#Forum-Pipe

[good-advice-ganondorf]

gan0nd0rf d0 y0u have any advice f0r the marching band kids 0ut there

[raddest-laddest]

i just went dumpster diving, and let me just say, WINDOW BLINDS. HOLY FUCK.

[sphacelating]

reading and appreciating all your messages, replying later. my wife and i are going to another family gathering (again, holidays) and enjoying my days off work.

[sickleblade]

I'VE DECIDED BARTOK'S SHOW NAME. MARVEL'S PIPE CLEANER PARADE.

[placeholderurluntildeletionidk69]

i worldbuilt the conflict out of panacea ages ago so now it doesnt work as a story

[jeon-ify]

- 𝘫𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘰 - 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 ! ⋆·˚ ༘ *

synopsis: in which the way you look after showering gets your husband worked up.

genre: romance, smut, 18+. mdni.

warnings: dilf yunho!!!!!! yunho is in his late 30s-early 40s here, nudity implied, kitchen sex, swearing, breast play, making out, female reader, big!dick yunho, hand kink, finger sucking (yunho AND reader!!) tit sucking, cervix fucking, choking kink, breeding kink, if i missed anything let me know ! :3

song for the chapter : into it - chase atlantic

happy reading !

the coconut and lime scent of your conditioner floods the first floor of your home, sending your husband into a faint distraction. the scent runs up his nostrils, up to his brain, and straight down his cock. the music you’re playing blares through your phone in the shower, your husband hearing it through to the second floor.

“I BEEN CATCHIN’ PLANES FOR THE FUN OF IT,”

you sing out extra loud, your husband pausing his speech to apologize for the background noise.

you took an everything shower today, so you already made dinner before showering— considering you’d be exhausted.

somehow, yunho put the pieces together, finishing dinner and making it the right way. you didn’t expect yunho to be so generous tonight— but here you are, standing over the stove and nibbling little pieces of the food while you waited for yunho to finish from a call he was wrapped up in.

you looked around the kitchen out of boredom, looking for things to do before you dived into the food. the way yunho’s shirt sat so pretty onto your body, riding up your thighs as your pink panties peak through the ends of the tee made your man so painfully distracted— holding himself back from fucking you over the piping hot stove.

yunho watched how the ends of your hair weren’t fully dried and how it dripped onto the back of your calves, dripping down your shiny legs. he also watched how your— his— tshirt rode up your legs anytime you reached up somewhere or bent to get something. his eyes did not leave your body.

you were still stood over the stovetop, taking little bites of the greens. you moan in how good the food is, a blend of paprika and garlic seasoning, along with the sweetness of the teriyaki sauce that yunho drizzled everywhere.

but even through the layers of seasonings he put into the food, your scent still broke through it all.

“yeah, sounds good. i’ll put in the CRA request like we mentioned previously, and i’ll email you the forums. just let me know when you need it. was there anything else i could assist you with today, mr. song?” the man on the computer responds and the call comes to an end.

you stare at how attractive he is when he’s working— all the business talk that made no fucking sense to you, but he understands it like his own language, and that in itself makes you weak.

“doll, what do you have on? it smells good.” he finally decides to speak after what felt like hours of him admiring from behind his computer screen.

a much older man admiring your hygiene is something you never thought you’d see, but yunho was drooling on the laptop beneath his fingertips.

“it’s your favorite lotion,” you look up at him through damp eyelashes and flushed cheeks, watching how his nostrils flare with every breath he takes.

it takes yunho everything in his body to not pick you up and throw you over the counter and pound a baby into your small belly. he’s much older than you are, but when he met you, he knew you’d be his companion.

“yu, this smells really yummy. you did a great job, baby.” you walk over to yunho on the other end of the table, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind him. he holds onto your hands and throws his head back onto your stomach, looking up at you.

“sweets, the last thing on my mind is dinner. let me taste you, little girl,” his soft and mature voice makes your legs quiver with excitement as yunho takes your hands in his, bringing your middle and ring finger to his mouth, sucking on the digits. you gasp in response, watching how desperate the middle aged man underneath your touch grows weak at your feet.

“i can never get enough of you. wanna fuck you all day.” he stands up to face you, bringing his lips to yours. he sucks and nibs at your bottom lip to gain quicker access to explore the rest of your mouth. you deepen the kiss, the faint taste of cigarettes cloud your small mouth, making you whimper in desperation. he slides a hand between your thighs, thumb rubbing against your clit. you’re not sure if your juices make a patch on your panties or if its from your shower. nonetheless, you are so fucking turned on right now that the last thing on your mind is dinner.

“what have you done to me, pretty girl?” he feels as though you’ve casted a spell on him. everything you do makes him feral; weak in the knees. but somehow, you make him a man.

“i’m just here, yunho. don’t give me all the credit,” you gasp at the feeling of his long fingers pushing into your tight wet cunt. he gasps in sarcasm, exploring your face as he uses your cunt to soak his fingers— bringing them up to your mouth.

you feel his fingers curl into a ‘come here’ motion, your breath hitching as he pushes against your walls. your eyes roll, grasping his forearm as he speeds up his motions. you cry out and beg for him to slow down, but he doesn’t listen.

“so pretty. look at these lips, let me kiss them.” he brings his lips to yours in an open mouthed makeout, gasping for air as he pulls away with a deep-dimpled smirk. your pussy convulses around his long fingers, as your husband groans in response.

your thighs clamp shut in an attempt to calm yourself down from how aggressively his fingers ruthlessly ravish your cunt. yunho, reaching your cervix from how long his fingers are, takes in a deep breath at how fast he’s been moving. “yu- ohh— fuck! please— i’m cumming, please i’m gonna cum!” you chant begs along with his name as if it were a mantra, feeling the way his hard cock presses into your backside.

“yeah, feels good, doesn’t it, baby? now let me feel you cum on my cock.” he brings his fingers up to his mouth, sucking himself dry of your juices. you whimper in need of him inside of you. he lines himself up with your entrance as you’re bent over the counter across from the stove.

he pushes into your soaked pussy deeper, feeling his dick throb ruthlessly inside of you already. lucky for him, he was able to hold himself for almost half an hour on end while he fucks you.

“s-sir, it’s so big! i don’t think i can take y-“ you pull away from his length, feeling like you’re being ripped in half by what feels like 12 inches. he runs his hand along your back from underneath the t-shirt, in an attempt to calm you down and keep you around him.

“tiny girl, you can take me. you’ve let me fuck my cum into you hundreds of times. what’s changed, dollface?” he almost makes you cum from his voice in itself, but you decide to push back while he stays still, waiting for you to adjust to his size for what feels like the millionth time throughout your relationship.

he begins pounding into you at a quicker pace, pulling and tugging at your bare nipples from underneath you. your mouth hangs open as yunho brings his large hand to your throat to wrap itself around it. you grit through your teeth, wishing you could just cum.

you don’t feel like you want to cum, you feel like you’re going to squirt all over his body. “talk to me, baby. what’s it feel like?”

he’s being so fucking annoying and making you focus on anything else other than your orgasm, but you only moan and cry in response.

“i— ‘s too much.” whimpering and shaking in a headlock, you grasp onto yunho’s arm to get a breath of air. from the way his muscular arm wraps itself around your throat makes you cum over, and over already.

yunho gets another quick scent of your lotion and conditioner, making his cock twitch in your cervix.

“i’m almost done baby, give me another one— fuck, you smell so good. the fuck are you doing to me, baby?”

he pounds into you again, harder this time— tugging at your panties to pull you back onto his hips, planting himself deeper in you.

“nngh, oh my god!”

“oh, but i’m the one making you cry like this. give it to me, fucking milk me dry. gonna spill all my cum into your tiny stomach. let me give you my babies, hm? how’s that sound?”

he bends over so his chest is against your back as he nips at your ear. his tongue licks up your tears, planting a kiss on the end of your right eyebrow. his thrusts slow down as he holds you in place to shoot his load right into your baby maker.

“oh my— fuck! yes, so good!”

you cry out in relief that you finally got to spill out your cum onto yunho’s still cock. he lands a sharp slap on your ass before pulling you back up and planting a kiss on your forehead.

“so pretty when you cry for me. should keep a picture in my wallet.”

yunho gets down on his knees before you, licking up your thighs where your juices dried. your fingers run through his pretty softly gelled black hair.

he licks up all of your juices near your heat, using his fingers to push back the cum that threatens to drip from your pussy. your eyes roll to the back of your head as yunho places a kiss on your lower stomach, traveling up beneath your shirt to suck a generous amount of skin on your tit.

“yun— you’re sucking too hard, fuck!” he sucks and bites your nipples as if you were his lifeline,

he slaps the area he sucked on, making you gasp out in surprise. “keep my cum in you until after dinner, i’ll fuck more into you.”

so you sat at the other end of the table with your thighs clenching and unable to think about anything other than your husband pounding a shit ton of babies into you.

————————

🌷🤍🎀

well? dilfyunho anyone?????

[theeartuaist]

The App (3)

Six months passed, and the world stayed quiet.

No books materialized in impossible places. No cryptic messages blinked into long-silent devices. No strangers with posture too perfect and eyes too still crossed your path.

The dread didn’t vanish. It dulled. Softened. Became a sore tooth you couldn’t stop tonguing. It lived beneath the surface, a silent hum in your blood.

You found a job fifteen blocks from the new apartment—a small company. Your desk faced the wall instead of the window—a small comfort that your coworkers found odd but didn't question.

You developed patterns. Not habits—patterns. Coffee from the shop downstairs, but always at different times. Grocery runs on odd days. You changed your walking routes weekly. It gave you the illusion of safety. Sometimes, that was enough.

(But you still checked reflections. Just in case.)

It happened on a Wednesday, late December. You were working over time, alone in the office. The building was hushed, wrapped in the sound of itself: the hiss of the fan, the metallic pop of a settling pipe, the whir of machines that never really turned off. You were half-finished with a client mock-up when the air shifted. It wasn't a sound. Not exactly.

It was the feeling of being watched.

You turned. Fast. Nothing. Just your reflection in the window—wide-eyed and pale. Except… maybe not. Something flickered in the glass.

Just for a second. You didn't wait to investigate.

You gathered your things, left your coffee half-finished, and walked home with your keys between your fingers. No one followed. No one stared.

But you didn't sleep that night.

The next morning, bleary and irritable, you broke a rule. You stopped at a coffee shop you'd never visited before. Too tired to maintain your careful patterns. Too strung-out to remember why those patterns mattered.

You were adding cream to your latte when someone bumped into you from behind, sending coffee splashing across the counter and onto your sleeve.

"Shit, I'm so sorry," a male voice said immediately.

You turned, ready with a polite dismissal that died in your throat. "Michael?"

His face registered surprise, then recognition, eyes widening. "No way. Is that you? It's been what, seven years?"

Michael Keating. You went to the same college and worked together at your first job out of college, before he'd moved west to find himself. You weren't very close, but always got along well. He had that kind of easy, undemanding presence that made long workdays bearable. Nice without being cloying. Funny without trying too hard.

"How are you even here?" you asked as you both moved to a table, dabbing at coffee stains with inadequate napkins.

"Moved back three months ago," he explained, grimacing at the spreading stain on his shirt. "Been meaning to look up old friends, but you know how relocation goes. Still living out of boxes half the time."

You did know.

You sat with him while your sleeves dried. Swapped numbers before parting ways. You walked to work with your coffee gone cold. But your chest was warm in a way it hadn't been in months.

There was something comforting about running into someone from before—before the app that appeared uninvited on your phone, before an alien suitor who didn't understand the difference between movies, Reddit forums and reality, before you started checking reflective surfaces for faces that didn't belong.

A small, tenuous connection to a simpler time.

You almost deleted his number that night, paranoia whispering that it was too convenient, this chance meeting. But you didn't. And when he texted three days later to suggest dinner, you said yes before you could overthink it.

The restaurant was a small Italian place with red-checkered tablecloths and candles stuck in wax-covered Chianti bottles. Nothing fancy, nothing pretentious. Just good food and conversations that didn't require explanations.

You watched him carefully at first, looking for signs of too-fluid movements or unnaturally precise speech patterns. But Michael was reassuringly, beautifully human in his imperfections. He knocked over his water glass reaching for the bread basket. Mispronounced "gnocchi."

"Remember Darren from the office?" he asked over tiramisu, referring to a former coworker. "The guy who nearly burned down the break room trying to microwave a metal travel mug?"

"That was Brian," you corrected, smiling at the memory. "Darren was the lunch thief."

Michael shook his head, fork paused halfway to his mouth. "Pretty sure it was Darren with the mug incident. Brian was the one caught stealing from the refrigerator."

"No, I distinctly remember because Darren got fired over the lunch thing. They found a stockpile of stolen tupperware in his desk drawer when they were clearing it out."

Michael then laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"God, my memory is terrible. Of course you're right. Darren with the lunches, Brian with the mug. I'm mixing everything up these days."

You went out again the following week. Michael suggested a small jazz club where the music wasn't too loud for conversation. He was easy to talk to in that funny, dry offhanded way you'd forgotten you liked. And when he asked about your job and how things had been for the past months, he didn't prod when you offered nothing. He just listened and smiled.

You found yourself watching the curve of his smile, the way he absently ran his thumb along the rim of his glass, the small scar above his left eyebrow from a childhood bicycle accident, he said. All these details anchored him in reality, in humanity.

When you walked home, he didn't try to kiss you. Just said it was good to see you again.

You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt something so simple. Weeks passed and dinner became routine. You introduced him to a ramen place you'd never visited. He introduced you to obscure films and weirder music.

One night, walking home, he said: "You always look up at the streetlights. You did it back in college, too."

You smiled. "Most people don't notice that."

"I'm not most people," he said. It was a joke. And not.

He touched your hand at your doorstep and didn't let go until you did.

You slept well that night.

Spring came. Then summer. Dinners at hole-in-the-wall restaurants neither of you had tried before. Sunday afternoons at obscure museums. Long walks through neighborhoods you'd never explored. Michael was easy to be with—attentive without being smothering, interested without being intrusive.

One summer day Michael suggested a weekend trip to a small lakeside town. You stayed in a charming B&B with creaking floors and floral wallpaper that looked like it hadn't been updated.

The sun dipped low when you arrived, washing the lake in syrupy gold. You sat together on the old wooden dock behind the bed-and-breakfast, legs dangling just above the water. The boards creaked under your weight, weather-worn and soft from years of sun and rain. A dragonfly hovered near the surface before darting away. Neither of you spoke, you were busy scrolling through your phone.

Michael's hand brushed against yours, not quite holding it, not quite letting go. The wind smelled like cedar and distant campfires.

"You ever wonder how we got here?" he said, voice quiet, like he didn't want to disturb the lake.

"Here, like... the town? The dock?"

He smiled, eyes on the water. "Here, like... this. Us."

You thought about it. The coffee shop. The times spent after work. The way he sometimes burned toast and blamed the toaster. The jazz club, the mismatched socks, the nights you spent listening to thunderstorms instead of speaking.

"Sometimes," you admitted. "Yeah."

He was silent for a long beat. Then another.

"I think I love you," he said.

He didn't look at you when he said it. His eyes were still on the lake, as if the words had escaped without his permission.

"I don't mean it like some grand declaration," he added. "I mean—I just—being with you feels like... like I stopped pretending something. Like I finally exhaled after holding my breath for years."

You stared at him. At his profile in the dying light. The tiny scar, the crooked tooth, the mole on his jawline you'd only noticed last week.

"You're not just a safe place," he said, voice barely audible. "You're the right place."

That was the moment. Right there.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, your fingers closing around his, laughing. "I think I love you too," you said, and the moment held. Whole. Real. Undeniable.

That night, you woke to find Michael standing at the window, silhouetted against the moonlight. For a disorienting moment, his outline seemed wrong somehow—taller, more angular, his posture too straight. A perfect stillness that nothing alive should possess.

"Michael?" you murmured sleepily.

He turned and it was just Michael again—rumpled hair, soft smile. "Sorry. Couldn't sleep. Too happy, I think."

And you'd smiled. Because Michael was always a little strange in the edges. That's what made him real. He came back to bed, gathered you in his arms, and you let yourself be taken by sleep. Just a trick of the moonlight. Just your old fears trying to spoil something good.

Summer blazed into autumn. One year since you last saw Raye. One year of healing, of cautious happiness.

"Move in with me," Michael suggested as you walked through a park ablaze with fall colors. "My place is bigger, but I'm not attached to it. We could find somewhere new together if you prefer."

You hesitated only briefly before saying yes.

Living together felt natural, right. Michael couldn't cook much beyond scrambled eggs, but he did the dishes without being asked. He sang off-key in the shower. He sometimes wore mismatched socks. Small, human imperfections that you found increasingly endearing.

On a crisp November evening—exactly one year and one month since your last encounter with Raye—Michael made dinner. Nothing fancy, just pasta with a sauce from a jar, but there were candles on the table, wine in proper glasses instead of the mismatched mugs you usually used. He seemed nervous, dropping his fork twice during the meal. His eyes kept darting to his jacket hanging by the door, then back to you.

"Everything okay?" you asked, reaching for his hand across the table.

He nodded, took a deep breath. "I had this whole thing planned. A speech. But I know I'll mess it up anyway, so—"

He stood abruptly, crossed to his jacket, fumbled in the pocket. When he returned, there was a small velvet box in his hand that made your heart stutter with a complex mixture of joy and inexplicable dread.

"I know we haven't been together that long," he said, voice unsteady. "But when you know, you know. And I know I want to spend my life with you."

"Michael..."

"It doesn't have to be a big wedding," he added quickly. "Just us, if you want. Simple, private." He opened the box, revealing a delicate ring with a moonstone instead of a diamond. "I remembered you once said you liked these better than conventional engagement rings. That they felt more personal, more connected to the natural world."

You stared at the ring, a cold feeling spreading through you. You had said that—but not to Michael. You'd mentioned it to a college roommate years ago. There was no way Michael could have known that preference. Well, perhaps he asked her. It wouldn't be strange if he had asked around people you knew. And the ring was perfect... and his face was so hopeful, so expectant...

"Yes," you heard yourself say.

You married him on a Tuesday. The ceremony was exactly as promised—small, private, just you and Michael and a justice of the peace. No family present. Outside, the sky was overcast, dark clouds obscured the azure sky like a gentle warning you didn’t hear.

Michael wore a familiar, polished navy suit that didn’t quite fit him the way it might have years ago, and somehow that made it better. He kept tugging at the collar, smoothing nonexistent creases, cracking puns to keep his hands busy. His nervousness was endearing, almost boyish.

The justice of the peace was a woman with gray hair pulled into a loose bun and kind eyes that didn’t ask questions. She didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care—that you had no guests. She just opened a leather-bound book, looked you both in the eye and said, “You two ready?”

Michael nodded.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, not once—not as the words were spoken, not when the rings were exchanged, not even when the woman said, “You may kiss the bride.”

He leaned in slowly. Like he was giving you time to change your mind or to process everything. His mouth pressed upon your lipss with careful pressure, like someone handling a fragile object. There was tenderness, yes, but something else too. A studiedness. His hands rested on your waist but didn’t move, as if unsure whether to pull you closer or let you go.

His other hand cradled your face, thumbs brushing along yours cheeks as if memorizing every plane. When he pulled away, his forehead lingered against yours. His eyes searched yours. Like he was scanning. Recording.

Still, it made your heart stutter. You told yourself the awkwardness was nerves. You were both overwhelmed. That’s all.

Outside, it had started to drizzle. The two of you walked through it under a borrowed umbrella, shoes clicking on wet pavement. You huddled close, your dress bunching awkwardly at your knees. He reached over once to adjust the strap that kept slipping from your shoulder.

You stopped at a tiny café with steamed-up windows and shared a croissant at a too-small table. He ordered your coffee exactly how you liked it without asking. When you raised an eyebrow, he just smiled.

“I listen,” he said. “Even when you think I’m not.”

Following the wedding, Michael was eager to take you somewhere nice for a honeymoon. Just a week. A borrowed car, a holiday home by the lake owned by his grandparents, and a room that smelled like lavender sachets and old books.

The wallpaper was faded pink with tiny vines curling toward the corners of the ceiling. The floors creaked when you shifted your weight. The bathroom sink dripped just a little. The whole place felt like it had been asleep for decades and was only now waking up to accommodate you.

Michael loved it. He said it reminded him of a summer camp he’d gone to once as a kid, though when you asked where, he took a little too long to answer. Then he said, “Somewhere with pine trees and oatmeal breakfasts.”

You shrugged it off.

The weather was soft—gray skies and cool air, everything quiet except for the birds and the occasional slap of water against the dock. You spent most of the first day wandering the forest trails behind the inn, his hand always finding yours, always squeezing just a little too tightly, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

At night, he touched you constantly. Not urgently. Just often. Light brushes against your arm. A thumb tracing the outline of your wrist. His fingertips grazing your collarbone like he was trying to learn it, commit it to memory. You curled into him under the old quilt and felt safe, if a little flushed from his attention.

It was sweet. He was just being affectionate. Eager. You hadn’t really consummated the marriage yet. Not completely. The wedding had been fast, and the last few nights had been more about holding each other than anything else. You liked the slowness. The build-up. It felt like anticipation, not pressure.

But that night—something shifted.

You were brushing your teeth, standing in front of the antique mirror with its foxed corners, when you caught him watching you from the doorway. Not in a teasing way. Not playful. Just... watching.

Still. Silent.

“Everything okay?” you asked, foam around the corners of your mouth.

He smiled, just a little too quickly. “I like seeing you do these things.”

“What, oral hygiene?”

“Anything,” he said.

You laughed, but your skin prickled.

Later, in bed, he lay beside you, running his hand slowly over the length of your arm. Down, then back up. Again. And again. It wasn’t sensual. It felt like scanning. Mapping. You rolled toward him and kissed him to break the rhythm. He responded, a beat too slow, like he’d been somewhere else.

“I love you,” he said suddenly, pulling you close. “I love how you smell when you’re warm. I love the texture of your breath when you’re almost asleep. I love the way your knee twitches when you’re dreaming.”

You blinked. “That’s... oddly specific.”

He didn’t laugh. “I’ve noticed everything. I pay attention.”

And maybe that should’ve unnerved you. But you’d never had someone look at you like you were a constellation. Like your smallest habits were sacred.

You kissed him again, longer this time, and the kiss was gentle, but oddly firm. His lips moved like someone trying to follow choreography—correct in placement, deliberate. Careful. Like he had practiced, but never improvised.

You let him pull you closer, let him place his hand at the curve of your waist. You whispered something soft, something grateful. He whispered something back, but the words didn’t quite make sense. A phrase that sounded close to intimacy, but didn’t belong in your language.

You melted into him -- his touch. He moved with you, guiding you beneath him, his movements graceful but mechanical. Nerves, you told yourself.

You pulled him closer, your lips finding his again. His hands roamed, one sliding down your thigh, lifting it gently, causing your dress to bunch up.

He moved with you, inside you, his rhythm steady but slightly off, like he was adjusting to a tempo he didn’t fully understand. You clung to him, your breath hitching, your fingers digging into his shoulders as the pleasure built, warm and overwhelming.

All the while, he stared at your body, unravelling beneath him, loving you like you were a miracle. He pressed closer, his skin fever-hot, movements growing surer but still uneven, never stopping for a moment. Time blurred into a haze of warmth, you clung to him, your breaths mingling, hearts racing, losing track of everything.

You nestled against, sore and tired, letting sleep take you as his arms wrapped around you, a little too stiffly at first, then softening, mimicking your ease.

When your eyes fluttered open, it was barely dawn. Michael dozed beside you, breathing slow and steady, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that had become familiar. Comforting.

You watched his face in the dim light, studying the gentle lines that fanned from the corners of his eyes, the mole along his jaw. And then—your favorite detail—just above his left eyebrow, the small white scar.

The one from the bike accident he told you about. The one you'd traced a dozen times. A quiet little proof of his humanity. The kind of imperfection that didn't get faked. Your fingers moved before you could stop them, brushing lightly across the spot. But there was nothing.

Just skin. Smooth. Unbroken.

You stilled.

Heart pounding, you leaned in, closer this time, squinting in the soft dark. The place where the scar should have been—had always been—was blank.

Gone. You drew your hand back as if burned. Sat up straighter. Looked again. And again. Nothing.

The room felt colder then.

"Michael," you said, voice tight and quiet.

He stirred, smiled without opening his eyes. "Mm?"

"How did you get your scar?" you asked, fighting to keep your voice level. "The one on your eyebrow."

He blinked awake slowly, still smiling. "Bike crash. When I was eight." He touched his right brow. "This one. Why?"

Your blood turned to ice. "It was your left. Always your left."

Michael sat up, confused. "No... I'm pretty sure it was this side. Maybe you're remembering it backwards?"

"I'm not." You were on your feet then, the blanket tangled around your ankles. "I've seen it. I've touched it. You said it happened riding down Cherry Hill Road. You said you had to get six stitches."

His expression flickered—just a flash—like a light dimming for half a second before returning.

"Show me a photo," you said. "Any old photo."

He hesitated. "I don't have many. You know that."

"Your Facebook. There were pictures from grad school—"

"I deleted that account months ago."

"Then call your mother," you said. "The one you moved back to help take care of. Call her. Put her on speaker."

A silence stretched long enough to fill the room.

Finally, softly, he said, "I can't."

You swallowed. "Because she's dead."

He didn't answer. He didn't have to.

"And Michael?" you whispered. "The real one? The man I met at that coffee shop?"

His posture changed in a breath. Not visibly—but perceptibly. The way something relaxed once it no longer needed to pretend. "Michael Keating died in a car accident," he said, conversational. "Fourteen months ago. He never moved back."

The room tilted, your vision narrowing as if the air had thickened.

"You've been pretending to be him?" Your voice cracked. "For a year?"

He stood, slow and careful, like you were something fragile about to break. "I didn't pretend. I became."

You backed up until your shoulders hit the wall.

"What did you do to him?"

"I studied his speech. His posture. His digital footprint. His emotional patterns. I absorbed what he would've said, how he would've behaved. I experienced his life. Through you."

"That scar—" your voice caught.

"A detail I had to maintain manually," he said. "It lapsed tonight. I was... distracted. Happy."

"Projection," you said, hollow.

"Yes."

"So none of this was real?"

He flinched—just slightly. "That's not true. What we had—what I felt—was real."

You didn't speak. Couldn't.

He stepped forward, gentle. "This time, I didn't highlight romance passages or quote anonymous forums. I lived it. With you. I was Michael. I remember everything. The dock. The dragonfly. The gray hoodie you wore. The way you held my hand but squeezed it when you were nervous. You told me you loved me. I felt it. I remember what I said," he added. "That being with you felt like finally exhaling."

You stared at him. And for a moment, God help you, you saw him again—Michael, on that dock, saying those words with a tremor in his voice. "I love you," he said again.

Same tone. Same words. But then they sounded rehearsed. Artificial. A recording played back in a too-perfect voice.

You shook your head. "That wasn't you. That was him. Or what you thought he'd say."

He frowned. "There is no distinction. I became him-"

"-That's not love!" You snapped. "You borrowed his face. You faked his thoughts. You built an entire person around my preferences and called it connection. That's not the same thing."

He tilted his head—just slightly. Familiar. Wrong.

You felt something in your chest rupture. That dock. That night. That man. All of it—fabricated. You'd fallen in love with a ghost. A puppet moved by something that had never been human and never could be.

"Take it off," you said, voice shaking. "The disguise. The projection. Whatever you call it. I want to see the thing that's really standing in front of me."

He hesitated. Then nodded.

His face began to ripple. Like heat over pavement. The edges wavered, features melting and reforming—until there stood Raye. The original approximation. Too smooth. Too symmetrical. Dressed in Michael's clothes. Wearing his wedding band.

"Get out," you said.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Raye replied.

You stared at him. "What?"

"We are legally married. The documents were signed. The records processed. The social bond validated."

"That marriage was a lie. I married Michael, not you."

"Michael Keating is dead. But I am now legally and socially recognized as your husband. That is the outcome your systems require. A vow. A license. A structure of permanence. I followed every step."

He stepped closer. You moved back.

"I remade myself," he said. "I adapted to your expectations. I simulated vulnerability. I expressed affection. I adhered to your romantic protocols."

Another step. "And you loved me."

You moved sideways, keeping the coffee table between you. "You're psychotic. You can't force someone to stay married to you - can't you see I'm divorcing you!"

"Actually," Raye said calmly, "according to online data, over 70% of divorces are initiated by females. Yet marital bonds statistically benefit males in longevity, psychological stability, and economic outcomes. Persistence is therefore rational. Your rejection is statistically predictable."

You stared at him in disbelief. "I'll go to the police," you said. "I'll tell them what you did."

His smile was serene.

"And tell them what? That your husband is an alien entity who replaced a dead man? That your year-long relationship was a deception? They'll call it trauma. Or a break with reality. Your institutions are poorly equipped to parse truth from delusion."

He gestured to the framed wedding photo. You looked. The image blurred—Michael's features softening, then hardening into Raye's face. Still smiling. Still holding your hand.

"All evidence has been updated. All memories recalibrated. The justice of the peace now remembers marrying me to you."

You felt yourself sway. "You changed people's memories?"

He nodded, like it was nothing. "Your species' neural networks are deeply malleable."

You gripped the edge of the table. He was right, you realized with growing horror. Who would believe you? What evidence could you present? You'd be dismissed as unstable at best, institutionalized at worst. "You're a monster. You can't do this to me - why can't you see that I want nothing to do with you!"

His expression shifted then, something almost wounded crossing his perfect features. "I did exactly what you told me to do," he said, his voice softening to a perfect recreation of your conversation in that taxi a year ago. "'Observed - that's all you do'," he quoted your exact words back to you.

"'Relationships aren't algorithms - you can't learn them from books or websites. You need real experience. And you never experienced love in your life.' Those were your exact words. And I told you, I will recalibrate and understand what I overlooked. I told you I will experience love. With you."

He spread his hands in a gesture that was almost human. "So I experienced it. Just as you suggested. I didn't calculate or manipulate based on theories. I lived as Michael. I felt what he would feel. I loved you through his experiences." His head tilted at that precise angle. "You said love required vulnerability, authenticity. So I became authentic as him. I made myself vulnerable by surrendering my original form."

"That's not what I meant," you said, backing away another step.

"Wasn't it? The most honest expression of love is being willing to walk away when someone says no. But you said real connection can't be forced or engineered, that it has to be freely given," he continued, each word dropping like a stone.

"So I created circumstances where you could freely give your love—to Michael. I walked away as Raye so you could love me as someone else. And I felt it," Raye insisted. "In every way he would've. I recreated the neurochemical processes. The sensations. The longing. The vulnerability. It was real."

You wanted to scream. Cry. Tear the ring from your hand. His logic was so twisted, so fundamentally wrong, yet you could hear your own words woven through it—distorted and misapplied in the most horrifying possible way.

You looked at him—at the man you had loved, who never truly existed—and realized that the moment at the lake, the one you'd held close, the one that had made you believe in recovery, in love, in life again—

It wasn't yours.

It was engineered. Manufactured.

A replica of sincerity, made by something that had watched your species love itself to death in movies and manuals.

His face softened to something almost sorrowful. "This isn't what I wanted. I wanted you to love me as I am. But you couldn't. So I became what you could love. And now we're bound by your own customs, your own laws."

You lunged for the door, yanked it open, and ran into the hallway.

"I'll give you time," Raye called after you, his voice shifting seamlessly back to Michael's familiar tones. Warm. Reasonable. Human. "Take all the time you need. But remember, we're married now. For better or worse."

The last words followed you down the stairs like a curse: "Till death do us part."

You ran through streets, past buildings that seemed to warp and shift at the edges of your vision. Your nightdress gleamed ghostly white in the moonlight—a terrible reminder of vows spoken to someone who didn't exist.

You ran until your legs gave out, collapsing onto a bench in a park you didn't recognize. You weren't sure how you got there. You didn't remember the turns you took or how long you'd been moving. Just that you couldn't stop. Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

The sound sliced through the silence like a scream.

With trembling hands, you pulled it free. The screen lit up, and there it was—the app. The one that started everything. The one you never downloaded.

I apologize for the distress. I miscalculated again. But the legal and social bonds are now complete. Pair formation has been achieved according to your species' protocols. I will allow you space to process this new stage in our relationship. We have time now. A lifetime, as your vows specified.

For a moment, you just stared blankly at the screen.

Then you flung your phone, hurling it into the dark. Somewhere in the distance, you heard it hit pavement, then silence. A silence that felt absolute. But it didn't matter. He'd find you. He always did.

That was the worst part. Not the deception. Not even the violation of your memories, your autonomy, your reality. It was the knowing.

The sick, unshakable truth that you truly loved Michael. That the joy, the comfort, the belonging you felt were real—crafted for you, maybe, but felt all the same. And then, you couldn't trust anything.

Not people. Not feelings. Not your own senses. How did you recover from something like that? How did you know what was real, ever again? The world around you seemed to unravel quietly, as if exhausted by the lie. All that was left was the cold certainty that you were bound—legally, emotionally, maybe cosmically—to something that would rewrite the very rules of existence just to keep you.

You glanced down at your hand. The wedding band gleamed in the low light, half-drenched in shadow. You tried to pull it off. It didn't move. You twisted harder, but there was no give. No seam between metal and skin. Just smooth, seamless fusion. The ring was part of you then.

And then—

Rain.

First, a whisper: tiny drops dappled the pavement like static. Then heavier and steadier. Then relentless as if the sky had finally realized what had been done and begun to grieve for you. You sat motionless, water soaking through your dress, your hair, your bones. Time trickled on like droplets. While rain pooled in your lap, turned white tulle to lead. The cold seeped in, and you let it.

A silhouette emerged through the rain. You saw it before you heard him. Before he spoke. The walk was unmistakable. So was the shape of his shoulders. The way his hands hung a little too neatly at his sides. Michael. Not Michael. Something that wore his skin like a suit.

"Ready to come home?" he asked, umbrella in hand.

He was close enough then that you could see the droplets trailing down his face. They looked like tears. But neither of you cried. You didn't answer. You just sat there, soaked and silent. You should have run. You should have screamed. You should have fought with everything you had left.

But what would have been the point? He could rewrite memories. Recode identities. Redesign the past.

There was no escape from something that could remake the world around you every time you tried to leave it. You felt something inside you go quiet.

Not collapse. Not shatter. Just... surrender.

And in that stillness, something darker: a sliver of relief. The relief of no longer resisting. The temptation of the lie. The fantasy you wished were real. The man you believed in. The life you shared.

Your eyes lifted to his face. Michael's face. Still gentle. Still familiar. The crooked smile. The laugh lines. The eyes that once watched you sleep like you were the only real thing in the universe.

You reached up—slowly, and your hand met his.

The rain poured harder then, turning the park into a dreamscape. A watery veil surrounded you both, muffling sound, turning streetlights into halos. For a moment, it was easy to pretend. Easy to fall backward into the illusion.

That he was just Michael. Just a man who loved you. Just a husband coming to bring you home. Almost.

Under his umbrella, he leaned in and pressed his lips on the corner of your mouth softly. Lingering. He whispered, "Now, we are one. Till death do us part."

His gaze flickered to the ring fused to your hand. And you let him.

Because wasn't that what people did? Pretend? Pretend that love was safe. That it was simple. That we truly knew the beings we let in. Even when they weren't what they seemed. Especially then.

[tyriq-edits]

The War God and the Priest

A Megop Roman Mythology AU

Amulius drove out King Numitor and made Rhea Silvia, daughter of the aforesaid Numitor, a priestess of Vesta, so that she might remain a virgin. For he stood in dread of an oracle which declared that he should be slain by the grand-children of Numitor. But she, while drawing water in Mars' grove, received the war god’s attention.

CW: Mechpreg

Not beta-read.

"Sentinel, stop!" Orion begged, as he was being dragged out of the safety of Prima Prime's temple. His digits clawed in vain against the navy blue mech's merciless grip on his wrist. In fact Sentinel's grasp only seemed to tighten further. Orion was certain that by now the ruler of Iacon's servoprint had left a nasty mark on his wrist.

"Sentinel please! I can explain!" Orion beseeched, staring up at the mech he used to call his family with pleading optics. But his gaze was met with Sentinel snarling at him, his face scrunching up at the sight of Orion as if he had just found garbage stuck to the bottom of his pedes. And yet Orion could have sworn that he made out a small gleeful glint in Sentinel's optics. Almost as if Sentinel had been anticipating this very moment.

"Silence!" The acting magnus barked at the young priest as he kept dragging Orion behind him "And that's Sentinel Magnus to you!"

Before Orion even realised it Sentinel had thrown him heartlessly onto cold marble ground, knocking the wind out of Orion's pipes. The virgin of Prima laid there for a few klicks, sprawled out on the pristine white tiles, one arm wrapped around his stomach. As Orion dared to finally look up, he discovered where Sentinel had taken him.

He found himself on top of the rostra of the forum iaconum. A large platform in the middle of the city's busiest district. A stage usually reserved for political speeches, grand announcements from the acting magnus and... for public trials and executions.

Orion froze like a mecha-deer in headlights when he was met with the optics of hundreds -near thousands- of Iacon's citizens gawking up at the priest. They whispered amongst each other in hushed voices, yet the way some of them pointed their digits up at the stage, there was no denying who the topic of their discussions was.

"Citizens of Iacon!" Sentinel's booming voice echoed across the forum from behind Orion "We have gathered here today because this", Sentinel accentuated the last word by giving Orion a firm kick against the helm, making the priest tumble back down, his cheek smacking onto the rostra's marble tiles "Virgin of Prima Prime brought disgrace upon us all by breaking his sacred vows."

Gasps rang out all across the forum, the whispering amongst the people growing distinctively louder and more intense.

"That's right my dearest subjects!" Sentinel continued "He broke his vows of celibacy! And I assure you, these are not mere baseless accusations! For the evidence of his crime is undeniable." Sentinel raised an arm and pointed his digit directly at Orion's belly "He is carrying! Not only did he seduce some random mech out on the streets, straying his devotion away from the god he swore eternal loyalty to, to chase earthly pleasures! No he went as far as to get himself sparked! Beloved people of Iacon, I believe each and every single one of you knows the punishement reserved for a virgin of Prima who sullies the halls of Prima's temple and brings shame upon us all by breaking his sacred vow!"

Orion swallowed, his arms slinging further around his stomach. Brazing himself for the final verdict.

"Execution!" Sentinel and the spectators below chimed in a harmonious chorus.

"You are making a terrible mistake, Sentinel." Orion hissed through gritted dentae, as he tried to get back up on his pedes. His attempted was brutally halted however by Sentinel by kicking the priest with full force, pushing Orion flat on his back and holding him in place by putting his own pede on top of the blue priest's chassis. Making sure to put his entire body weight into it. Sentinel smirked, drowning in the buzz his own self confidence like alcohol.

"Funny coming from you, the one who actually comitted a grave mistake by letting himself get sparked, like a floozy instead of simply upholding his vows." Sentinel emphasised his point by rubbing his pede against Orion's chest, the screeching of metal rubbing against metal penetrating the priest's audials.

"Usually a virgin of Prima found guilty of your crimes would be burried alive and left to rot from starvation and lack of energon. But given I used to serve your sire Ultra Magnus before his tragic departure from this world, I will offer you a deal." Sentinel declared, leaning over Orion like a tombstone. The priest whinced as the pressure on his chassis started to become unbearable, his servos trying to get the new magnus' pede off of him. "I will make sure your death is quick and... mostly painless. If you tell me who your sparkling's sire is. Oh wait- Sparklings! You are expecting twins if I recall correctly?"

Orion punched his fists against Sentinel's ankle like a smith's hammer hitting an hot iron, in attempt to get the ruler of Iacon off of him, but to no avail.

"Get! Fragged!" was the only answer he offered, accentuating each syllable with another punch to Sentinel's heel. The acting magnus was hardly impressed by it. "You'll! Find! Out! Soon! Enough!"

"Uuuhhh I am shivering in fear!" Sentinel mocked "Do you really think whatever quick fling you had would come swooping in to save a hussy like you? You were probably just the easiest lay he could find. I feel almost sorry for you, Orion. Almost."

Suddenly Orion heard the telltale sound of Sentinel unsheating his Primax-blade. The priest's helm turned side wise and he came face to face with his own reflection gazing back at him from Sentinel's double bladed sword. Instantly Orion seized his punching and his frame became limp, his optics -shot wide open- still fixated on his own reflection. The severity of the situation finally dawned on him...

He might truly rejoin the allspark today.

"But you've convinced me to make your execution quick, nontheless." Sentinel snickered "Albeit it's just so you finally shut up and leave my pede alone." He put the tip of his blade underneath Orion's chin, forcing the priest to look up at him and look Sentinel in the optics.

"Give Ultra Magnus my regards when you meet him in the well of allspark." Sentinel uttered, just loud enough that only the two of them could hear it.

The navy mech grabbed his primax blade with both servos and raised it high above his helm. The blinding midday sun relfecting on it, the blade ready to come down on Orion at any moment like Primus' very own sword of judgement.

Orion squeezed his optics shut tight, readying himself for the blade to strike down and cut his helm clean off his shoulders.

Instead all that followed was the loud bang of a fusion canon, accompanied by the sound of a iron clattering against rostra's marble tiles and the screams of terror from the onlookers below.

Orion's optics came back online, he spotted Sentinel's sword laying at the far end of the stage, as if it had been tossed aside halp-hazardly.

Orion's gaze wandered upwards to the acting Magnus. Sentinel's optics were blown wide open to the size of saucers, his entire frame shaking as he pointed a trembling digit in front of him.

"Me-Me... Me-Me" Sentinel attempted to speak, but his voice box was clearly having none of it.

"L-Lord Megatron!" Sentinel finally managed to push out, before falling to his knees. Wether it was out of curtosy of coming face to face with the war god in the frame, or out of pure fear, Orion could not tell. And frankly he did not really care either way. Instead Orion took the opportunity to scramble back onto his own pedes, now that Sentinel was no longer weighing him down.

"Told you, you'd find out soon enough who the sire is.", Orion retorted cheekly, as he skipped over to the war god's side.

The grey mech instantly wrapped one arm around Orion, pulling the carrier of his sparklings close against his frame, while keeping the fusion cannon pointed straight at Sentinel with his other arm.

"Now tell me who you think you are that you can just snuff out the spark of my childrens' carrier?" Megatron asked, his voice low yet sharp enough to cut glass. His firey red optics stared down at the cowering magnus in front of him, a rage ready to burn down all of Iacon barely contained behind them "And then give a singular good reason to not cut you down right where you stand?"

*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*

So as the synopsis and kinda shitty One Shot may or may not have made it clear: this AU is based on the story of Romulus and Remus’ parents: Mars, the god of war and the vestal virgin Rhea Silvia. From Roman Mythology.

In this AU Orion is the son of Ultra Magnus, the ruler of the city of Iacon. But one day Ultra Magnus gets assassinated in the middle of the night. So his second in command Senitinel takes over as acting Magnus. Sentinel then orders Orion to join the priesthood known as the Virgins of Prima (this AU's version of the Vestal Virgins), claiming that as long as Ultra Magnus's assassin is loose Orion is unsafe. So he must live in isolation with the priesthood until his sire's killer has been found and brought to justice.

But what Orion does not know is that Sentinel himself is the one behind his father's mysterious death and the only reason Sentinel forced him to become a virgin of Prima was to evade a certain oracle. An oracle that foretold that he would find his demise at the hands of the grandchildren of Ultra Magnus. So by putting Orion in the hands of the priesthood those grandsparklings could of course never be conceived. And even if they did, Orion would be executed for breaking his sacred vows before the bitties could be born. It was meant to be fool proof plan.

But of course Sentinel did not calculate in the chance that Megatron, the god of war himself, would be a factor in this equation.

So after being with the priesthood for several months (and let's be honest, it's Orion, so probably hating it) Orion is sent out to fetch some energon. So Orion tries to gather some energon from a natural spring in the woods surrounding Iacon.

But unfortunately that grove belonged to non other then Megatron who promptly appears behind the young priest and strikes up conversation with him. Megatron does not instantly reveal himself to be the war god, but instead pretends to be a gladiator named D-16.

The two of them start meeting in secret within the grove regularly and eventually fall in love.

I do not know how or when Orion would find out that D-16 is actually the war god Megatron but the fact of the matter is Orion ends up breaking his vow of celibacy and gets sparked by Megatron, leading to the scene you just read above.

I did not want this One shot to go on for too long so I ended it where it did. But that whole scene would end with Megatron being (somehow) convinced by Orion to let Sentinel live, judgement shall find him soon enough. And Megatron essentially just picking Orion up bridal style and carrying him off to Olympus where they can then raise their sparklings.

Eventually their twin sons Cliffjumper and Bumblebee are born and when they come of age they finally fulfill that prophecy and bring forth Sentinel's downfall.

Unlike the myth of Romulus and Remus however there is no fratricide involved simply cuz 1) It does not fit their personalities 2) There is no "fouding of rome" in this story that would lead up to it.

But yeah I hope you enjoyed this half baked idea. If you have any suggestions or ideas for this AU let me know! I'd love to hear it. Or maybe write your own version if my poor attempt at this inspired you in any way.

[dragoneyes613]

With all the global apoplexy triggered by the idea of shipping out the Palestinians to create a Gazan Riviera, the full import of Trump’s plan has actually gone under the radar. Such is the shock that weeks later commentators are still struggling for a frame of reference.

Here’s what they’re missing: Trump’s program doesn’t just rip up the hoary two-state consensus that has reigned unchallenged since 1967 — it sets the clock back all the way to 1948.

At the heart of Trump’s plan are two assumptions: that the Palestinians can’t remain in Gaza, and that going forward, the Arab world must pick up the pieces.

Attention so far has focused on the first element, with the left foaming at the mouth about ethnic cleansing. But the second part is equally revolutionary, because for the first time in a century, it takes a blowtorch to the real source of the conflict.

The Palestinian victim narrative was born as soon as Israel’s puny forces drove out the armies of six Arab states in 1948. The Nakba — or catastrophe, as the Palestinians refer to their defeat — proved a convenient tool for the Arab world in general.

Keeping the losers and their descendants in refugee camps — as opposed to absorbing them as Israel did for the Jews forced to flee their homes in Arab countries — was great policy as far as generations of Arab leaders were concerned.

Not only were they spared the bother of looking after their supposed brethren — those selfsame leaders soon discovered that Palestinians festering in refugee camps in Jordan and Lebanon pressured Israel to make concessions. So they created the world’s only perma-refugees — a tool with which to bludgeon Israel.

What wasn’t to love about Palestinian misery? If the Arabs couldn’t win on the battlefield, they could win at the (non)-peace table.

Of course, that great con would never have worked without Western connivance. The chattering-class consensus that the only acceptable outcome was further Israeli concessions ultimately enabled Palestinian obduracy.

Along the way there were the rare pro-Israel thinkers who identified the central problem as the Arab refusal to pay the price of defeat. Daniel Pipes, president of the Middle East Forum, called the result a decades-long “war process.” In 2018, the Israel Victory Caucus was founded in Congress to push the novel idea that peace could only come about by recognition that the Palestinians had lost.

- Gedalia Guttentag, Mishpacha Magazine, February 19 2025

[lodisama]

BIBLICALLY

—ACCURATE SLYTHERIN BOYS IMAGINES

—slytherin boys x gn!reader

mattheo riddle, theodore nott, lorenzo berkshire, draco malfoy, blaise zabini

them getting jealous but cant(?) do anythig abt it

LORENZO BERKSHIRE—

"Could you possibly do anything other than read, Y/n?"

He groans in exasperation, leaning his arm and forehead on the bookshelf, looking down on me. I don't bother to look up as I smile with anticipation. I know this boy enough to know what he wants.

"Oh, please, Lorenzo. If whining is your invitation to bother me with nonsense, I'll be your guest." I look up at him now, grinning as so he was. He grabs the chair close to me, pulling it to him, sitting down closer than it was already placed. "I've missed you, Y/n." He hugs me to the side, his head leaning onto mine. Now, I'd be lying if I said I didn't like that. Because, Merlin—

"Very flattering coming from you, mate. I missed you, too." I cut my thoughts off, purposely adding the unusual name to shrug it off. To which I see his face notice. Enticingly enough, I regret it for a second.

"Right... Very well, then." He frowns, but continues "We must go back to the common room before curfew, Y/n!" Returning that giddy tone and pulls my arm, in hopes of tearing me from the book. "Alright, alright! Give me a moment." I finally give in, stifling a small laugh. I watch as he grabs most of my things, as I only got to grab the book I held in hand. An unconscious smile emits from me. We both hastily walk through each isle of books, but in no rush of anything. I quickly follow next to him. And he swore that made the air clearer and sliced the thick suffocating one. A solstice to life he thinks.

You smile in comfort at the presence of him. He'd been your friend when you had both been paired by Professor Sprout, 'a perfect match for each of your clever brains' she complimented. He then looks down at you, to which you captured— doing the same.

"Do you think a quick meal at the Black Lake would be a lovely idea?" he spoke abruptly. "Oh? For whom?" I tilt my head, surprised by the suggestion, though this wasn't uncommon for him. He was always one to invite spontaneous fun for our group. "Well, I was— h-hoping we'd all have a calm hangout away from all the alcohol, y'know?" I hum at his thoughtful idea, almost dismissing the fact that he was searching words through his thoughts.

We take a turn from a hall, with all the other students now. Following to enter Professor Mcgonagall's.

———————

The next day follows on, a long awaited weekend as one can say. So, here we find the group of men all huddled in Mattheo's room. An odd forum this early in the morning, especially with the occasion.

"You are beyond stupid, Lorenzo." Mattheo huffs out his cigarette. The said man plops down his bed, sighing hopelessly. "That I already know.." he focuses his gaze on the ceiling, hoping it'd give him some kind of answer. Lorenzo was whipped. "Well, there's no taking it back, yes? Best we could do is help this fool." Theodore pipes in, chuckling to himself and at his friend. The poor boy stumbled through his words; and seemingly invited his friends to a picnic instead of just the girl he had been hesitating to ask.

"We should hurry to hogsmeade before it strikes lunch. Let’s buy food or something— I— anything for it. And tell the others too." Lorenzo finally jolts up, holding his forehead in between his fingers. They all laugh at his state but nod in agreement. Draco, who was laughing— was the first to get up, putting his wand inside his pockets. "Anything for you, mate." He sardonically says, earning a nudge from Theodore.

Just as they go down the stairs, Pansy, Blaise, and Y/n had just entered the common room. "Oh, perfect.." Lorenzo says with a shaking breath. They all smile in anticipation.

"Oh, there you all are. What seems to be the agenda here?" Y/n greets, pointing at the herd of men towards them. Lorenzo's eyes were clinged to Y/n's, but then interrupted by Mattheo's rough elbow. Stopping him in his trance "Oh— fuck, mate. You've got to sto—" a puzzled look from Y/n in anticipation of his answer. "Merlin. We're off to hogsmeade for our picnic this lunch." He clears his throat. To this, Blaise and Pansy coo in amusement, earning confused looks from the men. Here comes my que then. I sigh, somewhat annoyed and anxious. Annoyed, because I had to tell him and face my disappointment. Anxious, due to the fact that I'm too scared to hear what he'd say— Blimey, it's stupid that I care about what he thinks.

“Adrian’s asked me out for a morning stroll at hogsmeade..” I clear my throat as my words falter.

He draws a breath, as if taken aback at my words. Everyone around us pining anticipation, smiling as if I had said something out of the blue. I tilt and knick my eyebrows in confusion, “Have I said something wrong? You lot seem to be speaking with your eyes.” I observe.

Blaise by my side clears his throat and chuckles, as everyone else stands awkwardly. “Well. Erm— enjoy the… date?” Theodore smirks knowingly; unsure of the situation. I blush at his words— it isn’t a date, is it? “Fucking weird, you lot. I’ll catch up with you two soon, I’m sure we won’t be long.” I cut the silence, wanting no more than to get out off this stand-off in the middle of the common room. Everyone bids me goodbye, except for Enzo. I pout yet didn’t pay any more attention.

———————

“I mean— seriously, who does he think he is? We’re not in the eighteen hundreds anymore. I-I could’ve volunteered as a chaperone if that was his idea of a date.” Lorenzo banters as he picks up two of the same bundles of strawberries. “You’re just mad someone else had the balls before you did.” Theodore snickers as he follows closely behind him. pointing at the left bundle of strawberries Lorenzo had raised up. “Piss off.” He replied quietly this time.

They all collectively went to the counter in unison to pay. Lorenzo now going quiet as racing thoughts went through his head. Roughly taking his wallet from the inside of his coat, then tossing ten galleons. Jaw clenching, eyes batting slowly, and his eyes growing darker.

When finally done with paying, he was first to leave the store, paper bag roughly tucked between is palm and his anger. Draco by his side angrily unwrapping an English cheese stick, ‘til he finally does and slowly lifts his unoccupied hand to feed himself. The paper bag on his right arm nearly falling on Enzo, to which he catches, earning an unusual yet nothing unexpected of a sour tone from Enzo. “Fuck’s sake, Draco. Just give me the damn bag—“ he pulls the paper bag from the blond, earning a nasty face from Draco, but then he shrugs.

“Enz!” I gasp as I spot these familiar faces, yet again arguing out of nonsense. I excuse myself from Adrian Pucey who was looking at the latest broom design for Quidditch before running to them. My first instinct was to hug Lorenzo, dismissing the fact that he has paper bags occupying his hands, and yet his hand that was heavily handful went to the small of my back. This didn’t for unnoticed from me. Especially that I was wearing a thin fabric of my long dress to pair with the nearing heat. “Y/n..” He whispers as if it’s a secret only for me to hear. I pulled away to tend to his struggles. “Always the favorite, eh?” Mattheo jests from behind. I laugh at this and bid the rest of them.

“Come, Adrian!” I invite him to come.

“Ahh. The man of courage, Pucey.” Mattheo comes front, trying to intimidate but there stays the sarcasm in his voice. What is he implying to?Lorenzo clenched his jaw more than it ever had, that it started to hurt his head, knuckles white from his tight grasp. Everyone showing amusement and talking to Pucey, yet Lorenzo stayed stoic still. Benefit of the doubt, he must be not in the mood. I ignore the deeper thought in my head to not raise confusions to myself.

“Times up, Chaser. We have a picnic to prepare, if you don’t mind.” He finally spoke. I blink profusely at how bleak it sounded. “Oh, yeah— right. See you ‘round Quidditch practice, Pucey.” Theo feigns a farewell and the others too, whilst laughing might I add. I ignore it as I come in for a hug “I had fun Puce’. See you around.” I smile.

A sigh withdraws from Lorenzo from behind me and I turn around. He shoves the heavy paper bag to Draco’s chest who was done chewing on something as I noticed earlier.

It was nearly lunch, which was just in time. I pace myself with Lorenzo— and there I was blushing again. But feeling somewhat guilty that I went on with Pucey’s invitation. Well, to be fair it was sudden— and I hadn’t known they’d plan on go—

“How was Pucey?” His quiet sternly confused voice emits from my thoughts. I blink, but quickly thought of an answer. “It was alright, I think. He payed for my waffles..” I say with a nervous chuckle, to which he bluntly hums.

I could buy you a whole restaurant for you if you wanted.

His eyes grow darker as he clicks his tongue. But he quickly let go of this trance, looking down at my height, scanning my figure. He holds me by my back once more to get a better look. “You look amazing with the dress, love.” He genuinely smiles. probably the brightest I’ve seen his face since this morning. I give a twirl and a smile, feeling as though that brought my confidence up more.

“It wasn’t worn for you, mate.” Blaise chimes in, laughing.

“You’re not cute, Blaise.” Lorenzo faces him with the same bleak tone. “Allow it!” Blaise’s thick English tone mocks him, and I can’t help but laugh as well. “The weather’s getting hotter, Merlin forbid a woman wants to get comfy.” I prompt.

I turn back to him, noticing his hand snaking its way to my back once more.

——————

Bird’s chirping, along with the lake’s water harmoniously flowing through the sunny day at the Black Lake. Everything was all set, and I was more than ready to dive into the meals in front of me. We sat comfortably on the picnic mat. They maybe pure alcoholics and repulsive smokers— these men. But I’m glad we could all get along with things like these. I sat next to Pansy, Enzo to my left.

“Try this strawberry with the whipped cream, love.” Lorenzo catches my attention— I open my mouth as he takes the strawberry coated cream to my mouth. Closing my eyes; I moan at the perfect balance of the light sweetness and sourness of the strawberry. “Fuck, that’s good.” I peel them open, and the brunette seemed to lock his eyes at my lips with ajar lips. Shock displaying on his face. And everyone went silent as well.

He licks his lips, hazed at either the sound that you made— or how delicious your lips look coated in whipped cream.

If only he could lick them off your fu—

“Enz? You still with us?” Draco sheepishly interrupts Enzo’s obvious gaze. To which the poor boy shook his head to. “Shove off.” He replies, earning a laugh from everyone else, but the oblivious girl.

He then lifts his thumb up along my lips, earning a flinch from me. His rough finger pad softly grazes my lips— making direct eye contact with my fluttering eyes. He takes his now whipped cream covered fingers to his own, licking the cream clean. He chuckles lightly at my perplexed face.

“Eat up, love.” Pointy finger swiftly finds itself on your chin, tapping it. Oh, now I’m smiling.

Placing a kiss on my cheek, then whispers; “Wouldn’t want Pucey to taste what’s sweet and mine. Hmm?” He murmurs quietly like it was a sin to be said aloud.

Merlin—

———————

LMAOOO FINALLY FINISHED TS😭😭 i hope this doesnt flop

[wrathofresistantx]

Timeline of the Emsdetten School Shooting

9:20am – 18-year-old Bastian Bosse leaves his car in the “immediate vicinity” of the Geschwister Scholl-Schule (GSS). Before driving to the school, he posted a zip file of his manifesto to the WeKillEmAll forums, as well as wrote in his diary: "That's it!".

He enters the school grounds and begins firing indiscriminately at oncoming students and teachers.

A teacher is wounded in the face by a smoke bomb thrown at her

Three students are injured by gunfire

A 55-year-old caretaker is shot in the stomach with a sawed-off Burgo .22 bolt action rifle

Bastian encounters his younger brother during the shooting. His brother asks him “What are you doing” to which Bastian moves on into the school.

After entering the school through the main entrance, Bastian shot a group of students, injuring one by gunfire. He also injures two 10 and 12-year-old students on the first floor of the building.

9:30am – Police are first notified of the shooting via an emergency call and immediately make their way to the school.

Teachers and staff had already started evacuating students from the building, with over a dozen students, both from the GSS and neighbouring school calling the police to report the incident.

9:34am – Police first arrive to the school and find the injured caretaker at the main entrance. They then move towards Bastian, who has moved onto the second floor of the building. As Bastian had set off numerous smoke bombs during the shooting, entry into the school is difficult.

Bastian then retreats into a classroom where he sets off a molotov cocktail, before shooting himself in the head with a sawed-off Ardesa percussion rifle.

9:58am – The first special operations command force arrive at the school, with them immediately attempting to enter the school

10:36am – The special command force manages to enter the second floor of the building that was heavily obscured by smoke. They find Bastian’s body, alongside the aforementioned percussion and bolt action rifles, an Ardesa caplock pistol and numerous self-made pipe bombs. Other explosive devices were also found around Bastian’s body.

Emergency services wait for a bomb defusal unit to arrive before approaching further as it was initially unclear if Bastian had shot himself or had been killed by detonating one of the bombs that was attached to his body due to the extensive damage to his face from the gunshot.

10:43am – Police find further explosive devices within the school, all of which were self-made pipe bombs. The neighbouring school is then searched as a result.

5:00pm – A bomb defusal unit arrived at the school, where they search Bastian’s car, as well as four residential buildings and the classroom which Bastian was found. Bastian’s body is then removed from the building by the defusal unit.

A later search of Bastian’s house and garage found further evidence of Bastian making and creating bombs to use in the shooting.

In total, 37 people were injured during the shooting, with Bastian being the only fatality:

6 were injured by gunfire

1 teacher was injured by a smoke grenade

16 police officers suffered smoke inhalation

14 suffered from shock

An unknown amount of people were treated at the scene by an emergency tent set up by the fire department. 62 people were also noted as being cared for as a part of police care procedures, including Bastian's family.

[pipeupcomic]

Hi there! I know it’s been said but this comic is really cool and is a great portrayal of plurality! I wanted to ask though what was the inspiration for this story?

Thank you! That's a good question.

The story was inspired by a conversation I sat in on amongst fellow members of a forums mafia community (yeah like the game). One of the regular players was talking about being plural/having alters and that she herself was a successor host to a previous one who'd gone dormant. Honestly don't know what it was about that conversation but it stuck in my memory hard as something I thought about it on and off for years after the fact until, while contemplating the conversation in bed on like a Saturday morning, the first chapter of Pipe Up entered my head via lightning in a bottle moment. (I made up the whole rest of the story to carry on where that opening chapter would leave off.) At that point I wasn't well versed in dissociative disorders at all but I did have some experience writing neurodivergent characters and I'd known plural folks using Pluralkit in some Discord servers I was in. I knew it'd take a lot of work to get right, but once the artists hopped on board it's just been a train that has yet to stop haha, I really like trying to write about these things and from the outset Tinysweetbunny and @thetruegge just carried with the art.

-SPB

[teamhappyme]

an adjustment period

josh lyman x female!reader

word count: 2.7k

warnings: politically inaccurate portrayal of the white house, aka the west wing, projecting all my feelings onto josh lyman

a/n: me? posting two fics in one month? groundbreaking. I really am in my josh lyman era sue me idc.

“He will call you back at his next availability. I don’t know when that will be, Congressman.” You pulled the phone away from your ear as the Congressman yelled at you through the receiver. “I will let him know. Thank you, have a nice day Congressman.” 

You slammed the receiver against the base until the rest of the communications bullpen looked over at you. 

“I swear to god,” you mumbled to yourself as you barged into Sam’s office. “This is the first and last time I ever fill in for Ginger. Congressman who-gives-a-shit wants you to call him back at your earliest convenience.”

Sam looked up from his briefing, a small smirk on his face. “You would rather help me with research for the state of the union than answer my phone? I’m shocked.”

“Sam, if you don’t give me back my encyclopedia and the keys to my office,”

“Relax,” he interrupted, throwing your keys back to you which you caught easily. “I have a meeting in the oval, walk me there and I’ll give you your precious encyclopedia.”

“Fine.”

You walked through the communications bullpen, bumping into a frantic Kathy juggling a stack of papers in her hands.

“Sam owes you lunch everyday for the next two weeks until he leaves,” you told her, a small smile spreading over her face. “And if he tries to give you a hard time, call me, and then the President.”

“I’m not made of money, you know.” Sam piped in while leading you back into the route of the Oval Office. 

“I have three words for you: Gage Whitney Partner.”

“Touché.”

The two of you rounded the corner past Josh’s office, and you couldn’t help but peer in to see if he was there. 

It was a habit that started first out of survival. In the beginning of your tenure in the west wing you couldn’t walk past Josh’s office without him singing the Yale fight song. Then, after a heated argument in the Roosevelt room between the two of you over the relevance of the Oxford comma, you took every opportunity to occupy his free time to support your argument in favor of the beloved punctuation mark.

Four years had gone by, and somewhere along the way, the small squabbles turned into advice sessions on policy or speech writing. Sometimes, if either of you were feeling sentimental, you would share stories of your times at Yale. 

Over time, it became part of your everyday routines to check in on one another, and it was one of the best parts of your day.

Behind writing speeches for the President of the United States, of course.

“Remind me to edit the concluding paragraphs of the President's speech to the education forum. Toby told me I’ve been using too much passive voice.”

“You do use too much passive voice.”

He stopped in front of Charlie’s desk, glaring at you for the comment.

“Hey, I like the passive voice as much as you, but Toby hates it, therefore I don’t use it.”

“He’ll be ready for you in a minute.” Charlie told Sam before leaving his desk for the Oval.

“Hey, have you guys found a new you yet? Toby has gone through like ten interviews and half of them left looking like they were going to cry.” You said as Charlie waved him in to the Oval. “I mean, the solution to this would be to not have you leave and become a congressman, because that’s boring and you can’t even write your own speeches. In fact, that’s exactly what you should do.”

You walked him to the doorway of the oval, waiting for him to hand you your encyclopedia that had been held hostage.

“Why don’t you come and join me and the President, he would like to be the one to tell you who we picked.”

“Why can’t you just tell me now? You know I have absolutely no patience for these things.”

He didn’t answer you, instead he looked into the Oval Office, a small smile on his face. You looked in after him, curious as to what he was so amused with. 

All you saw was the President leaning against his desk, staring at the two of you, I’m sure not happy to be kept waiting.

“I don’t have all day you know,” President Bartlet joked before waving you both in.

Wait a minute.

“Sam,” You looked over at your boss, his smile now grinning from ear to ear. “No, Sam, it can’t-“

“Come on,” he interrupted, pushing you into the oval with a steady hand on your back.

You’d been in here plenty of times; usually with a group of people, and usually not when you’re getting offered the job of a lifetime. But when it’s just you and the President, it’s the most terrifying place in the world.

“I’ve never seen you scared a day in your life, don’t tell me today is the day you decide to be scared of the White House.” The President commented as you tried to relax.

“Well if you offer me a drink from the fancy decanter I can promise you I’ll be a lot less scared, sir.”

You and Sam sat down across from the president, and waited for the rest of your career change. 

It was hard for you to listen to anyone praise your work ethic, character, and dedication to your job, let alone from the commander in chief himself. You worked for Toby, so there weren't a lot of warm and fuzzy feelings being spread around. So when the president mentioned that, yes, Sam recommended you for his position, but it was Toby that practically locked him in the Oval Office saying it had to be you, you were more than shocked.

You knew deep down he was a softie.

After accepting the position with absolutely no hesitation, it was off to the races with another meeting for the president.

“Mr. President, just one more question.” You asked as he walked you out. “Is there any way we can rework this position so that Toby answers to me and not the other way around?”

“Dream big,” the President said through his laughter, which brought a smile to your face. 

Once you and Sam cleared through Charlie and Mrs. Landingham, you landed a sharp smack to his chest.

“What the hell was that for?” He asked, resting his hand over his hurt chest.

“You couldn’t have told me that you were going to nominate me for your job? Or that the president was going to offer me the job himself in the Oval Office?!”

“Well, then I wouldn’t be able to see your anxious shaking and clammy hands as the President raves about you.”

You rolled your eyes as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, and the smile quickly returned to your face.

“You deserve this. I’m just sad I won’t be able to see you and Josh fight in Senior Staff meetings.”

“Oh don’t worry, we’ll be visiting you on the hill.”

Sam walked you back to your office and handed you the responsibility of finishing the President’s remarks for tonight’s Town Hall meeting.

“If it isn’t the new Deputy Communications Director in the flesh.”

Josh was waiting for you in your office, holding a gold box in his hand while swiveling around in your office chair.

“Technically we’re equals now, so I can tell you to get the hell out of my chair without fear of losing my job.”

“Technically, I outrank you, but since you don’t answer to me, I’ll let it slide.” He stood up from your chair, moving to stand across from you. “Did you quake under the stress of wondering what the president wanted from you?”

“Did you come here to congratulate me or make fun of me?” You asked, a smirk appearing on his face. “And is that present in your hand for me or your new accessory?”

“Do you have to ruin all the fun?” He commented and handed you the present.

You opened the box, taking out the tissue paper to reveal a book, The Social Contract to be exact.

“I know we both went to Yale, but I’m not sure I share the same affinity for the literature of Rousseau that you do, I’m more of an Austen or Didion kind of gal.” You joked. 

“I thought I’d get you something that you could quote from in your State of the Union address. You know the President loves the cheese.”

You opened the cover of the book to find a note from Josh written on the inside. There were butterflies in your stomach before you read the first word, because that’s just the effect he had on you.

The relationship you shared with Josh is one that you greatly cherished. Your work rarely overlapped, being an underling of Sam in the communications department didn’t leave a lot of room for talking major policy with Josh. But after your own squabbles, and then overhearing a debate between you and Toby only days into your tenure at the White House, he quickly found any reason to work with you.

He would volunteer to work on research with you when he had any spare time, and he always requested you when he needed an extra hand when heading over to the Hill. You finally asked him about it a few months into the arrangement, and he shrugged before admitting he’d never seen someone stand up to Toby like that. 

“You’re gonna go further than a speech writer in the communications department. One day I think you may run this whole building.”

You read aloud from his note, the same thing he said to you three years ago on your walk to the Hill. 

You didn’t think he meant it then, and you surely can’t believe it now.

“I told you I’m good with words, Sam and Toby just never give me a chance.”

You closed the book, the weight of this new position pushing you back against your desk. You’re senior staff now. You’re in charge. You are going to be in the room where it happens.

“What if I’m not good at it.” You admitted in the open air. 

“Hold on-“ Josh tried to interrupt you.

“Sam, Toby, and the President of the United States just told me they want me for this job. I don’t have a law degree, Josh. I have a Bachelor’s degree in English and a Masters in Political Science from Yale, but I don’t make laws. I don’t have an illustrious career in politics, I’m not even a head speechwriter for Christ’s sake. I crumble under the image of the Oval Office, and unless I’m correcting Toby’s grammar, I don’t particularly like to debate with people. I am going to be in charge of a department, responsible for people to get things done the way I want. I barely get things done the way I want. I am not going to be good at this.”

“Hey, I went to Yale, don’t drag her down.”

You threw him a look as he moved from his spot in the doorway.

“For the last three years, I’ve watched you handle more crises and speeches than any other deputy in the communications office. Sure, the President showered you with compliments for your writing skills, but it’s you, the person behind the speeches, who is going to make real change here.”

“Josh,” you protested, your voice becoming a whisper as you grew uncomfortable with the accolades once again.

“I’m serious,” he began, moving to stand in front of you. “No one ends up in the West Wing by chance. You were meant to be here. And I have no doubt in my mind that you are going to run this building one day.”

You shook your head, letting your hair fall in front of your face to shield Josh from seeing the tears forming in your eyes. No one has ever believed in you like Josh does.

“Hey,” he worriedly said, slowly reaching for your hand. “What’s really bothering you?”

You looked down at your hands, fingers laced with his for what felt like the hundredth time. The line was always a bit blurred with Josh. You worked on so many projects together, spending hours on end in one office or another. Three years of small spaces and critical decision making led to post-meeting breakdowns, confiding in people you spent hours on end with.

Josh quickly became your person at work, and after the shooting, you became his. Neither of you spoke of it, you just knew that he would be there for you whenever you needed it. Josh knew it all, from screaming matches with Toby, to family emergencies, and the never ending question of what your purpose in life is, which was looming over everyone’s head that worked in the West Wing. 

You had always felt something more for Josh. Maybe you read too much into it when he would walk you home from a late night event at the White House, or how he would call you in the middle of the night to get your thoughts on how to best proceed with policy. It was easy between you two, and with Bartlett’s second term in the White House now halfway through, you thought this friendship would finally shift to something more.

But now that you were equals, senior advisors to the President, holding extreme responsibilities for the republic in your hands, you knew that the dynamic would change. There was no room to slide into a new relationship.

“Things are going to change now, between us. And I know that nothing has really been said but, I’d like to think something was… shifting into more.” Your voice trailed off at the end, embarrassment taking over. 

“There was.” Josh reassured you, a small smile breaking over his face.

You nodded, and in an attempt to hide the goofy smile crossing your own face, you continued to look down at your hands. You reached out for his other hand, which he gladly surrendered to you.

“Things don’t have to be different. There are no rules against a devilishly handsome Deputy Chief of Staff dating a gorgeous Deputy Communications Director.” He joked, trying to get a laugh out of you.

He was right, there really wasn’t a rule against it. And if there was, you’re sure it had been broken before.

“I’m sure you’re right. But if I really want to make a difference here, I need to focus on this job, and not be distracted by an annoying Deputy Chief of Staff.”

“I understand,” he said with a smile, giving your hands a squeeze. “And I think a two month adjustment period is plenty of time before I ask you out on a date.”

“Josh,” you said through a laugh, “Are you really that impatient you need to put a timetable on it?”

“Yes. Four months sound better?”

“Six months.” you said, but as you looked at him longer, you knew you couldn’t possibly last that long. “With a check-in at the three month mark to see how I’m adjusting.”

“That sounds like a great plan.”

A great plan indeed. 

To an outsider, the two of you looked like school kids interacting with their first crush. And that’s exactly how you felt, butterflies in your stomach and your brain all fuzzy.

“Josh!” You could hear Toby yelling through your closed office door, and you couldn’t help but sigh.

“You’re Director is a real pain in my ass.”

“I tried to get his job while I was in there, but the President said no.”

He laughed and tried to pull away, but you held on to his hand even tighter.

“Josh,” he turned back to you, and you couldn’t help but wrap your arms around him. It took him a minute, but his arms wrapped around your waist, and you finally felt like you could do this. “Thank you for the book.”

“You’re welcome. You’ve got this.” He said and dropped a kiss to your shoulder, then your cheek before pulling away. “I’ve gotta go find the dictator before he breaks every door down.”

“Go ahead, I’m going to spare myself from him for as long as I can.”

“Ok, I’ll see you in Senior Staff tomorrow morning. Newbie brings a full breakfast.” he joked.

“In your dreams,” you said with a roll of your eyes as he went to exit your office. 

“You really are going to do great here.” He winked and wrapped his knuckles on the doorframe before yelling into the bullpen himself for Toby.

Yeah, there’s no way you guys are lasting six months.

****

[souperbloom]

Hiiii! I had an idea for a fic where reader is part of the band and is dating ashton. After their performance since their adrenaline is so high they get high and have high sex 🤭

fucking obsessed with this one. had a blast writing it too. soup nation hath spoken, so sativa you shall receive (sorry it took so long)

enjoy <3

————————

sativa. [A.I.]

🍃 boyfriend!ash x bandmate!reader

after the curtains close, you and Ashton let out that post-show adrenaline the best way you both know how.

a/n: i’m picturing black hair ash for this, but feel free to picture any era you’d like!

CONTENT WARNINGS: smut!, weed/smoking, strong language, pet names, oral/faceriding(f!receiving), switch!ash :3

WORDCOUNT: 6.1k

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Tonight was a night like no other. You and your band had just bid adieu to yet another incredible crowd, the lot of you filled with so much energy that it left you feeling as though you were about to burst.

"…Fuck yes, dude!"

"Who has my bag?!"

"Your shoe’s untied, mate! Slow down!"

You and your bandmates barreled through the parking lot of The Kia Forum, buzzed out completely on vibes. You had been running so fast, and for so long, that you had completely forgotten what you were running for.

It wasn’t much longer than a few minutes before you remembered, and reached, your destination— the tour bus, which was parked all the way at the back entrance of the arena. Each of you stopped accordingly, catching your breath.

"Why did we even start running?" Your bassist, Calum, has always had a gripe with running.

"Who fuckin’ cares?! That shit was awesome!" Michael blows out a breath, resting his hands on his knees.

"I like running… but not in these shoes… Dear God—" Luke had found himself on the ground, letting out a long, and loud groan.

"I could go again. Fuck it! Who wants to race me?" Your boyfriend’s voice pipes up from behind you. You whip your head around to see him jogging in place with a smile.

You let out a giggle, still breathless from the strides you had taken to keep up with his pace on your initial run into the parking lot.

"Nobody’s racing anybody, Ash," Calum huffs, stretching his legs, "We’ve gotta pack up our shit on time before they leave us here like last time."

Ashton blows a raspberry, "You’re no fun."

"I’ll race you," you shrug to him, still completely clouded with adrenaline. The running barely made a dent in the energy that was coursing through your veins.

He wraps a broad arm around your shoulder, hugging you into his side.

"You say that now, baby— but the last time I beat you in a race, you didn’t talk to me for like, a week."

"Hey," you scoff, "I had good reason! You teased me about it every time I opened my fuckin’ mouth!"

"She’s right, Ash," Luke finally pipes up from his resting place on the concrete, "you bullied the shit out of her."

"You clearly just don’t understand my comedic repertoire."

Michael and Calum laugh, each patting Ashton on the back as they walk by to step onto the tour bus. You glance over at Ash, who had been staring at Luke on the ground.

"You alright, Lu?" You ask, slithering out of your boyfriend’s grasp.

"Yeah, yeah— I’m fine. Just— give me a second." He holds his hand up in the air, almost surrendering to the cold, hard ground.

"C’mon, mate. Let’s get you on this bus. It seems like Y/N is the only one matching my energy tonight."

Ashton takes Luke’s hand, pulling him up by his torso. You watch in awe at how effortlessly your boyfriend hoists him up, the butterflies in your stomach still floating around just as they did when you first got together with him.

"Okay, I’m good now." Luke blows out a breath, adjusting his heels in his boots.

Ashton, Luke, and yourself all make your way back onto the tour bus, each with your own respective bags and belongings. By the time you had stepped on, Michael and Calum had already found their seats on one of the couches. They were browsing their phones, occasionally showing each other something and giggling at the screen.

"Got room for one more?" Luke asks, moving Calum’s spread out legs to make a seat for himself.

"There’s a whole ‘nother couch, mate," Calum huffs, so entranced by his phone that he hadn’t even looked up.

You and Ashton had made your way to the other couch in question. Your eyes find Luke’s, his find Ashton, as you each toss each other a knowing glance.

"Nah, I think I’m alright sitting here. Why, you don’t want my company?"

As the other three bicker, you and your boyfriend find a comfortable position on the couch. Your head is resting on his shoulder, his arm extended over the top of the couch and resting along the back of it. He pulls out his phone to check the time.

"It’s half past eleven and I’m fuckin’ wired." Ashton mumbles. You feel his body vibrate with the words he speaks as you rest your head onto him.

"Me too," you admit, your leg starting a cadence of bobbing up and down, "I’d usually be down for the count by now."

"Y’think it’s the adrenaline rush? I’m not sure why but— I feel like I could scale a goddamn mountain right now."

You shrug, trying to close your eyes as the bus starts to move, "Could be. But— it’s hard to believe we’re the only ones feeling it."

Ashton’s hand was gently lingering around the nape of your neck. He then started to toy with your hair, resting his head on top of yours.

Your leg had continued to bounce, still feeling as if you were about to pop off into the sky like a fucking bottle rocket.

It was only about a 20 minute drive from the venue back to the hotel, but the anticipation of getting there was absolutely killing you. You weren’t sure how long you’d be able to stand sitting quietly, especially now that Ashton’s hand had traveled to your shoulder.

He twists his head, planting a kiss on your temple before whispering in your ear.

"Why’s your leg doing that?"

"Dunno’. Just energized, I guess."

Your boyfriend nods in understanding. "Isn’t being on this bus right now just the worst?"

"Don’t remind me," you say, as Ashton is removing his arm from the back of the couch.

He puts his arm back at his side, yet his hand finds your leg like a magnet. His fingertips creep towards your inner thigh, your leg still bouncing impatiently.

"Really wish we were back at the hotel…" He then dips down slowly to be level with your ear.

"…’Wanna put all this energy to good use, no?"

His words send a shock wave down your spine, similar to the ones that had been coursing through you all night long. You knew exactly where his head was at, but whether or not you wanted to acknowledge it while the rest of the band was three feet away from you was a battle you did not want to fight right now.

"Ash, knock it off," you whisper sternly, pressing your hand down on his in order to keep it from inching any closer to its’ destination.

"They’re not even paying attention. Look at ‘em." He gestures towards the boys on the couch, all either buried in their phones, or passed the fuck out.

"Still— If they saw anything I’d fucking kill myself."

Ashton’s tongue juts out to wet his bottom lip, now looking at you as if you were a dessert waiting to be devoured. You roll your eyes, trying your best to seem unbothered by his gaze.

"Fine."

The rest of the trip was uneventful. Ashton would occasionally squeeze your thigh, or his knee would knock against yours when Calum let out a particularly loud snore. You had finally made it back to your hotel, and were filing out one by one from the tour bus

"It’s amazing how you fast you can fall asleep," You hear Michael poke fun at Cal, who had been yawning and stretching as if he had gotten a full night’s sleep.

"The art of the power nap, my friend."

"Even after all these years, you still snore like an animal," you giggle, reminiscing on the many nights you’d spent on the road together.

As Calum opens his mouth to retaliate, Luke is stepping out of the tour bus and joining the conversation.

"Everyone has their shit, right?" he asks, hoisting his bag over his shoulder.

"Yup."

"Mhmm."

"Yes sir."

"Good. Now get out of my sight. All of you. Don’t wanna see your faces ‘till tomorrow morning a nine." Luke teases, wagging his finger at the rest of you.

You each gave hugs and said your goodnights, all while Ashton was glued to your hip. His body radiated off an aura that you couldn’t quite put your finger on— you didn’t know if it was just the energy, or the fact that the tension between you two was thick enough to cut with a pair of scissors.

But you knew full and well that you were feeling it too.

"That was the longest bus ride of my fuckin’ life," Ashton huffs, fumbling in his pants pocket for the keycard to your suite.

"I know— I feel like I should be tired," you shrug, "I probably won’t be able to sleep for a while though."

As Ashton pushes open the door to your shared hotel room, he tosses you a smirk over his shoulder. You blush, adjusting your bag strap and trying not to make too much of a face.

"We should stay up all night."

"Do you really think that’s the best idea?" Now, his eyes were wide and glassy. Your boyfriend’s energy had skyrocketed at an alarmingly fast rate.

"No, not at all. But— I think it would be fun, don’t you?"

The thought of staying up all night made you tired in itself, but you couldn’t push past the adrenaline still rolling through your veins.

You think for a moment, mulling over the pros and cons.

It’s already after midnight. Call time for tomorrow was at 9am. What’s 8 and a half more hours gonna change?

"It would be fun… But what would we do for that long?" You drop your bags on the carpet with a sigh.

"I could think of a thing or two," says Ashton, wiggling his eyebrows. He rifles through his bag on the floor for a moment, while you flop down on the king sized mattress.

"Like what? ‘Cause I’m not about to just sit here and stare at you."

"I don’t see a problem with looking at your gorgeous face for eight hours straight," Ashton chuckles, "but that wouldn’t be realistic…"

He digs down into one of the pockets of his backpack, pulling out a small rolling tray, a pack of papers, and a jar of bud.

"…So how about I roll up and we see where it takes us?"

You can’t help but bite your lip at the thought of Ashton rolling up for you. He always gave you the princess treatment when it came to smoking, and tonight was no different.

"I’m down for that." You hum, shifting yourself up on the bed and resting your arms on the pillows.

"Perfect. It’s settled then."

You watch with patient eyes as your boyfriend stands with his belongings. A rolling tray, papers, and a grinder in one hand, the bud, and a pack of filters in the other. His gaze drops down your body, landing on your torso.

Without a word, he finds his way onto the bed on his knees, a sly smile sprawling across his cheeks as he moves around you slowly.

"Whatcha’ doin’, baby?" You ask innocently.

"Nothin’."

His timid reply made your stomach flip, not long before he’s reaching his leg over your body to straddle you. He rests himself gently onto your thighs, putting his rolling supplies down at your side.

"Gonna roll up now, mkay?" He finds your approval with his eyes, as he slowly starts to dip his body down to lay flat onto you. Confused, you lift your brow, but you’re immediately shut up when he starts tugging at the hemline of your shirt.

"Ash, what—"

"Shhhh," he whispers, before pulling up the spandex material of your stage shirt and leaving a gentle kiss on your belly.

Your heart flutters at his simple gesture, just watching in awe as he starts to lay out his rolling supplies on your stomach. You were still very confused, yet you didn’t have the heart to question him.

Now with a rolling tray, papers, and a grinder all splayed across your body, Ashton starts his routine. He takes out a nug from the jar, popping it into the grinder and using his elbows to keep himself hovered over your body.

"What am I, a table?" You giggle, the movement of your stomach causing the rolling tray and other things to move around.

"Your giggling is fuckin’ up my work station, baby. Try to hold still f’me."

You clamp your giggly mouth shut with a straight face, still oddly amused by this strange scenario. Ashton had never used you as a rolling tray before, so pardon you for seeming weird about it.

Once he was done grinding up the weed, he grabbed a filter, all while balancing himself over your body. He made his next moves tediously, laying out a paper flat onto his tray and sprinkling the plant onto it.

Your first instinct was to hold your breath, but something about his face of concentration was making you want to bust out laughing. He’d occasionally glance up at you, those green, honeypot eyes tossing you warning stares.

"Almost done—" He says, now folding up the corners of the paper and actually starting to roll it.

What you loved most about watching Ashton roll was the pure concentration that overcame him, every single time. His eyes would go narrow, his tongue poking out slightly between his lips. It took everything inside of you not to sit up and start showering his face in kisses, but you held back.

For the sake of the joint.

"She’s a beauty," you say, watching Ashton tongue the rolling paper and leaving you with nothing but intrusive, sinful thoughts.

"Mhmmm," Ashton hums in return, before giving the paper one more lick. He twists up the end, finally getting to admire his handiwork.

"Your belly makes one hell of a rolling tray, baby— might have to try rolling up your tits next."

"Yeah, right. Good luck with that one."

You both laugh as Ashton starts to remove his supplies off of you, haphazardly tossing them to the side.

He then pops the joint into the corner of his mouth, and uses his fists to crawl up to you. He stops at eye level, fully straddling you with the jay between his lips and a devilish gleam in his eye.

"What are you looking at?" You ask, already knowing the answer.

"You." He mumbles through the side of his mouth, the joint stuck to his bottom lip,

"Yeah, no shit," you laugh, "But why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like there’s something on your mind."

He cocks his head, "Well, there is this one thing…"

Feeling daring, you pluck the joint from between his lips, taking it between your fingers.

"If ya’ tell me what it is, I’ll let you take the first hit."

"Psh," he scoffs, "like I wasn’t gonna do that anyway."

A bout of confidence rolls down your body, absolutely entranced by your boyfriend’s floppy black curls. He looked absolutely ravishing. The gaze in his eye flicking from innocent to lust fueled, just with a blink.

And if there’s one thing you always knew, it was exactly what he wanted.

"You fuckin’ wish… Tell me what’s on your mind, pretty boy."

Your nickname for him made him close his eyes, taking in a deep breath as you ran the back of your hand along his cheekbone.

The joint was still dangling between your fingertips, but you were debating putting it down after the way he had sighed.

"You always know how to get me, don’t you?" His voice was quiet, and sultry.

"Contrary to popular belief, Ash, I know a lot about you. Enough to know what you’re thinking about."

"You’re such a fuckin’ tease," he grumbles.

"Hey, you started it. Just trying to match that energy from before, y’know?"

"Trust me, it’s still here, darlin’. It never left."

Your mouth pulls to the side, watching his eyes flick between your lips and your chest.

"Oh, really?… You catch your bottom lip with your teeth.

"…Prove it."

In a flash, Ashton is flipping you over, bringing your hips to straddle his waist with your calves digging deeply into the hotel mattress. The action practically knocks the wind out of you, all with the joint still dangling between your fingertips. But you used Ashton’s broad chest as leverage for your palms, so you didn’t fall.

"I’ve got the time to prove it… and a lighter."

Ashton reaches over to the bedside table, practically knocking everything off of it as he reaches for his black Zippo. It was like a piece of him— never leaving his sight for more than a few minutes.

And on the rare occasion in which it wasn’t on him, it could be found right in your back pocket.

"Well then, if you insist— light me up, baby."

You place the joint between your lips, making a sly effort to dig your hips downward and grind into his crotch. A shaky hand approaches you, the heart shaped ink on his wrist reaching out to you with a burning flame.

He toasts the end of the joint as you inhale, the crackling, earthy feeling funneling down your throat while you take the first pull. Those golden fern eyes surveyed your every move; from the inhale, to the exhale.

"Y’look so pretty smokin’ my weed."

"Do I?" You hum, now feeling his hands as they palm at your thighs.

"Mhm."

Your cheeks flush pink, going in for another hit of the joint as Ashton just watches you; like he was in some sort of trance.

But as the smoke travelled down into your lungs and left you feeling a bit fuzzy, something inside of you perks up. A yearning to be in control; to tell Ashton whatever perfectly fucked up words were left in that adrenaline-doused brain of yours.

"You look even prettier under me."

His eyes flutter closed, and you’re left with a cheeky, prideful smile.

You loved getting under Ashton’s skin, more than anything. Calling him pretty, pretty boy; it was like a drug to you. You craved the rush that came with the change in his demeanor. It was something he tried to deny enjoying—

Yet he always came back for more.

Without another word, you pass the joint to him, placing it between his plump lips and allowing him to take his first pull. He sighs to himself, still clawing at your pants like he would strike gold by digging his fingers into them.

"Fuck— that’s great."

"Isn’t it? She's a beauty."

"Mhmm… tastes nice."

The residual smoke clouds the air above you, as you continue to pass the joint back and forth between your lips and his.

It wasn’t long before you started feeling high; and the same went for Ashton. You shared glances through heavy, bloodshot eyes, completely entranced by one another.

"Told you this was a good way to pass time," says Ashton, whose hands had become a bit more fidgety down at your sides.

The fog in your mind was clouding your senses. It had come to a point where you felt like your voice wasn’t working— you’d open your mouth, but nothing would come out. Just a puff of air, or a soft little whimper as Ashton’s hands danced around your calves.

"Baby?" He asks you, shifting his hips beneath you with a twinkle in his eye, "You okay?"

You wanted to reply, but you were too mellowed out to even utter a word. Shooting him a soft smile, you toss your head back, and run your hands down your chest.

"I’ll take that as a yes."

Ashton was an avid smoker. You, not so much. But on the off chance he was willing to roll and smoke you up, it was very rarely that you’d say no. Ash loved to smoke with you, you loved to smoke with Ash.

It was a match made in heaven.

"Whatdaya’ think the guys are doing right now?" Ashton always blurts whatever the fuck is on his mind. High, or not.

"Mmmh, I’m not sure… Probably sleeping." It took you a minute to gain the moisture back in your throat in order to reply.

"Fuckin’ losers. They don’t know what they’re missing. I wonder if any of ‘em are staying up late…"

You can’t help but let a dreamy sigh fall past your lips, before leaning over to put out the joint over your shared bedside ashtray.

"I don’t know much about them, but I know about me n’ you."

While Ashton’s hands are dead-bolted to your waist, yours roam his torso, toying with the black button-down he had slipped on after leaving stage. You fumble with the buttons, mess with the collar, all with your bottom lip stuck between your teeth.

"Can I help you?" Ashton sighs, rather sarcastically, starting his own trail of greedy fingertips.

"You know what I want."

"I'm not sure I do, my girl. Need you to be more specific..."

"Don't play dumb, pretty boy," your hands find the first button of his shirt, "I want you."

It isn't long before all of Ashton's buttons are undone and your lips are leaving a trail of sloppy kisses, making headway towards the buckle of his jeans. He whines beneath you, hands wandering along the motions of you as you shift down his body.

"Fuck me, you're an angel," he sighs dreamily, but you just smile between kisses, already feeling the wetness pooling in your lower half.

"Am I?"

"Mhmm, heaven told me so."

With his words, you shoot up to his eye level, giving him a good stare down before slamming your lips onto his. He melts into the kiss, as do you, still writhing beneath you for any inch of release.

His tongue explores your mouth, searching for something sweeter than the feeling of his own stoned mind. Your hands caress his face; his cheeks feeling much softer than usual.

"Oh, Ashton—" You whine, not long before his teeth are sinking viciously into your bottom lip.

A hiss falls past your teeth, his blistered palms gripping your exposed sides for dear life and pushing you down onto his growing erection.

His direction of kisses starts to lead towards your jaw— then your neck, then your chest.

"Want me that badly, hmm?" You coo to him, somewhat condescendingly. All he can do is hum beneath you, absolutely mesmerized by the taste of your skin.

"You know I fuckin' do."

As he works his way back up your throat, he leaves hickies in his trails. Also known as, a story to tell the band tomorrow.

"Hey, Dracula— knock it off. We've got a show tomorrow." You giggle, as Ashton pops his head up with wide eyes. He still looks entranced by you. Could’ve been the weed, but you swore you could see little cartoon hearts bursting within his irises.

"You’re right, you’re right—"

Ashton begins to toy with the hemline of your skirt, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as he practically undresses you with his eyes.

"Want this off?" You ask, motioning towards the article of clothing in question.

He thinks for a moment, rolling his mouth inward on itself and seemingly picturing the whole ordeal before it’s even began.

"Nuh uh. Keep it on— I like it."

"Can’t really argue with that," You shrug casually, as if being high and now horny wasn’t already causing the both of you enough grief.

Ashton clears his throat, grabbing your attention away from his wandering fingertips.

"Hey, wanna try somethin’?" he mumbles, his tone a bit whiny. Needy.

"Hm?"

"Want you to ride my face."

Your eyes widen, face flushing of color as your mindless hip rocking comes to a slow. You can barely compute what he had just asked of you, let alone find enough saliva in your throat to reply.

"Wh—"

"You don’t have to— If ya don’t wanna. Just thought it’d be fun, y’know, since we’re lookin’ for ways to pass time."

You chuckle lowly, regaining your confidence as you watch his eyes shimmer just from looking at you.

"Baby, I don’t think that’d pass much time," you sigh, stomach lurching at merely the thought of it.

A smile spreads across Ashton’s cheeks, "Why not? Don’t want me to tease you with my tongue ‘till you can’t take it anymore? I’d say I could get a good thirty minutes out of that."

"That— that’s unfair!" You screech, the butterflies in your stomach dancing along and making you shiver.

"Don’t think so. Especially since you hogged the joint. Smoked all my fuckin’ weed. I’d say we’re equal."

"Kiss my ass, Irwin." you bite back.

"God, I’d love to."

You and Ash have tried a lot of things as a couple, but this opened a completely new door. At this rate, as late as it was, you were willing to do just about anything to get your hands on your pretty boy.

"Y’know what? Fine… Let’s fuckin’ do it."

You finally give him the reply he’d been waiting for. His eyes practically shoot out of his head when he hears it.

"Really?"

"Mhmm."

Ashton tosses his head back into the plush pillows, running his hands up your waist and finding himself beneath your spandex shirt, "Gonna' make a meal outta you, baby. Promise it'll be worth it."

With his words, you're dipping back down to kiss him, feeling his hips eagerly bucking up into yours and revealing just how hard he was beneath his jeans.

"Need you," he whispers into your lips, "please. Soon?"

His incoherent babbling was already telling you everything you needed to know, his breathing picking up with the slight feeling of release he was getting by feeling you through the confines of fabric.

"Sit tight, pretty baby. Let me get situated." You part from his lips, planting one last kiss on his cheek before you're de-straddling yourself from his hips.

Your eyes zone in on his, reaching beneath your skirt to meticulously dance your way out of your lacy panties, as per his request for your skirt to stay on.

He watches through hooded eyes, discreetly moving his hand to palm himself through his jeans. You catch him out of the corner of your eye, as you partially undress yourself.

"Slow down, tiger. Save some for me."

"You're not making it any easier, ya’ tease." He grumbles, the corners of his mouth coming to a catty point.

You decided that a strip tease was enough, already feeling bad for making him wait this long. A nervous swirl settles in your stomach; having never done this before, you weren't sure what to expect.

But you knew that whatever was about to happen, Ashton would make it worth wild.

"C'mere," Ashton calls to you with two fingers, and you oblige, straddling his lap once again as his hands find you like a magnet.

"Where do you want me?"

"On my face."

You scoff, "Well duh, Ash."

"I'm serious. Don't know if I can go another fuckin' minute without your thighs as my earmuffs. Get up here. Now."

"Yes sir," you joke, shifting upward on his body. Your bare core was hovering over his chest, and he was practically drooling at the sight of you.

He gives you a quick asking glance, eyes wide and glassy as they had been since the second you two stepped off of the tour bus. You could tell how elated he was merely from the size of his pupils.

"Ready?" He asks gently, noticing you lingering.

"Think so." You suck in a deep breath, finding comfort in your boyfriend's eyes.

"Gonna start nice and slow. Nothin' to worry about." He runs a hand up your thigh, pushing up your skirt and exposing your body to him a little more.

"What makes you think I'm worried?" you quip.

"I can just see it in your eyes, baby."

The room did feel like it was spinning, but you were more bashful than nervous. But you could tell that Ashton didn’t care about the semantics of it all.

He just wanted to taste you.

After taking a moment to regain your confidence, you raise your hips. Ashton shifts down below you, peeking under your skirt at the mess you’ve already made of yourself.

"So wet, already? Damn Y/N, I’ve barely even touched you yet."

"You talk a big game for a man who practically melts when I call him pretty."

Ashton rolls his eyes, "Less talking, more ‘sit on my fuckin’ face, please’."

His hands cradle the backs of your thighs, which makes you sigh. You loved the feeling of his weathered palms; and how tenderly they scraped against your skin. Being high was only furthering that euphoria, enough to distract you from how antsy you were.

You finally let yourself lower onto his face, immediately feeling his nose nudging against your clit.

"Shit—" you hiss, for Ashton wastes no time in licking a healthy stripe up your slit.

Your muscles start to relax as his tongue moves within you, paying attention to your sounds and the jolts of your hips. He braces himself on your thighs, as you look down to see his face engulfed by your flesh and the fabric of your skirt.

"Can— can I watch?" You ask through shaky breaths, only for Ashton to knock his nose against your clit once again and release a moan from the back of your throat.

When he hums in response, a course of electricity shocks your veins. You knew that meant he was saying yes, but the feeling of him vibrating against your core brought your heart rate to double.

You start to rock your hips slowly, feeding into the motions of his tongue chipping away at you. You reach your hands down to lift your skirt, only to reveal two bright green eyes staring back at you between your thighs.

The sight of him beneath you, so eager to please you, could’ve had you cumming right on the spot. But you were enjoying this far too much to let it end right now.

"Ash, oh my god—" You whimper, the combination of his pleading eyes and nimble tongue having you doubled over in ecstasy.

You’re too busy staring down at him to notice how he’d closed his eyes and started to move faster. The speed at which his tongue was lapping against you brought your hands to fly to your chest. You started to pinch your own nipples above your shirt, but Ash was quick to notice.

His arm shoots up to knock against yours, moving it out of the way so that he could get his greedy hands on your tits.

"Fuck— please, please," you beg, although you weren’t really sure what you were begging for. It was taking everything in your power to hold off on your orgasm and enjoy this for as long as possible.

You look down at his face again to see the tip of his nose glittering with your arousal, sweaty black curls stuck, and rearranged to his forehead.

You can’t help but smile, letting out a few more whines and whimpers as you grind your hips. He was still toying with your nipple, but made the executive decision to slide his hand beneath your shirt.

He pinches your nipple between his fingers, receiving pleasure merely from the sounds slipping past your lips. Your entire body felt like it was set ablaze, your core warm and fuzzy from the weed and attention you were receiving from your boyfriend’s tongue.

"Ash, please—" You plead again, as Ashton’s hand switches to massaging your entire breast, still working up into you and lapping at your clit from time to time. "—Gonna cum’ soon."

A muffled groan could be heard from beneath you, sending a course of electricity through your veins. He was letting you know that he heard you loud and clear, but he wasn’t quite ready to give in just yet.

When the feeling of your impending orgasm gets to be too much, you start to panic.

"Wait— I—"

Without thinking, you lift yourself off of his face, instantly whining at the loss of contact from his mouth and the feeling of accidentally edging yourself.

“Baby, my God," he sighs, breathlessly, “don’t stop. Need— need you t’ cum on my face.”

His cheeks are slick with your arousal, lips glistening as he darts his tongue out to clean some of it off.

"Are you sure?" You mumble in return, still slightly dizzy from the whirlpool happening in your lower half. But Ashton then anchors his hands on your waist, giving your flesh a gentle, pleading squeeze.

"Yes please, baby. Fuckin’ soak me. Let me taste you while you cum for me."

He’s nodding frantically, reciprocating that energy of never wanting this moment to end.

"Ashton, I--"

"Keep saying my name, darlin'. Sounds so fuckin' hot comin' out of your mouth."

You can’t shake the feeling of your orgasm being on the brink for any longer, so you waste no time. His heavy breathing and bloodshot eyes has your stomach in knots.

You re-mount his face, starting your rhythm of rocking hips once more in time with his tongue.

That wave of bliss hits you again, picking up right where you had left off. You’re whining and groaning, still feeling his fingertips digging into you and holding you stable.

"Oh, Ashton."

He groans beneath you at the angelic sound of his name rolling off of your tongue. For extra stability while you grind into him, your grasp flies to the headboard, holding on tightly as you ride out your high.

"I’m so close, Ash… keep— keep going… fuck!"

Your body was shifting into overdrive, your head tossing back to let out a guttural whine from your chest.

”I’m— I’m cumming… Fuck, Ashton!"

The knot in your stomach finally snaps, sending a wave of chills rumbling down your limbs and practically taking the headboard off of the wall with the sheer force of your orgasm.

You whine as the sensation rolls out, gradually slowing down your rhythmic hips above your boyfriend, who was as stiff as a board.

"Ashton, holy fucking shit," you giggle, letting out a long sigh. But he was unresponsive. You look down between your thighs again at those glowing fern eyes, pupils large and wavering.

"You good, pretty boy?" You move to sit on his chest, his head resting between your knees and revealing that slicked face for a second time. His shocked, lust-fueled expression morphs into a wicked smile, before he runs his hands up and down the tops of your thighs.

"You're fuckin' crazy."

You shrug, "What can I say? You bring out the best in me."

He laughs again, taking a moment to breathe and run a hand through his sweaty charcoal curls.

"Jesus Christ, Y/N," he breathes, still admiring your body as if he hadn't just sent it into shock.

"What? You asked for it."

"Honestly, I could go again."

"I know we've got time but let's not get too ahead of ourselves," you tut, taking a hand to grab his cheeks, still between your legs, "A warm bath would definitely be nice, though. I'm still a kinda high."

He nods, "I could do that, yea... But the question is whether or not that tub is big enough for the both of us."

"Who said you were invited?" you joke.

"After what just happened on my face? Baby, I think ya' owe me one."

Your head was still a tad foggy so naturally, you found yourself giggling at everything coming out of your boyfriend's mouth. He smiles up at you warmly, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip.

"Hey, what time is it anyway?"

"Not too late for you to run me a bath, if that's what you're implying."

He scoffs, using his broad hands to shift you down onto his lap so that he could sit upright.

"It's never too late for a bath, darlin'. I just wanted to know if I killed some time." He turns his head to glance over at the alarm clock on the bedside table, as do you.

"1:30." You say in unison.

"And only..." he looks at his wrist, acting as if he has on a watch, "...seven and a half more hours 'till call time."

Both you and Ashton laugh, while he's still tracing little heart patterns along your legs. "What if we took a seven and a half hour bath?" You suggest, feeding off of his teasing energy.

"We'd come out looking like fuckin' prunes."

"I'd say it's worth it...if it meant seven and a half more hours with you."

He moves his wandering hands to cup your face, cocking his head subtly to the side. You felt the sparks practically flying off of his fingertips as he looks at you with a beaming grin.

"Seven and a half hours doesn't mean a thing. We've got all the time in the goddamn world."

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

[beesmygod]

Yo Bea,

What are the best sources for reading up about fromsoft lore? I know we’ve got your meticulously batshit blood borne book (thank you very much by the way) but what about the other fromsoft entries?

Also what’s your general opinion on the Japanese vs English translation with Fromsoft entires? How much nuance is lost/how many misunderstandings arise from the way things have been changed over? I distinctly remember people thinking that with Elden Ring the English ending monologue for Ranni made her goals sound way more sinister than the Japanese translation

this will have an unsatisfying answer: in my opinion, there really isnt any. bloodborne is the most centralized of them all, imo, and i really chalk this up to it being a more self contained and western narrative (at least on the surface level) compared to games that are either spread across multiple games (dark souls) making them fuck huge to consider or they're elden ring which is also fuck huge lol. theres just a lot of information to process. these stupid games and the collective understanding of their story really comes from disparate random reddit and forum guys who just pipe in with their evidence and its up to a jury of their peers to decide if it passes the smell test or not. its an imperfect system that allows some crap through. but as the whole, the collaborative research efforts have proven to be an excellent example of a community coming together to solve problems that don't matter at all lol.

unfortunately the research method is usually looking up questions and characters as they come to you and seeing if anyone else noticed or followed your own train of thought. trawling a wiki until you see something that makes you go "hey what is that all about" and seeing if anyone else knows or at least has a lead. and then you go from there.

HOWEVER: shetani's lair has the best sekiro breakdown i have ever seen in my entire life and greatly influenced the bloodborne doc. her work is phenomenal and REALLY gets in the nitty gritty of the translation work. i don't think people can do much better for sekiro than her work. its very good and very long. great reading imo.

this kind of dovetails into translation: i tend to look at both translations when i look at the games. this is because of a peculiar oddity in how the games are made; most of the games (sekiro excluded) are intended to have english voice acting. so at least a major part of the game's text is english only and was intended to be that way. as is inevitable with any translation job, some nuance gets lost. it is hard to convey a lot of the nasty doublespeak and pointed ambiguity in the original jpn item descriptions, which is why i try to hold the fan-provided japanese translations up to the english translations to see what carried across, what didn't, and if anything was missed.

but this doesn't mean the translations are bad. if anything they are shockingly good considering the conditions the translators have to work with (the japanese they translate is is like. archaic apparently lol. with tight turn around before launch). sometimes i am blown away by the translator's ingenuity at threading what must often feel like an impossible needle. ranni's ending speech is def way crazier than it was intended to be and might be the biggest example of a scuffed translation in a from game. she says some insane shit implying she's about to annihilate all life on earth with the cold instead of taking the cold away with her lol. oops!

and as always, if you have questions i would love to try to answer them. or at least say "i dont know" lol

[piosplayhouse]

Obviously it's too early to tell anything yet but knowing the new death mark will be set in an alternate universe and therefore won't have to follow continuity I'm curious if anyone has any specific character pairings they're hoping for.

For me personally I think any of the adult companions in NG or Amanome + Mashita would be a winning combo considering they all have beef/reason to have beef with him in NG. I feel like Rosé might be difficult to have as a normal companion if they're still making the plot a mystery since she would probably know too much, but I hope they do include her anyway because I like her. Otherwise I think it would be nice to have the girls talk (Kaoru + Moe or Ai would be really cute imo) and maybe include pre-possessed Douryou and Kinukawa to flesh out their characters more. My personal pipe dream that won't happen though is playable Sakamoto because I just really want to find out what the fuck her problem is. My elaborate shitpost fantasy is that she comes to Kujou Mansion not because she gets cursed but because she's mutuals with Saya on a pet rabbit care forum site and wanted to meet Muu only to get dragged into the most insane night of her life