Josh O'Connor!!!!!!!!!!!

THIS SCENEEEEEEEEEEE

No, Challengers (2024) does not have a train in it

this sucks but i haven't written in a while so. here you go

Everyone was horrified by your lack of tears. You could see it on their faces. You were supposed to keel over with your knees pressing into your stomach and wail, pounding on the floor like the vibrations would shake through his body and start up his heart again. If that was going to work, he would’ve come back days ago. The night you got the call, you wished you’d been more shocked. You hung up the phone politely, always cordial with his mother despite everything, and screamed. Screamed like the release was enough. Enough to feel better? Enough to wake him up? Who knows. Certainly not you. Now, you don’t cry. You hardly move. Where was there to go when pinned down by a loss this big? Not to sleep. Not to the awakened world that reality brings, either. Not to the middle ground. It’d be easier to snap your fingers and just phase out of existence. You wonder how it’d feel to be sucked into a black hole. You wouldn’t necessarily mind if it hurt.

You didn’t want to see the body. The worst thing you possibly could do for yourself would be to see the body. When you first heard, you tried to imagine what he’d look like, all paper white and green like the veins beneath his wrists. You had a hard time picturing it, initially, because how could you? He had been livelier than people gave him credit for. He lit up during movie nights, grinned like the sun had shone down just for him when he got the curve of your nose in a drawing just right. He’d been so alive. Soon it got easier. You could wipe off the cheap foundation holding him together just enough to look lifelike while lifeless and see if your imagination was correct, but it’d do you no good. It still hurt to see him all colorful, rosy like the blood beneath his skin still flowed. He looked the same. It feels like he’d been dead this whole time. You fear he had been.

The dirt in the ground beneath you had hardened with the cold air, bunching in on itself to create an uncomfortable, constant press against your spine. You tossed, turned, and the earth didn’t move. Nothing had ever bent at your will, really. You weren’t one of the lucky ones. You learned about this once, how cold slows down particle movement, hardens things, molds them into one set form. The smell of misty, post-rain air was still dancing around, the remnants now shining, silvery coatings over the deep green blades of grass which tickled the skin of your cheek. 

If you reached out your hand just enough, it would touch his, and it would still feel like lighting on fire from the inside out. The cigarette between his lips, which bobbed when he swallowed around nothing, sizzled a bit on the inhale, glowing redder with each breath in, and simmering down when the connection was lost. You think you understand how it feels. You could’ve kissed him if you wanted to, but you’d never liked the way that cigarette smoke lingers on your tongue, wraps around your hair like ivy and burrows itself between the fibers of your clothes. So you just watched as he breathed life into it, cherry glowing brighter, brighter still, a flaming, striking orange, then reducing down to a deeper red. 

If it weren’t so cold, maybe the stars would;ve seem less hazy. The world always seems muddled this time of year, all soft lines and blending colors, like each texture was bleeding into the other. Then again, maybe it was just your eyes. But still, they glowed for you, for him, maybe for the pair you made up. 

“Do you think that you’ll ever be okay knowing this is it?”

He had a way of speaking that makes everything sound significant, like a weight off his chest comes with each syllable that funneled up from his throat. It’s one of those things you love about him, one of many. Sure, he’d had his flaws, like all people do, but when he made something as simple as a greeting sound like a poem, it’s almost indescribable, the sensation of hearing him say that he loves you. 

“I think that’s fine with me. It’s not like things are stuck here. I can still move around a little bit. You know, make friends, get a job. Things that aren’t concrete.” 

He hums, tilting his head up as if he’s going to nod, but he never drops it back down. He just keeps staring up, up and away. Almost like something is looking back at him. You hope whatever God is holding his gaze is one of the pleasant ones, all white, flowing dresses and feathered wings. 

“Do you think you’ll be ok with it?”

He shrugged, took a breath. 

“It’ll have to be enough.”

You itch with disgust at the memory. The stupidity you’d always had. It’d never be enough. Maybe ‘it’ wasn’t anything you could ever understand. He’d been the smarter one. You step outside of the funeral parlor, hands shaking as they dig through your purse, pulling out a small box of cigarettes you haven’t yet learned to stop coughing around. You hope the smoke which fills your lungs doesn’t leave, settling into a hard soot against you. You settle it between your lips, the lighter setting it aglow. You breathe in, choke at the harshness, and suck in harder. It better stick into each and every hair. It better turn your teeth yellow with damage. It’s like kissing him all over again.

A Night Over

an: enjoy this cute picture of mike because i literally finished this like 2 hours ago and spent so long worrying about making it aesthetic i stopped caring

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He brushes past you as soon as you open the door, barely even a wide enough space to squeeze a body through. You huff, turn around just in time to get knocked into by his overstuffed messenger bag. It’s the same one you recognize from kindergarten cubbies and middle school lockers. 

“Well, hello to you too, Connor.”

You’ve done this all before. You recognize the sound of his body against the couch cushions before you see it, back turned to him to pull some blankets from the coat closet by the front door. You can feel his eyes, though, the way you always can. Intense in everything, even just in observing you move through your home. The home he’s been to more times than he can count on both his hands. He can’t help but to be fascinated by you, though, no matter how many times he’s been around you, bombarding his senses until the only thing his brain has a concept of is his existence relative to yours. 

He keeps a bag packed for nights like these, nights that are more frequent than they should be, and have just been growing more persistent. There’s a tone to his father’s voice he knows too well. Not necessarily anger, but a growing displeasure at everyone and everything around him, including the son that ruins his Facebook family photos and general public image of being a perfect, upper-middle class suburban family. He wouldn’t mind being in a miserable family if everyone agreed on the best way of doing it, but they still clash in that sense. So disjointed they can’t even find the same ways to hate each other, hate themselves.

You sit on the coffee table across from where he rests, hands clasped in your crossed thighs. There’s no need to talk about it anymore. The argument, the topic it took, isn’t the issue. It’s not what drives him out of his house at odd hours of the night to seek refuge in yours. It’s the feeling that if he stayed, there would be no escaping the idea that maybe, just maybe, his father is right. That he is ruining things. Sure, he’d internalized that feeling since birth, thinking and feeling it before his father could confirm he shared the same opinion, but it still hurt to know that he wasn’t his daddy’s little boy anymore. Now, he was the son that could’ve been better, should’ve been better with the resources provided to him. But he’s not normal in that sense, never has been. He wishes he could hit himself on the head hard enough to knock loose whatever is festering in his skull until it comes out his ears. Whatever neurochemical imbalance, whatever parasitic thought, whatever version of himself nestled its way in. 

You unclasp your hands, find your palms redder than they’d started, grabbing at his ankles to place them in your lap. 

“You can sleep in my bed, you know. Your back will thank you.”

You say absentmindedly, beginning the minutes long task of unlacing those scuffed, softened leather boots he always wears. They’d been a product of saved-up birthday money and weeks of not smoking, and he couldn’t help but to feel a little proud for having done something semi-responsible with himself. And now here they are, in your lap, sprinkling wet dirt onto your skin. It’s the same offer you’ve been extending his way for months, held in your palm like it’s fragile, like it means more than just a bed. He never takes it, curls your fingers back over it, nudges your hand back to your side. He means well. He means not to impose the way he does everywhere else. He knows how few places he’s truly welcome. He knows that the best one is wherever you happen to be. He won’t lose it, or he loses himself. But he can’t impose where he is invited. Welcome at all times. Your home is his home, because he doesn’t have one otherwise. Here he is wanted, and he just won’t let that be. 

You curl the undone laces around your fingers, watching the coils turn your skin just that little bit paler under the strained blood flow. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches, like he tends to do. You can feel his eyes follow the movement, whether it’s yours or the lace’s, you can’t quite make out. You look back up at him through weary eyes, the time of night clear in each fleck of color. It’s fairly late, but not late enough for you to look so worn. You’ve been tired for ages, and no amount of laying beneath woolen blankets has been able to rejuvenate you. Remarkably, there aren’t any real bags beneath your eyes. The one way you could cry out for the help you’d so desperately like without verbal confirmation of being anything less than mundane, and you can’t even supply yourself with it. How pathetic. He recognizes the look in your eyes, the plea for him to help himself so you can live vicariously through it. Feel better for having done something. He doesn’t give in though. 

So fine. He can have it his way. Boots are tucked beneath the couch, left to drip onto the wood beneath them. They can rot the whole house away for all you care. You squeeze yourself into that sliver of space he isn’t taking up, face to face so closely that it feels like this is the first time you’ve seen him at all. His left eye has a little spot of brown in it, stuck in amongst blue. A black sheep. He looks behind your head to the wall. It seems easier. He’s met with a framed photo of the two of you. No such thing as an easy way out. So, he does what he does best. Watches. Watches you move some humidity-frizzed hair from his face as if it won’t fall right back where it was, watches you attempt to get comfortable with the singular foot of room allotted to you, watches you pretend the proximity isn’t what makes your eyes look far away and yet so concentrated. He can’t point that part out, he’s sure he looks the same. He watches you sleep, too, for a while. Features softened, smushed, unfurrowed by stress. You look your age this way. You’ve shed years of forced maturation in a single shallow breath. He doesn’t feel it’s an invasion if it’s something beautiful to look at. Artistic, even. Biblical. He shivers, pretends it’s from the cold, the rain, the dampness of his clothes. You hadn’t actually put any of those blankets you’d grabbed to use. He doesn’t want to move. He can feel your heartbeat if he focuses enough like this, breath mixing with his own on your exhales. He thinks it’s almost kissing. It’s better. It’s nowhere near enough. He looks to the ceiling, then back at you. He smiles. Maybe someday he’ll say the obvious. Maybe someday he can impose. But for now feigned relative indifference will do. You know he cares more than he says. You will wake up rejuvenated.

WIFE JUST DROPPED SOME BOTSSSSS

MISC BOT DUMP ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

15/04/25

featuring characters from: challengers, west side story, panic, house of the dragon & marvel

prefacing this with a big fat thank u for 700 followers <3 not proofread in the slightest and very badly tagged but that's okay!! got drafts for fics for a lot of these so. Hmm eventually

still have other reqs to get through but saving those for after anniversary :) rafe lovers u r not forgotten.

gender neutral unless specified otherwise. have fun

enjoy ! <3

CHALLENGERS

SERVE(ING PAPERS)

patrick zweig x user

Your marriage was doomed from the start. Everyone pretended otherwise, and it took you a decade to come to that conclusion, but hey. Frontal lobe development, and all that. The point is you're sick and tired of the fighting and infidelity on both sides. Time to get a divorce.

ANOTHER ONE?

art donaldson x user (m4f)

Art's happy with his life, don't get him wrong. He loves likes his career, adores his wife, and Lily is the absolute light of his life. But it's because he loves your little family so much that he's been thinking about expanding it... how about another one?

WEST SIDE STORY

PLEASE DON'T GO

riff lorton x user

Fancy fuckin' school you managed to get yourself accepted into. All was well and dandy before you dropped the news that it meant you'd have to move away and leave him behind. So instead of telling you he'll miss you, he takes the childish route. What happened to loyalty, huh?

NOT ON MY WATCH

riff lorton x user (m4f)

Pretty girl like you is too good to be seen hanging around with the likes of him. You have a future ahead of you—you don't need to be wasting time with some boy you took pity on as a kid for having a crackhead momma. Cutting you out of his life is a necessity, he tells himself... until he spots some member of the Sharks hitting on you a few months later. Absolutely-fucking-not.

LONG TIME NO SEE

balkan x user

It's been a hell of a long time since you've seen him. Keeping a roof over your head is tough, and Balkan is in too deep with the Jets to worry about maintaining friendships. But when he gets into a fight on the wrong side of town, you're the person he turns to. Maybe he just misses you.

PANIC

DADDY'S LIL ANGEL

dodge mason x user (m4f)

Dodge willingly attending church? Unheard of! But when he realises how pretty the preacher's daughter is, he finds himself attending worship. (Not for God, of course. For you.) He's on his best behaviour around you, he swears, but it's getting increasingly hard not to test how hellbent you are on saving yourself for marriage.

A SHOULDER TO CRY ON

dodge mason x user

If you asked his sister, she'd tell you Dodge has the emotional intelligence of a rock. Definitely not the most ideal person to find you crying in the kitchen after a rough shift at Dot's, but you mean a lot to him. Maybe he can lend you a shoulder to cry on... just don't stain his shirt, please.

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON

HEAVY IS THE HEAD

rhaenyra targaryen x user (wlw)

Lucerys is dead, Daemon has disappeared with Caraxes, and Rhaenyra's council is driving her up the wall with their arguing. But amidst all that chaos, she's able to find solace in the company of her lady's maid: you.

THE NEW QUEEN

alicent hightower x user

When Alicent told you that she had some news to share, you did not expect this. Perhaps that some knight asked for her favour, or that she had a new prayer book to share... not that she was marrying your father. Seven Hells, what has she gotten herself into?

FRIEND OR FOE?

jacaerys velaryon x user (m4f)

In theory, Jacaerys should be avoiding you at all costs. Your father is a supporter of the Hightowers, openly expressing his favour for Aegon on the throne. And yet despite it all, he finds himself seeking out your company more often than not—you aren't like the rest of them, he's sure of it.

MARVEL

PETALS AND PENITENCE

peter parker (tasm) x user

Surprise! Your best friend is Spider-man! And you are not happy about the fact he's kept this very life-altering secret from you, his closest companion. When you decide to ignore him after his accidental reveal, he realises he has to take matters into his own hands—a grand gesture, maybe. It's a pity the flowers got so wrecked in his bag, though.

LAST ONES STANDING

natasha romanoff x user

In the aftermath of the Blip, everything changed. But, five years after the initial disappearance of half the world's population, things are returning to some form of normalcy. Or, at the very least, you're still as infuriatingly optimistic as Natasha remembers.

OH CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN

steve rogers x user

When you enlisted as a medic during the Second World War, Steve was proud of you. He couldn't serve his country, but you could. That was, of course, until Dr. Abraham Erskine took a chance on a poor kid from Brooklyn. Now you're both changing lives for the better, and he's never been more happy to see an old friend.

im about to fucking climax in the pyjama aisle of sainbury’s because yet again they’ve absolutely smashed out a bean flicking collection of pjs

Nibbling on this comme une souris qui mange du fromage miam miam miam

tashi x reader - take me to church

disclaimer: i am not religious in any shape or form so this is just an outsider's interpretation pls don't cancel me, thanks to @artstennisracket for the idea!!!

let's please ignore that this took me over a month to write, thank you to all my beta readers, @tacobacoyeet @artstennisracket @diyasgarden @blastzachilles @cha11engers @asheepinfrance

word count: 3.2k, mentions of internalised homophobia based on religion!

the sound of feet stumbling to stand fills the hallowed halls of your church as your priest enters, making his way to the pulpit with an earned grace. your grandmother bows her head, nodding before he's even said a word, your mother is poised, eyes on the cross at all times as you're uncomfortably sandwiched between them.

'please...be seated' comes his booming voice, hands outstretched to you all as everyone sits, a hushed silence falling over the crowd as the priest straightens himself up in preparation.

as he opens his mouth to speak, there's the sound of the church doors banging against the wall as they swing open, followed by muttered 'sorry- so sorry- are we late? so sorry-'. heads turns to see who's interrupted the ceremony, your family's eyes narrowing as they take in the family of three trotting up the aisle and that's when you see her.

she’s pretty, almost too pretty, enough to make those thoughts you'd tried so hard to get rid of swirl around your head yet again. her converse are scuffing the floors as she trails behind her parents, her curly hair tied up in a bun but you could see the way she tugged at strands, letting them fall and rest against her shoulders, a silent rebellion. her mother ushers her and her father into a pew that's right behind yours and you fight the urge to flush red over something so normal.

your mother purses her lips in distaste, leaning over you to whisper to your grandmother, 'the duncans...i hear his father died and they inherited the house' and your grandmother nods knowingly, 'his wife apparently runs some sort of athleisure brand.' they both shudder in offense at the thought, 'new money' wasn't welcome here, certainly not people from the city either, you knew that much.

the priest is smiling, benevolent as always, 'thank you for joining us, the Lord can always make time for his followers.' everyone claps at his wisdom, nodding in unison and agreement, even a few murmurs of 'amen' among the small congregation. he picks up the bible and starts to flick through pages, searching for the sermon he intends to preach this sunday.

'blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven' he begins, voice echoing throughout the church. sermon on the mount, one you knew very well, with but you made sure to listen with rapt attention, your mother mouthing the words with the priest as your grandmother rests her head against her hands, eyes closed.

you're drinking in every word, letting the words seep into your veins and feel that familiar warmth wash over you from the Lord's teachings. until there's a soft rustle behind you and one of her curls brushes your neck and you stiffen, impure thoughts filling every crevice of your brain too quickly for you to hold them back, especially when her breath hits your ear as she murmurs 'sorry' as she scrapes her hair back into that bun. you're too stunned to speak, only offering a small shake of your head in response.

stuck in between your family members, there's not much you can do besides try and focus back on the sermon, on the feeling of the lord's words, not the feeling of her hands on your body. you felt acutely aware of her eyes boring into the back of your head and just as you had half a mind to turn around and tell her to quit bothering you, applause grew around you, choruses of 'amens' filling the pews. you hadn't been listening, she'd distracted you.

your grandmother ushers you to stand and the walk up to the priest begins. 'wonderful sermon as always father' says your grandmother, clasping the hand of the priest in both her own, 'that's very kind’ the priest nods politely but she can't ever take the hint, continuing, 'i damn near felt the Lord's hands on me hearing you speak-’ ‘you know, my daughter was so honoured that you’d suggested her as one of the christian camp counsellors this year.’ your mother’s hands dig into your shoulders as she nudges you forward, just when you thought you could escape your grandmother’s devout speeches, your mother always found a way to make it worse. the priest brightened at that, ‘oh really? that is wonderful news, i know there’s so many kids who look up to you.’ you manage a stiff smile at that, feeling someone’s sharp elbow hit you in the back, ‘hey princess’ she whispers and you cough, the priest’s brow furrowing, ‘yeah…i’d love to help out…’ you manage, trying to ignore her nudging from behind, ‘meet me at the lake tonight’ she murmurs, her breath tickling the the hairs on the back of your neck and you flush red. ‘thank you father.’ you say quickly, excusing yourself and marching towards the door, and yet not missing the condescending smile, wink and wave she gives you as her father introduces them all to the priest. 

the midday sun was unusually bright, enveloping the grassy verges in a warm glow and you could see flowers start to blossom on the trees as the three of you made your way across to your mother’s car, and you felt a warmth in your chest that you hadn’t felt for a long time, your eyes looking over in the direction of the lake and wondering what awaits you there, what that girl’s plan was. 

‘what a rude girl’ muttered your grandmother as she got in the passenger seat, leaving you in the back yet again. ‘who?’ you say as casually as you can muster, thoughts of her still swirling in your head. ‘that duncan girl, she was so fidgety, clearly uninterested in the Lord’s teachings’ huffs your grandmother, as if someone’s disinterest in church was of personal offense to her. ‘i thought she seemed nice’ you shrug, wrong move, two heads whip around to stare at you in the backseat like you’ve just dropped a bomb. nice?!’ your mother repeated incredulously, ‘she couldn’t even be bothered to put on her sunday best! i’m sure her parents can afford something other than that raggedy hoodie of hers.’ your mother gripped the steering wheel tightly as she starts to drive home, shaking her head. ‘...right’ you say quietly, not wanting to argue about this any further, looking down at your hands that fiddle with the hem of your white dress, the one your grandmother spends all of Saturday meticulously ironing and steaming so it’s perfect for church. 

as the grey sedan pulled into the driveway, you got out and meekly followed your family into your modest home. the conversation between them had moved on, complaining about some meal served by your neighbours last sunday. however, within seconds of the key turning in the lock, you’re taking the creaky, wooden steps two at a time to your bedroom, barely hearing your mother’s cries of, ‘i left the camp flyers on your desk! it’s important!’. 

opening your wardrobe, purity stares back at you, long skirts and white garments and for the first time in your life, you feel oddly disgusted by it all. reaching for the shortest skirt and tightest top you own, forcing all thoughts of sin out of your head. you liked this outfit, you repeated like a mantra, you weren’t doing this for her, so she’d think you were cool or something, you liked this outfit. it was only when you were looking at yourself in the mirror that you noticed it. you’d been wearing the silver band so long it almost felt like a second skin, a permanent reminder of your beliefs. clouded by thoughts of her, you’re tugging the purity ring off your finger and tossing onto your crisp sheets, wincing as you notice the red mark left behind, a physical representation of your blasphemy. you took a deep breath as you cracked your window frame open, trying to ignore the cross hung on your bedroom wall, muttering ‘our heavenly father…’ under your breath as you hit the grassy ground. 

dusting yourself off, sun still blazing, you start to trek over to the lake, traipsing through the undergrowth to avoid being spotted. you can’t bear to be the next topic of gossip at church, the disapproving looks and clucks of dismissal, the shame of it all would be too much to bear. eventually, the trees part and the lake comes into view, twinkling in the sunlight. you look around, trying and failing to spot her nonchalantly, your gaze turning desperate. the sound of water hitting the grassy bank draws your attention to the lake, and that’s when you finally spot her, a mix of relief and dread sending a shiver up your spine. 

her curls are dripping with water, oversized band t shirt clinging to her body in a way that makes your greeting get stuck in your throat. ‘you actually showed’ she said with a grin, breathless from her swimming. ‘you’re crazy’ is all you can manage, ‘that lake is…’ you wrinkle your nose. ‘gross? disgusting? infected’ she supplies playfully, shaking herself off like a dog and you squeak, jumping back in fear, ‘god you really are a princess’ she laughs. you frown, ‘i am not! and you shouldn’t use the lord’s name in vain-’. her laugh only grows at your comment, ‘oh my- you’re serious?’. ‘stop it’ you frown further, stood like a pouting child. she catches sight of your expression and steels herself, ‘okay’ she holds up her hands in defense, ‘i’m sorry- i’ll stop’. 

she pulls her tshirt off and tosses it to the ground, only left in a bra and shorts and you mutter prayers for repentance under your breath as you fight not to stare at her chest. she flops down onto the grassy bank, her hand coming up to shield her eyes from the sun, ‘are you too much of a princess to sit down too?’ she challenges. you shoot her a look before flopping down beside her, watching the clouds pass across the bright blue sky. ‘i’m tashi by the way, and i am sorry for teasing you’ she says, looking over at you with earnest brown eyes. ‘tashi’ you repeat softly, letting her name roll off your tongue, it felt nice to say. you introduce yourself and she smiles, a toothy grin that catches you off guard at how real it is, how real she is. 

‘so, how long have you been a churchgoer?’ the question is serious but there’s a playful glint in her eye. ‘all my life’ you answer honestly, ‘i was christened…i did sunday school…i’ve done it all’. tashi stares at you, eyes narrowed as if you’re a code she’s trying to crack, ‘wow’ is all she replies with. ‘wow?!’ you say incredulously, surprised at her lack of teasing, ‘what do you want me to say?’ she retorts, ‘i don’t know! i thought you’d poke fun or something’ ‘do you want me to?’ tashi’s smirk grows on her face again, ‘no’ you sigh and her smirk only grows further, ‘thought so. look, i think it’s a load of bullshit-’ you let out an indignant squeak at the swear word and her brown eyes twinkle with mirth at your reaction, ‘but my mother thinks we should do it so we look good or whatever’ her forehead crinkles in disagreement. ‘look good?’ you pry, perplexed. ‘you know…new to town, fit in with the community, act all pious’. ‘oh…so you’re not? at all?’ you murmur astonished, you were used to the kids your age rebelling against their parents and turning on religion, but to show up to church with no belief at all was strange. tashi scoffs, ‘no- no way, my grandfather was but he never made my dad go with him so it never got passed onto me.’ you nod along, musing on the idea for a minute or so. tashi shuffles closer to you, her side pressing into your own and making your skin tingle at the contact. 

‘penny for your thoughts?’ she nudges her shoulder against yours, expression playful. ‘nothing.’ you shrug, not willing to share how your thoughts had turned from worship to worshipping her in the bedroom, ‘what’s the big secret, huh?’ tashi teases, but there’s a new flirtatious edge to it and still no response from you. you blink and she’s on top of you, damp curls hanging down and dripping onto you. ‘tashi- stop!’ you gasp in surprise and she’s grinning again, ‘c’mon…answer the question’ and before you can speak, she’s leaning in close, her plump lips nearly brushing yours. 

‘tashi! i’m not-!’ you shriek rapidly in panic and her eyes widen, pulling back and getting off you immediately. she doesn’t say anything for a while before, ‘you’re not?’. her voice is quiet, near timid, so different to the cocky girl you’d seen. ‘no! i’m not- i- it’s a sin!’ you splutter in protest, trying to convince yourself more than her as you sit up, grass tickling your legs. ‘a sin…right’ her hollow laugh makes your heart ache, she won’t even look at you. you stand up, stomach churning, ‘i should go- this was a mistake- i shouldn’t have come-’ but she stands too, her damp brown eyes boring into yours, searching for an answer, ‘why did you come?’. the words hang in the air, both of you locked in eye contact as your mind scrambles for an excuse, coming up with nothing. 

you step towards her, ‘tashi…’ you say quietly but she’s stoic, unmoving. ‘answer the question.’ she repeats but there’s no playfulness this time, just bluntness. ‘it’s not that simple…’ you plead, stepping closer again, she’s not stepping back which you take as a positive. ‘it is, i see the way you look at me.’ tashi grits out, ‘are you gay?’. her words hit you like a punch in the throat, all the air sucked out of your lungs and suddenly you’re back in your bedroom, praying over and over again and losing sleep because a new youth pastor came and gave you a talk on peer pressure but all you could focus on was how pretty she was, how kissable her lips were. 

now it was tashi who had taken a step closer, ‘are you?’ she repeated but her voice was more gentle now, more coaxing. ‘i-’, you start but her fingers brush your chin, tilting it towards her, ‘can i?’ tashi says with an unusual amount of delicateness and you find yourself nodding. the moment her lips meet yours, the world around you falls away and all you can focus on is her, your hand moving to cup her cheek as the kiss deepens. her tongue starts to prod at your bottom lip, asking for entrance and reality comes crashing back down into view. you break the kiss, choking back tears, shaking your head. tashi’s brow furrows, ‘hey…’, she says softly, ‘i’m sick!’ you yell, ‘this is wrong- it’s- i was born sick- i shouldn’t want this- i shouldn’t want…you.’ you pant, staring at her with tears rolling down your cheeks. stunned, tashi slowly wipes your eyes, ‘listen to me’ she whispers, pressing a kiss to your flushed cheek and the fight drains out of you, unable to push her away. ‘there’s nothing wrong with us’ she murmurs, kissing across your face till she reaches your lips again and this time, you fall into the feeling. 

your hands tangle in tashi’s tousled curls, her tongue colliding with your own as the kiss grows feverish. it’s broken by her kissing across your face, down towards your neck, ‘not there’ you breathe, there can be no evidence of this. tashi makes a face of reluctance at you but agrees, her hands sliding down your hips as she sinks to her knees before you, and you flush at how reverential it feels. ‘how about here?’ she purrs, her hands pushing up your skirt as her face slips between your legs, licking a long stripe along your underwear and you gasp, ‘tashi-’. her face peeks out from your thighs, ‘relax…nobody comes out here anyway’ she murmurs, before mouthing at your clothed pussy again. 

you squeak in surprise, trying to stifle how good that little stimulation feels after years of abstinence. her laugh vibrates against you and only doubles the feeling, her finger hooking into your panties and pulling them aside, her face pressed against your bare cunt and you whine. with tashi’s nose rubbing your clit, she starts to lick at your folds and you whimper, ‘wow- oh-’. tashi grows bolder, tip of her tongue penetrating you and you screech, nearly toppling over in pleasure, hands gripping her shoulders. she pushes your legs apart a little further so she can nestle between your thighs properly as she’s on her knees, her tongue pushing deeper into your hole and causing you to pant, ‘tashi- ngh-’. slowly, her tongue starts to thrust in and out of you and your moans grow louder, nails digging into her shoulders so hard you fear you’ll leave marks. 

tashi’s nose brushes your clit again as her eating grows more furious and you’re shocked by the obscene noises your soaked pussy is making, ‘tashi- you are- you are temptation incarnate’ you manage breathlessly and her tongue hits your g spot, ‘but don’t stop- ah-’. she pulls away just to grin up at you teasingly, her chin soaked with your juices before diving back into you.

your legs start to shake as she moves to suck on your sensitive bud, ‘tashi- wait- i feel-’ but she doesn’t let up, slurping on your cunt like it’s her last meal, ‘please- something- ngh- feels weird-’, you whimper, legs shaking violently, head thrown back in lust. suddenly, it was like a dam burst and you’re gasping for air as you’re lost in the throes of pleasure, ‘holy shit- tashi-’ you moan throatily, blinking rapidly as you try to come back to the world of the living. tashi’s lapping it up, still sucking on your oversensitive pussy, making sure to drain every last drop from you, before she’s unhooking your panties, letting the fabric cling to your soaked cunt.

she looks up at you with a devilish smirk on her face, ‘did you just swear? and use the lord’s name in vain?’ she laughs and you pout, ‘shut up!’ you push her shoulder and she falls down onto the grass dramatically, but not before pulling you down on top of her, ‘i don’t know what that was…it was like i lost my mind for a second…’ you murmur, reliving the moment of bliss in your mind over and over. ‘you had an orgasm baby’ tashi says bluntly, finding your reaction amusing, ‘i did?! woah’ comes your shocked reply, ‘i know, i’m just that good’ she smirks, and you can taste yourself when she presses her lips to yours for a hungry kiss. ‘thank you’ you murmur against her lips and she offers you a smug smile, though secretly flattered, ‘you’re welcome, you know where to find me’ she purrs. you rise to stand, leaving temptation behind as you make the trek back home, legs still shaking, prayers and apologies already on your lips. 

tags: @pittsick @femme-lusts @glennussy @stanart4clearskin

I just wanna be nice to Patrick when he has no one left. When he doesn’t know what kindness is anymore. When he doesn’t think he deserves it. I wanna be nice to him even though he takes advantage of it, even though he’ll try to take and take until there’s nothing left to give. Until he finally feels safe enough to let me in and give it all back.

Not one appropriate thought in mind

Pink in the Night

an: in honor of @blastzachilles birthday (i love you), @glassmermaids comeback (i missed you), and international women's day (go us). it's short but hopefully sweet because i love her so

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The rain hitting the roof above your head is taunting. A million little taunts. Each sound of watery, dull impact is a reminder that your skin is crawling to the point it may very well come off. No amount of tossing and turning, pressure to a new spot on your body, is undoing that nauseating tingly sensation. Stupid. You were, are, so, so incredibly stupid. 

She’s still here, sitting at your desk, like she hopes to forget by surrounding herself in familiarity. Your room was safe. Your room was a place of shared secrets and shoulders to cry on. Your room wasn’t the party you’d just left in some frat house. You hadn’t kissed her here. You don’t understand why she had come, much less why she still hadn’t left. A place she spends her nights where she can’t sleep, a welcome distraction from her exhaustion. Those night visits have grown quite frequent. She didn’t have to be here to watch you wallow. She knows that better than anyone. She’s above letting other people’s problems become her own. 

You told her you were drunk, which is probably why she’d still insisted on walking you home after everything. Her hair was damp to prove it, the hood of her sweatshirt still warming your cheeks. Still sweet to you. Just to you. Why you? Because you weren’t drunk. You had never been so clear-headed in all your life. It was still stupid, a moment of false confidence aided by flashing blue lights and glittery eyeshadow on honey brown skin. It wasn’t the grandiose gesture she deserved. It wasn’t a bouquet of white lilies, her flower of choice, it wasn’t candlelit dinner at the fancy steak place she wants to try, but you can’t afford, it wasn’t the carefully crafted note that’s folded into the drawer of the very desk she now sits at. It’s been sitting there for months, waiting for its turn under her eyes, the way most things do. Everyone waits to be beheld by Tashi, because it feels like being looked at by something divine. Even when scrutinizing, or cruel, there’s an otherworldliness to her. And here she is, a goddess watching her fake drunk friend roll around like a petulant child. A goddess who has to pick up her sweatshirt off of old, dorm room carpet when her hoodie is thrown there.

You lift your head just off your pillow, enough to strain your neck, enough to meet her eyes should she choose to reward you with such a thing. She runs her tongue over her bottom lip for a moment, sticky with gloss she hadn’t put there. Cherry-flavored gloss that she knows you gave her. She smiles, lifts her fingers to her lips to feel it. She wants to seal it to her skin. 

And even if she’s smiling, looking at you as she does so, you’re mortified. You’re never going to forget how she’d looked at you, pushing on your chest to recreate the space that you’d so unjustly taken from between your two bodies. She looked shocked, she looked horrified. Scariest of all, she looked disappointed. She’d never looked at you that way. And she was disappointed, yes, because she hadn’t expected it. Because she hadn’t made the move she was convinced she’d get the shot at. Because she hadn’t touched you when she got the chance. You tasted like cherry lip gloss and the Sprite you’d just tasted. You tasted like a diner Shirley Temple, how cliche. And you smelled like lavender and warm nights in and sex and soft skin and she didn’t even let it happen.

Her eyes shine against the glow of lampposts and the moon, aligned with it just so she shines like the light of it came from within her. Aligned with the celestial, aligned with the feminine, glittering and soft and sharp and witty. Sweet words, taut muscles, long, elegant frame. You admired her body not with hunger, necessarily, but with desire. And there’s a difference, not necessarily in intent, but the way it feels. Because each time she turns her head and more of her collarbone becomes visible, the dip of it shallow, the appearance of thin lines of muscle in her neck, is just another thing to worship. Another place to kiss. Another spot to let her know is well loved. Appreciated. Doing a wonderful job in keeping her whole. You love each and every part of herself she’d given you the honor of seeing. The secrets that you held tenderly in your palms, the insecurities you’d whisper praises into her skin to undo, the memories of smaller things in a world that seemed much bigger, missing teeth, frizzy hair, and you will sing a requiem to her past self. You love her, you love her, you love her. 

She’s still kneeling on that awful, scratchy carpet, the fabric of her poor sweatshirt in hand, and would hate yourself for making tonight one you regret entirely. You’d kissed her once already, just an hour ago, and she can already know what to expect. But you did it wrong. You did it without any of the soft hands, honeyed praise, fluttering lashes, and absolutely palpable adoration that she deserves. Not deserves, requires. It’s an unwritten rule, but one everyone knows is there. She allows you that second chance, long fingers to tear tracked cheeks, yours ghosting over every part you can reach. The position is uncomfortable, awkward, but you can manage. You will take any amount of pain the world can throw at you if you can bask in her presence as a result. You will continue to try and undo the nonexistent damage you’d done, again and again and again. Even when she’s no longer kissing you back, just giggling at the sensation of warm, soft affection to heated skin, you will continue to try. The rain is rhythmically tapping against the roof with each beat of your heart, each inhale and exhale, each touch of her body to yours. She doesn’t leave that night, and you get to watch her, bare-faced and clad in just undergarments, as she lays in your bed. She sleeps easily, peacefully, close but not atop you. She loves you, she loves you, she loves you, and that victory tastes like cherry lip gloss.