would be more fun.” Cirrus answers, crossing her arms over her chest as she shrugs at the ghoul before her. 

#breeze babes #i couldn't find a ship name for cirrus and cumulus so the air girlies get this one #cirrus ghoulette #cumulus ghoulette #the band ghost ficlet #fic prompt #gloom writes #ghouletteanon #thank you for the request!!! #gloom answers

[alltheprettygirlsintheworld]

So, I’ve been reading Harrow the Ninth, and I am currently on page 60 so what I am operating on here is based on what I have read so far and what I have seen from spoilers. I have not yet read Nona, so this is all conjecture. 

However, I think it is interesting that Harrow decided to rewrite her ENTIRE EXISTENCE because she could not fathom Gideon’s death. This girl, this poor, lonely, heartbroken girl, decided that she would rather gaslight her self and destroy her own brain rather than remember that the girl she loved had died for her. 

The narrative leads you to think that while Gideon is painfully in love with Harrow, Harrow is in love with The Body and therefore can’t love Gideon back. However, we do know two things about our lovely protagonists. 

1) They are incredibly codependent

2) They are notoriously unreliable narrators. 

I haven’t finished Harrow yet, but I can already tell that her narrative towards herself as she exists post-lobotomy is incredibly skewed and may (or may not) be entirely accurate to the events that are actually occurring). In Gideon’s case, we have her whole “bravado and swagger” narrative style that actively understates the intensity of any emotion Gideon feels by hiding it behind the sex jokes and the eternal flirting with every woman with a pair of legs (see, Gideon focusing on how Ianthe and Corona were wearing nightgowns instead of paying attention to the literal dead bodies in front of them). 

My argument is that Harrow is just as pitifully in love with Gideon as Gideon is with her, and she hates herself for it. She hates herself for falling in love with the one person who wasn’t killed for the cause of her birth, and she hates herself for letting that love die in front of her. This is the same girl who puppeted around the corpses of her parents for a decade, you think she doesn’t have attachment issues? In this case, there wasn’t a body left to puppet and play house left. There was NOTHING. Not even bones that Harrow could wrap herself in and hide behind. Harrow just couldn’t handle it. So she begged Ianthe to mutilate her mind so that she didn’t have to remember why she could never escape her all-consuming grief (I’ll talk more about Ianthe when I finish the book because she’s a whole other conversation) and she decided to recreate herself because she didn’t want to die yet (she is two hundred dead children. How could she kill them again?) but she didn’t know how to live anymore either. 

Love doesn’t come from nowhere. It doesn’t just disappear. It lingers and it haunts even when you can’t remember when it started (even if all you want to do is let it go). The Body was a creation in Harrows mind in reaction to the love she felt. She had to put it somewhere, and the only other thing Harrow had ever loved was her House and the girl in the Tomb. So she replaced Gideon with the only other thing she knew how to love, and decided that it was better to exist in insanity than acknowledge the depths of her pain and what she had lost.

And even when she can’t remember who Gideon is, she is obsessed with her... just slightly differently. In this case, it’s through the sword. She is carrying around Gideon’s sword like a teddy bear and she won’t let anyone (even GOD) touch it without going into a full rage and she doesn’t even know why other than that it feels important. She goes on and on about how it weighs her down, but we’ve seen her carry the sword before in Gideon’s novel, so we know that she can absolutely do it. The burden is only half-physical (I say half because Harrow is only barely more than a skeleton herself). Yes the sword is heavy, but the burden it represents is even heavier. She hates her sword. She complains about it constantly. And she loves it beyond measure. And she wishes she was good enough to deserve it

Thank you for coming to my ted talk. 

#gideon the ninth #harrow the ninth #the locked tomb #tlt thoughts #tlt spoilers #griddlehark #harrow spoilers

[bythenineshards]

Omg what was up with that Feysand stan on ur post????? ITS JUST A THEORY. (Not to mention a MUCH better pairing) and lol if Feysand was always endgame why in the fck does Rhysie SA Feyre??? Did Sjm do that to build sexual tension (cause Feyre says in Acomaf she had "wanted him even then") AND THAT'S INFINITELY WORSE!!

Lmao they tried to fire up on one of my posts too and I immediately blocked them. Seen them one too many times fighting about posts that's none of their business. Like life is so empty u need to fight with strangers on the internet to feel something. I am literally so mad not them saying Tamlin Apologists deserve to be bullied?!?!? For liking a fictional character????!!

I took personal offence to that

Ha! See! I told you I would respond today. I totally didn't get sucked into Skyrim and my writing and nearly forgot.

Idk what their problem was. They blocked me like the first week I was on here so I didn't think much of them. I knew about them because there would be discourse on posts and an invisible opponent. So I guess they unblocked me to stir shit and idk, get more traffic to their blog? They rebranded with a name that is clearly meant to draw in Antis of Feysand. I think they're like 15 and so I guess they're in their "I'm edgy look at me phase" where they want to pick fights because they think they're always right and special. I'm so glad I didn't grow up with my cringe behavior on the internet.This is why we don't sell erotica or "dark romance" to children. They can't handle speculation or discussions. I bet they cry over Marvel's What If... series because it's not Canon. Like... the post that had them all fired up was speculation about something we have receipts for. And a lot of people liked the idea. All they do is make the books look worse.

And the way they talk about Feyre vs. Nesta is like they think they're written by two different people. This isn't Harry Potter (fuck you Rowling) vs. Twilight (fuck you Meyers). I don't think Feyre gets a free pass to transform into a person of another race just cuz Nesta and Gwyn modelled their stuff after the Valkyries. I think both are bad and icky because the same author wrote both and clearly doesn't see how offensive that could be. I do, however, think that there's a difference between what Feyre did and the Blood Rite. Nesta, Gwyn and Emerie were kidnapped and forced into the Blood Rite. They didn't actually choose to.

Side note though: Valkyries are from Norse mythology. It does chap me that she couldn't use a mythology or create something new for her Illyrians to flesh out their culture. She just used a primarily white culture for her non-white character's culture.

Sorry to rant about that. It just irked me.

I can't for the life of me understand why anyone would ship Feysand the way it's written in Canon. I can with 100% confidence say I've never written a romance that involved anyone SAing anyone. Hell, I don't feature SA at all really. I don't want it in my fantasy. I want people to find peace and love in my books. Men have written enough SA in fantasy, it doesn't need any from me.

But like... if you look at their posts, the reason I don't like Feyre is because I wanted "my fav" to end up with Rhys. They can't fathom that I don't like Rhys at all. I don't like any of her men. They don't appeal to me at all. The only one I might’ve had any inkling of interest in is Kallias but I'm sure if we spent more than a handful of pages with him, I'd hate him too. I think she'd eventually change all of them regardless of appearance to something shallow and toxic.The Bat Boys specifically are boring to me. Their designs suck, their personalities suck and the way they treat their women sucks. Nothing I see in her books is what I would classify as love. Her books aren't about love. They're about sex with hot dudes. But you know what? Other books do romance, love and even just sex better.

I'm glad you blocked them. Just know, they still spy on us.

Thank you for your ask. I hope you're doing well.

#anti sjm #anti acotar #anti rhysand #anti sjmaas #anti feysand #anti feyre #sjm critical #ask holly #stans being stans #anti acosf #ask me stuff #ask me questions #ask me anything #thanks for the ask! #ask #ask me things #answered asks #answered ask #answered

[batbeato]

How rich do you think the Ushiromiya Family is (at least, as a front)? From what I can tell by the power of the internet, one of the wealthiest men to exist in the 1980's (to '87) was Yoshiaki Tsutsumi with a net worth around $20 billion.

Considering Kinzo was renowned for both wealth and business acumen, it could be somewhere around there - not including the ten tons of gold, since that's a mere rumor for the public. I think at some point Eva mentioned several ten billion yen (so 20 billion or upwards) in assets, even if said money wasn't actually liquidized and just on hand to draw out of a bank (a.k.a Krauss probably hadn't gotten the chance to spend it all away yet). Not sure exactly how that converts to dollars, but Kinzo would be at the very least a millionaire?

I read somewhere that he made a lot of his money via investments in post-war industry and ferrying supplies to...someone(pretty sure it was the US, since Japan was still under occupation?) in preparation for the Korean War.

On wikipedia, this time period (1940's to the early 1990's when Japan's economic bubble popped) is known as the Japanese economic miracle. Wikipedia isn't the best source to look at, but it's a start on researching it and pondering the growth of Kinzo's wealth.

Likewise, how wealthy do you think the branches of the family (Eva, Rudolf, and Rosa) are, even in the face of their financial struggles?

Since, I don't think we ever get numbers on the money Rudolf needs for the lawsuit, or the amount Rosa needs to pay the loan and possible interest - I'm not sure about the other aspects of her business, since she did have the money to have vacations with various boyfriends, so it may have been doing well? Just not well enought to handle the loan?

And Eva + Hideyoshi really only need to worry about buying stocks back, not their finances. Similarly to Krauss and the embezzlement of Kinzo's money but not all the assets, they don't have the liquid cash / assets on hand to pay off the various issues they're dealing with.

Hm... To be honest, I've just never really thought about it much. Trying to fathom the level of wealth they have is tough. I feel like Kinzo's kids come off as millionaires, where they're very wealthy but not about to commission private jets for what would be 3 hour drives - that sort of super excessive expenditure you get when you're so wealthy money no longer has meaning. They're wealthy, but not so much that they can do whatever they want (as evidenced by all of them Needing Money Right Now).

Rosa in particular feels like someone who... doesn't have that much money on hand. Her business also isn't doing that well. She does spend a lot on Maria sometimes, and also spends for her getaways with boyfriends, but she's in debt. Also, she... doesn't hire someone to just, look after Maria? It could be a pride or secrecy thing more than a financial thing, though... But considering that Jessica probably had private tutoring, George had tons of tutoring and special programs, and Ange is also mentioned to be in cram school (she knows division. she is SIX.) and Maria seems to have none of that... It could reflect on Rosa trying to raise Maria as a "normal child" with less of the pressures that her siblings put on their children, but could, again, be financial hardship preventing her from doing that.

I guess when you add a bunch of millionaires together, plus the incredible amount of money and assets that Kinzo has put together over the years, you end up with billions. At the very least, post-1986 Eva comes off like a billionaire, especially with how she recklessly does the same stuff Kinzo did to put together vast amounts of money and wastes it on pretty much whatever she thinks will make her feel better (it's mentioned that she got into sketchy new religions/cults/whatever). I wouldn't know nearly enough about the Japanese economy to be able to put together any sort of ballpark estimate, though.

#umineko #umineko no naku koro ni #umineko spoilers #i tag that a lot but #a lot of even mundane details can count as spoilers #the fact that rosa is dating people and leaving maria home alone is a spoiler #it doesn't get revealed until the end of ep2 in implication and then explicitly in ep4 #and eva surviving post 1986 is an ep3 end spoiler too

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

this is the vegas anon again!! i get u fr like i used to write a lot and was worried if people only liked it for the fandom but i can say with certainty like just ur stories themselves r so good. whenever i read your writing my heart hurts for two reasons: the first being that i will never be able to write as beautifully as you, and the second being that your writing isn't happening to me irl. and i love pedro by all means but if fics like "do you want me cyarika" and tcoy switched pedro's characters w/ a completely original character from u i'd still be frothing at the mouth. also this isnt even TALKING about your formatting like hello 😭😭 i always hated setting up links or making my post aesthetically pleasing + adding notes/titles/quotes so im genuinely in love with how you format everything it's just so aesthetically pleasing and recognizable like yes!! this is theidiotwhowritesthings so it must be good!!

I'M NOT CRYING, YOU'RE CRYING. I'M HANDLING THIS MESSAGE LIKE A FULLY GROWN MATURE ADULT IN CONTROL OF ALL HER EMOTIONS.

As someone who has the dream to one day publish something original, to hear that you'd read some of my stuff sans Pedro Pascal character is making me unwell in the best kind of way.

AND TO HAVE MY FORMATTING APPRECIATED??? It's so much extra work to do the title and the quotes and the stuff to make it pretty and sometimes I hate it (especially when I see someone else's post and their aesthetic is so much prettier than mine😭) It just makes me so stupid happy that only do you like my posts' aesthetic but it's recognizable enough to know it's mine. Again, i'm sobbing.

Thank you so much. Like, I cannot tell you how much this kind of love means to me and you can't fathom how much I adore you right now, you beautiful ray of sunshine.

#and also don't ever sell yourself short #i bet your writing is incredible #we're all our own worst critics #and i got my start with shitty ass fanfics my depressed seventh grade self was writing as a coping mechanism #and those were NOT good #so I am proof that you can stubbornly bulldoze your way into writing #look at my success story #i am mostly competent at least 75% of the time

[asimplearchivist]

I thought I’d share my Tav for posterity since I’ve been posting here and there about the vampire☺️:

(I love her big ‘ol smirk oh my lawd)

Her name is Étaín (after the Irish goddess) and I created her to be sun-coded since Astarion is, imo, moon-coded (even if his namesake has to do with the stars—I’ll level and agree to their dynamic being day/night-coded if pressed).

She’s an outlander paladin with the oath of devotion specializing with weapon/shield combat and archery—very strong and perceptive, but a bit naïve when it comes to the fathoms of people’s true natures, so while she has applicable knowledge in topics such as survival tactics and arcane matters, she doesn’t necessarily have street smarts. This (combined with her matching 9 stats of Wisdom and Knowledge) result in her being a bit oblivious at times.

This is why she has an interesting dynamic with Astarion.

She detects his sneak attack when they first meet, but given the circumstances she doesn’t find it terribly appalling that he would be wary of strangers and inclined to defend himself. He’s obviously skilled, so she invites him along.

The first time he attempts to flirt with her (which I forgot to record🥲), she doesn’t entirely catch his intentions and fumbles the interaction a bit (and I’m totally blaming that on her being a bit of a himbo and not on the fact that I was panicking and didn’t know what options to choose, but I feel that the more innocent vibe suits her better)—however, she does notice that his compliments sound rehearsed and he doesn’t really mean a word he’s saying. She gently dissuades the interaction both out of ignorance in the matters of seduction (because she’s never had the opportunity nor necessity of employing such tactics having lived out in the wilderness mostly on her own previously) and out of avoiding his duplicitous behavior. Up until that point they had been on neutral, if friendly, terms—she doesn’t quite understand why all of a sudden he’s turning the flirting onto her rather than on the others. In her gut she suspects that it’s not sincere and ignores it out of pragmatism—she’s trying to keep everyone alive (both from the oodles of adversaries they’re facing and each other) so she doesn’t have enough bandwidth to handle the (furiously hot) silver fox elf’s coquettish attention at the moment.

When she finds out that he’s a vampire, she’s not really surprised. He acted a little too dismissive and avoidant when they found the drained boar, and rousing to find him looming over her with those peculiarly pronounced canines bared was more of a shock of surprise than of fear. She’s not angry, necessarily, just didn’t expect to wake up to that sight, and once he admits his secret she relaxes. She’s hesitant, of course, considers the rest of the party’s safety, but she herself doesn’t have a problem with it once she determines he’s still trustworthy. (And she does trust him. She has since she saw him in combat. He’s capricious and insolent and facetious but damnit if he can’t aim an arrow across a battlefield. He’s an ass, sure, but he isn’t cruel. She can tell that from a mile away, even if he plays off to enjoy violence.) So of course she offers to let him feed—he’s already saved her life several times. If all he needs is to be topped off, per se, to keep him going, then what’s the harm?

She…doesn’t expect to like his proximity. It’s been years since she’s been so close to another person out of combat or providing medical aid. Despite the earlier fright, she’s intrigued by him, if nothing else—where she scarcely notices her garments caked in mud and ichor, he keeps himself impeccably clean. He’s fastidious about his appearance and full of himself to a fault (although completely justified, she must admit), and…he smells nice. Really nice. From what poor, unfortunate soul had he confiscated cologne and/or soap on their travels? Through the pain and the effort to keep her hands clenched into the material of her bedroll, clenching her teeth and eyes in kind, she focuses on the notes of amber and cloves clinging to his neck, mere inches from her face. And when she starts to feel woozy, she convinces him to pull away—and the startled, borderline desperate noise he makes as he pulls away causes her heart to pound like thunder under her breast. His dazed grin warms her ears. And his stiff little saunter as he leaves camp to hunt for a full meal proper…it takes longer than it should have for her to calm down enough to go back to sleep, once she’s cast a healing spell upon herself.

#sorry guys I’m having a moment #and also getting really frustrated trying to find halsin #I was trying not to look up too many guides to keep myself spoiler free but #I do have to check certain things #and this may be one of them #the goblins make me nervous as hell #bg3 #baldur’s gate 3 #astarion ancunin #tav/étaín #astarion/tav #headcanons #fisara’s scrawlings

[simplytheevebest]

Trust Me (to do the Wrong Thing)

A/N: Click the title to read on Ao3. Sorry it's not Farah the Fern (yet). This does NOT contain spoilers for season 2. Regardless, this is post-season 1, after Farah wakes up from her nap. I have the personal headcanon that her recovery is incredibly difficult because she has to regain her physical and mental strength before she can work on her magic, which she has poor control over and is relearning with the help of Stella (and others).

"Farah."

"Not now Saul."

"Show me."

"I don't know what you mean."

It would be so much easier, if that were true. If she could look him in the eye and speak confidently and clearly against his silent accusation with ignorance, but if he’s asking, it’s already too late. He knows, and she knew he’d find out, but she’d hoped to have more time. To get a handle on the situation and present her case with the evidence she needs to prove her plan is effective against what she knows will be his rebuttal that it’s too dangerous. That the consequences are not worth the risk (because he will never take into account the fact that she is the risk).

She ignores him, if only long enough to collect her thoughts. Her options are limited: denial is a foolish gamble she won’t win, not when he’s sought her out specifically to confront her about it, so deflection is her only course. She lets the silence stretch, refuses to allow his disappointment to get to her.

"I don't have time for this right now Saul, I'm meant to meet with-"

"Stella says your magic hasn't been behaving as erratically as of late."

Farah chews her cheek, irritation creeping up her spine, making her straighten, stiff with tension and shame she tries to wrap in a decent layer of indignation. She caps her pen with deliberate finality, finally lifting her gaze to Saul, hoping the irritation is enough of a defense to hide the thrill of fear just beneath the surface. It's foolish to fight the natural progression of this conversation because it's inevitable, but she’s going to try. She can only hope her stubborn defiance against having the conversation is stronger than Saul’s insistence that they do.

"I've been practicing," she begins carefully, can't help the flippancy in her tone as she continues, "Isn't that what everyone wants? For me to take things slow, build back up to my old strength?"

“If that were the truth,” Saul responds, equally careful, and when he takes a step around the side of her desk she’s unprepared; she leans back in her chair, increasing the distance between them. “I wouldn’t be here, and you know it.”

“And why wouldn’t it be?”

Her tone is comparatively childish in its defiance against Saul's much softer, understanding one, "She said there's been no incidents these last few days, and yet during your last session you burst a lightbulb.”

He continues his advance around the edge of the desk; Farah has no choice but to vacate it, or risk being boxed in, sliding around the front, retreating away from him.

"Recovery is not linear. I experience setbacks, the same as anyone else-"

Her reflexes are nowhere near as good as they used to be, and Saul has her forearms trapped in his firm grip before she has the chance to step out of range. She has no choice but to look at him now, at the exhaustion lining his eyes, the pained pinch of his brow. His words are soft but his tone is steel.

"I'm not doing this Farah. Show me. Now."

"Don't you trust me?"

Her tone is pleading, and only a little bit hurt, though she doesn’t have a right to be. It’s she who’s lying to him, and they both know it. And they both know this only ends with her honesty, that he isn’t going to let it go, but she’s scared. Not of him, never of him, but of his reaction. He’s disappointed now: she can’t fathom the depth of his distress when she confirms what he already knows to be true, from her deflection alone. She won't be able to stand the way he'll look at her, not with anger or disgust, but patience and sympathy and understanding and love she could never reject and doesn't deserve.

"I do. More than anything Farah, because I know you better than anyone."

Saul's forehead tips to press against her own, anchoring them both, in the eye of the storm that threatens to consume them. But when Saul pulls back and releases her arms, it's only to cup her cheeks in his hands so she can't turn away from the pained crack in his voice and the hurt in his eyes.

"But I also know I can trust you to bring harm to yourself, if you think there's no other way."

His thumbs swipe across her cheekbones, featherlight and comforting, his tone impossibly sad.

"Don't make me do this Farah. I don't want to force you, but I will. When it comes to your health and safety there is nothing I won't do, you know that."

And she does, because she knows him better than anyone too. Still, she presents her wrists for inspection, lets him push her sleeves up her forearms and out of the way with no objection, both knowing he won’t find anything, the skin pale and bare and empty of the runic limiters he searches for. His touch is a gentle caress, as though he has found those archaic torture devices biting into her skin. Farah clenches her hands into loose fists against their shaking, breath hitching as his voice cracks and his pale gaze bores into her hazel one.

"Farah… Please."

When she draws her hands away, he doesn't reach to snatch them back, because she isn’t retreating. When she takes a step back, he doesn't chase her, because she isn’t going to run. He waits patiently, doesn't object nor offer assistance as her trembling fingers untuck her blouse from her skirt, lifting the hem to just beneath her bust. He says nothing, and Farah closes her eyes against the look she knows is on his face, hates that she can't feel the shift in their bond as he takes in the device currently dampening it and the rest of her magic. The metal twines halfway across her abdomen and around her back, prongs biting deep into the skin there, angry and red. It pulls painfully with every breath, digs in deeper with every shift of her torso, and blood beads but doesn't run. When Farah finally does open her eyes she keeps them straight ahead, refusing to watch the pain and distress on Saul's face, to acknowledge how he approaches on steady, heavy steps. He looks, but doesn't touch, and Farah's never been so thankful not to feel the full force of their bond. She knows what his silence is asking but has to swallow around the emotion clogging her throat before she can answer it.

"I knew my wrists would be the first place you'd look, and then my legs." She takes a steadying breath, "I didn't think-"

"You didn't think I'd do all in my power to confirm your safety?"

"I didn't think you'd force my hand," she drops bluntly, still avoiding his gaze.

His touch is light and not unexpected, but still she startles when he takes the hem of her shirt, letting it fall to cover what she was sure he'd want to inspect. Instead he takes her hands, squeezes tight in a way she can tell is more grounding for him than comfort for her.

"Why?"

"I don't want to hurt anyone Saul," she breathes, finds his gaze as sad as her own. “But I can’t control it.”

She knows he wants to understand, but he can’t. He will never understand what it feels like to have a thousand thoughts and feelings not his own battle for dominance in his head. He will never understand what it feels like to fear himself and his emotions, when the slightest increase or decrease in mood means the difference of a dozen shattered windows or burst pipes. He will never understand the chaos of a dozen magics not his own, once tightly under control now overwhelming in their power.

Her lips twitch up into a bitter smile and she huffs a joyless laugh, “And I'm not improving.”

Saul shakes his head with a sigh, giving her hands another squeeze, exasperation audible, "Recovery is not linear, you beautiful hypocrite."

"I need to be better than this Saul, better than I am."

She knows what he's going to say even before he says it, "You know that isn't true."

She feels selfish. The runic limiter pinches painfully, and with the reminder of its presence, she's equally aware of the muted presence of their bond, that he can’t feel the same vibrancy of her emotions as before. Not too long ago, that quiet led him to her; now, it separated them, in a way that hurts more than the metal tearing her apart.

Audibly, she murmurs her assent, because it's what he wants to hear.

I'm sorry Saul, she thinks, But on that, we will never agree.

#fate: the winx saga #eve best #fate the winx saga #ftws #fate winx saga #farah dowling #saul silva #rob james collier #silrah #farah dowling x saul silva #farah x saul #fate fanfic #long post

[msparp-hell]

its a little weird now to consider the idea of randomly running into steve on parp now that hes its owner but tbh i appreciate that steve actually USES the site himself and that he was already active in the community for years before. thelle was just, like, some guy. he (and "insolent", too) couldnt even fathom why writers would want to do a silly little thing like hold onto the logs of their old writing from the past until there was enough pushback from the community to reconsider his stance. like, idk, im no steve stan or anything but im hoping that his active usage of and love for parp means he can maybe handle things a bit more in line with its users wishes

100% agree with the entirety of this post. that and thell saying people who write nsfw are "people who just write *moans louder*" or whatever lmfao

#anon #asks #msparp #mxrp