#[ continues to think of them in the context of one sided for majority of their careers

[marinehero-a]

thinks ab them.... sengoku/garp....

#{ ooc } ✗ 「 WENP reporter 」 #[ everyone asleep time to think ab old men holding hands---- #[ continues to think of them in the context of one sided for majority of their careers #[ sengoku recognizing feelings but recognizing that they're approach to their jobs are too different / it would be too much of a distraction #[ so saying nothing #[ and garp just utterly oblivious / never rly thinking about it because they're friends / has no understanding of romance #[ everyone in marineford wondering if they're official or not..... #[ tsuru isn't paid enough for any of this #[ acting like bickering husbands and yet </3 #[ knowing each other morals/stances clash but still caring deeply for each other and being there when they can be for each other #[ the fleet admiral and the hero of the marines #[ rat shaking it all #[ don't think anything would rly work until like after sengoku retires but thinks ab it... #[ slow burn material---- #[ dshjsdlk #[ sighs #[ head in hands i want to write So bad but the energy... has not been..... #[ tryin to get something done for the roger pirates week thing n got drafts but struggling to finish anything </3 #[ january isn't real it can't hurt me--- #[ anyway if anyone ever picks up sengoku as a muse--- /lh /lh

[babacontainsmultitudes]

I'm not the first person to bring this up but, I do feel that the general response to the gun range scene has mostly failed to acknowledge the context that would call for such extreme levels of self-defense training in the first place. We know from episode 23 that even just a few years after the release of the doodler (when Lark and Sparrow themselves are still just teens) things are already pretty bad (to the extent that in Lark's case the stress of it all has already begun to take a physical toll on him- don't forget that he and Sparrow too were once kids who had the world placed on their shoulders), and one need only look at how quickly the situation with the mayor has degraded to imagine how bad things would have gotten by the time Hero was 12. Training your six-year-old to use a gun in a normal or at least mostly normal world? Batshit crazy. Training your six-year-old to use a gun in a world overrun by an eldritch horror where danger, death, and the possibility of corruption from said eldritch horror are around every corner? Still intense but, much easier to understand the reasoning behind.

oh oops it's a long post woops woops woops

In Sparrow's case in particular, we know that he behaves quite differently under alternative circumstances, and that Normal (Hero too for that matter) lives a pretty different life in a post code purple world:

Not that it hasn't been Sparrow's intent and priority to mitigate the extent to which Normal was caught up in everything from the get-go, as evidenced by his namesake. Recall what he had to say on the matter:

In some ways this extreme self-defense training is a "two sides of the same coin" sort of deal vis-a-vis Grant's extreme isolation of Lincoln for his protection, a major difference being that Lincoln still deals with this in a post code purple world (to the extent that he literally had to pretend to starve himself to get his dad to let him go to public school), whereas Normal and Hero get the chance to live mostly normal lives and do as they please (the disapproving words of a drunken and partially-doodlerized Sparrow aside), now removed from the immediate threat of the doodler.

Hero's case is, at least from what we currently know about the prophecy, more complicated than Norm's. It is easy to reprimand Lark and Sparrow as being the worst parents (and/or uncles) whilst forgetting that their circumstances are fundamentally different from the other kiddads. The first half of this lying in their shared responsibility (and guilt) in releasing the doodler. Grant and Nicky can retreat to their respective homes on the basis that this is the best they can do, resolving to put their energy into protecting their closest ones first and foremost. At the end of the day, they aren't really any more responsible for dealing with the doodler than any other bystander. The same cannot be said of Lark and Sparrow, who can't exactly look away from the fact that they were the ones who brought the doodler into the world. At least from their perspectives- of course Lark (and Sparrow by extension) in reality was a child that was manipulated into doing what he did, which as some people have pointed out is not dissimilar to what happened to Normal at the end of this episode (and if Sparrow felt the need to rid Normal of his memories of this event in particular, perhaps it was to spare his child from feeling guilty about it for the rest of his life).

The second half of what differentiates them is, of course, the prophecy (right- now we can actually get to Hero lol). We must remember that, as far as the twins knew, the only way to actually "defeat" the doodler permanently was through the chosen one, i.e. Hero (probably- after last episode I'm starting to think that Norm may be more directly involved in the prophecy than previously thought, but that's a tangent). "Continue to let the being you released into the world kill and torture millions (very likely billions) of people, which could wind up including both of your children, or put your ill-fated child through very intense and ultimately traumatizing training to put an end to it, potentially losing her in the process", is essentially the choice the twins were given. Hero isn't made to kill a deer with her bare hands for the hell of it, she goes through what she does because Lark (who likely did not see the same thing that Normal did on the throne- or at the very least interpreted things very differently) and Sparrow had no reason to believe that there was any other possibility. This certainly does not negate or undermine the extent to which Hero was deeply traumatized by it all, but it's not exactly a detail that you can choose to ignore when discussing the ethics of Lark and Sparrow's decision-making.

And yet, despite it all, Sparrow and Lark do ultimately chose saving their children over saving the world. Not before significant damage has already been done (to Hero that is), but they do decide to go through with the one plan that allows both of their children to (hopefully) live a doodler-free life: code purple. Code purple, which ultimately reduces to a trolley problem with a presumably near-equal number of people on both tracks, with the important difference of sparing their own children in one case, and likely not the other. And if we want to talk about Henry's ethical stance in the matter and how it compares to the twins, we need to consider what it says about him if he was *not* in favor of code purple, with all of this in mind. Not to come to any hasty conclusions about Henry either- I think there remains too many unknowns on that front to assume much and... Ultimately it's a complicated matter! But that's kind of my point.

Even post code purple, Lark and Sparrow (and the rest of the kiddads) try to pursue that which they believe (or at least hope) will both put an end to the doodler without involving their children and without the enactment of the prophecy. Is blowing up an entire world with the sun to save all the others a plan I'm gonna sit here and defend? I don't think so lol, but you can't exactly look at it and pretend that Lark and Sparrow don't care about protecting their fucking kids.

My point isn't that Lark and Sparrow haven't made a lot of mistakes and questionable decisions, my point is that their circumstances are so much less black and white than the majority of the takes I see on them make them out to be, and a lot of the conclusions I see people jump to when it comes to the twins' feelings and intentions strike me as... Pretty odd? Tangentially-related: if you don't think Sparrow is someone who is affectionate with and deeply loves his kids despite his flaws, I don't really think we're listening to the same podcast. But even in Lark's case, yes he's more subtle about it and yes, Lark can be quick to anger (not that I personally read him yelling in the last episode as anger so much as panic but all the same), but affection can be sewing bulletproof material into your nephew's mascot costume, or secretly taking him out for pizza, or pretending to be his dad so that you can tell him you're proud of him, or putting your gun down when he asks you to. The twins are anything but perfect but, fuck if they aren't trying (and changing, and improving). And yes, they deserve some damn nuance.

Also, okay, I couldn't really find a neat way to bring this up in the above but, speaking of no-nuance and bad faith takes, can we talk about the locks? Or lack thereof, rather. "How could they be so stupid as to leave the door unlocked?" you're right, that does seem odd, and Anthony made a point to explain that every other door was very thoroughly locked, and Normal seemed to have practically been moved into opening the door against his own will so... Hear me out, maybe, just maybe, the door usually *is* locked??? And something fishy or unusual is afoot? I also wouldn't take their immediate, knee-jerk reactions to a dangerous flesh monster being released to come to any conclusions on whether or not Lark and Sparrow "blame" six-year-old Normal for it. In Sparrow's case, I struggle to even imagine it. In Lark's case, though I wouldn't put him above getting angry over it, my doubts on his deeper feelings are still high. Conversely, if he actually did place some of the blame on Normal, at the very least there is an interesting discussion to be had on how this relates to Lark's own guilt over what Willy manipulated him into doing, and subsequently being denied the catharsis of punishment. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Like I said, a lot of important things are yet unknown.

*breathes* okay end of overdue ramble [insert proper conclusion paragraph here lol], thank you.

#dndads #dungeons and daddies #boy. yeah always an ordeal discussing matters related to Hero. Easy to attract misunderstanding- I think. Again it is. A Complicated Affair #but well- had to share my two cents otherwise it surely woulda bugged me lots #hopefully this all makes sense enough I know I kinda went a bunch of different places as usual :0 #sparrow oak #lark oak #hero oak swallows garcia #normal oak swallows garcia #normal oak #lark oak garcia #sparrow oak garcia #dndads s2 ep 47 #baba babbles

[ishcliff]

i don't think heathcliff is an idiot at all. not in his source, nor in limbus.

in limbus, heathcliff keeps things direct and to the point, and dislikes spending a lot of time dwelling on what to do. none of these alone are indicators of a lack of intelligence. impatience and impulsivity, sure, i can concede. but with heathcliff, what i think is even more the case is he already feels like he understands the world well-enough. he's spent a lifetime living, both in the best and worst of the city. he offers insight in moments where the other sinners have little to offer. in a lot of ways, he is deeply comparable to roland, except (funnily enough) perhaps a little healthier.

despite his contempt for authority, heathcliff has accepted his role and the unspoken laws of the land, being witness to and on the receiving end of what happens when one goes against them. he seems to understand the whims of the city for what they are and can follow them intuitively. though, his knowledge is entirely practical; the theoretical and reasoning behind everything matters little to him, because the way he sees it, as long as he can continue to do as he pleases, it's of no consequence. he is in constant survival mode, seeking the rare moments where he is allowed to thrive.

his knowledge base is given ample time to shine in the main story. he is often positioned as a voice of reason and an appeal to the majority.

in canto II, he comes up with a plan that essentially works flawlessly when no one else could.

in canto III, he correctly points out ishmael's lack of comprehension of social stratification in the nest entry point. then, he rightly calls out meursault for his aiding and abetting of a religious-fascist regime.

in canto IV, he's proven correct about his critique of certain mindsets of the K nest, and his insight and cleverness are recognized by more than one person (importantly, including ishmael, his biggest critic).

he is just as intelligent and capable as everyone else; he simply doesn't care about the bigger picture. it's not like the bigger picture cares about him.

and yet...another point on the more superficial side: heathcliff has an identity where he is a capable, well-spoken scientist and political activist. while his political standpoint is reactionary anarchoprimitivism, it still matters that he's clearly capable of analyzing greater social class structures and realizing they are bunk.

this leads me to discussion of heathcliff in wuthering heights. i don't think it can be overstated how much of heathcliff's capabilities as an antagonist post-timeskip are due to his intelligence. in just three years, he cultivates enough wealth through what is assumed to be key-timed investments and intelligent brokerage. he makes a name for himself despite lacking even a proper surname. through his influence, knowledge, and cold determination, heathcliff decimates two families and claims their estates for himself. this is all in spite of the way he was forced out of school when he was a preteen and into slavery. the danger of heathcliff is not just in the depths of his cruelty, but his calculating nature and ability to chart out a years-long revenge campaign with contingency plans. and he almost entirely succeeded.

tying back a little to the context of limbus company, heathcliff's backstory has been heavily implied to be mostly similar to his childhood in his source material. in summary, he was raised under constant scrutiny under threat of beatings and/or losing the only person he ever cared about. every single one of his actions and assumed mindsets were called into question, and this is something he later internalized against himself.

i've talked about it on this blog before, but i believe one of the most important elements of heathcliff's childhood in wuthering heights for his characterization in limbus company is when he instinctively saved the life of his abuser's child. heathcliff swooped in and saved the child from a fatal fall without hesitation or thought. it's his nature to follow his heart and do what he believes the right thing to be. however, heathcliff realized a moment later that he had just done a good thing for his abuser, thus further distancing himself from catherine. he second-guesses his own instincts and is filled with transparent hatred and regret.

this is also related to his conflict with catherine and other social systems at large. catherine obsesses over her status and dwells on the ramifications of a union with heathcliff. heathcliff, however, loves her and believes that to be more important than everything else. her disagreement and casual disregard for his personhood in favor of her ability to get everything she wants pushes him out of the estate to begin with.

in limbus company, however? heathcliff doesn't have the dynamic with his abuser looming over him, nor any implications of threats to his status (beyond vergilius, but at least that isn't personal). he doesn't have to second-guess himself for the sake of his survival and getting what he wants anymore. in canto IV, those very instincts save gregor's life. he can just do what he wants, and even if he messes up and dies, he can just immediately be brought back to life with no consequences. he is freer now than he's ever been in his entire life, and he knows better than everyone the joys of not needing to overthink every single thing he does.

so no, heathcliff is not an idiot. i speculate he's just gotten a taste of freedom he's rarely known and he is relishing it.

#limbus company #limbus company speculation #lcb heathcliff #not even getting into how heathcliff tries to use this perspective to get ishmael to calm down in the magic hell bus #he knows what overthinking does and wants no more of it #dreamy sigh

[urmomsbunkmate]

Accidents happen ?

Kirishima x femreader

Potential series if u BOOTYFUL people would like

Warnings- nude taking? Boobies, hot sexy momma y/n, female masturbation if u squint. suggestive shit rn but if we do more then the suggesting will be literal. I cannot think of anything else rn

Synopsis-Y/N SENDS ACCIDENTALLY SENT NUDE TO A KINDHEARTED and CUTE BOY.

OR

EIJIRO KRISHIMA GETS SENT NUDES FROM THE PRETTY GIRL IN ART CLASS.

———

The sun was long gone as Y/n released low sigh, situating herself in front of her large mirror, sitting on the ground practically nude. The pink lace accentuated her perky breasts and her hardened nipples after rolling them between her fingers, contrasting against her soft tan skin. She slightly angled herself to the left making her ass curve into the picture. The lingerie wrapped around her tailbone wearing as a thong. although the lining was moved to the side as she teased herself, knowing this Denki guy wasn't going to send anything cum worthy back. They were all just so useless.

The brushed her wavy pink hair cascade down her boobs, a messy look that is arousing in this context. Her lips were glistening in glistening lip gloss, the upper part of her face was never included in the pictures of course.  She drew a line at that. Her future had some have some hope.

Y/n knows she's pretty. She knows. But she hates when other people only treat her as a pretty face, expecting sex or nudes just because she's a beautiful girl. Her old boyfriends did that. People still do that. She's treated like a plastic barbie with this box she lives in, a box people think her whole life revolves around. People think the box contains booze and sex and nothing nice - she's just a pretty face, what more can she be? The box cannot possibly contain anything other than those things, like intelligence and integrity.

The girl sighs, the thought of what she has become haunts her. She never wanted to be this: this Barbie in a plastic box, one who says yes to sex and nudes and doesn't refuse, one who goes through the motions like a robot as greasy jocks have the best orgasm of their life, one who longs for a sense of stability, of integrity. Your quirks pretty much define you for the rest of your life, and she could do nothing to change that. Y/n wants a nice boyfriend, one who actually cares about her, one who knows her birthday and gives her a kiss on the forehead out of the blue, one who isn't afraid to be her person despite the repercussions that come with her. She's said to be too pretty for a relationship, too much of a whore. Who'd want to date her?

So many people have called her a whore that she just sticks with it, knowing she'll be nothing more.

Y/n snaps from her trance, looking at herself in the mirror before continuing what she prepares herself for. Y/n settled on the perfect one, and she's tempted to send it to the chat since she debates it's her best one yet. The lingerie is just perfectly in place, her lips are slightly parted, breasts pushed up and shadowed from the light, making them bigger.

She knows this'll give Denki what he wants.

Putting on plaid shorts and a large sweatshirt, she yawns, seeing the time is nearing midnight. It's usually around the time she goes to bed on a school night, given her homework is massive and she normally spends the majority of her time doing school related things.

Padding against her carpet floor, she lazily walks to the other side of the room to turn on her fan, something that is background noise and allows her to sleep with ease. Her eyes are lethargically glued to her screen, blinking sleepily as she types out the number clicking the K and selecting the first number she saw.

Choosing the photo and pressing send without any further thought, the clueless girl goes to bed, not knowing what she has done.

Where as the boy just trying to work out before he falls asleep get the most jaw dropping notification from an unknown number.

Y/n

(1 attached photo)

KIRISHIMA ( art class)

Um I don't think u meant to do that

Y/n

oh my god

KIRISHIMA ( art class)

It okay don't worry we all make stupid mistakes

Y/n

hello kind person, that was not meant for u 🥰

KIRISHIMA ( art class)

I didn't look for more that 2 seconds if it makes u feel better

Y/n

Not really but I'm so fuckin sorry

KIRISHIMA ( art class)

😭😭 it's okay

Y/n

Can u delete it please 🙏

For the sake of the people

KIRISHIMA ( art class)

Oh I did that ages ago

I kinda worked out it wasn't for me

Y/n

thank u ☺️ i could literally kiss u

KIRISHIMA ( art class)

Like what else am I supposed to do?

Y/n

The male race has no boundaries

I'm not willing to push what is already not there

KIRISHIMA ( art class)

On behalf of the male race I'm sorry!🫶

Some of them just aren't manly

Y/n

ur an angel

KIRISHIMA ( art class)

So I've been told

Y/n

It means a lot that u delete it btw

KIRISHIMA ( art class)

That what I'm here for saving the day

U look pretty in pink

(Deleted)

Y/n

Don't go a heroic on me

Is that all u 1-A kids do?

KIRISHIMA ( art class)

Nahhh we also braid each others hair when the times right

It's good team bonding

Y/n

😬

Imma assume it's a joke but my hearts telling me otherwise

KIRISHIMA ( art class)

I'll guess u will never know

Y/n

I like u red

Ur nicer than I though you'd be

KIRISHIMA ( art class)

Compliment? I'll take it

Y/n

Good choice

I gotta go sleep

See u in art red

KIRISHIMA ( art class)

Good night

Kirishima dropped his phone upon his aches and let out a loud sigh. His cheeks flushed a red colour, imitating his face. The whole situation was utterly insane but somehow, in some weird fucked up way his ultimate classroom crush had initiated conversations. Well not conversation of such, but now he felt like he could say hello or wave when he saw her without making it utterly weird

Oh actually he could probably take that back. It will probably make his crush on her 10 times more awkward. Unless she didn't find it awkward, wait did he make her uncomfortable.

The boy grabbed onto his pillow and shouted a loud "you idiot!" Into the fabric. What is wrong with him.

“Shut your fucking face shitty hair!” A shout followed by pounding on his wall echoed into his room.

“Sorry.”

———

Omg okay let’s not idk if I’m feeling it, I tried not to hold back or go all the way in. So this is what I’ve got.

Please like and comment if I should continue on?? Does our fake red baby ever get to see the big titi queen again ?

Like people what should I do👎🫄🏿🍋😁🔛🚶🏿‍♀️🤪🫶🏃🏻‍♂️🔛☺️😊

#kirishima eijirou #kirishima x reader #kirishima smut #mha smut #mha fanfiction #mha #mha x reader #mha eijirou #kirishima eijiro x reader #bnha eijiro kirishima #bnha x reader #bnha smut #denki #bnha denki #denki kaminari #text fic #sluttybaby

[mikhailwrites]

MWIII Campaign thoughts&opinion

⚠️SPOILERS AHEAD (OBVIOUSLY)⚠️

Alright, here we go. Modern Warfare III. Disclaimer: I've been part-timing as videogame journalist (not in EN, obviously) for the past 10 years so this might read a bit like a review which this is not.

It's been a year since we watched the 141 sit in the bar in Chicago and look at the photo of one Vladimir Makarov. And the day of reckoning is finally here, at least for those of us with eaely access to the campaign.

The game opens, surprisingly, from the Konni perspective. As one of Konni soldiers, you infiltrate the prison to free your boss. First look at Makarov is menacing and leaves an impression.

Speaking of Makarov, however, I can't but feel like the writers had dropped the ball. It's obvious they were trying to go for the unhinged psychopath vibe but honestly, so many Makarov's lines borders on ridiculous, oftentimes crossing the line entirely. At times, I felt like I'm watching an old 007 villain and I don't mean it in the good way.

Most glaring example was in the Flashpoint mission. As Price and Soap capture Makarov after bombing the stadium in Verdansk, the terrorist then taunts and mocks them, revealing to know their names and threatening them with a revenge. The dialogue is, frankly, on a bad side and Makarov in that scene sounded to me more like a spoiled, rich teenager than much feared leader of a private army with ambition to start another World War.

It also contrasted wildly with the continuation of the scene where we see Soap almost lose it, tackling Makarov and pressing a gun to his head while Price tries to dissuade him from killing the criminal on the spot. That bit was well executed and I really liked it.

What I also liked was the Passenger mission and the very unique perspective we got as players, feeling the helplessness of the victim as it's forced to play role of a terrorist, solely based on their ethnicity. The "You're not a terrorist, but you look like one," line felt very powerful, especially in the context of current affairs.

The whole campaign felt very rushed and, in my opinion, the total commitment to the "race against the clock" hurt the narration a lot. There is not a moment of respite and every piece of the puzzle is delivered in a manner so hurried, I sometimes had trouble following it.

Especially in the Danger Close mission as we, similarly to MWII, operate Shadow Company gunship to provide air support, and out of nowhere, we get a shout that there's a helo nearby and Makarov's in it.

We then proceed to shoot the helicopter down and Makarov is seemingly KIA. Well, he's obviously not but the whole scene is delivered in such a luckluster manner that I was wondering if I perhaps missed some cutscene or debrief (I didn't) and was asking myself if the developers are even serious.

The overall pacing is off, especially compared to MWII and this leads to the lack of impact and emotional response.

Which brings us to the more sensitive part of this post. Being a Ghost/Soap shipper, I was happy to see the two interact and to pick up the rapport established in the previous game. Like many others, I, too, would appreciate more time with them, but I would appreciate more missions and longer campaign rather than cut other characters' screen time.

When they are on the screen, banter is usually quick to follow. Soap and Ghost interact easily with each other, hinting at a natural progress of their relationship. The Milena interrogation is especially great in this regard.

And then there's that ending. Honestly, I knew someone would die. I think it was pretty much given. Still, I had my bets on Ghost, thinking that Soap was way too fresh and had his whole career ahead of him to be sacrificed. Well, I was wrong.

In the confines of the story, it makes sense it's him. There is major foreshadowing happening in the Verdansk mission and when Soap ends up going with Price at the end, well, it was clear. Soap almost killed Makarov years prior, Price stopped him, and now Makarov comes and kills Soap right in front of Price. The choices and consequences. It makes sense.

But.

But it serves no purpose. It's literally the last mission, so what could've served as the major catalyst for the big finale - rest of 141 coming for Makarov for some good old revenge - just ends up rather sour. Especially since Johnny, during his last struggle, as he saves Price's life, doesn't even manage to kill Makarov, only injuring him, albeit badly.

It gets worse when you realise that during both games, Soap didn't get any justice at all. In MWII, he seemingly kills Graves, taking a revenge for the betrayal and the Alone mission. Only for Graves to casually reappear later, stating he wasn't in the tank that the game clearly stated he was in.

And now he loses his life without taking Makarov with him. It's... beyond sad for the character to get treated this badly by the narration.

The team's response to his death is a bit mild as well. It starts well, with Ghost scrambling to him as soon as he spots him, feeling for vitals even though it has to be clear to him that he's gone, that felt gutwrenching. But after that? It's... lacking some stronger emotional response. They say their farewells to Johnny, a single sentence each (and, my god, did they truly think the "he was the best of us" clichè would work on any level whatsoever?), scattering his ashes, and that, too, as great as the animation was, just... felt a bit hollow and artificial.

There are ways to kill a beloved character to make it feel truly heartbreaking and meaningful. The scriptwriters here should've taken notes from Destiny 2's Forsaken DLC for example. They could've used Soap's death in a myriad of ways, including making player to choose between, say, saving Soap and letting Makarov escape. Or between saving Soap and defusing the bomb. Or just about dozen other narrative choices that would make Soap's death more meaningful and would have much bigger impact on the player.

As it is, I cannot help but say my own farewell words: Johnny died, but what for?

#call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost x soap #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #modern warfare iii #cod mw3 #mw3 spoilers

[floralcavern]

We live in a world where saying you think that a terrorist organization breaking into one’s country and killing thousands, r@ping hundreds, and kidnapping hundreds is a bad thing. We live in a world where saying that that country has the right to fight back and destroy that terrorist organization and get their civilians back is a bad thing. We live in a world where people, the majority, defend the terrorist organization who abuse their citizens while the same people supporting them say they want to civilians to be “free” from the country that had been ransacked just months before. We live in a world where people side with an organization who have openly stated their desire to eradicate Jews. We live in a world where people act like kidnapped civilians had lived through a Disney fairytale. We live in a world where more people believe in already proven misinformation rather than admit that they are wrong. We live in a world where people are saying Hitler ‘had some good points’. We live in a world where people are more outraged by kids being arrested for attempted murder than months old babies being kidnapped. We live in a world where people can say the most antisemitic shit you have ever heard and get away with it because they’re using a new term that has roots within Jewish culture. We live in a world where people take history and change it to their liking and everyone believes them without a second thought because it gives them an excuse to continue hating on a certain group. We live in a world where people can chant out calls for Jewish genocide because of “context”. And she only got fired for plagiarism.

You guys are disgusting and have no right to call yourself on the morally right side of things.

#Fuck Hamas #Hamas is evil #Hamas is a terrorist organization #Hamas is isis #free Palestine from Hamas #Free the hostages #Let them go #let the hostages go #release the hostages #i’m disappointed #antizionism is antisemitism #Free Palestine is a death cult #Hamas is a death cult #Israel #free Israel #October 7

[saltydkdan]

Thoughts on Strohiem? (From Jojo)

It’s… rough. I have OPINIONS ABOUT HIM.

For those unaware, or have forgotten. This particular ask is about the character of Rudol von Stroheim from Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure. A Nazi Major that is introduced in Part 2 of the series. I have always wanted a proper moment to spotlight how much I dislike this character. And not just how I dislike him as a character, but how I dislike his general inclusion in the story as well.

Listen, I LOVE this series. But even I have my limits. It’s because I love it so much that I critique aspects like this in the first place.

Warning, I’m about to word vomit about this because I’ve been DYING to talk about this somewhere.

BIG DISCLAIMER: These are my thoughts and mine alone. I know there’s a lot of… interesting anime fans out there that might disagree. I’m not here to debate on stuff like this, I don’t want to hear your contradictory thoughts on the subject. If I see a single person say I’m “virtue signaling” by saying I don’t like the Jojo Nazi character, I am going to mail you a pipe bomb (in the hit game Minecraft for Windows PCs)

Stroheim’s existence (or at least, how he currently exists in the story) is not handled all that well in my opinion. Like… not at all. I like to poke fun at it, but I genuinely think Araki fumbled the bag so hard with Stroheim and it's more and more unbelievable the more I think about it over time.

No matter how you shake it, Araki fully wrote a historically accurate Nazi character into Battle Tendency and proceeded to give him a redemption arc and make him a member of the supporting cast. Now of course, I know that Japan has a fascination with a lot of German stuff, so within that context I can kind of get why he exists in the way that he does, but it just feels weird and in bad taste.

Contextually, it makes sense. Do I like it? No. No I do not.

To address the elephant in the room, I get it. Araki really loves to write evil villain characters, and then having them be redeemed, or switch over to the hero's side after a certain point. I actually really enjoy this trope especially in Jojo! It’s one of my favorites. Especially how it’s handled in Part 4: Diamond is Unbreakable.

However, writing a redemption storyline for characters like Okuyasu and Rohan is fundamentally different from writing one for Stroheim.

First and most obviously, unlike other characters, Stroheim’s whole character is based on an actual real life totalitarian extremist hate group who committed horrible atrocities across history (and still does to this day).

As if that wasn’t enough, he quite LITERALLY commits horrible atrocities ON SCREEN. Sacrificing an entire room of innocent people to Santana (the first of the Pillar Men) so that the German’s can awaken and study him in their secret lab.

Everything about Stroheim feels like it’s very intentional at the start. He is clearly set as a villain from the beginning, and it works fine. However once he self-immolates and blows himself up to destroy Santana, the story seems to continuously frame him more and more as an ally/hero from that point onward.

After he returns with his cyborg body, the fact that he’s a Nazi suddenly takes a back seat and now he’s continuously just framed as a “patriotic” soldier. Legit, the moment after he shows back up, Joseph internally comments on how he’s “not exactly a bad guy”.

Some people will argue on how it’s a bit more complicated than that, since Joseph also thinks about how he dislikes that he’s a German Soldier. But directly after this, he also states how he’s still happy Stroheim isn’t dead. If anything, from this point onward Joseph acts towards Storheim in a similar way to how he acts towards Caeser. Even if they aren’t best friends, Joseph still has positive feelings towards Stroheim, and I hateeeee that.

In the anime, they even make sure to call him a “German Soldier” and not a Nazi. The avoidance of that word really struck me as them trying to avoid that subject because they knew the way the character was treated was strange.

So anyway, as I was trying to say. Redeeming villain characters is one thing, but redeeming a villain character that is straight up a literal Nazi is something else entirely. Especially when like, not to nitpick, but Stroheim never walks back the more extremist beliefs that he for sure subscribes to.

-And if you’re one of those weirdos who tries to make a point by saying “well, he never outright says what he actually believes in! Maybe he is just fighting for Germany for his own reasons.”

My dude, he’s literally described as a “Patrotic Nazi”. What the fuck do yoU THINK HE BELIEVES IN?

Also as a final addition to this rant, I also don’t quite like how weirdly normalized that Araki makes the existence of “german soldiers” in his story even outside of Stroheim. Nazi’s are weirdly commonplace throughout the plot, and while it contextually makes sense since they kicked off the main conflict, they are almost always weirdly painted as neutral or even straight up good guys (after the Santana fight). Which is just really strange to me.

Like bruh, you mean to tell me that Caeser fucking Zeppeli is casually frieNDS WITH ONE OF THEM? BE FUCKIN FR ARAKI LOL

It also sucks how Stroheim is so increasingly present leading up to the final act. Like MAN, GET THIS MOTHERFUCKER OFF THE SCREEN.

The only good thing about the inclusion of Nazi’s after Stroheim’s initial sacrifice, is that we get to see the Pillar Man murk a shit ton of them on screen. Like, fuck yeah dude. A great way to power scale and show how powerful the Pillar Men are as antagonists, without me feeling bad that they killed a bunch of people to do so.

Anyway, that’s my 2 cents that nobody asked for. I still LOVE Jojo, I think it’s a masterpiece of its genre, but it’s because of my intense love for it that I criticize it’s missteps so heavily. I hope that my wording on this post is done well, I had to re-draft it a second time after accidentally deleting it once, so I have a feeling it’ll come off a bit scrambled.

That being said, thanks for the Ask!

#saltydkdan #salty asks #jojos bizarre adventure #jojo's bizarre adventure #long boys

[venus-haze]

Girls on Film (Mickey Altieri x Reader)

Summary: As a film studies major at Windsor College, your junior year is proving to be an eventful one as the eponymous Ghostface begins targeting fellow students, some who you consider friends. You try to focus on your classes, mainly the short film project you’re working on with Mickey Altieri, who your professor inexplicably paired you up with despite the two of you having almost polar opposite views on the medium. 

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. You’re also into gross out movies because I wanted a strong contrast to Mickey’s “blame the movies” thing and also irony…as you’ll see. This is an extremely dark fic, so look at the warnings before deciding whether to read this. Also, you know and I know that Mickey didn’t kill Randy, but in the context of the fic, the reader-character doesn’t know that. Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 4k

Warnings: One-sided rivalry (Mickey hates your guts). Discussions of “gross” movies and themes. Descriptions of violence. Major character deaths. Sexually explicit content which involves non/dubcon, knifeplay, bloodplay, sadism (slight masochism). Do not interact if you are under 18.

Film Theory went from okay to off the walls when Mickey Altieri decided to make the argument that movies could be responsible for people’s actions. Using the brutal murders at the early Stab screening in town as an example was in poor taste when it had just happened the night before. It wasn’t even that you disliked Mickey, having met him in your Introduction to Film History course. He was pretty funny, and the two of you had a lot of the same classes together, moved in the same social circles. 

He’d expressed similar views before, but never so egregiously. You couldn’t believe a fellow film student would have such a regressive view of cinema. It was asinine to even entertain the idea, but you couldn’t let the conversation go on without giving your two-cents to your peers. 

“CiCi’s right. That exact thinking is what led to the Hays Code.”

“Bonnie and Clyde was one of the first post-Code movies to make it big. It showed there’s profit in glorifying crime and violence,” Mickey said. “The decade after it came out was the golden age of serial killers.”

“Oh sure, I watched one too many John Waters movies, and now I’m having sex in confession booths,” you said, earning snickers from your classmates. 

“Thank you,” Randy said. “I don’t think anyone was eating dog shit after watching Pink Flamingos.”

“Maybe Ghostface got the idea for the phone calls from Serial Mom,” one of your classmates quipped.

“Kathleen Turner’s character in that was inspired by serial killers. She read true crime books and collected paraphernalia,” Mickey argued.

“I’ll do you one better and raise you John Waters himself,” you said. “The guy has a morbid fascination with the Manson Family to the point where he incorporates references to them in almost all of his movies. He hasn’t committed any mass murders.”

“No, he just makes movies that make people wanna puke,” another classmate said.

Mickey opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by Sidney and Hallie rushing to the classroom door, looking for Randy. Unable to keep the class’s attention after that, your professor dismissed everyone. 

CiCi made her way over to you, giving you an exasperated look. “Reagan-era politics have really poisoned some of these people’s critical thinking skills.”

“Tell me about it,” you agreed.

CiCi had been in a lot of the same classes as you your freshman year, and the two of you became fast friends over your similar taste in movies and distaste for closed-minded people. She was a big Lee Grant fan, wanting to make candid documentaries about tough social issues too.

You had some time to kill before your next class, so the two of you made your way to one of the empty picnic tables outside and continued the discussion, which had quickly turned into mutual ranting. Her point about the Slumber Party Massacre movies being directed by women was cut short when you realized you’d have to book it across campus to make it to Film Production II in time.

It was one of the higher level courses for film students who were looking to make feature films rather than focus on screenwriting or making documentaries. Among the prerequisites for Film Production II were Screenwriting I and II. In theory, everyone in the class would have two or three short film scripts ready to be adapted for an advanced Film Studies class. Few films were ever solo projects, so you weren’t surprised when your professor told everyone on the first day of class to prepare to be partnered up for the project, which would count for most of the course’s grade.

When you walked into the classroom, your professor handed you a slip of paper with two names on it. Yours and–of course. You almost had to laugh at the irony. Mickey. His attitude toward you could be unpredictable. Some days would be fine, and others it was like the two of you were about to bite each other’s heads off. 

Speak of the devil. You watched his reaction to the slip of paper when he walked in. Unreadable, even when his attention turned to you.

“Is Sidney okay?” you asked when Mickey sat next to you.

“As okay as anyone can be in this situation. That cop from Woodsboro’s here—Dewey, he’s keeping an eye on her.”

“That’s good.”

“So, let’s get started on this thing I guess. Any ideas?”

“Okay cool. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and my strongest script is ‘The Tongue Remembers’.”

He scoffed. “The one about the cannibal girl who gets lobotomized?”

“Well, we could take the easy route and make a porno,” you snapped. “Not that it’d be very long.”

“Knowing you it’d be snuff.”

“Whatever. We’ll do one of yours, but I get to do casting and set design.”

“Easy enough, ‘Stakeout’ has four characters,” he said, digging through his backpack for a copy of the script.

You flipped through the script, scanning the first few pages to jog your memory. An action-comedy about a group of criminals who knew that they were being staked-out by undercover cops, unaware that one was within their midst. Mickey’s comedy writing was fast-paced and genuinely funny. You’d told him so in your peer review of his script in Screenwriting II. The reviews were anonymous, but the effort was still there.

Most of the reviews for ‘The Tongue Remembers’ were positive, with criticisms of some minor plot points that helped you make the whole script stronger in the long run. The review you appreciated most tore the damn thing apart, but gave detailed explanations for the suggestions given, all of which were so good you almost wanted to seek out who the source was. A handful of people didn’t care for your script at all, objecting to the plot altogether. You quietly suspected Mickey was one of them. 

You tried to shake the tension that had settled over you and Mickey following the exchange just a few moments prior. At least it’d be good experience for dealing with inevitable assholes as you worked your way up in the film industry. It was tough to make it without connections, and even tougher for women.

By the end of class, the two of you agreed to meet in the library the next day and start planning casting and a general production schedule. Mickey had more editing experience than you did, but you wanted to sit in on the process after initial production of the short film was over. He begrudgingly agreed, and you left the classroom for the dining hall in a sour mood. 

When you walked into the crowded dining hall for dinner, you spotted Randy and rushed over to join him. More often than you’d like, he’d have to be the mediator when you and Mickey would really get into it. At least he seemed to find it amusing.

“Hey, is everything alright?” you asked.

He handed you a plate that already had two slices of pizza on it and grabbed one for himself. “Besides the whole ‘Ghostface is back and people are being murdered’ thing? Can’t complain. How about you? Get your partner for Production II yet?”

“Yeah. Mickey.”

Randy laughed. “Nice. I’m sure that won’t be a disaster.”

“I don’t want it to be! I even said we could do one of his scripts.”

“Which one?”

“That action-comedy he wrote, ‘Stakeout’,” you said as the two of you sat at an empty table. “It’s a good script. He’s a great comedy writer. I’m just pissed he wouldn’t even consider ‘The Tongue Remembers’.”

Randy nodded in acknowledgement. “I liked that one. You did a good job of making the cannibals sympathetic. Strong ending too. I’m not so sure it’d go over well at Windsor’s student film fest. Lotta weak stomachs.”

“Last year’s winner was a fucking romcom.”

“So you give the cannibal a love interest. Go a little further than Texas Chainsaw 2.”

“I’m not trying to win awards. I wanna make art.”

“You gotta sell out before you can make art. That’s the industry, kid,” he said, patting your shoulder sympathetically. “Are you gonna be at the Delta Zeta whatever party tonight?”

“Delta Lambda Zeta? I don’t think so,” you said. “I gotta find people to be in this movie.”

It turned out to be one of the best decisions you could have made, because you ended up with a list of people interested in a role in ‘Stakeout’. More pressing, however, was the news that Ghostface had made an appearance at the party, after killing CiCi in the Omega Beta Zeta house. Your stomach dropped at the news. Just a few hours before her death you’d been talking to her. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t connected to anyone from the original Woodsboro killings, the students who were killed at the Stab premiere hadn’t been either.

In a small college like Windsor, news traveled fast, and by the time you finished eating breakfast, you’d heard that Sidney, Randy, Hallie, Derek, and Mickey had all spent the night at the police station following the attack. 

You didn’t want to ask Randy if you were a suspect. Your film taste alone would put you at the top of the list by default. As much as you understood the reasoning considering the last Ghostface duo’s obsession with horror movies, it didn’t mean everyone who watched them would be inclined to commit murder, despite what Mickey thought. Besides, who would your accomplice even be? Derek or Hallie would be too obvious. Gale Weathers was cutthroat, but not in the literal sense. Randy or Dewey would be a devastating twist if the goal was to mess with Sidney that much more. You felt bad. This type of thing was fun in the movies. You couldn’t imagine it being your life. 

Making your way to the library, you weren’t sure whether or not Mickey would actually show up after spending all night in a police station, but it didn’t hurt to go anyway and get other work done.

To your surprise, he sat down across from you a few minutes after you’d agreed to meet. He was wearing the same clothes as the day before, dark circles under his eyes.

“Jesus have you even slept? We can do this another day.”

“Spare me your concern.”

“Look, I don’t want this project to be miserable for either of us,” you said. “Between Film Theory and Production, I was kind of being a bitch yesterday.”

“It was really that porno comment that hit me deep. I’m no two-pump chump,” he said with a smile.

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry,” you laughed. “Oh, I have some people interested in three of the four roles for ‘Stakeout’.”

“Already?”

“I wanted to make it up to you.”

He was silent for a moment, placing a hand on your arm and squeezing gently. “I’m sorry about CiCi. I know she was your friend.”

“Thanks,” you whispered, trying to keep it together. The last thing you wanted was to break down in the middle of the library.

The two of you planned to do a test shoot in one of the theater’s empty practice auditoriums over the weekend. The main stage was being used for the theater department’s annual play, but Mickey pointed out that ‘Stakeout’ mostly took place in one room anyway. You went ahead and booked the auditorium on the library computer for about three hours, just to give enough time to work out any kinks and not worry about being interrupted.

While Mickey was going to spend the following couple of days getting props together and making any last minute changes to the script, you would finalize the cast since he approved of your choices, surprisingly. At least, you were going to, until Randy ended up dead not long after CiCi. 

You spent a day locked in your dorm room, partially out of paranoia and also in the depression of losing two of your close friends within days of each other. It was getting serious. Randy had survived Woodsboro. If he wasn’t off limits to Ghostface, no one was. 

By Saturday, you’d debated bailing on Mickey and not bothering to show up for the test shoot. You decided against it. Moping wouldn’t do you any good.

He looked shocked to see you when you walked into the auditorium. You felt bad your progress on casting stalled. His friend had died too, but he had his shit together enough to bring a box of props and the camera.

“Are you sure you’re good to shoot today?” Mickey asked from behind the camera, set a few feet from the stage.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said, your voice cracking a bit. “Really, it’s all good.” 

“We don’t have to–”

You shook your head. “Let’s do this.”

“Alright,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “You mind locking the door?”

“Okay.” You walked back to the door, locking it. “I got two of the leads for ‘Stakeout’ down, Frank and Alex. I know Frank wasn’t our first choice, but Greg backed out.”

“No problem–shit, I forgot something in the props box over there,” he said, adjusting the settings on the camera. “Could you get it while I finish setting this up? You can’t miss it.”

“Sure,” you said, making your way over to the cardboard box Mickey had brought with him. It took a lot to rattle you, but as soon as you looked in the box, your skin crawled. The Ghostface mask stared back at you, eyes empty black holes. The same ones your friends saw before they died. “Mickey? This better be some kind of stupid joke.”

You turned around to find him less than a foot behind you. Camera set to record. Knife in his hand. Dangerous gleam in his eye as he took a step toward you.

“Last minute change—unprofessional, I know—but I decided to go in a different direction for our short film,” he said, a sadistic grin spread across his face. “You’re gonna be the star. Too bad you won’t be able to see it.”

Just as you began to scream, he put his hand over your mouth, holding the knife to your throat. “Don’t be a diva on me now. You just say what I tell you, okay?”

You nodded frantically, vision blurred by the tears that flowed freely from your eyes. In your desperation, you accidentally nicked your own skin against the knife, whimpering at the small cut you’d self-induced. Mickey snickered, his gaze shifting from you to the camera lens.

He moved his hand from your mouth, though his thumb rested on your lower lip. Slowly, he pushed it between your lips. Fuck this. Fuck him. You bit down until you tasted copper, earning a sloppy slash across your chest that made you cry out in pain, releasing his thumb. 

He looked at his hand in disbelief and then at you, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re gonna fight back, huh? You wanna play that game?” he said, an unnerving laugh escaping his lips.

Feeling bold, you spit his own blood in his face. In his moment of distraction you grabbed the knife, managing to pull it from his hand. You stumbled back, holding out the knife with a shaky hand. 

Despite you having the weapon, he still seemed smug, amusement in his eyes as he lunged toward you. You wildly swung the knife, cutting his abdomen as you crashed to the ground. He climbed on you, grabbing at your flailing arms as you tried to keep him away with the threat of being cut again.

“I’ll kill you! Fucking bastard!” you screamed. “You killed my fucking friends!”

“Do it!” he taunted. “C’mon, I wanna see you try.”

In your struggle to stab him, you lost your grip on the knife, and it slid across the stage. The both of you froze. You used this moment to push him off of you, scrambling to retrieve it. He threw a punch to your back. The wind knocked out of you, violent coughs clawing their way out of your lungs. He took the opportunity to stand up as you lay on the ground in pain.

Still, with the adrenaline pumping through your veins, you grabbed for the knife, hissing as your fingers wrapped around the blade and cut deep into your skin. It didn’t matter. You had to do the most with it while you had it in your grasp.

You held the knife up in a weak defense as he kicked your stomach. When he moved to kick you again, you slashed his leg, pulling the blade from his flesh and watching as blood quickly stained his pants. 

The wild look in his eye intensified, and he dropped down, his hips straddling yours. You could feel his hard cock press against your core as he shifted. And he said you got off to fucked up shit. 

With one hand, he applied pressure to your throat as the other held down the arm you were holding the knife with. You released your grip on the knife as black spots clouded your vision. You could vaguely hear it fall to the ground when his hand released your throat, and you sucked in a much-needed breath. He picked up the weapon, a triumphant grin on his face. You were fucked.

He sat up, lazily dragging the knife down from your chest to your hips. “You probably should’ve killed me.”

“You think I wasn’t trying?” you wheezed.

“You put up a good fight. I’ll give you that.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

“And you don’t? I saw the thrill in your eyes every time you raised this at me.”

“It’s self-defense!”

“You tell yourself that, babe,” he said, leaning down to kiss you, only for him to stop to whisper, “Try something, and I swear to god I’ll knock your teeth out.”

You were having trouble breathing. He probably crushed part of your trachea. At least you put up a good fight. You lay still as he kissed you, not making an effort to kiss him back until he pressed the blade against your throat. Even then, you let him take the lead, your lips passively responding to his as he deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth. He wasn’t a bad kisser. Shame he was a serial killer. It took everything in you not to bite down on it like you had his thumb. You didn’t have the energy to fight back. Knew he wasn’t bluffing about your teeth either.

He pulled away from you, a string of bloody saliva hanging from your lips that he swiped with his injured thumb. Bringing the digit to his mouth, he licked it. You grimaced at the sight.

“C’mon, babe, I thought you were into this kinda thing,” he teased.

“That’s all pretend. It’s not real,” you argued softly.

You gasped as he cut through your top and bra, digging the blade into your abdomen. He traced the tip of the knife around your breasts, watching in amusement as you began to cry. The cool air in the room and metal brushing your nipples made them hard. He used his free hand to pinch and pull at one, eliciting pained whines from you. Your teary gaze was fixed on the knife, though.

“Why don’t you give me a big smile for the camera and tell me how bad you want me to fuck you?”

“Screw you!” you shouted hoarsely.

He scoffed, pulling the knife away from your breasts and holding the blunt side between his teeth as he unzipped your jeans. You squeezed your eyes shut as he pulled the denim down your limp legs, leaving you in only your panties. His index and middle finger pressed against the cotton, rubbing a bit at the wet spot in the fabric.

A pleased noise came from his throat. “So you are into this kinda thing.”

He snapped the elastic waistband against your hips. You moaned. Your eyes shot open, face heating up in embarrassment. 

The knife was back in his hand, though the gleam of the blade lowered, down, down, until you felt it pressed against your inner thigh. He dragged the blade across your sensitive skin until the only thing between it and your pussy was the thin fabric of your panties. You felt like your heart was going to explode from your chest.

“Stop. Mickey, please don’t—oh my god—“ you babbled. “Please—Mickey, I’m sorry—“

“You gonna do what I say?”

“Please fuck me, Mickey. I want you to fuck me so bad.”

“That’s better, baby,” he cooed mockingly.

You heaved a sob of relief as you felt him pull the knife from your panties. Closing your eyes again, you reckoned your impending doom with yourself, trying to ignore the sound of his zipper. The rustling of fabric. The air on your bare pussy.

“Time for the real show.”

Mickey played with your clit while he leaned down to kiss you again, devouring your involuntary moans with a triumphant smugness. 

“The rest of them were messy and painful, just like in the movies,” he said softly, confusing you for a moment before you realized he was talking about his other victims. “I didn’t hate them, though, so I’ll blame this one on violent porn.”

“Mickey, I won’t tell anyone,” you tried. “This can be our secret. I—I like it, really.”

He groaned, pushing his hard cock between your folds. A pained cry escaped your lips as his length filled you. He hardly gave you any time to get used to him inside you as he began thrusting at a brutal pace.

“Keep going,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“You feel so good, Mickey. Your cock is so—fuck—I don’t want anyone else.” You struggled to get words out, your brain overrun by the pain and pleasure that competed to cloud your senses. 

“You’re not getting anyone else.”

Your eyes drifted to the knife in his hand as he pounded into you, nervous about what he was going to do with it next.

“Look at me, baby,” he ordered. 

Your fearful gaze snapped to his, cruel and unforgiving. He kept rubbing circles on your clit, so fast it was almost too painful. That’s what he wanted, though. For you to hurt. Made him feel better, get off quicker if you hurt. It was almost too easy for him, the way your body betrayed you so quickly, wet with slick so he hardly had to do a thing before claiming your cunt. 

Your pussy squeezed his cock, a silent encouragement with each thrust against your will. His breathing was heavy, sweat dripping from his forehead, yet he showed no signs of letting up on you. Bleeding, aching, you weren’t sure how much longer you could take the abuse. 

“I want you to ruin me, Mickey.” You meant it. If this was how you were going to meet your end, it might as well be as brutal as the dark scenarios your mind sometimes wandered to after watching a particularly bloody film. Maybe he was right. Maybe the movies were to blame. “Fucking wreck me.”

He shuddered, his thrusts getting sloppy. “Fuck–Jesus fucking–”

His grip around the knife handle tightened as he came, knuckles white as he stabbed it into the floor, mere inches away from your face. You jolted, fear and adrenaline sending you over the edge. Your orgasm wracked through your body, muscles tensing, the sensation pulsing through your wounds, making them feel like they were on fire.

You nearly blacked out, but you held on long enough to feel him bottom out inside you. His head hung over yours as he caught his breath. Tilting your head up a bit, you kissed him. Softer, more intimate, hopefully enough to throw him off.

You reached for the knife next to you, but he pulled it out of the floor before you could.

“Nice try,” he said, breaking the kiss.

He stood up and walked away. For a moment, you thought he was going to just leave you there. You weren’t so lucky. He returned with Ghostface regalia in hand, looking down at your bloody body beneath him with a grin.

Mickey brought the voice modifier to his mouth. “Now, who wants to die for art?”

#mickey altieri x reader #ghostface x reader #slasher x reader #ghostface #mickey altieri #scream 2 #scream #slasher fandom #slasher community #scream franchise #scream movies

[streamingcolors-gvf]

Skin Deep - Part 6

Pairing: Josh Kiszka x f!reader x Jake Kiszka

Word count: 15.4K

A/N: I’m so sorry for taking so long with this update. I hope this hits the spot after my long break! This is a Jake chapter so be ready!

As always, I appreciate all the love, support and feedback y’all give me ❤️

Major shout out to Hannah @capturethechaos for helping me pull the last bits of this chapter together for you guys. Without her, I’d be struggling.

Also props to my lovely Nessa @asparrowofthedawn for keeping me grounded when I doubt myself on here and giving me all the ideas.

Warnings: cursing, smoking/tobacco use, jealousy, sexually explicit content - 18+/MINORS DNI!! (Unprotected penetrative sex, fingering, masturbation, dirty talk, degradation, some dom stuff, idk.. y’all know me by now)

Part 5, Masterpost

You slide between the covers of your bed, swearing to yourself that the feeling of the sheets gliding against your freshly-shaved legs is something you’ll never be able to replicate. It’s what you’ve been craving since you stepped into that bar earlier tonight when you were dragged out to see your friends for a few rounds of drinks. 

Seeing and catching up with them was something you desperately needed, but what they didn’t know was that you had been torturing yourself the entire time with Josh and Jake on your mind. It’s been like that for days. Just your brain replays every single moment you’ve had with them on a continuous loop while you overanalyze it all to death.

After the night Josh had given you his tattoo, the both of you have been wrapped up in the monotony of your busy, everyday lives. Sure, you’ve exchanged some flirty messages and even a few pictures over the last few days, but it failed in comparison to what you had with him. Jake, on the other hand, hadn’t spoken to you since that morning in their kitchen, which has left things pretty unknown between the two of you. 

You do know that with these types of arrangements, everything can end as soon as it started, and it would be easy for you to sabotage it all with your overthinking. It’s just proving more difficult than you initially expected.

You like to think of Josh as an open book. You can flip through all the pages, but half of it happens to be written in invisible ink. Jake in comparison is sealed shut, and just to throw in another curveball, it's as if he is reading random lines throughout the story to you without an ounce of context.  

While your cat sleeps between your legs as you scroll through your phone, the device begins to vibrate in your hand with the banner for an incoming phone call appearing on the top of your screen. You don’t recognize the number since it’s not one of your saved contacts. Normally you would decline the random call, but there is something about it that makes you reconsider swiping it away. 

You tap the screen to accept and bring your phone to your ear. “Hello?”

A few seconds pass before a raspy voice from the other side of the line responds, “Dove.”

There’s no question as to who it is, but you ask anyway, “Jake?”

A breathy drawn-out chuckle crackles in your ear, taunting you, “You’re good at this.”

The sound makes your chest feel heavy, while somehow causing that fluttery feeling to blossom in your stomach. Men have never intimidated you before, especially to this degree, but he makes you nervous, and you haven’t been able to pinpoint exactly why. You know he can’t see your smile starting to form, but you’re sure he can hear it through the line. You do your best to bite it back, and throw in a frustrated groan for good measure, “What do you want? Better yet, tell me how you got my number first.”

He scoffs loudly into the receiver, “Oh, I can fuck your brains out but I can’t call you? You have some interesting boundaries, baby.”

You can hear the alcohol in his system from the lazy cadence of his voice alone. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

You scold him with a defeated sigh, “…Jake.”

A couple of seconds pass before he pushes a sleepy hum through the line, “Mmmm, yes?”

You pull your phone away to check the time before bringing it back to your ear with a heavy roll of your eyes. “Why are you calling me at one in the morning?”

“I wanted to hear your voice.” As jaded as you are, there’s a genuine softness to the admission that sends warmth to your heart even though you’re certain there’s a different intention behind the late call. 

You listen closely, but you don’t hear any background noise through the end of the line that would indicate he’s out tonight. “Where are you?”

“You like to ask a lot of questions. But if you must know, I’m at home in my bed with my dick in my hand.”

You huff at the thought, convincing yourself that he’s only saying it to get you flustered. What you try to do instead, is picture how his night must’ve played out for him to call you this late. “So you couldn’t get laid tonight and I’m your last option?”

He laughs, filling your ears with the nasal cackle. It’s a fleeting moment of what it truly sounds like before he takes a calming inhale through his teeth. “Feisty tonight. And no. I never said that. If I wanted a woman in my bed tonight, there would be. And the only reason there isn’t is because you’re not here.”    

You blush at the thought and the witty remark you had loaded vanishes off your tongue. He does that — making your brain go all fuzzy when usually you’d be so sure of yourself. 

The line is left open for longer than you intend as you chew on your bottom lip in a desperate search for something clever to say, making him ask, “What are you doing? Can I come over?”

Your mind is racing with possibilities, but you ultimately sigh in defeat, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jake.”

“Why?” He huffs in disbelief, giving away the fact that rejection is not something he’s used to. 

“Because it’s obvious you’ve been drinking and I’m in my pajamas and bed already snuggling with my cat. That’s why.”

He hums before clicking his tongue in thought, “I dunno…those sound like reasons why I should come over.”

Before he has the chance to convince you, which you know he can, you cut in abruptly, “I’m hanging up now. Goodnight, Romeo.”

“Wait!” The rise in volume makes you jump and pull the phone from your ear. “Hold on a second. I just wanna talk to you for a few minutes.”

You know it’s risky to entertain him, but your curiosity keeps you tethered to the conversation.“Go ahead, start talking.”

“Oh no, she’s starting to be a brat.” The sarcasm laden in his voice makes your brain tingle more than you’d like to admit.

You smile like an idiot as you adjust your position on the bed to get as comfortable, but your movement disturbs your cat's slumber enough for him to give you an annoyed chirp before hopping onto the floor. 

Just mentioning his brother’s name would be like dousing a fire with a gallon of gasoline, but you do it anyway. “Where’s Josh?”

He doesn’t even attempt to hide the irritation when he scoffs, “I don’t fucking know. But he’s not here on this phone call with us, is he?” 

“No, he’s not.”

Realizing that he might have overreacted, he relaxes, taking on a more comforting, silken tone, “Then let’s keep this between us, dove. No need to worry about him tonight.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Dove?” He pauses as if he’s falling back into his thoughts. “I think it’s because you’re so soft and delicate. Especially when I can feel you tremble…how your heart races when you’re in my hands —like a beautiful little dove.”

You didn’t anticipate him having a real answer, because truthfully, you never put much thought as to why he called you the pet name before now. 

As if the silence between you becomes too unbearable for him, he blurts out, “I’ve been thinking about you.”

Based on what you know about him so far, admitting something like this seems very unlike him, so you follow up, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he breathes heavily into the phone, but you imagine that breath fanning across the vulnerable skin of your neck instead. “Is it bad that I can’t stop thinking about your pussy wrapped around my cock?”

You’re not sure what you should have expected, but the turn in conversation to dirty talk makes your face flush with heat and your chest constricts from the thought alone. “No… I don’t think so.”

“No?” The changing inflection of his voice reveals that he senses the shyness coming through in your meek response. “You like knowing that the thought of filling you up again has been on my mind all fucking week?”

You can picture it so vividly. His words spark the memory of his cock deep inside you, the way he fills you up, and how he eventually runs down your inner thighs. You involuntarily squeeze them together, but only to clench around absolutely nothing.

 He chuckles softly through the drunken confessions, the bitterness of liquor coating every word that passes from his lips. “You got me hooked. You know, I was at the bar tonight and all I wanted was to hear those sweet little cries of yours when you beg for me…when you say my name.” 

“Jake…” You whisper into the line. What he’s saying to you is taking you by surprise, but not in an uncomfortable way. In a way that freezes the mechanisms of your mind from working properly. In a way that makes you feel anxious because you might say the wrong thing and embarrass yourself — ultimately ruining this moment. 

In the typical phone sex fashion, he asks, “What are you wearing, dove?”

An airy laugh flutters from your throat as you pull at the loose clothing draped across your body, “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Jake, but I’m wearing a ratty t-shirt and pajama pants.” You stifle the groan of self-loathing while pinching the bridge of your nose knowing that you could’ve just lied and made up anything that your heart desires. 

“Sexy.” The way he drunkenly drags out the word helps you visualize a smile on his face. He then adds without skipping a beat, “Do you like lingerie?”

Feeling like this is your chance to have the upper hand, you tease back, “I do. So, Jacob, are you telling me you’re a lingerie guy?”

He snorts a laugh, adding levity to what has been a tense interaction otherwise.“What man isn’t?”

You pick at the threads of your duvet while you reflect on past partners through the years. “I dunno. I feel like some men would rather get it off as soon as possible.”

You hear a judgemental hum before he answers, “Well, it seems like you’ve been wasting your time with the wrong men.”

Your tone is teasing, yet flirty, “And you’re the right man?”

“I never said that.” He pushes out a deep sigh, “Honestly, I have a feeling that I might be the worst thing for you, baby.”

He’s probably right about that, but you’re stubborn enough to want to find that out for yourself. You could question what he means by it, but you choose to mentally flip through your wardrobe trying to remember what you might have until something pops into your brain. “I have this pretty black set that I bought a few months ago. I think you might like that one.”

You hear a soft, muffled groan come through the line, “Would you try it on for me?” 

Something has changed in his voice. It’s not the usual demand or teasing remark you usually get from him. He wouldn’t admit this, but you hear the desperation in the request. The barely-there whine blessing your ears — the way it seems like he’s groveling at your feet for it. 

“Give me one moment,” You huff out as you nearly fly out of your bed, tumbling onto the floor on your way to your closet. You tap the speaker icon and place the phone down on your dresser and walk over to your closet to search for the lingerie set somewhere in the heaps of clothes.  

A pleased chuckle comes from the speaker, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Flipping through the collection of hangers, you spot the recognizable material sticking out amongst the rest of your clothing and pull out the strappy, black corset bra with its matching lace panties. You’re partial to the modest, simple set. It’s not flashy or complicated compared to a lot of lingerie that you’ve seen in some specialty boutiques, but it’s without a doubt the nicest item you’ve bought for yourself in a long time — something that would probably look flattering on anyone. 

You hold it out in front of you, reliving the fond memory of buying it and how much you love the way you look in it until you hear Jake’s voice echoing throughout your small bedroom, “Are you still there?” 

“You’re so impatient.” You step out of your closet, scolding him half-heartedly now that you’re experiencing another wave of confidence. You rush to yank the t-shirt that has its fair share of holes over your head and onto your bedroom floor. Next to join the pile at your feet are the arguably not-as-sexy cotton briefs you’ve worn to bed.

“Where the fuck did you go? Narnia?”

“I think you underestimate the vastness of a woman’s clos—“ Your snarky response is suddenly cut off when your foot snags the leg hole of the panties, sending you toppling over head first. Thankfully, you catch yourself on the edge of the dresser before you fall over completely. You do your best to stifle back the groan of pain, hoping he didn’t hear your embarrassing moment of clumsiness.

Which proves to be a failure when he asks, “What was that? Are you okay?”

You straighten and finish pulling the panties up the rest of the way while you answer, “Yeah, yeah…just tripped a little. I’m fine.”

He responds with a little drunken giggle,  “Aww, weak in the knees for me already, baby?”

The bad joke paired with the pet name he’s let slip a few times instantly redirects your thoughts to his twin. “I wasn’t aware that I was talking to Josh on the phone.”

You wince and brace yourself for the repercussions of mentioning his brother. Silence hangs in the air while you clasp the bra, and adjust the straps and material on your body.

“What is that supposed to mean?” His voice is tight, like an overstretched rubber band ready to snap. 

“Relax, Jake.” Now that you have the set on, you sit on the lounge chair that's beside your bed and face the full-length mirror in your room. You do your best to diffuse his annoyance by adding a velvety richness to your voice. “Just that you two are more similar than I think you realize.”

“I’m nothing like him.”

You’re too busy watching your reflection to find the best position for the photo. You drape a leg over the arm of the chair, spreading yourself as you lean back into the cushion and begin feeling across the black lace. 

“You act like it’s a bad thing,” You giggle, tapping the camera button, to capture the image. 

You hear the text alert from his phone, and all you can do is wait for him to open the message. “Am I gonna see you or wha—oh fuck.”

If you could see him look at the photo, you would see him staring blankly at your mostly naked body in complete awe. You would see how his eyes take in all the details of your top, how he can see your nipples through the sheer black fabric. You would watch them follow the curves of your body down to your hand that’s placed between your open legs. 

All you can do is listen closely, just patiently wait for his reaction. You hear it in real-time, his realization that the picture you’ve sent is a Live Photo. “Oh, my god. You’re fucking perfect.”

You imagine him holding his thumb to the photo to watch that short video of you sliding your fingers underneath the fabric before you pull it to the side to show him what’s hidden behind it. 

He pushes out a sharp hiss, following the sound with a hushed grunt. “Tell me how it feels on your skin.”

You explore the sheer, thin fabric with your fingers, feeling your hardened nipples through the delicate material. “It’s soft and lacy. I think you would like it.”

“Are you playing with yourself yet, dove?” Once he hears your faint hum, he takes in a staggered breath, “Imagine my fingers taking care of that sweet little clit of yours. Is she hard yet?”

You do just that. You pretend it’s his fingers instead of yours rubbing across the lace covering your clit in teasing, languid patterns. You imagine how his touch is slightly rougher but still mindful of how sensitive you are.  “Yeah.”

His labored breathing adds to the strain in his voice, “Good girl. What do you want me to do?”

A thin sheen of sweat has started to collect across your brow, and you swallow back the dryness on your tongue. “Your fingers.”

“Where do you want them?” When you don’t answer him right away, he makes sure to reassure you, “Don’t be shy with me, baby.” 

“Inside me.”

“I want you to say it.” His silken voice coaxes you in with each word, every heavy, weighted breath.

Heat blooms in your chest as your heart races within it, but you force yourself to push past that last bit of self-preservation you’ve been holding onto. “I want your fingers inside my pussy.”

“Fuck,” he groans, and for a moment you think you can hear the distinct wet sounds of lube. “I love hearing you say such filthy words, dove.” He pauses for a few seconds to catch his breath before continuing, “I wish I was there right now making you cum on my fingers, stretching that pretty cunt out for my cock.” He grunts another curse, “I’m so hard thinking about it.”

It could be that you just want to hear him say it, or maybe you’re doing it to stroke your ego since he’s already admitted to it moments ago, but you can’t help but ask, “Did you think about me tonight?’

“Of course, dove. I’m not sure if I ever stop.” He sighs, sending static of his muffled breath into the phone before he starts to ramble, “The way you taste. I don’t think I’ll be able to get how you look sucking my cock out of my head. I’m serious when I say I was hard most of the night thinking about you wrapped under my arm, wearing your sluttiest dress. Fuck! I wanna fuck you so bad right now.”

You’ve been touching, feeling, and pleasuring yourself with his gravelly voice acting as your guide. Those words, the graphic details mixing in with his labored, broken breaths cause your imagination to run away from you. “What are you doing?”

He chuckles, “You like thinking about me jerking off to you, baby?”

You laugh with him, because there’s no chance in hell you can admit the amount of time that you’ve already spent thinking about it. “Maybe.”

He keeps his voice low with the taunt, “I know you’re a dirty, little voyeur.” 

You shoot up to a sitting position snapping out of your daze enough to blurt out into the receiver, “He fucking told you?!”

He adds to your anxiety with the deliberate pause he takes. “No, but now he doesn’t need to.”

You can’t believe he blindsided you, catching you in the confession. “You fucking bastard.”

He only laughs, filling your head with the intoxicating sound, “So you wanna see the way I play with myself?”

You stay quiet for a few beats too long, imagining the way he’s probably laid out across the silken sheets of his bed like he was the last time you slept with him. You know he has that cocky smirk on his face knowing that you’re going to say yes. 

“Come on, dove. I know you want to. Just gotta ask me nicely.”

 “Please, Jake,” your voice is a pitiful whisper, lacking all the confidence that would make you sound so sure of yourself. In reality, it’s embarrassing just how quickly you fold and give in to him. 

“That’s my girl.”

 Your phone begins to vibrate due to the incoming video chat call coming from him. The proposition of seeing him in real-time, while he can also see you, makes you nervous. “Oh, I don’t know about a FaceTime—“

“It’s just me, okay? I want to see you and you want to see me, right?” His voice is beyond enticing — so dangerously silken entering your brain. Just like his twin, he can convince you of anything, and it helps that you were already there, to begin with. 

You chew on your lip for a few seconds before hitting the accept button, switching the normal phone call into a video one. Your screen opens up to his rear-facing camera that’s pointed at his ceiling. 

More importantly, it’s pointed directly at the mirror on the bedroom ceiling. 

And just like how you pictured in your mind, he’s laying flat on his back across his massive bed. His black button-up he probably wore for the night out is completely open, exposing his tattooed chest and stomach. He kicked off his pants, leaving his boxer briefs on — only pulling them down his legs far enough to free his cock.

You can see the reflection of his face past his phone while he slowly plays with himself., noting that your prediction about that smile of his was right. His eyes bounce back and forth between his phone and looking directly into the mirror.  “I wish it was your hand stroking me instead. I fucking love the way you touch me. It’s so gentle, almost like you’re scared you’re gonna hurt me.” The way he’s touching himself seems so teasing, following no true pattern or rhythm, as if he was truly pretending it was your hand instead of his own. You watch him pet the underside of his cock with a feather-light touch of his fingertips and how it twitches from the contact. “God, your lips…how your tongue feels on my cock.”

Your brain is going a mile a minute with everything you want to say back to him, but the only coherent thing that forms on your tongue is, “How close are you?”

He groans through an even bigger smile, stretching his neck out while he smacks his dick against his belly, “Close. I’ve been edging myself for a fucking hour thinking about you.” You’ve been too shy to show your stunned expression, so the only view you’ve given him is of the blank white ceiling of your bedroom. “I wanna see that pretty pussy wrapped up like a present for me. Can you show me, dove?” 

“Oh, you want to see me?”

“Now look at you being the tease.”

You tilt the camera down, starting your little show by revealing your legs and slowly working your way down until he can see the black lace thong. You then bring your hand into the frame, teasing him with the sight of your fingers brushing across your covered pussy. “What would you do if you were here?”

You break your concentration to watch his hand stall on his cock, like his thoughts have become scrambled inside his head for the very first time,  “If I was there with you right now?” He allows his eyes to close while he tries to think of his answer. “Where do I even start?”

He decides to change up your view by dropping the camera down in the same way you have yours — blessing you with his point-of-view of his cock. Now that it’s closer, you can see that it’s shining in the low lighting of his bedroom, completely slick with lube. He glides a tight fist up the length, causing the muscles of his stomach to spasm through the upward stroke. “I want to kiss you, feel how soft your skin is… see how you look in that lingerie. I know the picture doesn’t do you justice.”

You’re committed, picking right where you left off by pleasuring yourself. As you roll your fingers over your clit and slip them inside yourself, you realize that you’re even closer now that he’s eliminated the need for your imagination. He’s showing you in real-time how he jerks himself off thinking about you. 

You hear the faint gasp before he continues, “I’d play with your perfect tits, feel your nipples harden against my tongue while I rub over your sensitive clit.” His voice is breathier than it’s ever been from him trying to hold back his moans, “Pull those panties to the side and use my fingers to make you feel so good.” His efforts to keep himself composed have proved fruitless with the amount of liquor in his system. He falls victim to it by what sounds like a whine into the receiver, “I really wish I was there to show you.” 

You’re right there with him, giving yourself away with every ragged breath. “I wish you were here too.”

He sighs, “I can hear you getting close, dove.” Based on how he’s starting to pick up the pace of his strokes, it doesn’t seem like he has long either. “Can you come for me?”

Hearing him ask for it is the final push you need, and all you can focus on is the hushed whimpers and moans he lets slip out as he brings himself to the very edge. You’re seconds behind him, watching as holds his cock perfectly still as the first spurt dribbles down the side and over his knuckles. He sucks in a sharp breath before pushing out a string of grunted curses as the rest of his orgasm hits him with an unexpected force. He shoots across his stomach, painting his abdomen with ropes of his cum. 

The graphic image overrides your brain, acting as the last mental shove into your climax. You burn it into memory as the rush of pleasure pools between your legs and drowns your senses. As you start to come to, you can’t be sure what you said, or what sounds you might have made, but you do know that you’re a breathless mess strewn across your bed. Your mouth is beyond desert dry and the only thing in your head is the pounding of your heartbeat. “Wow.”

He laughs, but it's obvious from how it sounds that the exhaustion is starting to set in. And since he’s in a worse state than you, he is stuck in the same position with the mess he made across his body. “Yeah…that was fun.”

You laugh, keeping the tone of your voice light even though you’re bummed about the thought of hanging up, “Go ahead and clean up.”

He stretches his legs but keeps his hand in the same place on his cock. His response is groggy, revealing that you wouldn't have that much more time with him anyway, “Yeah, I probably should. Goodnight, dove.”

“Goodnight, Jake.”

Since your boss allowed you to leave work early today, you decided to walk down to the tattoo shop and visit Josh for a few minutes before heading home. And to your benefit, it’s a warm spring day, making the half-mile walk from the coffee shop a pleasant one. 

With his favorite coffee in one hand, you make the turn around the familiar corner and spot the bold, painted lettering on the shop’s large plate-glass windows. You’re experiencing high school giddiness from knowing you’ll see him within minutes, and it makes your stomach churn wildly with anticipation. 

When you walk in, the expected ding from the doorbell chimes through the shop, alerting the staff of your arrival. There are more people in the lobby than you expect, but Sam is the first one to acknowledge as he discusses jewelry options with a potential client over the glass display case. Glancing over to his right, you don’t recognize the other man behind the counter a few feet away from him, but his features are striking enough to pull your attention for only being a stranger. You can see around the person he’s talking to, spotting his shoulder-length, jet-black curly hair framing his angular face and the black t-shirt that reveals his toned, tattoo-covered arms. 

As you make your way to the staircase, Sam gives you an approving nod before returning to his current conversation. Unlike the other times you’ve been here, the music is booming through the speakers, mixing with the chatter of multiple people as you start to ascend the stairs. 

Once you clear the landing, your eyes bounce around all the activity happening on the second floor, but when you look over to his corner of the room, you see him seated at his station, working away on a tattoo. His client, a young woman around your age if you were to guess, is currently getting a rib piece done from what you can tell at this distance.  She’s stretching out across the same flat table you were on days ago, with her flowing bleached locks billowing beneath her, one arm tucked behind her head with most of her sculpted torso exposed from her tiny, cropped tank being pushed up to right below her breasts. 

She’s beautiful, blonde, perky, and enthusiastic. 

Josh looks good, but there wasn’t a shred of doubt in your mind that he would. He’s dressed in his usual casual outfit, wearing one of the standard shop-issued t-shirts and a pair of khakis cuffed at the ankles. His loose curls are swept across his head effortlessly, showing off the fresh touch up to the buzzed sides. It should be you complimenting him. It should be you making him blush and giggle.  

You’re far enough that you can't hear the intimate conversation between them, but you can see Josh throwing back his head from the booming laughter leaving him. He’s comfortable with her, inching just a little closer than the minute before. Her other hand is all over him, those manicured fingers touching across his bare arms as she giggles and bats her lash extensions — like a predator honing in on their next prey. 

He’s too preoccupied to see you in the center of the room, watching him venture into the trap willingly as he tells her his dumb little jokes and collection of his favorite anecdotes. You can only stand frozen in your spot, staring as she whines in a high-pitched voice that’s best described as ‘grating’ to your ears, “Oh my god, Josh. You’re so funny!”

Your stomach turns sour from the sight alone.

You consider turning around and fleeing down the staircase to save face, to hide the embarrassment festering within you because there’s no way you can stroll over there with his stupid coffee in your hand now.

You suddenly feel lost and out of place here. You’re not welcome. You might as well be just another customer strolling through the shop seeking out their next tattoo. Your flight response is what activates, propelling you back into the direction from whence you came, but before you make it to the stairs, Jake working alone at his desk, hyper-focused on drawing one of his designs stops you right in your tracks. It’s enough to make you fight back your initial urge to just leave and decide to take the chance on walking over to him. 

He’s changed things up from his normal long-sleeved button-down, displaying the collection of tattoos that cover his arms by dressing in a faded red t-shirt. With the neckline so loose that it’s stretched out beyond belief, the shirt somehow drapes and fits across him perfectly. 

You step beside him, but choose not to say anything at first for fear of interrupting him.  You silently watch as he swipes his hand across the paper with confidence, leaving bold strokes of black ink in its path.  

If he has any awareness of his surroundings, he would already be in tune with your presence, but you already know him better than that, so his acting like he doesn’t notice you, is blatantly intentional. He’s baited and set the line —effectively making you work for it to see how badly you want his attention — now all he has to do is wait patiently for you to take the first bite. 

His pretending you don’t exist allows you to take in how beautiful he looks today. It’s a graceful, delicate beauty that has otherwise gotten overlooked until now. His long, chestnut hair is tucked behind his left ear, exposing the additional silver hoop through his cartilage and the tiny upside-down black and gray dagger tattooed behind it. You’ve nearly chewed a hole through your bottom lip from anxiety, but you take another daring step closer to him.

 “Oh, hello, dove,” he coos loud enough for you to hear over the music before peeling away from his paper to look into your eyes. The way his satisfying drawl of voice delivers the greeting nearly makes your knees buckle, especially now that you know the real reason behind the pet name. 

“Hi,” you mutter softly while setting the coffee down on his desk. You can’t help but wonder why you’re suddenly shy, bashful even, when you interact with him. 

With an air of casual cockiness, he shifts back in his chair to cross a leg over the other and begins drumming his fingers along the top of his knee. It brings your line of vision to the bands of silver wrapped around them as they catch the light, making you note that this is the first time he’s ever worn rings. You know it’s not based on their aged patina finish and how natural they fit on his fingers like his body has remembered their weight over the years. 

You give in to the temptation and let your eyes drift down his body to his lap now that he’s facing you. He’s wearing a different style of pants than what you’ve seen so far on him, a black, tight-fitting pair of Dickies. He’s cuffed the bottoms today just like his brother, revealing the laces of his leather Doc Marten boots. The dark pants hug his thighs in the best way possible, leaving very little to the imagination.

 He notices the iced coffee you brought right away, but his focus on it doesn’t linger long and he brings his attention to you standing before him. He stares at your fidgeting hands and makes his way up to your eyes and holds on to them, searching for the thoughts until a crooked smile breaks on his face, “What brings you in today?”

You’re showing your cards to him as the indifferent expression on your face begins to falter. There’s an unmistakable amount of tension brewing between you from the last time you had spoken to him. “Just visiting.”

He nods slowly, leaning forward to snatch the coffee off the table, and settles back against the chair. The seconds go by at an excruciatingly slow pace as he spins it in his hand to read the name off the bottom line on the plastic cup. You swallow the lump in your throat as you wait for his inevitable reaction. First, he looks up at you before glancing over to his twin. “I see… and how’s that going so far?”

You dance your fingers along the edge of the desk, studying the clutter of the art supplies across its surface. “I dunno. You tell me. You’re the first one I’ve visited.”

He hums in thought as he takes the first sip from the coffee, effectively claiming it as his own before placing it by his side. He surprises you by reaching out and taking your wrist into his hand, guiding you that much closer to him with a gentle pull. He stares up at you while he begins to massage your palm and down each of your fingers.

For a second your eyes flutter closed and your breath catches in your throat, stopping the chance for a coherent thought to leave your lips. The pressure of his fingers on your skin is sensual, yet deliberate with every touch. He begins to work his way up your arm, but a high-pitched squeal cuts through the bustling noise of the shop, interrupting the moment of tension.

“Oh my god, Josh! You’re so talented! You’re so gonna be my tattoo artist now!”

It’s her. She’s fawning over him, feeding his ego more and more with every praise and empty piece of flattery she throws at him. It’s ridiculous that you’re letting it affect you like this, especially while you flirt away with his twin brother. You’re being a hypocrite, but damn it does it make you feel a certain way to see her touching all over him when you should be the one to do it. 

You can’t hold back the heavy roll of your eyes with the scowl pulling at your features, and how you instantly pull your hand from Jake’s grasp out of discomfort. He takes note of the sudden change in your body language and looks over to the source of the sound. Now that they have his attention, his face contorts into a judging stare — true, ill-concealed disgust. 

He shakes his head in disapproval, “Don’t worry about her, babe.”

“Worry about what?” You huff to hide the fact that you’re bothered and brimming with jealousy, but he sees right through the facade and decides to distract you by running his open hands up the front of your legs. 

He glides his tongue along the sharp edge of his top teeth, teasing you with the sight while he hooks his index fingers through your front belt loops and rubs the pads of his thumbs across the exposed skin, just above the waistband of your jeans. He tugs you forward by the denim loops, making you fall onto his lap. As you tumble onto him, giggles of your own break free, and if you were paying any attention, you would have seen Josh pick his head up and glance over in your direction.  

Holding you by the hips, Jake balances you on top of his legs with the help of your hands resting on his shoulders. You’re close. So close that you can feel the warmth of his skin and breath with every soft exhale. It doesn’t help that the phone call has been corrupting your mind the last few days, and now that you can actually touch him, those thoughts start to get away from you. You breathe him in and notice that he smells exquisite, and expensive from the high-end cologne placed directly on his pulse points.

He soaks in the sight of you through heavy lids while rocking you forward, just enough to give your imagination a taste. “Wanna get outta here?”

The question throws you off given that it’s the middle of the day and the shop is at its busiest. So the casual offer with the tone of his voice that’s playful enough, makes you question his real intentions behind it. “Don’t you have appointments?”

“I have a bit of a break today.” He shrugs, responding matter-of-factly with an absent-minded lick of his lips.

He can’t help but smile waiting for your answer while you think over your decision. If you weren’t so distracted, you might be able to, but their genetic similarities between them are screaming at you. Those dark, full prominent brows that express the slightest change in their moods, the corners of their lips that curl up with the faintest of smiles, the same defined nose, even down to the dimple marking their left cheeks. 

He’s made you go from feeling shy and nervous to wishing you had him in private all to yourself within seconds. You desperately want to kiss him, but you just know you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself if you crossed the threshold. Once you got that taste of him on your tongue, you’d shamelessly rock yourself on his lap without a care in the world that anyone could be watching. 

You clear your throat, pulling yourself from your daydream to entertain the idea of leaving with him, “Where would we go?”

Now that he’s hooked you, that fun smile on his face darkens — turning almost mischievous. “Ahh…see, that’s for you to find out, dove.” 

“Of course it is,” You grumble sarcastically while giving into his mysterious ways before you ease yourself off of his legs to stand on your feet.  Jake follows suit, wincing through a groan of pain as he pushes himself off the chair. He stops to work out the stiffness of his muscles with a long stretch of his arms over his head, giving you a quick view of his stomach from his lifted shirt. 

You stand patiently while he takes a few large sips of the coffee and gathers his phone and keys from the desk. He ushers you toward the stairs, guiding you with a hand placed on the small of your back. The small gesture speaks volumes given the circumstances that have developed over the last few minutes, and though you’ve been trying to ignore them, you chance a look over to Josh’s station.

 Josh is staring right at you, just watching you leave without even offering him a simple hello. It’s the first time you’ve seen that cold, unnerving look being shot across the room at his twin. He’s upset, and you would almost feel guilty if it wasn’t for that girl yanking his attention back to her. 

Jake doesn’t pay him any mind, which you can’t say surprises you. He’s been given the opportunity to stoke the embers of Josh’s jealousy, and that’s not something he’s willing to pass up.

You get to the bottom of the stairs and just when you think he’s gonna walk to the front door of the shop, he takes you by the hand and brings you behind the front counter. Sam’s still in his designated spot, unpacking boxes of jewelry to display in the expansive glass case. He looks up from his task once he notices you and gives another passing nod, but whips his head back for a double take when he sees that you’re with Jake instead of Josh. 

Before Sam can utter a single syllable, Jake calls over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in an hour.” Jake doesn’t give him a chance to respond, and he continues to pull you through the privacy curtain to the hallway.

It feels like you’re crossing into a forbidden area not meant for you, but you try to absorb all the details the best you can anyway. The first room on your left appears to be the room Sam uses for piercing based on the equipment and setup inside. Directly across the hall from it is a bathroom, followed by a small office and a storage closet. The same man from when you first walked into the shop scoots past the both of you, sends a wink, and slaps Jake’s shoulder. “Have fun, you two.”

You follow Jake through the hallway until you come to the back room area. He walks up to a row of old, spray-painted lockers that are mounted to the side of the wall next to the door. “Who was that?”

“Danny.” He answers with his back turned to you and pulls a leather jacket from one of the hooks holding a variety of clothes. He peers over his shoulder to gauge your demeanor. “Don’t tell me you got eyes on him, too.”

You cross your arms and laugh, “I wouldn’t want to humble that ego of yours.” He shakes his head and grabs not one, but two helmets, one glossy white and the other matte black, from a different set of mounted hooks. “What are those for?”

“I’ll show you.”

He takes the lead out the back door, past the dumpster, and out to a small parking lot behind the building — big enough to hold three spaces. You spot and instantly recognize the red, older Camry that was in their driveway when you were at their house last. And next to Josh’s beater, is a motorcycle. 

The last thing you would call yourself is an expert on the topic, but it looks like a classic, vintage style of bike. It’s not big and bulky like what you’ve seen with massive Harley motorcycles, but it’s also not a sleek, modern sport bike either. You would guess that it fits somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. 

You take a few steps closer to it, shaking your head with a grin spreading across your face.“Why am I not surprised?”

He sets the helmets down on the hood of Josh’s car, but it’s obvious he’s been waiting for your reaction from how his ears perk up. “You ride?”

“No, I mean, I’m not surprised that you have a bike,” you explain. While you’re learning new things about the man every day, this is something that just seems fitting. You continue to stare at it, admiring a beauty that you don’t fully understand yet. “It makes sense.”

With the bike between you, you watch as he pulls his hair back into a low bun and secures it with an elastic from his wrist.“It does? How so?”

You shrug, but his eyes are locked onto you, making you bite at your lip. “I don’t know…you seem like the adrenaline junkie type. Always pushing the limit. That kind of thing.”

He’s amused by your words and shows a soft smile on his lips before pulling the white helmet off the car and walking toward you. “Interesting.”

You know he’ll eventually win, but you can’t make the game too easy for him. With the steps he takes around the bike, you take one back and motion to his hand. “You even got the spare helmet and everything. How often do you offer these kinds of rides?”

He stops in his tracks and scoffs, “Hey, I’m not the one with some random woman fucking me with her eyes right now. No need to get territorial with me, love.” 

It was an expertly placed jab that throws you right back into reality. Josh had been pushed to the sidelines and now he exists in the forefront of your mind thanks to Jake’s little quippy remark. He’s right though. You’ve experienced enough jealousy for the day, and it doesn’t do you any good to carry it over to him. 

He tries handing you the helmet, but you cross your arms and turn your head away from him.  You’re testing him with your attitude, making him push out a frustrated sigh as he takes another step. He’s close enough now that the helmet is pressing up against your stomach. “I am not about to risk having your head crack open on the pavement like an egg because you wanna be a smartass. So either put it on and listen, or go back inside and mope. Your choice.”

“Someone’s bossy today.” You reach for the helmet, but he jerks it away before you can grab it.

“There are a few rules.” His voice is stern with a new serious tone. While looking directly into your eyes and holding out his index finger to emphasize the point, he instructs, “First, you always hold onto me. No exceptions. And I don’t mean those soft little hugs and holding on to only my shirt. I mean you fucking hold onto me when we’re moving.” He takes the helmet and places it at the crown of your head and with a bit of effort, he’s able to slide it on comfortably. It’s a snug fit around your face, and the outside sounds are instantly muffled. He flips the interior and exterior visor up by pressing a button on the side of the helmet. “Hey. Try to be aware of your surroundings, but make sure to keep your weight steady with me, especially when you turn your head to look around.”

He takes the leather jacket and gestures to your arms so he can put it on you. “The bike will almost turn on its own.” His jacket hugs your curves better than both of you anticipated, making him smile. He zips it up and then fastens the chin strap of your helmet as he continues, “So keeping that balance with me is important. It’s really all about the hips, so I need you to squeeze your legs tight and lean forward into my back.”

You nod slowly as you take in the bits of information, feeling a little clumsy and disoriented due to the additional weight on your head. After he tugs at the jacket in different spots on your body to inspect the fit, he taps the top of your helmet. “Comfortable?”

“I think so,” you laugh nervously as you adjust to his leather wrapped around your skin. It’s soft, made of rich, genuine leather that’s held the shape of his body and kept his scent within its worn material. Despite the warm, sunny day, you forgo questioning the need for it, because in all honesty, just having the feeling of something that belongs to him on your skin is enough of a reason. 

“Ready to take a ride with me, dove?” He asks and finds the answer from the smile in your eyes since the bottom half of your face is covered by the interior of the helmet. He holds that gaze and shoots you a wink while simultaneously blowing a teasing kiss. He seals the flirty moment with a snap of his gum between his teeth and flips your visor down with the flick of his fingers. 

Now satisfied that you’re set in the protective gear, he wiggles his helmet onto his head, face disappearing into the matte-black protective shell. You watch as he transforms into this separate world, taking on another level of confidence and you’re quick to note all the intricate details from this side of him. After he secures his chin strap, he retrieves two pairs of gloves from the hidden seat compartment and hands you the extras. 

He mounts the bike and motions to you to get on. The nerves are starting to set in, causing your legs to start taking on the qualities of Jello. You brace yourself on his shoulders and swing a leg over the back to slide into place. He patiently waits for you to get into position on the seat and find the spokes to put your feet on. You think you have it, but you’re startled when he reaches back and hooks his hands behind both of your knees, and pulls you closer. 

He goes through the process of putting on his gloves, doing those final adjustments to his helmet, and finally starts the motorcycle. Its engine roars to life and mellows out to a vibrational purr between your legs. 

“You good?” He shouts back at you, but most of the volume of his voice is muffled through the helmet. You answer by wrapping your arms around his waist and giving him a tight squeeze. He rubs your knee in response and gives it a comforting pat before driving out of the parking lot. 

You’re scared. You won’t deny it. Nothing is holding you on except for the strength of your arms and legs. As much as you’re trying to hide it from him, he knows that you’re working through the fear, and stays at a reasonable speed, taking the turns of his route carefully until you get accustomed to the feel of the bike. This level of exposure is nothing like what you’ve experienced before. These same streets you drive daily feel new, and with every shift of a new gear, a wave of adrenaline surges through your veins.

It’s like a rollercoaster, just more dangerous. 

You look around at the buildings to guess where he might be taking you until you hear that familiar Bluetooth pairing chime inside your helmet. At first, you think you might’ve imagined it, but the sound is immediately followed by Jake’s smooth voice cracking through the headpiece, “You better hold me a bit tighter, love.” You startle from the unexpected sound, making him chuckle, “I promise I won’t bite that hard.”

He stops at a red light, giving you the chance to relax enough and mutter a curse. “You’re a dick.”

That laugh of his — so delicately woven within the static of the microphone as it fills your head. “Oh come on! You’re having fun. Don’t lie to me.”

You hope he doesn’t have a camera inside the helmet to catch your dramatic eye roll. You’re sulking, maybe due to the fact you’re a little embarrassed he had one up on you this entire time. “You could’ve told me about the helmet.”

While balancing the combined weight of the bike and both of your bodies on his foot, he reaches back and rubs your outer thigh. “And risk not being able to hear all those little whimpers you’re making? Not a chance.”

That flusters you, making the grip loosen around his midsection. He takes your hands, gives a reassuring squeeze and he places them back in their spot before taking off when the light finally changes. 

The position you’re holding is a bit awkward at first due to the urge to slide in as close as possible, but after a few minutes of riding, it becomes natural. You eventually take in the scene, watching the cars pass by as he rides between the lanes of traffic. 

“So where are you taking me?”

He chuckles before sending the song of his sigh into your earpiece, “You like tacos?” 

The randomness of the question makes you giggle. “Yeah, I like tacos.”

“Good. I know the perfect spot.”

He pulls the bike into a mostly-empty parking lot of what looks like an abandoned strip mall. Looking around, you spot the taco truck set up at the far end and a few picnic tables scattered in a grassy area off to the side. 

He kills the engine, pulls off his gloves, and helps dismount the bike. “This is the hot spot?”

“I can feel your judgment already. Don’t knock a food truck until you try it, okay?”

After placing your order, you follow him out to the picnic tables while you wait for your food. He sets his helmet down and climbs onto the wooden table with his feet resting on the bench. You watch him dig out a fresh pack of cigarettes and tap the box against his palm. He peels the plastic wrapper off, flips the top open, and grasps the filter of one between his lips. 

“The gum wasn’t cutting it?” You tease as you approach him and set your helmet beside his. 

He freezes with the open Zippo in hand and the paper of the cigarette sticking to his bottom lip, and looks up at you just as he’s about to light it. A different emotion flashes before you, that guilty look of being caught red-handed. It transforms into a nearly undetectable smirk while he flicks the lighter, brings the flame to the end of the cigarette, and pulls in a satisfying drag that hollows out his cheeks, “Studying my bad habits?”

“That, or maybe you’re just more predictable than you think, Jacob.”

His eyes narrow with the use of his full name. “Predictable? That’s a new one.”

A random surge of confidence compels you to pluck the burning cigarette from between his fingers and bring it up to your lips. You’ve been to enough parties and social situations throughout the years to be familiar with it enough to not act clueless. Even so, the way he’s looking at you causes your hands to shake and for you to cast your eyes elsewhere.

“Yeah.” You pause to gesture with the cigarette in your hand with a sassy click of your tongue. “This whole dark and mysterious bad-boy thing is nothing but a front.”

He leans forward with his elbows propped on his knees to watch you pull in a drag of your own, and his expression seems amused to say the least. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself, doll.”

It’s full-bodied and harsh on your tongue from holding it in your mouth. To impress him and not make an ass out of yourself, you let your bottom lip fall open so you can push the smoke with your tongue to inhale through your nose. You fight the itching urge to cough as you blow what’s left out of your lungs into the air. While exuding the same energy of a best friend’s cooler, older brother, he sees right through the little trick you’ve learned years ago. 

Biting back that cocky grin that’s twisting his lips, he takes your wrist and guides your hand slowly up to his mouth. You feel his lips brush ever-so-carefully across your palm before he wraps them around the filter stuck between your fingers. 

He mimics the same smoke trick you had done but with the natural ease of being an actual smoker. You try to stay calm and collected while you swallow back the swell of nausea and light-headedness from the rush of nicotine into your system.

“You good?” He asks, blowing the smoky exhale out from the corner of his mouth.

You nod, grunting through the burning sensation eating away deep within your throat. Thankfully, your order being called out from the window of the truck saves you at the moment. You bolt to the window, leaving him at his spot on the table.  

Everything is piping hot and made fresh to order with the most authentic ingredients you’ve ever seen. Jake is quick to pour the plastic ramekin of hot sauce across his order of tacos and starts to devour one of them before you can even finish unwrapping your food from the foil. 

He’s truly lost in the experience with eyes rolling back while a stream of bright-orange juices from his taco drip down his chin before he has the chance to wipe it clean. “These always hit the spot.”

“How did you find this place?”

He wipes a napkin across his mouth before answering, “Years ago I did a tattoo for one of the owners during a convention and he bought us some of his food the next day for lunch. The guys and I have been stopping by here ever since.”

It’s hard not to be distracted by his bare arms, the way the sleeves of his tattoos move with every flex of his muscles. It would take you hours to examine each piece of inked artwork, but he’s already catching on to you staring at him. You break your eyes away to look off into the distance, making a mental note of the place for the future. “I’ll have to come by here again.”

He shoves the rest of his taco into his mouth, mumbling around it, “Are we gonna talk about it, or just have small talk about the food?”

You drop your eyes to your styrofoam tray of food in front of you. “Talk about what?”

He wipes his mouth and fingers clean with another paper napkin. “Ya’ know, about what happened back at the shop.”

It was naive to hope that Jake wouldn’t eventually bring it up and think it was something that could have been easily forgotten. “Nothing happened.”

He scoffs a harsh laugh, “Right. And that’s why you sulked and almost took off without saying anything?” You stay silent and take another bite while still avoiding eye contact. “Are you gonna talk to him?”

He’s putting you on the spot and you haven’t even had the chance to process your feelings about it, let alone give him any sort of thought-out answer. “About what exactly?”

“That what he did bothers you,” he says flatly before taking a bite of his second taco. 

You push the helping of rice around on the tray. “How can I? Go up to him and say ‘Hey, Josh, I don’t want you to sleep with anyone else even though I’m also fucking your brother’?  You do know that sounds absolutely insane, Jake?”

He agrees with an empathetic lift of his brows and shrugs his shoulders while he finishes the second taco. “Maybe.”

“And why do you care anyway?” You hiss at him with far more attitude than you realize, making him the target of your frustration. “Doesn’t that go against your own…motives?”

He sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth from the heat of the hot sauce before letting out an amused chuckle, “You act like I have this grand evil plan, dove. I don’t really care what’s happening between you and Josh. Now granted, I can’t say I thoroughly enjoy sharing you with him, but I do think you might be a little hard on yourself with this one.” 

You finally look up, prompting him to meet your weak gaze. You study him, searching for what his true intentions in this conversation are. “I think it would just make things worse.”

Something washes over his stoic expression, making him shift his weight on the seat of the picnic table to straighten out his posture. He starts to fidget with the silver skull ring on his left ring finger, spinning it around as if he’s suddenly feeling apprehensive. “Would you be this upset if it was me instead of him?”

Was that jealousy? You watch him closely, noting the stiff, slightly-annoyed movements of hands picking up his last taco before he takes a bite. “What do you mean?”

He looks directly at you, causing the afternoon sunlight to catch his deep-brown eyes, turning them into a rich-golden toffee.“What if I was the one sleeping around with someone else?”

The question leaves your mouth before you have a chance to think it through, “Are you?!”

Just like that, you reveal a little more than you intend to. Your reaction was panicked and insecure when it should have been casual and collected. Now that he knows more about where you stand, that little smirk of his slowly forms on his lips. You can kiss the thought of getting an answer from him goodbye because unlike the phone call the other night, he’s sober at this moment. Your chance of pulling out any information that’s being locked away in that brain of his is nonexistent. 

As you both finish up eating your lunch, he can’t ward off the reality that it’s time for him to take you back to the shop. However, you’re relieved to find that the second time mounting the bike is a bit more graceful than the first, and most of the nervousness you felt, in the beginning, is quickly dissipating the more time you spend with him. He must sense your comfort level because he’s now splitting between lanes of traffic and becoming a little more daring with his speed than he did initially. 

From what you can remember, the ride back to the shop isn’t a long one, and regardless of whatever tension lives between the two of you, you feel safe with him. It doesn’t take long for you to sway effortlessly along with him and get a true sense of how the bike moves on the road. You fall back into your thoughts, wishing that you can feel the soft fabric of his t-shirt against your cheek instead of the helmet getting in your way or the thick material of the gloves covering your fingers. Despite your senses being restricted by the protective gear, it doesn’t stop you from wrapping your arms around his midsection. 

That secure hold on him becomes exploratory as you feel up and down his stomach, over his slender hips, and eventually lower onto his lap. When he stops at the next red light, you feel bold enough to feel across the tops of his thighs. You squeeze your legs around him even tighter than before, molding yourself against his body, and he can’t hide the change in his breathing as it’s picked up through the microphone of the intercom. You look over his shoulder to see him tapping his fingers impatiently on the clutch while your hands continue to roam over his legs. You become mesmerized by that alone, watching the tendons and muscles of his forearm move with each flex of his fingers on the clutch lever.

Through the gloves and the material of his pants, you feel something hard when you graze your hand back up his leg, which makes him groan and squirm against the seat. You bite into your smile and decide to do it again, but this time grabbing him with more purpose than before. 

There’s no mistaking his erection when a low growl crackles through your earpiece. He grabs your wrist, stopping the movements of your hand on his lap while giving you the stern warning, “You better behave yourself.”

You fight against the hold he has on you, hooking your fingers around his inner thigh. Making sure to keep your voice innocent, yet bratty, you ask, “And if I don’t?” 

He cocks his head to the side as if to look back at you, and you can feel his leg bouncing while you continue to rub him through his pants. You swear he’s leaning backward into your embrace, but before he can scold you or utter a single word, a car’s horn honks from behind you, startling you both. 

The bike acts like it’s suddenly gained consciousness and bucks forward a few inches before the engine cuts itself off. It takes you a second to understand what’s happened until you come to realize that he’s stalled it.

 “Fuck!” He curses harshly while rushing to restart the bike with the looming pressure building from the line of cars behind him. He manages to bring his motorcycle back to life easily, and the relief of finally passing through the clear intersection washes over him. “That was fucking embarrassing,” he mumbles under his breath. 

Your hands find their way back to his stomach, and you give him a reassuring squeeze even if your tone is slightly patronizing. “It’s okay. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

He accepts your gesture with a giggle as he pats your hand that’s resting just above his navel. “If you do, I might have to kill you.”

Unfortunately, for the remainder of the ride, Jake proves to not be much of a conversationalist and fills the time by playing music through the helmets instead of chatting with you. You try not to let it bother you, but then you’re thrown when he pulls the bike into an open parking space in front of the shop, instead of his designated spot in the back. 

You step into the shop for the second time today but with Jake by your side. You’re greeted by the same faces, but now with the addition of Josh and the woman he was tattooing when you left. She’s standing at the counter, leaning over so much that her ass sticks out, touching his arm while he works on closing out her payment. 

“We should really get a drink sometime,” she offers, shamelessly making her move without caring that it’s in front of an audience. 

Josh smiles, and you can see the blush pink ending the apples of his cheeks. “Yeah, maybe.”

You’re not exactly sure where this feeling is coming from. You wouldn’t consider yourself an overly jealous or confrontational type of person. But just to hear her voice, to see her reach out and touch him the way she is —  it’s making you act irrationally. What you should do is remain calm, say your goodbyes to the guys, and head home for the rest of the day. 

But you don’t.

That impulse that’s been simmering within yourself like an unattended pot finally boils over, causing you to take Jake’s hand in yours. There’s a powerful determination in your strides as you drag him over to the front counter. You’re the one taking the lead, using the same path he had used with you when you left the shop. It feels as though time is slowing down like you were trapped in that cliche scene of a movie. As you push past Josh and his client, you pretend he’s simply a stranger, that the chemistry and moments shared between you are figments of his imagination.

She simply scoffs and scoots out of your way while Josh freezes in place, stuck staring at you with this incredulous look of shock. His expression instantly sours with anger when Jake steps with you, but you don’t bother with an explanation as you make your way to the back hallway. You want your actions to make a point for you. 

Despite his brother’s sudden change in mood, Jake doesn’t resist in the slightest as you yank him down the hall. You step into the small office with him in tow, spin dramatically on your heels, and with your hands placed firmly on his chest, you shove him against the back of the door hard enough for it to slam shut with a thud. 

You’re inches away from his face, breathing heavily while your heart pounds wildly within your chest. You’ve pulled that trigger, now all that’s left is to follow through with your plan. You know it will end poorly, but his divine scent, the warmth of his body through his t-shirt, and the throaty sound of his laugh divert your attention from that fact while simultaneously causing the walls of your confidence to crumble. 

“Doesn’t bother you, huh?” He asks through an airy giggle while he wraps his fingers around your wrist and looks down at you through sleepy lids with that smug, feline smile appearing on his mouth. 

“Shut up.” You swallow thickly, fixating solely on his lips that he’s wetting with the tip of his tongue. You don’t give yourself the chance to overthink what’s happening before your mouth comes crashing down on him. The kiss you give him is not gentle, graceful, or even teasing. It’s walking along the lines of desperate, demanding at best as you shove your tongue into his mouth in the need to taste him. 

He welcomes you with a low groan, and his hand finds your cheek to pull you in closer. Whatever this is, it’s impulsive and rushed —  far from the scene he painted on that phone call. You’re both sweaty and uncomfortable from being crammed in this tiny office, but you don’t care, and neither does he, given how his tongue is sliding across yours. As he cradles your cheek, you struggle to keep your hands in one spot for longer than a second. They leave the nape of his neck to massage across his chest until they grasp onto the fabric on his t-shirt in clenched fists. 

While he takes his time savoring the kiss, you’re in a frantic need, borderline clawing at the button and zipper of his jeans. You impatiently huff, “Would you just fuck me already?”

Without warning, he grabs both of your wrists, flips both of you around, and knocks you up against the door. Before you can react and utter a single word, he snatches your throat in the blink of an eye, claiming the air from your lungs. The hold he has on you is controlled, but gentle. He keeps you still, taking precious seconds to examine all the intricate details while he breathes you in. You try to watch him through your lashes, but you’re too distracted by the silver bands of his rings pressing into the soft flesh of your neck with the calculated squeeze of his fingers. 

“If you want to use me to make him jealous, you better be ready for it, dove,” He croons just above a whisper, the breath of his voice fanning across your parted lips — the sound of it having the richness of freshly-pulled espresso, dark and intense.

If you’re the vixen, he’s the wolf — giving you that false sense of security while you’ve been prancing around thinking you’ve had control, that he’s softened up to you. But in reality, you’ve been distracted this entire time while he prowls that clearing, waiting for the perfect moment to change everything for you.  

That addicting, devilish smile flashes before you. “Are you?”

His eyes seem to darken, pupils blown with desire as they drift down to your lips. You nod, whispering a faint, “Yes.”

If you were paying attention, you would have heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, but you didn’t. The feeling of the doorknob turning and the door being pushed open is what pulls you out of your trance. 

Jake throws an open hand to the door and shoves it closed with a harsher thud than you did moments ago. He flips the lock before the other person has the chance to push it open again. When they realize this with a second attempt, they proceed to bang their fist on the other side of the door. 

“Are you fucking serious?!” A muffled, angry voice calls out while giving one final push to the door.

It’s Josh.

Jake doesn’t seem bothered by the jarring interruption in the slightest, so little in fact that he starts to place kisses on your neck.

You push against his chest enough to break the contact of his lips to your skin. “He sounds mad, Jake”

He presents a cocky smile to you, but his eyes are focusing on your lips while his thumb sweeps across them. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

You can’t say you were expecting Josh’s confrontation, but it makes you question your motives, and with that, guilt and worry jump on the chance to weasel their way into your mind, causing a shift in your disposition. “Yeah…but—“

He takes your chin in his hand and carefully tilts your head up so you’re looking at him directly. He looks down at you, peering through heavy lids in admiration. Now that he has your full attention, he coos with a certain assurance, “Hey, don’t get in your head about it. He’ll be pissy for a bit, but he’ll get over it.”

You scoff dramatically, breaking free from his loose grasp. He dips his head back to its place in the crook of your neck, letting out a deep sigh, “He can’t hold a grudge to save his life.” While your fingers weave into his hair, he peppers your shoulder with kisses, mumbling through each one, “Especially with you.” 

You’ve been holding a breath in your chest despite the aching feeling it gives you, but you push it out the second he sinks his teeth into the flesh which sends a chill down the length of your spine. He squeezes a handful of your ass, giving himself the ability to grind himself against your hip. You groan at the feeling of his erection pressing into you, making him smile against your skin before he teases, “Besides, I believe that you’ll find ways to make it up to him.”

You lean against the door while you try to collect your thoughts. Even though you’re swimming in feelings and emotions, you’re still clear-headed enough to be irritable toward Josh. “Yeah, well, he should be finding ways to make it up to me.”

Your response makes him laugh and retreat from your neck, but only to hover his lips over yours, “There’s my girl.”

He seems pleased and releases his hand from around your throat and balances his weight on his other arm against the door. He’s hovering above you, boxing you in with his arms against the door. The touch of his lips is a blessing and a curse as he presses them into the delicate skin, that tender spot right below your ear. You’re at his mercy, and you both know it.  

He pops open the button of your jeans with ease and slips his hand under the denim and the fabric of your panties. You try to spread your legs for him in the standing position, but he’d already nestled in the heat between your thighs. To your surprise, he doesn’t make you beg this time, and slips his middle finger through your folds, coating himself in the building wetness of your arousal. 

“Fuck,” you moan louder than expected as you buck into the palm of his hand, grasping onto his wrist that’s half-buried in the front of your pants. You instinctively clench your legs around him, but his fingers glide over you despite the restrictions. 

“Little worked up?” He pants, the heat of his breath clinging to your neck. You react by digging your nails into the flesh of his arm, but he’s already busy circling your clit with the calloused pad of his finger. 

“Fuck you,” you say in a breathy sigh, but the insult is as empty as your mind is right now. The only thought existing in the brain fog is your need to satiate the craving for him, and you’ve decided you’re not leaving until you do. 

He repositions slightly, pinning you firmly against the door as he braces himself. He hums and gives a nip to your jaw “Oh don’t worry, dove. You’ll get to.”

He adds his index finger, flicking the bundle of nerves with the lightest of touches.

You whine out, and your legs start to shake in fatigue from holding yourself against the door. He rolls his hips against you in search of friction, giving away that he’s been wanting this just as badly. “You been thinking about me, dove? Playing with this pretty little cunt pretending it’s me doing it?”

You whimper an incoherent answer. He slips his middle finger through your slick until it's right at your entrance. Even he’s surprised with how easily his finger glides inside you. ‘Fuck, you’re so wet. Did the bike feel good, sweetheart?” He curls it inside while his thumb works your clit, working off the reactions of your body beneath him. “He can’t do that for you, can he?”

He could be speaking an entirely different language to you and it wouldn’t matter at this moment. Every word from his mouth sounds more distorted than the last as that heat builds between your trembling legs. With how close you are, you can only writhe and claw at his arm, responding to him with pathetic whimpers and moans. 

He adds a second finger, stretching you out that much more, and starts to pump them inside you with however much your jeans allow. “You know he’s out there right now. Wishing he could fuck you…feel you like this.”

You cry out his name and you put no effort in keeping your voice low and quiet. You’ve been holding onto him this entire time, and now you have most of his t\shirt balled in your fists to ground yourself to him. He’s intertwined with you, rocking his waist with yours as you climb to the tipping point of your release. He’s so close that the bridge of his nose is digging into the side of your cheek, but you can’t be bothered to care about the sting the pressure causes. You want it, you need him to lose himself with you. 

You’re rapidly approaching your peak, and there’s no question that he can feel you tighten and flutter around him. He pushes a growl from his throat against the shell of your ear, “There you go, give it all to me. I know you’re close, dove.” He drags his swollen lips down the column of your neck while his fingers sweep that special spot inside you. “She needs me so badly.” 

As if he’s yanked the threads of your composure with the simple demand, you unravel completely. He holds you tightly, riding the waves of your orgasm as you shake uncontrollably against his hand.

After giving you a minute to come down from your high, he pulls his hand from your jeans and rests it on your hip while he catches his breath. You release your hold on the back of his shirt and let your fingers wander down the length of his body until you find what you’re searching for. You’re pleased to know that he’s still just as hard as he was, throbbing away against your palm.

You take the initiative by grabbing his hips and sliding down with your back to the door until you’re balanced on your knees. Your confidence always falters when you see him, but you can’t resist the temptation to look up. 

The image of him above you takes your breath away. You watch his chest heave with every breath pushing past his parted lips while he braces his weight against the door on an extended arm. His long hair has come loose from his bun and is now falling around his face, some of it even clinging to the sweat that has collected on his cheeks and forehead. His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, but his surprise shows on his raised brows when he sees your hands meet at the button of his pants. 

You watch him process what’s about to happen and the absentminded lick across his lips before they spread wide into a full grin. He brings his other hand to rest on the crown of your head before his fingers slip through your hair. 

The way his dull nails scratch across your scalp is almost enough to distract you, but you’re determined. You make quick work of his button and zipper, opening the front of his pants enough so you can pull his cock free. The noise he makes the second you have him in your hand is a sound you wish you could replay forever. He’s heavy and thick in your grasp — his skin is hot to the touch, tacky against your fingers as you slowly stroke him. 

He suddenly tugs at your hair by the roots, yanking your attention back up to him. “Just know you’re not fooling me, sweetheart.” The stinging sensation with the authority in his voice makes you ache for him even more. He relaxes his grip on your hair for a more affectionate touch, one that one might use for a pet. “Acting all innocent…but here you are hungry for my cock like the pretty little whore you are.”

You squeeze your fingers around the base, making him hum from your choice of answer.  You wish you had all the time in the world to tease him, to edge him slowly until he is the one begging. You don’t. Since you’re on borrowed time as it is, you bring him to your lips and lick around the head of his cock before gliding him over your flattened tongue. He shudders at the warm, wet feeling, and his fingers curl involuntarily against your scalp. 

You quickly find your rhythm, bobbing on him while you use your hand for what your lips can’t reach. The saltiness of his sweat lingers on your tongue and the natural scent of his body floods your mind — adding to the impulsiveness of your decisions. His splayed fingers slide to the back of your head so he can push himself even deeper. You take him without complaint, letting his cock hit the back of your throat. 

You gag around him almost instantly, so forcefully that you have to pull away with just a string of spit connecting your lips to his cock. The tears welling in your eyes have clouded your vision, but you hear him hum in approval, “That’s it, baby girl.”

Acting on his praise, you wrap your lips around him once again. Your movements and techniques are sloppy and uncoordinated, but you find that only seems to turn him on even more. The messier you are with his cock in your mouth and the more depraved you look on your knees, the closer he gets. 

Through your wet lashes, you see that his eyes are clamped shut in what looks like a grimace of pain, but you know that it’s far from it. You also note how his mouth hangs open while tiny moans and whispered curses escape freely. He’s somewhere else in his mind, fighting the temptation to let go completely into the back of your throat. He’s been allowing you to take the lead as long as he can, but he’s losing the battle of self-control and gives in by pressing the heel of his palm to your forehead and guiding your head to the back of the door. 

He finally takes that control, and with each thrust into your mouth, he pushes the back of your head into the wood just a bit more. The act isn’t painful, but it’s far from comfortable. You’re greedy for the praise, for the lewd sounds he makes, for the reactions of his body from how good you feel. You want to keep going but the muscles of your legs are starting to strain with fatigue and your jaw is starting to ache past the point of being bearable.

You reach up to tap his hand and he instantly releases his grip on your hair and withdraws himself from your mouth. If you were him, you would see your makeup has smeared down your cheeks, your red, swollen lips and chin glistening with your drool, and that glazed, already fucked-out look in your eyes.

“Jake,” you try to speak, but his name barely comes out as a hoarse whisper.

He just stares at you with a blank expression on his face, and for a second you worry that he didn’t hear you until he eventually mumbles out, “Huh?”

“I need you.”

He nods and reaches down to hook his hands under your arms, helping you up off the floor. You don’t have to balance your weight for long because he spins you both again and guides you to the desk behind you. In one fluid motion, he tugs your jeans and underwear down your legs and lifts you onto the top of the desk.

He hooks his hands around the backs of your knees and pulls you forward to the very edge before wrapping your legs around his waist. Everything is happening faster than you can process, but what you can do is bring his lips to yours for a kiss.

With his cock in hand, he glides himself through your folds to coat himself in your arousal. He holds himself at your entrance, waiting for your permission and the anticipation nearly kills you, but all he wants is to hear how badly you need it. 

“Jake…please.” Your desperate plea tumbles into his mouth through your kiss. 

He smiles against your lips as he rolls his hips forward, nudging the head of his cock into your waiting cunt. He pulls himself out, only to push all the way to the hilt in a single thrust. However, he’s not done dragging this out, because now that he’s fully inside you, right where you want him to be, he slowly withdraws — so slowly that it’s borderline torture. 

While you groan in protest, he’s looking down, watching you tense and tighten around his cock in hopes of keeping him close. “Fuck, you take me so well,” He grunts before snapping his hips forward, and because you’ve adjusted to his size, he glides back into you with ease. 

As much as you love the idea of him watching himself fuck you, you need him close. You bring him flush against you with your legs locked around him in a vice-grip hold. He stalls his movements, but he makes up for it by sweeping the hair from your face and tucking it behind your ear so he can whisper, “You look prettier with me inside you.”

The thought of arguing with him on that fact crosses your mind, but this is where his sweet affection ends. He’s done with the sensual teasing and decides to set a very different pace for himself. You make the note to consider yourself lucky up until this point, because now you’re struggling to keep your sounds discreet. 

A forceful thrust of his cock against your cervix causes a yelp to break free and his hand flies to your mouth to muffle your cries. He chuckles with a shake of his head, but it's lazy and breathy while he continues to fuck you, “You gotta be quiet. There are still people here.” 

His hands have been everywhere on you — around the nape of your neck, on your hips, across your back, and almost every inch of your legs. He settles on your throat once more, but this time making the point to squeeze his fingers into the flesh. “Whose pussy is this? Hmm? Tell me.”

You’re becoming more light-headed by the second, but you’re eager to give him the answer he desires, “Yours.”

While he’s been just shy of being rough with you, his rhythm slows enough so he can ask, “Who? I don’t think I heard a name, dove.”

“Yours, Jake! Yours!”

Satisfied with your answer, he lets go of your neck to brush his knuckles along your jaw. “That’s right. Good girl.” Hearing him calling you ‘good girl’ will never cease to make you melt, so there’s nothing that can stop you from letting your head fall against his. “Don’t forget that she’s mine.”

The slip of his possessiveness only fuels your desire. It should have you running the other direction, but here you are wanting him to claim you — to take what he deems rightfully his.

His thrusts give him away before his words do. His panting breath fans across your cheek with every exhale, “I’m so close. How bad do you want it?”

You know exactly what he means, and you don’t hesitate to beg him for it, “Bad. Pl-please, Jake. Come inside me, please.”

The sweet, pitchy sound of your request causes him to falter. “Oh fuck, baby. You want me to fill you up?” The words are broken up between thrusts and the sharp inhale of breath through clenched teeth. “Mark her as mine?”

While he’s been holding out as long as he could, the final few pumps buried deep inside you force him to succumb to his release. He gives you what you’re so desperate for —  the addicting warmth of his cum filling you with every heavy pulse and twitch of his cock. 

He stays perfectly still wrapped in your embrace to soak up the moment and take in the feeling of your pussy spasming around his softening cock. You’re not sure how much time passes until he slides out of you and tucks himself back into his pants while admiring the mess he’s left between your legs.“What a beautiful sight.”

Just when you think it’s all over, his fingers dance along your inner thigh. “How’s it feel? Me dripping out of you like this?”

You’re not sure what to say. If you were coherent in any capacity, you still might not have anything to say. 

He gladly accepts your listless state and the silence as the best answer. He rolls his thumb over your swollen, over-stimulated clit that’s covered in his cum, making you squirm from the touch. He clicks his tongue, but doesn’t pull his hand away, “She can’t even hold it all in, poor thing.” 

You say his name again as a warning, but in reality, it’s a weak lie. If it was up to you, he would never stop touching you if you could help it. You just can’t say you expected him to shove his fingers inside you again. 

It’s only for a brief moment and then they are gone, leaving you empty. You stare at him in pure disbelief as he brings those same, wet fingers to his mouth and wipes them across his tongue. He leans forward to kiss you, making sure to share whatever he licked off. “Taste that? That’s us and don’t you ever fucking forget it.”

You’re left speechless, and when he realizes you won’t answer him, he asks a follow-up question with more deliberation, “Do you understand me?”

You nod despite your sweaty face sticking to the side of his. “Yes, Jake.”

He hums to himself, “I had a feeling you were going to be a good listener.”

TAGLIST:

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[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for adapting a situation I have been in/witnessed in real life into something I'm writing?

Okay, that doesn't sound as bad as it is to me on its own. Will probably seem worse with context. Here goes, and buckle in, it's a long one.

Five years ago, I (20 at the time, she/her) had this friend, who I'm going to call Alex (21 at the time, genderfluid). Alex was in this relationship with a pansexual guy who I'm going to call Mark (24 at the time, he/him). To me and the rest of Alex's friends, the way Mark treated Alex sent up some major red flags. He was insanely possessive, always spoke over Alex whenever Alex made a point or talked about something he didn't like/approve of, whenever they weren't together he'd be texting or calling Alex to ask where Alex was and who Alex was with, and would say who he thought Alex should and shouldn't associate with and enforced it to the best of his ability.

I and the rest of Alex's friend group would try and bring it up as gently as we possibly could, and Alex would either become quiet and unresponsive until we changed the subject or lash out and tell us it was just a phase in the relationship that 'all couples go through' and that we should just 'leave it alone'.

It remained a wedge issue between us until a mutual friend decided we should have a big lart at her house after a Pride Event. Alex and Mark arrived together and stayed joined at the hip until somewhere between 1 am and 1 thirty am, which was when I lost sight of them.

At 1 thirty one, I went out into the mutual friend's back garden to get some air because the house was stupidly hot and smelled like weed. I found Alex crying. After a while, he (preferred pronouns at the time were he/him) told me he'd seen Mark kissing someone he didn't know. He also said that he didn't want to go back to the flat he and Mark shared because of it. I offered to let him stay at mine for the remainder of the night, saying we'd talk about it in the morning.

At that point, Mark came outside and saw me with Alex. He said something like "Babe, I know I messed up, but you don't have to show me how bad it feels." I said to Alex that we were leaving and we made it to the side gate when Mark called "Please, I can make this right, we can be a couple again. I just... I have needs, you know?" Alex didn't respond, but I did. I shouted that his needs weren't a get-out-of-jail-free card for being a shitty person or something like that. I think I would be a JAH if I were asking about that situation

About a week after the party, Alex and Mark broke up. Alex and I both moved away, but to different places and we lost contact.

Anyway, I sat down to write something (I won't say what) and it involved a toxic relationship. About halfway through writing, I stopped and realised I was basing it on Alex and Mark's relationship, and started getting paranoid about them seeing it if I put it out into the world. I abandoned that story, but I really enjoyed writing the parts that weren't about the toxic relationship.

Would I be the asshole if I continued writing it?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

[my-mt-heart]

“The Book of Carol” Teaser

Well, that was some serious whiplash yesterday. Totally not suspicious. Not suspicious at all. I'm still uneasy about the show's leadership, but the teaser is by far the best reassurance we've gotten in a long while and Caryl fans are happier than I've seen them in over a year, so I'll take it. Hopefully we can expect exciting content like this to roll out consistently until S2 airs, but in the meantime, here are my thoughts on what we have...

Daryl's opening VO, "I dunno know if this is the place I'm supposed to be," is actually a line from the leaked 201 sides. In them, Daryl has a conversation with Isabelle, the details of which I'll discuss sometime after the finale airs, but what's relevant here is that it juxtaposes Daryl's conversation with Carol in Find Me. Whereas Daryl insists in the cabin that he does know where he's "supposed to be," implying that he belongs with Carol, something isn't feeling right about France or the "surrogate family" (🙄) the teaser immediately cuts to after that line. I don't know the context of the next lines of VO, "I've been thinking about all the people I left behind, wondering if they're still thinking about me," and I'm not entirely sure why Daryl assumes Carol may have moved on (need I remind you of the lunch date in S11), but obviously he's homesick. And, thanks to that very unambiguous tagline, we understand why. Daryl and Carol are each other’s home. They need each other to be happy.

Needless to say, Melissa is so good in this. She doesn't need gimmicks or anything artsy to make her performance stand out. Carol's agony over Daryl is right there in her eyes, her determination to find him clear in her voice. I especially love her soft "yes" to the man I suspect will accompany her to France (you can see his reflection in the rearview mirror when Carol is in the car surrounded by walkers). He seems reluctant to take up a cause he isn't emotionally invested in, meaning he doesn't know if he wants to embark on what's bound to be a long, dangerous journey for someone he hasn't met i.e. Daryl. So basically, he's asking Carol if she would do it if she was in his position and she assures him that she would. The dialogue is a bit convoluted to stick in a teaser, but the takeaway is supposed to be that Carol will do anything to find Daryl if there's hope he's still alive. Because, of course she would. Daryl should know that, just like Carol should know he'd worry about her even if she told him not to. They love each other. They told each other they love each other. These two have a lot of insecurities to sort out when they finally reunite, and I hope we get to watch those deep conversations take place when they aren't making out.

Carol riding Daryl's bike and carrying his crossbow are nostalgic, the first reminding me of when Daryl rode out of the Commonwealth in the series finale only this time I'm not fighting the urge to hurl something at the TV. I'm actually cheering Carol on as she sets off to find him and hopefully give him a stern talking to (I let you go on our road trip alone and you end up in France??) The second is reminiscent of No Sanctuary when she finds his crossbow at Terminus, and we all know where that led. The question is how will this reunion top it? Hint: there's only one right answer.

I wonder if collecting pieces of him keeps her grounded along the way, similar to how Dog became her connecting point after she and Daryl had their big fight in Find Me/Diverged. I'd ideally like to see flashbacks of Daryl teaching Carol how to ride and/or how to use the crossbow since it's never been established that she can do either. My expectations aren't high unfortunately because history tells me TWDU loves to take shortcuts. That was particularly the case in S11 as far as Caryl were concerned. If that continues though, it's going to be a major issue for me. Don't just toss out gimmicks you think will get us talking for a bit. Don't leave out the connective tissue. Earn what you want to show us.

The title screen is an eyesore. For one thing, there are way too many fonts and for another, "Daryl Dixon" is the larger text despite the season centering on Carol. Like I said yesterday, Melissa and Norman are on equal footing. That is confirmed, but visuals like this give the appearance that Melissa/Carol carry less weight than Norman/Daryl which is complete bullshit. The original spinoff was going to be hers just as much as it was his, so why wouldn't that be the case now? That's a rhetorical question because I know the answer. It'd be really nice if AMC stopped punishing Melissa and her fans for their mistakes last year.

But to end on a positive note (I was doing so well, wasn't I?), the teaser is a good sign for Carol's/Caryl's story, and I'm excited about S2 again. With some help, I'll be keeping a close watch on how the season is marketed going forward. If the whiplash continues, if EPs keep insulting their audience, well…why stick around for it 🤷🏻‍♀️ But if hints such as that tagline persist or ramp up, we might actually be headed for explicit canon 👍🙏❤️

(I see my inbox is about to explode. I'll get to what I can tonight).

#caryl #caryl spinoff #carol peletier #melissa mcbride #darylneedscarol #the book of carol

[absolute-flaming-trash]

A late night drive ( rainy weather ) with Hisoka

P.S. Your fics were the first ones I read in the yandere genre and boii did you get me hooked ...

Okay, a few things:

I am incredibly flattered, I'm so happy you enjoyed my work that much that it got you hooked on the genre!

I did see the second ask you sent, and I'm sorry, the extra context didn't really work for what I had in mind for the theme of this event, but I see you fam.

I hope you enjoy what came of this! I kinda went off...

Warnings: Yandere, Kidnapped reader, Stockholm syndrome, Hisoka is a bit of a dick but no more than usual.

Word Count: 836

There were two major things that surprised you when it came to Hisoka.

For all his extravagance, he liked things simple. For all the flair and dramatics, he was a bit of a minimalist.

It showed the most in his floor at Heaven’s Arena, although you supposed that made sense. Those weren’t meant to be permanent places of residence in the first place, but many still decorated them as if they were - adding personal touches where they could.

When you asked why he never did, he said that sentimental value was a waste of time.

Something you found ironic considering the status and nature of your relationship - a note which you kept that to yourself, but that led into the second thing that surprised you about him.

Hisoka, for all intents and purposes, could be remarkably normal when he wanted to be.

You weren’t a fool, however, acknowledging this likely came with his natural charm and charisma, but at times it felt… different. Genuine, even at times. A shame that it was also mixed with some form of deceit on the majority of occasions.

A sensation you were experiencing again as you sat in his car, watching raindrops stream along the passenger side window.

It was a quiet night, hardly any other cars out on the road. Something you liked, in full honesty, the way water distorted the headlights and tail lights of cars in the dark of night often gave you a bit of a headache.

“You’re spacing out again. ~♤” Came his comment from beside you.

“Am I?” You lifted your chin from your hand to look at him.

He smiled. “You always get such a cute look on your face when you do that. ~♡

“What are you thinking about? ~♧”

“You.” There was no incentive to lie, considering Hisoka would see through it in a heartbeat.

His expression morphed into one of brief excitement before falling into intrigue. “Oh? ~♧” He coaxed as he changed gears, slowing the vehicle to pass through a mildly flooded part of the road.

You returned your gaze to the window. “You continue to be a bit of a mystery to me.”

He chuckled. “In what way? ~♢”

“I never took you as the type to enjoy this sort of thing.” You glanced back at him from the corner of your eye, “Don’t you find it horribly boring?”

“Not at all. ~♡” He replied, but he did not elaborate further.

A small grunt left the back of your throat. “Ever the divulger of information.”

That earned another laugh. “I could say the same for you, my dear. ~♤”

“Not like that matters.” You exhaled a bit heavier than you meant to. “You seem to know things about me before I know them myself.”

“Observation isn’t a crime, darling. ~♢”

“No, but kidnapping is.”

He hummed, a knowing smile working its way onto his face as he turned onto a new street. “The doors are unlocked, you can leave at any time. ~♢”

It was your turn to laugh then, the titter laced with disbelief. “They are, but that’s just another one of your illusions, isn’t it?”

He tilted his head, glancing at you in a silent goad for you to continue before returning his attention back to the road.

“If I was foolish enough to actually try and open this door, I feel like one of two things would happen.” You began, “Either the door would not open for another reason, or I would go to jump out of this vehicle only to be yanked back inside by that infuriating aura of yours.

“You keep taking me on these drives as what? A test of loyalty mascaraded as an opportunity to spend time with me? I wasn’t born yesterday, Hiso.” The nickname slipped from your lips before you could catch yourself and it only made his smile widen further.

You looked back out the window.

“Someone’s feisty. ~♡”

“Someone’s irritating.”

Another chuckle. “Aren’t you going to ask me which of your assumptions is the correct one? ~♧”

“I’d have better luck climbing the Arena freehanded than getting a straight answer from you.”

“Come now, don’t be so dramatic. ~♤” He chided. “Come on. Ask. ~♢”

“Fine.” You relented with a scoff, turning your body in your seat better to face him. “Which one is right?”

“Neither. ~♢” He flicked the windshield wipers onto a higher speed as the rain got heavier - a tempo that was mirrored by your heartrate. “There are no strings attached, to you or the car. ~♧”

You blinked. “You’re such a liar.”

“Am I? ~♢”

“Yes.”

“Then why haven’t you tried already? If you’re so insistent that your logic is correct, surely desperation alone would have led you to try regardless. ~♧”

You opened your mouth to reply but promptly shut it, bitterness mixing in your heart too much to admit that he was right.

The displeased expression on your face changed into a grimace when you felt his hand on your thigh.

“I don’t need to test your loyalty, my dear. Not when I know where it already lies. ~♢”

© absolute-flaming-trash 2023. Do not repost, modify, copy, or claim.

#riri writes #900 followers event #Hisoka x Reader #Hisoka #Hisoka Morow x Reader #Hisoka Morow #Hunter x Hunter #HxH #tw yandere #tw kidnapping #tw stockholm syndrome #My god I have not written for this man in a WHILE #In something published anyways #I feel rusttyyyyyyyyy #I apologize if this feels ooc due to that 💛

[gendrie]

Realistically, what note do you think or hope the books will end in regard to Arya and Gendry? I don’t expect fanfic wish fulfillment but Grrm seems to have a soft spot for them so maybe a vague romantic suggestion that leaves their future open to interpretation? Which I realize is not much different to where we’re already at lol but I just can’t imagine how their relationship would develop.

when i consider what arya/gendry will look like in the end, or just the future in general, i think about whats already in the text. the elements of romance and even sexuality within their interactions are more than a lil suggestive. ie: the two of them rolling around together is not subtle lol. the phrase "between his legs" is used twice in that paragraph. grrm wrote an exclusive to a/g love song and had the singer wink as he sang it. he introduced not one, but 2 characters mostly just to fan the flames here. gendry explicitly threatens to have sex with a girl to try to make arya jealous and he visibly dislikes a perceived rival for her attention. ect! this isn't some obscure aspect of the story. its a legitimate side plot.

so i wouldn't even describe their existing canon interactions as "vague" therefore i don't assume their future ones, endgame included, would be left entirely up to interpretation either. are they going to get married on page? and consummate the union? no. but i do expect their future interactions to continue to be obviously romantic in nature. esp now that arya is older (and gendry seems to be younger)

with all that in mind here are my realistic thoughts:

when arya returns from braavos she will rekindle her friendship with gendry and realize she's attracted to him. gendry, having endured the loss of arya, will be willing to commit to her regardless of the issues that forced them apart previously. its all going to be pg-13 and tame by asoiaf standards but they will be crushing and it's not going to be a secret. not to the readers nor anyone who happens to witness the two of them together.

as i see it theres two potential outcomes: the class difference is still insurmountable and they remain apart or they end up together in some capacity. this will probably be a controversial claim, but a/g have less barriers to being together long term than any other ship imo. consistently, throughout their relationship, gendry being "too bloody lowborn" for arya is THE issue. its the source of all the conflict between them and its the thing keeping them apart. other than that? they clearly like and admire each other. arya trusts gendry, values his perspective, and confides in him things she tells no other character. she wanted him to come home with her, to be a part of her pack.

and i want to emphasis that arya values gendry's counsel specifically because thats one aspect of their dynamic that feels very relevant within the context of their potential as a grown up couple. they make a good team and work well together. they've already endured the bleakest possible scenarios by working together. gendry is presented as a really fitting partner for arya which i think is intentional tbh.

but ultimately, can the class difference be overcome? i think it can. and not only that but i think arya and gendry ending up together can be reflective of the changes we're going to see across the board with westeros' political system. they're not going to abolish the monarchy, but there will be major changes with how the kingdom is run.

the end i envision for them is fairly understated despite all my arguing that their relationship isnt all that subtle. arya asking gendry to come home with her to winterfell (again) would be enough, but thats not vague to me either. the meaning will be clear.

all that being said HEAs are not going to plentiful in asoiaf. grrm likes "we'll always have paris" type romances where two people meet and change each other, but go their separate ways. it could be that is what happens with arya and gendry. im realistic, if not bordering on pessimistic, so i want to embrace that possibility! but everything on paper is telling me they're supposed to end up together. not least of all bc in order for this romantic build up to actually come to full fruition they have to be grown which won't be until post series.

i try to keep my expectations low too but is it wish fulfillment to expect substantial pay off? idk.......grrm has been teasing love, sex and even marriage with arya and gendry for like the entire series actually. since that "arya has the hands of a blacksmith" comment in the first paragraph of her first chapter. he better do something!!!

#ask #gendrya #this got long lol #hopefully its coherent i got a lotta thoughts #i felt like i couldnt address the end without getting into a few other points

[snitchesnsneeds]

It's Chameleon Time, and I Don't Mean the Cool Lizard

I decided to watch Miraculous Season 3 Episode 1: Chameleon, the salt episode, because I suddenly decided I wanted to know how real the salt was again. Here's my thoughts:

Damn, Lila's good. She has backdoors for her lies and the only one I'd really call bad was the napkin one, but then again these are 14-15-year-olds in 2015-2016. They probably believe in the secret Grillby boss fight after beating Sans in genocide.

Despite being the two biggest targets for the salters, Adrien and Alya were incredibly chill here. Adrien was doing what he thought was best for the context and would defnitely change is mind if he heard Lila threatened Marinette, while Alya was one one most on Marinette's side. They're besties.

I honestly wouldn't be surprised if Marinette was just jealous of Lila at first until she threatened Marinette in the bathroom stall. Her grievances were more at Lila throughout the episode than what she was doing to the class.

Marinette, all you had to do was excuse yourself to the bathroom, transform, and explain the situation to Nino and Alya.

In general the closest thing to hostile the class was to Marinette was Kim and Mylene calling her out for throwing stuff at Lila (a major no-no there,) and a few moments where they all looked mad at her, probably because it would be cheaper instead of giving them all different reactions.

I have to wonder if a lot of the stuff Lila does in fics is real or not. I know she makes people do the work she doesn't want to do, but do future episodes showcase her as a con artist like in the fics? It wouldn't be surprising, at the very least.

Did anyone seriously believe Chameleon's ruse as Adrien? It's like she was trying to be horrible. I could do a better job at both lying to appeal to the class and posing as Adrien.

If Lila continues to be as evil as I think she's gonna be, I hope she gets turned into a clam more often even though I know that won't happen.

So yeah, that was the salt episode. Here's my beliefs on how the class views Lila with one bonus:

And also @flightfoot because I know you were curious.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #miraculous #ml salt #lila rossi #miraculous lila #marinette dupain cheng #miraculous marinette #adrien agreste #miraculous adrien #alya cesaire #miraculous alya #I feel like the others aren't relevant enough to be tagged

[literallyanyname]

Banana Fish Rec List

Here's a list of my favorite Bfish fics. I adore whump, so quite a few of the recs skew in that direction. Because Banana Fish whump tends to be particularly intense, I highly, highly recommend checking the tags and content warnings of each fic before reading. These aren't arranged in any particular order. Enjoy!

Love Letters by labingi

Status: Complete, 31,106 words

My Summary: Ash survives the stabbing by Lao, and goes to prison. He and Eiji exchange letters, and eventually emails, for several decades.

My Thoughts: This is one of the most nuanced, in-character BF fics out there. It is, at times, as painful as canon, but with a deeply satisfying ending. This work is a beyond gorgeous take on the BF characters. Probably my favorite on this list. Also, it is technically a Death Note crossover, but it honestly really isn't. DN elements are only mentioned a few times as a plot device.

Just Offscreen by @chaoslynx

Status: Complete, 6,728 words

My Summary: Foxx doesn't drop the cigarette in front of Ash. Foxx's men torture Ash, and he is eventually rescued by Eiji and Max.

My Thoughts: Read the tags on this one. Even for BF, it's pretty graphic. It's a really good fic though. It explores the implied elements of Banana Fish in explicit detail, and brings to the surface some of the underlying horror of canon. One common problem I see with fics and fiction generally is the tendency to use graphic subjects as a cheap shock factor. This fic does not do that. It handles the subject matter really well, and Ash's stream-of-consciousness POV is expertly done.

Eat the Elephant and its sequel, How To Walk Through Open Doors by Dodici

Status: Complete

My Summary: Ash makes it to Japan, and finds himself a little in over his head. Eiji is there to take care of him.

My Thoughts: Honestly, I really like the prose. It's really well written and the language just naturally reads like Ash's internal monologue. He says, does, and feels things without really understanding or bothering to think about why he does them in this way. The author captures Ash's perspective really well. Also, love me some realistic Eiji. I have a particular fondness for fics that flesh out Eiji's character even more than canon does. (Honestly, I get really hung up on characterization. I will usually stop reading an OOC fic)

I'll Save Myself by kanekki

Status: Complete, 30,324 words

My Summary: Instead of arriving at Dino's mansion the next day, Ash doesn't show up until about a month later. Eiji and Yut-Lung are held captive during that time. Continues until a little after the ending of the show.

My Thoughts: This is one of my personal whump favorites. Eiji undergoes a major personality shift that feels entirely realistic. He is still very much Eiji, but his time as a captive has deeply lasting effects. He also learns Yut-Lung's skill with needles, which is just cool. Also, Ash as sporadic-and-inexperienced-but-determined caretaker is an added bonus. The gang element is something of a side plot, but it's well developed. This fic really reminds me of the scene in episode 2 where Eiji is about to jump the wall and says something like "I'd rather die trying".

porgi, amor, qualche ristoro by ADreamingSongbird

Status: Complete, 18,763 words

My Summary: Ash has a very severe panic attack. Eiji comforts him through it.

My Thoughts. THIS FIC. This. Fic. It does something to me, honestly. It is just so, so tender and sweet. It's really well-written and a truly breathtaking insight into AshEiji's relationship post-canon. I reread it fairly often. The discussions of SA are handled very carefully and sensitively. Ash and Eiji are both well-written. The large volume of physical comfort feels like catharsis after canon's minimal and scattered touches, but it feels realistic. Like Ash would actually be comfortable with it in this context. It's hard to summarize exactly how much I love this fic.

Offset by superbrightsunset

Status: Complete, 3,859

My Summary: 5+1 about Eiji's physical strength as an athlete.

My Thoughts: Short, but very sweet. I love the caretaking in this fic. The style is very similar to the comfort aspects of Bfish canon. It's a good read for a quick AshEiji fix. Also, Shorter! And a light sprinkling of humor!

Save Me The Waltz (Alternate) by crowsnest

Status: Complete, 12,181 wrods

My Summary: Eiji is bfished instead of Shorter.

My Thoughts: This fic stuck in my brain for several weeks. Ash, Eiji, and Shorter all have to really go through it, but it is immensely satisfying for all three to come out alive and mostly whole in a way that seems realistic. This AU spans a few years, and leaves a lot of possible scenes to the reader's imagination. I really enjoyed reading this, especially the caretaking aspect.

Drugstore Cowboy by suffragettecity

Status: Complete, 2,048 words

My Summary: Ash goes to Shorter for a brief respite.

My Thoughts: I am in love with the atmosphere in this fic. It's uniquely platonic-ShorAsh. It's a fairly short one-shot, but the language is very immersive. There are little pieces of information scattered throughout that are deliberately unexplained, leaving the reader to make connections on their own. Overall a good read.

Okay. I might add more to this later. There are other fics I really like, but am too tired to rec. If anyone has any fics they want to share, please do!

(Also, I'm new to Tumblr and don't know the authors' tumblrs. Please tag them if you do. And if anyone wants their fic removed, please let me know and I will.)

#banana fish #ash lynx #eiji okumura #shorter wong #asheiji #fic rec #fanfic rec #rec list #bfish

[vacantgodling]

oc kiss week day 6 4: reach

i’m posting this out of order bc i had this finished first LMAO 💀 next one i’ll post is day 4 promise pff

WIP: the chronicles of lathsbury (tcol)

SHIP: erik soori (he/him, ranger) x un "dion" undershield (he/him, protector)

SUMMARY: dion knew it was his fault, but that didn't make it hurt less. the worst part was erik didn't blame him at all.

tw(s): major out of context spoilers, amputation (not in graphic detail, it's already been done) & traumatic limb loss

worldbuilding notes: erik and miona are both from diisai, which is an island to the west of terrae's mainland across the eastern sea (which is not east lmao). diisaians like themselves have a sort of highland (scottish) adjacent sounding accent, and because i like writing vernaculars, you'll see that make an appearance here. erik's accent is stronger than miona's because miona grew up in the capital of diisai while erik grew up in the highlands.

also sorry in advance for this this is so sad fr LMAO.

“I spoke wi’eh doctor.” Miona said. She wasn’t looking at him, or where Erik lay, deathly still on the hospital bed. His body was fully covered by blankets up to his chin, and his face didn’t look peaceful so much as he just looked like a corpse. If Dion knew Miona better, like Erik did, maybe he would’ve been able to read through whatever emotion her flat voice was trying to hide. He didn’t look at her either. Just kept staring at him like he had for the past week. She waited a long moment before she continued. 

“After he’s granted discharge, it's recommended ‘at he retire.” 

Another long beat passed. 

“He can’t.” Dion was surprised hearing his own voice—the last time he heard it like this was when Fia passed and. And. He sucked in a harsh breath through his nose; he couldn’t think about her. Not now, it would break him.

Miona whirled on him, her eyes suddenly blazing. “Can’t?!” Her voice was shrill. “He lost his fucking arm, you heartless piece o’ shit!” Guilt seared through Dion’s gut like he’d been fileted, and it was hard not to double over from the pain of it. “Th’ whole damn thing!” She screamed and Dion wished he could scream too. He knew! And it was his fault. Miona wasn’t done her tirade however. “Can you stop being so fucking selfish for once in yer damn life—”

“I know what he lost!” Dion finally growled, cutting her off. He could barely breathe around the nausea that gripped him like iron from the inside of his throat, strangling him with every word, but he pushed them out. “But you and I both know he won’t!” 

Miona glowered at him, grinding her teeth, knowing he was right but not wanting to admit it herself. She tried again. “Then convince ‘im! For pity’s sake, he can’t go on like this!” 

Dion turned away from her, and away from Erik no matter how much he needed to stare at him to make sure that he was there. “I can’t do that.” His voice was barely a puff of air; a wheeze.

If he was looking at Miona, he would’ve seen the way she tugged at her hair in frustration. “Ye’re the only one who can!” She choked on her words, tears welling up in her voice like an overflowing dam. “He’ll ne’er be able to shoot a bow again—don’t ye get it? And you know he won’t sit around and do paperwork all day!” 

“I’m not stupid.” Dion felt the stupid, useless tears that he hated to shed begin to trail down his dark cheeks and he pointedly kept his face turned away. That’s what was tearing him up—he knew that Erik was fucked over beyond repair and he fucking caused it.

The one thing Fia loved about Erik more than anything was his bow. The one thing that completed Erik, was that ridiculous thing, near as large as Dion’s own shield, at his side. He drew it with such a raw power in a way that was lost on the rangers of the mainland; a unique artform all of its own. And because of Dion it was ruined. He’d ruined Fia’s dream—as the last insult to her memory. He’d ruined Erik, as the final straw in the string of insults that Dion had taken at his character. The one man who never left him. The one man who coddled him, listened to him, cared for him even when he didn’t fucking deserve it—

“Get out o’eh way, ye stupid bastard!” 

Dion kept replaying the moment over and over in his mind. 

He had been so focused. So, angry, and reckless—Erik shouldn’t have had to cover his blind spot. Erik shouldn’t have known his blind spot… But logic reasoned that if anyone would’ve known it, Erik would. They’d been fighting together for… too long now. This was the price for that.

Both he and Miona were startled out of their argument by a shifting of the sheets. Of a loud, pained groan. 

“A’ll get th’ doctor!” Miona said. She rushed for the door, pausing for only a moment to look back at Dion. “But remember what Ah said. And don’t ye dare hurt him.”

Dion didn’t bother to deign what she said with a response. He was too busy falling to his knees by the bedside, grasping Erik’s trembling left hand in his own—what was left of him. 

He was forcibly moved from the bedside when the doctor rushed in.

It was another week before Erik awoke again. And in all that time, Dion stayed by his bedside. He tried to read, but his mind wouldn’t follow the words, but there was nothing else to do so he forced himself through passage after passage of drivel until it made his eyes burn and his head swim.

During that time, the room was constantly fluctuating with visitors: Miona came in nearly every day, and the barman—Papa, whatever his name, stopped by as well. The Diisiain they spoke rapidly between each other was too hushed for Dion to catch any of, but he noticed the forlorn look the burly man gave Erik when he finally ambled out. Cameron stopped by, and that archer his sister fancied, along with other people Dion hadn’t bothered to learn the names of. He’d never… realized how well liked Erik was. He’d been so focused on himself, his vengeance, his pain—its like he never even knew who Erik was. Is. He wasn’t dead. He had to keep telling himself that.

It was a sentiment proven true when Erik began to stir. Dion almost didn’t notice, given how quiet this awakening was compared to the previous outburst. His honey brown eyes were barely visible under his drooping lids, but visible enough for Dion to start when he said, all rasp, “Ne’er thought Ah’d see th’ day where ye’d voluntarily read somethin’, bubble boy.” 

The silly nickname that normally Dion hated constricted something fierce in his chest, and his heart stopped, before it began to hammer against his ribs. “You’re awake.” He said dumbly. “You’re actually awake.” 

“Fer better or worse.” Erik sighed heavily, so much that Dion could almost hear the creak of his bruised lungs. “Though Ah feel like th’ Lady o’ tha Universe sent th’ planet crashin’ down on me brow an’ knocked me clean oot. I feel awful.” Despite it, Erik chuckled and Dion felt his heart crash down to his stomach. How could he do this? How was he this endless well of optimism. When Fia died, Erik hadn’t shed a tear that Dion could see. Just held him, helped him bury her body—their bodies of the rest of their team. When Dion shunned his jokes and his cheer, he’d let it roll off of his shoulders without even blinking. He almost wanted to ask—what kept him cheerful when the world was cruel and heartless? But then Erik sat up on the bed. With some difficulty, Dion could add. The book he was reading fell from his lap as he lunged to reach Erik, helping him get to an upright position with a hand steadied on his back. The blanket dropped from his shoulders, and suddenly it was bared to the world. Bandaged; but enough that Dion felt the nausea of guilt arrest him again. Where Erik’s right arm should’ve been, there was nothing but a nub right at the shoulder. It was a clean break, like someone snapped it off like an icicle or chalk, and not the horribly mangled, jagged thing it had been when Dion and Jace managed to drag him to the hospital, already passed clean out from the pain. They must’ve had to amputate slightly further up, to salvage what they could… even if it wasn’t much. 

Aware of it, Erik stilled, and how he was turned obscured his expression from Dion. Without warning, his left arm came grasping at the place where his arm once was. 

“She’s really gone… Isn’t she?” Erik’s voice was threadbare. But surprisingly, he wasn’t the one who’d begun to cry.

When Dion didn’t give him an answer, Erik turned his head. The worried expression on his face was swimming in Dion’s vision.

“Oi… Ye… ye’re cryin’?” Erik looked about as lost as Dion felt. When he tried to open his mouth, no sound came out. “Ah…” Erik’s left hand reached out then hesitated, unsure. But, steeling his resolve, he reached out all the way, and grasped Dion by the front of his shirt. It only took one tug to pull Dion into his embrace, and any other day, any other time Dion would’ve shoved him off but now… His arms just felt too weak. 

Against his hair, he felt a brush of Erik’s lips. 

“Ah didn’t think ye’d cry.” He said, hushed. The lips pressed into Dion’s hair again, this time more purposeful and it hit Dion so sharply that he felt dizzy. Despite the fact that Dion caused his injury. Despite the fact that Dion couldn’t do anything but growl and scowl and give him grief for his troubles to be friendly, that no matter what happened between them, Erik was always there whenever Dion fell. He couldn’t bear it, he couldn’t bear it. 

“If Ah thought Ah could’a gone fer me bow, I woulda but…” Erik tried to laugh but it came out watery and broken. “An’ now… Ah’m ne’er gonna shoot me bow again.” He laughed again, but this one was more pained and Dion pulled away, if only to look into Erik’s eyes. Tears had begun pouring down his face like a river’s spring flood.

Dion wished he knew what to say.

“.... Ah promised meself that Ah wouldn’t regret it if ye were safe.” Erik whispered, and then suddenly he was breaking. It was all Dion could do but pull Erik into his chest as he wailed, his tears wrenching and racking his whole, too thin body with them. All Dion could do was hold him and mirror the gesture; pressing the most delicate of kisses to Erik’s head as he fell apart.

#ockiss24 #these two drive me insane they BREAK ME they HURT ME SM #this is part of what makes dion finally get his head out of his ass btw #s: tcol #ren writing #spoilers ig