#also i genuinely like that you can take jean at face value as the 'asshole'

[rascheln]

There are a bunch of reasons why I like Jean simply from a character design standpoint, but in addition to him hitting multiple buttons for me at once he’s also just interesting because of his significance in-game. Even with the few times he appears and interacts with Harry and others, there’s still so much dense info doled out from him- not just about Harry’s past, but also Jean himself and their relationship.

One of the very base readings of Jean is that he’s simply an asshole. And, like, yeah he is (that’s what’s so fun about him, haha). But that impression also becomes heightened by Harry’s lack of knowledge about why Jean is mad at him. Or who Jean even is to him. So, from the player’s perspective, we also lack that knowledge and have to come to our own conclusions about Jean’s character and who he is to Harry through reading between the lines and picking up the clues the game sprinkles into their interactions and what few memories of Harry’s past we get.

What the game ends up showing us are a couple of important things: Regardless of how Harry is played, his past self was a drunk, an addict, erratic and violent. It may only have gotten really bad in the year leading up to the case in Martinaise, but this is alluded to by Harry’s emerging memories, his ledger and fellow police officers. It’s an undeniable fact that past!Harry had become an awful person.

Jean is mad at Harry and doesn’t believe he’s lost his memory, because as his partner- and likely the closest person in Harry’s life by the time right before the game begins- he's watched Harry’s self destruction and tried to help him as well as picked up after him for all this time. This is not the anger of someone who hates Harry. It’s the anger of someone who deeply cares for him and who has been let down over and over again, both on a personal and professional level.

I see this especially in the ways Jean repeatedly claims that Harry is drunk, no matter whether Harry has stayed sober in Martinaise or not. He’s seen the attempts at sobriety before and has clearly been disappointed too many times to believe it’s going to last.

Another important aspect is that despite Harry’s seeming inability to understand why Jean is so mad at him, both Jean and the game’s text itself pretty much lay it out for us: Harry told Jean (and everyone else from C-wing) to fuck off. As the highest ranking officer on the case and as the leader of the team and Jean’s partner, he essentially took everyone else off the case. Harry was the one to push everyone away.

The implied part are the hurt feelings.

When Jean returns to Martinaise, it’s not with the expectation that Harry has lost his memory. He returns, because he was worried and in a disguise he expected Harry to see through and find funny. A peace offering. A way to make Harry laugh and pick things up where they left off. 

Instead, Jean gets ignored. Considering the falling out they had a few days ago, his first assumption wouldn’t be that Harry has lost his memory, but that Harry is ignoring him deliberately. He’s reluctant to believe Harry’s explanation of having amnesia, because honestly, it sounds too convenient. Like a mean prank Harry is playing on them, to punish them for turning up again.

Just because Judit starts to believe Harry doesn’t mean Jean is willing or able to allow himself to believe him. It sounds ridiculous, for once. Again, a cruel joke in his head is the more probable answer. But also, and this is the part that’s implied again: It’s painful.  If he accepts the fact that Harry has lost his memory, he’ll also have to come to terms with the fact that the person in front of him doesn’t remember him. His partner, his friend, the person Jean cared about and who, despite all his failures, probably still cared about Jean, is gone.

Getting angry at the version of Harry that now only exists in Jean’s head is easier. It’s less painful than being forgotten. 

#disco elysium #meta #jean vicquemare #harrier du bois #i know i'm not saying anything new but it's just fun writing down my thoughts haha!! #also i genuinely like that you can take jean at face value as the 'asshole' #or you spend more and more time thinking about him sdfghj #tune in tomorrow for Not So Hot Takes pt2 lol #disco elysium spoilers

[tundrainafrica]

So, it took months for me to finally let go of my anger & disappointment towards Yams for writing ch132. But then recently I found this tweet https://twitter.com/helmn9R/status/1315427848467947520?s=19 and suddenly it all came back to me. Nevermind the backstory, her character development is alr strong enough w/o it. But she had so MANY unresolved story with Eren, Flegel, most importantly, herself (read the tweet for more explanation). What a waste of character for her death being so pointless that it didn't give any improvement to the plot at all, neither to any other characters development. We all know, Armin would still be Armin in recent chapter with or without her death. So WHAT'S THE POINT ACTUALLY? ;-; I'm sorry for ranting:(

Okay, I really agree with you here. There are times I find myself realizing that I will never be completely satisfied with Hange’s death. Yams can pull off the most mind blowing ending to AOT and I will still have this hole in my heart left by her  death. And I’ll be writing Levihan fanfiction and metas for an incredibly long time because Hange is really an underappreciated character in this fandom and Yams just gave her the most beautiful yet most unsatisfying and unnecessary death. 

That is… if you look at it in the grand scheme of things. 

I feel like if we meta Hange’s personality a bit and follow the story from Hange’s POV and put her character as a focus we could actually paint the story as a good tragedy for her character and somehow we could put meaning into her death. 

Although Hange had started off a little wide eyed and naive, we can all agree that Erwin, Moblit and the death of the whole survey corps did a number on her psyche. Even before she could completely process their death, Hange was placed in one of the highest and most important positions in the government and suddenly she has to deal with the opening up of Paradis, diplomacy issues and the rapid progression of technology. 

As the commander of the survey corps which brought all these hopes and possibilities in, which also brought the threat of a war from an external force in, Hange had responsibilities much larger than Erwin ever had. I think given the fact that she started her position in such an inopportune time, and she got placed into a position so unfamiliar even for her, she would be incredibly uncertain. I mean who could have been prepared for what lay outside the walls really? Hange may have been a genius but her experiences were limited to the simple life that lay within the walls. I think her being dropped into that type of position from a medieval setting to a 1940s world war 2 setting would be a lot even for a genius like her to handle. 

And that uncertainty and the stress of just everything changing and having to take the reins would have eventually lead to some self esteem issues on her end. And mind you, even before they opened up paradis, Hange had self esteem issues with becoming the commander. One hint of this is in the scene in season 3 where Levi and Hange had a meeting with the reporters and Hange was still reeling from her sudden rise to power and suddenly, Levi (who usually never talks) had to be the one to face the reporters because Hange, (for the first time) had nothing much to say. 

And what if she never really completely recovered from that?

Imagine what happened after with everyone just coming in, technology rapidly progressing and Hange having to quickly adjust her plans and her way of thinking with the endless developments she has to address. And here’s another thing which can completely trample Hange’s self esteem. She is the leader of the country stuck in the medieval ages. She is literally the least up to speed among all the other diplomats and representatives of other countries and a war is brewing and she had to deal with that too. 

And things just take a turn for a worse when they attack Liberio and when Eren, the person who she believed to be the hope of humanity, the young boy she had somehow raised herself decides to betray them.  I mean they will have their scenes in season 4 when she references their conversations and how he used to listen to her until dawn years ago. Dam that scene where Eren grabs her by the collar of her shirt is just so dam heartbreaking.

Then all the soldiers under Hange, who she was tasked to lead suddenly turn against her. And before she knows it the rumbling starts and the world is about to be completely destroyed. 

Of course Hange would manage to twist it to her own fault. If we look at everything at face value and think ‘who the hell was in charge? How the hell did this happen to the survey corps? Who was supposed to look out for Eren?’ Anyone would blame the person with direct responsibility over that. The one who was supposed to be leading the survey corps and the development of Paradis, Hange. 

So it is not too outrageous to think Hange would have blamed herself for everything there and her shitty self esteem is obviously feeding into that too.

 I mean she never had the confidence to begin with. She never had the time to adjust to her new position and she could easily rationalize every loss to her own ‘lack of capability’ as a commander. 

And what does Hange decide to do with the weight of all those mistakes on her back. She decides to scramble for a way to atone for them in whatever way she can. She wanted to sacrifice herself. She wanted to give her life for them. 

In the grand scheme of things, yes her death was pointless but when I watched the build up of her psyche and the battering of her character, I couldn’t help but think that it wasn’t a horrible way to go out. 

It was unnecessary. It was pointless and it was unsatisfying. 

But god, the build up and just the analysis of her storyline all the way to that point made it so depressing. Made it so heart wrenching to analyze the desperation which had pushed her to the point of thinking…

“I’m useless. I’m stupid. I’m careless. It’s every bad decision I made that pushed Eren to betray us. For two separate factions of the survey corps to be created. Erwin would have done a better job.” 

And the cumulation of those thoughts and the trampling of every bit of her self esteem probably led her to think. I may be commander but I’d probably be the most useless one on the field. I’ll try to be as useful as I can, even if I die in the end. 

And that’s why when they were desperately looking for a way out, Hange obviously volunteers herself. After all she’s been through, after seeing her psyche and self esteem break one by one, I don’t think Hange would have been the type to volunteer anyone else. Her guilt and her self loathing wouldn’t have allowed her too. She probably genuinely believed Armin and Jean would have done a better job leading than she could, I mean she’s probably still reeling from the fact that she couldn’t keep the survey corps in one piece as their commander and she was probably thinking “Erwin would have kept it in one piece” 

So I think somehow there was build up to her death character wise and the build up was beautifully tragic. 

I wouldn’t say it was a masterpiece though because honestly Yams, could have just have avoided a situation with Hange dying. But I can’t help but think, Yams has been giving pretty sad ends to a lot of his characters and AOT has been pretty dark and a lot of deaths turned out to have been pointless anyway. 

I mean how many people have died for Eren only for him to turn into the asshole of the century? 

Hange died selflessly, she died for what she believed was right and at her last moment, she couldn’t send anyone else to die in her stead and I think this very much aligns with her character. 

Really, I probably would have lost a lot of respect for Hange if she left Connie behind instead or something. The only other person I think I would have found reasonable seeing there sacrificing their life would have been Levi. Hange and Levi would not have let anyone else go. It’s just not in their character. The 140 cadets are all their babies after all.

Thanks for asking this though. Really interesting question.

I actually wrote a fic recently analyzing Hange’s psyche towards the end of the story which I’m linking here for anyone who’s interested. 

#hange zoe #hanji zoe #meta

[starlordsandrockets]

Gold Dust Woman: the compendium

Gold Dust Woman: Ch. I - Ch. VI

pairing: Star-Lord x Reader - 18+ content

summary: You entered the bar and was stopped by a gold dusted woman & are attacked by a handsome stranger named Star-Lord. It would not take long for the legendary outlaw to have you wrapped around his trigger finger.

word count: 12k

__

The night was far from over as you found yourself entering the only bar they had on the ramshackle rock the inhabitants called a planet. In contradiction to the begrimed exterior, the planet was home to very beautiful and high-priced crystals. Which is why you had decided on making a pit stop to find some, not only for the resale value, but for your personal collection as well. The space bar roared with drunk laughter and testosterone. The atmosphere practically begged you to leave, but you needed a drink after the day you spent fighting off a few marauders.

Your heavy, black boots clicked against the bar’s floor as they sat over a pair of black jeans. You straightened out your dusted, black jean jacket. Some of the planet’s surface drifts off the fabric and collects in the air, making a small cough pass through your bruised lips. Your minor cough attracted the eyes of a few men that sat at a table nearby. Your eyes rolled, knowing what would come next.

“Hey pretty lady,” a Skrull man spoke, his voice lined with his drug of choice. His green skin was tinted with red, blushed from intoxication, “let me buy you a drink and you can sit with us,” your eyes met those of the middle aged men, most Skrull but you spotted an older Kree man and a younger Sovereign woman who stared at you, her golden skin and eyes almost captivating you.

“I’m not usually one to turn down free drinks,” you expressed, “but I’m going to have to decline your offer,” you spoke, heading towards the bar. The Skrull’s large hand fell around your dainty and bruised wrist, making you exhale through your clenched teeth. Turning your head, you met the man’s eyes as his hold tightened, pulling you towards his as he now stood before you.

The Sovereign woman rose to her feet, placing her hands gently on the dirty bar table, as if she did not want to touch its surface, “I’m sorry but I can’t take my eyes off of it,” she spoke, her voice was cryptic and it made your heart skip a beat.

“Excuse me,” you almost chuckled, unsure of what the woman spoke of. Your eyes followed hers as she approached you. Her hand was outstretched as she pushed away your heavy jacket, revealing your crystal that sat on a golden chain.

“Moonstone, it’s a beautiful piece,” She turned the smooth stone in her fingers, her golden nails were sharp as they tickled the skin of your chest, “a stone for new beginnings, intuition and female energy,” her words were soft, “helpful with reproduction,” her eyes found yours from under her long lashes, “I assume you collect, this cut is far too perfect for a simple girl,”

You stared at the woman, she was beautiful and out of place, which made you skeptical, “Please,” you smile, “you’re making me blush,” you laughed it off. Although you spoke the truth, everything about her captivated you, “I do,” you mustered out, “collect,”

“A beautiful hobby,” she smiled, she was not genuine but you did not care, “for a beautiful girl,” you felt your eyes dart away from her gaze. You cursed at yourself for allowing her to put you under her spell, knowing that nothing good would come out of this encounter, “Have you ever, collected from,” her question was innocent and drawn out, “my planet,”

You met the eyes of a stranger that stood in the corner of the bar, in the darkness, almost out of sight, “You know,” you directed your attention back to the woman, “I’ve never had the pleasure,” you smiled, “do you think you could show me,” you almost whispered as you took her hand that held the stone. You watched as her body stiffened, not wanting to be touched by someone like you, covered in the planet’s filth.

Suddenly a crash came from the direction of the shadow cloaked stranger, a green light leaving the blaster that sat in his hand. You felt as if your heart jumped into your throat, realizing the light was heading towards you and the golden goddess that stood before you, “Shit,” you spoke as you felt her hand fall against your chest. Despite her small stature, she pushed you with unknown strength as the golden chain burned the skin on your neck, snapping under the pressure of your fall.

“Quill you absolute asshole,” the woman shouted, as she stumbled in her high heels. The men now surrounded her as you laid in front of her feet, looking up at her, “You can forget about any extra rewards,” she spoke and for the first time anger laced her voice. Your eyes fell on the golden chain that dangled from her closed fist.

“Give me my necklace,” you spoke, for a moment you forgot about the blasts that were flying over your head, “that’s mine,” you rose to your feet, bumping your forearm on your side, activating your blaster. You walked towards the guarded woman, her brow furrowed, making her beauty fade into a woman who should be feared.

You looked towards the man who was attacking you. He was now flying towards you, a helmet covered his face, its red eyes leaving you like a deer in crimson headlights. Quickly raising your arm, you set off a blast, sending him flying back to the corner of the bar, where he started. Turning your head, the group was gone and so was your necklace, “Shit,” you muttered under your breath, running outside to the bar’s exterior. The night air blowing your (y/h/c) hair into your face, as you watched the group retreat in a golden ship. You could swear you saw the woman was wearing the golden chain around her neck.

Suddenly you felt a heavy weight knock into you. Turning, you swore under your breath as the stranger from the bar’s head knocked against yours, from where he was thrown out of the bar, “Fuck,” you swore, this time out loud, as you began to see stars, “What the hell,” you pointed your blaster at him, watching him physically cower. Raising his hands slowly, you finally got a good look at him. His nose was bloody and his lip was cut and he was quite handsome.

“Whoa, hey,” the stranger spoke, looking into your eyes. His blue eyes were dialed, his blue pools were a small ring around his dark pupils, “Take it easy okay, she’s gone,” he spoke, “she didn’t even pay me yet,”

You walked towards him as he sat on the planet’s dry ground. Kneeling before him you grabbed his cheeks, roughly, studying his cut lip that must have been from a broken bar glass. The blast you sent off had thrown everything in its path. The stranger stared at you, his pupils somehow still widening, his hair was sitting against his forehead, wet from beer and sweat making his hair hold small curls. He smelt of beer and heavy cologne, the combination, for some reason, making you weak in the knees, “What’s your name,” the stranger asked. His words came out crushed, much like his face that still sat between your fingers. Realizing this, you let him go.

You outstretched your hand, offering to help him to his feet. He accepted, and his rough skin brushed against your soft palm, making your heart feel heavy, “Y/N,” you spoke quietly, “but I also go by, (y/h/n),” your eyes rested on your connected hands as the stranger still held it.

He must have noticed his lingering touch as he began to shake your hand, as if that would make the situation less awkward, it didn’t, “Quill,” he spoke quickly, “Peter Quill, but I usually go by Star-Lord,” Peter smiled as he looked down at you.

“Well Star-Lord,” you spoke sternly, “You owe me a moonstone and a gold chain,” you watched his smile grow as he stared at you, making you a bit self conscious, “Come on,” you spoke, your gaze once again falling to your intertwined hands, “Let’s get you cleaned up,” you spoke shyly, pulling him towards where all the ships were docked.

“Yeah,” he questioned with a smile, “You should have seen the other guy,” Peter exclaimed, trying to sound tough.

“Quill,” you smiled as you pulled him along, earning a ‘mhm’ in response, “I was the other guy,” You turned your head, giving him a grin, your brows furrowed. The two of you continued to the loading docks. You did not have a ship, so Peter took lead, directing you towards his ship, the Milano.

Entering the large ship you touched the cool metal, it tickled your warm skin. Peter lead you, hand in hand, to the center of the ship. The room was cluttered with spare parts and tools. The atmosphere amazed you and Peter watched you spin around, taking the space in completely. You never had the chance to own your own ship. You planet hopped, finding your next destination from kind strangers who let you stow away in their small ships or pods. But you had never been in a ship this big, “Speechless, I see,” Peter spoke, letting go of your hand to retrieve some frozen food they kept in the compacted freezer. He placed the bag on his face with a groan.

You turned your head, following the sound that passed through his lips. The noise was so raw it embarrassed you, but you still approached him as he leaned against the large, cluttered table. His elbows rested behind him on the metal surface, propping himself up as his hips swung loosely, placing his weight on the table and off of his tired feet. You studied his face as his eyes were closed, almost fully covered by the frozen food package, and almost making you smile. You studied the stranger before you silently. Peter looked to be in his early thirties, his dirty blond hair was the perfect length, along with his beard. His closed, blue eyes charmed you along with his sense of humor. You could not help but be enchanted by this man, who moments before, was hired to attack you, let alone possibly kill you. He was in it for the money and by the sight of his ship, you could tell he was a man driven by personal gain, “Quill,” your voice was soft, not wanting to startle him. Your fingers peeled the cold package off his sensitive skin, “Do you know nothing about after battle care,” you interrogated, “Where’s your first aid,”

Peter raised two fingers, pointing to the nearest compartment, “Maybe not after ‘battle’ care,” he spoke slyly, putting emphasis on the word ‘battle’ that passed through his smirking lips. His claim made you pause, your back facing him, Peter Quill was going to be the death of you. After a moment, you turned back towards him, taking in his smiling face and slightly swinging hips, making you swallow. Placing the metal kit down on the table beside his right arm, you stood before him, the tips of your round-toed boots touching his dark, sharp toed ones. You looked into his eyes, both of you knowing you would have to get closer to inspect his wounds. Placing your hand lightly under his jawline, you tilted his head up from where it fell from when he looked at you. Your eyes studied his throat as he swallowed hard, his eyes inspecting your gaze that fell on his neck, “My cut’s up here, sweetheart,” his voice was raspy as you watched his adam’s apple bounce with each word. His claim made your gaze immediately meet his eyes. His blue eyes studied your (y/e/c) ones as his bloody lips formed a pleased smirk.

Your heartbeat rose to your ears as you dug through the metal box, pulling out cotton and a glass bottle of hydrogen peroxide. You dampened the soft cotton, applying it roughly to his cut lip.

“Ow,” he almost yelled at you for getting your revenge, “Alright, alright,” he spoke quickly, almost pleading you to relieve him of his punishment.

“No more talking,” you spoke softly as you removed the cotton, blood turning the pure cotton a subtle, raw pink, “for my sake,” you rose on the tips of your toes, getting a closer look at Peter’s cut. Tilting his jaw, catching his rough skin in the soft natural light that found its way in through the ships many windows. Your eyes searched for a reflection of any glass that could possibly be in his lip. Not catching any reflection, you retired your hand that sat on his jawline. Taking the same steps with his bloody nose, your touch was much more gentle now that Peter was keeping his mouth shut, “You’re prettier when you don’t talk,” you joke as you closed the metal box.

“Really,” Peter smiled, “because, I think you’re prettier when you talk,” he joked, his claim laced with a genuine tone, catching your (y/e/c) eyes.

You took a step forward, beginning to cross the room to return the first aid kit, when the echo of footsteps bounced off the Milano’s metal walls, “You didn’t tell me other people were on the Milano,” you yelled, your words whispered, “What the hell Quill,”

Peter threw up his hands, his brow furrowed, “It’s not like you asked me, and why does it matter,” you sat down the metal box, heading towards the door, “Hey, hey,” Peter spoke, his voice sounded concerned, “Y/N,” his strong hold wrapped around your wrist as his hushed words were interrupted by a loud claim.

“Damn Quill, I’m sick of you bringing girls back here,” quickly, your eyes searched for where the voice came from. Your gaze fell to a racoon that sat no taller than your knees, “never mind that, what happened to your face,” he laughed.

“Rocket that is not nice,” a woman’s soft voice echoed from the hallway. She entered the room quickly, eyes alert, “Peter, are you in pain,” the woman asked as you focused on her black eyes before your gaze traveled to her anteni.

“Oh, yes Mantis,” Peter played along, trying to appease the two interesting characters that now occupied the room, “Y/N helped though, so,” he watched as Mantis approached him, her hands extended, “I’m fine, really,” but Mantis’s hands sat flush against Peter’s face, “okay,” Peter almost sighed as you watched the show unfold. You were at a loss for words, amused yet equally confused at the company Peter kept aboard his ship.

Mantis’s anteni began to glow a soft hum of white, somehow sending warmth throughout your body, the sight was almost calming, “You do not feel pain,” she spoke, her broken english hinted confusion, “you feel, desire,” the previous calmness you felt now slipped through your fingers and was replaced by your accelerating heartbeat, “for her,” Mantis’s words were deadened by Peter’s large hand that found its way over her mouth.

Your eyes found Peter’s as he studied your blushed skin. His hold on Mantis’s mouth weakened as he searched for any words that could make the situation at ease. Instead, he watched as Mantis approached you, hands cautiously outstretched.

“May I,” her words were soft as she studied your face. She looked at your untamed (y/h/c) hair that added to your hell and back exterior. You were mysterious, yet still approachable, your large eyes almost doe like. Your brown smokey eyes were someone smudge from the countless times you rubbed your eyes, the planet’s air drying them, “You are beautiful,” Mantis spoke as her hand rested on your arm softly.

Her white glow illuminated your face as you watched her eyes flutter shut, “Thank you,” your voice strained, your mind overstimulated.

Mantis quickly removed her hand, eyes connecting once again at your steady gaze, “I am sorry,” she whispered, “You feel discomfort, overwhelmed,” she stumbled as she attempted to take small steps away from you, the floor was cluttered with unnecessary scrap, “I hope that you stay,” she smiles, her claim attracting the eyes of everyone who stood in the large room.

The woman’s face was soft and kind, a bright smile occupied her lips, “Thank you,” the same words once again passing through your bruised lips, “Mantis,” you added, with a small smile. Your hands crossed over your chest, resting on your biceps.

With a nod Mantis turned, taking Rocket’s small hand, “Come on, I think we should leave them alone now,” she spoke as Rocket almost hissed at being dragged off, his constant bickering echoed through the room until you and Peter were once again left alone.

Your eyes slowly found Peter’s feet as your hands danced along the fabric of your jacket. Slowly, your gaze traveled up Peter’s body, taking him all in. With a swing of his arms, he removed his worn, red jacket. A long sleeve, cool-grey shirt hugged his toned torso making your heart flutter. Finally, you met his smiling blue eyes.

“Look,” his words quiet at first, were replaced with a laugh, “I’m sorry about that,” Peter studied you as you stood across the room. You were beautiful, but not a cliche beautiful like in fairy tales. The way you held yourself gave you a layer of mystery and allusiveness that Peter hungered to pervade. He wanted to get to know you. Although the two of you only met, he felt as if it would torment him to watch you leave his side, “I hope that didn’t turn you off,” he spoke after a few minutes of silence.

His comment made your shoulders stiffen. After Mantis’s bold claim of attraction, you began overanalyzing Peter’s words. You knew nothing about empaths, but you were feeling exactly what Mantis described. Your heart skipped a beat wondering if Peter actually felt desire for you.

“No, no, not like that,” Peter spoke, quickly approaching your side, “I mean, what Mantis said,” his eyes caught a flicker of embarrassment in your eyes, “not, not that,” Peter stumbled over his words as his fingers ran through his hair. His blond locks were no longer damp, but still smelled of cheap beer, “I also want you to stay,” the words flowed through his parted lips as he looked into your eyes.

You smiled as he stumbled over his words, inches away from you. Your heart pleaded for you to close the few inches that stood between you, the scent of beer and cologne drawing you in like a moth to a flame, “Quill,” you whispered.

Peter swallowed. Hearing his name leave your lips made his breath catch in his throat, “Please,” his voice practically begged, catching himself off guard.

You studied Peter, he almost seemed closer now, and your fingertips longed to once again be pressed against his rough skin. You have never been bold, but there was something about Peter that changed that, and so you reached towards him. Your fingertips grazed the soft fabric of his shirt, “I’ll stay, but only for awhile,” your quiet words brought a smile to his face.

Peter’s hand rested on yours as your fingertips danced against his chest. Withdrawing your touch, he took your hand and led you down the long hallway that Rocket and Mantis walked down minutes before. You made your way down the long hall that was lined with doors, some open while others closed. Reaching a dead end, Peter typed a code into the door’s key pad. Your eyes met those of a captivating, green woman who stood in the doorway to your right. She studied you as you stood behind Peter, as if you were his shadow. Unaware of your actions, you squeezed Peter’s hand as the woman continued to study the two of you as Peter began to pull you into his room.

Feeling your hold tighten on his hand, Peter turned his head, unable to meet your eyes. Your (y/e/c) eyes were focused on Gamora’s as her gaze rose, meeting Peter’s blue eyes, “Gamora,” her name left Peter’s lips, feeling as if all the air escaped from his lungs, “This is Y/N,” he swallowed as he watched the girl that turned him down over and over continued to break his heart. Gamora’s stare cut Y/N like tiny daggers, somehow making Peter’s heart hurt even more.

“Bold move, Quill,” Gamora smiled at him, eyes fixated on your crumbling posture. You felt yourself retreat into your oversized jean jacket, almost as if you were her prey trying to camouflage yourself, “Nice to meet you, Y/N,” lowering her gaze, the dark eyes of the vixen released you from her hold. Turning, she entered her room as the door closed behind her.

“I can’t shake the feeling that my company isn’t wanted,” you spoke quietly, meeting Peter’s eyes, “Maybe it’s best if,” your words were cut off by Peter’s tightening hold on your hand, mirroring your previous actions.

“I want you here,” Peter spoke with a smile, “and I’m the leader,” his warm smile grew into a cocky grin, “so everyone has to do what I say,”

Your eyes closed into a sliver as a smile played on your lips, “Everyone,” you joked as he pulled you into his room, the automatic door slid closed quickly.

“Especially you,” Peter spoke, barely audible as he approached you. His large hands wrapped around the fabric of your jacket collar. Sliding the fabric off your neck, a hiss of pain passed through your lips. You were suddenly reminded of the burn that was left on your skin. The golden chain was replaced with its crimson imprint on your sensitive skin, “Hey,” his words were soft as his hands roughly removed your jean exterior, “what’s wrong,” his eyes found your fingertips that touched your burning skin, “Lemme take a look,” he calmed you as you lowered your hand while your gaze lifted, meeting his eyes.

Peter’s hands found their way to your stiffened shoulders, turning your back towards him. Brushing your slightly matted hair over your shoulder, he exposed the heated skin of your neck, “shit,” you whispered as his slightly calloused fingers touched the burning surface. Although you were in pain, you could not help but melt under Peter’s cautious touch. Feeling his breath on the back of your neck you shudder.

“You were so set on fixing me up,” Peter smiled as his eyes trailed along the imprint of your gold chain, “You’re damn stubborn,” his eyes found your old Led Zeppelin shirt. It looked as if it was being held together by a few threads. Holes from many battles peppered the once thick fabric. The holes exposed your soft skin underneath. Skin that Peter wished to study, “and really pretty,” he spoke, a breath hitched in his throat. Acknowledging his daring claim, he raised his gaze to find you sneaking a glance at him over your shoulder.

Your ears were blocked by the sound of your rapid heartbeat as you met Peter’s eyes, his compliment catching your heart off guard. You parted your lips, longing to find something to say to him, but he left you speechless. Peter slowly closed even more space between the two of you, making you turn your head away out of embarrassment.

You felt Peter’s breath on your neck, its heat burning your already irritated skin. A groan passed through your lips, embarrassing you even further. You heard Peter laugh as his lips tickled the skin of your neck, peppering it with gentle kisses, “Why won’t you stay,” Peter muttered in between kisses. His lips met your skin more harshly and feverish as you felt a breath catch in your throat, making you whimper, “Come on,” he almost commanded as his hand found its way to the front of your neck, “tell me sweetheart,”

The truth is you were scared. You could count on one hand how many times men like Peter took advantage of your trusting, submissive nature. But for the first time, you did not feel the need to fight back. Peter’s kisses did not feel lustful but caring, making you crave them more than you were willing to admit. Cursing under your breath, you realized that you wanted him to care for you.

Peter’s gentle touch trailed along the front of your neck, making a whimper leave your blushed lips. The small noise made a smirk appear on Peter’s lips, as if he was pleased with himself, “Come on darling,” he cooed, trying a new name and trying to break the wall you built around yourself, “why don’t you tell me what’s going on in your pretty little head,”

You turned your head, neck still in Peter’s gentle grasp. Meeting his eyes, you searched for bad intentions but all that reflected back into your y/e/c eyes was unquestionable compassion, “Peter,” his first name slipped between your lips as your hand found the soft fabric of his grey shirt. The fabric fell between your fingers as you studied him. Peter’s hand left your neck, cradling your cheek with a smile, “I can’t let my guard down,” you almost choke out.

“What happened to you,” Peter smiled, the two of you inches apart, “was it a guy, because I’ll kill him. I swear to god,” his tone turned serious, making you laugh.

“I’ve been on countless guy’s ships,” a nervous smile crossed your lips, eyebrows furrowed as uncomfortable encounters flooded your mind, “I can never let my guard down, or else I’ll regret it,” Peter’s thumb ran across your skin after every word. Peter’s free hand found your cheek, holding your heated face in his hands, “Peter,” you whispered as you watched his blue eyes take you in. He scanned every inch of your face with a soft smile.

“Talk to me,” Peter almost pleaded, leaning closer. You felt his breath against your skin, making your eyelashes flutter closed. Peter’s rough lips fell flush against your forehead in a sweet kiss, “please darling,”

Peter’s words made you melt in his hold and suddenly you had a need to tell him all of your worries, “Some guys thought that I owed them, for giving me a free ride,” your gaze bounced between his two blue pools, “a ride for a ride,” an uncomfortable smile played on your lips, jokingly coping with your claim, “and there were times that I wouldn’t be able to sleep,” you almost whispered, “because I was afraid to wake up underneath them,” you found yourself rambling under Peter’s gaze, “it’s just easier to not trust anyone,” your hold on Peter’s shirt tightened as he brought his lips to your face, peppering you with gentle kisses, “mhm,” you whimpered, “I had to fight him off me so many times, I was so tired,” your voice shook in a low whisper, “I’m so tired,” pulling on the fist fulls of fabric, you brought Peter closer to you. Your lips found his jawline, leaving tired kisses along his rough beard.

“Oh, darling,” he nearly sighed, your lips taking his breath away, “I’d never hurt you,” his strong hands found your waist, pulling your body against his. Not wanting any space between the two of you, “Stay,” he pleaded as your lips pressed against his cheek, before pulling away. He watched as you met his eyes, “I won’t let anything happen to you, if you stay with me,” Peter cleared his throat, finding himself rambling, “with us,”

Your fingers trailed along his chest as your eyes followed them, “Such a hero,” your eyes found Peter’s cut lip. Raising your thumb, you traced the cut lightly, “Star-Lord,” you smiled as you raised your gaze, boldy meeting Peter’s blue eyes.

Peter’s finger tips dug into your hips as he pulled you against him, roughly placing his lips against your own. He took your breath away, that or his sudden force pushed the air from your lungs. You let out a groan that vibrated against his lips as his fingers began to leave bruises against your delicate skin. The tattered fabric of your shirt easily traveled up your skin as Peter’s fingers followed the dark hem. His fingertips were rough, barely grazing your skin making you shiver.

The cold, stuffy air of Peter’s room kissed your exposed skin as Peter’s lips did the same. The fabric of your black, lace bralette caught Peter’s eyes as he took in the curve of your chest, making you self conscious without delay. Raising your head, you met Peter’s hungry eyes, but not for long. Attaching his soft lips on the skin of your neck, he left rough kisses along its surface, taking the delicate skin between his lips.

A crash rang through the Milano, making you jump, backing out of Peter’s hold, “Darling, come back,” he spoke as his hands chased your hips, “it’s probably just Groot or Drax messing around,” your ears rang from the loud noise, something did not sit right in your stomach.

Another crash came, this time the Milano shook. Bumping your arm on your hip, you activated your blaster, making Peter’s brows furrow, “Y/N, it’s probably nothing,” he spoke as you clothed your exposed skin. You stood before his door, it slid open as you quickly passed through its frame, “Sweetheart,” Peter called after you, his feet following right behind his words.

Looking to your left, you met an alerted Gamora. Her eyes searched for the source of the sudden disturbance. She walked next to you now, her shoulder brushing your own as you both made your way to the cockpit of the ship.

Staring through the ship’s large windows, they were illuminated with golden rays. Blasts rattling against its glass. Your head pounded as Gamora’s garish call rang over the unidentified threat. As you approached the blinding light, the blasts stopped, your eyes meeting those of the golden woman. Your golden chain laying against her heavenly skin.

Peter suddenly appeared at your side, drawing your attention away from the Sovereign who held a large blaster. She was unlike any other Sovereign you have heard of, she was not hiding behind a ship or even from the comforts of her cushy planet. For once, she was getting her hands dirty.

Turning your head sharply, you met Peter’s shocked expression. You felt as if anger coursed through your veins as Peter studied your furrowed brows. Clenching your hands, your nails dug into the skin of your palms. With a swift swing, your small fist struck against the bridge of Peter’s nose.

You thought Peter was different than every other guy that picked you up off whatever planet you had found yourself on. He captivated you. He chased any negative thought away. He made you think that you could trust him, and for a brief moment you succumbed.

“You asshole,” you cried out towards where Peter stumbled backwards, “you set me up,” the anger in your eyes reflected the crimson that sat on his skin.

Peter brought his hand to his nose. His calloused fingertips were draped in red, “You really think I set you up,” he almost laughed, raising your temper, “Sweetheart, come on,”

“You can drop the act,” you reflected his unsettled laughter, “Come on Quill,” you pointed your blaster at him as you spoke, arms mirroring your changing expression, “how stupid do you think I am. I mean, she just happens to know exactly where I would end up,” you rambled on through your blind rage, “I almost let my guard down,”

Peter approached you again, a wide grin growing on his lips, “I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time I brought a girl back here, word gets around I guess,” he chuckled meeting your eyes. Immediate regret washed over him as your eyes pierced his like tiny daggers.

“And it wouldn’t be the first time you dug yourself in this deep of a hole either,” Gamora commented, reminding Peter of her presence, “I like you,” her gaze quickly left Peter, falling on you, “don’t fall for his, sorcery,” Gamora’s words were drawn out, as if she was recalling a memory from her and Peter’s past.

Your eyes left Gamora’s, then Peter’s, finally falling back to the golden goddess that was waiting for you, “Shit,” you groaned, realising she was not going to leave without a fight. Her large blaster reflected the sunlight that bounced off her perfect, golden skin.

***

You fell right into her trap and into Peter’s arms. You were nothing more than a sob story to him and a thief to her.

The golden woman stood before you as you exited the Milano, her hair sat against her shoulders like entangled, golden thread, “I can’t help but get the idea that you’re following me,” you quipped as she slightly lowered the large blaster that rested on her glowing shoulder, “I’m flattered,”

“Y/N,” the sound of your name from Peter’s lips made your eyes roll. Peter’s heavy boots cracked the planet’s dry surface as he came to a halt at your side.

With a quick and irritated glance to your right, you made Peter cower. Covering his nose with his sleeve, he feared another hard blow from your small fist.

Locking eyes with the woman your brows furrowed as she began to raise the large blaster towards you, “I really fell for it, didn’t I,” you admitted as you approached her, “this elaborate plan,” you gestured, “you retreating and letting him lead my back to his ship,” the woman stared at you from behind the immense weapon, “eventually, I’d let my guard down and you’d have no trouble handing my ass to me,” your turn of phrase made her golden nose wrinkle.

“Not at all,” she spoke, almost sounding disgusted by your praise, “I left that mutt in the dust back at the bar and I have no intention of working with it again,” her claim made her pearly smile peek through her parted lips.

Moments ago you were about to leave Peter behind just as she did. So why did her claim make your blood boil?

Shaking your head, a curse fell between your pursed lips. Bumping the sensor of your blaster, the material manifested in your grasp. Absentmindedly you pulled the trigger, sending the woman stumbling backwards, her sharp heels unstable against the dry ground. Your eyes located your necklace floating against her chest as your hand extended towards its shimmering chain.

Without a word, you watched as Peter flew past your extended grasp, his blasters firing. Shouting his name you watched as his shots hit the fallen Sovereign’s chest. You watched as her shoulder blades pinched behind her strained posture.

Quick to her feet, she met Peter’s threatening gaze, “Remind me not to mess with your girl,” she spit, inches away from Peter’s lips. Her sly smile fell as Peter’s fist closed around the perfectly cut moonstone, the surface was cool and smooth against his rough hands, “You’re unhinged,” she hissed through her teeth as Peter’s sudden pull on the chain burned against her skin. Her claim only made his next movement a little less gentle, snapping the broken, golden chain.

Opening his tight grasp, Peter studied the stone in his possession, allowing his guard to fall. A swift, golden movement passed before his eyes as he watched the woman knock the chain and pendant to the dry ground. A small blaster had been pulled from a hidden pocket and activated on the delicate stone.

Your y/e/c eyes found the woman’s menacing gaze that burned through you, “Next time you take from my planet, I’ll catch you,” she spoke, her voice monotoned and tired, “and I’ll kill you,” retiring the small metal blaster, she turned on her heels, leaving you and Peter in the kicked up dust.

Peter silently studied the broken pendant that sat in his large palm as his other hand attempted to pick up the tiny remnants that hid within the dust. The gold metal that once held the shattered moonstone was a ruffled oval. The chain met the pendant behind a daintily sculpted golden flower and leaves; what was once delicate and beautiful was now broken. It reminded him of you.

Rocks crunched under the tread of your boots, creating what seemed like the only sound around the two of you. Your cracking voice added to the silence as you spoke softly, “Quill, look it’s fine, really,” standing over him you watched as his large fingers shook, attempting to piece together the tiny remains, “thank you,” you attempted a smile, “for trying,” Peter Quill was desperately searching the ground for anything that was left behind, his body tucked tightly in attempt to get as low to the ground as his large frame would allow him, “Peter,” you spoke, his desperation worried you.

Peter’s blue eyes hopelessly looked for golden rays against the dull, desaturated dust. In the corner of his eyes he watched as you knelt before him. You tucked your disheveled hair behind your ears, allowing him to see just how many cuts and bruises kissed your skin. He longed to place his lips over them, to melt them away with heated lips. As if you read his mind, he watched as you leaned closer to him, your hands fell against his neck. Your index fingers sat flush under his jawline as your thumbs ran against his short, rough beard.

Your heart pounded in your ears and you were convinced Peter heard it as you inched closer and closer to his cut lips. Peter’s blue eyes stared back at you with familiar, dilated pupils. Taking in a sharp breath of dusted air, you leaned in, pressing your lips against Peter’s with a small amount of force. His lips were dry and he smelled like cologne as your lips melted against his own. You felt your stiffened shoulders relax, allowing your hands to trail down his neck. Your touch coaxed a small groan to pass through Peter’s lips.

You allowed a hand to fall, closing his grasp around the pieces that sat in his palm. Pulling away from his lips, you met his eyes, “I want you to keep this,” you told him, as your brows furrowed. You restrained the tears that attempted to blur your vision, “I need to go,” you lied to Peter. His lips parted as he searched for persuading words, “I should go,” you almost immediately corrected yourself. Your eyes pleaded with him, knowing in your heart that you would stay as long as he asked. Rising to your feet you attempted to elude his pleas, but his voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Just for awhile,” Peter spoke, quoting your claim. His heavy boots steadied him as he left the dry ground, plants and stars shone above his head. Suddenly you both realized how late it really was, “Y/N it’s late, at least let me offer you a place to sleep,”

Your eyes studied the stars as your heart longed to stay by Peter’s side, “Okay,” you breathed out into the night air.

***

You stood in the middle of Peter’s room, taking in your surroundings. Peter’s room was dim lit and messy. A smile crossed your lips as you watched him enter the room, picking up dirty clothes that littered his path, “Thank you,” an apology fell from your lips as you studied his strong shoulders as he stood up straight. His eyes studied you and your sudden gratification, “thank you for letting me spend the night,” you spoke quickly, the silence making you anxious.

A small laugh passed through Peter’s lips as he spoke, “I wish you would stay longer,” walking towards you, the fabric of your worn jacket fell between his fingers.

Like a moth to the flame, your lips locked with Peter’s, “Beg me to,” words spilled between your lips as you took a small, sharp breath before returning to Peter’s lips.

“What,” Peter blushed, taken aback by your actions, let alone your words. His question was mumbled against your pressed lips.

“Beg me,” you repeated, this time you met his serious gaze. His blue eyes stared back at you, as if he looked at you like the universe revolves around you. The center of his whole world.

Peter’s gaze took you in as you stood before him. You looked tired, almost defeated. Your shoulders were rounded, head hung heavy as your y/e/c eyes looked up at him, almost hidden under your dark lashes. All Peter wanted to do was to show you how much he truly cares about you, to convince you that the world was still capable of compassion.

He approached you, closer than before, the thick fabric of your jacket found its way into his hold, tightening in his grasp. Tugging your jacket down your arms, your hands fell flush against his chest, “Stay with me,” he spoke the words that you were desperate to hear.

A small smile formed on your lips, one that you hoped Peter could not see, “Please,” soft laughter passed through your parted lips, “if you say it again, I’ll never leave,” you admitted, red-faced. Feeling as if Peter was about to close the space that left your words floating through the torrid air, your lashes fluttered shut. But instead, you felt your hands leave Peter’s warm chest as he backed away from you. You felt your heart sink as more and more space separated the two of you. You did not dare to open your eyes.

Peter’s eyes only left you for a short moment, just long enough for his finger to switch on his cassette player, allowing the tuneful hum of ‘I Just Wanna Stop’ by Gino Vanneli to envelop you.

‘I just wanna stop and tell you what I feel about you babe, I just wanna stop. I never wanna live without you babe. I just gotta stop; for your love’ the lyrics serenaded you.

“Stay with me,” Peter spoke over the old, humming speakers, his voice still at a low level. He approached you once again, his eyes falling on your worn jacket that sat at your feet. Your dirt covered boots brought a smile to his lips, as his eyes took you in slowly, traveling up your body until he met your y/e/c gaze. His fingertips longed to touch your skin as they settled on your hips. His calloused skin scratched against the thin fabric of your beloved Zeppelin shirt. Pushing past the fabric, you felt his touch against your heated skin. Your eyes pleaded with him, and he knew that he was making a convincing argument, “Come on darling,” he cooed, beginning to sway to the music. His words paired with the classic love song made you swoon, your knees physically weak.

Your hands returned to him, flush against his toned chest. Without a thought, your fingers tangled in his shirt’s fabric, pulling yourself closer to him. Your bodies coupled, fitting against each other perfectly. It was if the last piece of a puzzle was found, and everything was now complete. You relaxed against his frame, letting him out of your grasp, but only for a moment. Snaking your hands over his collarbones. You earned a soft groan from Peter’s lips, before your hands fell against the back of his neck. A quiet laugh escaped your throat, making Peter look down at you.

“What,” he asked with a smile, his swaying turning into the two of you slowly traveling around the cluttered space. He baited a gaze from you, digging his fingers into your hips.

Giving in, you looked up at him, your disordered hair obstructing your view of the handsome outlaw, “nothing,” you spoke quietly, almost shyly. The thoughts running through your head allowed a blush to sneak across your face, “nothing,” you repeated with a confident pause, “Star-Lord,” you spoke sensually and purposely.

You watched as Peter’s teeth took in the corner of his bottom lip. His tongue pressing against the intake of his lip, almost biting it, as if to stop a groan from filling your ears. Peter felt your fingers tangle in the short hair on the base of his neck. Giving it a light tug, his lips parted and the suppressed groan passed through them.

‘Ooo, I’ve tried so hard to take it, but oh Lord my heart won’t make it’ the lyrics hummed, along with the tune from your playful lips. Peter’s eyes closed as he took in every second that passed with you, as if he was afraid that when he opened his eyes it would all disappear.

“Star-Lord,” you called, pulling Peter out of his thoughts. This time it was his turn to hum, and you smiled at how much he enjoyed hearing that name come out of your pretty little mouth. Tugging on his dirty blond hair you waited for a response, each small tug held purposeful desire.

Without a word, Peter’s lips met yours as the room changed its tune. The steady beat of Hall & Oates ‘Kiss on My List’ filled the air as your stomach was brimming with butterflies. Peter kissed you deeply, hungrily, a kiss that both of you knew where it would end up.

You felt Peter’s strong hands leave your hips, making you pout against his kiss. It was not long before they gathered at the hem of your tattered shirt, removing it quite swiftly and effortlessly. You smiled, forgetting that not too long ago your shirt had already dwelled on his bedroom floor. His hands snaked up your body, running his rough fingertips along the lace of your black bra. The soft fabric scratched against his skin, making him sigh against your flushed lips.

Pulling away, you studied Peter, his eyes still closed as his hands explored your exposed skin. Untangling your fingers from his soft locks, you tugged on the back of his collar, signalling for him to take off the clinging fabric. Peter quickly accepted, the grey fabric falling closely to the black pile of your own clothes.

Your hands fell against Peter’s now exposed skin, feeling his chest rise and fall with each heavy breath. Raising your hand, you traced monotonous shapes into Peter’s fit chest. Your hands shook with each slow movement.

Why were you scared? You have done this more times than you want to remind yourself. Was it because this time you really wanted it? Was it because you felt like Peter cared about you?

“Alyssa,” Peter called, “what’s wrong, sweetheart,” his body shivered as your nails left behind rosey trails.

“I’m just,” you began to speak. Your voice was low and a bit raspy, making you clear your throat, “thinking,” You felt as Peter leaned into you, shoulders rounding.

Placing a longing kiss against your cheek, Peter spoke, “You think too much,” his lips fell against your ear as his words slipped through his smiling teeth with a chuckle.

Your brows furrowed at Peter’s playful insult, but a smile crossed your lips. You knew that he was right, you were overthinking things. Why did it matter if Peter truly cared about you? At this moment you wanted to touch him, to feel him. Feelings attached to his actions or not, you wanted him. Taking a deep breath you met his eyes, “You might be right,” you smiled, “for once,” you teased, earning a cocky smile from the legendary outlaw.

You felt Peter’s tight grasp on your wrist, “You need to realize that,” he told you, pulling you towards him as he slowly began to walk back towards the bed, “if you’re going to be staying with me,”

You were mesmerized by him. Following his footsteps you found yourself before him, at the foot of his bed. Taking a seat, Peter looked up at you, his blue eyes were hungry and impatient. With a tug on your wrist he hinted for you to make your move, as if he was letting you decide the night’s fate.

One after the other, your legs straddled his waist. Peter’s large frame took your breath away, making you feel equally comforted and threatened by what he could do to you.

Snapping you out of your daydream, Peter’s large hands found the small of your back, trailing upwards, along with a shiver up your spine. Your skin crawled with desire as you pressed your lips against the underside of his jaw, showering him in wet kisses. You felt his fingers fumble against your bra’s clasp, his mind clouding with each kiss you provided.

“What’s wrong Star-Lord,” you taunted, your smiling lips pressed against his rough jaw. Feeling his hold on your bra strengthen, you decided to push him further, “Can’t think,” your nails trailed up his abs, your words and touch leaving a sting.

Without warning, you felt Peter take you in his arms, laying you out over his legs. The rough fabric of Peter’s pants scratched against your exposed stomach, almost making you whine. Skillfully, Peter unhooked your bra, tossing the dark fabric across the room, “What did I say,” his words were harsh on your ears, more dominant than before, “about doing what I say,” Peter’s hands slipped under the band of your worn jeans, tugging them down, exposing a pair of lace underwear.

A blush warmed your cheeks and ears, feeling as if your skin glowed a bright shade of red. You were lost for words, your vexful disguise ultimately fading into what you truly were.

A bottom.

Peter’s flattened palm pulled you back to reality as his large hand rubbed circles against your newly exposed skin, “Are you going to behave,” his voice questioned as his blue eyes focused on your ass.

You shook your head, accepting your place. But that was not good enough for Peter and he let you know that by bringing his flat palm down on your sensitive skin.

“What was that,” he asked as the shape of his hand became visible on your skin. Peter licked his lips as he waited for a verbal response.

“Yes,” you whimpered, the room’s air not properly cooling your heated skin. Turning your head, you dared to meet Peter’s eyes. Instead, you were met with another blow to your ass.

“Yes, what,” he asked, meeting your y/e/c gaze. Your eyes searched Peter’s face for an appropriate answer, one that would give your heated skin relief. But all you could find was Peter’s radiating dominance and the hum of Santana over your heartbeat.

“Yes,” you repeated with a turn of your head, no longer being able to meet Peter’s eyes, “Star-Lord,”

You caught Peter’s hand moving out of the corner of your eye, making you jump. Your body prepared for another spanking, but instead Peter’s touch was soft, almost praising, “Good girl,” hearing you let out a soft hum, Peter pulled the remaining jean fabric off of your legs, “on the bed sweetheart,” he instructed. His eyes followed you as you crawled off of his lap and onto the unkempt bed sheets. Against your palms, the fabric was surprisingly cool in the stifling room.

Falling against the mattress, your arms supported you, allowing you to watch as Peter walked along the bed. Peter’s eyes took in your exposed skin, reminding you just how vulnerable you truly were. Your focus fell from Peter and to your exposed chest, making your heart flutter with embarrassment.

Peter kneeled before you now. At some point, in your embarrassed state, he had removed his pants as well. The two of you were now only clothed by your underwear, and Peter’s briefs were leaving nothing to the imagination. You muttered a quite, “fuck,” at the sight of the dark fabric restricting him. Without thinking, you sat up, his body entrancing you. Your movement allowed for your shoulders to pinch, pushing your chest forward, unknowingly drawing attention to your breasts.

Without hesitation, like a month to a flame, Peter brought his lips to your collarbone. His large hands fell against your ribs, his thumbs falling on the underside of your breasts. He watched as your gaze still focused on the fabric of his briefs, “Peter,” his name left your lips in a small gasp.

“What was that, sweetheart,” he corrected you as his fingertips dug into your skin, almost out of punishment.

“Star-Lord,” he heard you whimper, feeling your ribs expand as you took in a deep breath. Slowly, your gaze trailed up his toned body until you met his hungry stare.

“What is it, darling,” his voice comforted you, but sounded as if it was out of pity, “What do you need me to do to you,” his inquiry barely left his lips before he heard you speak.

***

“Touch me,”

Those two words were all Peter needed to hear. Everything he was holding back was released as his hands found your breasts: cupping them, squeezing them roughly in his calloused hands. His lips found yours forcefully, as a moan filled your occupied lips and escaped into the still air.

Rising to your knees, you closed any space that sat between you and Peter. Not knowing what came over you, you reached forward, hand falling against Peter’s inner thigh. Due to your actions, you felt Peter smile against your kiss, making your heart rate quicken.

“I thought I was doing the touching,” Peter spoke, creating undesired distance between the two of you.

“Please,” you pleaded. You could not believe yourself. You were so desperate for Peter’s touch, and for what? Were you longing to experience the feelings he had for you? Or, were you just desperate to feel something? Anything? The bulge in his briefs that sat against your thigh?

You chose option D.

Your fingertips found the elastic trim of his dark fabric, fingernails hungrily scratching against its surface. Leaving no time for verbal punishment, you slipped under the fabric, hand trailing down the length of him.

Peter looked down at you, your head tilted, watching your hand touch his heated and aching skin. Your touch soothed him, releasing a day's worth of tension and frustration. A shaking sigh passed through his lips as your fingers wrapped around him, grasp tightening, “fuck,” a breathless curse fell from his parted lips.

“Shit,” you smiled as your unoccupied hand fell under the band of his briefs, pulling them down slowly, exposing his hidden and toned v-line. You took in every inch in front of you, the inches that really matter were not yet visible.

Slowly, you pulled them down fully, watching his length sit flush against his subtle abs.

The look of relief on his face reflected in his blushed tip and the bead of precum caught the low light of Peter’s room, “Fuck, sweetheart,” you heard Peter breathe as your shoulders rounded, licking a stripe up his length, tongue flattened against him. You met his eyes almost as hesitantly as his hands that snaked into your tangled hair.

Peter watched as your y/h/c locks rushed over his fingers like waves. Pulling on them, he brought you closer to his heated and throbbing skin. If you read his mind, he watched your lips wrap around him, allowing a hiss to pass through his clenched jaw.

He filled your mouth, his warmth filling something you did not know you needed. Something about his heated skin made you feel complete, “mm,” you hummed around him before his strong hands bobbed your head, pushing his dick further into your mouth. A smile threatened to curl at the corners of your mouth, however, Peter’s thickness stopped the sly smirk from gracing your lips.

“Did I tell you, you have a pretty little mouth,” Peter spoke smoothly, despite a small sutter from the way your mouth felt around him. He could not tell if you were melting around him or if he was the one melting, absolutely losing himself at the feeling of you, “so pretty,” he laughed, his breath hitching.

Raising your hands, you wrapped one around his base, while the other raked your long nails against his abs. You had the ability to create expression through a subtle touch, you were able to vocalize how desperately you needed him with no words and only a trailing touch. Your hand rhythmically covering what your mouth could not.

Your gaze traveled up to Peter’s pleased expression, one you have seen so many times before, from others. But this time, something told you it was different. Maybe it was the way Peter’s fingers tangled in your hair, rubbing your scalp lightly, or his muttered praise. Something told you that this time, it was different.

“I want you,” you breathed around him, stopping for a moment, “Peter, please,” you almost laughed at how desperate you were. Peter pulled on your hair, meeting your eyes. His eyes were hungry yet, somehow still soft and loving.

Without a word you felt Peter’s strong hold on you, pulling you onto his lap, your legs straddling his hips, “I’m all yours sweetheart,” his claim escaped his lips almost silently, allowing you to make the move. He watched you shudder above him, his low tone sending a chill up your spine. Reaching behind you, you grabbed the base of Peter’s dick, aligning yourself with him. Without a thought, you began to press your silk underwear against him, the cool fabric earning a hiss from Peter’s parted lips, “there you go,” he whispered as his finger fell against the thin fabric. A smile curled his pink lips as he felt how wet you were for him, “so wet for me,” he hummed as his soft lips kissed your jaw, over and over.

“Quill,” you whined at the thin fabric that sat between the two of you, the only barricade. As if he could decipher your silent plea, his large finger hooked around the thin fabric, pulling it aside, “oh,” you bit your lip at the sudden warmth of Peter’s skin, which sat flush against you.

He laughed. Peter’s body shook as he positioned himself at your entrance, feeling himself slowly getting lost in you, “Oh fuck,” he muttered as your nails trailed up his back, entangling in his hair.

“Fuck,” you spoke, almost echoing him as he filled you, inch by inch, “Quill,” his name leaving your lips. Letting out a hum, your eyes rolled back as you felt your hips roll against his own. Your actions earned a moan from Peter, who was struggling to not fall under your spell.

He wanted to be in control.

Peter watched your eyes screw shut in pleasure as you bounced above him. Reaching down, over the side of the bed, Peter’s hand found the clothes the two of you had retired to the cluttered ground. His rough fingertips grazed the thick fabric of his pants. Raising them into the air, he pulled the black belt out of the fabric’s belt loops.

“Hands out,” His voice was rough, as his eyes never left your body, “hands out,” he repeated his request as you stared at him blankly, your rhythm becoming sloppy.

“What,” you asked breathlessly, his words trying to push through your hazy, lustful thoughts. Without warning, Peter’s hand found your wrist, pulling you forward with a firm grasp.

“Wrists-“ he spoke sharply, rotating your palm. The dominance in his tone made you jump, slightly frightened. However, there was something exciting about the fear that sat in your chest.

You watched as Peter successfully bound your wrists with his old belt, excitement stirring within you and between your thighs. You almost forgot about what really occupied between your legs, feeling Peter’s dick twitch inside of you. A hum passed through your pressed lips as Peter gave one last tug on the belt, “You like this sweetheart,” he teased as he felt you clench around him as he tied you up. You were growing wetter at the thought of all the things he could do to you, and you knew he could feel it too, and the cocky smile on his lips confirmed it.

Pulling you to the center of the bed, you whimpered as Peter slipped out of you. He no longer sat beneath you, but stood above you, leaving you alone on the large bed. Without a word, Peter grabbed your hips roughly, “Let’s get this pretty thing off of you,” he spoke lowly, his eyes on the silk that sat against your skin, hiding you from him.

“Please” you begged, falling on your back, unable to catch yourself as you crashed against the, surprisingly soft, mattress.

Peter slowly pressed his thumb flat against your clit, running a trail down the wetness that showed through the thin fabric. You did not realize the cassette had stopped playing until Peter laughed, breaking the silence that hung in the air, “Okay, okay,” Peter whispered as he watched you squirm below him.

He liked it.

Fighting the urge to tease you further, he wrapped his fingers around the sides of your underwear. His skin brushed against your thighs, making you shiver, a small moan escaping your lips. Your wrists rubbed against the tight leather of the belt, knowing that they would later be kissed by bruises, “Quill,” you begged, watching him take his sweet time to expose your heated skin. You watched as a cocky smile stretched on his face, slowing his movements. He no longer was fighting the urge. He was teasing you, dominating you, giving you a taste of how you were making him feel since the moment he met you outside of the bar.

“What is it darling,” Peter’s accent poked through his smiling lips, “tell me what you want,” he began to pull your underwear down your legs, its fabric bunching. He met your y/e/c eyes that stared back at him. Your gaze sat under furrowed brows. Silence filled the room as he listened to your breathing, watching your bare chest rise and fall, “Come on sweetheart,”

You shifted on the empty bed as Peter towered over you. Attempting to escape the belt that sat against our wrists, you let out a frustrated sigh, making Peter laugh, “Quill,” his name left your lips in a frustrated tone, “please,” you almost whined, desperate to touch him and to be touched by him. But all he did was pull the bunched fabric down your legs at an agonizing pace, “off,” you muttered. Frustrated, you threw your head against the mattress.

Answering your pleas, Peter removed your underwear, fully exposing you to his gaze, “There’s my pretty girl,” Peter hummed, shoulders rounding. Without warning, he met your lips roughly as he rubbed the tip of his dick against your clit; making a moan bubble from your lips, in between breaths.

Peter almost laughed at how wet you were for him. He was lost in you, already given in to you. Peter would do anything to keep you on the Milano with him, to have you fighting by his side.

But right now, he just wanted to feel you around him. To explore you and to mark you as his, “So wet for me, sweetheart,” he sighed as he began to fill you, inch by inch, “so tight,” Peter had found handfuls of women underneath him. But something about the sight of you made him weak. As if he had finally found his missing piece.

You moaned, bringing Peter back to reality, making him focus on your bound wrists as your hands snaked down, wrapping around the base of his dick, before resting against the short hairs that sat on his pelvis, “mm- Quill,” his name came out in a whine as your felt his thrusts become more rapid, his hands grabbing onto your hips. His rough fingertips crashed against your bony hips, making you moan, “so good,”

“Does that feel good,” Peter questioned as he brought his lips to your ear, “tell me how good I’m making you feel, darling,” he teased, tilting your hips, hitting you even deeper.

His thrusts made your hands snap off his pelvis, covering your face. Your mind was clouded as your eyes were glazed over, unable to form a single thought.

“Hm,” Peter hummed, waiting for your response. Looking down at you, he let out a sigh, focusing on your covered face, “look at me-“ he demanded, his right hand left your hip. Wrapping a finger around the belt’s leather, he pulled your arms against your stomach, “I want you to look at me while I fuck you. You understand,” his voice was almost a low growl, “Do you understand,” he repeated.

“Yes,” you breathed out, your eyes locking onto his cold stare. His gaze softened slightly as you spoke, “your dick feels so good, you make me feel so good,”

Suddenly, Peter pulled out of you, making you feel empty. You shot him a look that held desperation, a plea to fill you and make you feel whole.

“What’s wrong darling,” Peter smiled as he took hold of you, flipping you underneath him. You landed on your stomach, bound wrists falling under your wet and dripping core. Your face pressed deep into his dark sheets as his hands rested on your lower back, pressing you further into the mattress as he positioned himself back at your entrance, “is this what you wanted,” he cooed against your right ear.

You attempted a nod, face pressed firmly against the bed, unable to move, “yes,” you quietly confirmed with Peter’s large hands pushing the air out of our lungs. A moan followed as Peter bottomed out before his hips began to thrust into you. He thrusted into you messily, his rhythm falling apart as he began to lose himself in you, “I thought-“ you breath out, “you wanted me to look at you,” you teased, trying to push him over the edge. But all your claim got you was a loud and forceful spank, making you whine.

“How ‘bout we keep that pretty little mouth shut if you’re going to be a brat,” Peter disciplined as he rubbed your heated skin, watching it turn red.

You let out a huff, air escaping your lungs, “Maybe if you let me touch you,” irritation laced your tone, your brows furrowing.

“I thought you liked this,” Peter questioned, his pace slowing, “Do you want me to untie you, stop having my way with you,” He watched you shake your head before him, submitting yourself, “Are you going to be good for me,” Peter asked, his hand snaking down to your mouth, covering it. He did not wait for an answer, knowing it would only be muffled by his own hand. His pace quickened once more. Knowing he would not last long, he put force behind each of his thrusts, “feel so good for me,” he stuttered, embarrassment laced his tone as he began to fall apart, about to lose himself completely, “gonna cum, sweetheart,”

Removing his hand, it trailed down your body, his touch felt hungry before his hand fell back against your hip. His action allowed your repressed moans to fall out of your swollen lips, “please, cum-“ you breathed out, “fuck Star-lord, please”

Hearing that name pass through your lips made his eyes screw shut as he surrendered himself to you, filling you. Peter’s hands fell from your hips, resting against the mattress as he attempted to hold himself up.

His eyes felt heavy as his gaze traced the curves of your body underneath him, traveling up your spine before starting back down. Focusing on where he sat inside of you, he slowly pulled out, listening to you whine, “How about some of that aftercare you mentioned earlier,” Peter flirted before he flipped you onto your back. Your eyes stared back at him in an annoyed glance, but a smile played on your lips.

Reaching out, Peter’s hands fell against the leather belt that sat against your sore skin, untying it. A deep red kissed your skin, marks from his belt leaving indents on your small wrists. Peter wrapped his hands around your wrists, replacing the belt, he began to rub them softly before placing a kiss on each.

You looked up at Peter almost lovingly, unsure of where the emotion had even come from. You watched as he placed a hand under the small of your back, rolling you onto your side. After slipping on his briefs, he laid beside you, a large hand trailing up and down your back. You were not the kind to fall asleep after a hook up, especially with your past. You were so used to staying awake, fearful of what might happen to you if you fell asleep. But something about Peter was different, and soon you felt your eyes begin to grow heavy. With a few bats of your lashes, you were asleep.

***

You awoke to the sound of a small crash, finding yourself alone in Peter’s bed. Mentally preparing for the audible crash to come from a threat aboard the ship, you slipped on your tattered Zeppelin shirt and managed to slip on the dark fabric of your underwear. Silently, you slipped out of Peter’s room and into the silent ship, the noise echoing through the hall slightly. Your feet tapped against the cold metal floor as your eyes focused on the small light from the ship's hub. Peter’s voice began to fill your ears, making out a few muttered curses that fell from his lips. Standing in the doorway you studied him.

Peter’s back faced you, he had slipped on his pants but stood shirtless over the table the two of you found yourself at when you had first entered his ship. He was working on something, giving his full attention and allowing you to step into the center of the room. Once you grew tired of watching him work, you interrupted.

“Do you normally do this sort of thing at 2am,” your voice broke the silence, making Peter drop a metal tool on the table, a loud crash filling the room from where your voice left off.

“Shit, Y/N,” Peter spoke quietly, yet his tone was aggressive, “I was just,” he spoke to himself as he watched your eyes fall on what sat before him.

The remains of your moonstone necklace sat on the table, reconstructed and unique. You had never seen a necklace like it before, it was very: Peter Quill.

“Look, I know how it’s supposed to look okay, but,” he stuttered as your fingers brushed against the new pendant that sat on the golden chain, “I took some, creative liberties and I’m not an artist,” Peter rambled, concerned that you were disappointed, upset that he had ruined the broken, yet precious, stone, “like at all,”

You turned your head, eyes now focusing on his blue eyes. Taking hold of Peter’s arm, you slipped between him and the table, “I love it,” you whispered, words almost inaudible, “thank you,”

Peter smiled above you as his hands reached behind you. Picking up the once broken necklace, he held it before you. It was beautiful under the low light of the Milano as he placed it around your neck.

“No longer broken,” Peter spoke, eyes focused on the moonstone fragments. The precious stone was split apart, but he could tell that you were whole. Peter knew that you had found your place.

And you knew it too.

You would stay.

#marvel fanfic #marvel fic #marvel smut #marvel fanfiction #star-lord x reader #star lord x reader #star lord fanfic #star lord smut #star-lord smut #peter quill fanfiction #peter quill x reader #peter quill fanfic #peter quill smut

[jebazzled]

Level Up! Beginner/Intermediate/Advanced RP and You

Hello there! Coming to you again with tips & tricks for a top-notch roleplay experience! Today we're going to talk about writing levels and what they mean for your roleplay experience. We'll cover what these levels mean, how to gauge where you're at, and how you can improve your roleplay writing specifically!

WRITING LEVELS

"Writing levels" are often a descriptor sites will use in their advertising and site buzzes. They might be "semi-literate," "intermediate," "literate," "advanced," or any other sort of buzzword. The key here is that these descriptors are used by site staff both to advertise what type of writing is most common on their site and what type of writing they want to see on their site.

What writing levels are not is a value indicator. There's nothing wrong with being an intermediate writer or a beginner writer; advanced sites are not inherently better than intermediate ones, beginner sites are nothing to be ashamed of! Think of writing levels as an umbrella within the rp community. The same way a forum rp-er might narrow their search to jcink sites, a writer might narrow their search to sites which cater to their style of writing.

That said, it is good to define what each of these levels look like so you can figure out where your writing might fit.

BEGINNER Beginner writing is often very short and direct, without much in the way of literary flourish. Characters might be fairly undeveloped (or developed around one trait, for example, "goth" or "prep") and there's usually more discussion of their appearance than you see in advanced writing.

Examples:

Susie was short and very skinny, with big eyes and long mermaid-wavy hair dyed blue at the ends. She was sitting outside Firefly High in blue skinny jeans, silver Converse, and a black t-shirt. "I hope someone can give me a ride home," she said.

Raven sneered at Susie. She didn't like blue because she liked black, because she was a goth. "Are you listening to popular music? What a phony."

Bramblepaw sat down in the clearing. "Hello" he meowed.

Some guides will also give an example like 

patty threw a pom pom at susie! "take that u nerd!"

But I am choosing to believe that you're past that if you're deep enough in this hobby to be seeking out resources - I certainly never had that self-awareness until I was more in intermediate territory!

Beginner-level writing gets the job done, and can certainly move a story along. But if you've been writing a while, you might be ready to build more multifaceted characters, and to invest more effort in your writing.

INTERMEDIATE/SEMI-LITERATE WRITING Intermediate writing tends to be longer than beginner writing, with more variety in sentence structure and with more advanced word choices. There are likely more "beats" per post, by which I mean that instead of just answering a question or getting on the bus or etc, a character will likely do more actions in each turn writing. Characters are less likely to be a stereotype (see: Raven the goth who only wears black, Patty the popular cheerleader who is blonde and brainless, etc) but applications likely reveal one-dimensional characters. Common application styles I see from intermediate writers are "interviews" and "journals," as well as listicles (10 Things Raven Likes, 9 People Raven Hates, etc); this likely means a character is told rather than shown.

(Wondering what's so intermediate about interviews and journals? See my guides to interviews and journals!)

Examples:

Susie was born on March 20, 2003 in Farmville, Iowa. She didn't like how similar her classmates all were - they all listened to the same music, read the same books (none!) and had the most fun when drinking on a tractor. Susie was more deep, and liked to write poetry and sketch the animals that lived on her family's farm. Today she was sitting outside Firefly High, twirling the ends of her blue-dyed hair and waiting for a ride home. 

Raven wasn't like most girls. She didn't like horses or rabbits, but only liked goats, because they represented the devil. Raven also wasn't like most girls, at least in Farmville, because she worshipped the devil. She wore a lot of black to represent this, and when she saw Susie, she sneered. Blue! Susie must be a normie. "Are you listening to popular music?" She asked. "What a phony."

Bramblepaw had spent all morning hunting and was feeling lonely. All he wanted was to share a squirrel with a friend, and maybe have someone groom the tricky spot behind his ears. He padded from the apprentice den to the warriors', to the elders and no one was home. He sat forlorn in the middle of the clearing. "Hello?" He meowed.

Another common trait of both beginner and intermediate writing is that posts might not leave much for a partner to reply to. The whole point of this weird hobby is to collaborate with a partner - if you're finding that it is hard to keep writing partners, you might take a look at my guide for writing posts that beg a response.

Intermediate writing is stronger than beginner writing, but still sometimes falls flat when it comes to collaboration with a partner, and is almost never beautiful to read. Intermediate writing is when advanced writing is just over the next hill - and that hill comes with a fair amount of work.

ADVANCED/LITERATE WRITING Advanced writing can be long or short, but the writing in either case packs a punch. Advanced writers use a variety of sentence structures, words, and literary devices. They might have specific imagery they use for specific characters, specific literary constructions for different characters, and there is a strong character voice in each post. Advanced writers write multifaceted characters with genuine flaws and fears, and advanced writers produce writing that is enjoyable to read, elegant and emotive. Applications will usually be anecdotal - will demonstrate key moments in a character's life, allowing the writer to show them in action rather than tell the reader what they are like. (A guide to anecdotal freestyle applications is available here.

Examples:

Everything felt the same in Farmville: identical rows of corn stretching endlessly over the horizon, pockmarked by the occasional farmhouse, white clapboard and falling shutters. Every person felt the same - Susie and Mary and Sarah and Joseph, strong peasant names living strong peasant lives, and never straying more than twenty miles from the town in which they were born.

Even Susie knew she had her place in the sameness: the once-every-generation girl who fancies herself to be more, as though her sketches of the sheep and pigs are any better than her grandmother's before her. As though dying her hair blue were enough to make her different when she knew she belonged here as sure as the hogs in the barn.

The only difference between Susie and her classmates was that she didn't have a car to get her to her evening job at the Road Ranger gas station, and her bike had disassembled itself after she'd pedaled it into a gopher hole, so here she was, sitting pathetically outside Firefly High, waiting for a ride. She'd almost rather be fired than beg for one. 

It’s the principle of the thing, Raven had told her mother that morning. Yes, it was 90 degrees and 90 percent humidity; yes, there was not a cloud in the sky and the fields absorbed heat like a winter sweater; yes, she was aware that her white makeup and Wet n' Wild eyeliner was falling off her face like The Scream. But it was the principle of the thing, wearing the long-sleeved black shirt with the hand-cut thumbholes, a long dark skirt; her only concession to the heat, a pair of thin gray flip-flops instead of her beloved Docs. She listens to Death Wish; she doesn't have one.

But nothing makes a Satantic rebel feel more a phony than feeling it drip off of them in the rural Iowa heat, and Raven wanted to take it out on someone. Fair? No, but life isn't fair; she's got that on a sticker on the electric guitar she saved up her Hy-Vee salary for and never learned to play. Maybe pretending to be an asshole has turned Raven into one.

She has no real problem with Susie - Susie Q., from math, or Susie C., from human geo; who knows, they're all the same - but she scoffs at her anyway, loud enough to catch Susie's attention. "What top-40 garbage are you listening to?"

Hunting is something they do together, or they're supposed to. But in the whole time he'd been out in the woods, Bramblepaw hadn't seen a single other cat - not playing at the stream, not waiting in a tree for the finches to return, not sitting along the RiverClan border to taunt their neighbors. If he'd been a Loner, just passing through, he would have thought the entire territory abandoned.

It was unsettling, and when he returned to the Camp, it was more of the same: everyone gone, without a trace; had he imagined them being here at all? Was it all in his head?

His mew sounded small and pitiful to even him, the mewl of a lost kitten. "Hello?"

Advanced writing makes more time for descriptions, scene-setting, and other narration. It doesn't feel "cringey," by which I mean if you read it 10 years from now you're probably not going to want to drown yourself. Please do not ask me about the 2005 Proboards forum I adminned and referenced for this tutorial.

So now that we can recognize what writing our level might be at - how do we shop for a site?

FINDING YOUR FIT

Now that you have a sense of where your writing sits, it's time to use that data point in searching for a new site to call home. Some sites make it easy for you by self-identifying as beginner, intermediate, or advanced; some sites may use "semi-literate" and "literate," but I know I stray from those labels because it feels like a value judgment, and as I said before:

there is nothing wrong with being part of a beginner or intermediate community, if that is what makes the most sense for your writing and for what you aim to get out of your roleplay experience!

Before applying to a new site, you should do a little bit of digging around to see if it's a good fit for you: 

Look at accepted character applications. How do these compare to your own writing?

Skim some threads from top posters. How does this community write and structure their threads? Could you see yourself regularly keeping up with their speed, length, literary quality?

To the above point - does it seem like the community has a tendency towards your personal writing pet peeves? (For example, I personally cannot stand purple prose, and if the site community is prone to it, I am OUT.)

This is in addition to all standard due-diligence site-hunting routines, e.g. not diving into the world of Southern Gothic supernatural if you're looking for, say, urban fantasy.

It's also worth thinking about how the community behaves on the server, if you join it:

Is there a thread shoutout/compliments/etc channel? What passages are members calling out in there as exceptional writing?

Do the members strike you as open-minded and friendly or as more of a closed group? If you choose to shoot for a level above your standard writing as a growth exercise, this will be easier to achieve with an open-minded and friendly group than with a group of snobs.

Do you enjoy the vibe? Something frequently overlooked, I think. If you don't like the energy of the community, just don't join the site - that is going to be much more productive for everyone than you joining and then trying to get the staff to fully re-engineer their community.

Be honest with yourself! Regardless of how much you like a site's plot, lore, and community, joining a site that sits above your writing proficiency is challenging. You might find your characters routinely pended for lacking the development of other characters onsite. Other members may not be enthusiastic to write with you - not necessarily out of snobbishness or elitism, but because it's not fun to feel like you're not getting equal effort or quality from a writing partner. And you might find yourself feeling insecure about how your writing stacks up to others (I've been writing on advanced sites for 10 years and I feel insecure about my own writing sometimes!) which might sap your muse.

If you are looking for a minimal-effort, minimal-stress rp experience, stick to sites that are at or below your writing level. Writing with people of similar skillset will help take the edge off any insecurity, and because writing will be lower-pressure and lower-effort, you will be better positioned to juggle multiple characters and more big plots. "Lower effort" doesn't mean "lazy" - it just means that you free up headspace that otherwise you might spend on the mechanics of writing versus the excitement of plotting.

If you are an intermediate writer seeking to write on an advanced site, you need to take a much more deliberate approach.

One thing I see often is intermediate writers applying multiple characters to an advanced site at once. This is a losing proposition. While staff might be willing to pend an app and work with you on revisions, if they see you submitting multiple applications that require major revisions and overhauls, they see a pattern. While staff might be willing to help you develop one character to their site's standard, if they anticipate you needing that level of coaching on every character, they will question your ability to keep up with their members in threads. Staff cannot be expected to assist members on writing each thread post - at that point, it becomes easier to decline all of the intermediate writer's applications.

If you are an intermediate writer seeking to write on an advanced site, you need to treat this as a "quality, not quantity" project.

When I was 13 I was writing very much at a beginner and intermediate level, just little Neopets rps with my friends. Then I joined a horse rp - an advanced rp - with a 1000 word minimum per post. While I am beyond thankful ridiculous word count minimums aren't common anymore, I can credit this rp with much of my growth as a writer.

I wrote one (1) character. And I only plotted her with a couple of others. I was very active in the OOC community, and was eventually made a mod - but when it came to IC activity, I focused all my energy on one character and just a couple of plots, because I spent hours on each post, making sure that I was matching my writing partners as best I could. It was much more work than the beginner & intermediate forums I was on with my friends, and much more work for much less action. But stretching like that is what made advanced writing get easier and easier - until I could balance two characters on an advanced site, then four, until now, when I write 12 characters on multiple advanced sites with relative ease. The real challenge is in keeping up with threads - not in matching quality anymore.

If you are an intermediate writer seeking to improve your writing, joining an advanced site is a great option for growth, but you need to adjust your expectations.

Here are my best tips for intermediate writers looking to make the jump to advanced - or, for that matter, for beginners to make the jump to intermediate: 

Focus, focus, focus. Choose one (1) character to write - no matter how tempted you are by want ads, no matter how many other ideas you get, no matter what your muse is throwing at you. Use all those on sites at your current level. For your reach site, pick one character.

Be receptive. Your one (1) character might take a revision or two to get out of a pend. Remember that staff don't pend apps to be assholes - they do it because they believe in you and think you have it in you to do the necessary revisions! If they thought you were a lost cause they wouldn't have wasted their own time with a pend. Be open to the idea that they know what works and is expected in their community. After all, if your character and your writing aren't appealing to the site community... you're not going to have anyone to write with!

Focus, focus, focus, part 2. You should not choose this character based on the volume of plots they can attract. Choose a character who has one or two very close plots for you to focus on. You might consider identifying a particularly kind member of the community and filling one of their want ads, so that this close plot is ready-made for you, and so this person can be a friendly face on your writing journey.

Be realistic. You might think: well, if I focus on one character for a few weeks, then I'll be ready to take on another, right? You might be or you might not. Don't rush it. This entire journey is about deliberation and intentionality. Don't take on a second character on an advanced site until writing the first to the same standard is noticeably easier.

Be kind to yourself. This is a lot of work! If you have the time for it, you might consider also staying active on a site that is at your writing level, so you have a place for easy writing, indulging your plot bunnies, etc.

I hope this tutorial has been a helpful resource to you, both in identifying how to find the right rp for you and in figuring out how to improve your writing, if you so choose. Happy writing!

#rp guides #resources #writing resources #rp writing

[regrettablewritings]

Well I recently watched Trouble in the Heights, so let's go for Nevada Ramirez & Love, even if he perhaps has 1 bare inch of it in his whole body.

(I’m still fucking wheezing oh my gOD. Nevada Ramirez is 5′9″, and that ninth inch is composed completely out of the one inch of love he can actually express like a normal human being.) Similar to the Bruce Wayne one, though, some of these were sorta referenced in past Nevada pieces (what few there comparatively are). So, just in case, I included links to those pieces because they generally go into more detail in certain areas. Hope that’s all good!

Who said “I love you” first?: Well, you said it in that way first, so technically it was you. But if we just meant the actual soul of the phrase, of someone vocally expressing to another their love and interest in their well being, even without the exact words in place? It was Nevada. And even he didn’t necessarily notice it in the moment. Granted, even a sentence like, “Hey, don’t be stupid and just go straight home, understand me?” can slip Nevada’s notice as a sign of his own affection. He’s not nearly as in tune with his emotions as he’d like to think, really.

What are their primary love languages?: It’s really hard to place what a guy like Nevada’s love language could possibly be -- mainly because it’s hard to picture a guy like Nevada and a concept like love even inhabiting the same room. Being a gang leader and, well, just being Nevada Ramirez in total, he likes to give off the air that he doesn’t really necessarily need anybody — that everyone, from his underlings to even his past lovers are more or less side dressing he allows near him. But don’t be fooled: This little shit gets by on spoiling you and the affirmations he earns from them. The great thing about gifts is that in theory you could present them without needing to say much or even say anything at all. And given ‘Vada’s . . . less than delicate manner of speaking, this can be a good thing. And don’t get it twisted, he ain’t no sentimental pussy or nothing; he just sorta likes how your face glows when he just so happens to remember things like your favorite candy, or artist you mentioned wanting a framed piece by. He don’t need you to tell him he’s the best (he already knows he is), but it doesn’t hurt to hear you cry it as you practically fling yourself at him and smooch him silly. He also appreciates acts of service. Shady as his business is, it still demands a lot of the man. He won’t always express it completely but those nights when you show up at his place with his favorite takeout, or he comes home and finds the sheets have been cleaned or that you’ve done whatever he’d meant to have completed earlier that day? He almost wants to drag you to the edge of the bed and express his thanks to you. He appreciates it more than you would think.

How often do they cuddle/engage in PDA?: Frequently, actually. There is hardly a moment wherein Nevada doesn’t have some part of him touching you: His hand resting on your hip or place in the back pocket of your jeans; your rump resting comfortably on his lap; his arm around you as you lean back in the VIP section of a club; or even just your legs over his own (or vice-versa) as you rest on the couch at home. Many would assume it’s just for show; that El Trujillo is simply asserting his dominance to all who might consider approaching you with sexual intent. They wouldn’t necessarily be wrong -- Nevada does intend to wordlessly yet loudly tell people that you belong to him. However, in addition to this, ‘Vada also just likes to show you off to everyone. And what better way to show the world his beautiful girl than to have her perched on his lap like a pretty bird on a branch?

What are their favorite things to do together?: To the surprise of no one, you two don’t have too, too much in common in terms of interest: Nevada, with his silver palate, enjoys eating out at restaurants with no less than four stars, and you enjoy going out to live shows, specifically on or even off-Broadway musicals. You don’t really care much for the strange food he likes, and he’s extremely particular about what sorts of show’s he’ll even bother with, but you do it for one another. But when it comes to what very few things you do enjoy in common, it ultimately gets narrowed down to two things: Cuddling on the couch and watching TV. Typically old shows or telanovelas because they’re both enjoyable and so terrible that neither of you can help but jeer at the bad acting, awful storylines, and cheesy sets and costumes. It’s a very strange bonding activity -- and certainly not one that anyone would associate with Nevada (and he wants to keep it that way). But it’s the one that you two enjoy the most after a long week, and a surefire way to help both parties relax and cheer up.

Who’s better at comforting the other?: Well, you’re one of the only one who can make him genuinely laugh if that says anything. Nevada isn’t an easy man to comfort, mostly because in his stubbornness, he’s become convinced that his power comes from his anger. So really, it should be sign enough that he even decided to go steady with you that he finds some sort of comfort in your presence (regardless of what he might tell you).

Who’s more protective?: Being a dealer of some infamy, Nevada is aware that he’s made more enemies than friends both in The Heights and out of them. As easy as it is to assume he doesn’t care too much about you, the reality is far from the truth: He cares deeply for you in his own Nevada way. When you go to one of his clubs, he’s never far away or not without you in his line of sight. There’s always a hand resting on your hip or your thigh, or he’ll, you’re always on his lap. Call it primal, but smart enough people who value their lives can take one look at ‘Vada’s hand resting on your ass and just know not to even bother with you. Slightly less smart may need to look at the man’s cold, murderous glower just for confirmation. And those with no sense of self-preservation have essentially signed their death warrant. But that’s in an environment he can control. Outside of his bars, his clubs, his restaurants where he’s a VIP? He’s a lot more quiet about it. Originally, he made sure you always had at least two Men-turned-bodyguards nearby you at all times, but you complained about how difficult it made everything from going to work to simply going shopping. “I don’t need your boys to know what types of tampons I use, Nevada!” you bristled. After much arguing, he eventually agreed to go another way about it: There’s actually more people with their eyes on you, often in disguise or paid off, but he’s made sure to put more distance on them so that you won’t feel as skeeved (or that you’ll even know they’re there for that matter). (For extra measure, if he can get you to agree to it, he’ll also have you equipped with a “Saturday Night Special” so to speak.) But be aware: The moment anyone so much as indicates even thinking about making you a target? That calm, cold demeanor rises to a simultaneously freezing yet infernal rage: You will be put on lock down or even ushered to a safe house until the threat can be dealt with. You will be escorted about the house at every moment by an armed man. And you will be kept safe until the threat has been literally disposed of.

Do they prefer verbal or physical affection?: Physical, because at least then he doesn’t have to say anything. Asshole behavior aside, Nevada knows damn well that he’s the absolute worst with words and that it honestly doesn’t take much to set you off. He figures that so long as he doesn’t have to actually say anything, he stands a better chance at not ticking you off and screwing himself over.

What are some songs that apply to their relationship, in-universe or otherwise?: “The Wolf” by SIAMÉS. “Silvertongue” by Young the Giant. “Love Me Dead” by Ludo, if the roles were reversed . . . Nevada is just plain symbolic of something that’s bad for you but just feels so good to have. That in spite of how poisonous he actually is, he is capable of using just the right words and moves to have you addicted to him after just one drop. And in spite of everything he might insist or do, it works both ways: You’re both tragically and constantly craving the other, and it can wear you both out. But then again, that’s just what addiction is: Craving to the point of depletion. Though if you want something more optimistic, there’s also “Body Talks” by The Struts: Nevada doesn’t understand it himself but all he knows is that the very moment he laid eyes on you, he was going to do whatever it took to make you his — and, judging by your body language, you were perfectly happy to do that, so long as he worked for it. And let’s face it: El Trujillo ain’t afraid to get his hands dirty.

What kind of nicknames do they call each other?: The problem is that Nevada does have the ability to give nicknames, but he’s mostly crap at it unless there’s an ulterior motive involved. Like when he wants to keep you from being mad at him or to stop you from pouting, he’ll teasingly run a finger along your jawline and pout back a cooing “Cariño” or “Muñequita.” If he means to seduce and tease? You’re his “Good Girl.” If it’s more like he’s for once asking you to do a favor, he’ll give out a quick “Babe” or something of that nature. But if he’s just trying to apply a nickname for the sake of using one? Don’t trust him with that. Trusting him to pick a pet name based on a characteristic of yours, or in reference to an event is just not a good idea. His bluntness almost always causes him to pick the wrong thing to focus on! For example: If you have a green thumb and have taken to keeping a small windowsill garden or a corner for your plants, he’s not going to reference a goddess of greenery or even a flower or spice — he’s going to try calling you “Dirtworm” or something! (And then get frustrated when you express distaste over the name.) You’re honestly probably going to have to guide him to what sort of names you’ll tolerate and what you won’t, which shocks every and all witnesses who know anything about Nevada. A romantic interest? Telling Nevada what to do? It’s more likely than you think! Even though he’ll go along with it to pacify you, the hot-tempered man obviously can’t help but feel as thought you’re being unreasonably picky. After all, he’s more than satisfied with the nicknames you usually give him. Granted, they’re just the same nicknames he’s been going by for years now: El Trujillo, Jefe . . . He used to be called “Daddy” in the VIP sections of his haunts, but that title has since been reserved only for you. That, and ‘Vada. And “Baby Boy”, but only very, very sparingly. Which is still more than he’d let anybody else get away with.

Thank you for your patience!

#nevada ramirez #nevada ramirez x reader #trouble in the heights #Raul Esparza #regrettablewritings #character ship meme #character ship headcanons #y'all keep requesting this absolute assholes/men who just are the absolute WORST at expressing love #you guise...blease love yourselves... #like -- love yourselves better than these guys could #says the person who still writes for 'em #raúl esparza

[darker-soft-starker]

Can you do a Starker sugar daddy au where at first it’s only an arrangement to get people to stop trying to go with Tony, but eventually they both fall in love?

Sugarbaby!Peter x SugarDaddy!Tony starker au, fake/pretend relationship, misunderstandings, fluff

Peter couldn’t believe his eyes when he’d received the offer. 

At first he’d thought the very official looking Stark Industries email had been an expertly crafted fake, like those ones he sometimes gets from Paypal or whatever. It seemed too good to be true, but he’d traced it with Neds help and holy shit - it was an actual, verified email from a person at Stark Industries.

It was kind of ballsy of them, actually, answering his ad and asking for a personal meeting from their business email. What a move, clearly this person doesn’t care if their boss knows they’re looking to buy someones services. 

But whoever [email protected] was, Peter was not about to turn down down the potential of a very generous offer, as it had been phrased. They were working at Stark Industries, they had to be making some kind of coin, right? Peter was just a poor guy, doing his best. 

When Peter had first put the ad up for a sugar daddy he’d been drunk and to be fair, MJ had dared him. And when he was drunk-dared by a goading MJ he can’t be blamed for his actions. So he posted it, telling the world that a sad twink needed a benefactor. He didn’t phrase it that way online, but that was essentially the vibe. 

Peter didn’t think anything of it, mostly got a couple of creeps messaging him about his profile pic, telling him how nice his mouth was and how they’d like to stuff their cocks in it. Honestly, he’d kind of forgotten all about it after the comments died down a couple of weeks later. Untll he’d received this email, that is. 

They’d made a time and a place to meet, some expensive looking restaurant in the Upper East Side, which, yikes, Peter only brave enough to order water in case the guy doesn’t want to go into an arrangement after all. He gets there and is directed to a private booth in the back, expecting to see some balding, overweight dude, lonely and looking for a bit of touch.

He doesn’t expect Tony fucking Stark himself sitting at the table, distractedly playing with his phone. Peter is so struck with confusion that when Tony looks up at him he loses higher brain function and stops moving, mouth falling open.

The man looks him up and down and cocks an eyebrow up, a smile lighting his face up. 

Peter had already prepared some things to say but what had come out of his mouth instead was:

“Mr. H. Hogan?”

Mortified, Peter had shaken himself and immediately tried to backtrack. “Wait! Wait, sorry, I know you - I mean, not, like personally or anything, obviously - I know you’re Tony Stark, everyone knows you’re Tony Stark. Who are - wait, am I in the right place?”

Tony had looked a little taken aback by his word vomit but eventually tells him yes, Peter is in the right place and that Hogan is his employee and the H stands for Happy. 

When Peter warily sits Tony explains to him over lunch and wine that he’s looking to hire someone that everyone will believe is his lover. He’s had a string of one-night stands and a handful of serious relationships, the last one ending in heartache. Then… there was everyone else. After Tonys’ last serious relationship had ended publicly it was apparently a licence for the shameless to assume his dick was hungry and up for grabs. 

It wasn’t, he said. He needed a cover.  

Tony frankly had had enough. There was no other reason, it was that simple. That’s what he’d told Peter anyway. He needed a buffer between the world and the people pawing at him.

With a flourish of his wrist Tony had provided a contract. Peter had read it over and it was simple: be where Tony wanted him to be, when he needed him to be, and dressed the part - and be exclusive - and Peter would be provided with a monthly compensation - along with bonuses.

With his rent six weeks behind Peter could barely refuse, eyes bulging at the figure. A monthly allowance of $5000, a driver service, all the bells and whistles. He’d signed the damn thing before he could even consider the consequences.

And at first, there were none. Tony took him to events, dressing Peter up in fine, expensive suits and parading him around on his arm. Peter got to drink pricey champagne and rub shoulders with the elite who cooed over their budding “relationship”. Tony took him out to dinner, out to shows, to the baseball, to functions. It was fun meeting new people and nice being spoiled for once.

However uncomfortable it made him to be in the public eye, the paparazzi got pictures of Peter and Tony looking utterly wrapped up in each other - holding hands, sharing kisses, looking adequately in love - and Peter got paid enough to start making a dent in his student loans. 

He kinda hadn’t expected Tony to be all that… likeable to be honest, when he’d signed the contract. He’d heard of the mans arrogance, of his snarky attitude. Going off their first meeting he’d thought they guy would be, like, tolerable at the very least, even if Peter had always admired his work from an outside perspective.

Turns out Peter was wrong. Like, really wrong. 

Because it turns out that Tony is… kind of amazing. The guy is smart and charming and a genuine fucking nerd. He’s generous (nearly to a fault) and tries to hide it. Don’t get Peter wrong, Tony is also a little asshole who drinks too much and works even more - but he’s such a good guy. He always makes sure Peter is comfortable with whatever they do, even if it’s holding hands, he tips waiters handsomely and lets Peter tinker around in his personal lab. He gives to charity, makes sure his employees get leave and bonuses and pays them deservingly, he’s progressive and treats Peter like a human being.

It’s not like Peter is in love with him or anything. He’s just super fond of the guy.

MJ rails him for it ad nauseum, telling him he’s getting too close, that he should remember he is an employee who, as stated in the contract, can be terminated at any time. 

Peter does remember, and if nothing else, it makes him value what time he does have with Tony. Makes him take his studies more seriously, never knowing when his funds are going to dry up. For an ad he placed while super drunk, it’s kind of the best thing that’s ever happened to him. 

He’s fond of the guy, so what? It’s fine.

One day he and Tony are out for lunch at some rooftop diner. Tony is talking about working on one of his latest inventions, some kind of medical tech. He seems really passionate about it, talking about it at length with such fervent enthusiasm and Peter sits there, captivated, nodding and listening, the food between them forgotten. He thinks he’s just being attentive and the topic is interesting.

But then a ray of sunlight hits Tony’s eyes in a way that make them look like whiskey and Peter’s stomach does a weird swoop and his heart tingles. 

Oh shit, he thinks.

Oh shit indeed.

It’s fine, Peter says to himself, multiple times a day. He’s had infatuations before - most never reciprocated - so, what’s the big deal? He’ll just ignore this one too.

Except… it’s hard. It’s hard to tell yourself not to feel romantically about a person when you get to kiss them and hug them and be by their side. Even if it’s only because he’s getting paid for it. 

But it was also clear that it was only an arrangement for Tony and that he didn’t feel anything beyond reluctant fondness for Peter. He never touched Peter when they were alone except for some almost fatherly shoulder pats, he never initiated any displays of affection unless he knew they were being photographed, didn’t ever seem as hopelessly enamoured with Peter in the same way Peter seemed to become with Tony.

Peter finds himself pulling away just a little bit all the same, giving more and more reasons to not meet up with Tony - because as much as it makes him happy to be around the man, it begins to make his heart hurt a little more every time they’re together, every time Tony brushes his lips against his, places a hand at the small of Peter’s back, knowing it’s only for show. It was great before, when Peter didn’t feel like this - but the knowledge that the guy he had feelings for only kissed him because he was paying Peter to be his fake boyfriend made him feel kind of gross.

It’s fine.

It’s fine, he tells himself, over and over. It’s fine, he thinks, when one day Tony is photographed with a strawberry blonde, a series of shots showing them arm in arm, Tony’s smiling fondly in a way he never did with Peter as she kisses Tony’s cheek. The headlines and the tags refer to Tony as a playboy and about his boytoy being dumped, about being back together with his ‘old flame’.

They look good together, Peter concedes, even if it feels like his chest is caving in and like he’s going to throw up. He just wishes Tony had told him beforehand that he was done with him. Setting his phone down on the bed, Peter stares out into his room listlessly and tries to process the fact that it’s over, but all he sees is the way that Tony has infiltrated his life. The laptop on his desk, a gift from Tony, the watch on his wrist, the jeans on the floor, the signed Reyes baseball on his shelf, all gifts from Tony. Even the phone he saw the pictures on was  given to him by Tony. It makes Peter feel wrong in his gut to have touches of the man in his personal intimate space when the guy didn’t even have the courtesy to give him the heads up that he was about to be publicly ‘dumped’ and humiliated.

He returns everything.

Tony must receive the hastily wrapped package with all of his spoils because he tries to call him the following day, Peter’s old cracked phone blinking to life. He ignores it and hangs out with Ned and MJ, wishing he lived closer to May so she could give him one of her healing hugs. His friends commiserate and help him get utterly fucking wasted that weekend, even as they call him a fucking dumbass. 

He wakes up on Sunday with a hangover and eighteen missed calls from Tony. The calls are followed by a series of texts, the contents going from confused, to concerned to downright stern and then concerned again. 

As he’s making himself breakfast and a coffee there is a knock on his door. When he opens it he sees a furious looking Tony, the bulging parcel that Peter had sent him under his arm.

“Oh, so you are alive,” Tony drawls, shouldering his way into Peter’s apartment. 

Peter curses his stomach for the butterflies when Tony brushes against him to get inside, telling himself to stop feeling anything as he closes the door behind them. 

“Mr. Stark - “

“What’s this about?” Tony says, setting the parcel on Peters tiny kitchen table and leaning against his counter. “Is this you returning my hoodies and CD’s? I mean in this case it’s a six-thousand dollar watch and jeans I’ll never fit into, but you get the gist.”

Peter leans against the opposite counter, mirroring Tony’s folded arms. He nods to the items and says, “I only thought it was appropriate, you know, considering.”

“Considering what, Petey?” Tony says, his face perplexed, even behind his shades. “You gotta fill me in, you know, communicate. What are we considering? If you were considering terminating your contract you should have just said so.”

Peter looks at him, narrowing is eyes. “Considering that you are with someone else and don’t need me anymore…? It’s fine, Tony, I just would have appreciated a heads up, is all.”

“I’m what?” Tony says, looking like his brain is doing a hard reset. “I’m what with who now?”

“The strawberry blonde? Paprika?”

“Pepper,” Tony corrects faintly.

“Pepper! That’s it. Her. Anyway, congrats, You uh, look great together.”

Tony tilts his head and considers Peter, the intensity of his stare making him squirm. 

“So, let me wrap this all up in a nice, little bundle and you tell me if I have it right, okay? You see some news article, think I’m seeing Pepper, so you decide to send back everything I ever bought you and not answer any of my calls. Is that it?”

Peter nods, tries to ignore his stupid heart trying to beat itself out of his chest to get to Tony.

“Yeah, that’s - that’s it. I mean, thank you for everything, Tony. It just doesn’t seem right to keep any of it.”

“Why?” Tony asks, stepping closer to Peter and pocketing his shades. “They’re yours, I want you to have them.”

Peter determinedly avoids the mans gaze by looking down at his feet, tapping one against the tiles. “It’s just not right. It doesn’t matter.”

“Look at me,” Tony says, and when Peter tilts his head up the man is a lot closer. “I’m not with Pepper, we’re just friends. You shouldn’t believe everything you read.”

“Oh.”

“And I would have appreciated you asking me before losing my number.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Peter repeats, rubbing at the ache in his chest with his hand. “I’m sorry, I should have asked, you’re right.”

“So… does that mean you’ll take your stuff back and answer my calls again? Maybe join me in Florence next weekend? I know a great place you’d like.”

The small, almost imperceptible hope in Tony’s voice makes Peter’s throat go tight as his stomach drops with what he’s about to say. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr. Stark. I don’t think we should do this - I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Tony frowns and steps even closer. “Is it about the press? I can shut down every single one of those if you give me, like an hour tops, maybe two if I have to buy out Murdoch as well.”

“It’s not the press.”

“Then what is it? What, are you bored?”

Peter shakes his head.

“Then what is it?”

“Don’t make me say it,” Peter whispers, looking down at his feet again as his eyes start to prickle. 

“Peter, if you’re leaving me out in the cold after six months that’s your choice, but I gotta know why.”

“It’s just,” he begins. “It’s - I thought I could handle it, but I can’t. I can’t handle feeling like this about you when everything you feel about me is in a contract. It’s not right for me to be in love with you when I’m being employed to pretend that I am.”

“You’re in love with me,” Tony says.

“I’m sorry, I know I wasn’t supposed to - “

Anything else he was going to say is cut off when Tony bridges the distance between them and presses his lips to Peters in a soft kiss. 

“Well thank god,” Tony says. “Otherwise that would have made my feelings for you kind of awkward.”

“Your…huh?”

“I probably should have fired you the moment I fell for you? I don’t know, the logistics are kind of weird, but we both know I’m selfish and a little morally bankrupt, so. I didn’t. But you fired yourself anyway.”

“Huh?” Peter says again, a little dazed by the turn of events. “Am I still asleep? Did you say you have feelings for me?”

“Okay, you are not a morning person,” Tony says, taking one of Peter’s hands and bringing it up to his mouth to kiss it. “Yes. It’s kind of embarrassing but apparently you love me too, so, I guess we’re both losers.”

The burst in his heart propels him forward to kiss Tony again, wrapping his arms around the mans neck. 

“So,” Tony prompts when they pull apart some time later, breathless. “Florence, yes or no?”

“Yes, but no more payments.”

A kiss.

“Fine. But I still get to buy you things.”

Another kiss.

“… fine.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Loser.”

#starker #starker fic #tony x peter #tony stark/peter parker #spideriron #sugar daddy au #I'M SO SO SO SO SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG #I HOPE ITS OK

[bladekindeyewear]

HS^2 bloggin’ mainline 2020-04-02

Alright I’ll fix the broken images later right now lets goooooo read the updaaaate I’ve been only spoiled on the chapter title

I don’t even wanna guess.  Jake?  This makes me think of Jake for some reason, even though that doesn’t make much se-- oh right the Vriskas are locked in a school closet with a dead clown.

> CHAPTER 7. Distress Call From the Closet

Yep.

Also, this is how a car design looks when it was invented to have its first appearance be it flying with a human named Tavros looking out from an open side door.

(I’m not ENTIRELY against designing something for its immediate-art-use-purpose first and functional or historical-origination thought later, but usually when you make it that obvious that that’s what your doing it’s best to make that fact funny.  Like the Conveniently Shaped Lamp.)

Also I appreciate this using of Candy as kind of more lighthearted breaks in the action?

> (==>)

I thoguht that protruding fang (?) was drool for a second and wondered what the fuck they were up to in this closet all of a sudden.

Vriska, thriving on it, has not felt so decadently alive in a very long time. Tavros has never in his tragic existence felt so close to death, which is surprising to him.

Vrissy is trying her best not to grapple with any cosmic truths at the moment, since she’s getting a phone call in the middle of hiding for her life.

Vrissy’s implied to be somewhere in-between all that by this joke.  I bet she’ll be comparing herself to Vriska and Tavros alike throughout this mess, wondering where on the spectrum she lands and being ashamed of it AND both of them regardless.  Vriska Original had a ghost version who went on a fair bit of a Page dress-up thing and personality shift, so maybe we could expect Vrissy to struggle with being caught in the middle of the scales... or does that qualify as overthinking it classpectways?

VRISSY: Yeah Harry I would say we are Extremely Aware of the Situ8ion. VRISSY: As it Unfolded the fuck all around us.

Good Christ, Vrissy’s selectively-capitalized Kanaya-isms continue to be cute.

Oh, he’s on speakerphone.

> (==>)

Yep, telling Rose and Kanaya would be the smart thing to do, but it isn’t the Them thing to do.

--ROXY’S PLACE?!??  Hoo boy.  On the other hand, though, we get more Roxy, so it evens out.

Also, I like how Harry Anderson has to spell out Harry Anderson’s entire name for his Harry Anderson chat tag every single time.  Harry Anderson.

> (==>)

Part of the reason, Tavros thinks, that he’s been so game to continue on with the worst plan anyone has ever concocted, is that the more bullshit they endure, the longer they can put off actually doing anything that matters.

If he’s getting sprayed with a sprinkler and getting clown feet in his face, it’s a farce. It can’t hurt him. But if they get to the part where he’s shoving the uncooperative weight of his uncle’s corpse in an incinerator, he will stop floating in protective semi-consciousness above his body and it will all be real.

Ouch.

Can’t one of you assholes just captchalogue him?  Or did you leave all the appropriate-strength moduses at home?  Even you Vriska??

Oh, right.  Everyone knows and you can just leave him here.  Good call.  I mean you don’t really have to worry about forensic evidence with the pictures circulating.

> (==>)

VRISKA: 8ye 8itch.

Oooh!  That feels satisfying!  Yeah, tell off Gamzee’s corpse!

...Wait.

If they just leave Gamzee there, Jane can revive him, can’t she.

Fuck.  Maybe it’s up to Jake to try and stop that.

> (==>)

Karkat and Meenah resistance-time, then, with them presumably hearing about this development on the internet.  Wow, Meenah’s horns are getting long fast.  Plus a hint more of her grown-up self’s height.  I didn’t think she’d keep maturing so fast with her absurd lifespan ahead of her.

Oh shit, I didn’t see at first--

Right, Candy might still be lighthearted compared to the broader plot just due to lowered stakes, but it’s still the Carpet-Bombing-and-War-Filled Shituniverse.

Trolls are made for the battlefield.

From the moment a troll oozes out of the mother grub’s pulsating sphincter, through the trials of the brooding caverns, across the brutal day to day slog of Alternian society, all the way to their Ordeals, to the sucking void of space. They are bred for nothing but endless war.

But Commander Vantas...Commander Vantas is different.

Is... is Meenah narrating right now?  Because fuck.

Or so all the pamphlets say.

The actual Commander Vantas has blisters on his heel and has been taking pot-shots at scouting drones for the last six hours. He could use a bath, honestly.

Or is this one of the trolls on the side narrating who’s kind of internalized the stories of trolls’ prior warlike nature?

> (==>)

MEENAH: yo nubs is that u MEENAH: pretty rank KARKAT: OH MY GOD. KARKAT: I FLATLY REFUSE TO BELIEVE THAT YOU CAN SMELL MY NATURAL MUSK OVER THE STENCH OF BLOOD AND BURNING FLESH.

I guess it probably was Meenah narrating, then.  Unless it’s a really biased alt!Callie doing the talking.

MEENAH: didnt i warn u bout thinking tho? KARKAT: GOD DAMMIT MEENAH, DON’T MEME AT ME.

I don’t know what meme this is and I really don’t want to know.

They have had this argument more than once. In fact, both of them could play either side of it. Karkat has done his time in the field, of course, leading small guerilla operations to free prisoners and sabotage Crocker’s supply chains, but Meenah and the rest of the council is right. Which is why he’s here, instead of at the front lines with his rebels, where he belongs.

His true value is his face. His symbology. At the end of the day, he is a fucking ad campaign.

...is KARKAT narrating here???

SWIFER: boss check the news!

Oh shit, right, Swifer is in the resistance in Candy instead of just a breeding assistant in Meat as the bonuses remind us.

KARKAT: OH FUCK. MEENAH: what KARKAT: JESUS CHRIST. MEENAH: nubs i swear 2 god KARKAT: IT’S GAMZEE. KARKAT: HE’S DEAD. MEENAH: oh MEENAH: well shit KARKAT: I CAN’T FUCKING BELIEVE THIS. MEENAH: u okay KARKAT: NO!

Huh.  Them’s some complicated feelings that could fall in basically all directions at once.

Also, I can’t believe Karkat has hung around humans enough to fully internalize the full-throated exclamation “JESUS CHRIST”, which wouldn’t even really be a thing on Earth C with people who aren’t from Earths B or A.

MEENAH: u outlawed fishpuns i gotta make my own fun

How could you, Karkat.

KARKAT: AND I GUESS IF YOU CALL AN OBSCENELY PUBLIC PALE ACT, PERFORMED IN A FUGUE OF DESPERATE PANIC INTENDED TO PREVENT HIM FROM MURDERING ALL OF MY FRIENDS INSTEAD OF JUST HALF OF THEM “A THING”. KARKAT: THEN YES, I GUESS WE HAD A THING. KARKAT: BUT IF YOU’RE ASKING ME IF I’M SAD THAT HE’S DEAD? KARKAT: ABSOLUTELY THE FUCK NOT.

Okay, I’d hoped not, good...

KARKAT: THAT’S NOT WHY I’M SAYING FUCK A BUNCH OF TIMES. MEENAH: u need a reason to say fuck a buncha times KARKAT: SHUT UP. KARKAT: LOOK AT THE PICTURE.

--Right!  That’s a good reason to not be okay.

KARKAT: I DON’T THINK SO? I CAN’T SEE HER EYES IN THIS PICTURE, BUT SHE’S COVERED IN BLOOD, AND SHE’S CARRYING GAMZEE, SO SHE’S CORPOREAL AT LEAST.

I love this form of analysis somehow.

KARKAT: OKAY...HERE. OH. OF COURSE. CROCKER IS CLAIMING HER SON WAS KIDNAPPED AND FORCED TO PARTICIPATE. KARKAT: AND THEY’VE NAMED ME AS THE MASTERMIND. MEENAH: well we woulda taken credit for it anyway so this saves us the time MEENAH: thanks jane owe u one

Meenah isn’t the “concerned” type.  Lemonade out of lemons.

> (==>)

That middle tweet is my favorite.

Oh dear, “#GamzeeAnon”...

KARKAT: SHIT. OF COURSE THIS WOULD HAVE TO DO WITH FUCKING SERKET. KARKAT: LITERAL MONTHS OF PLANNING, HOURS AND HOURS OF LOGISTICS, AND ALL OF IT GOES UP IN SMOKE BECAUSE OF ONE SPIDERY ASSHOLE. KARKAT: SHE *WOULD* FIND SOME WAY TO WRECK MY SHIT FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE.

indisputable

KARKAT: NOW? KARKAT: NOW WE PIVOT FROM THE SUBLIME TO THE RIDICULOUS.

Um...

What does that mean?

I’m having a lot of trouble not only understanding the basic meaning of what he’s saying, here, but understanding why KARKAT of all people would employ it.

......it’s a meme, isn’t it.  Gotta be.

> (==>)

(Ooh, an eyepatch designed to invoke a Strider-shade.  Nice.)

KARKAT: I NEED TO TALK TO EGBERT.

But....... why??

> (==>)

Oh right, cause his son’s girlfriend is involved.

> (==>)

Oh my goooood what a pair of John and Roxy caaaars! :D

He is too busy with these mental gymnastics to notice his father’s car parked outside.

Ah right.  John’s... not on the best terms with him, I recall that.

> (==>)

Ohhhh myyyy goooood what an image!!!

John, Roxy, and Harry Anderson proceed to have the tail end of a conversation they had before, in another medium.

What the fuck!?  Harry had that conversation WHILE this dead body situation was going on?!  Let me reread that linked bit...

(And she has such a somber smile on her face, but given the conversation content it’s not surprising.)

Harry Anderson looks at the two of them all teary and laughing and hikes his bag higher on his shoulder, shifting his weight. Roxy sees a muscle tighten in his jaw. Her beautiful, smart boy. She wants to run over and hug him, to protect him from the possibility of pain at talking to his father, but she doesn’t. She knows how much he’s wanted this, no matter how much he jokes about it.

She looks back at John, and sees her own awe mirrored in his face. She wills him not to cry, not to fall back on his self-imposed suffering and blame loop. Something about the last hour must have done the trick, though. John stands up, brushes his hands on his jeans, and walks, back straight, toward his son.

JOHN: hey harry anderson. JOHN: it’s really, really good to see you. JOHN: do you wanna go for a drive?

The muscle in Harry Anderson’s jaw clenches a few more times, but when he smiles, it is genuine.

HARRY ANDERSON: yeah, dad. HARRY ANDERSON: that could be cool.

Oh son of a bitch.  Well isn’t that entertaining.  Harry you’re just going to ditch your friends for I’m kidding, this is life fulfillment you’re aiming for, of COURSE you’re going to agree.  (Too bad bringing the current situation in is gonna throw a wrench in things.)

> (==>)

Oh right, that means more of THIS Vriska and THIS John.  They’ve had a good start talking already, I wonder what more they can learn from each other.

HARRY ANDERSON: but no worries, i asked my mom to pick me up some snacks so she’ll leave to go to the store in a sec. HARRY ANDERSON: just sneak in after she leaves and hide in my room, and i’ll be back in a bit.

Harry you enormous shortsighted asshole.  And John’s about to learn all this from Karkat over the phone to blow his cover.

> (==>)

aaaaa roxy art i cannot :D

Wonder if her stealthiness attunement is gonna catch them in the act?

> (==>)

From this jealousy bit, I wonder to what degree Earth C humans are used to Troll quadrants and their various interplay mores.

> (Room: Examine yourself.)

Oh, a proper room introduction for Harry Anderson!  Very fashion-focused, very liking the spotlight--

Oh wait, shit.  This is traditionally where classpect associations are hinted more obviously than anywhere else.  Time to stop holding back on the classpect stuff and take in every fucking word with capital-C Classpect fully in mind.

A bedroom stands empty. There is no boy standing in this bedroom, or indeed anyone else. However, if the boy whose bedroom it was were here, one might remark that his name was HARRY ANDERSON.

And FUCK, one might say, does he like MUSICAL THEATER.

Spotlight, definitely.  But is it for the attention? The possibilities? The acting?

He has been in his fair share of school plays, but he has LOFTY ASPIRATIONS to STAR in bigger and better productions. He especially appreciates modern MUSICAL REMAKES of classic OLD EARTH MOVIES. It's a craze that not everyone is happy about, but in the absent boy they have found a DEVOTED FAN. There is also just enough overlap between his taste and his father’s to allow for SOMEWHAT STILTED CONVERSATIONAL BONDING from time to time.

Hmmmm.  Is it about the majesty of important works of media (I see “Pokémon” and “Alien vs Predator” up there...), or is it about the fact that they’re remakes of past works?  Those are a lot of awards and stage lights now that I zoom in to look... and hats... hats could be important......

The boy who is not yet here has also been known to dabble in ACCESSORIZATION. He could be described as a COBBLER ASPIRANT, a NEOPHYTE MILLINER, or even a BIT OF A WHIZZ WITH A NEEDLE AND THREAD.

Oh, interesting!  Not just putting out different outfits, but making them?  And Milliner is hat-specific creation...

His mother got him his first SEWING MACHINE when he was 10, to keep him from using hers all the time. His looks are HAND-CRAFTED, often IMITATED, but never DUPLICATED.

Space is obviously possible from sewing, but-- A focus on uniqueness!!!  The broader theme is getting VERY specific.  You might feel where I’m leaning already.

His COSTUMES appear in various AMATEUR PRODUCTIONS, the devising of which takes up most of his FREE TIME. His friends are usually LESS APPRECIATIVE of his attempts to dress them up than he would like, though.

Holy fucking shit.  He dresses up and makes unique HATS for his friends and others.  Specifically so they can use them as COSTUMES to act parts!!!!

And the other unique thing mentioned about him here took the time aside to note how he appreciated the intersection in personal interests between him and his father for it.

So you all know what I’m thinking, right?  HATS???  It’s got to be Heart, isn’t it.  Maybe even a Page of Heart, with his long-off aspirations and talent for arming others with it.  Any other additive/giving class might do the trick, too, like Sylph or possibly Maid.  Knight could technically still fit pretty well, but I feel Page is better given what little we know so far, what with so much outward focus bleeding out.

(You can comb through the saga on my infamous hats tag or the summary on the Aspect Duality post, but the gist is that hats (and others’ clothes, but especially the hats. even shoes -- SO many shoes in that picture!) represent the gist of an expressed identity, personal uniqueness whether innate or affected ala a costume.  Nepeta, Dirk, Terezi, and even Stitch have given us examples, some of them deeper than we realized, MOST of them probably overthought bullshit like I thought when I first created the hats tag and started tracking the wonderful importance of hats. ¬_¬)

I’d like to see anyone else’s interpretation. (EDIT: One more potential Nep-allusion in this room.)

> (==>)

Oh nooooooo!!!!  Tavros’s sprite is the saddest looking thing I’ve ever seen!! D:  Like a mix of Jane and Jake that thoroughly regrets his entire existence!  Which he practically does!  D:  Why the Caliborn-like clothes though?

(Some hint at “how different alt!Callie’s Caliborn must have been” like the commentary suggested exploring in fanfiction?  Was the suggestion meant to divert attention from the idea that it’d be addressed in the plot?  Andrew pulled that trick a time or two, why not these authors?)

Also:

Pffff.  Vriska just accessorizing immediately--  Oh, wait.  That might just be a bandana she had at some point coated in Gamzee’s blood. 

Tavros is looking at the news on a borrowed phone -- nice call on disabling the tracking on yours, Tavros.

> (==>)

TAVROS: It’s getting a bit surreal to see my, uh,, frozen mask of horror on every news site,, TAVROS: It’s a good shot of you,,, though, Vrissy, VRISSY: It really is Shockingly well composed.

Heheheh.  It’s fun that Tavros knows exactly what Vrissy/ka would care about.

And yes, Vriska is over there trying out ALL the bandanas.

> (==>)

VRISSY: Oh, is trying on all my 8oyfriend’s accessories not passing the time well enough for you? VRISKA: Desper8 times call for desper8 measures, Vrissy. VRISKA: And this is some dire shit.

They stare each other down. Did she mean the fugitive situation, or Harry Anderson’s fashion choices? Vrissy feels silly wondering this, but despite the situation they’re in, she can’t help but feel more acutely anxious about Vriska’s presence.

She likes her life, and she trusts her own choices. But now, looking at everything from Vriska’s vantage point, it all feels silly. Unimportant. Childish.

She can’t tell if she wants Vriska to rip in to Harry Anderson or if she wants her to stay silent. To put off the moment where she has to defend him or join in.

Real interesting.  Like she’s caught between these worlds after all.

> (==>)

They say it was a long drive, but...?

...WOW.  What a chill, disinterested-looking affect his sprite makes for.  Huh.

He kisses Vrissy’s temple and she leans in to the warmth of him.

HARRY ANDERSON: aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. HARRY ANDERSON: so sorry it took so long. HARRY ANDERSON: can’t rush a heart to heart, you know how it is.

Stop making me deliberate whether you’re trying to drop teasing Heart-aspect hints.  You already know I’m going to be obsessively scrutinizing every word of dialogue around Harry to see if it fits, story. No need to rub it in.

VRISSY: You actually had a Heart to Heart with your dad? How many times did he Cry?

I DIDN’T EVEN READ THE NEXT LINE QUIT SAYING HEART TO HEART YOU EVEN GAVE IT PROPER CAPS THAT TIME

HARRY ANDERSON: but god, it was a mess. i had to keep talking to keep him from looking at his phone or turning on the radio. HARRY ANDERSON: i may have told him more about my deep passions and emotions in the last hour than the whole rest of my life combined, just to keep him from hearing the fucking news.

Holy shit.  You exploited conversation about your deep passions and interests for a separate goal???

Aaargh!  Classpect everywhere!  I’ve relapsed!!!  D:

> (==>)

JOHN IS SO HAPPY

John Egbert has not had a day like this in a very long time. He can barely keep track of this series of epiphanies he’s having. He stretches out on his couch to relax and process the gifts of advice and connection his friends and family and ex-family have just given him.

OH RIGHT TIME TO RUIN IT WITH MAXIMUM SHENANIGANS

JOHN: hey karkat! great timing! JOHN: so much just happened and im kind of reeling about it. KARKAT: YEAH NO SHIT.

Ohhhh.  Much of the time I hate dramatic irony, but those moments before someone is about to be let in on the discrepancy... oh man I love that.

JOHN: is something going on? i just spent the afternoon with my son, and i think he would have told me if something was up with his friends? KARKAT: OH MY LUSCIOUS SHITTING CHRIST JOHN LISTEN TO ME. JOHN: listening!

"Luscious”??  Did they try to type “Lusus” and get autocorrected?

Who’s writing Homestuck on their phone???

> (==>)

J...John?? Are you okay?? XD

This picture.  These two paragraphs.  I fucking love them.

(Wow, being closer to the “canon” story due to ridiculous shenanigans right after his back-to-back self-insights and outlook changes have really been healthy for him huh.  He can probably sense HS^2 reaching him out here.  And you can see the helpless comedian his probably-still-depressed ass became on Earth B in his reaction here. EDIT: Also, how appropriate that even by DYING, the Bard of Rage managed to fulfill his role and shatter the last vestiges of John's narrow-outlooked despair?)

John can’t answer. He can’t speak. His body has given itself over to the long-lost feeling of manic euphoria. It had felt like Harry Anderson was holding something back on the drive earlier, but he had already told John so much. He hadn’t wanted to press for more.

Yeah... after what John’s gone through across his life and session, finding out Harry managed to hide THIS for a whole car-ride is the best sort of punch-line for him.

John can’t breathe. Something is happening. Something is finally fucking happening, and he’s finally awake enough to appreciate it.

--yep.  I was just guessing earlier, but this kind of confirms it’s in part a closer-to-relevance, closer-to-canon feeling bleeding in.  Something is happening that’s important enough to SHOW onscreen and not skip over.  I guess he really does like being anchored in Light after all.

> (==>)

John wheezes himself into relative calm. He has to get Karkat to understand. He clears his throat and breathes.

JOHN: karkat, this can be how we win. JOHN: i know what we need to do.

...holy SHIT.

Karkat, how did you know calling JOHN about this would work out this well??

John actually taking confident action to solve a problem, in a way that isn’t going to end up depressing like his attempt to provide Tavros escape in the Epilogues... this should be interesting.

See you next time.  (I had to image-fix some stupid linked hat posts for this blogpost and I’m out of energy, so I’ll fix the other old post I promised that asker to fix in like, a day or two; I’ll post when I do.)

#Homestuck #hs2 #Homestuck Liveblog #upd8 #Homestuck^2 #bladekindeyewear #blastyoboots #hats #Heart and Mind #Harry Anderson

[alrightinbed-betterwithapen]

Clever Little Things — Chapter Five — D. Dobrik x Reader

A/N: so this part was heavily inspired by THIS VIDEO. Also @poisxnyouth was a giant help as always! I hope y’all enjoy! ♥️

Clever Little Things Masterlist

Masterlist

Warnings: Smut, marking, oral, sex, being tied up, masturbation, etc Smut y’all

Summary: You still dislike David, and pissing him off is fun for you. Especially when the night ends like this...

——

The rest of the previous night is a blur of fighting tongues, and hands pushed down your jeans, ripping your own orgasm out of you, then feeding you the mess.

He leaves without finishing his edit.

——

The trip went on smoothly after that night and conversation with David, expectations were set. But neither of you were afforded a night alone for the rest of your time in Chicago. Things went on as normal: David was still a prick, and you were an asshole right back. He grated on your nerves when you weren’t fucking him, so there were no appearances to keep; you still genuinely disliked him.

It’s especially irking for David when his hometown friends take as quick a liking to you as his LA friends had. Ilya and Dima are delighted in your ability to hold your liquor and Alex loves the jabs you give David. David grins through it all and it makes him livid. He is a direct extension of these people, they formed who he was as person through childhood. But you still didn’t like him?

Yeah, you couldn’t become best buds for sake of appearances, but he thought you’d soften to him a bit by now.

When you don’t, it spurs a level of petty in David he didn’t know he had. He watches his friends accept you with open arms, charmed by the quiet, sharp witted girl. His teeth were sensitive from the grinding by the time they all touch back down in LA well into the evening.

David and some of the crew had been invited to a party in the hills opposite his own home. Apparently there were going to be a bunch of big creators and it actually seemed like some good footage for the next vlog.

David spends the walk out of the plane and to their rides convincing a few people to come out. They could leave right from the airport and Natalie will take a car back to his house with everyone’s shit. Jason reminds David of the vlog he needs to post before tomorrow but that’s not an issue. David’s finished vlogs at parties many times before he explains. He’s snide with his follow up comment,

“And (Y/N) has to be there anyway ‘cause I need clips. She’s a good little worker bee, it’ll be done in no time.”

Jason gives you a side eye, eyebrow quirked, waiting for your response.

“What the fuck ever,” you tell them, making a show of furrowing your brow, “I can finish up both of your vlogs there, Jay. Not a big deal, I’ll dip out when I’m done. Asking would have been nice though, dickface,” you’re scowling at David, moving to throw your shit in the car Natalie was taking back to the house, chucking it on top of Zane’s duffel bags.

“Woooo! Fuck yeah, drunk (Y/N) is the fucking best! You gonna do another keg stand?” Zane’s bellowing as you make your way to David’s Tesla he had stored at the airports private parking garage while they were gone. Zane’s referencing the binge drinking you’d done with Dima three nights ago and how you’d held out for longer upside down over the keg of PBR, making Ilya swell with pride and call his best friend a pussy.

“Yeah, no. I don’t think so,” you laugh to the bearded man draped over your body, patting the arm haphazardly thrown across your shoulders.

“Why?!” Todd’s joining in as you climb to the back of the car, everyone finding their places. “Bet you could make Logan Paul look like a little BITCH, (Y/N)!”

“What the fuck, Logan’s gonna be there?! Why didn’t anyone tell me that! Now I almost don’t wanna go,” David’s groaning as he pulls out of the garage, head thrown back in despair.

“You don’t like Logan?” you’re asking, looking around the car to everyone for explanation, “I figured you’d guys would have a lot in common.”

David’s stare is hardened in the rear view mirror, rage in his brown eyes. He doesn’t even reply. Jason turns from the front seat and laughs loudly at that,

“Yeah, they are pretty similar, aren’t they?”

“Oh yeah, I film dead bodies all the time,” David’s saying, tone light but gaze still burning through you, “but that’s for my private collection.”

That had the car full of people hollering with laughter. You can only smirk at the man before being distracted by your phone for the rest of the ride.

David wants to wipe the look off your face with his dick.

——

The party is what you expected. Loud and annoying with content creators everywhere. David finished his vlog before you’re done, basically ignoring you the entire time if it wasn’t about the edit. You stay a couple extra minutes after the man wanders off with his camera, stuck in the middle of a tricky transition you want to finish before you head out.

Jason’s pulling your headphones down out of nowhere, startling you to look up.

“So, I think things are about to get crazy. Grab your guys’ shit and get ready to go,” he’s ordering, sounding too much like a dad for you to ignore his warning before walking away and into the adjacent room. You shove everything in your giant bag, hauling it over your shoulder before following the way Jason went.

You’re just crossing the entrance way when you see David drop his camera to his side and holler at a tall blond man,

“Don’t compare what I do, to what you do! Go fuck yourself, man!”

“What? I’m gonna call out shitty production value when I see it, bro. Like look at you! You still film everything yourself, you only have one extra angle, and your camera dude isn’t even here! You’re still Vine-ing out here in Hollywood! That’s weak, man,” Logan Paul is laughing in David’s face.

There’s a group of people around them, phones recording. Logan is getting more aggressive with the second and David is following suit. You stand back and watch the scene unfold. David’s lithe form is buzzing and he’s moving closer to the man while continuing to scream,

“Weaker than getting your jaw rocked by KSI, pussy!”

David’s pushing up to go chest to chest with Logan when a man you don’t recognize pushes past the blond and guides David back, trying to calm the brunette as Logan starts yelling even louder, “You don’t even have a mic on your- David! DAVID! You don’t even have a mic on your camera, bro!”

You see Zane recording it all, laughing manically (which means he’s plastered). David’s now ranting to the still unidentified man, pulling away and out of his hold. You can’t hear his words over the volume of the party which had gone up as they realized a fight was happening. Jason is looping around to grab Trisha and Zane, when David turns your way finally.

His face is flushed with anger and he looks almost out of control when your eyes meet. You can only raise your eyebrows and give him a smirk, shaking your head at the dick measuring contest you’d just witnessed.

He’s storming past you, not pausing, and breathes out,

“We’re fucking leaving.”

A giant roll of eyes later, you do a 180 and follow him out. Jason on your heels arguing with Zane about staying when Trisha catches up to you and gives you a smile too big, “That was hot.”

Can you strain your eyes from rolling them? Cause at this rate, you will. David is seated in his car before you guys even make it outside.

Time passes slowly during the drive, you’re listening to the three men banter about what fucking happened with the blonde piping up every once and a while. Zane wanted to stay and thought it was a joke. Jason didn’t want to come in the first place and is just ‘I told you so’-ing all over the place. And Trisha is placating David, telling him he would have totally had Logan.

You say nothing.

There are already some people at the house when you get there and Zane continues to rage. Trisha and Jason are grabbing their shit and are off quickly, you tell them you’ll have the vlogs posted tomorrow.

You’re exhausted and really just wanna go home. And David will never send people home, not that you would ever expect him to. You start to order an Uber and David’s form looms over you before slapping your phone playfully and catching it before it drops to the ground.

“Fuck that. You’re not leaving.”

“David. I’m fucking tired. And-,”

“And you need some of my clips and you haven’t even checked if you can use all the bits. Sit down and let’s finish this shit,” he’s commanding.

He’s right and you begrudgingly find a place near him on the couch and finishing up. His friends still partying are eager to go out somewhere and are ordering their own Uber a half hour after you guys return. They’re begging David to come out but he says he needs to finish the edit. He urges them to go out without him and they oblige easily. Natalie even goes with, leaving you both alone to work.

But he’s still vibrating with adrenaline from the near fight with Logan. It’s obvious from the way his brow stays furrowed and his feet tap nervously on the ground. You find the whole thing funny. David has such first world problems.

“Alright. I’m done. I think I’m gonna order that ride now,” you’re telling him, packing up your stuff and pulling out your phone.

“Nah, I’ll give you a ride. I just need to find music to finish, it can wait.”

“David...” you give the man a look, exasperated tone heavy in your voice.

“Don’t fucking argue with me right now, (Y/N),” he’s hissing though clenched teeth, throwing his laptop to the side on the couch. He rises and you follow, you don’t particularly like taking Uber’s this late, so you listen to the man. Even though the rebellious voice in your head says not to obey.

The ride to your apartment is quiet for a while until you break the silence, wanting to poke the bear a bit.

“So, you were really gonna fight Logan Paul? Really?”

“Don’t even start,” David says, fingers gripping the wheel a little tighter.

“What? I’m just curious as to what the hell happened back there,” you reply, pulling on an overt expression of innocence.

“He’s a fucking cunt. He’s not usually that bad but I think he was fucked up on something. He wouldn’t leave me alone about production value! Like what the fuck?” he’s ranting, playing with the rings on his fingers idly, “He just kept comparing us and I had enough.”

“And your plan was what? Go toe to toe with a dude who has like half a foot on you? Yeah, that would have went well,” you’re laughing, shaking your head at him. He’s side eyeing you, face scrunched in disbelief.

“What? You got a hard on for the guy?” he grits out.

“No. But, like, what makes you better than him? Especially after that shit show.”

“What make me better th- Are you SERIOUS right now? Are you fucking ser-,” David’s crowing, hands fumbling for the auto drive so he can properly turn and unleash on you, hands flying with his words, “You should know enough about that asshole to understand how unalike we are! He has no conscious, he uses everyone around him and he’s a little bitch on top of it. So don’t even-“

“You’re a little bitch too.”

“Why don’t you go fuck him then!” David screams as your eyes widen, shocked for a moment. That’s all he needs though to take in your sudden change from cocky to still as you shake your head No in disgust. He’s smirking when he adds, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. It was my cum dripping off your face five days ago. It was me you were gagging around, you fucking bitch. Remember that! Now. Shut. Up.”

You’re unmoving in your seat at that outburst and obeying him steadily. David is angrier than he’s ever been at you and you momentarily think you fucked up. He’s taking control back of the car and doesn’t look at you again until you arrive to your home. You’re unsure of what to do, but David’s hopping out and grabbing your shit out of the back before you have your seat buckle off. He’s stalking behind you to your apartment and you don’t glance back, nervous to see if David is still as angry as he was.

He is. And that’s apparent as he pushes past you once the door is open and throwing your bags wherever. You barely have the door closed behind you when David is grabbing you around the waist and throwing you over his shoulder. You gasp and start to protest but he doesn’t respond, just continues to your room before throwing you on the bed roughly.

“Take off your shirt.”

Ripping it off your body too quickly at that order, you begin to undress fully, anxious to see where this night goes. You’re both desperate for sex with one another and you think this will be a nice rough session with the way he’s grabbing your discarded shirt and ripping it to shreds, the veins in his arms prominent with the rage flowing through him.

Naked and ready, you watch David crawl on to the bed, moving towards you so that you have to move against your headboard. He grabs your hand and drags it to the post on the bed, beginning to tie your wrist to it.

“What the fuck, David! You can’t-“

“I can stop,” he says, not stilling his movement, gripping the edge of the ripped fabric and pulling it too tight around your wrist. He moves to do the same with your other arm as he continues, “I can untie you and leave. Or, you can take my punishment and I might let you come later.”

His red face hasn’t lessened since his outburst and you’re actually really turned on by how outwardly angry the man has been all night. You think this might be a good outlet for his frustration and honestly, you’re looking forward to the marks he’ll leave on you.

You nod your agreement even though he hadn’t stopped restraining you. He looks pleased as he pulls back to kneel between your bare legs. The smile etched on his lips make your pelvis pulse and you throw your head back. He’s laughing as he begins to kiss up your bare thigh, other hand gripping your hip, nails digging in to bite at skin. You gasp out a soft moan and wiggle in his hold.

“That’s right, baby girl. You better remember who you belong to,” David croons, pulling back and off the bed to undress himself, “I don’t want you even thinking about that fucking blond cunt tonight. You think I’m like him? I bet he can’t pull orgasms out of anyone the way I can out of you, little girl.”

You laugh and pull at your wrists, legs spreading as he climbs back between them. His hands go to press on your thighs, pushing them away as he bends down to suck on your hip, biting and sucking to mark up the skin. You push your pelvis up and his lips trail upwards in response, not going the way you want him too.

His kisses trail up to your breast where he takes a nipple in his mouth sucking and playing with nub while you groan out, “David, mmm, c’mon.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles into your skin as he moves his head to your other breast, repeating the flicks of his tongue that have you crying out. His hands are caressing your sides, soft and sweet before scratching down and repeating the process over and over as his lips make their way up to your neck. All you can do is extend your throat as he paints your neck red with his bites. He’s too close and at the same time too far. He’s pushing his hips into yours for a brief moment, before holding his weight on one arm above you, hovering.

You fucking love that grin on his face.

It promises more, as he lowers himself down and settles between your parted thighs. His hands move to dig his nails into the tops of your thighs then stills, his head tilting to look up at you.

“Punishment, remember?”

He’s explaining, eyes locked to yours as he tears down your thighs, a scream pulling from your throat. You’re blinded by the pain and don’t notice the man move himself further down. It’s when his hands are almost all the way down your legs, you feel his tongue push between your folds and start moving.

The guttural noise that comes out of you might be embarrassing if he wasn’t pushing your legs back and moving his fingers to start caressing you as well. Your hips start lifting up fluidly, pushing up against his face as you turn and bite the pillow to stop you from sounding like a needy whore.

His tongue is flicking around your lips, stopping to suck on your clit every couple moments, while his fingers gather your slick and one slides in smoothly. It’s so good. Your arms contract, trying to jerk down and bury your fingers in his brown locks, but your destroyed t-shirt restrains you, making you cry out in frustration as he adds another finger and crooks them upwards, hitting your g-spot.

It’s torturous not being able to touch David while he eats you out. You just want to move his head and thrust against him. The man loves that you can’t though, breathing out a soft laugh against your heated and damp skin. He’s rolling his tongue around your clit, massaging it greedily when his fingers push up against the bundle of nerves inside you and stop, applying too much pressure. He sucks the nub into his mouth, his free hand going to bruise your thigh with his grip.

You’re about to come, tension building in your stomach and back rising from the bed when he pulls away completely. His face shines in the light of your bedroom and you’re left to shake through your ruined orgasm as he smirks, making a show of licking his lips.

“Fuuuck DAVID!” You scream, yanking at your tied wrists and writhing on the bed at the loss. And the dick has the audacity to laugh at that, pushing his hips flush against your core. He’s so hard, you hadn’t even noticed. The promise of him fucking you makes the anger inside you fade, groaning and arching into the man when he bends to suck on your breast.

“See what you don’t get when you’re being a little bitch, baby girl? I wanted to feel you come around my fingers but you don’t deserve it,” he’s mumbling around your skin, and you can feel him stroke himself against your wet cunt, lining up.

Your head is turning to bite the pillow again as he pushes in, but David’s hand not supporting his weight goes to wrap around your throat, holding you in place and not allowing your gaze to drift from his. It takes your breath away, unable to touch him or hide your face as he starts to thrust in and out.

Your hips are fucking upwards on his downstroke, desperate. It makes him chuckle and groan out lowly, “Yeah baby girl, you wanna fuck yourself on me? Does that feel good for my sweet girl.”

“Yes, daddy,” you snarl, trying to poke at his pet names but it makes him still and an obvious shudder goes down his body. His eyes widen at the words and he leans down to bite your bottom lip too hard before letting it snap back.

“Yeah? YEAH?! I am your daddy, huh? You don’t call me anything else, you understand?” He’s commanding, grip tightening on your throat so that you can only nod out your affirmation instead of speaking it.

He doesn’t stop fucking you, just repositions your thigh around his waist and bends your hip so he can pound in deeper. It’s the combination of him hitting so deep and his nails digging into your throat that has you staring to come again. David’s eyes look panicked as he feels you flutter around him.

He’s reeling back, pulling out and stroking his cock over you rapidly. You yell into the room, head slamming from side to side in utter frustration; you just wanna come, you just wanna come around him.

His warm come hits your stomach, his grunts overpowering your screams as he pulls the last of the feeling from himself until he’s too sensitive. He’s so gross, hand coming down to rub the come into your skin, drawing patterns into your stomach. You mewl ‘daddy’ pathetically at the touch, looking down to watch, just as enraptured as David was in the act.

He’s breathing hard still, the sticky mess fascinating him when he scoops some up and shoves it in your hung open mouth. You’re so wanton, sucking it off his fingers and then massaging the digits like his dick is in your mouth.

He pulls them out and slaps you cheeks fondly, an evil grin plastered on his face. Then he’s untying your wrists letting them fall limply to the duvet before standing up and off the bed, pulling on his discarded pants. You’re so confused when he leans against your dresser across from the bed and crosses his arms.

“Finish yourself off.”

You’re just staring at him in shock, “You’re not going to help me?!”

“No. You were bad, baby girl. I said I’d let you come, I didn’t say I’d do it for you. Now, let daddy see you come.”

He’s ordering, eyes staring at the wet mess your pussy had become. You moan and immediately start rubbing at yourself, two fingers pushing into your heat while you work over your clit.

“That’s it, baby. Does that feel good, are you gonna come around your fingers for me?” he’s narrating as you stare into his eyes, pulling pleasure from yourself with each twist of your wrist and flick of your fingers over your sweet spot. You’re breathing is quickening and you can’t help moaning out,

“Daddy, please. I wanna come for you, I wanna be good for you. Please just touch me.”

“No.”

“Pleeeease,” you’re trailing off, falling back against your bed, heat uncurling through your body as you come. The notion of being abandoned to take care of yourself is pushing you over the edge. Your hips jerk onto your fingers and you hear David cuss through his teeth as your body bends and contorts from your orgasm. You can’t think at all when he croons out,

“That’s daddy’s girl.”

When your legs stop shaking and you can think about anything other than David’s tongue and fingers and cock, you feel him sit next to you. His hand caresses your side as you’d turned over during your writhing.

“You’re so good for me. Maybe next time we can play together... If you can manage to tamp down on being a bitch in the future,” David’s whispering softly to you, kissing your shoulder and moving off the bed. You grunt out a short ‘fuck you’ as you hear him laugh down your hallway and out your front door.

His come is still drying on your stomach when his text rolls in,

Send me a picture of your thighs, I wanna jerk off to my marks tomorrow.

——

#david dobrik #david dobrik x y/n #david dobrik smut #david dobrik x reader #david dobrik imagine #david dobrik fanfiction #vlog squad imagine

[mayfieldmarsh]

It Doesn’t Work That Way

Summary: Each month Richie gets sadder. Will someone be able to stop his downward spiral before it’s too late? No Pennywise au (who is she? I don’t know her.), takes place in the late 80’s, all of the losers are 16/17, nothing nsfw so it doesn’t matter that much.

Pairing(s): Reddie, slightly implied Benverly at the begining

TW/ warnings: suicidal thoughts, self harm, parental abuse

A/N:  I don’t know if it’s that great. I’m writing some of this from experience, some of it not, so I’m sorry if it all doesn’t tie in that well. 

Words: 7.8k

Ao3 link

Richie had always thought of himself as an outcast. Yeah, he was a part of the losers club, as some people called them, but he felt that even with his friends he didn’t fit in. He felt that no one in his group really valued him. He felt as if everybody in the group had a place except for him.

Bill had been the leader of the club. He was the best at making decisions, and he was a genuinely good friend. Then there was Stan, sure had an obscure sense of humor, but he was also really smart, and he had a way of just knowing things. Mike was basically the group’s historian. He knew all about the town’s past to the point where he seemed obsessed. Ben was the group’s poet lover-boy, with the kindest laugh you have ever head. How could you complete a group without a Ben? Beverly was the only girl in the group, so how could everyone not love her? She was pretty, smart and had the best sense of humor. She was just so chill overall. Then there was Eddie, whom Richie adored. Eddie was obviously the hypochondriac, pocket-sized  nurse of the group. They all somehow fit just perfectly in the group. But then there was Richie. Sure he could crack a few at least decent here and there but, what else was he good for?

August 

School had just ended and kids were pouring out of the building like a title wave. Richie and Bev had gone to their usual spot on the side of the school where no one would be able to see them unless they were looking directly at the two. Without words being exchanged Bev took a cigarette out of her leather jacket and put it between her lips. Richie took out his lighter from his oversized jean jacket and lit the cigarette. They sat down on the side of the wall and Bev let out a puff of smoke. She then proceeded to look at Richie and give a gesturing motion to the cigarette. Richie took it between his fingers and plopped it on between his lips.

“So what’s going on with you Tozier?” Bev asked breaking the comfortable silence between them as Richie let out a puff of smoke upwards.

“What’s it to you Ringwald?” Richie replied with a grin handing the cigarette back. That had been their thing. Every day after school they would come outside and share a cigarette.

“Well since you didn’t feel the need to share your crush on Eddie with me, I now know that I need to ask what’s going on in that mind of yours,” she replied as it was obvious, but nevertheless with a smirk. If Richie had the cigarette in his mouth he would have ended up spitting it out creating a burn on his black skinny jeans. Thank god he didn’t.

“I do not have a crush on Eddie,” Richie responded looking at Bev as if she had gone crazy. Bev took the cigarette away from her mouth revealing her almost shit eating grin as she blew away the smoke.

“Surrree you don’t,” she said handing back the cigarette with a giggle.

“I’m serious Bev, I don’t like Eddie! I’m not gay!” He defends and immediately regrets it. He looks around to make sure no one is listening to their conversation. After he does a thorough examine, he lets out a relieved exhale and takes the cigarette from Bev.

Bev’s eyes soften as she continues to talk to him. “Look Rich, that’s not what I’m trying to say. Look, it’s just me. You don’t have to hide anything. We’re supposed to tell each other everything. We’re supposed to be best friends. You don’t have to worry about me judging you,” she says sweetly. A much different tone from what she was using before. Richie smiles at the idea of them being best friends. He revels in the feeling of actually being valued by someone.

Richie gave a smile to her as he handed back the cigarette. He didn’t want to be rude with her when she was genuinely just trying to be a good friend, so he held back the urge to snap back with some asshole joke.

“Why does it even matter? It’s not like he would ever feel the same way,” he said almost defeated. Bev’s lighthearted smile was taken away by his last comment. “You don’t know that Rich,” she said trying to be supportive, “for all you know he could like you right back,” she finished with a smile. 

“How would you know,” he asked genuinely wanting to know what her answer would be.

“Well I did figure out you liked him didn’t I? I see the way that you look at each other,” she smiled and inhaled the nicotine. She did have a point. “Plus he’s always wearing those tight red shorts that just seem to scream ‘gay’ to me,” she said with a suggestive high pitched voice and giggled looking back at Richie. 

“You got me there,” he laughed looking back at Bev through his big ass glasses. “What about you and Ben? How’s it going with you two, if you catch my drift?” he asked suggestively with a wink.

“Oh my god Richie, I’m not talking about my sex life with you,”  Bev rolled her eyes.

She pushed the cigarette against the wall to put it out. She then dropped it on the pavement near the wall. It had landed in a pile of cigarettes that had been manifesting since the first day of school a few weeks ago.

“We better pick up that pile sooner or later or else someone’s going to find it and catch us,” Richie scolded her but not actually caring what would happen if someone did manage to find their stash of cigarette butts. 

“Oh shut it trashmouth,” Bev smiled looking up at Richie. He threw an arm around her as they walked away from the school. For the first time in a long time Richie felt hope. Hope that one day he would finally belong somewhere, even if it was just with Bev. He didn’t know how long this new found hope would last for, but it sure as hell felt good right now. Apparently, not very long.

September

The losers club had grown worried about Richie. He wasn’t acting like himself. Truth is, he wasn’t himself.

Richie’s parents were beating down on him like there was no tomorrow. He tried to go to school with the same trashmouth physique as always, but some days he couldn’t even bare to muster a smile.

To make matters worse Eddie had gotten himself a girlfriend. The two boys didn’t spend nearly as much time together as they used to. It was all taken up by that bitch Vanessa. They had only been together for a few weeks, but at this point they were attached at the hip. Wherever Eddie went, Vanessa followed like a puppy dog. Richie hated her. Okay maybe he didn’t hate her, just the idea of her. She should not be allowed to date Eddie. Eddie Kaspbrak should be reserved for Richie, and Richie only. They had been friends since they were children. Richie didn’t understand why Eddie would do something like that to him. Richie was hella jealous out of his mind.

Richie would try to act like everything was more than okay, but eventually the losers caught on. He started to miss perfect moments to make unnecessary dirty jokes about Eddie’s mom. While Eddie might have been thrilled to know that Richie was changing into a better man, he knew better. Eddie knew when Richie wasn’t acting like himself.

Richie was standing by his locker glaring at the disgusting couple through his bulky glasses. Even though Eddie was only about 5'6, he still gained about an inch or so on his girlfriend. They were talking whilst their arms were wrapped around the other. Richie wished more than anything that he could take her place and run his fingers through Eddie’s soft hair. 

Eddie glanced in Richie’s direction and they locked eyes for a moment. Eddie looked back at his girlfriend and muttered out what only could be along the lines of a “see you later”. He then pecked her head and started towards Richie. Richie slammed his locker door shut giving one last glare as he started walking in the other direction. He didn’t want to talk about it. What could he even say? “Hey Eddie! What’s going on dude? Hey, by the way, I might actually be in love with you! So why don’t you just break up with your girlfriend right now to be with me? I’m sure you can learn to love a depressed, chain smoking, fucked up, washed up nobody like me!” Yeah. No.

Richie could hear his name being called by a sweet voice that Richie had fallen in love with over the years with. As much as he loved it, he trudged through the halls passing people loitering in the halls before the next class period. Eddie managed to catch up with him and give him a tug on the back of his oversized jean jacket which was now filled with iron-on patches he put there himself. Richie stood there before turning around to face him. Richie’s 6'1 height towered over Eddie like a skyscraper.

“Hey,” Eddie says quietly, not really thinking this situation through first. “What’s going on Spaghetti Man?” Richie asks through pained eyes, a fake smile plastered across his face in hopes of convincing Eddie he is perfectly fine. Eddie is smarter than that. He can see the hurt in his eyes, especially with those glasses magnifying them. Richie looks to the left to avoid the now uncomfortable eye contact.

“First of all, don’t call me that-”

“You know you love it E-“ 

“Second,” Eddie holds his finger up to silence Richie, “what’s going on with you? You’re acting so weird  all of a sudden,” Richie’s facaded smile faltered a bit as Eddie continued, “talk to me Richie. I thought we were best friends.” There it was again. The whole “we’re supposed to be best friends” mantra. If it came from anyone besides Eddie, Richie would have screamed. 

Ever since Bev used it last month, every loser was using it trying to get closer to Richie using that specific combination of words in a different order. He didn’t know if it was on purpose or not, but it was driving him insane. At first he loved being thought of, but after a while the rest of the losers just expected him to tell them all everything about his life. I don’t owe any of them jack shit, Richie thought.

“Aww, it’s too cute when you worry about me Eds,” Richie pinches Eddie’s cheek and Eddie slaps it away quickly, “but I’m perfectly fine. No need to worry that pretty little mind of yours,” he smiled for real that time as he ruffled the shorter boy’s hair. Eddie swipes at Richie’s hands again.

“Richie, I’m serious,” Eddie looks into Richie’s eyes carefully, but sternly. “Oh my god Eddie, how many times to I have to say I’m fine, I’m fucking fine!,” Richie tries to joke, but it ends up coming out more annoyed as he throws his arms up. Eddie looks in both directions realizing the scene that they’re starting to create. 

“Richie, calm down. This is what I’m talking about. You’re acting different,” he whisper-yells trying to be calm, but obviously not succeeding.

“Well maybe if you payed more attention to anyone else beside yourself you would’ve been able to catch on quicker!”

“What are you talking about Richie?” the pain in his eyes evident as Richie continued speaking.

“Oh don’t play dumb. You’ve been spending all of your time with that little girlfriend of yours. Have you ever thought how that made me feel?” Richie chose his next words carefully, not trying to out himself to the whole school, “Like you said Eddie, we’re supposed to be best friends, huh, that’s what you said huh?” Richie hadn’t even noticed that he was using his height to an advantage to tower over Eddie. He hadn’t noticed the rest of the hallway go silent. And he definitely didn’t notice how Eddie’s eyes had become glazed at Richie’s hurtful words. 

Richie fucked up.

“Wait Eddie,” his voice became small as he reached out to him. Eddie squirmed away from Richie’s touch.

“Just don’t,” Eddie said trying to keep his composure but letting a tear escape. He turned around and Richie watched as he walked away.

Richie walked out of that building not caring how many classes he had left. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sit through shit that he already understood. He wish that right now he could hold Eddie in his arms and tell him how much he loves the other boy.  But things didn’t work that way for Richie. It never did. 

                                ※                     ※                     ※ Richie was at home listening to his cassette tapes, trying to drown out the noise of his parents’ screams of anger. As much as he tried to fill the screeching with his own version of ambient noise, he got fed up with his parents’ bickering and went downstairs. He came down the stairs and headed towards the  door. He didn’t know where he would go, but all he knew is that he wasn’t going to come back that night.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going,” his mother slurred at him.

“Out,” he said grabbing his jean jacket off of the kitchen counter. 

“Oh I don’t think so,” his mother’s eyes showed no love, not even the slightest bit of humanity. There was no human left in either of his parents . He didn’t want to end up like that. He couldn’t.

His mother drunkenly walked up to him, beer bottle in her hand. He headed for the door again, this time more quickly.

What happened next was a blur. His mother launched a beer bottle at the back of his head. Richie had somehow managed to duck just in time. He heard the bottle smash against the door in front of him. He avoided fatal injury, but he wouldn’t walk away without scratches. The bottle had shattered everywhere, including his face. With his hands over his head, almost in fetal position, he didn’t realize the tears that had started to form in his eyes until they were pouring down his cheeks. His eyes were closed from the blow, but he didn’t feel like opening them again. He just wanted to sit there, crying, because that would be the easy thing to do. He knew that when he opened his eyes he would have to face the truth, his reality, no matter how much he wished it didn’t exist. He opened his eyes to his surroundings. He saw the familiarity of his house, but he couldn’t feel that the familiarity of home. He gained the courage to face his mother, but continued to crumble into himself every passing moment.

“Oh you’re going to cry about this shit now, oh for fucks sake give me a break,” she spoke with no compassion. 

“Give the damn boy a break Maggie,” his father screeched from behind her.

His mother turned around to face his father, “Oh really, you’re one to fucking talk Wentworth,” she points his fingers in his face.

Richie finally took his leave, deserting his parents behind him. He felt the mildly cold air hit his tear stained cheeks as he shut the door behind him.

He hopped into his beat up truck that he managed to buy with the money that he earned from working extra shifts at the arcade. 

He ended up driving. He didn’t know where he was going, but that didn’t stop him. He turned on the radio and listened to whatever shitty song that came on. He didn’t know how long he had been driving.

Then as he was about to turn the radio off, the lyrics of the next song entered his ears. It was Africa by Toto. He smiled at the memory that played in his mind. They were about 10 or 11 when Eddie heard the song for the first time. He also remembers the first time Eddie made him listen to it. At first he was reluctant because they both had a completely different music taste. But when he listened to it he was glad he did. He eventually memorized all the lyrics and every time the song would come on they would sing it together completely off pitch. That was one of the first times Richie fell for Eddie without even realizing it.

He then knew what he had to do. He looked in front and behind him to make sure there were no cars. He then did a complete U-turn and headed straight for Eddie’s house. It didn’t matter if they were on bad terms right now, Richie needed Eddie. 

Richie ended up speeding to Eddie’s, but his fast he was going was the furthest thing from his mind. Richie saw Eddie’s house come to view and without hesitation he slammed the breaks and put the car in park. Turning off the engine, he hopped out of the car and kicked the door closed before using his gangly limbs to sprint towards his best friend’s house.

As he arrived at Eddie’s house, he looked up at the window separating him from the boy he loved. It wasn’t too high off the ground. He used the brick wall and the tree next to him to haul his body up the side of the house.

Richie sat in an uncomfortable position as he knocked on the glass. Richie could see some stirring in the dark. He let a smile creep on his face when Eddie rubbed his eyes and turned on the light. Eddie looked around to see what the noise could possibly be.

As Eddie turned to Richie he let out a yelp as he realized that someone was sitting outside his window. It took him a moment to figure out it was Richie and he walked over to the window. Eddie opened it and he opened his mouth to talk, but as Richie climbed in he realized the apparent slices in his face. Soon enough Richie was in full view, looking down at Eddie.

Eddie put his hands on Richie’s face carefully, making sure not to touch his cuts. He looked into his eyes as if asking a question and at the same time searching for his answer.

“My parents, don’t want to talk about it,” Richie explained, voice low and barely audible, even for the two of them.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You have glass in your face,” Eddie said taking his hands away. Richie’s cheeks ran cold as he felt the absence of Eddie’s hands. “Yeah,” he laughed a bit at his friends concern, “I’m fine,” he said truly meaning it. There was a silence looming over them for a bit before Richie spoke again. “Can I️ stay over, or…?” he chucked.

“Yeah sure, just let me clean your face first,” he walked over to his dresser to grab his fanny pack. As he rummaged through the contents in the bag, Richie took of his shoes and sat down on Eddie’s bed. Eddie walked back over to Richie with some supplies. 

“This might sting a little,” Eddie explained before he touched the antibacterial wipes to the cuts. Richie let out a hissing noise in agony as Eddie wiped away the dry blood on his lip and cleaned it. Eddie did the same thing to the two cuts on his right cheek and the cut almost above his right eyebrow. Richie looked at the smaller boy in front of him with fondness as he calculatedly cleaned the other boy’s face.

Eddie also managed to pluck out the small glass that had ended up scraping Richie’s face. There were no words exchanged, but Eddie was all too focused on cleaning Richie’s cuts. Meanwhile, Richie was all too focused on Eddie’s face, focusing how his tongue would poke out in concentration, and how every time he managed to pull out another piece of glass, his face would light up with satisfaction in himself.

Eddie was done and he pulled out his bandaids. Richie snickered to himself. “What,” Eddie asked, a grin forming on his face as he peeled back the paper from the sticky part of the bandaid.

“Really, rainbow bandaids?” Richie snickered again.

“Oh my god Tozier, shut your mouth,” Eddie giggled, applying the rest of the bandaids. Eddie gathered the supplies to throw away. He turned to walk out of his room and throw it away in the bathroom across the hall. 

“I’ll be right back,” he whispered.

Richie laid back on the bed breathing in the scent of Eddie’s room. This is nice, he thought to himself as his eyes grew heavy.

Eddie walked back into his room quietly closing the door and locking it so that his mother couldn’t barge in the next morning and see the two; even if they didn’t have anything to hide.

“So do you want me to get my sleeping bag or-” Eddie stopped talking as he saw the sleeping boy on his bed. He thought about waking him up, but the boy had already been through enough and needed some sleep. He also thought about sleeping on the floor himself but, I’m not sleeping on the floor in my own damn house.

Eddie walked over to the bed and pulled Richie’s shoes of carefully, making sure not to wake him up. He crawled on top of the bed next to Richie. He pulled the covers up and let his back face towards Richie. And if they ended up facing each other the next morning, neither of them would mention it.

And that would become a regular thing, Richie climbing through Eddie’s window every night to get some sleep. That was, until it wasn’t.

October

For once in his life, Richie felt a tinge of happiness. He felt as if things might actually fall into place for him. He slept over at Eddie’s every night. It had become their thing. Even if they got into a stupid argument that day, there was always the unspoken promise between them that Richie would come that night. He always comes, Eddie thinks as he looks out his window. His mind replays the events that happened earlier that day.

Eddie had been walking home alone, not a good idea for such a small boy like him. He was kicking rocks in front of him, not really paying attention to his surroundings. 

“Hey, fag,” he heard from in front of him. That had caused Eddie’s head to jerk up and he stumbled a bit, tripping over his own feet. He then saw the person standing in front of him. Henry Bowers.

“Wh-what d-do you wuh-want,” Eddie choked out trying to seem confident, but failing miserably.

“Wait, you aren’t the stuttering one are you? No that’s b-buh-bill,” Henry laughed maniacally as he stepped closer to him.

Eddie tried to step back, but Henry followed every step forward. Eddie turned around and tried to make a break for it. He was abruptly stopped when he felt a pull on his backpack. Henry turned him around, and Eddie ended up face to face with Henry’s snarly teeth.

“And where do you think you’re going wheezy,” Henry gave an uncomfortable smile. Eddie then felt a clenching feeling in his gut. Henry punched him. He fell to the ground, but before he fell, he saw someone out of the corner of his eye. Richie? He was just standing there, watching. 

He landed on his back, his backpack thankfully pillowing his fall. Henry then proceeded to unstrap Eddie’s fanny pack. He then examined it with a grin, showing his snarled teeth. He opened it and poured out all the contents inside of it. If Eddie wasn’t gripping his stomach for dear life, he would have tried to grab the medication falling out. Henry gave him one last kick as if it was for good measure. Henry laughed and walked away, seemingly proud of himself. Richie had been frozen. He tried to move, he tried to call out to Henry to stop, but nothing happened. He just stood there like an idiot. Seeing the situation unfold reminded him too much of what went down at his house regularly. He shuddered at the thoughts that came back to him. 

It took him a little while to realize that Henry was now gone, and Eddie was laying there gripping his stomach in pain. Richie finally felt his legs move towards Eddie.

“Hey Eds, you okay?” Richie asked when he got close enough to ask. Eddie was still clenching his gut. 

“What do you think smartass?” Eddie felt the need to respond with sarcasm for such a dumb question.

Richie started to pick up all of the spilled medicine and put it back into the fanny pack. He then helped Eddie up from his place on the ground. Eddie seemed fine, no bruises that he saw. He handed the fanny pack back to Eddie.

Eddie took it back and strapped it back around his waist. He didn’t know if he should bring it up.

“How much of that did you actually see?” Eddie asked.

“Not much,” Richie lied, rubbing the back of his neck. Eddie knew his tells. Richie always rubbed the back of his neck when he wasn’t telling the truth.

“Oh really? Because I could have sworn when I got pushed down, I saw you standing over there,” Eddie gestured vaguely behind Richie. 

“Oh right, yeah,” Richie swallowed the lump in his throat, not really knowing what to say next.

“So you just stood there while I got my ass kicked?” he was angry. Richie didn’t say anything.

“And now you’re just standing here again,” Eddie was practically yelling.

“How come you didn’t help me! How come you’re just standing here!” Eddie waited for an apology.

“Do you even have anything to say to me!” Nothing.

“God you’re the fucking worst, you know that! You’re a worthless piece of shit! You can’t even help your best friend when he’s getting his ass kicked! What’s wrong with you Richie! What’s wrong with you!” Still nothing.

Eddie scoffed. When he walked past Richie he shoved into his shoulder for extra umph. This was a mistake because Eddie ended up stumbling a bit and he walked away with a limp from Henry’s last kick. He left a speechless Richie behind with tears filling his eyes.

Out of all the thoughts racing through Richie’s mind, only one stuck. 

Worthless.

                                    ※                     ※                     ※                        

Worthless, Richie thought as he scraped the scissors against his skin once more. He looked at his blank wrist again. He held the safety scissors in his right hand, looking at the blunt blade. He wasn’t trying to hurt himself. He just became bored with sitting in his bed, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the unruly events of that day.

Richie was crying. He took off his glasses so that they wouldn’t become fogged from his tears. Richie wish he had the courage to stand up to Henry. He wished he could have been there for Eddie. He should have been there for Eddie! Why wasn’t he? Oh he knows why. It’s because he was “worthless,” Richie’s voice came out hoarse as he pressed harder than he ever had before. 

It was an accident. He didn’t mean to. Richie wiped his tears away with his right hand as he grabbed his glasses with his left. He caught sight of his mistake. He saw blood running from the slight cut in his skin. It was a small indent the size of his fingernail, hidden within the natural lines of his wrist.

He stood up to grab a bandaid. He tried, but couldn’t take his eyes away. He watched as the light red liquid slowly shed out of his skin. He stood there in a trance. He didn’t know how long it had been; but he felt better. He let out a sigh as he fell back onto his bed. He wasn’t able to hold back the tears that invaded his eyes.

                                     ※                     ※                     ※

Eddie waited. He stayed up late to see if Richie would ever come. He ended up falling asleep on his windowsill due to his tiredness from the day anyways.

Richie never came.

November

At this point Richie was barely a shell of his former self. No one thought that the infamous trashmouth would suddenly become mute. Now, when he passed the losers in the hallway, there wasn’t even a smile exchanged. Even his smoke sessions with Bev after school had been cut short when she decided to stop showing up. He was the definition of a loner.

He had also heard that Eddie recently broke up with his girlfriend through the whispers in the hall. He wished he could have been there for his best friend. He wish he could be with his best friend, the person he loved; the only person he loved. But that’s not how it worked out for Richie.

And to be honest, he missed all the losers more than he thought he would. He missed Ben’s little poems that he would write for him during class. He missed going to Mike’s farm and seeing all of the animals. He missed the little talks he and and Bev would have after school. He missed Stan’s comments about how he could ‘never shut the fuck up’. He even missed Bill’s annoying stutter. He missed everything. And now, he was left with nothing.

Richie wasn’t doing well, physically nor mentally. You could see that something was physically taking a toll on him. He never got enough sleep, so he was always seen with major bags under his eyes. No one could even remember what his smile looked like. It was taken by the look of gloom that never seemed to leave his eyes. 

Ever since he accidentally cut himself, he thought it would be a one time thing, nothing would come from the mistake. Yet here he was now, with little white marks stripping down his left arm, hidden by his oversized jean jacket. Richie was sick, he needed help. He knew this, he knew he was ill, but he wasn’t able to stop. He tried, he told himself he wouldn’t do it again. But whenever things got too much to handle, he needed to see the blood spill out of him again. He didn’t know how to stop.

And to be honest, Eddie wasn’t doing too well either. He took Richie’s leave harder than the rest of the losers club. He wished that he didn’t overreact to one stupid mistake Richie made. He wished he didn’t make all of the losers turn against Richie. It was his fault that they weren’t friends anymore. 

Eddie missed Richie insanely. He never knew how much that boy meant to him. He missed his crude comments. He missed his smile. He missed the way he had to push his glasses up his nose every two fucking seconds because they were to big for him. He missed seeing his dark curly hair through his window each night. He missed the way his lanky arm would wrap around him and silently lull him to sleep.

He had become distant with the rest of his friends, but not as distant as Richie. It got to the point where he would even ignore his girlfriend. When she confronted him about it, that had been the last of them. Eddie broke up with the girl, but in the nicest Eddie-way possible, saying he just wasn’t in the right place for a relationship at the moment. But that had been a lie. He wanted a relationship more than anything. But not with her. Not anyone but the one person he couldn’t have. Eddie was in love with Richie. Too bad it was too late to tell him.

Eddie constantly beat himself up about it. He couldn’t count the amount of times he almost picked up the phone and almost broke down and confessed to Richie over a phone call. He couldn’t count the amount of times he almost ran up to Richie during school to plant a kiss on his mouth.

Richie was barely in school anymore. He had only shown up a total of sixteen hours over the past month and a half. He tried to keep his grades up though, it was the only thing that would get him out of this godforsaken town. That’s why Eddie finally decided to take the chance to go up and talk to him when he saw him. That’s what he tried to do this time, only when he finally got to Richie, his mind blanked.

Richie was at his leaning against locker, arms crossed, he seemed to be in a daze. His suspicions were confirmed when Richie didn’t look at him when he walked up. Eddie tapped him on the elbow twice. Richie turned his body to face Eddie, clearly taken off guard by the way his body jerked from the touch, but his facial expression never changed.

Eddie looked into his eyes carefully. He didn’t see the Richie he knew, the Richie he fell in love with. That Richie was replaced by someone with no humor, no expressions, no emotions. Richie wasn’t talking.

“Hey,” Eddie’s voice came out small, but feeling better after of finally putting some words in the air between them.

Richie skeptically looked over Eddie. Eddie noticed this and got nervous. He leaned against the locker next to Richie’s and started to anxiously play with his fingers.

“What do you want Eddie?” Richie asked exasperatedly looking at his feet. Richie loved talking to Eddie again, but he didn’t know how to show it. 

“I- nothing. I just wanted to talk to you,” Eddie missed the horrible nicknames that Richie came up with for him.

“You just wanted to talk to me? Why, for what? So you can tell me how shitty a friend I am? No thanks Eddie,” Richie was actually beginning to get angry. Eddie couldn’t just walk up to him and pretend they were friends. It hurt Richie too much to think of all of the times he wanted to call Eddie. How many times he ran up to Eddie’s window, but deciding to turn back to go back to his own house, or wherever he was staying that night. No, it doesn’t work like that.

“N-nuh-no,” Eddie stammered out, “I’m worried about you,” he seemed so small compared to Richie even more now.

“Oh a little late for that don’t you think? Why do you even care? What made you decide to give a shit about me this time around?”

Richie crossed his arms. Doing this rolled up his jean jacket slightly, revealing the scars he bore along his wrist. Eddie took sight of this and without thinking, he grabbed Richie’s hand in his own and brought it to himself. Richie became confused at this action, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. Eddie rolled up the sleeve to see the jagged marks etched into his skin.

Eddie wasn’t supposed to know about that.

“Richie…” Eddie’s voice was soft, his eyes glossed as he looked back into Richie’s faintly blot shot eyes.

“Fuck off Kaspbrak,” Richie growled as he pushed down his sleeve, taking his arm back from Eddie’s grasp. Richie eyed him up and down before turning the other direction and walking away. 

Each boy had let the other slip through their fingers another time. Both had tears in their eyes, wishing their fate had cooperated with their desires of the other. But that’s not how life treated either of them. Why couldn’t it work that way? Eddie thought as he stood there watching Richie vanish before his very own eyes.

December

“Shut up kid!” Richie’s father screamed as he used Richie’s jacket to slam him against the wall of the living room. Richie tried his best not to let his head hit the wall, but the two objects still collided. He was probably bleeding, but he wouldn’t know for sure until later.

“You need to learn to keep your trap shut,” his father screamed with their faces too close for Richie’s comfort, “you need to be taught a fucking lesson boy.”

Richie regretted getting between his parents’ fight. His father was hitting his mother, and she was falling to the ground. He had yelled at him to stop. That’s when everything went south. He didn’t know why he even cared. His mom was just as bad, so he should’ve just let it happen.

His dad beat the shit out of him. He left bruises on his face and stomach. If he wasn’t bleeding before, he definitely was now. Richie mostly blacked out exactly what happened. All he knew was that he was now lying on the ground with his father hovering over him.

“Worthless piece of shit,” his father breathed out before spitting in his general direction. His face inched closer.

“Now get out of my sight!” he screamed at the fragile, now very broken boy.

He would have left that damn house if it wasn’t for the snow outside. It was too cold to sleep at some bus stop. He also didn’t have nearly enough gas in his tank to get him remotely far enough. But that didn’t really matter because he didn’t have anywhere to go.

He made his way up to his room, making sure to slam the door closed behind him. His parents both left, probably to go fuck somewhere else besides his shitty house. He was left alone with his tears.

                                      ※                     ※                     ※

Richie sucked down four cigarettes within the past hour. While the time passed he contemplated the piece of shit that he called his life. At this point he had nothing left to give. The world wouldn’t care if he suddenly fell off the face of the Earth; in fact, it might actually be a better place without him. He had no life left in him, no compassion. 

He had ended up like his parents. 

Richie felt himself physically rip to shreds at the realization. He had no one to care for, and no one loved him. The only person that he gave a shit about was Eddie. 

Eddie. That was Richie’s last hope. He didn’t care how long it had been, he needed to hear his sweet voice, telling him everything was going to be alright.

Eddie rose up from his bed when he heard the phone ring. He reached for it, he almost answered it, he almost picked up the phone. Then he saw who was calling him. Richie. 

Eddie didn’t want to talk to him. Ok that was a lie, he really wanted to talk to him. He just didn’t have the courage to pick up the phone.

Richie sighed when it went to voicemail. He tried three more times. No answer. He laid back on his bed wondering what to do. This was his last try.

Eddie left the room before the last call. He didn’t hear what Richie had to say to him. Eddie went downstairs and saw that he had a voicemail on his answering machine from Richie from a minute ago. He bit his nail, wondering if he should listen. He did.

Eddie was now listening to the shaky voice of Richie. 

“Hey Eds,” Richie said and Eddie smiled at the nickname he hadn’t heard in so long. He was confused as to why Richie seemed to be crying. “I know we haven’t talked in a while, so this is a pretty shitty thing to do. I just wanted to let you know Eddie, you mean fucking everything to me,” Richie let out a strangled chuckle, and Eddie wondered what he was trying to say, clearly taken aback at the bold comment. Eddie inched closer to the machine. “God I don’t even know why I’m calling you to tell this. It’s not like it will matter. You probably hate me. Your probably not even listening right now and I’m just making a fool of myself.” Another strangled laugh. “But if you ever get this Eds, I just want to let you know I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” Click.

Eddie stood there for a moment, in a daze from Richie just said. Why was he confessing his feelings now? Why was he sorry? Then all of the pieces fit together. Richie was going to kill himself. 

Eddie didn’t waste a second of his time. Did he even have any time? He tried to call Richie back. No answer. He didn’t even bother putting the phone back in its place, so it hung from the wall making a buzzing noise. He didn’t even bother telling his mother where he was going. Eddie darted out the door, not at all caring to grab a jacket. He wished he had convinced his uptight overbearing mother to convince him to get his license. He didn’t even know how to drive, so he had to find another way to make his way to Richie’s house. It was also winter time, so there was no chance he would be able to ride his bike on the icy sidewalk. 

So Eddie ran. He ran to Richie.

Richie sucked down another cigarette. He couldn’t do it anymore. As hard as he tried, he felt his body grow heavier every passing moment. He knew he wouldn’t be able to drag it around for much longer. He just needed it all to end. He needed it to all be over. It would be so much easier if it was all just fucking over with.

He didn’t really knew how things like this worked. He stood up and made his way to the bathroom in his hall. He grabbed the razor he used for his to shave face, the one he used for the cuts striping down his arm. He didn’t want to do this. But it was the only way.

The cold didn’t bother Eddie as he ran. His adrenaline made him forget about his surroundings. He was a little over half way there.

Richie stood in the bathroom deciding what to do next. He decided he wanted to do it in the comfort of his room. He walked back into his room, shut the door, and sat on his bed.

He cried at the thought of his parents walking into his bedroom and finding his dead body. Not that they would be fazed anyways. He was going to do it. It was going to be all over soon. He rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, displaying each and every scar he had previously made. He took the blade in his opposite hand and tried gained the courage it would take to get through this.

Eddie made it to Richie’s house. He hoped it wasn’t too late. What if it was? No it couldn’t be. He cringed at the thought of finding a lifeless Richie. Eddie swung the door of Richie’s house open, glad that it wasn’t locked. As he bolted up the stairs he took sight of the beer bottles and the mess of the house. That was the least of his problems.

He finally found Richie’s room at the end of the hallway. He barged through the room and tears rolled down his eyes as he saw Richie. He was still alive. Richie’s head shot up when he heard the door open. Eddie could see the tears that covered Richie’s freshly bruised cheeks.

“Eddie what are you doing here?” Richie’s voice came out as barely a whisper, yet genuine shock and confusion could still be heard from across the room.  He put the blade on his bed and stood up to get a better view of the boy standing on the opposite side of the room.

Eddie stood in his doorway for a moment, thanking god he wasn’t too late. He then ran across the room to where Richie was standing.

Eddie grabbed Richie’s face in his two hands and looked him in the eyes before standing on his toes to smash his lips into Richie’s. He inhaled the flavor of nicotine that lingered upon Richie’s cracked lips. He didn’t hate it. In fact, he quite loved the taste of Richie.

Richie was extremely confused at the sudden action, but was in no place to protest. Eddie tasted like bubblegum. Richie fucking loved bubblegum. Richie placed a hand on Eddie’s cheek to deepen the kiss, as he also placed a hand on Eddie’s waist to bring them closer together. The fact that Eddie was still kissing him, made his heart swell. Richie tilted his head to try and get a better angle, but his glasses started to press into both of their faces uncomfortably.

They both pulled away, Eddie giggling. Richie placed both of his hands on Eddie’s face as to make sure if he was really there, if he was really even real. He smiled, burying his face in the crook of Eddie’s neck.

Before Richie could even ask him a question, Eddie started talking. “Don’t you ever do something like this again trashmouth, you hear me?” Richie nodded against Eddie’s neck. He pushed Richie’s shoulders back with his hands so he could look him in the eyes.

Richie smiled a bit, causing Eddie to grin a bit too, “Richie Tozier, you are the kindest, sweetest, most fucking hilarious, most loving person I have ever met in my fucking life. Don’t you ever forget that, alright? Alright?” Eddie had started to cry too. He couldn’t bear the thought of loosing Richie forever. He wouldn’t be able to go on.

“Richie without you I-” Eddie had to pause because he was choking on his words due to the tears rolling down his cheeks, but he nevertheless continued, “I don’t think-“ 

“Shhhhh,” Richie said, he knew what Eddie was trying to say. Eddie nuzzled his face back into Richie’s chest. They both held on to the other for dear life, with tears greased to their faces. They stayed like that for a while. 

“I love you Richie,” Eddie whispered. Richie was taken aback, but those were exactly the words Richie needed to hear. Richie loved Eddie so much his heart hurt. How could he ever be so selfish to take his own life, leaving a broken Eddie behind.

“I love you too Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie whispered back. Both boys pulled back and looked into each others eyes as they had genuine smiles across their faces.

Richie knew now that no matter how bad life got, or how hard it was to go on, someone would be there. He had someone there all along. Richie thought he would always be alone, he thought this night would be the grand ending to his pathetic life. Thankfully, life didn’t work that way.

#avery writes #mine #reddiefanfic #hopefully this isnt shit #Reddie #reddie fan fic

[0stentatia]

we aren’t dead, yet – part 17

a post apocalyptic au with mark & zombie jack, based off of this graphic. (also on AO3)

They ducked back behind a dumpster to try and stay hidden while they tried to figure out their plan of action. Mark was usually pretty good with thinking on his feet, but this didn’t feel like any other obstacle they’d ever run into before. There was a fear and panic in his stomach that crept up into his throat and made it difficult to breathe. His fear was clouding his mind and his judgment, although he’d never admit it out loud.

“We could go back to the shelter and try to figure out another way out of town..” Signe suggested after a few minutes of tense silence.

Mark shook his head.

“If we backtrack, we run the risk of running into anyone other dangers roaming around. We’re lucky enough to even get here without any trouble. There’s no way we’ll be lucky enough to make it back without running into some kind of trouble.” His hands were sweaty. He wiped them off on his jeans.

Signe didn’t say anything else for awhile. Mark felt like maybe he’d hurt her feelings by rejecting her idea. It wasn’t like it was anything personal against her. In a situation like this, they needed to be realistic about what would work and what wouldn’t. He didn’t want to put them in danger just to spare her feelings. Mark felt a little frustrated that she’d even get moody about it in the first place. Now wasn’t the time to focus on small, petty issues.

He wasn’t the best at being in touch with his feelings, though. Maybe he’d talk to her about it later— if they could survive until later.

“What if you put your sweatshirt on him and carry him?” She spoke up again.

“What?” Mark furrowed his brows, waiting for her to elaborate.

“We can put a sweatshirt on him with the hood pulled up, and you can carry him. When they ask about him, we can tell them that he injured his leg or something and they’ll let us through.” She sounded more confident in this plan than she did with her original suggestion. It felt like more of a statement, like that’s what she’d decided they were going to do whether Mark agreed or not. He didn’t have any better ideas himself, so he thought they’d give it a shot.

Mark pulled his hoodie off over his head and struggled a bit with putting it on Jack. He fought him the whole way, like a small child, but eventually Mark got it onto him and pulled the hood up over his head. If you looked at his face, the pale and greenish tinted complexion gave him away immediately. However, Mark thought that he could probably carry him in a way that his face was fairly hidden. If Jack would just let Mark carry him without much fuss then they might be able to pull it off.

“Okay buddy,” Mark said to Jack, trying to make the most amount of eye contact that he could get. “I’m going to pick you up and carry you. I know you probably won’t like it, but it’s really really important that you stay still and stay quiet. Can you do that?” Of course he didn’t really expect Jack to understand everything he said, if he even understood anything at all. But it made Mark feel a little bit better to know that he’d at least tried to tell Jack what they needed from him.

Jack wasn’t exactly the lightest person in the world but thankfully Mark had a good amount of muscle so he managed to pick Jack up and hold him bridal style. He tilted Jack’s body so that he was leaning more towards his chest than outwards. Hiding his face would be the most important part.

“Ready?” Signe asked quietly.

“As I’ll ever be.” Mark let out a dry laugh.

The two of them walked out from behind the dumpster and tried to look as casual as they could manage. Jack was staying relatively still and quiet. Mark could only hope and pray that he stayed this way and didn’t do anything to blow their cover. They had no back up plan. He had no idea what they’d do if they were found out while trying to pass through the barricade. Would they be shot at? Or tackled and captured? Or suffer some entirely different fate that Mark couldn’t even imagine? He decided it was better to stay optimistic about their plan instead of worrying about what would happen if it went wrong.

They approached the barricade, finally within earshot of the two guards closest to the opening. He felt Signe move a little closer to him from behind, lightly grabbing onto the back of his upper arm. It was oddly comforting to him, and he thought it probably was for her as well.

“Hey, who are you?” The guard barked.

“I uh, I’m Tony and this is Lauren,” He lied spontaneously, not knowing what made him do it but trusting his gut anyway. “We’re just passing through.”

The guards eyed them suspiciously.

“Where you headed?” The other guard asked.

“Up North,” Signe was the one to speak up this time. “I used to have some family up there so we’re going to see if they’re still there or if they, y’know… aren’t.”

The first guard looked a little solemn and nodded his head. “I had family up North myself. I was living up there when this shit storm started. After I lost my wife and my brother, I decided to come down this way. Heard there was a settlement that didn’t have bullshit hippie values about wanting to save those mutated fuckers.” Mark swallowed hard but just nodded as he listened.

“I’m sorry to hear that about your family.” There was a genuine sincerity in Signe’s voice that actually had him feeling bad for this asshole.

“What’s with him?” The second guard spoke again, eyeing Jack.

“He heart his leg pretty bad awhile back. It hasn’t really had the chance to heal so, this is the best we can do in the meantime.” Mark lied through his teeth. His mouth was dry and his heart was beating 100 miles an hour. It felt like it might actually burst out of his chest. However, he tried to remain as calm as possible on the outside.

“You know, we have some medical shit back at base camp in town. You might be able to take him there and get him checked up.” The first guard— clearly the more friendly of the two— offered.

This was something that Mark hadn’t planned on. He didn’t think they’d be friendly or talkative or helpful. He couldn’t think of a reason that they’d turn down the offer of free medical help if Jack’s leg had really been as messed up as they’d implied by carrying him. If he’d really been hurt, and hadn’t been infected, Mark would have accepted the help in a heartbeat. Most people probably would have. So it would probably seem suspicious to decline the offer.

Luckily, Signe spoke up while his brain was spiraling into a panic.

“We’ve actually got it wrapped up pretty good under his jeans and it’s pretty much taken care of, we just have to wait it out until it heals on its own, y’know?” Mark was impressed with how natural her lies sounded.

“Alright well….” The second guard stepped forward a little bit and Mark’s body tensed up. He held Jack a little closer to him. Both guards noticed that immediately.

“You feelin’ alright there?” One of them tried to say to Jack.

No response.

They looked to Mark and Signe with eyebrows raised.

“He was uh, he was in a lot of pain so we gave him some alcohol to ease it and he passed right out.” Mark laughed and hoped it didn’t sound too nervous.

Nobody said anything for a few seconds as the two men seemed to be thinking over the information they’d been given. They exchanged a look that Mark couldn’t read. For a second, he was terrified. Were they about to call them out on their bluff? Had their plan been foiled? Mark’s brain started to kick into high alert mode and he was ready to book it towards the opening as fast as he could.

“That’s some good thinking right there,” One of the guards finally said. Mark let out a silent breath of air. He was feeling light headed. “I don’t know that I’ve ever had a problem that some good alcohol can’t solve.” The guards laughed and Mark and Signe laughed along with them.

“You can go ahead and move on through.” They stepped to the side.

Just a few more minutes and they’d be home free.

“Thanks,” Signe said kindly. Luckily her brain was working well enough to still seem semi-normal, as Mark’s was currently on auto pilot to get the hell out of there.

Trying not to seem to eager or too rushed, they walked past the guards and headed through the opening in the barricade. It was so difficult to keep a casual pace when all he wanted to do was sprint away as fast as he could. He let Signe walk through first, feeling better when he could see her and know that she wasn’t getting left behind somehow.

“Hey, wait a minute,” They heard from back behind the other side of the roadblock.

Mark’s body tensed again and he could see that Signe’s had as well.

He turned around reluctantly after considering bolting forward for a quick moment.

“I hope you find your family and that they’re safe up North,” The first guard said to them, leaning to poke his head through the exit. He had a warm smile on his face.

“Thanks,” Signe said again, returning the smile.

When they turned back around, Mark walked quickly until he was beside her. Jack made a gurgling sound. It was quiet and they were too far away from the guards for them to hear him, but Mark shushed him anyway. His back was starting to ache from carrying Jack and his arms were starting to shake a bit. Whether it was from the weight of his friend of from his nerves, he wasn’t sure.

“Don’t put him down until they can’t see us anymore,” Signe said quietly to Mark.

He only nodded, not saying anything in response. He hadn’t even thought about that. Without her there, he definitely would have blown their cover, if he’d even come up with the idea at all. Mark was suddenly feeling incredibly grateful that she was there with him. As they walked on, moving farther and farther away from the barricade, he made a mental note to tell her that later.

#septiplier #markiplier #jacksepticeye #markiplier fic #SEPTIPLIER FRIENDSHIP THO DONT GET IT TWISTED #zombie!septiplier #my writing

[starlordsandrockets]

Gold Dust Woman: Ch. I

semi-warning: a soon to be smut

summary: (Star-Lord x reader) You entered the bar and was stopped by a gold dusted woman & are attacked by a handsome stranger named Star-Lord

Ch. I | Ch. II | Ch. III | Ch. IV | Ch. V | Ch. VI  GDW masterlist

GDW: the compendium

The night was far from over as you found yourself entering the only bar they had on the ramshackle rock the inhabitants called a planet. In contradiction to the begrimed exterior, the planet was home to very beautiful and high-priced crystals. Which is why you had decided on making a pit stop to find some, not only for the resale value, but for your personal collection as well. The space bar roared with drunk laughter and testosterone. The atmosphere practically begged you to leave, but you needed a drink after the day you spent fighting off a few marauders.

Your heavy, black boots clicked against the bar’s floor as they sat over a pair of black jeans. You straightened out your dusted, black jean jacket. Some of the planet’s surface drifts off the fabric and collects in the air, making a small cough pass through your bruised lips. Your minor cough attracted the eyes of a few men that sat at a table nearby. Your eyes rolled, knowing what would come next.

“Hey pretty lady,” a Skrull man spoke, his voice lined with his drug of choice. His green skin was tinted with red, blushed from intoxication, “let me buy you a drink and you can sit with us,” your eyes met those of the middle aged men, most Skrull but you spotted an older Kree man and a younger Sovereign woman who stared at you, her golden skin and eyes almost captivating you.

“I’m not usually one to turn down free drinks,” you expressed, “but I’m going to have to decline your offer,” you spoke, heading towards the bar. The Skrull’s large hand fell around your dainty and bruised wrist, making you exhale through your clenched teeth. Turning your head, you met the man’s eyes as his hold tightened, pulling you towards his as he now stood before you.

The Sovereign woman rose to her feet, placing her hands gently on the dirty bar table, as if she did not want to touch its surface, “I’m sorry but I can’t take my eyes off of it,” she spoke, her voice was cryptic and it made your heart skip a beat.

“Excuse me,” you almost chuckled, unsure of what the woman spoke of. Your eyes followed hers as she approached you. Her hand was outstretched as she pushed away your heavy jacket, revealing your crystal that sat on a golden chain.

“Moonstone, it’s a beautiful piece,” She turned the smooth stone in her fingers, her golden nails were sharp as they tickled the skin of your chest, “a stone for new beginnings, intuition and female energy,” her words were soft, “helpful with reproduction,” her eyes found yours from under her long lashes, “I assume you collect, this cut is far too perfect for a simple girl,”

You stared at the woman, she was beautiful and out of place, which made you skeptical, “Please,” you smile, “you’re making me blush,” you laughed it off. Although you spoke the truth, everything about her captivated you, “I do,” you mustered out, “collect,”

“A beautiful hobby,” she smiled, she was not genuine but you did not care, “for a beautiful girl,” you felt your eyes dart away from her gaze. You cursed at yourself for allowing her to put you under her spell, knowing that nothing good would come out of this encounter, “Have you ever, collected from,” her question was innocent and drawn out, “my planet,”

You met the eyes of a stranger that stood in the corner of the bar, in the darkness, almost out of sight, “You know,” you directed your attention back to the woman, “I’ve never had the pleasure,” you smiled, “do you think you could show me,” you almost whispered as you took her hand that held the stone. You watched as her body stiffened, not wanting to be touched by someone like you, covered in the planet’s filth.

Suddenly a crash came from the direction of the shadow cloaked stranger, a green light leaving the blaster that sat in his hand. You felt as if your heart jumped into your throat, realizing the light was heading towards you and the golden goddess that stood before you, “Shit,” you spoke as you felt her hand fall against your chest. Despite her small stature, she pushed you with unknown strength as the golden chain burned the skin on your neck, snapping under the pressure of your fall.

“Quill you absolute asshole,” the woman shouted, as she stumbled in her high heels. The men now surrounded her as you laid in front of her feet, looking up at her, “You can forget about any extra rewards,” she spoke and for the first time anger laced her voice. Your eyes fell on the golden chain that dangled from her closed fist.

“Give me my necklace,” you spoke, for a moment you forgot about the blasts that were flying over your head, “that’s mine,” you rose to your feet, bumping your forearm on your side, activating your blaster. You walked towards the guarded woman, her brow furrowed, making her beauty fade into a woman who should be feared.

You looked towards the man who was attacking you. He was now flying towards you, a helmet covered his face, its red eyes leaving you like a deer in crimson headlights. Quickly raising your arm, you set off a blast, sending him flying back to the corner of the bar, where he started. Turning your head, the group was gone and so was your necklace, “Shit,” you muttered under your breath, running outside to the bar’s exterior. The night air blowing your (y/h/c) hair into your face, as you watched the group retreat in a golden ship. You could swear you saw the woman was wearing the golden chain around her neck.

Suddenly you felt a heavy weight knock into you. Turning, you swore under your breath as the stranger from the bar’s head knocked against yours, from where he was thrown out of the bar, “Fuck,” you swore, this time out loud, as you began to see stars, “What the hell,” you pointed your blaster at him, watching him physically cower. Raising his hands slowly, you finally got a good look at him. His nose was bloody and his lip was cut and he was quite handsome.

“Whoa, hey,” the stranger spoke, looking into your eyes. His blue eyes were dialed, his blue pools were a small ring around his dark pupils, “Take it easy okay, she’s gone,” he spoke, “she didn’t even pay me yet,”

You walked towards him as he sat on the planet’s dry ground. Kneeling before him you grabbed his cheeks, roughly, studying his cut lip that must have been from a broken bar glass. The blast you sent off had thrown everything in its path. The stranger stared at you, his pupils somehow still widening, his hair was sitting against his forehead, wet from beer and sweat making his hair hold small curls. He smelt of beer and heavy cologne, the combination, for some reason, making you weak in the knees, “What’s your name,” the stranger asked. His words came out crushed, much like his face that still sat between your fingers. Realizing this, you let him go.

You outstretched your hand, offering to help him to his feet. He accepted, and his rough skin brushed against your soft palm, making your heart feel heavy, “Y/N,” you spoke quietly, “but I also go by, (y/h/n),” your eyes rested on your connected hands as the stranger still held it.

He must have noticed his lingering touch as he began to shake your hand, as if that would make the situation less awkward, it didn’t, “Quill,” he spoke quickly, “Peter Quill, but I usually go by Star-Lord,” Peter smiled as he looked down at you.

“Well Star-Lord,” you spoke sternly, “You owe me a moonstone and a gold chain,” you watched his smile grow as he stared at you, making you a bit self conscious, “Come on,” you spoke, your gaze once again falling to your intertwined hands, “Let’s get you cleaned up,” you spoke shyly, pulling him towards where all the ships were docked.

“Yeah,” he questioned with a smile, “You should have seen the other guy,” Peter exclaimed, trying to sound tough.

“Quill,” you smiled as you pulled him along, earning a ‘mhm’ in response, “I was the other guy,” You turned your head, giving him a grin, your brows furrowed. The two of you continued to the loading docks. You did not have a ship, so Peter took lead, directing you towards his ship, the Milano.

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