#im always saying this but if they did like. a limited re-pressing of some of the old albums. theyd sell SO fast

[jennyfromthebes]

they should invent a vinyl of the coroner's gambit that I can own and that isn't like $400 to get one secondhand

#every day i listen to older albums and want to physically own them so badly . #im always saying this but if they did like. a limited re-pressing of some of the old albums. theyd sell SO fast #they should do it. for me . please please pl #txt #tmg #the coroner's gambit #transmissions from lyric

[truth-bound]

I posted 7,642 times in 2022

That's 595 more posts than 2021!

58 posts created (1%)

7,584 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@lizluvscupcakes

@1merfairy

@desitenya

@weedle-testaburger

@no-psi-nan

I tagged 868 of my posts in 2022

#saiki k - 14 posts

#tdlosk - 12 posts

#saiki - 11 posts

#splatoon - 7 posts

#saiki kusuo no sai nan - 5 posts

#idk - 5 posts

#splatoon 3 - 5 posts

#<- prev tag - 4 posts

#homestuck - 4 posts

#but - 4 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#kaido being trans ftm is good too but transmen get bad representation in general and kaido just hits that wimpy pathetic soft boy a bit too

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

if i was kusuke which thank god im not but if i was i would make a far better limiter than he did. like god its so impractical. easily removed by accident? easily broken. not reinforced. no DIALS. no BACK UPS OR FAIL-SAFES

kusuo is like a nuclear bomb, you gotta make sure you know exactly how to keep it (saiki) from accidentally disarming itself (broken limiters)

kusuke just seems like he would fuck around just to find out.

but if i were to make it the biggest thing i would add is a dial. specifically one that can control the intensity of the limiters. usually kusuo has an all or nothing when it comes to his powers. if he could control the output of it it might actually give him a way to learn how to control himself better with less and less intensity set on the limiters.

he could baby step his way from learning to throw a ball when his limiter is to the max, then again and again at every level the limiter has.

also i agree w some people saying it should be near his ears. maybe a patch just behind his ear or a weird earring or a device that looks kind of like a hearing aid or a weird tech thing that covers one of his ears

172 notes - Posted July 24, 2022

#4

My thoughts on kaidou as a pokemon trainer

202 notes - Posted May 24, 2022

#3

Id like to imagine that through Saiki's habit of playing cheap and uncommon games hes actually got a small collection of hidden gems and I want to imagine if he wanted to use the internet for once he could actually run a blog that he can type out his thoughts on games that nobody knows. He is a pretty fair but strict reviewer and comments on everything from the fluidity of the gameplay to the menu layouts and even the stylization of the graphics.

It backfires when someone actually finds his blog, even if its anonymous, and the word spreads about this guy who knows the best of the unheard games and has a knack to be extremely detailed in reviews.

He becomes a little bit of a niche internet celebrity and people spam his blog or email with suggestions of their own favorite hidden gems to review and some even ask for his opinion on more popular games. His blog becomes a reputable review source where indie developers want his attention to get their game out there.

Suddenly developers reach out to him offering to give him a free early copy to review their games and eventually he starts recording no or little commentary gameplay footage and he gets more and more requests.

He gets sponsored after a while. He makes a modest bit just from his blog and his videos and he wants to be annoyed at the attention but he enjoys the anonymity and people genuinely listening to his opinion.

Anyway i just want to think that kaidou or someone someday brings up saikis blog like oh yeah ive been reading this guy he does great reviews on indie games and saiki just smiles.

700 notes - Posted July 11, 2022

#2

re-watching danny phantom and i got the weirdest urge to make memes

See the full post

981 notes - Posted April 20, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

To the new players on Splatoon 3!

For any battle type:

Always remember to booyah back! this means at the start of the round when a player on your team presses booyah, say booyah too! it lets old players know youre communicative and pay attention to your teammates. Its friendly. Its polite. Its honestly gonna make the whole game more enjoyable if you can use the little bit of communication there is.

theres no in game chat function so booyah and this way are the best way to let your team know what's up! booyah when your teammate did something cool! its a morale booster

plan your specials around your teammates. is your special better for support or slaying? check to see if there is already a cooler up if u have it, cus the effects do not stack. and in salmon run specials can be what saves the whole team!!

check your map! not only does it show the current ink coverage, it also shows enemy players if they have taken damage even without being marked. you can jump back to spawn if things seem dangerous and you can jump to teammates. keep in mind that teammates might not be in a safe position for you to land in. anyone can see where you will land and can try to jump kill you. knowing the map itself for good jump points and seeing if the teammate is in a well inked area helps.

Ink spawn. Always. Dont think it applies to X mode? It does. Even in anarchy battles (which splat 2 players might still call ranked out of habit) you should ink spawn. Why? multiple reasons! It keeps your base safer than not. helps maneuverability in getting back in. It helps build your special, which can be incredibly useful for a push. generally speaking, an inked base is a happy base. EDIT: I dont mean ink spawn immediately for anarchy battle, the first push is critical! Use the spawn for free specials to push when you're behind! And dont be thorough in anarchy battle either, prioritize the objective over turf inked unless you have a very good reason otherwise. the movement is also more for a path back to spawn than anything. having escape routes is important.

For turf war:

Inking ground takes priority over killing. Yes if they are dead they cant ink but the respawn time is pretty fast, about 5 to 7 seconds. Also, inking builds special. it is the only way you build special. kills do not build your special. Inked ground both gives a tiny amount of damage to the enemy when they step on it, AND gives you more coverage, AND gives you quicker escape options, AND is the deciding factor of winning the game.

Walls do not count towards points. Only ground. Inking walls isnt useless though, but don't think that inking them all will help you win, its more for maneuverability.

Last second bombs can decide a match. If you have a sub to throw and there is roughly one or two seconds left on the clock, throw it no hesitation. after the match time is over, it will still pause for a second to allow all subs and specials that were out at the last second to explode.

Hide in ink. This should be self explanatory. You aren't as visible if you are submerged in ink and you are faster in ink than walking. if you hide while an enemy player is nearby, and they dont think to check whatever puddle youre in, you could get a sneak attack. another point to focus on inking!

For salmon run:

Learn to squid party! its just jumping and changing in and out of squid to inkling (or octopus to octoling) form very fast so u kinda look like a blob. it might be frowned upon to squid party in other modes but this is totally fine and encouraged!

Pay attention to your teammates positions. Dead teammates cannot help more than sit there and hold a single egg. throw a bomb or shoot at them to revive them. they take priority over eggs in most cases.

Use this way liberally. This way points towards where youre looking. Use it to say hey theres a boss here.

LISTEN TO TEAMMATES. if someone says help or this way go to them. its worth it. they know what theyre doing. usually.

Losing on wave 3 doesnt lower pay grade. It sucks to lose but wave 3 sucks slightly less to lose on.

thats all for now! have fun and i hope you enjoy my favorite game series of all time ever. woomy!

1,255 notes - Posted September 14, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

[paterson-blue]

Honey, You're Familiar (Like My Mirror Years Ago); Part 3

Part 3: The Date

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4 I Part 5

Summary: Things don't go exactly to plan. Clyde stresses.

Word Count: 4,010

Warnings: fluff, spice, grumpy Clyde Logan, pouty boy (but he's still in love), sentimentalism, sickly sweet pet names, smoochin', grindin', oral sex (male receiving), cum on body (not in!), original female character–let me know if I need to add anything else!

A/N: Thanks again to @paper-n-ashes for being my beta reader & quelling all my writing jitters. You're the absolute best!

Prefer AO3? I gotcha!

It’s a fuckin’ disaster.

Starts out nice. Juniper shows up on his doorstep wearin’ a slinky little black dress, one that shows off her curves and makes Clyde’s mouth go dry. She tells him he looks handsome and he feels giddy. He sweeps his newly styled hair out of his face, sayin’ she looks absolutely stunnin’. Juniper beams, grabs his hand, tells him they better get a move on ‘fore they’re late.

They’re late. They’re later than late.

They aren’ five minutes outta town when lightenin’ starts to streak across the sky. Clyde shifts uneasily, eyes cast upward towards the swirling heavens. It’s rainin’ cats and dogs in no time and Juniper has to slow to half the speed limit to drive safely. Clyde’s thoughts go to the river up ahead, the one the road crew was still tryna’ re-stabilize since the last storm flooded it.

Fifteen minutes from their destination and they have t’pull to a stop on the highway, suddenly blocked in a jam. Flashin’ red and blue lights indicate an accident up front, and while Clyde spares a thought to whoever was involved, he can’t help but check the time. They aren’ gonna make their reservation, he just knows it.

The car behind ‘em lays on its horn, the sound makin’ both Clyde & Juniper jump. The driver either doesn’ seem to understand the concept of bein’ stuck or plain just don’ care. Clyde clenches his jaw, glowerin’ into the rear view mirror—he can only see the driver’s silhouette behind the bright glow of the headlights. He’s keepin’ his cool until the driver reaches his arm out, in the pourin’ rain an’ all, just t’give Juniper the finger.

Clyde’s unbucklin’ his belt quick as can be, chest heavin’ as he reaches for the door handle. He’s ‘bout ready to stomp to the car and yank the man out.Teach ‘im a lesson on manners, teach ‘im t’treat a lady like—

“Clyde.” Juniper stops him in his tracks with just his name on her lips. He looks over at her from under his hair, expression tense. She reaches up to caress his cheek, holdin’ his face in her little palm so sweetly, thumb brushin’ over the sharp line of his jaw. “Leave him be. It’s not worth gettin’ into trouble.”

Clyde deflates, honey brown eyes downcast. He sounds miserable when he speaks. “… We’re gonna miss dinner.”

“I know, sugar. It’s okay.”

His heart flutters in his broad chest despite his distress. She’d called him ‘sugar.’ He likes that; wants to hear it again real soon.

By the time they get through all the traffic and make it to the restaurant, their reservation is indeed gone, table havin’ been given away. They stand together just outside the building, under the little awning in an attempt to stay out of the rain.

Clyde huffs, so morose that he’s unable to enjoy the way she was pressed up against his side. “M’sorry.”

Juniper frowns, reachin’ up to pat his stomach gently. “You stop that. You haven’t done anything to be sorry for.”

Clyde shakes his head sadly, heavin’ out a sigh. “It’s the Logan Family Curse.”

She looks up at him, brows arched, her hand still settled on his belly. “Oh is it now?”

He nods, brows pinched together. Juniper reaches for his hand, pulling it to her lips and pressin’ a kiss to his knuckles. “You aren’t cursed, Clyde Logan. And if you are, I’m perfectly happy to be cursed right along with you.”

Clyde doesn’ quite know how to respond to that, but luckily, he doesn’t have to right away. Juniper moves her lips to the pads of his large fingers, kissin’ ‘em gently before lettin’ him pull his hand away. Clyde cradles her pretty face in his palm, takin’ the time to admire her. Finally, he speaks. “Thank you, darlin’. That’s mighty nice of you t’say.”

Juniper nuzzles into his touch, sighin’ happily; it makes Clyde feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“I’m only saying what’s true. Now c’mon. I know it’s a Friday night but there’s bound to be somewhere we can eat.”

They end up findin’ an old fashioned drive-in burger place, somewhere they can park and eat in the car out of the rain. It’s not where Clyde wants to take her; she deserves to be wined and dined all proper, not greasy burgers and milkshakes. But Juniper doesn’ seem to mind; as soon as they’re parked she’s squintin’ up at the menu, a big smile on her face.

“This all sounds so fucking good.” She giggles, lookin’ over at him. It makes the disappointment in Clyde’s chest fade away, and he leans over the center console to peer out the window to see what choices they were offered. It puts him in her space, and Juniper leans in to press a gentle kiss to his temple. He blushes, his cheeks only getttin’ hotter when she brushes some of his hair out of his face. He desperately wants to kiss her but he doesn’ know if it’s the right time.

He’s finally acceptin’ the night’s change of plans—finally acceptin’ that this might be good, burgers and fries while dressed up nice, watchin’ the rain pour from the safety of Juniper’s little Corolla—when the carhop comes out to tend to them. Clyde’s already diggin’ into his wallet as Juniper rattles off their order; he holds his debit card out, arm reachin’ over Juniper’s lap.

The carhop doesn’ move for the card. Instead, they say “Card machine’s down. Cash only.” in what Clyde thinks is possibly the most bored tone they could muster. He tries not to bristle as he fumbles with his wallet for a second time, patience already worn thin from the night’s events. He’s only got a fifty in his billfold. The fifty.

Their fifty.

He hesitates, even though he knows it’s irrational; Jimmy always did tell him he was too damn sentimental for his own good. Juniper must realize—she always does, Clyde never seems to have to explain himself to her—because she grabs her purse from the floorboard. Clyde stops her, shakin’ his head as he tugs the fifty dollar bill out. “S’alright, darlin’. Y’told me t’save it for a rainy day.”

Juniper’s face softens at his words, and Clyde hands the money over to the carhop, who looks like they want to be literally anywhere else. Soon Clyde’s been given his change, and he quickly puts it back up. As soon as he’s done Juniper’s reachin’ for him, pullin’ him in by his collar. Clyde goes willingly, twistin’ in his seat to move his prosthetic to the middle of her back, arm wrapped around her.

“I’ll give you another one.” She tells him firmly, and Clyde huffs out a laugh.

“Well that’d be awful silly of ya, Junebug. You’ll run outta money real quick if y’keep givin’ it all t’me.” He tries to soothe her with a joke, wantin’ to let her know that it was alright. Sure, it had been special to him—reminded him of their meetin’—but it was just a piece a’ paper. What was a piece a’ paper when he had the most important thing right here in front a’ him?

He wants to curl up further into her, but their positions don’t allow for it—the vehicle doesn’ exactly allow for him to move his long limbs much a’ anywhere. If this was as close as he could get, he was satisfied. Juniper shifts suddenly, eyes trained on him as she leans closer. They share a breath, then two, and then she’s pressin’ her mouth against his.

It’s nothin’ if not chaste. Clyde gets the feelin’ she doesn’ exactly want to neck in the front seat of her car like teenagers—at least not in plain view of the drive-in’s staff and other patrons. Just a gentle kiss, a little more than a peck; firm and lingerin’ just enough that he knows it happened. Juniper follows it up with another one at the corner of mouth, their noses pressin’ against one another’s cheeks.

It’s more than enough for Clyde; more than enough to get his pulse to sky rocket. He can’t remember the last time he’s been treated so gently, so much love in such a small movement. She gives him a smile when she pulls away, and they both sit back in their seats, starin’ all heart-eyed at one another. She takes the metal of his hand in hers, holdin’ it, and Clyde thinks maybe he should reconsider the whole curse thing.

They head back home after finishin’ their meal, the storm slowly peterin’ off as they get closer to Clyde’s trailer. Juniper walks him to his door, gigglin’ when she offers him her arm to escort him. He takes it, grinnin’ like a fool as they stomp up the front steps. They stand there under the yellow porch light, humid heat surroundin’ ‘em. Clyde usually hated the humidity, but not when it was like this, creatin’ such a hazy, intimate bubble around ‘em. Juniper drops her arm, but only to reach for Clyde’s flesh hand, holdin’ it in both of hers.

“I had a really nice time tonight, Clyde. Best date I’ve ever been on—and I mean that.”

Clyde can feel himself blushin’, a pleased smile turnin’ his lips up. “I had a good time, too. Wouldja—wouldja wanna do it again? Sometime soon?”

“Yes.” She answers almost before he can finish askin’, and they both laugh. There’s a beat, a pause, a breath, and then Juniper is leanin’ up the same moment Clyde’s leanin’ down. It’s a relief when their lips touch, like the first drink a’ water in the mornin’. Clyde thinks he’s been parched his whole life and never even knew it.

Juniper’s the one who deepens it, the one who drops his hand to lean into him, to thread her fingers through his thick hair, holdin’ him close. And fuck, Clyde isn’ gonna fight it. He wraps his arm around her, prosthetic against her back as his hand moves to hold her face. His palm envelops her cheek, thumb under her chin to keep her head lifted. They kiss and kiss, and when she makes a little whine in the back of her throat Clyde swears he’s floatin’.

When she pulls away to breathe he makes a sound of his own, a disappointed little groan that she huffs out a laugh at. He’d be embarrassed if she wasn’ nuzzlin’ her nose against his cheek like she can’t get enough.

“Those lips a’ yours aren’t fair.” She murmurs, and Clyde hums, strokin’ his thumb along her jawline. He doesn’ want this to end, he thinks for possibly the thousandth time that night. He doesn’ wanna let her get back in her car an’ drive across town, over the train tracks, past the antique shop, until she gets to the bed & breakfast.

He wants her right here, and he’s never been the one in this position, but he doesn’ hesitate when he asks her, “D’y’wanna come in?”

She nods, and it sets his chest aflame. They straighten up, untanglin’ themselves from one another even as she leans into his side, not wantin’ t’be too far. Clyde’s hands shake as he unlocks the front door but he doesn’ care if she sees. He wants her to see, wants her to know what she’s doin’ t’him. Maybe then...maybe she won’t leave.

Clyde flicks on the lights, closin’ the door behind both of ‘em. He watches as Juniper assesses his things: his clumsily cleaned living area, the small kitchenette that was (thankfully) decluttered. The hallway leads back to the bathroom, and then his bedroom, but Clyde doesn’ dare look towards it, much less lead her that way. Instead, he steps towards the fridge, hand reachin’ out to brush against the door.

“Want anythin’ t’drink?” He asks, voice quiet, as if nervous to disturb the silence. Juniper shoots him a smile, shakin’ her head as she perches on the couch.

“No, I’m okay, thank you.”

Clyde nods, lingerin’ there even though he doesn’ want a drink neither. Her eyes look him over, amusement showin’ in them.

“Why don’t you c’mere? If you want, of course.”

He wants. Oh, how he wants. So he goes, movin’ across the distance between them in three long strides until he can sit himself next to her. He’s stock straight, heart thrummin’ in his chest; his nice button-down feels all tight against his skin, too itchy. He thinks only her touch’ll soothe it, but doesn’ wanna ask her. Juniper, however, reads his mind; she always can. She smoothes a hand over his jean-clad thigh, leanin’ in ever so slowly, like she’s gonna startle him if she moves too fast. Clyde’s breath catches in his throat as she kisses him again, and it's heaven, it's heaven.

It’s different from in the car, from on the porch. This time there’s more purpose to it. Juniper’s kissin’ him—tastin’ him— like he belongs to her, and Clyde thinks maybe it's because she knows he does. He’s tryna’ angle his body just right, tryin’ t’lean down without puttin’ a crick in his neck. Not that he’d care much, if he did--a crick was worth this, worth the feelin’ of her tongue brushin’ against his bottom lip, against his teeth.

Juniper makes a frustrated little noise, pullin’ back, and Clyde’s brows furrow in confusion.

“Wha--Wha’s--?” He stammers out, flesh hand flexin’ on her waist, the silky fabric of her dress feelin’ so soft and cool against his skin. Juniper’s lips are plush and kiss bitten; Clyde tries to take a picture of ‘em in his memory, eyes trained on their pretty color. He almost misses her question. Scratch that, he does miss her question; has to very ineloquently say “huh?” to get her to repeat it. She ducks her head, voice shy.

“Can I, uh--get in your lap?”

Shit. Shit. Clyde nearly feels dizzy for all the blood rushin’ down south. It makes him a little self-conscious; she’s not gonna want t’sit on his lap and have his cock pressin’ into her all demandin’ like. But damn, his little Junebug looks so eager, her eyes darker than he’s ever seen ‘em, and like he’d said: he wants. So he just nods, barely breathin’.

Juniper shifts, pushin’ him into the back of the couch and he goes easily, willingly. She hikes her dress up her legs and Clyde gets a barely there peek of dark green lace before she’s straddlin’ his lap. He moans, can’t fuckin’ help it, and Juniper dives in to capture the sound with her mouth. Her hands are on his face, in his hair, fingers rubbin’ the shells of his ears—he’s surrounded, he’s drownin’, suffocatin’. He’s never felt so alive.

His own hands are placed chastely on either one of her hips, though he knows his flesh hand must be grippin’ her somethin’ fierce. The thought flashes in his mind, of him leavin’ little fingerprint shaped bruises on her skin for her to feel the next day. It makes him shiver underneath her.

Juniper takes and takes, and Clyde lets her. Clyde wants to be taken, in whatever way she’ll have him. Suddenly she’s pullin’ away just enough to suck in a little air, lips still brushin’ against his. He presses his long nose into the soft skin of her cheek, breath hot between them. When Juniper speaks, her voice is strained.

“Touch me, Clyde. Please.”

He doesn’ hesitate. His good hand moves from her hip to her ass, grabbin’, kneadin’ as he pulls her tighter against him. She lets out the prettiest noise Clyde thinks he’s ever heard, and his lips find her neck as his other arm comes around to hold her close. God, she tastes so good; her perfume fills his head until he feels dizzy with it.

She's pressed flush to him like this, grindin’ her hips against his. Clyde’s hard and leakin’ in his brand new jeans and the only thing he can think of is hearin’ her little noises again. Her hands are back in his hair, pullin’ at it, sweepin’ it away from his face so he doesn’ get tangled in it as his mouth makes a hot path down the neckline of her dress.

It feels so damn good that Clyde doesn’ realize she’s tryin’ to get his attention until she yanks on his tresses, his scalp burnin’ from it. Honestly he thinks he groans, rough and wild in his throat, the pain shootin’ straight to his cock. But it makes him look at her, and she holds him from divin’ back into her skin.

“Clyde I wanna—I wanna taste you. Is that okay? Can I?”

Lord Almighty above. That should be his line, it really should. But how can he argue with her? He’d give her anythin’ she wanted, anythin’. And she wanted—wanted to put her mouth on him. Clyde spares a thought for all the trimmed and proper men he’s seen in porn, how much nicer they looked, how Juniper deserved the best. West coast mean surely didn’ look the way he did. But then,“Yes,” he’s sayin’, voice ragged, “yes.”

And she’s slippin’ out of his lap onto the floor between his legs. Clyde’s heart pinches, and he leans forward to pick her right back up. To say “oh, darlin’, y’don’ need to be on the hard floor like that. Lemme stand an’ you c’n sit right back on these here pillows.” But before he can get his legs under him she's pressin’ her face between ‘em, nuzzlin’ into the scratchy fabric of his jeans, right up against his cock. Clyde’s brain short circuits.

“Been wantin’ this.” Juniper murmurs, small hands workin’ at his belt, and Clyde arches his hips up, tryin’ t’help her get his jeans off. He can’t believe this—can’t believe this is happenin’. She tugs his jeans and pants down his legs, just enough that his cock is revealed. Clyde clumsily unbuttons the first couple buttons at the bottom of his shirt, not wantin’ to get the new fabric messy. Juniper seems to like his idea; she sighs and leans forward to press her lips to the bare skin of his stomach.

“Sweetheart.” Clyde whispers, voice all trembly. He stretches out a little, givin’ her more access to his pale abdomen. Her lips are so soft against his skin, against the dark trail of hair leadin’ down, down, down. She follows it, nosin’ to the crook of his thigh, teeth scrapin’ deliciously ‘fore she turns her attention to his cock—already plump and stiff, and very interested in her ministrations. She wraps a hand around it and Clyde’s breath catches in his throat. She studies his cock, gives it a gentle stroke, thumb rubbin’ at the velvety head.

“You’re so big.” Her voice is quiet, but it startles Clyde all the same—he’s been transfixed by the vision in front of him.

“O-Oh, I-m, uh—��

He’s attemptin’ to apologize—his first instinct, really. But his brain isn’t really functionin’ all that well, and then she’s leanin’ in to lave her tongue over his slit. Clyde groans, a sound comin’ deep from his chest as he zeros in on the pretty pink of her soft, wet tongue. Juniper hums as if she’s pleased, a little smile on her face, and then she’s slippin’ her mouth over his cock in earnest.

Clyde’s head drops back against the couch pillow, lungs strugglin’ to suck in air. Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck—it felt so good. She was gorgeous, she was perfect, she was a fucking angel doin’ this for him. She couldn’ take all of him into her mouth but goddamn she was tryin’. It didn’ matter—even if she wasn’ usin’ her hand to make up the difference, Clyde thinks he could cum just from seein’ her there between his legs, her silky soft lips on his skin.

He moves with her—not in a way where he’s pushin’ her or askin’ for more, but in a way where she’s pullin’ him; she’s the ebb and flow of the tide and he follows her willingly. His back arches, toes curlin’ up in his boots; his prosthetic settles on top of her free hand where it was grippin’ one of his large thighs. His other hand is too busy grippin’ the couch cushions to do much else. He’s lost to it—to her—an’ he doesn’ wanna be found.

It’s over far too quickly, embarrassingly so—it even surprises him. He’s ridin’ the high of his pleasure and his orgasm hits him so hard and fast that Clyde barely has any time t’warn her. All he can do is make a frantic noise, her name garbled in his throat as he quickly tries to push her off a’ him. But it’s too late—he’s cummin’ the same time that she’s pullin’ away, and Clyde can only watch in an odd mix of both arousal and horror as his cum paints her chin, neck, and cleavage.

Juniper’s mouth is held open in a surprised little ‘o’ shape, brows arched, and Clyde feels fuckin’ humiliated.

“J-Juniper, darlin’, m’so sorry, I—“ He scrabbles behind him for the throw blanket layin’ across the back of the couch, tuggin’ it into his lap so he can clean his mess off a’ her skin. He’s quick to tend to the spend on her cleavage first, hyperaware of how close it was to the fabric of her pretty black dress. “I’m sorry, I tried t’warn ya but it was too—“

“Clyde, it’s okay.” Her voice is all raspy and Clyde bites back a moan at the sound of it. She was so fuckin’ sexy, fuckin’ flawless. He’d cum all over her, messy and wild, and she was still lookin’ at him like he’d hung the damn moon. She pulls herself to standin’, and Clyde’s gaze dips down to where her knees were all red from kneelin’. Just another thing he didn’ know he found hot until now.

“But I guess it’s a little dangerous to keep this on, huh?”

His gaze snaps up to her face when she speaks, and she’s wearin’ a grin, eyes alight. Then she’s twistin’ her arms around, wrigglin’ out of that cute little dress until it graces the linoleum floor. She bends down to pick it up, drapin’ it carefully over one of the kitchen chairs. She moves like it’s nothin; like the sight of her in her heels and underwear ain’ makin’ his cock try to thicken up again.

“Yer so beautiful.” He tells her, gaze trained on her as she walks back over to him. Clyde feels so small with her standin’ in front of him; feels vulnerable even if he was still mostly dressed. Juniper steps out of her heels slowly, placin’ them to the side before leanin’ in, restin’ her hands on the back of the couch on either side of his head so she can kiss him.

Clyde runs his flesh hand over her bare waist, down the swell of her hip, toyin’ with the band of her underwear. He doesn’t push it down; he won’t without her permission. It’s enough to kiss her like this, soft and lazy, feelin’ her skin underneath his. He feels all gooey and happy from his orgasm, even if it had come sooner than he’d have liked.

He sighs into her mouth, content; chases her lips when she pulls away. Juniper starts to work on the buttons of his shirt, and he sits up to help her ease it off a’ his shoulders. She folds it neatly, settin’ it to the side; Clyde forces himself to speak, tryin’ to get his brain back in workin’ order. “D’y’wanna—wanna go back to the bedroom? You c’n lay down and I’ll—I’ll take care a’ ya.”

He thinks he sounds all awkward and silly, but Juniper gives him a warm smile, and his insecurities fade. She was always comfortin’ him, whether she knew it or not. She places one last lingerin’ kiss to his lips before noddin’ at him. “I’d like that.”

______________________________________________________________

taglist friends!

@paper-n-ashes @glassbxttless @mariesackler @leatherboundbirate @millenialcatlady @jynzandtonic @peachyproserpina

#clyde logan #clyde logan fic #clyde logan x ofc #logan lucky #clyde logan smut #clyde logan fluff #clyde logan x oc #adcu #feedback always welcome & appreciated! #clyde logan x original female character #tori writes

[peanut-in-the-goal]

could u write something like remus is out running errands or something and he gets recognized by an nhl fan who’s homophobic and shitty and he goes home and sirius comforts him and it’s cute and fluffy

I KIND OF WENT ON A RANT IN THE MIDDLE OF THIS IM SO SORRY

ALSO I LOST SPEAKING PRIVILEGES WITH @kielemarie because of this. IM SORRY MARIE PLEASE ANSWER MY ASKS

@candy--floss--kid you asked to be tagged when i finished so here ya go

@lumosinlove thank you for this fandom that is sweater weather

also here’s the last thing I wrote because I'm proud of it please I thrive on validation

---

Remus was walking down one of the aisles in the store, looking for a baking mix. He figured that he’d finally take up the challenge of teaching Sirius how to bake. 

He found a simple recipe. Yellow cupcake mix, how could he mess it up? Remus thought to himself. He placed it in the cart before he felt someone forcefully slam into his shoulder. 

He stumbled, his hand immediately going to his scar from Grayback. He looked up slowly, dreading who he might see. 

His eyes locked with the dark green ones in front of him. The tall man’s eyes matched the Slytherin Jersey he wore. Riddle was in bold letters on the back. Which was bad, but not the worst thing that could have happened.

He allowed himself to breathe, it’s not Fenrir, he let the relief of it wash over him. 

“Sorry,” Remus said. He knew it wasn’t his fault but didn’t want to start any drama or conflict when there was no need for it. Especially with a Snakes fan,

He tried to just walk away. He had everything he needed for just a lazy day at home, but the man stepped in front of him. 

Remus looked up confused. Leo has told him about Karen’s doing this sort of stuff. Something that Gen Z came up with or whatever, but he wasn’t sure if he entirely grasped the concept. Suddenly the man started laughing. A deep menacing, laugh that had no humor behind it. 

His eyes were hard as he stared at Remus. 

“It’s not right you know.” He said. His voice was deep and loud, everyone else in the aisle turning to look. “You’re just a bunch of sinners.”

Remus realized what he was referring to in a heartbeat. He was taken aback at first, he knew people felt this way but he had yet to have anyone come and say it to his face so plainly.

He took a step back moving the cart to go around the man, “Excuse me,” he gritted out. He started pushing the cart before a hand reached out and grabbed it.

Remus raked a hand through his hair, sighing he looked up at the man. The green-eyed man was smirking at him, holding onto the front of the cart. The letters stood out in the harsh lighting of the store, glimmering every time he moved.

ALWAYS, PURE, HOCKEY.

The words were printed underneath the symbol, the green snake. It made him sick, he felt bad for all the people who were drafted to that team, stuck without a chance of escaping on their own.

The queasiness in his stomach turned into anger. He used that.

“Was there something you wanted?” Remus asked, generally annoyed now. 

“I want you to know that it’s not fucking right.” The man stepped closer, Remus stayed where he was. 

“Noted, now if you don’t mind I think I’m going to go home to my boyfriend.”

One of the people next to him snorted and tried to hide their laughter at the affronted look on the green-eyed man's face. 

“How can you even look at yourself in the mirror?” The man sniped. 

“Easily, knowing that a homophobic git who can’t keep their nose in their own business isn’t looking back.”

More people laughed, Remus smirked. The man seemed to be getting angrier and angrier, which was just fine. 

“You’re broken.” The man pursed his lips.

“How original.”

Remus pushes the cart again, managing to make the man dislodge his fingers. He started towards the checkout, wanting to get out of there as soon as he could. 

It wasn’t his first time he heard these things. That was all he heard when he was in the media and the pictures had just come out. But Sirius had suffered through most of the face to face stuff, while Remus saw all of it online.

It didn’t make the impact of the words any easier.

It disgusted him that people still thought this way, that they didn’t like that he was able to find love with someone that wasn’t accepted. So what, oh no, they have the same genitals, obviously, it isn’t right. Fuck them for thinking that, honestly. 

It’s sad that they’re so limited to that type of mindset. Where only one thing is right and everything else is wrong in their eyes.

He huffed, walking down the aisle with his head held high. 

Stand your ground, don’t let him win. You got this.

The man followed him, yelling slurs from where he was trailing behind him. 

Don’t let him see, it’s okay. Just a little longer than you can go home to Sirius and everything will be alright.

He finally makes it to the front of the store, but of course, there’s a line. He stands waiting for self check out, it’s the shortest.

“It’s disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting.” Remus didn’t even raise his head to look at the idiot.

Just ignore it, don’t give him the time of day. Keep your head up.

“How am I disgusting?”

“You’re limiting people to only live by your standards and your viewpoints on what’s normal rather than letting them be happy and live how they want. It’s gross really, that you’re so closed-minded about these things for fucks sake.“

“I’m saying what’s right!” The man spluttered.

“How is it right? How is any of that right?” Remus snapped his head up to look at him, his eyes were hard. “You’re telling me that I’m not allowed to live my life or be happy because it doesn’t see fit to you?” He shook his head in outrage.

The man opened his mouth to speak but Reus didn’t let him.

“Ever hear of John Locke. Our three natural rights that we’re all born with? One of them being the Pursuit of Happiness. I’m not hurting you am I? Me happening to like other men does not affect you, it affects me. It makes me happy and you’re really going to come out here and fucking tell me that I’m not allowed to be happy?”

“Well…”

“Well, what?”

The man was at a loss for words, scrambling to grab onto anything to say but he couldn’t.

“It’s still not right.” He said gruffly.

“Yeah, you said that already.”

The man glared at him before huffing and walking away. Remus sighed in relief. 

He walked up to the check out that had just opened, swiping his items before getting a bag and rushing out of the store. 

Some people smiled at him in encouragement, but he was so drained and just wanted to be home at the moment.

He threw the bag in the passenger seat, climbing into the car to drive. He sat there for a minute.

In for four, hold for six, out for eight. Repeat. It’s okay.

He shuffled his playlist, smiling softly and humming along to the tune of Free Fallin by Tom Petty. He was definitely free falling when he fell in love with Sirius.

The drive home was short, luckily they lived close by.

He pulled up into the driveway and quickly scrambled out of the car. His chest felt tight and there was a lump forming in his throat. He jiggled the key in the lock, difficult because of how shaky his hands were.

Finally, he heard a soft click and stepped inside.

“Baby?” Remus called through the house, his voice cracked slightly. He could hear the dull noise of the TV in the other room, then some shuffling, before Sirius’ goofy grin popped around the corner. Slowly, it morphed to one of concern.

“Re?” Sirius took in his red face, and trembling lips, before pulling him into a hug. Remus sagged against him, letting Sirius support his weight and dropping his head against his shoulder.

“Vas tu bien, mon Loup?” Remus nodded his head slowly against Sirius’ neck because though he might not actually be okay, he felt safe in Sirius’ arms. He held on tighter when Sirius went to let go.

“Mon loup? What’s wrong?” Sirius asked. He pulled back just enough to be able to look at his face. 

Remus stuttered for a moment.”There uh…” Sirius rubbed his side soothingly. “There was this idiot at the store, h-he said it wasn’t right?” His voice came out as a question. He bit his lip hard against the tears welling up.

God, why did he feel like crying? It’s not like he hasn’t heard all of this before because he has. But having someone saying it to his face like that in the middle of a store where he’d never had problems before was like a punch in the gut. Was this how it was going to be from now on?

Was he going to get stopped on the streets or in the stores and restaurants just because he was gay? Because he chose love over being what everyone else wanted him to be?

As long as he got Sirius it would be worth it in the end. It had to be.

“Wasn’t right?” Sirius furrowed his brow. “Oh.” The realization dawned on his face.

“No, no, Remus, non.  He’s wrong, He—”

“I know.” Remus looked at him. “I know. Just… Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Are people always going to look at us like we’re different j-just because we love each other?”

Sirius made a sad almost whine like noise. “I’m sorry Re…”

Remus sighed, dropping his forehead to rest against Sirius’s shoulder again. “At least I have you.” His words were muffled but Sirius still understood.

He smiled softly at his boyfriend. “I could say the same thing. Come on.”

Sirius led Remus back to their living room, the TV playing some cooking show that started when Sirius’ had ended. Sirius sat on the couch, pulling Remus to lay down with him.

“Has it always been this bad for you?” Remus murmured, his eyes were already shut. He cuddled further into Sirius.

“I guess. I don’t know, I stopped listening to that stuff, they’re all wrong anyway.” He grabbed the blanket that was hanging over the couch and draped it over them both.

“I’m sorry, I love you.” Sirius pressed a kiss to the top of Remus’ hairs.

“I love you too,” but Remus was already softly snoring away.

---

Remus’s eyes fluttered open sometime later. He was curled on the couch with Sirius. It was dark outside, the stars shining through the leaves of the tree that stood outside their window.

He shifted to rub at his eyes, yawning.

“You’re cute.” 

Remus snorted. “I just woke up.”

“You’re still cute.” Sirius laughed softly, brushing some stray strands of hair from Remus’ face.

Remus yawned again. “What time is it?”

Sirius grabbed his attention phone from where it was laying next to him. “7:30, you’ve been asleep for a while.”

Remus huffed, sitting up all the way. 

“I was going to teach you how to bake a cake,” he pouted. 

“I know how to bake a cake!” Sirius exasperated, “I also stand by my statement of you’re cute.”

Remus huffed out a laugh.  He stood up, “I’m sure you do.”

“I do! Celeste taught me.”

“She taught you or she tried to teach you, there’s a difference.” Remus raised his eyebrow,

“Fine, she tried.” 

“Then I will conquer the impossible.” He said it boldly, standing up at the same time, making them both laugh. 

“I’m not impossible.” 

“Teaching you is,” Remus smirked, tugging Sirius’ hand to make him get off the couch.

He felt so much lighter now. Being around Sirius tended to have that effect on him. He made him forget what he was worried about, and made him feel safe and loved. The man from the store was still in the back of his mind nagging at him but at this moment that didn’t matter. Nothing matters except the two of them. And wasn’t that wonderful?

“I am not impossible to teach,” Sirius whined. Remus laughed, walking into the kitchen.

“Yes, you are baby,” Remus shook his head fondly, looking for the bag from the shop. He didn’t see it. “I think I left the stuff in the car, I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll get it!” Sirius grabbed the keys before Remus could, a dopey grin on his face.

“Must everything be a competition?” There was no bite behind his words, watching Sirius fling the door open. The cold air from outside drifted into the heated house, Remus shivered.

The door shut and Sirius was back in front of him, bag in hand.

“Ready to show you that I can learn!”

“Did you lock the door?” Sirius hesitated for a moment. Remus had to bite back a laugh, “I’ll go lock it,” he pressed a kiss to Sirius’ cheek.

“Now we’re ready,” He pressed a kiss to Sirius’ cold nose this time.

He took out what he bought, vanilla extract, a boxes of cake mix, sugar, and sprinkles.

“Okay so…” He held one of the boxes, reading the recipe on the back. “Can you preheat the oven to 350 degrees, baby?” He asked. Sirius looked at him before walking over to the oven. “Or, do you want me to do it?” 

“I can do it.” Remus laughed.

“Sorry.” Sirius batted Remus’s hands away. “Okay, what’s next?”

“Uh, we have to make the batter. Can you get the eggs out please?”

“Mhm,” he got the eggs from the refrigerator, placing them gently on the island. 

“Alright wait, we need 3 eggs, ½ a cup of oil, a cup of water, and this.” He held up the mix for emphasis. 

“That’s it?”

“Yep,” he smiled at Sirius. He owed one heck of a lot to that idiot. His idiot.

“Easy,” Sirius dragged out his words and laughed.

“See you say that now, but something has to go wrong I swear.”

Sirius grumbled as he went to crack the eggs into the bowl for the electric mixer. Remus laughed again, going back to reading the instructions, making sure that they were doing it right.

“Oops.” Remus snapped his head up.

“Oops? What do you mean oops?” He leaned over to look at the bowl. Half an eggshell laid on its side in a bowl, on top of the already broken up egg.

“Told you something would go wrong,” Remus laughed, carefully picking it out to throw away.

They worked on making the batter, Remus telling Sirius what to do. Finally, everything was in the bowl and they just had to mix it.

“Okay, you can turn on the — hey wait!” 

Sirius pulled the little switch on the side of the mixer. All the way.

 “No! Sius don’t.” But it was too late, the powder from the cake mix flew everywhere. Finally Remus was able to hit the switch back, turning it off.

They looked around, but the mix had covered the counter tops and ground in a sheet of what looked like dust. 

A startled laugh came from him, Sirius following right after. Their shoulders shook with mirth.

“Well that was a bust.”

“And we still haven’t even started on the frosting yet.”

#gg writes #coops #wolfstar #homophobia #homophobic language #Fuck the snakes #hurt/comfort #Sirius Black #Remus Lupin #Sirius cannot bake a cake to save his life #I cannot write fluff to save myself #we're both doomed

[hermannsthumb]

Hermann preparing for date night with Newt by selecting where to eat solely by what he has a coupon for. Or, ya know, frugal connoisseur Hermann. <3 ksci

inspired by a convo re: the fact that ksci @k-sci-janitor likes to make fun of me for never letting a coupon go to waste even if it means walking like 2 miles in the cold to use it :/ like im gonna NOT get a free Baja blast. (there is one small little allusion to some M rated stuff towards the end in this)

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

It’s not a rare occurrence that Hermann will treat Newt to dinner when the mood of dining out strikes them, but the point is that he’s doing it in a way that’s supremely…shifty tonight. Well, maybe not shifty. Weird? For one thing, he didn’t tell Newt where they were going until they were already on the bus headed there, for another, it’s their sharing-a-lab-anniversary, which tradition dictates they evenly split a bill (even if the origins have more to do with both trying to show up the other and take advantage and order the most expensive shit on the menu). The weirdest thing is definitely that, when Hermann got up to pay the bill five minutes ago—a small, folded piece of paper clutched in his hand—he left his wallet laying next to his wine glass on the table.

Newt stirs his straw around in his cup of soda, clinking ice cubes against the sides, and squints at the wallet. Did Hermann bring cash to pay with? He could’ve stuck some in his pockets without Newt seeing, or his bank card, even, which would explain the forlorn wallet. Or maybe forgetting the wallet was totally an accident, and he’ll be back in a few seconds to pick it up and pay for real when he realizes. That’s probably it.

When Hermann comes back to their table, though, he doesn’t bother with his wallet—he takes his seat, picks up his wine glass, and tips it at Newt. “That was quite lovely, wasn’t it?”

Newt hums. “It was.”

“I quite liked the fish I got,” Hermann says.

“I loved my noodles,” Newt says. “We should try to copy the recipe back at the base.” He sets his straw delicately on the table. “How’d you pay without your wallet?”

“My wallet?” Hermann says. He makes a show of catching sight of the wallet, arches his eyebrows in mock surprise, and picks it up. Here we go. “Oh, goodness. Did I forget this? Well—it’s not as if I needed it…” He tucks it neatly into his inner jacket pocket.

“Hermann,” Newt says, rolling his eyes. “What’d you do, get a hundred-percent discount by reminding them we saved the world a few months ago?” Hermann shakes his head, and takes a long sip of his wine. “Did you write a check? Did you pretend we got food poisoning or something?” Hermann shakes his head again, and this time, his mouth begins to creep up into a smug smile. Newt remembers the piece of paper. “Dude. You got us a fucking Groupon. No wonder you were being so weird about what I was ordering!”

(“I think we ought to stick with the entrees labelled B, Newton,” Hermann had said, flipping a page forward in Newt’s menu. “They look—er—far better.”

“More expensive,” Newt had said.

“What’s it matter? I’m paying.” Hermann had pointed at the noodle dish Newt had ended up getting. “Look, I reckon you’d like that.”)

Hermann finally grins triumphantly. “I did—and saved us quite a decent from our ‘date night’ fund. Pity it didn’t extend to dessert, I suppose, but we could always find some ice cream at the commissary later.”

Newt can’t even pretend to be exasperated. The noodles rocked. And they would’ve rocked even more if he knew that Hermann was saving them a few bucks. “You’re such a weirdo,” Newt says, shaking his head, though he’s mirroring Hermann’s grin. “Is that why you picked this place?”

“Not entirely,” Hermann says. He takes a long, slow sip of his wine. “Mostly I picked it to make a point.”

“About?”

“About my being right.”

Newt sighs. Only Hermann would dredge up old arguments on Lab Anniversary Night. It wasn’t even an argument, really—all that happened was that Hermann asked Newt to hand him his glasses cleaning cloth from his parka, and it took Newt almost ten minutes because Hermann’s pockets were so jam-packed with a million little coupons for everything from granola bars (which they can get from the mess hall for free) to mouthwash (which Newt can snag from the commissary, also for free, whenever they need it) that he couldn’t find anything but. A majority of them were expired. Then Newt remarked on how Hermann was nuts, and Hermann remarked on how Newt didn’t understand the value of making smart financial decisions, and they went back and forth for a bit like that. This was a whole week ago, too. In terms of Newt and Hermann arguments, that’s more than ancient history. “Are we really talking about the fucking coupons now?” Newt says.

“Frugality pays off,” Hermann says, cryptically. “Now we really ought to head out. The forecast is calling for rain, and I don’t fancy getting caught in it.”

They get caught in the rain anyway. Newt invites himself over to Hermann’s bunk to dry off, because Hermann bought a space heater back when they were stationed in Russia, and it travelled with him here to aid through the long nights of overpowering A/C. Right now, it’s aiding Newt through stripping out of his wet clothes. When he’s down to just his boxers, he snags the quilt from Hermann’s bed, and waits for him to finish up in his little en suite bathroom to hopefully catch a hot shower. One of the unexpected side effects of the world not ending and most nonessential personnel leaving the ‘dome in doves is that they almost never run out of hot water anymore. Newt can take a shower at midnight and not freeze his ass off. It’s awesome, really.

Hermann emerges from the bathroom in a dorky little pair of pajamas, a dressing gown knotted at his waist. “Oh, Newton,” he sighs, and prods at Newt’s blanket cocoon with his cane, “not my grandmother’s quilt.”

“I’m dry!” Newt says. “Mostly!”

He gives up the quilt to Hermann and ducks into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He stuck a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet at some point, for when he was too sleepy and lazy after makeout sessions to go back to his bunk, and sure enough he finds it alongside a suspiciously generic-looking tube of toothpaste. It doesn’t even have a label. He doesn’t think much of it until he starts to use it, which is when he immediately gags and begins to rinse his mouth out with hot water. “What the hell is this toothpaste?” he chokes out. “It tastes—awful.”

“Ah,” Hermann says. He ducks his head into the bathroom, looking a bit sheepish. “Well. I found a coupon for that brand, and I know it’s not very, er, pleasant, but—I saved forty percent, Newton.” Newt continues to rinse his mouth out, this time adding some mouthwash into the mix. “Oh, really, now you’re just being dramatic. It’s only toothpaste.”

“Dude,” Newt says. “I feel like I just rubbed, like, acid cement all over my gums.”

“Ah,” Hermann repeats, guiltily.

A bit later, Newt goes in to kiss Hermann goodnight as they settle into Hermann’s bed together, but pulls back with a sad little pout when Hermann merely flinches away from him. “Oh, Newton, I’m sorry,” Hermann says, quickly wrapping his arms around Newt and kissing his neck. It softens the blow somewhat. “It’s that bloody toothpaste. You still smell like it. You’re right, it’s rubbish.”

“Tell you what,” Newt says, grumpily. “I’ll buy you a brand new tube tomorrow. My treat.”

Newt mostly forgets about the coupon thing for a bit. The odd little item crops up in the lab that makes him roll his eyes fondly at Hermann, but nothing as major as the Groupon or toothpaste. Hermann’s preferred tea brand swapped out for something Newt’s never heard of in a flavor that Hermann clearly detests, if his face when he drinks it is anything to go by, for example, the chocolate digestives Hermann keeps in his desk replaced with plain ones, his new box of chalk all in a salmony shade of pink and weak enough to snap apart under his fingers if he presses down too hard on his chalkboard. When Newt asks about the changes, the answer’s always the same: Hermann had a coupon for them, or they were less expensive than his usual. Newt just wishes he could understand where this sudden bought of thriftiness came from. It’s not like it was back during the war, where they had to pinch pennies and save in every area they could if they wanted to supplement their nonexistent funding. They’re actually getting paychecks now, on behalf of the UN’s guilty conscience! They have free room and board! They even put a few neat bucks away from some (heavily-redacted) interviews they did back in late January.

What Newt’s getting at is Hermann doesn’t have to limit them ordering out sushi to only places with free delivery on date nights, or skimp on his pizza toppings (four-topping down to two) so they can use a better coupon, or buy any of those subpar teabags or digestives or toothpaste tubes. But he just…is.

The tipping point occurs on a Saturday night about a month after the Groupon incident.

“Nn. Hermann. Do that again.”

“Do—?"

“Yeah.” Newt groans, turning his head to the side. “Oh, shit.”

“Newton—” Hermann kisses his throat. “Newton, you’re—”

“Wait.” Newt pauses. “What is that?”

“Oh, er.” Hermann pulls his hand away. “You mean the—the—?”

“Yeah. It feels…weird.” He frowns. “That is not what we used last time.”

“Oh. No. It isn’t.” Hermann clears his throat. “Well, Newton—see—we were out, so I thought I’d—I’d buy a larger bottle, to last us longer, and I happened to find a coupon for this lovely—er—gallon-sized—”

“You’re kidding,” Newt says.

“Only I thought it was a very frugal purchase,” Hermann says. “We do tend to, er, burn through it rather quickly.”

Newt rolls away from him. “Dude. We need to have a talk.”

Some brief amount of time later, they sit together on the end of Hermann’s bed, clad in their pajama bottoms and, in Hermann’s case, one of Newt’s sweatshirts. Newt waits until Hermann meets his eyes blushingly before he proceeds. “What is up with you lately?” he says. “You’ve been acting so—weird. Weirder than usual,” he amends. “Since when have you cared about saving a couple bucks on random shit like pizza?”

Hermann fidgets, and sighs, and finally reaches to pull open the drawer of his nightstand. He retrieves a piece of paper folded into quadrants, and for a wild moment Newt thinks it might be another Groupon. “Oh, I wanted it to be a surprise,” Hermann says. “I was going to wait until it was all finalized—but it’s close enough now, so I suppose there’s no harm in it.” He thrusts the paper out at Newt, and Newt—still wondering if it’s not another Groupon—unfolds it with surprise to find what looks like a flight itinerary. Two tickets for Hong Kong to Boston, with a short layover; then two more tickets a week after they land for a short trip from Boston to some town in Maine Newt recognizes as being seaside. They’re made out to Hermann Gottlieb and Newton Geiszler and purchased a little over a week ago.

“You kept telling me you wanted me to meet your father,” Hermann says, and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “And—I thought it might be nice, to have an—er—vacation, for a few days. We’ve certainly earned one. And it’s not as if we have any truly pressing obligations at the moment that can’t be put on hold for a week or two. I was planning on booking us a little cottage up in Maine—or maybe just a hotel room, I hadn’t decided—but we don’t have to if you don’t—”

“And you’ve been saving up for it?” Newt interrupts.

“For a few months now,” Hermann says. “Since February, in fact.”

“And that’s why…?”

The tips of Hermann’s ears turn red. “Every penny helped,” he says.

Newt carefully re-folds the itinerary, sets it aside, and then kisses Hermann soundly. It would be safe to say that Hermann’s thoughtful, romantic moods tend to be on the spontaneous side, probably as spontaneous as they are in Newt, so when one strikes Hermann (and in such a perfectly Hermann way as this one) Newt doesn’t like to take it for granted. “Of course I wanna go on vacation with you,” Newt says. “You rock. Seriously.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Hermann says, looking pleased.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous

[xsugarysweetsx]

Can I request a Todoroki x Reader? Where the reader is with the group that saves Eri, and Overhaul gravely injures her (like nighteye). And she is dies during surgery, and class 1-A saw on the news that student heroes had been injured. So Todo was like freaking out. And when Deku Kiri and them come back to the dorms, they have to break the news that she didnt make it. But before they could say anything, the tv says, "Just in, a student by the name of (Y/F/N) has just been pronounced dead. Thanks

Please enjoy~🍰

*******************************************************

Orders w re being barked across the room. Nurses rushing in and out, your unconscious body barely responding. During the rescue, you were brutally injured, losing too much blood, too quickly.

Deku and Kirishima insisting on waiting for news on your wellbeing. They were more concerned about you than themselves. You had taken hits for them so they would be able to flee. Each hit making you weaker, but you pushed past your limits.

———

Cold....

Why am I....cold

I can’t move....or talk...where am I?

We were fighting....almost got out but something got to me....ugh everything feels so heavy...

Am I dying..? But how...? But I can’t be....can I?

I couldn’t even see Todoroki again...one last time...

Im.....so......tired.....

———

“This just in multiple heroes and UA students critically injured and being tended to after a massive mission. It is reported that three students in the hero course are being taken care of. Stay tuned for updates”

The reporter filled in anyone who was watching. The students at UA were devastated, their close friends in the most danger. Many gasps were let out and even some tears fell from the eyes of class 1-A. They knew what the price of being a hero was but they were all still young. Now some were even at the hospital, but no one was as concerned as Todoroki.

He knew he should have made you stay, but you convinced him you’d be fine. His heart pounds against his chest, maybe even too fast. During his time in UA, making aquatints was difficult. Yet here he was, sick to his stomach because he did hear from you yet.

He’s tried calling multiple times. You, Midoriya, Kirishima, anyone just to hear you. He was always calm and had a cool head, but not now, not when your life was in the line.

If he lost you......he couldn’t even finish that thought. If he lost you...he would be lost.

———

The heart monitor flatlined as the medics rush around to revive you. They try to restart your heart, CPR, anything to bring you back. Yet your eyes didn’t budge. They had lost you, each nurse and doctor cast their eyes down in remorse.

They had lost a young life, one who was destined for greatness.

The lead surgeon took it upon himself to break the news. With a heavy heart, he steps out of the room to see two young heroes.

They jump from their chairs with hopeful eyes. He sighs and says

“I’m sorry.....we tried everything we could” his voice was laced with guilt and sadness. The boys’ faces are frozen, not knowing what to say or do. Their hearts pang, it hurt. They had lost a friend and their chests felt heavy. Almost as if their lungs were filling with water, drowning them in sorrows.

If this was their reaction they couldn’t imagine Todoroki. He would be even worse to hear this, but it was inevitable. They look back to the doctor and thank him for trying to save you.

Midoriya and Kirishima has come to the decision that they should break the news. It was better than hearing it from the news or a doctor. Maybe they would be able to comfort him better.

———

“Remember we need to...let him down gently, we don’t know how he would react to this” Deku reminded him as they approach the door

“Right..” his lips press into a line, as he braces himself to deliver the news. They open the doors and every head shoots to them. A crowd of students run to them to tackle them in hugs and praise. They stop in their tracks once they notice it was only 2 of them.

“Where is she?” A deep voice rang. Todoroki had a broken look on his face. His breathing was raspy as he tried to contain and control it.

“Todoroki..I um....” Deku tried to find the right words as tears filled his eyes “she.....she saved a lot of people...she was a great p-person ” his voice cracks

Before he could finish the reporter comes on again

“This just in, a student by the name of Y/F/N has passed away. Surgeons had done all they can but couldn’t save her. And now a moment of silence for her courageous act”

He had lost you, the girl he loved the most gone. He falls to his knees feeling his chest get tight, feeling like he couldn’t breathe. Choked sobs escape his lips, he had lost the girl he loved the most.

He had one goal, and that was to become a hero. It changed after meeting you, he also wanted to be your hero. To love and protect you, but not this time. He wasn’t there to protect you and now you were gone. He was a shattered man.

The students of 1-A gather around him and hold him together in silence.

————

He was always a strong person, someone many looked up to. But today, he faced no one as his eyes stay to the ground. It was the day of your funeral, the one place he never wanted to be. Yet he had to see your face one least time. He was also asked to speak a few words. He looked at you laying in your casket, you looked peaceful. But he didn’t want you laying peacefully, he wanted you in his arms where you belonged

“Y/N was...a hero. Not only was she a hero, she was my best friend and my love. She had a beautiful heart, she was always kind and loving. Putting others before herself. I-I am not sure what I’m going to do now that s-she’s gone. I know she would want me to be strong b-but....she was everything in this world to me, and n-now th-that....that....” he couldn’t finish his speech, it was all too much for him.

They escort him to his seat as they finish the ceremony. After the buria everyone had left when the rain started. He stood in the rain feeling heavy, a voice had echoed behind him

“She would want you to keep going wouldn’t she? You’re not doing her any good by standing there in self pity” he turned to find Bakugou of all people “so stop screwing around and train to be the hero she would want you to be”

After all was said he walks away as if nothing happened. Looking towards the sky Todoroki speaks

“I’ll become your hero Y/N, I swear it on my life”

*******************************************************

I hope this was okay!❤️

#shoto todoroki x reader #shouto todoroki #bnha x reader #bnha angst #my hero academia x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader angst #anime #fanfiction #anime x reader

[hopelikethemoon]

Massage (Javier x Reader) {MTMF}

Title: Massage Rating: PG-13 Length: 2000 Warnings: Fluff Notes: You can find the Maybe Today, Maybe Forever Timeline here. And release order here. Set in January 1998. Summary: Reader gives Javier a massage.

Taglist:  @grapemama​  @seawhisperer​ @huliabitch​ @pedropascalito​ @rogrsnbarnes​ @thewallpapergoesorido​ @twomoonstwosuns​ @gooddaykate​ @livasaurasrex​ @ham4arrow​ @hiscyarika​ @plexflexico​ @readsalot73​ @hdlynn​ @lokiaddicted​ @randomness501​ @fioccodineveautunnale​  @roxypeanut​ @just-add-butter​ @snivellusim​ @amarvelousmandalorian​ @lukesrighthand​ @historynerd04​ @mrsparknuts​ @synystersilenceinblacknwhite​ @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead​ @exrebelshocktrooper​ @awesomefandomsunited​ @ah-callie​ @swhiskeys​ @lady-tano​ @beskar-droids​ @space-floozy @cable-kenobi​ @longitud-de-onda​ @cool-ultra-nerd​ @himbopoes​ @findhimfives​ @pedrosdoll​ @seeking-a-great--perhaps​ @frietiemeloen​ @arrowswithwifi​​ @random066​​ @uncomicalhumour​​ @heather-lynn​​ @domino-oh-damn​​ @cyarikaaa​​ @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​​ @im-still-a-pieceofgarbage @ksgeekgirl​ (if I forget to tag you, I’m sorry)

Javier peeled himself out of the armchair with a grimace, his hand going to his lower back as he all but limped his way towards the kitchen. You frowned as your eyes followed him until he was out of the family room. 

“Are you going to let me give you a massage?” You called out, moving onto your knees and looking over the back of the sofa as you waited for him to re-emerge from the kitchen.

“My back’s fine, baby.” Javier assured you unconvincingly, returning with two bottles of beer. 

“You tossed and turned all night.” You reminded him, “You couldn’t get comfortable. Because your back hurts.”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t uncomfortable, I just had a lot on my mind.” Javier sat a bottle down on the coffee table in front of you, before moving back towards the armchair. He tried to mask his pained expression as he sat down, sitting stiffly in the chair. “Might have to replan the entire schedule with all this Clinton bullshit going on.” 

“If your back’s fine then why are you over there? Hmm?” Your brows rose upwards, gesturing to the sofa beside you. “Already bored with me?”

He narrowed his eyes, “Can’t a man just sit in a chair?”

You shook your head. God, he was impossible sometimes. “Javier you have never chosen to sit in that chair over curling up on the sofa with me. Have you been abducted by the Pod People? Is there someone else?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He took a swig of beer before he hauled himself back out of the chair and moved towards the sofa. “Move your feet.”

You reeled them in beneath you, giving him an expectant look as he sank down beside you. You could see the strain in his neck as he slumped back against the soft cushions. “Javier, just admit you’re in pain!” 

“No.” He huffed, arching his back as he tried to alleviate the pressure he was feeling in his lower back. “Son of a bitch.” 

“Alright, we’re going to bed.” You said as you reached over and took the bottle out of his hand. “Come on. Up.” You clapped your hands together as you rose to your feet. 

“Baby.” Javier refused to get up, patting the sofa beside him. “C’mere.” 

You put your hands on your hips, staring down at him. “Don’t make me start counting like I do with Josie.” You warned him. “Come on, Javi. I promise you’ll feel better once I’m done with you.” 

He rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. “Fine.” Javier relented as he shifted to the edge of the sofa, reaching for his beer again. “I don’t wanna waste these.” 

You picked up your own bottle, taking a drink. “As soon as they’re finished, you’re letting me massage your back.” 

Javier shook his head slowly, “It’s not that bad, baby. I’m just stiff from sitting through student meetings.” 

“And why couldn’t you sleep last night?” You questioned as you took another sip, sitting down beside him.

“Because my back hurt.” 

“That’s what I thought.” You gave him a look, before you shifted closer to him and rested your cheek against his shoulder. “Just tell me, Javier. Please?”

“I know, baby.” He reached over and gave your leg a squeeze, rubbing his thumb against your skin. “I just fucking hate this.” 

You tilted your head and pressed a quick kiss to his jaw, the stubble there tickling your lips. “I know, but I’d much rather know when you’re hurting. I don’t need this macho shit.”

“It’s not macho shit,” He insisted. “I just hate having limits. You know? I don’t wanna worry about throwing my back out because Josie wants a piggyback ride.” 

A soft laugh escaped you, “She loved riding around on your back when she was younger.” You mused, recalling the numerous times you’d come home to him walking around the condo on his hands and knees. As much as he loved working at the university and making a change in his student’s lives, you had never seen him more happy than he was in that two-year period that he stayed home with Josie. 

“Hey,” You started, fingers ghosting over his jaw as you turned his face towards yours. “You always take care of me and the girls, let me take care of you Javi.” 

Javier leaned forward and pressed his forehead against yours. “Alright, baby.” 

“Thank you,” You kissed him softly, before taking his hand into yours as you started to get up. He reached for the remote and shut off the TV, before he followed you back towards the bedroom. The girls were both out cold, fortunately. Sofía was getting better about sleeping through the night.

“Strip.” You told him, before you vanished into the bathroom to get the small bottle of massage oil from under the counter. Javier had been good about giving you massages when you were trapped in bed during those final months of your pregnancy with Sofía. 

When you returned, Javier had stripped down to his boxers and was laying on his stomach in the middle of the bed. “You think this is going to help my back?” He questioned, folding his arms beneath his head. 

“If it doesn’t,” You whistled quietly as you moved to join him on the bed. “I’m sure Connie can help us find a nice chiropractor for you.” 

“We really going to let everyone know I’m falling apart?”

“They already know it, old man.” You teased, leaning down to press a kiss to the spot between his shoulders. “Where does it hurt the most?” 

“Lower back.” Javier informed you, reaching behind him to show you the spot. 

“I’m getting you a lumbar support for your office chair.” You told him firmly, popping open the bottle of oil and pouring some into the center of your palm. 

“The only person with a lumbar support on their chair is eighty.” 

You rolled your eyes, “And did the eighty year old spend the better part of his youth doing what you did?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.” You rubbed your hands together before you smeared the oil over his skin, spreading it down the length of his spine. “Not to mention, I’ve seen the work you and Chucho did at the ranch. You grew up putting a hell of a lot of pressure and weight on your body.” 

“Pops gets around just fine.” 

You snorted, “Your pops also smokes weed.”

“What?” 

“Oops.” You pressed the heels of your palms against his shoulder blades, rubbing them in tight circles as you worked them down his back. “You can’t blame him for not telling you.” 

“What the fuck?” Javier started to laugh, but the sound shifted into a groan as your fingers found a particularly stiff part of his back. You worked on that spot, digging your thumbs in as you worked the oil into his skin. “When did that start?”

“Javier!” You laughed, shaking your head. “You really didn’t know? What sort of DEA agent are you?”

“A bad one, clearly.” He shifted beneath your touch, stretching out a little more comfortably. “How did you figure it out?”

“He offered me a joint after Danny’s wedding.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“There’s a reason your father is one of my favorite people.” You grinned as he turned his head to look at you. “For the record, I said no… Seeing as I was breastfeeding still. Don’t be deceived, he’s got plenty of old man pain too.” You teased, working your fingers against the spot he’d pointed out to you.

Javier’s lips parted to respond to you, but instead of words another groan escaped from him. “Holy shit.” 

“I told you it would feel good.” You shook your head, reaching for the bottle of oil and adding a little more to your fingers. You spread it over his lower back, working your knuckles against the tense muscles. “But you have to stop making those sounds.” 

He opened his eyes and peered back at you. “That right there was nearly as good as sex.” 

“And yet you have balked every day about letting me give you a massage.” You pressed your thumb into the same knot again, biting down on your bottom lip as he let out another sound of pleasure. “Do you not remember how much I enjoyed your massages when I was pregnant?” 

“I do.”

“Mostly because it was the only way I could get you to touch me when I was pregnant with Sofía, but…” You shrugged your shoulders. “They feel really good.” 

“I’m coming around to them.” He remarked, shifting again beneath your touch. “I might be a new man tomorrow.” 

“Slow down there, babe.” You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Just because I work the kinks out, does not mean you should get yourself back into this same position in a day. Otherwise, you’ll be getting nothing but Bengay by the time it’s your fiftieth birthday.” 

Javier grumbled, “Let’s rewind to this revelation about Chucho.” 

You moved to straddle the backs of his upper thighs, giving yourself more leverage to work on his lower back. “What’s there to say? Your father knows how to manage his pain. It’s natural and it works.”

“It’s illegal.” 

“So is a lot of other fun things.” You reminded him, “If you want to follow the law here in Florida, I hate to break it to you babe, but we’ll only be having sex in missionary from here on out.”

Another groan escaped Javier as you pressed your fingers into a sore spot just above his left hip. “Really?” He managed, his fingers tightening in the sheets beside his head. 

“No more toys and our mouths must only be used for kissing.” You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, your breath making the hairs at his nape move. “That doesn’t sound fun, now does it babe?” You questioned. 

Javier reached behind him, his fingers playing through your hair where he could reach. “That doesn’t sound fun at all.” He agreed, “I just can’t believe my father was smoking dope right under my nose.” 

You shrugged, “And to think, you’re the one of us that’s heralded for helping take down Escobar.” You sat back, dragging your hands down the length of his back, before you moved to get off of him. “How’s that feel?”

He stretched his arms out above his head, his forehead pressed to the mattress for a moment. “Remarkably better.” Javier answered as he turned to look at you. “Holy shit.” 

You grinned at him. “I told you. Massages are magic.” You wiggled your fingers at him, “I’m gonna go clean my hands off.” 

“Don’t be gone too long,” Javier quipped, rolling onto his back. 

Your tongue darted out over your bottom lip as your eyes raked over his bare chest. You followed the line of dark hair as it dipped beneath his boxers ⁠— which showed off the outline of his hardened cock. “Oh, you really enjoyed that massage, huh?” You grinned, your gaze flickering between his cock and his face. “I’ll be right back.”

Javier nodded his head, his hand slipping down to cup himself through the thin fabric of his boxers. “I’ll be here.”

Watching him palm his cock sent a throb of want straight through you. “Don’t have too much fun without me.” You told him, shooting a finger gun at him before you grabbed the bottle of oil off the bed and headed into the bathroom. 

You didn’t even bother putting the bottle back where it belonged, far too focused on cleaning your hands off as quickly as possible so you could get back to Javier. But even with your haste, by the time you made your way back into the bedroom, he’d moved further up the bed and rolled onto his side.

You couldn’t even be mad. He’d been holding all that tension in his back and you’d clearly done good with your work. And he hadn’t slept at all last night.

Carefully you slid into bed beside him and curled your arm around him from behind. 

“Baby?” He mumbled.

“You’re good, Javi. Go to sleep.” You whispered, running your hand over his bare chest as you pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I love you.”

“Mhm.” Javier sighed happily. “Love you too.”

#javier pena #javier pena x reader #pedro pascal x reader

[artificialqueens]

Give you what you craving (branjie) - writworm42

A/N: Title from Big Ole Freak by Megan Thee Stallion. For a friend of mine who I’m wishing the absolute best <3

Thank u thank u thank u Holtz for beta-ing <3 <3 <3 <3

DISCLAIMER: In this fic, Brooke calls Vanessa mommy in bed without any prior conversation. Don’t do that!!! Just because I let it slip here for the sake of the story doesn’t mean it’s okay in real life. FIC IS NOT A MODEL FOR REAL LIFE! In reality, before you call your partner by titles during sex, check with them to make sure it’s okay. Always make sure to check in with your partner consistently and frequently during sex!!!

“Vanjie? Vanj? Earth to Vanessa!”

Vanessa blinks, coming back to her surroundings just in time to see Asia waving her hand in front of her face, looking bemused.

“Is it just as good as last time she walked by?” Asia jokes, and Vanessa feels herself flush scarlet, her cheeks burning as she tries to think of a comeback.

She doesn’t have time to say anything to defend herself though, because their third cubicle-mate, Kameron, looks up from her computer screen, removing her earphones to grin over at her two friends.

“Was she checking out Brooke’s ass again?” Kam’s eyes are lit up with scandal and excitement, and Asia nods enthusiastically.

“Her tits, too, don’t think I didn’t see you craning to get an eyeful when you first heard her heels, Vanj.” Asia notes, and Kameron lets out a big whoop, one which Vanessa almost hits her for.

“Shut up!” Vanessa hisses. “Are you tryin’ to get us in trouble? We supposed to be working on processing those orders for that new cake-baking cookbook, not gossiping about something I most definitely absolutely was not doing. ”

“Sure, baby.” Kameron snorts, but nonetheless, she and Asia settle, turning back to their own desks to attend to their work. Or at least, Kameron and Asia do - Vanessa herself is, for whatever reasons, struggling to focus.

Reasons that have nothing at all to do with how Brooke walks by again a moment later, and how for a moment, Vanessa swears that she sees Brooke glance at her and smile.

“You could just talk to her, you know.” Kameron offers kindly, but Vanessa only grunts in response.

Vanessa’s a junior sales rep for the entire cookbook company, while Brooke is a copy editor for the baking section. They may not work together directly, but they’re still part of two different worlds–one world that’s just a hair away from being an intern, days spent in a flurry of spreadsheets and scutwork, versus another world that comes with a postgraduate degree and a great deal of respect. Brooke couldn’t possibly want anything to do with Vanessa, and pretending otherwise…

Well, Vanessa would be setting herself up for heartbreak, to say the least. She’s sure it would. So it’s better not to get her hopes up; better to just keep things neat and tidy, limit her fantasies to watching Brooke’s ass whenever she walks by and hoping that when she walks back, she might catch another glimpse at that shy, beautiful smile.

“Oh, come on, now, don’t be like that.” Asia scolds, turning back around. “Kam is right, you know. We have that employee mixer coming up, and God knows the woman finds every excuse she can to walk past us all hours of the goddamn day. Just talk to her, Vanj.”

Vanessa snorts, not bothering to look up from her computer. “What would I even say, bitch? ‘Hey, mama, you got a fine ass, lemme eat it?’”

But there’s no laughter that follows the joke, nor any advice to soothe over the genuine question behind it. Instead, there’s an uneasy beat of silence, during which Vanessa looks up and realizes–

Oh no.

Oh God.

Brooke’s standing at the entrance of Vanessa’s cubicle, clutching a manuscript and looking absolutely mortified.

“I’m–Oh, God, Brooke, I’m so sorry–” Vanessa starts, but it only seems to make things worse; Brooke flushes red, mumbles something about sending in some pages as a preview for a prospective client, and then rushes off, leaving stunned silence in her wake.

“Okay, so when I said talk to her, I didn’t mean like that–”

“Shut up, Asia.” Vanessa puts her head in her hands, hoping in vain that the floor will swallow her up and never spit her back out.

The rest of the afternoon goes by slowly, shakily–Vanessa can hardly focus, the moment of her embarrassment replaying over and over in her head without reprieve, interrupting any task she tries to take on. Every time she tries to open a new document, her eyes fall down to her desk and onto the manuscript Brooke left her. And every time she tries to open an email, Brooke’s name appears at the top of her alphabetically-organized contact list.

It’s only when Vanessa finally gets ready to leave for the evening that Brooke fades from her mind, the space that the blonde occupied instead taken over by a list of all the snacks she’s going to eat and the reality TV shows she’ll binge when she gets home. She waves good-bye to Asia and Kameron, about to shut off her computer and get going, when suddenly–

EMAIL FROM: Brooke Lynn Hytes

RE: convo from today

Hi Vanessa,

Meet me in my office in half an hour… I want to talk to you about what you said today.

Vanessa’s head spins, her heart stopping dead in her chest and body going cold.

Oh God. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. She’s going to be fired, she knows it–she’ll walk into Brooke’s office, HR will be sitting there to mediate, and she’ll be sent packing before she has a chance to contest the disciplinary action.

Vanessa’s about to write back, beg for forgiveness, or at least some other kind of recourse, when a second email comes through.

EMAIL FROM: Brooke Lynn Hytes

RE: Convo from today - oops

Hi Vanessa,

Just realized that makes it sound like im gonna fire you or something. Lol. Sorry about that. Can you just come by now? Easier to talk in person.

Sorry again.

XOXO,

Brooke Lynn Hytes

Vanessa can’t help but laugh a little to herself when she reads the text, her heart starting back up again and nerves dissipating a little. God, the fucking dork–maybe things will work out after all.

Maybe.

Probably not the way that Vanessa’s hoping for, though.

She scurries across the floor towards Brooke’s office, not bothering to return the waves and cheerful good nights! from coworkers as she passes. There’s only one thing on her mind at the moment–Brooke Lynn Hytes and her ass, and whatever she’s going to say to her.

Okay, three things, but it doesn’t matter. Because she’s outside Brooke’s office, and the door is open for her to walk through, and–

And Brooke is sitting at her desk, blushing and shifting nervously in her chair, gesturing for Vanessa to close the door.

“Brooke, I wanna say again, I’m—“

But Brooke cuts Vanessa off with a shake of her head and a kind smile.

“Did you—did you mean what you said?” Brooke stands up and walks towards Vanessa cautiously, slowly, her smile still gentle and gaze unwavering. “About wanting to rim me?”

Vanessa swallows hard, her heart pounding and mind racing. Brooke is close now, so close that if she reaches out, she could touch Vanessa, box her in against the door, do whatever she pleases with her—

“Yeah.” Vanessa admits breathlessly. Yeah I did.”

“Oh, thank God.” Brooke sighs, her shoulders relaxing and face smoothing out in relief. “I was afraid you were joking, and—“

But Brooke never gets a chance to finish that sentence, because before Vanessa can think about it, before she has a chance to stop herself, she’s leaning up and cupping Brooke’s face and pressing her lips to hers.

The kiss is electric, breathless and passionate enough to make Vanessa feel as if she’s floating, swept off her feet by Brooke’s lips, her sighs of pleasure when Vanessa tugs lightly on her bottom lip with her teeth. Brooke is gripping her tightly by the waist, pulling her flush against her body, and Vanessa is dizzy, held up only by the will to keep contact with the woman in front of her, entwined with her. She feels along Brooke’s back, down each curve and over every muscle, until finally, her hands sweep over the one thing she’s been drooling over for what seems like far too long.

Brooke moans, like really moans, when Vanessa’s hands reach her ass, and God, Vanessa would do anything to hear that sound again. She feels along the curve of Brooke’s ass, squeezing and kneading and listening for every little reaction, every repeated moan and little gasp.

“Keep–Oh, fuck, Vanessa, keep doing that.” Brooke separates from Vanessa, her eyes hooded and cheeks flushed, voice breathy with effort.

“Ain’t gotta tell me twice.” Vanessa giggles, and Brooke does too, pulling Vanessa even closer, and sticking her ass out a little and before grinding back into Vanessa’s hand to meet her movements.

“This might sound weird,” Vanessa starts to propose, before she can second-guess it, “But can I…” she trails off, her hands suddenly freezing.

How in the hell is Vanessa supposed to ask a woman she’s barely worked with, who she barely even knows , realistically, to let her spank her?

“Can you what?” Brooke repeats, and Vanessa realizes with a sudden rush of embarrassment and doubt that she’s already gone too far to turn back.

“Can I spank you?”

Vanessa pulls away, expecting Brooke to look at her strangely, to balk at the suggestion. Ask her what’s wrong with her, or why she’d want that.

Instead, she giggles.

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed, you know that?” Brooke teases, and Vanessa blushes.

“I had to ask!” Vanessa gives Brooke a playful tap on her ass, rolling her eyes. “You telling me you’d rather I just popped your ass right then and there without no warning?”

Only, the way Brooke looks back at Vanessa in that second tells her pretty much exactly what she needs to know to answer that question.

“I think we oughta pick this up later.” Vanessa’s voice drops to almost a whisper, her hands clutching tighter at Brooke’s ass and stomach practically flip-flopping with glee and arousal when Brooke goes rigid, leans into Vanessa’s touch again. “Somewhere we can be private, so I can make that cute little ass nice and red.”

“I like the sound of that.” Brooke nods, and Vanessa answers by spanking her lightly again, grinning when Brooke lets out a soft, surprised oh!

“I gotta go home and feed my dog, but how ‘bout I’m over at eight?” Vanessa proposes.

“Sounds good.” Brooke smiles. “I can’t wait.”

“Me neither.”

Vanessa leans up and gives Brooke another quick kiss before turning on her heels, sauntering towards the door with a little extra swing in her step just to tempt the woman watching her walk away.

“Oh, and Brooke?” Vanessa turns around at the last second, only to see Brooke snap to attentively.

“Yeah?”

“Make sure you nice and prepped for me when I come. And whatever you do, don’t touch yourself before.”

Vanessa doesn’t wait for Brooke’s answer; she doesn’t need to.

She already knows that Brooke’s in the palm of her hand, and now she’s got to get home and get in the shower.

–

Vanessa knocks on Brooke’s door at 7:59 PM. Almost instantly, the door swings open and Vanessa feels her breath get knocked out of her body.

Brooke is a vision in satin and lace, dressed in a plain top with lace trim and a shiny, thin skirt that barely covers her ass, if it wasn’t for the identical lace trim that brings Vanessa’s eyes trailing downward to Brooke’s thighs, pale and toned and begging for Vanessa to grab them.

“You look beautiful.” It’s all Vanessa can think to say, but if the way Brooke’s eyes sparkle and her cheeks flush is any indication, it’s the right thing.

“I, um—Thanks.” Brooke brushes a piece of hair behind her ear, blushing deeper when Vanessa laughs fondly at the gesture. “Um, d’you wanna come in?”

“Absolutely.” Vanessa is already walking past Brooke when she stops to reach up and give the blonde a peck on her cheek.

“By the way,” Vanessa whispers, grasping at Brooke’s shirt with firm, eager fingers, “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

The gasp that Brooke lets out as she shivers at the words is in itself enough to switch any thinking part of Vanessa’s brain off, her body moving on adrenaline and instinct as she practically drags Brooke towards the bedroom.

This time when they kiss, it’s slow, less frantic, less desperate. They take their time, exploring each other as they embrace, Brooke’s hands tracing Vanessa’s body slowly and carefully in a way that leaves goosebumps in their wake.

It’s only when Brooke lays her hands on Vanessa’s ass that a sharp arousal shoots between Vanessa’s legs, and enough is enough.

“Get on the bed.” Vanessa grabs Brooke’s arms and pushes them off of her body, holding firm despite how Brooke tries to bring her hands back onto Vanessa, tries again to grab and feel her. Seeing how her efforts are futile, Brooke whines, tries to lean down to distract Vanessa with another kiss, but Vanessa won’t have it; not now, when her heart is in her throat and she can feel herself getting wetter by the second.

“No, baby.” Vanessa grabs Brooke’s ass and squeezes hard, using the single moment when Brooke is caught off-guard to walk them backwards until Brooke’s knees are hitting against the edge of her bed. “I said get on the bed, now .”

Brooke whines stubbornly but obeys, grabbing onto Vanessa’s shirt and pulling her down on top of her as she goes.

“Eager beaver.” Vanessa rolls her eyes as she picks herself up, kneeling over Brooke to box her in with a knee on either side of her hips, a hand on either side of her head.

Brooke only sticks out her tongue, and Vanessa can’t resist leaning down to kiss her again, nipping at her bottom lip and smirking at the soft, surprised squeak that she lets out in response. Vanessa keeps going, kissing along Brooke’s jaw, down her neck, nibbling and licking and sucking experimentally as she pays attention to what makes Brooke tick.

It’s adorable how responsive Brooke is, how quickly her bratty demeanor fades when Vanessa pins once-again wandering hands down onto the mattress and sucks hard at her collarbone. How she moans and gasps and squirms like she’s being touched for the first time in years, an appetite whet after laying dormant for just a little too long.

“Lift up for me.” Vanessa prompts, tapping Brooke on the side, and Brooke sits up long enough for Vanessa to pull her shirt over her head, revealing the smooth, soft skin underneath.

“Really?” Vanessa smirks, tracing her hand over Brooke’s bare breasts, her nipples already hardened against the room’s cold air.

“Why wait?” Brooke shrugs, “We would’ve taken it off anyway.”

“So does that mean you’re not wearing panties, either?” Vanessa lazily traces over Brooke’s tits, circling and flicking her nipples as she lets her eyes trail down to the waistband of her skirt and the promise that it holds underneath it.

“Why don’t you check?” Brooke’s voice is laced with challenge, her face almost smug as she stares up at Vanessa, waiting for her to make good on the offer.

And so Vanessa does, and doesn’t regret it.

Brooke’s wearing panties, alright—ones that are white, made of thin fabric that Vanessa can practically see through and trimmed with lace on the waistband and leg holes. It’s tantalizing, how pure they look, how they contrast with Brooke’s mussed hair and hickey-bruised skin, and Vanessa almost wishes Brooke could keep them on.

“Like what you see?” Brooke grins, and Vanessa has to hand it to her—the bitch knows what she’s doing, she really does.

Fortunately, so does Vanessa, and so she knows exactly how to handle the situation.

“Fuck yeah, I do.” Vanessa breathes, kissing the nape of Brooke’s neck again, barely-there pecks that make Brooke squirm underneath her.

Excellent.

“Now how about you show me the view from the back, baby girl?” She lifts off of Brooke just long enough to trace a finger along the waistband of Brooke’s panties, watching with satisfaction as Brooke shivers at her touch.

“Yes, mommy.” Brooke gasps as Vanessa moves to cup her through her panties, pressing down just a little so she can feel Brooke’s slick soaking through them.

“Mommy kink too?” Vanessa can’t resist teasing a little as she finally brings her hand away, shuffling back to give Brooke room to reposition herself. “Damn, Miss Hytes, you a freak.”

Brooke blushes deeply. “I—I’m sorry, it just kind of slipped out, usually I talk to people before I do that—“

Vanessa swallows the rest of Brooke’s ramblings into a deep, affectionate kiss, one that makes Brooke soften enough that Vanessa can ease her back onto the bed again.

“Don’t worry about it, kitten.” Vanessa winks, her heart warming when Brooke beams. “Now, turn over for mommy, I wanna play with that pretty little ass already.”

Brooke flips over happy, eagerly lifting her ass off the mattress just a little and wiggling it in excitement.

It’s too hard to resist; Vanessa brings a hand down over one of Brooke’s cheeks, just hard enough to elicit a small squeak from the woman in front of her.

“What?” Vanessa cocks a brow when Brooke looks back and pouts at her. “You tellin’ me you really ain’t expect that, tryna tempt me like that?” As if to make her point, she lands another smack on Brooke’s opposite cheek, and Brooke melts, letting out a sharp exhale and wiggling a little again when Vanessa pulls back, almost as if she’s trying to ask for more.

“Uh-uhn, baby.” Vanessa shakes her head, crossing her arms in front of her. “You gotta use your words this time, or mommy’s not gonna do nothing to you.”

“Please, mommy.” Brooke whimpers in response, eyes wide and pleading. “Spank me more, please?”

“Of course, angel.” Vanessa coos, a calm sweetness before the storm she knows she’s about to unleash.

The next time Brooke squirms, Vanessa lets her spankings rain down, a flurry of impacts that make Brooke’s ass glow with a mesmerizing shade of red. Brooke, for her part, seemed to only take every slap in stride, moaning sinfully and begging for more, more, more.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough.” Vanessa chuckles when she feels the sting of her hits even on her own palm, instead beginning rub soft, soothing circles along the now-heated skin of Brooke’s ass. “Now what do you say?”

“Thank you, mommy.” Brooke sighs contentedly, melting into Vanessa’s gentle touch.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

They stay like that for a few moments more, quietly enjoying each other, but then Vanessa’s own needs become too much to ignore–arousal is curling in her stomach, snaking between her legs, building up again until she feels like she might explode. She’s about to ask if Brooke is okay, suggest moving things along again, when Brooke speaks up suddenly, beating her to it.

“So… You gonna take my panties off now?” Brooke grins slyly, and Vanessa can’t help but laugh.

“So impatient.” Vanessa teases, but nonetheless moves back near Brooke, tapping her hip to signal her to lift up so that she can ease down her panties, noting with satisfaction the slick, soaked spot that sticks just a moment longer to Brooke than the rest of the fabric, just a little slow in being peeled away.

“Beautiful.” Vanessa breathes it out without thinking, the word rolling off her tongue because it can’t stay in, not with Brooke looking like that, laying bare for her like that. Vulnerable and delicate, all hers to enjoy, if only for the night (but God, what a night). At that moment, nothing else is in Vanessa’s mind except the curve of Brooke’s back and the way her hair splays across it, the flush of her cheeks and how they match the shade of her ass. Her smile, eager and warm and already a little blissed, like she knows she’s safe when she’s with Vanessa.

“You want my mouth or my fingers, or you got a strap?” Vanessa whispers, and God, Brooke’s eyes have never looked as beautiful as they have in that moment, when they look up at Vanessa and sparkle, her pupils wide and lids hooded.

“Mouth please, mommy.”

Brooke doesn’t need to ask twice. Vanessa kisses her way down Brooke’s body again, this time slowly, not teasingly but instead with devotion, her lips carrying admiration for every inch of skin they land on. Apparently, the message gets across, because Brooke seems to relax more with every kiss, her body melting into the mattress, sighing softly every time Vanessa’s mouth touches her skin.

“You ready, angel?” Vanessa pushes Brooke’s cheeks together, kneading them gently while she checks in, and Brooke nods.

“Please, mommy.” Brooke begs quietly, and Vanessa smiles, leaving one last kiss on the peak of Brooke’s tailbone before finally spreading her cheeks apart. She takes her time, licking around Brooke’s hole with short strokes, just the tip of her tongue, to find out what makes Brooke tick. She finds quickly that Brooke likes when Vanessa licks closer to Brooke’s entrance, honing in on one spot temporarily just to put her on edge. She shifts her position, brushes against Brooke’s perineum with the tips of her fingers, and Brooke goes rigid, lets out a sinful moan.

“Please, oh fuck, please, Ness, keep doing that.” Brooke trembles as Vanessa repeats the motion, timing it with a broad stroke of her tongue up Brooke’s crack. So she does, over and over, alternating with swirls around Brooke’s holes and little short darts into it, until Brooke is babbling and whimpering, a moaning mess underneath her that just can’t stay still.

“Come on, baby girl, come for me, I know you can do it.” Vanessa growls, continuing her ministrations. “Let me see you come for mommy, wanna see you lookin’ so pretty and fucked out for me…”

It’s as if the words are exactly what Brooke needed to tip her over the edge; without so much as a moment passing after the words leave Vanessa’s lips, Brooke goes rigid again, her cries cut off into a silent scream that ends with a final fuck before she relaxes again, panting and spent.

“Shit.” Brooke laughs breathlessly as Vanessa comes up from her place at the foot of the bed to snuggle at Brooke’s side, nestling into her arms. “That was amazing , Ness. Thank you.”

“No problem, baby.” Vanessa feels pride balloon in her chest at the words, but even that is secondary to the feeling of seeing Brooke’s smile, the renewed energy in her eyes even as she lays limp and sated, holding onto Vanessa like some sort of teddy bear.

It’s all she’s wanted, really–all she’s been after. Not just Brooke’s ass, or her body, or the way she walks and steals looks at Vanessa at the office.

Just for Brooke to look at her, really look at her. Smile at her. Thank her for something that isn’t work-related. See her not as Vanessa Mateo from distribution, but as Vanessa herself, as Vanessa wants her to see her.

“Vanessa?” Brooke pipes up again, snapping Vanessa out of her contented daze.

“Hm?”

“I asked if you wanted me to return the favour.” Brooke doesn’t seem to mind Vanessa’s temporary absence; if anything, she seems entertained by it, the shadow of a smile on her face.

But as kind as the offer is, Vanessa just shakes her head. “Nah, baby, I’m good for now. Unless…” she stops, biting her lip as her heart kicks up a bit, squeezing its way into her throat as she contemplates her next move.

It’s a risk–Brooke might very well say no, might very well want to keep their relationship to what it currently is.

But if how they’ve wound up here together is any indication, then it’s worth a shot.

“Unless?” Brooke prompts, and Vanessa takes a deep breath, shoving any doubt out of her mind.

“Maybe you could take me out for a date, and we could see what happens?”

Much to Vanessa’s relief, Brooke doesn’t even skip a beat when she answers, a wide grin spreading across her face.

“I would love nothing more.”

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #lesbian au #smut #writworm42 #tw mommy kink

[inyournightmares97]

My Youth (Chapter 6)

Broken and miserable, Park Jinyoung returns to his hometown to learn that no matter how hard he falls, there are still people who think he’s a hero.

Warnings: Mentions of suicide/depression, death, angst, slow build, maybe some language.(Please don’t ask when I’ll update. Wait until the series is finished to read if you’re impatient.)

Word Count: 5.7k+

(Can’t put links to the other parts here, please check my Masterlist/the reblog for the Prologue and Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5)

“-Mom, I’m busy,” Jinyoung muttered into the phone. He had been sitting in a crucial meeting with the Finance Director of GOT Tech and representatives of the Financial Regulatory Board. Receiving approval for his company to go public was one of the most critical and risky steps in Jinyoung’s career.

His mother, however, had been calling him constantly for the last twenty minutes.

Mrs. Park sounded upset. “I’m sorry, Jinyoung, dear. I just needed to reach you-”

“Mom, I’m in an extremely important meeting right now. Do you know how it looks when the Managing Director of GOT Group keeps getting calls from his mother during business meetings? What do you want from me?” Jinyoung demanded in a frustrated whisper, running his fingers through his hair. He tried not to let his agitation show on his face; the other high-profile attendees of the meeting could still see him through the glass wall of the conference room.

“Jinyoung, there’s been a terrible tragedy in town,” his mother began nervously. “I don’t… I don’t know how to tell you this, but i suppose there’s no easy way to talk about a death.  Remember I told you that I’ve been going to the hospital every day to meet-”

Jinyoung felt a burst of irritation. The clock was ticking. The Board members were waiting for him impatiently and he could see the disapproval on their faces. “Mom, did you call me to tell me that someone died?”

“Well… yes, but-”

“Mom, I have been preparing for this presentation for months. The future of my company depends on this meeting. This is absolutely the worst time you could have chosen to tell me something like this,” Jinyoung muttered through gritted teeth. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. “Please don’t mess up my focus right now. We can talk about this later. Do you need anything from me urgently?”

Mrs. Park hesitated. “You always seem to be busy these days. I just thought… if we could maybe help out with the funeral expenses or the hospital bills…”

Jinyoung closed his eyes. “Mom, you can just call my secretary for that. She’ll send you whatever amount you need. Send them flowers from me or something, okay? I have to go now.”

“Take care, Jinyoung, dear-”

“Bye, Mom.”

Jinyoung hung up and sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple. His personal secretary had followed him out of the room and was watching him nervously. He hadn’t even asked his mother who it was that had passed away. Was it somebody he knew? Maybe it was best that he didn’t think about it too much for now.

“Take my Mom’s call and ask her who died, send them money for the funeral and all those formalities,” Jinyoung told his secretary shortly. She nodded and made a note of it on her phone quickly while Jinyoung cleared his mind.

Focus. The presentation. The numbers.  

Jinyoung took a deep, calming breath and plastered a rehearsed smile on his face before he turned to enter the conference room once more.

“I’m so sorry to keep you gentlemen waiting,” Jinyoung greeted all the well-dressed men with a bright smile. “I hope you can forgive me. Mothers seem to have a knack for calling at the most inconvenient times, don’t they?”

The men chuckled politely. “That’s perfectly fine, Mr. Park.”

“May I begin the presentation?”

“Please, do.”

--------

Jinyoung believed that to achieve something great, you needed to make certain sacrifices.

He had always known that the path he was embarking upon was not an easy one. Establishing your own business meant that you didn't get off work at 5 pm sharp, you couldn’t spend your weekends at a countryside cabin or getting drinks with your friends. You needed to keep working until things got done. You needed to compete in the market. You needed to be strong enough to pick up after your losses and clever enough to make friends in the right places. People were depending on you.

Jinyoung hadn’t merely chosen a career, he had chosen a life.

A very lonely life.

Whenever his mother would call him and try to have a casual chat, Jinyoung would find himself irritated. Who cared whether Mrs. Lee from the grocery store was giving a discount on strawberry bread? What did it matter if Mr. Cha had been trying to sell his little farmland? There was important work to be done. Jinyoung needed to talk to the advertising agents to make sure his products were being launched properly, he needed to negotiate discounts with suppliers to ensure he could meet the planned pricing goals. There were employees relying on him. There were investors who had trusted him with their money. There were quarterly goals that had to be met.

Every second of Jinyoung’s time was precious. Why couldn’t everyone understand that? Why couldn’t his mother stop thinking that her tiny little world in this tiny little town was everything, and understand the importance of what her son was doing?

There are a limited number of hours every man has at his disposal. We each make a conscious choice regarding how to spend each one.

It was only now, standing in front of your mother’s grave, that Jinyoung came a terrifying realization.

He had made the wrong choices.

------

“It was heart failure,” Mrs. Park whispered.

Jinyoung’s hands clutched the cup of tea firmly. It was hot and uncomfortable, but not more than the sick feeling in his stomach. Every word his mother spoke made him feel more pathetic.

What had he been doing all those months while your mother was in hospital and when she’d died? Preparing for his company to go public? Sitting in meetings and sucking up to corporate officials? Only to be fired and thrown out of the company. Only to have missed the death of somebody who had trusted him and cared for him.

“But she couldn’t have been that old…” Jinyoung muttered.

Mrs. Park shook her head softly. “She’d always had a weak heart, Jinyoung. Her health was fragile and after her husband passed away she had no choice but to work to support her daughter. All those long hours and late nights for years… they took their toll in the end. She had her first stroke three years ago. She was in hospital for a few weeks and then she had the second one; the one that took her life.”

Jinyoung closed his eyes, remembering your mother in his mind’s eye.

“She always looked tired. And worried.”

“She was.” Mrs. Park reached out and placed a hand over her son’s nervously. “I’m sorry, Jinyoung. I should have told you about it sooner. But you were always so busy in Seoul, always doing important things. It never seemed like the right time to tell you about something so devastating. It’s my fault.”

Jinyoung let out a small scoff. “Don’t take the blame on yourself. That doesn’t help me.”

Mrs. Park looked upset. “Jinyoung-”

She was interrupted by a loud knocking at the front door. Jinyoung closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temple while he listened to his father go to the door and yell at the person on the other side. The reporters had already found his home address. They had started arriving one-by-one since this morning. Each of them desperately wanted an interview with Park Jinyoung, the man who had lost his empire overnight. They wanted to know what he had to say about his dismissal from his own company.

Mr. Park re-entered the living room and sighed. “They’re getting more persistent. I think I should call the local police before they start trying to shove their way into our house.”

Jinyoung nodded and stood up. “I’ll go down to the police station myself and ask them to send someone to deal with this harrassment. Mom, you’ve told everyone we know to deny any reporters who request them for an interview, right?”

“Yes, but is it really a good idea for you to be going outside now-”

“I think I’ll lose my mind if I stay indoors,” Jinyoung muttered. He grabbed the black hoodie that was slung over the back of the sofa and glanced at his parents. They were both looking at him with wide, worried eyes.

Jinyoung felt a sudden wave of guilt wash over him; why should they have to deal with so much because of his mistakes? Why was he always the one taking and yet never giving?

“I’m sorry,” he apologized softly. “I’ll try and be back for dinner.”

------

Jinyoung’s legs carried him naturally towards the elementary school.

Perhaps it was a subconscious urge to see you, even though he had no idea what he would say if you really appeared before him. Anything Jinyoung could have said to help should have been said three years ago. Words like I’m sorry seemed like an insensitive joke at this point; too little and far too late.

Jinyoung sat silently on the bench by the schoolyard with his face covered by his dark hoodie, and wondered how his life had brought him to this point.

Left with nothing with shame.

“Ahjussi!”

By the time Jinyoung looked up, there was already a tiny figure running straight towards him at full speed. He flinched and braced himself for the impact; only to have the small boy stop centimetres away from him and throw his arms around him happily. Jinyoung stiffened.

“What-”

“Ahjussi, you are Park Jinyoung!” Ki-woo cried delightedly. The boy was beaming. Jinyoung noticed for the first time that one of his front teeth was missing, but it was still one of the brightest smiles he had ever seen. “Miss told me yesterday! Why did you lie and say you weren't? I can’t believe the King of the Playground walked me home after school and I didn’t even know!”

Jinyoung couldn’t resist a small smile. The sight of the little boy bouncing on his feet warmed him for a moment and he patted Ki-woo on the head. “If somebody asked Clark Kent if he was Superman, he wouldn’t say yes, now would he?”

Ki-woo’s eyes widened in understanding. “Wow. That’s so true! You’re so cool!”

“You’ll have to keep my secret.”

“Of course I will! Ahjussi, can you tell me how you did it? How did you manage to climb the oak tree?” Ki-woo demanded, grabbing Jinyoung’s arm and tugging on it eagerly. “You have to tell me, you just have to! Were you really tall?”

Jinyoung blinked. “Tall? Not particularly…”

“Then how? How did you do it?”

Jinyoung opened his mouth to respond but he was cut off by a loud yell. He had been so preoccupied with Ki-woo that he hadn’t noticed the much larger man that was making his way across the school yard. Jackson Wang had a huge smile on his face and without greeting, he threw his arms around Jinyoung in a fierce hug.

“Park Jinyoung! Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence!” Jackson cried happily. He pulled back and noticed the blank look on Jinyoung’s face. With a frown, he pointed to himself eagerly. “Remember me? Jackson! Jackson Wang! You used to pass me all the answers in History class!”

Jinyoung swallowed. “Uh…”

“Mr. Wang, you’re friends with Park Jinyoung?” Ki-woo asked, his mouth gaping open.

Jackson blinked and looked down at the boy sheepishly. “Ah, Ki-woo. I didn’t see you down there. Didn’t your teacher tell you to wait inside until someone came to pick you up? Go back indoors now.”

Ki-woo pouted. “But-”

“Nope. Back inside. Now.”

Jackson waited until Ki-woo began to slouch back towards the school building and then turned back to Jinyoung. “Man, you’re pretty much the celebrity around these parts now, eh? We had a couple of reporters come by the school this morning, asking for anyone who used to know you. You have nothing to worry about! I scared them off. These babies aren’t here for nothing,” Jackson beamed and flexed his bare bicep.

Jinyoung didn’t really know how to respond. “Nice.”

Jackson narrowed his eyes. “You do remember me, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course-”

“We should get drinks sometime and catch up now that you’re back in town! Man, I really owe you. You did me a solid one that Christmas before you left, remember? I’ll buy you a couple of beers at the pub. What’s your phone number?” Jackson demanded.

“I don’t really have a phone right now…”

“Don’t have a phone?” Jackson looked confused. “Weird but okay. I guess I can always ask Miss First Grade to get in touch with you. I can’t believe she didn’t tell me you were back in town!” he cried, slapping Jinyoung’s arm playfully. “Hold on… you’re here to see her, aren’t you?”

Jinyoung cleared his throat. “Not exactly…”

Jackson chuckled knowingly. “No worries, man. I’ve got your back. I need to go inside and take care of the kids now, so I’ll tell her to come out and meet you here, yeah? Let me know if any more of those reporters come around. I’ll take handle them for you!”

Jinyoung forced a smile. “Thanks-”

“No problem, man. It’s what friends are for. We’ll catch up soon!”

“Sure.”

Jinyoung watched Jackson half-run back to the school building, letting out a sigh of relief. Each person he came across in this town seemed to remember something about him and the one who possessed the most dangerous knowledge was Jackson Wang. In addition to having been the resident supplier of inappropriate magazines and the one who’d convinced Jinyoung to try his first cigarette behind the park back in high school, Jackson simply knew a little too much about everybody.

Jinyoung sat down on the bench and took a deep breath. He just realized that Jackson had said he would send you out to meet him. Why hadn’t he told him not to? He wasn’t prepared to face you. Idiot.

It was a few minutes before you emerged from the school building and walked towards Jinyoung. There was a pleasant smile on your face as you approached, and it made Jinyoung’s stomach turn. How could you smile at him like that? How could you be so calm about everything?

“Jinyoung,” you greeted him, confused. “Should you be roaming around out here? There are reporters buzzing all around town.”

Jinyoung cleared his throat. “Uh. Yeah, I know. Jackson said he drove them away...”

You rolled your eyes. “That idiot Jackson Wang? He was fully prepared to seize his five minutes of fame by telling them how you used to help him cheat in History class. I had to step in and force him to deny the request for an interview,” you muttered. Jinyoung’s eyes widened and you gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I sent a message to the principal of the middle school and the high school. Nobody’s going to give any interviews about you.”

Jinyoung felt small.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“Did they find your house?”

“Yeah. They’ve been knocking the door all day. It’s really starting to bother Mom and Dad.”

Your expression was sympathetic. “Should I call the police?”

“Don’t worry. I was going to go down to the station myself and ask them to send someone to get rid of the reporters,” Jinyoung reassured you. He felt his heartbeat thump wildly as he looked at your gently smiling face. Should he say it? Should he talk about the elephant in the room? Even though he hadn’t prepared what to say?

“About… about last night…”

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He sighed. “About your mother. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I know that’s no excuse, but I should have been there and-”

You cut him off with a forced smile. “Jinyoung. It’s okay. It’s not like you could have done anything for her even if you were here, you’re not a doctor. Everyone did the best they could.”

Jinyoung swallowed. “I might not have been able to help her. But… I should have been there for you.”

The smile dropped from your face. What could you say? Jinyoung’s eyes were filled with shame but it wasn’t the right time for him to be offering condolences. That time had long passed.

But you still remembered his words from last night as he’d hugged you. I don’t feel as alone when I’m here. Jinyoung had been through so much. How could you say anything to such a broken man except for it’s okay? How could you offer him anything but comfort when he had nobody but you?

How could you not be the bigger person when he was suffering?

“It’s fine, Jinyoung,” you promised him softly. “You don’t need to worry about it.”

“How can I not-”

“Seriously. Please. It’s in the past and nobody was to blame. It happened around the time your company was going public, so I can only imagine how chaotic your life and work must have been back then. I don’t resent you.”

Jinyoung looked up at you in disbelief. “How can you not?”

“I just… don’t. It’s fine.”

“Do you really mean that? Do you really mean that?” he demanded.

“I do,” you insisted firmly. You glanced at your watch and sighed. “Wow, it’s getting late. We have a PTA fundraiser at school tonight so I need to start setting up. Oh! Did you bring my bicycle by any chance?” you asked him hopefully.

Jinyoung shook his head. “Uh, no. The reporters were in front of my house so I slipped out through the back…”

“Can you drop it by the school later? I’m going to staying back pretty late because I have to wrap up after the event is over. It might even take till midnight and the buses stop running at 9 so I need a way to get home. It’s not too much trouble, is it?”

“No, that’s fine. I’ll drop it off here later.”

You gave him a small smile as you turned to go back indoors. “Bye, Jinyoung.”

“Bye.”

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

The PTA fundraiser left you drained of energy.

You would much rather have dealt with a hundred kids at once than with a handful of parents. At least kids could be made to see reason, they could be convinced with a little bit of logic (however flawed). Adults, on the other hand, believed that they knew best and that things had to be done exactly the way they wanted. Adults were unreasonable. Adults liked to throw around their authority.

You had never wanted to get into bed so badly.

You stayed back late to clean up after the fundraiser was over. It wasn’t required of you, but it was something that you somehow ended up volunteering to do. All the other teachers had families to go home to and kids to take care of. You only had an empty apartment.

Asking them to stay back instead of you felt selfish.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and trudged out into the parking lot to see that the bicycle racks were empty. Shit. Had Jinyoung forgotten to leave the bicycle behind for you? Where was he?

You pulled out your cell phone and then sighed. Damn Park Jinyoung. He didn’t even have a stupid phone. It was far past the time that Mr. and Mrs. Park would have gone to bed and you didn't want to wake them by calling them. But your apartment was too far to walk and you would have to pass by the pub; you had no interest in meeting the town’s drunkards alone in those narrow alleys  at midnight.

You sighed and dialled another number.

“Jackson, hey. I’m so sorry, I know you just left a little while ago, but…”

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

It was 1am when you heard a loud banging on your front door.

You had just finished taking a shower and were getting ready to slip into bed when the noise began. Your heartbeat racing, you grabbed hold of a kitchen knife quickly and then slowly approached your door.

“Who’s there?” you yelled out, voice shaking.

The voice that replied was muffled. “Jinyoung!”

Jinyoung? At this time of night?

You opened the door carefully. The first thing that hit you was the awful smell; Jinyoung stank of sweat and cheap beer. His eyes were red and his face flushed as he looked at you almost wildly.

“Are you okay?” he demanded, grabbing your shoulders to look at you properly. His hands were trembling and he seemed unaware of how loud his voice was. “Are you all right? I was looking for you everywhere!”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Wow, you’re drunk.”

Jinyoung’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry- I’m so, so, sorry-”

“How about you come inside before you bring my neighbours running over with all of your noise?” you snapped. You had little patience for drunks, and knowing that Jinyoung had been out getting drunk instead of returning your bicycle did not please you. “Where have you been?”

Jinyoung stared at you helplessly, his arms waving around as he spoke. “I-I was just going to get one drink, I swear. But it led to another and I totally forgot about your bike and I was so scared that you might have walked home because I know that path passes by the pub and it’s not safe-”

“Relax,” you told Jinyoung as you guided him gently towards your couch. “I didn't walk. I called Jackson, he drove me home.”

“Jackson? Wang? Why? Are you guys close?” he asked, plopping down heavily on the couch.

You shrugged. “He’s a good friend.”

Jinyoung paused for a moment and then hung his head quietly.

“We used to be good friends.”

You looked down at Jinyoung properly. He was a wreck. His dark hair was a tangled mess and the light blue dress shirt he was wearing was wrinkled with a beer stain on it. There were even large sweat stains under his arms; he’d probably cycled all the way here in a panic.

And he’s one of the Most Eligible Bachelors under 40. If only the magazine had seen him like this.

“We’re still friends,” you told him lightly. “Although it wouldn’t do any harm to return my bicycle when I ask for it. Do you want a glass of water?”

Jinyoung blinked at you dazedly. “Do you have beer?”

“Absolutely not. Haven’t you had enough?”

His lower lip pouted slightly as he stared down at the floor. “I’ve been drinking all evening but I haven’t reached the point where I feel good or forget about my problems yet. In fact, I keep thinking about them even more. How about a cigarette?”

“You will not smoke in my house,” you told him with a firm glare.

To your surprise, Jinyoung suddenly smiled. It was only a gentle curve of his lips but you spotted it and frowned at him with your arms folded across your chest. “Are you feeling proud of yourself right now? Do you think your behaviour is something to laugh about?” you demanded.

Jinyoung looked up at you softly. “No.”

“Then why are you-”

“Because this is the first time you’ve given me that look since I came back,” Jinyoung admitted quietly. His voice trembled. “This is the first time you got angry at me. You don’t seem to get angry at me anymore.”

You didn’t understand. “Why would you want me to be angry at you-”

“Because you have to be angry with someone before you can forgive them. You have to first admit that they hurt you or that they did something wrong, and only then can you begin to repair your relationship,” Jinyoung whispered. He looked up at you and you could see the tears brimming in his eyes. “So tell me honestly. Have you forgiven me already?”

You swallowed. “I was never mad at you to begin with-”

“You’re lying.”

You clenched your fists as your heartbeat thudded. “I’m not lying. You’re drunk. You should drink some water and you can sleep on the couch-”

Jinyoung looked up at you, his eyes bloodshot yet surprisingly clear. “You are lying. Either you’re lying or you’re not the same girl I remember.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because the girl I knew wouldn’t have pretended to forgive a friend to spare his feelings. She would have grabbed me by the shirt, looked me in the eye, and said Park Jinyoung, you’re an absolute bastard for leaving me here when I was having a hard time. She wouldn’t have spared my feelings. She would have expected me to be there for her because that’s what friends do. They count on each other.”

You closed your eyes. How had Jinyoung seen right through you? Even after 10 years, how could he see through you like you were made of glass?

“I’m not angry,” you tried to tell him slowly, even though you weren’t sure who you were convincing anymore. “Because I never expected you to be there. You were busy and I had no expectations-”

Jinyoung scoffed. “You’re lying again.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. Friendship is when you help someone, because you trust that they would do the same for you. What you’re doing for me isn’t friendship. You don’t trust me anymore. If you have no expectations from me, then that’s charity!” Jinyoung spat out. Tears were brimming in his eyes and his voice was choked. “Is that what I am to you? Charity?”

You clenched your fists and let out a small, humourless laugh. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“What?”

“Where the fuck do you get off accusing me of treating you like charity? After what you did?” you snapped.

Jinyoung stared at you blankly. “Tell me.”

Your throat closed up. You didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t want to drag yourself back to what had been the lowest point of your life, especially not in front of Jinyoung. You didn’t know who he was to you anymore. How could you open up to him?

“I can’t,” you muttered. “I don’t want to talk about it, Jinyoung.”

“Please,” Jinyoung whispered. “Please. At least tell me I was a terrible friend for not being there. Tell me I was a terrible friend for not even knowing about your mother.”

You took a deep breath and sat down, your knees feeling weak. You had never imagined that you would have to sit next to Jinyoung and say these words to him while he was drunk. Yet, as his dark eyes pierced into yours, he looked more sober than ever.

“It was my fault she died,” you whispered, shakily. “I know how hard my Mom worked to raise me. I know how much she struggled after my Dad passed away. The doctor told me her heart attack was probably caused by stress- years of it. She was growing old but she’d never even gone for a health check-up because we couldn’t afford it.”

Jinyoung stared at you silently.

“I needed someone to say this to back then,” you admitted quietly. “I needed someone who would listen to me and who wouldn’t try to convince me that it wasn’t my fault or that I didn't do anything wrong. That’s what everyone kept doing. They kept trying to comfort me but I just wanted someone who would listen. I wanted you,” you mumbled.

Jinyoung only nodded. His hands reached out to take both of yours. He grasped them tightly.

“I knew you were busy, but I always had this hope that maybe you would come to the funeral,” you whispered. “I thought… surely, whatever I did to make you cut me off, it wasn’t so bad that you wouldn't even turn up to my mother’s funeral. But the truth was that I couldn’t grieve properly because the hospital was hounding me about the bills, I…”

You took a deep breath. You hated thinking about those moments. You had felt so helpless and alone, backed into a corner. “I don’t think it even sank in that my mother was dead until a few days later,” you mumbled. “ I spent the first day wondering how the hell I was going to pay the hospital bills instead of thinking about her. Your mother tried comforting me, she told me it would all be fine and that she would call you for help.”

Jinyoung closed his eyes; tears were clinging to his eyelashes.

“She did,” he mumbled.

You felt the walls around you come crashing down as you looked at the broken man in front of you. You remembered how badly you’d wanted to see him then, how much you’d craved his comfort. You remembered how furious you had been when you realized that Jinyoung had abandoned you.

“I thought you would call,” you mumbled. “I didn’t want to disturb you but at the same time I trusted that you wouldn’t leave me alone at a time like that.”

Jinyoung’s voice was soft. “I’m sorry.”

“It would have been better if you hadn't done anything at all,” you mumbled. “Maybe then I could have forgotten about it in the mess that I was going through. But you didn’t. I got a call from your secretary the night before the funeral.”

Jinyoung lowered his head. His hands were trembling even as they held yours and you could hear his soft sniffle. “Shit,” he muttered, his voice thick with tears. “Shit, I can’t believe-”

“I thought you’d finally called. But it wasn’t you. I had to hear some strange woman tell me over the phone that Park Jinyoung is sorry he can’t make it to the funeral but he sends his condolences,” you choked out. You smiled humorlessly. “As if I was some distance acquaintance you barely knew. You sent me your condolences through your secretary.”

“I didn’t- I didn’t know it was you…”

“And then she told me that if I would just email her a copy of the hospital and funeral bills then all the expenses would be taken care of,” you mumbled. “She said that she could send me as much as I needed, no limit. I was so embarrassed. I wanted-I wanted to tell her that you could go fuck yourself and that I didn’t want your condolences and your money. I wanted to refuse so badly, but…”

You hung your head in shame. “But I couldn’t,” you whispered. “I couldn’t say that to her because it was true. I had no other way of paying those bills. So I sent her the details and I let you pay for them. Whether you know it or not, you paid for all my mother’s hospital bills and funeral while I sat here and wondered how I had become such a worthless daughter.”

Jinyoung’s hands clasped yours so tightly that it hurt. His shoulders were shaking and you could see the sobs racking his chest. “I didn’t mean to-” he sobbed. Jinyoung’s tears landed on your clasped hands. “I didn’t mean to, I swear…”

You slowly removed your hands from his. “I have the accounts,” you muttered. “I’ve been saving up to pay you back. It might take me a few more years but-”

Jinyoung flinched. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s not open to discussion, Jinyoung.”

“Don’t say you’ll pay me back, please-”

“I will pay you back,” you said firmly. You took a deep breath. “You know why? Because I might be able to forgive you for not being there when I needed you. But I will never, never forget how cheap I felt the moment I ended that phone call. So don’t talk to me about charity; I know how it feels to be on the other end of it.”

Jinyoung closed his eyes. He felt light-headed and blank as he thought about everything you’d said. No wonder you didn’t consider him a friend. No wonder you couldn't bring yourself to be honest with him. No wonder there was something fake and forced about your every smile.

Jinyoung hadn’t just messed up.

He had destroyed something precious to him without even realizing it.

“It’s late,” you mumbled after a brief silence. “You should go to sleep. Here, just; make yourself comfortable on the couch and I’ll get you a blanket and some pillows.”

Jinyoung swallowed. “I-I can’t…”

“You’re not going anywhere at this time of night while you’re drunk,” you told him. You pushed him lightly so that he leaned back against the sofa. “Stay put. I’ll be back. I think we’ve talked enough for tonight.”

“Can you just promise me one thing?” Jinyoung asked quietly.

“What’s that?”

“Even if you don’t consider me your friend anymore, even if you’re just being nice to me because you’re that kind of a caring person… don’t give up on me completely.” Jinyoung looked up at you desperately. “Please. Tell me that I can fix things. Tell me I haven’t broken our friendship and my life beyond repair.”

You looked down at him. Lying on your couch in his crumpled dress shirt and the beer stains, Jinyoung looked pathetic. Perhaps it was because you’d finally let out all the resentment you’d been bottling up for so long. Perhaps it was because, looking into Jinyoung’s eyes now, you could see that he did care. But you suddenly didn’t feel so hollow anymore.

You didn’t feel so lonely in your pain.

“Everything can be fixed, Jinyoung,” you told him softly.

“Even us?” he mumbled.

You nodded. “Even us.”

“Even me?”

“Especially you.”

Jinyoung slowly closed his eyes and you went into the other room to get him a spare pillow and a blanket. He let you place the pillow under his head and snuggled into the soft blanket. You turned to switch off the light when you heard him mumble.

“You know something?”

“What, Jinyoung?”

“I thought that the most unbearable thing about being fired from the company was all the effort I’d put into it. I thought I couldn’t bear it because I’d done so much for it for the years,” he said slowly.

You blinked at his curled up figure under the blanket.

“But it’s not?” you asked.

Jinyoung shook his head. “It’s not how much I’ve done for the company that I can’t bear. It’s how much I sacrificed for it.”

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

#got7 #got7 scenarios #got7 scenario #got7 angst #park jinyoung #got7 jinyoung #jinyoung angst #jinyoung scenario #got7 imagines #got7 drabbles #got7 series #got7 fanfiction #jinyoung fanfic #jinyoung my youth

[mitchsmarners]

hc where Richie’s jokes suddenly turn super depressing and self-deprecating and the losers don’t understand what was going on until it’s too late ( it’s a failed attempt. no richie death)

i skipped over that first part somehow and ended up with this i don’t know. also you didn’t specify a ship so i did established canon reddie and really strong plot significant platonic stozier

Triggers: drug abuse, suicide attempt (as mentioned in the ask itself), so much angst, hurt/comfort

Something had been wrong with Richie for awhile. Eddie had definitely noticed him seeing withdrawn and distant. Maybe that wasn’t even the right words for it. Richie was still there, as much as always. Always right by his side, pressing up against him, still coming in through window and cuddling up him to sleep. But Richie was awake when Eddie finally drifted off and gone when Eddie woke up. 

Eddie’s usually touchy, loving and- frankly- horny boyfriend seemed to have slipped away. While Richie would never pull his hand away if Eddie went to hold it, or refuse a hug, or reject a kiss… something was still off. Richie didn’t make the move anymore and he always pulled back. 

Mike had even brought up the behavioural changes in Richie to Eddie one afternoon when Eddie went over to help feed the chickens. Commenting on how Richie had toned down at lot, gotten quiet, was making less inappropriate jokes had almost disappeared.

So Eddie started watching for that, too, and Mike was right. Jokes that might once have ended with “Eddie’s mom” or “Bowers’ ugly face” turned into jokes about himself. And Eddie didn’t fucking like it but he didn’t know what to do about it, either. 

Everything fell apart at a party, as things are tended to do

Things had been fine, Eddie didn’t get it. He couldn’t figure it out but suddenly his boyfriend was plopping down in his face and Eddie just knew something was wrong. 

Richie was too warm, way too warm. He was burning up to the touch everywhere his skin touched Eddie’s. Eddie had on edge about Richie for a few weeks now, there had been a change in him that Eddie had tried to just put out his mind.

Richie’s jokes had gotten a dark twist to them, and turned much more inwards. It seemed like more personal attacks on himself than they used to be, no more jokes about people’s moms or borderline offensive shit that made you cover your mouth so nobody would see you laughing. 

But now Richie was nosing into Eddie’s skin and he was so hot. It burned and Eddie’s stomach flipped over. 

“hey, baby, do you feel okay?”

Richie nuzzled closer to Eddie, while Eddie pets at Richie’s damp curls 

“Eddie, I love you. I love you, Eddie.”

“I love you, too, Richie. Are you sure you’re okay, you’re scaring me.”

Beverly stood then and mouthed something about going to get Bill, their designated driver of the night. Eddie couldn’t really care about that right now, he suddenly felt cold stone sober

Richie pulled back and his eyes were out of focus and he kept wincing in pain. His hand rubbed against his chest like it was aching. 

“Where’s Stan?” he asked suddenly, looking around seemingly lost. “I need Stanley.” 

Richie slipped out of Eddie’s lap and rolled himself onto the floor.

“Rich, Rich, baby, what’s happening?” 

“I need Stanley. Where is he? I’m dying, where is Stan?”

“What do you mean you’re dying? Rich? Richie?”

….

“RICHIE!” 

Beverly and Bill came rushing into area as Eddie was running his hands over Richie’s back as Richie was shaking on the floor and making small whining noises 

“we need to get him to the hospital” bill says immediately, just taking one look at his sweaty, pale, shaking form. eddie looks at him in utter panic. “what did he take?” bill asked him harshly. 

eddie shook his head. “i dont know i lost track of him a while ago. he usually knows his limit so much better. he said he’s dying, bill, what even.”

beverly was taking eddie off the ground and guided him away, mike and ben seeming appearing out of thin air to help bill pull richie up 

“i need stan, where’s stan, i need stan, where is he” 

Stan, of course, isn’t there. Stan had to have family time that night of all nights. Eddie bit down on his knuckles as he watched his friends half dragging, half carrying his boyfriend out to bill’s car.

eddie ended up with richie laying on him in the backseat. he runs his fingers through richie’s hair while richie keeps muttering to eddie about how much he loved him. the whispers and mutterings trailed off mid-sentence and the anixety in eddie’s chest jumped straight up to twelve.

“bill fucking drive faster i swear to fucking god if he dies i’ll fucking kill you with my bare hands”

(bill decided to just let that go)

several moments were a daze as they tried to get richie checked into the hospital and get ahold of wentworth and maggie and just try to figure it out before eddie’s stomach dropped more

“we need to get a hold of stan” he moves back towards the phone. 

they called the urises five times with no answer and eddie was crying again as he sat down and curled up to bill’s side. it was less than fifteen minutes before wentworth and maggie came rushing in and we ushered to talk to the doctors. 

wentworth was the one who came out and told them the news, as gently as he could. what it seems liked was in richie’s stomach, how he’d had his stomach pumped. that the doctors would do whatever they could but that everyone should be prepared for the worst. 

if eddie hadn’t already been leaning his complete body weight on bill he would’ve have dropped to the floor. as it was his vision blurred out for a moment and he was pretty sure he was going to throw up everywhere

“eddie, hey eddie we gotta go, eds…”

“DON’T FUCKING CALL ME THAT” eddie knew people in the emergency room were all staring at him, he didn’t fucking care at this point. “dont call me that, you don’t get to, not you, not, no.” 

they all agreed eddie should go in alone first. maggie was sitting in one of the chairs closest to the bed, holding onto richie’s limp hand. she got up and hurried over to wrap eddie up in her arms. 

“eddie, oh, eddie, my poor baby. what happened?”

eddie sobbed into her shoulder and held himself tight against her. this was a mother, this was love. he’d been showed this thanks to richie, he had this in his life because of richie. 

eddie pulled away from maggie and launched himself into the chair beside the bed. richie looked terrible and eddie choked hard on his heart. 

“richie, oh my god, richie, baby. why did you do it? fuck, babe. i- i love you. i love you. holy fuck, i love you. i hope you can hear me, i need you to know.” 

the other losers all came in one by one and gave equally tearful sobbing declaration of love and grief and sorrow. eddie asked each person every time they came into the room if anybody had gotten a hold of stan. they always said no. 

it pained eddie to think that richie was going to die and stan wasnt going to be there, wasn’t going to know  

eddie had his head resting on richie’s un-moving arm, eyes occasionally dipping shut before he forced them back open.

if richie was going to die tonight, there was no way eddie was going to be asleep and unaware when it happened.

it felt like hours had passed of gradual beeping from the motions keeping richie alive, showing that richie was alive. eddie clung to that sound, richie was hooked up to machines to help him breathe but he was alive. 

the was.the sun was starting to leak through the windows when stan finally bursts into the room, still wearing pajamas with a coat hastily thrown on. he’s hair stuck out at a thousand different angles. eddie had never seen the boy look less than perfect before in all the years he’d known him yet here he was, looking like an utter hot mess. 

“he was asking for you” 

stan makes some strangled noise in the back of his throat. “fuck, tozier, what the hell have you done?” stan knelt beside the bed and grabbed the hand that eddie wasn’t resting on. “come on, asshole, you’re not doing this. do you hear me? you’re not. you’re not going anywhere. if you go, i have to go with you and i’m not ready. we don’t leave each other behind, you traitor. you know better.” 

eddie felt the arm shifting under him and he startled away from his boyfriend. he stared, wide eyed, looking at the simple motion on richie’s face like he was trying to open his eyes. “stanley.” 

stan looks up from where he was staring blankly at richie’s hand in his grip and his mouth dropped open. 

“rich, richie, baby,” eddie cooed, bringing the twitching hand to his mouth. “can you hear me?”

richie made a moaning sound that might have been eddie’s name as his eyes fluttered open then filled with utter panic. he thrashes momentarily and grabs at the ventilator while coughing 

“no no richie stop stop” 

“richie baby dont do that just wait”

nurses come rushing in and they usher eddie and stan aside. they pull out the ventilator and said some things to richie explaining what had happened. wentworth and maggie were there, petting his hair and crying to each other .richie looks up at his parents as the doctors and nurses leave to give them privacy. 

eddie and stan hover in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the foot and unable to meet each other’s gaze. “eddie…” richie called out weakly and eddie was launching over to his side instantly. he flopped himself down onto richie’s chest, half hanging off of the bed onto the floor. he cries into his chest while richie cries all the harder.

“im sorry eds fuck fuck im sorry i love you”

“i love you, i love you, i love you.” 

the two boyfriends cried into each other for a long, long moment before richie made a forced laugh“can we just pretend i made a stupid ass joke or something to cut the tension?”

eddie snorted and leaned away so he was on his knees in front of richie’s bed, wiping at his tears and laughing sadly. richie’s gaze moved over and he found stan still hovering by the door

“i looked for you”

stan choked. “i… i was sleeping.”

me too… technically.”

“not funny,” all four people in the room reprimand. 

#reddie #reddie hcs #stozier #stozier hcs #streddie #it hcs #my hcs #requests #my writing #suicide tw #suicide mention #i didnt' know how to end this lmao

[castlehead]

:a Not which one is right but which one is more like you Let's start now // this is a few makeshifts on the deity,

dint realize y i was gettin poor marks in college till i realized comic sans wasnt mla format for essays, but i kept on with it bc im anti establishment and my dope ass literary insights should speak for themselves.

my 'experimentation' as one nonplussed professor put it, with the font, progressively got crazier, and in the end i was doin all caps zapf wingdings mized wih herculanum

needless to say, i got my degree.. IN BEIN A BOSS.

na but yeah i got kicked out of that school. still bummin on campus actually, and probably psychotic from this ecstasy i keep taking. this guy in f comp makes his own, has a pill press nd everything.

the shoes i original got as a college present from my parents got stolen, or in any case i woke up in a snow drift next to the commons dumpster without them on, so i just wear slippers. my toes are purple. ther always feels like there is something in my teeth or throat i cannot dislodge. i am the campus transient, avoiding th. RAs and ignoring the eviction notices. like raping the willing, one cannot be evicted if one is homeless. with the help of a few friends i sold drugs to when my rents still gave me money and i was still enrolled, i alternate between various dormitory hovels, hiding out from the campus police like some ghastly dysfunctional version of anne frank.

i havent taken my pills and smell. i emaciate my already rejected body, rejected by the establishment goons, with cocaine, and remind myself of the leftover chicken carcass and neatly lined bones whose tomb was a disgusting box of dominos buffalo wings i ordred and consumed my first semester here and that remained in the same place until i abandoned that radioactive dormroom to die slowly and painfully, and metaphorically, since living quarters do not possess life. i am starting tho to wonder if i myself possess that as well or if i did once and now am but a structure, a part of the collegiate landscape, sniffed at by diligent students and attempted to get thru to by intellectual slackers, decadent addicts themselves on their way to where i am, and wooks who need someone to smoke with on a sunday 4 am and know i always keep track of what festis are goin on on campus; i receive the next round of empathy from a new stranger who maybe heard of me or has seen me around and wondered what i was still doing here.

empathy, empathy, curiosity as to the quirky insane dude fried by mdma and a shitload of adderall for no purpose bc i have no practical skills. a monotony of empathy ripping off and using for the metaphorical shit on my metaphorical ass, like swquares of toilet paper who fancy me a hobo poet in need of on top of text books i never opened, on a desk i used as a trash receptacle. and speaking of wings, i think i might be literally going into a dissociative state because all the leaves on the trees look like zapf wingdings. my clavicle is not only visible but sticks out of my body further than my chest does.

watch out for hell day today, for something godlier than god. i deliver it.

The effect I wish to give, as it always has been, is that of a truth clearly viewed, in utter horror. Gods factotum, shuffling thru abandoned files that sometime held a secret forgotten, tho no less true now, and the horror perhaps, that we forgot something so crucially, fundamentally true, and so long ago.

​this work is twisted, sad, manic, strange, fluid, stilted, inappropriate, foolish, magnificent.

if god doesnt exist, neither does the version of myself with dreadlocks

. .  .   .    .     .      .

one has no choice in the end but to resign oneself, and drop their head. and yet, where do they look, if one in shrinking away for the purpose of humbling hisself afore the god of anxiety, and receiving his respite, knows nothing more than but to resign? where is the clarity here? there is no clarity 'here'. it is there, and come upon in moments of fear and trembling at the dread chaos, the doubt in a heart and split in a mind.

it is there, for one is staring at the ground, awaiting an end to the necessary aversion from the sight of a higher morsel of GOD.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

atheism should not be an opinion it is not the result of not believing in god it is simply living life without a thought as to a religious god. we are not reacting to religion we are IN reality just as the catholic is IN reality. saying "I don't believe in god" is like equating nothingness to a lack of everything. there is no reactive state to atheism at its purest. it is not an acknowledgment, in other words, of no god, but an acknowledgment of what is before one's eyes, this vast neutral space I defy you to say is different from the religious folks' apprehension of objects and desires, all before them, swimming in ghostly revelry or not, only figurations anyway. o this insanely divided world.

i have a secular conception of god based on my teleological hypotheses re the nature of a causa prima, causa sui. it's the definitions that need defining, not the thing with a name on it that needs explaining. physics already does that.

remove intent for the case of nihilism, and you will have what i am saying here. no case at all. no 'response' so to speak. atheism can be evangelical

im not an evangelical atheist because what i believe changes based on the day but is always just as real haha. belief is tenuous. i go by that

it's the definitions that need defining, not the thing that needs explaining.

my conception of god is that it is the only thing that does not exist. so in a way, yes, i am an atheist.

'God' as defined in its easiest terms, is an ultimate uniquity. like, an outstanding substance. anyway, idk. at the end of the day idk haha

Kant's own a priori notional form of perception comes to mind. in front of our eyes is what is real. the observer initiates the ocular nerve, and the thing or situation burns into the receiving blankness of the mind.

like, have we reaped all the possible benefits of fire by now? surely the wails of prometheus fall not on deaf ears!

. .  .   .    .     .      .

twisted, sad, manic, strange, fluid, stilted, inappropriate, foolish, magnificent.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

green tortilla chips my ass. he said with no attempt at disguising incredulity, wiping the tears from his brow.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

whereas god is all, i am only myself, knowledgeable of only myself; therefore, unless god is simultaneously aware of being myself alone along with being everything, and of that everything knowledgeable of each and every thing as if god were only that thing, i am then let in on an experience of individuality that god is unaware of.

this is a question of how to be the most purely omniscient, omnipotent, etc. that is the question that our conception of god is asking.

corollary: if in the case of being simultaneously the experience i have of myself, and being all, then it is quite logical to say that our experience in life is in fact a godly experience, since i, too, would be unaware of being all, as goes the route of any human perception of things.

when i say i am only aware of myself i mean it in ontological terms, fyi -and also in, i will admit, somewhat absolutist terms. of course as people, psychologically, we can put ourselves in another's shoes, step outside of our comfort zone, change an opinion [or five] and every person is an environmental sponge -we can adopt varying personality traits from the culture we is born into etc. -this argument presupposes an absolute view, kinda,- in that, IF this were how it went, it wld go such nd such -this statement of mine does not examine a phenomenological or spiritual connection between people but examines the relativity and possible logical gaps in -the idea, or notion if you prefer- of omniscience.- there is only theory haha <#

we create our gods but they exist as much as we do

. .  .   .    .     .      .

turn your back, find yourself faceless, at least, to someone.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

wondering if I got a problm w. th prostate bc sometimes when I feel a shit coming I piss n it goes away. Don't change much re bathroom routine tho since I already sit down wen I pee in the first place, and according to my second ex wife this means I am a lazy fat whore

interested in the concept of the devout as being the truest sceptics.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

Thought has the coherence of being but is not being, i.e. beginning and ending in our living heads as something not itself alive, but a mere transfer of connection willed consciously to create that inert unbreathing grand called the magnificent bullshit, the idea.

the quiet horror of the mundane dailyness.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

i think something elitist and say within, Well that was elitist wasnt it, dan. then pat myself on the back at my ability to check my arrogance, specifically when i see the thought thru the lens of something a cousin of mine with generally liberal views and empathy who fishes in alaska for money and lives off the grid would remark to himself. then, i get slightly nauseated after mentally leafing thru all the times i have been proud of mentally criticizing myself for something in the first place outwardly bad. and there goes on the circular drudge of ugliness, not evaded outright, but felt the pangs of guilt in the says within, that say me again and again in my inertial brood, of void i would hope, of searching for clarity i wish, but that is probably more like a moralizing, limited gauge, like feeling better about something ugly that is yr fault by feeling bad about it for a little so you can get that part over with without the possibility of another harder wave of guilt for not feeling bad at all about the ugly thing, and therewith reacting with doubts to doubtful reactions, until yr whole value system is a wilderness of mirrors.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

im a perfectionist when it comes to sensation. the beautiful feeling must be experienced in the proper setting that would maximize its potential. i think this is y i used to do lots of drugs, which by nature are the commodification of sensations. probably also y i was super miserable doing them and kept doing them despite that. there is a certain ring of the hoarder or magpie in this perfectionism that wants to connect physicality with ego that i see as well in the idea of paying money to literally feel specific sensations; equally, the result of this on the psyche is as tenuous here as with the futile idea of thinking the perfect setting for doing drugs is always at hand, which it rarely is, or at the least there is something to mar the perfect dream, that dragon, that pursuit of happiness, life, and liberty via thinking on how best situate the chains to, in essence, 'maximize' your mobility, but nathless remaining held in doom. the drug world, uh, is itself volatile; perfectionism and volatility dont jive so well, usually. and so on. hm. hegh.

heh.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

I only like Eminem rap and that one NWA song like hell naw the rest is garbage now let me go back to my trailer in the woods where I live in harmony with the Elves who have seemed to appear more frequently now that I have that bathtub meth dungeon set up in my basement where skynerd plays ceaselessly from an unlocatable place. My hero is Ed Gein. But I don't do the lampshade thing. I do however have a human skull I bought from my buddy who owns a war relics and parephernalia shop, he had to go in the back to get it and lock the store so nobodys would come snoop. Turns out some folks comed snoop to see if he figured any more available and he got mad at me for blabbing, an I said, Giles, ya know I ain't blabbing, but he dint believe it, an now we just kinder avoid each other at the local NA meetin. People tryn cop there and some do and theys go behind the water tower tagitit, I int do that part tho, a tad fucked up I mean, these people try n getting clean an all, why make it harder n it eyis? But if y'all wanit I get it tiya, come by and share a chaw almighty God. Gib ye a gude price too. *PATOOEY* I. Uh am sober myself. 20 yrs. but damn ye ye make a buck more n working garbage detail selling home cooked meth I reckon ye. Don't touch the stuff I don't anymore after I heard this queer fella from out a town got his arm chopped off when he mainlined eyit. Tryn I guess do some sex stuff and a days travel from the city. City folk don't know it's diffeRent strength down here's doe. I reckon. *MEDITATIVE PATOOEY* yes sirn. Huhm.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

The thing abt the Sex Pistols is, tho they engineered the punk genre immeasurably, they seem to no longer be in the cultural conversation, except within factions of grey haired aficionados. Even the more radio friendly The Clash seems notably absent in this regard. Has punk developed beyond its early stages, or is punk, being the genre that it is, dependent on whatever the moments youth zeitgeist is? punk is visceral because it is held in time this way. first gen punk, cbgbs headliners of ago and ago, do not exert these days the same walbreaking feel, bc I think there's so much virtuosic music being made today that the path of what will develop is harder to determine. Musicians in throes break down walls without batting an eye. Any musical iconoclasm expressed in the music of the past, then, especially to the contemporary ear, is bound to seem bathetic. Like microaggressions as expressions of racism, our society's opening of mind leads to a closed mind, as one can justify not being racist by simply saying they do not think they are better than marginalized peoples, have never done anything racist, think we are all equal, are not clansmen lol. what ruffles feathers is less obvious, in turn, bc expressions of the ersatz new and the real new are harder and harder to determine. The surplus of media, ideas, and opinions, I think, will lead us to a place where "cultural norm" becomes an oxymoron, hopefully. But then, what else will be left to invigorate, if so much is already so much done out, already? Does there exist a perspective, artistic or no, that is not liable to become passé? Or even some thought never thought before? I know there is, I for one know there is, because as a poet I see much to fix, and much that I work to do bc I see it nowhere else; and this most crucially is not an impression of mine based on today's lit but every days lit there has ever been, throughout history. Just I can literally not even yo, yo

. .  .   .    .     .      .

Mathsmatics can transcend thru the grandeur of its implications but not thru the means towards said implications; philo can do the same, but it's better penchant is for transcending thru means to electrify a mundane conclusion or give a system of reason to a general thought-trope such as, "reality is an illusion" or whichever flat idea u prefer to follow. Since it is pure logos, philo differs from math in being more readily universal; tho the applications of math are more readilly useful than the positives that come with mental clarity at the understanding an achieved unified system. Poetry is all means, so then must dazzle, and needs no evidence, conclusion, or even subject, but need only sway with beauty. Therein is the problem with the existential issue of selfhood. Reductive analysis of self becomes psych, and the only pure philo to be had in selfhoods exegesis is not to be found in anything like a system of proofs or syllogisms, etc. selfhood, as Kierkegaard recognized, is poetic bc it exacerbates reality, exhausts all of it. it is individual, and so copious a thing has no one forged path to what it is, or even any path at all, to what it is, since like Pascals God the self is a circle whose point is everywhere and circumference nowhere. Figuring out a reality via a teleology or thru logic is nicer to attempts at systems. But individual self is too mucky for any proof to say it exists; the murkiness shines, as it always does, when the means are prevalent, since the means, being held moment to moment, rely on nothing but expose a variety of paths to more variety. Philo then is better at least than Math for finding out something obfuscated, but nothing but poetry can so deeply probe the self, as its humility is lain in the respect for a complete dissembling of systems.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

the iconic ny jewish deli sandwich is in essence a robust mountain of roast beef held feebly between two unnecessary pieces of sad, chickenshit marble rye

the roast beef, of course, wld be kosher.

I create; I waste. Yet nothing is perfect, nothing, nothing. Not even dignity.

#prose #collage #frammenti #zibaldone #makeshift #god #god n stuff #prowse #writing

[itsteaveetime]

Hey, if you're still taking prompts, can I request Mike T. getting his wisdom teeth out, based on the video of Mike W. getting his out on Instagram?

//Send me a prompt, get a drabble/one-shot.  Always accepting prompts.  Hopefully not supplying fics that completely suck.//

Mike Teavee is not cuddly.He never has been. Not even really as a baby, despite Ethel’s tendency to view his pre-walking, talking, and texting years through rosy tinted nostalgic glasses. He had (in Ethel’s biased opinion) been adorable, of course: thick dark hair and huge blue eyes, but he spent a lot more time crying and drooling than cooing sweetly at her than she likes to admit.A little like how he is drooling now, ironically. Of course now there’s more blood.

She presses a towel wrapped around a package of frozen peas to her son’s mouth. His head is propped up by pillows, but he’s still mostly out of it. Tears still cling to his long dark lashes.She secretly enjoys these moments, just a little bit.  Not his pain, of course.  But under normal circumstances he wouldn’t allow her to hover so close. He would be annoyed if she tried to brush the hair off of his forehead. She can look at his face for as long as she likes when he’s like this, without him twisting it up in disgust. At least: until the drugs wear off.Michael has to be sedated for every dental visit. Even for something as simple as a cleaning. That’s been the deal ever since he punched one of the dentists out for ‘lying’ (“He said it wasn’t gonna hurt and it hurt”). Even at 14 they have to dope him up, knock him out, and strap him down.  It’s far from the only place where certain precautions are taken due to her son being…her son. But the dentist’s is the only one that leaves her with such a pliable little boy; one who answers to 'Mikey’, and doesn’t remember that he did so later, and as such doesn’t punish her in any way for upsetting his 'street cred’ (or whatever the kids today call it).  And Mike does need a lot of dental work.  He isn’t very diligent about brushing and he grinds his teeth like a horse, even on an SSRI.But nothing about Mike comes completely without complications. She keeps one eye on her son.  She keeps the other on his phone.She isn’t sure how (particularly because of his temporary loss of fine motor skills), but in the time between when he first comes to, and they allow her to collect him, he always manages to text or tweet at or FaceTime someone. She has, over the years, ended up apologizing on his behalf to a wide variety of people. From local businesses to the presidents of small nations. She’s never able to explain how he manages to get their numbers: he just does. That’s just Mike.Today is unlikely to be an exception.  Today has not been a simple cleaning.  

There is always the chance she will be fielding a complaint from Jerry Jubilee’s publicist shortly, but lately (at least, since regaining his height after visiting Wonka’s factory), Mike tends to limit his drugged contacts to a smaller and more familiar circle.Some time last year he sent a long rambling missive to Mrs. Gloop (specifically Mrs. Gloop, not her son) full of half hysterical sobbing about jello molds (Ethel has no idea what that’s about, her casseroles are just fine), and wildly complimenting her ability to knit. Michael has no idea why he suddenly began receiving regular care packages full of sweaters and scarves from Germany, and Ethel isn’t about to tell him because oddly enough: he actually wears them. Mrs. Gloop knows a boy’s color palate when she sees it, and all of her offerings are acceptably black on black, with maybe a touch of neon.  Ethel had not been previously aware that one could knit an iPad cover, but Mike is particularly pleased with that creation.  Although Ethel privately suspects the device never really has the chance to get cold.Slightly more recently, well…she had rather liked it when Oleg Salt had rung up, even though he had insisted on calling her 'Mrs. Television’. Ethel has and has had her hands too full with Mike to even think about re-entering the dating scene, but she’s not dead: the Russian oligarch is a looker. She’s still not exactly sure what Mike might have said to him or his daughter, but she wouldn’t entirely mind if Mr. Salt had to call again.  A lady can have her dreams on those cold Idaho nights. Whoever Mike has bothered this time is taking their time saying anything about it.  There’s probably some way of finding out who they are, but she couldn’t possibly.  His little computer phone intimidates her: it has no buttons.  Best to just sit and wait and enjoy her son’s heavily drugged company and hope whoever she ends up having to speak to speaks English.

Mike’s head has lolled onto her shoulder, and Ethel is feeling particularly maternal, despite the fact that Mike has definitely already ruined her blouse, when his phone buzzes to life.

“Phooooooooone,” he mumbles into her neck.

“Oh.  I…right,” Ethel says, to the phone mostly.  “I just…”

She manages to retrieve the device without sending him tumbling to the floor, and then to wrangle one of his limp hands into activating the device, by placing his thumb over the little circle at the bottom herself.  The phone is…alive now, but she has missed the call.  She did see that the number was labelled something: Old Man.  Her heart screeches to a stop for a second, like a needle across a record, but it couldn’t possibly be: Mike does not speak to his father.  He would never have the man’s number saved in his phone, would he?

The device begins to vibrate in her hand again.

“Phone,” Mike mumbles.

“…Hello?” Ethel says, dubiously.

“Hello Mrs. T., I have some concerns,” the voice on the other end of the line (although Ethel supposes they don’t really use lines anymore) says.

She doesn’t know how he knows so quickly that it is her: this is Michael’s phone.  Most people are at least a little confused when she answers it (which she does rarely, because when alert Michael does not allow her to touch his phone).  It seems unlikely that he might have recognized her voice, although she recognizes his instantly.  As if she could forget it.

“Mr. Wonka,” Ethel begins.  “…whatever Michael did, I’m so sorry, but it really wasn’t his fault this time.” 

“He’s sent me twenty-seven video messages, and I don’t mean to alarm you, but I suspect he may have gotten into some of your, uh, ‘lemonade’,” Wonka tells her.

“Oh, no,” Ethel protests.  “I would never let him do that.”

Wouldn’t she?  No, she wouldn’t.  Not that Ethel isn’t a cool mom, but she needs that ‘lemonade’ for herself. 

“Tell ‘im he’s old,” Mike tells her hair.  “S’important an’ he needs to know.”

“He’s had his wisdom teeth out,” Ethel says, hoping Wonka cannot hear what Michael is saying.

“…oh,” Wonka replies.  

The man sounds strangely small on the other end of the phone.  Ethel supposes chocolatiers and dentists may be some sort of natural enemies, but she’s not sure that quite accounts for how he sounds.

“Mo-om,” Michael is saying in her ear, over and over.  She can feel drool dripping down her back.  At least, she hopes it is just drool.

“Also tell him he’s my friend.”

Michael is crying softly now, which is just sort of how coming off of meds like these goes.  She knows better than to think it means anything.

“Heeeeeee’s my friend and it’s too late he just is,” Mike sobs.

She would place her hand over the receiver if this was any sort of normal phone, but Mike’s little black box doesn’t have one that she can find.

“It’s just the medication,” Ethel continues, apologetically over her son’s sobs.  “They make him…like this, and he won’t remember it tomorrow, and I’m sure he’d appreciate if you didn’t say anything about it.”

There’s a thoughtful moment of silence from Wonka.

“My lips are sealed,” he finally says, which Ethel considers surprisingly mature of him, until the chocolatier goes on to say:

“I’ll just save these somewhere for future blackmail.”

Ethel rolls her eyes, but that does sound more like the Wonka she knows.  Not that she knows him.  Not, apparently, like Michael knows him.

“I should get back to him,” she says.

Mike is clinging to her waist. 

“Of course,” Wonka says.  And then: “…you know what they say, though: in vino veritas.  Well, good-bye.”

Ethel does know that they say that.  Of course she of all people would.  It’s not something she puts much stock in.

But as her son puts his head in her lap and lets her stroke his hair (something he does secretly like even when he is sober) and mumbles something that sounds very much like ‘I love you’, she cannot help but hope that Wonka has a point.  

#charlie and the chocolate factory #catcf broadway #fanfic #prompts #mike teavee #Ethel Teavee #willy wonka #dilf salt

[sakuurae]

any writing tips u can share?? i adore your work so much, just the way everythings described flows so nicely~

Mmmm, im not the best with this, but ill try ^~^ thank you by the way! Ehehe, it means a lot.This advice will go on like stepping stones, haha.

1. This is probably the most broad thing i can say, but just keep on writing. When i used to tutor creative writing (or english as a whole, lol) i met a lot of students who were so focused on sculpting their writing to perfection, and the purpose of it was lost along the way. This happens a lot, from what ive seen, in creative writing. I feel as if when writers are more focused on creation their pieces to perfection in hopes of it being acknowledged and seen, theyre not writing for themselves anymore; thus, this leads into the second piece of advice. Practice makes perfect. Everything that you will write you are improving in every single piece—even if you dont realize it. The things ive written two weeks ago make me cringe, but thats a sign of improvement.

Work with your strengths, and improve your weaknesses.

Go back and read your old work so you can see what you like and dont like—what you should improve on or keep doing.

2. Write for yourself. The value of your work is so much more when you write for yourself because it makes you happy.

Moving onto the composition work…

1. Vocabulary bank. It takes a while to build up a wide vocabulary bank, but its worth it. In my opinion, its more engrossing to read a piece with a lot of high vocabulary over the simple words. It bumps up everything, and if theres a good sentence flow then its a plus.

I studied word lists everyday, and i always do every other day because i want to keep on building up my vocab. They are always out there, and its a total helper!!

For me, id rather read an entire piece that was written like an SRI test over pieces that dont have that much high lexicon.

This also becomes the case for the word said. There are many words out there to use aside said, like drones, equivocates, gasps, jeers, etc.

Ex: “He wanted to tell her the truth.” ➝ “He had an urge to apprise her of the concerning verities.”

2. Sentence structure. Some sentences are far too shot, and some are really extensive (and do not have commas, semi-colons—oh my goodness). Now, sentences dont always have to be extremely long; there should be a variety. Itll make the paragraph flow more, and you can get the emphasis where you want on certain places.

Ex: “His eyes shined under the darkness of the night. The smile that graced his face warmed you from the heart. And it was not an everyday occurrence for that to take place.” ➝ “The smile that graced his face made his eyes crinkle into crescent moons, the glint evident in his two orbs. It warmed you from the inside—his beaming grin—and it was not often you felt this from another individual.”

Speaking on this, try to not use the same prominent word twice in one sentence.

Ex: “He turned the paper face down, turning his head to face his friend.” ➝ “He turned the paper over, tilting his head to address his friend.”

3. Being metaphorical. Im not really sure how to elaborate on this; i guess it provides more depth/character to the paragraph?? Aah, heres an example instead.

Ex: “The sky was a calming blue, the cluster of brilliant stars surreal to your eyes.” ➝ “The curtain of aegean draped over the muted sky, golden pins splaying upon the surface.”

4. Adjectives. It bumps up your sentences—trust me. With more details, it becomes easier to picture in your mind. Have you read a smut without adjectives, and another smut with? The difference is quite prominent because with one you can imagine the scene with more detail, and the other not as well.

Ex: “His member was twitching, the pleasure of being inside you unbearable.” ➝ “His stiff member was twitching uncontrollably, the overwhelming pleasure of being inside you borderline unbearable.”

or

“Sweat dripped from his forehead.” ➝ “Beads of sweat slowly dripped from his forehead.”

But try to not be heavy on the adjectives… i still struggle with this, haha, but i think many readers can tell if you have a thesaurus in hand or not.

5. Paragraph breaks. This might not seem like a biggie, and it is completely up to you when you decide to break paragraphs, but there are times that one must paragraph break… like with dialogues or setting changes, or when a new character is introduced. Please… avoid the block… oh my goodness…

6. This might be a me thing… but go into detail with the actions. To say this under a brighter light, imagine this: actions during a kiss scene. When you kiss someone, you and the other’s mouths arent the only thing that are moving, and the touch of the lips arent the only thing youre feeling. 

Ex: “He pressed his lips against yours, his mouth prancing to the melody of your heartbeat.” (and thats it) ➝ “He pressed his lips against your own, his mouth prancing to the melody of your heartbeat as his hands trace the outline of your body. You palm snakes up his back, only to place it on the nape of his neck to tug him closer. At such a closed proximity, you noticed something else: his scent. There was a swirl of cinnamon and vanilla that intoxicated your senses… etc.”

What im trying to say is that going into some detail, brief or not, about actions will add more sparkle into the paragraph—especially dialogue.

Ex: “’You’re kidding me,’ he groaned, flailing his arms in the air animatedly. He was in a disbelief at the sudden news, lodged at a crossroads on how to respond. ‘You’re fucking kidding me!’

You took a step back, placing a fist over your heart cautiously. ‘I-I’m sorry,’ you uttered weakly, tears pooling at your eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to.’”

Obviously the apostrophes wont be there in the final product, lol, it would perturb me if i didnt write that grammatically correct, ahaha.

Think of these composition levels as a pyramid. From letters, to words, to sentences, to paragraphs, the purpose of the piece, etc. The letters would be the bottom. So if you mess up at the bottom of the pyramid, the rest is disrupted. I read over a paper before where the first and second base were horrendous, and i was correcting it so much. The student came up to me and asked me what i thought about the message of the piece, but i actually paused and thought. I was so focused on correcting the mistakes—paying attention to the mistakes—to the point i missed the entire purpose of the piece. So, honestly, proofreading will be your best friend here.

All of this falls under the tab of your style. Remember, dont try to force out word after word to sculpt your piece into perfection. Work with your strengths, find your weaknesses and improve.

On the finding inspiration and keeping motivation side…

1. Work at your own pace. Do what makes you feel like your best work will be exhibited, and dont let other deadlines push you at your limit. Personal deadlines would most likely take the fun out of your writing process, and you might miss some particulars youd wish to convey—so dont rush! Trust me on this, lol. I made this mistake again when writing overrated, and im so hesitant to even hit that upload button because of how much i rushed it to meet my personal deadline. I keep re-reading and editing it, but i know that if i spent my time on it and pushed aside the personal deadline then it would be better.

2. Inspiration comes at the most random of times. I got ideas from waiting in the line in the bathroom and in the middle of my english class; they come when you least expect them too. If you force it out then it wont be that good (for me, that is). Of course, you can go out and find inspiration by walking outside or listening to music, but dont try to force out ideas—let them come to you.

You can write about real life occurrences that have taken place, or base stories off those. ‘Two Cups of Sugar’ is based off my friends experience of trying to get a guys number at an ice cream bar, but always failing so she went back around seven times—and only got his name in the end.

An upcoming fic i have is based off my boyfriend and i, and how we came to be. To be honest, all my fics are based off some real life experiences i had, or some outrageous stories my friends have told me. ‘Study Sessions’ was some real events, and a few scenes in ‘After Hours.’ What im trying to say is that those simple stories can take you a long way. The scene that started ‘After Hours’ was my friend talking about a bar. It was supposed to be a 4k bar scene, but after thinking about her experience and incorporating it into my own piece, it built its own way to 21k, and an ongoing series.

3. Keeping up motivation. Depending on what youre writing, you should focus on those elements. For example, im writing two fics—one of them being a basketball au and the other a soccer au. My motivation for that has seriously been dying, so ive been watching basketball videos and soccer games to keep my motivation running. Also, it helps when writing out action scenes, ahaha. I also talk to my friends that play those sports and ask them about how they feel about it and the rules of the game. Just kindle your flame with more information.

I know im not the best at giving advice… and there is way more in this whole writing sphere that im not addressing, but i hope this helps!! This is just what i think, what i go through, and my opinion—i really hope this helps you out. I wasnt sure what department you wanted concrete information on, whether it be the writing process or inspiration side or etc, so i briefly did all three :)

I know its a lot, so thank you for spending the time to read all of this ^~^

#Aaah this was great to type with my coffee ahaha #im sitting in the uni right now mortified at the fact i made a typo in my submitted work LOL #but yeah!! i hope this helps somehow ;; #rae rambles #writing advice #anonymous #messages

[punkascas]

Fic Author Interview

tagged by: the wonderfully talented and incredibly sweet @amirosebooks  ❤

tagging: @iggyw @tenoko1 @casolantern @schmerzerling @amazinmango @serricoj @rainbofiction @coffeeandcas @topaz-eyes @angelofthemoor @culumacilinte @coplins

im going to do this from the slightly broader perspective of creative writing in general (since i write fic but i also write scripts and things for my job). also this is v long. sorry.

What inspires your work most? (The show it is based on, the actor who portrays a certain character, maybe the character itself…? It could even be an experience.) so generally my inspiration is (in order): (a) my own life experiences, (b) some kind of commentary i want to make about the source material or about fiction or fandom in general, and (c) the characters themselves and the aspects i love in them, especially trying to find ways to play with the duality of their personalities, the good aspects and the negative ones.  i’ve known for a long time that what drives me to create is that i want to make other people feel less alone. you know those times to read something or there’s a line someone says, and you’re like, yes, yes, that’s me; no one’s ever gotten that before or at least never put it so perfectly into words, whatever that experience/feeling might be. i want to give people that moment with anything i create. there’s also a lot of things that i’ve experienced in my life that come up relatively often in fiction, or at least in fic, and a lot of it usually is off-putting to me. it never resonates. it’s melodramatic or simply inaccurate, and i think is often written by someone who doesn’t have the lived experience to pull from. so i always want to add my voice to the pile and benefit from my own experiences to make those kinds of tropes and situations more realistic and relatable -- to me, but hopefully also to others.  like generally every character backstory or character arc i write in fic is something pulled from my own life. like it’s probably twisted or adapted somewhat, because i’m not into being autobiographical. but as an example, in faith healer, this bit: Memory degrades with time. Maybe as a child he knew that somehow. He knew that there would be a second, slower death across time, as she became more of idea than person, and so he clung onto specific moments as a talisman for Mom: I had a mom once; this was my mommy. He remembers her hands best. The way her skin was thin and dry, but her fingers strong, and the way they'd close around his hands. The way she would press in love and good luck and humility when he misbehaved with a squeeze to his chubby, too small hands. Second best he remembers her laugh, the way her mouth moved around a smile, the warmth in it, tinged with embarrassment whenever someone startled it out from her. The rest of the memories are vague, more like facts he can read out of a mental police blotter than lived experience. She used to wear some kind of fleece robe in the winter, thick and pilled, creating a soft cushion between her breasts for his head to rest when he sat in her lap for a story. He thinks the robe was red. She used to bake things from scratch and used to let him pretend to help. On Sundays she did laundry, down in the basement. He followed her once, asking when Dad would come back, and she paused on the landing, basket of clothes cocked on her hip, and wouldn't go any further until he went back upstairs. The basement, she said, was too dangerous for him, dark and damp. She wanted him to be safe. She always cut the crust off his sandwiches. that is my experience of my grandmother’s death. when she died i knew i would forget over time the specific details of her, so i picked a couple to remind myself of daily so i’d never forget them. and that was her hands and her laugh. and i do have that memory of her doing the laundry and standing on the landing to the basement asking her where my dad was and when he’d be back (he was on an 18 month voyage to africa - my dad is a sailor). and she did always cut the crusts off my sandwiches for me.  (and btw i can’t ever re-read that passage with crying.)

What is your favorite fandom to write for? i mean, usually whatever my main fandom is at the time? which right now is spn. i did also enjoy writing potc fic and RDJ films sherlock holmes. i like writing characters who have a very strong but also very biased or unusual perspective on the world. they make for good unreliable narrators, which is something i love doing.

Which perspective do you prefer writing in? (First-person, third-person) always, always, always third-person limited is my go-to. i only write in first-person if the original source material is written that way (like ACD Sherlock Holmes) and i want to do a pastiche of that style. 

Do you prefer writing reader fics or OCs? no. full stop. (okay, one caveat: i do like kidfic, but i am also SUPER PICKY about reading it bc im always looking for some accurate representations of parenthood and what it’s like to have a child. like kids are hard??? they’re hard and they make you worry and they drive you crazy and they have their own, weird, stubborn, fascinating views on life and the world. they’re not perfect angel children who exist only to be cute or ridiculously amazing mary sue geniuses. so yeah a well done kidfic where the kid is an OC i will read.)

Do you prefer writing longer works or one shots? given that every single WIP i have right now are fucking, horrible, lengthy novels,i want to say i prefer writing one-shots. i want TO BE ABLE to write one-shots. i used to do???? but yeah, i guess i really do enjoy plotting and world-building, which lends itself to creating monster plot bunnies instead of short stories or quick scenes. 

Do you take requests? i do! do i ever actually get around to writing those requests is another question. but absolutely. send me prompts. ask for timestamps. if it speaks to me, and especially if it’s something i think i can write in less than 1000 words, i’ll most likely give it a go. 

Do you enjoy getting random Asks? yes! always! i try to respond at least with in 72 hours. but yes please COME TALK TO ME ANYTIME.

What inspires the names for OCs (or extra character names) in your works? Do you pick them from real life or just select them at random? A mix? so with fic, i never really write OCs, or if i do, they’re p much a red shirt or like extra #243 or smth and therefore don’t have names. if a character has spoken dialogue or no on-screen dialogue but some impact on the plot, i’ll try to “cast” that part with a character from the source material. for example, in the family business (which i realise isn’t posted yet), there’s some issues with a rival gang that need resolving. i cast the head of the rival gang as a well-known character from spn that has generally served a rival or an enemy to the boys on the show. i like doing that bc i like the parallels it draws, especially when working with an AU, and the ability to explore characters and dynamics from a slightly (or not slightly at all but in fact completely divergent) angle. i follow the philosophy that part of the real cathartic nature of AUs and part of why we write them is the ability to offer commentary on the source material. that a good AU should offer commentary on the source material. they're both metatexts and paratexts simultaneously. the one caveat to this, again, is kidfic, because i like and i do write it (i’ve just never finished any of those fics enough to publish them). and then i try to name kids in the way i think their parents would name them. i try to put myself in the character’s headspace and try to figure out what name(s) would appeal to them. and if we talk about work, and the scripts i write, i mean all of that is basically OCs. so far every script i’ve written while employed by my current firm, i always stick in at least one instance of one of my dogs’ names. i also will make subtle film or tv references. like the script i just wrote, there were three characters, and the first character had already been named harold by our content lead. so i named the other two perry and harmony as a reference to kiss kiss bang bang. i’ve done all the clones from orphan black as OC names. i’ve done members of radiohead.  if one of the scripts im writing already has a theme built into it for a specific pop culture reference (like yesterday one of the scripts i wrote was using yoda speech and star wars analogies as part of its marketing and engagement strategies) so i’ll name characters in line with that pop culture motif (so the star wars themed script has luke and ben and daisy and carrie as characters). 

If your story(ies) have OCs, are their appearances based on real people or celebrities? If so, who? as mentioned above, i rarely include OCs and if i do, they’re unimportant stand-ins. so i never give much thought to how they look. offspring in kidfic i do think about how they look. if the actors who play the main characters have children, i’ll start there. like for dean and cas, i always look at jj and west and maison and try to figure out what a kid with some of those combined physical features might look like. i’ll also look at photos of the actors from when they were kids or teenagers and try to decide if these two people had a kid, what features would that kid inherit.  for work, casting people depends on client expectations and design direction and budget, so it’s a different ballgame. 

How long have you been writing fanfiction? i think the first fic i published was in 2002 or 2003. so 15 years i guess??? how has it been 15 years dude. 

#tag games #kat talks #writing stuff #i heart fandom

[skepticaloccultist]

Hell Fire Club Books

Hell Fire Club Books is a rather remarkable, very old school approach to book binding and publishing. Helmed by Eamonn Loughran they have released an astounding collection of esoteric and occult volumes over the last two decades. Individually hand craft leather and vellum bound volumes, hand worked tooling and incredible editions and folio bindings are a hallmark of HFCB work.

After reviewing his incredible edition of the Keys of Rabbi Solomon I thought that a chat about the work his is doing would be enlightening to those who, like myself, have a love for fine bindings and beautiful books.

+++

Lets start off with a bit of background on Hell Fire Club. When did you start publishing fine bindings? What was your first volume?

Well 'Hell Fire Club Books' really began about 20-21 years ago with my interest in the PGMs (Greco Egyptian Magical Papyri) where I produced a facsimile of one document with suggested new readings, it was the legendary 'Headless God' invocation, something that I am working on completing for this year (yes 21 years later!). The real intent of Hell Fire Club Books was to provide a window into the magical current of an old incarnation of Thelema and to link that with the modern world. I was living in Buckinghamshire (UK) at the time and had been simultaneously researching Crowley's techniques in Liber Samekh and the history of the 18th century Hell Fire Club. Behind 'Hell Fire Club Books' is actually a small circle which keeps the legends and symbolism of the original Hell Fire Club alive, thats what makes it unique!

  Fine binding is having a renaissance at the moment, with deluxe editions becoming the norm for most publishers of the esoteric. HFCB on the other had is all fine bindings. How do you choose which works you feel need the special bindings you create?

Things jump at me! I literally get a big charge from the creative and magical work I'm handling and from there its a daemonic rush to the bindery where something physical takes shape! I was trained in a bindery in Nottingham UK which was established in 1903, the old guys had never worked anywhere else and binding in leather by hand was a daily practice. My first real test there was a run of over 450 leather bound books in silk lined boxes for the Houses of Parliament, a row of highly skilled craftsmen working like steam engines drinking tea all day and chatting about fishing and cricket with me in the middle trying to keep up! I learned from working with them and soaked it all up with enthusiasm every minute! I suppose I'm a visual and tactile thinker really, I've never understood the concept of a non-physical magic, for me everything is inherently physical and where the manifestation of a book touches people not only in distant places but across time then we can be sure that their experience is a more powerful one, a book literally initiates a new current.

Leather and vellum binding and sourcing high quality papers are increasingly difficult. Where do you acquire the variables for your productions?

Fortunately the best producers are all still in business! In the UK there are a number of bookbinder suppliers both trade and conservation etc plus good tanneries both here and in France and Germany. I have to say that from long experience there is only one supplier of vellum I would use and thats William Cowleys of Buckinghamshire, they have been in business over a hundred years and their work is perfection every time. I have used many paper-marblers and toolmakers over the years and have ventured into using letterpress a few times, we have two large format vintage presses here which I hope to use more of this year.

As our readers are aware I am a lover of beautiful bindings and consider it an art. Each of your works being made by hand and not outsourced means they are practically art objects. How do you feel about the sometimes eye watering secondary market valuations of your work?

Well to an extent the 'dealer' market can help to keep things in the public eye for many years, I do believe that many dealers are simply looking at the math and pricing accordingly, but yes there are a few examples of unfriendly pricing which is a pity. Personally I get more satisfaction in knowing that somebody out there got the one thing they really wanted than that a small number of people have one of everything. Im a bit of an idealist and would like to feel that handling a book or other object made by hand inspires people to really get into something, to really live it and for that magical act to reverberate throughout their lives.

Having done a bit of binding myself one hurdle has been finding the tools required to do the gold tooling for the covers, particularly the brass text pieces. How did you come on to the tool set you have?

I literally built it up over the last 10-15 years, I did inherit a significant collection of 19the and 20th century brass letters and tools (including sets in Greek and Hebrew) from the bindery I worked for, otherwise I have had tools designed and cut for each individual project. Theres a tray cabinet in the bindery with over a hundred drawers of tools and blocks which is a goldmine of ideas, sometimes I just spend an hour browsing!

Your recent publication of Peterson's translation of the Honorius looks to be another exceptional work. As you move forward with HFC do you foresee more contemporary works and translations being released?

Yes absolutely, in fact over the last year I have expanded the bindery and whether for my own imprint or for others I have been involved in at least one new publication per week. Over the last 9 years I was mostly involved in running a village pub in a place called Castle Bytham in Lincolnshire, the bindery then was a converted barn at the rear of the main building. To be honest I had outgrown it in the first few months and was looking for a larger workspace either within the village or nearby. About 12 months ago I took on a huge space in a Victorian malthouse which has since been filled with more benches, presses and so forth, a simply enormous studio but I love it!

Are you doing all of the bindery work yourself or do you have assistants? A run of hundreds of volumes is an incredible amount of work for an individual.

I am doing all the work myself I do have a bit of help with hand sewing one day a week but apart from that it's me myself and I! I was trained in a bindery established in 1903 and the prevailing attitude was pretty Victorian, the company was considered old fashioned on the 1960s and hadn't changed a bit when I worked there! I worked with a bunch of old guys who had either been letterpress trade apprentices or had gone up in the trade as bookbinders, one even had his original indenture (a form of apprentices' contact which goes back over 100 years). I actually own a set of presses and hand tools which were bought by the company when they stared as a stationers shop in the early 1900s, one of the hand tools is dateable to the 18th century (it was in a biscuit tin!) and was a treasured talisman until the company moved premises and I inherited it.

I do often hear the voices of the old binders I used to work with, turning the same presses daily that they worked at for forty years, old chaps who loved cricket, fishing and weekends away in caravans. What always tickled me was the way they gently poked fun at each other about things that happened over thirty years previously! I'm the late 1960s one of the guys had fancied himself as a songwriter and even appeared on an early television talent show, he was beaten to the prize by a singing dog, his workmates never let him forget it and thirty years later they all still sang the song on his birthday!

Do you have a particular work you feel is your masterpiece so far? One that stands out to you as an exemplar of your fantastic skills?

I guess I would have to say that the vellum edition of The Holy Books of Thelema in a leather clamshell box was pretty damn good! I got a real kick out of making all the books and boxes for all the different sets, it was over 1000 books handmade plus boxes etc so a huge commitment for one person but to think that it was the first time (since Crowley's own 1909 edition) that the Holy Books had been produced in the manner he specified, arranged exactly as the A.'.A.'. students ought to receive it. After that I think that 'The Sacred Magic of Abramelin' edited by Georg Dehn (both vellum and calfskin editions) and the 'Honorius' by Joseph Peterson are rather special.

Tell me about the re-release of "Secret Symbols of The Hell Fire Club". What type of binding and edition size can we look forward to?

The Secret Symbols of The Hell Fire Club has been an important publication for us since its first release seven years ago, it went out of print very quickly and copies are extremely difficult to find even for our members. An electronic version was made available but since then both new information and original sources have come to light which make a new edition essential. I should imagine we will produce a limited number of leather copies and a trade edition which will be sent out mainly through the United States.

The book traces the ideas and history behind the Hell Fire Club of the 18th century and gives an insight into its survival today, following clues left in the caves at West Wycombe and architecturally in the house and surrounding area, an initiatory journey is unfolded which throws light on the nature of the current of Thelema before Crowley, a mystery school with a symbolism otherwise unknown.

Have you done commission work or custom volumes for individuals or other publishers? Is that something you are open to doing?

I have done many commissions over the years and am working on a few now, mostly private manuscripts that require archival boxes or some manner of conservation but occasionally rebinding older printed books and creating blank books and artists books. Large format work is a particular favourite of mine and I love using the bigger presses to produce monsters!

I have worked with other publishers on a number of occasions and there are some well known esoteric works I have had a quiet hand in, I think in time the bindery will expand again as we continue to publish and to accept archival and private work. Who knows what the future holds...

Explore the many creations of Eamonn's Hell Fire Club Books here:

www.hellfireclubbooks.co.uk

#skeptical occultist #occult #occult books #antiquarian books #grimoire #thelema #crowley #magic #black mgaic #witch #witchcraft #folkwitch #occult publishing #hellfire club books #hellfireclub #alchemy #necromancy #bruja #bruxa #hex #curse #conjuration #invocation #gnostic mass #cunning craft

[flowercoasts]

1-99 😘

1: 6 of the songs you listen to most?“Subway Car” by Marc E. Bassy, “Cruisin’ for a Bruisin’” from Teen Beach Movie, “Gotta Go my Own Way” from High School Musical 2, “Til I Forget About You” by Big Time Rush, “I Won’t Say (I’m In Love)” from Hercules, and “Honeymoon Avenue” by Ariana Grande2: If you could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?i wanna meet the robodog3: Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 23, give me line 17.“I hope no fish will come along so great that he will prove us wrong.”4: What do you think about most?my girlfriend5: What does your latest text message from someone else say?welcome to an episode of worth it6: Do you sleep with or without clothes on?with7: What’s your strangest talent?i can wiggle my eyebrows like wavy caterpillars dancing on my forehead8: Girls… are amazing wonderful stunning showstopping gorgeoust 11/10; Boys… some of them are cute sometimes9: Ever had a poem or song written about you?not that i know of10: When is the last time you played the air guitar?…earlier today11: Do you have any strange phobias?not really12: Ever stuck a foreign object up your nose?no but one time i had a marble in my mouth and i was choking on it but dont worry i swallowed it down with water13: What’s your religion?none at the moment14: If you are outside, what are you most likely doing?hanging out with my friends or cousins15: Do you prefer to be behind the camera or in front of it?depends but mostly in front of it16: Simple but extremely complex. Favorite band?Big Time Rush. Beatles whom?17: What was the last lie you told?“im totally nOt GAy”18: Do you believe in karma?not really :/19: What does your URL mean?my psn was flowercoast but the url here was taken so i added the s20: What is your greatest weakness; your greatest strength?- cannot start conversations with new people for the life of me- im p easy going i guess21: Who is your celebrity crush?i started getting back into glee recently so.. Dianna Agron22: Have you ever gone skinny dipping?nope23: How do you vent your anger?i either rant online or to my friends24: Do you have a collection of anything?stuffed animals! (an accidental collection)25: Do you prefer talking on the phone or video chatting online?depends on my mood but usually video chatting bc i like to see the other person and also i talk more with my actions than my words26: Are you happy with the person you’ve become?somewhat27: What’s a sound you hate; sound you love?i absolutely hate multiple sounds including, but not limited to: nails scratching on chalkboards, the sound of utensils making the horrible scraping sound i love the sound of the ocean breaking, the early morning (5am - 7/8 am), the woods in the morning28: What’s your biggest “what if”?what if i had went to the same schools as my friends29: Do you believe in ghosts? How about aliens?yes and yes30: Stick your right arm out; what do you touch first? Do the same with your left arm.my window and my phone31: Smell the air. What do you smell?my window is open and someone is cooking barbecue down the street32: What’s the worst place you have ever been to?marin33: Choose: East Coast or West Coast?west coast. i really liked east coast the times i went but west coast is still the best coast :)))34: Most attractive singer of your opposite gender?zayn 35: To you, what is the meaning of life?live life to the fullest bois36: Define Art.as long as it expresses feeling37: Do you believe in luck?sort of38: What’s the weather like right now?foggy and a little cold but not too cold by sf standards39: What time is it?4:1940: Do you drive? If so, have you ever crashed?no and no41: What was the last book you read?Romeo and Juliet for my english class42: Do you like the smell of gasoline?no43: Do you have any nicknames?flower, sunnisides, eggs, nana (banana)44: What was the last film you saw?Guardians of the Galaxy 2 i think45: What’s the worst injury you’ve ever had?walking pneumonia. WORST46: Have you ever caught a butterfly?nope47: Do you have any obsessions right now?not really tbh48: What’s your sexual orientation?bi babe bean49: Ever had a rumour spread about you?in middle school there was a rumour i had a foot fetish which i DO NOT SMH… even though i kind of started it but i was joking i s2g50: Do you believe in magic?sure!51: Do you tend to hold grudges against people who have done you wrong?depends tbh52: What is your astrological sign?aries/pisces but i relate to aries more53: Do you save money or spend it?…spend it…54: What’s the last thing you purchased?besides food, i bought my girlfriend an umbreon pillow55: Love or lust?love56: In a relationship?ohohoh heck ye57: How many relationships have you had?one 58: Can you touch your nose with your tongue?i did it yesterday on facetime, my gf can confirm59: Where were you yesterday?at school bc finals ugh60: Is there anything pink within 10 feet of you?yes, my perfume and my brush61: Are you wearing socks right now?nope my feet are finally free62: What’s your favourite animal?it changes but i really like the Bigg Cats like jaguars and cheetahs63: What is your secret weapon to get someone to like you?charm the socks off of them by extreme flirting64: Where is your best friend?doin somethin wild probably65: Give me your top 5 favourite blogs on Tumblr.idk man soz66: What is your heritage?my grandma on my mom’s side is half spanish, and she grew up in a spanish household but otherwise i’m pretty filipino67: What were you doing last night at 12AM?facetiming my wonderful gf68: What do you think is Satan’s last name?Esteban Julio Ricardo Montoya de la Rosa Ramírez69: Be honest. Ever gotten yourself off?……….. n…o……. REST IN PIECES PATRICIA70: Are you the kind of friend you would want to have as a friend?maybe? probably. idk71: You are walking down the street on your way to work. There is a dog drowning in the canal on the side of the street. Your boss has told you if you are late one more time you get fired. What do you do?im saving the dog no second thoughts as soon like as i see that dog - i’m FUCKIN NYOOM72: You are at the doctor’s office and she has just informed you that you have approximately one month to live. a) Do you tell anyone/everyone you are going to die? b) What do you do with your remaining days? c) Would you be afraid?i would tell most everyone, i would do everything i’ve wanted to do, and i would be very afraid 73: You can only have one of these things; trust or love.why can’t we have both? :’( 74: What’s a song that always makes you happy when you hear it?any disney song ever, any song from BTR’s first album75: What are the last four digits in your cell phone number?991776: In your opinion, what makes a great relationship?the memes77: How can I win your heart?you gotta be a Ukrainian horse goblin sorry i don’t make the rules78: Can insanity bring on more creativity?? idk79: What is the single best decision you have made in your life so far?i have never made any good decision in my life ever… except dating my gf80: What size shoes do you wear?7 and a half81: What would you want to be written on your tombstone?gg82: What is your favourite word?thrussy83: Give me the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word; heart.being passionate about something84: What is a saying you say a lot?“why are you like this” or “i hate you all”85: What’s the last song you listened to?“Slide” by Calvin Harris, Frank Ocean, and Migos86: Basic question; what’s your favourite colour/colours?yellow and pink :)87: What is your current desktop picture?my dog n cat together 88: If you could press a button and make anyone in the world instantaneously explode, who would it be?there are. too many people89: What would be a question you’d be afraid to tell the truth on?OHOHOHO why dont yall ask n guess. you wONT90: One night you wake up because you heard a noise. You turn on the light to find that you are surrounded by MUMMIES. The mummies aren’t really doing anything, they’re just standing around your bed. What do you do?i find toilet paper and wrap myself in it bc i don’t wanna feel excluded, my n my mummy bois are havin fun tonight goodbye forever parents91: You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What is that power?shapeshifting as hell92: You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again?my entire fifth grade year :’)93: You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?aahahahahha…. too many whomst94: You have the opportunity to sleep with the music-celebrity of your choice. Who would it be?my girlfriend95: You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go?i love New Orleans96: Do you have any relatives in jail?i don’t think so97: Have you ever thrown up in the car?nope!98: Ever been on a plane?multiple times now99: If the whole world were listening to you right now, what would you say?this thrussy pops severely

#asks #SO LONNGGGG