#blah bad reply

[bedforddanes75]

sometimes i see the asks people get on here about their fic and its. so insane. because ill read what the ask says and go "oh my god ??? thats so fucking horrible" or something similar And then you all reply like theyre an angel telling you that your writing is amazing. am i just bitchy?? anons on here are VILE sometimes and even when they arent being just. outright Terrible. they can be sooo backhanded. be NICE to people or im gonna come and get you

[violet-amet]

Been going through some mental struggles dudes. Ugh.

[kgerbertt]

[itmeanssomething]

No she doesn't, trust us. We've seen her, we've talked to her. She doesn't hate you. She doesn't hate Sunny either.

"You've... seen her?"

Of course, she's a spirit too, exactly like him. But, she's far more stable... and lacks the unsettling appearance that Basil and Sunny both do.

He has seen Mari as well, though that's part of the reason why his spirit looks so terrible. He can't stand being around her.

Though all she wants to do is treat him with kindness.

"If you see her again.. tell her Ḭ̶̢̡͍̰̍̓̀'̵̬͚̔m̴̢̰͖͚̈́̈́̒ ̵̫͖̈́̃s̵̻͌̎̊̂̀o̸̡̜̗͇͐͠͝ͅr̷̲̥̳͙̺̀̓̌̈́͘ŗ̵̡̣̳̙̒y̶͙͚̹̬̫͊̉́͝ ̷̺͈̃̍..."

[bunnieswithknives]

The simple answer is that they get help! Usually from other wheelers but occasionally from outsiders too.

I hc that the wheelers we see in the movie/book are specifically the 'Royal' Wheelers. Since they are owned by the royal family live on Royal property it's the Royal Family's duty to make sure they look nice, providing them with nice clothes and instructing the staff to help them when approached. (Note: that staff is not permitted to approach the wheelers. Wheelers who want help will approach alone. They are very nervous and territorial so ignoring this rule may result in injury.)

Im sure nobody cares about them other than me but Wheeler hcs ♥

[boxoftheskyking]

Might I give some advice:

Not everyone has (or needs to have) the energy to thoughtfully respond to republicans on the Internet. You do not have to do that.

But some people do, and can. And I think we gotta let them.

An example:

I have a former teacher, I'll call her Grace, who is an incredibly kind woman in her 70s. Devout catholic, had voted for various parties over the years, but has been pretty strictly democrat over the past 15-20 because that aligns with her values of kindness and service.

She shared a post about the pope's recent letter and expressed that she agreed with his concerns about how trump is treating immigrants. A friend of hers commented a long paragraph basically saying "dear Grace I care for you but I don't understand how you can be a Christian and a democrat. Blah blah abortion blah blah gender blah blah drugs."

Grace replied "I'm very busy right now but I am going to respond to you soon with my thoughts". When she did it was an incredibly generous, rational monologue that connected with this person's humanity, their shared religious values, and made a beautiful case for why she supports who she does. I didn't agree with a good half of what she said as I am not a Christian, but the result was an expression of values that I think put her on the side of justice and compassion.

The person replied and thanked her and said she had a lot to think about. It was probably the best case scenario for a Facebook politics conversation

You know what came very close to ruining it? A bunch of (mostly younger) people piling on with "fuck you you racist maga pos" and "no one has to explain anything to you, go to hell" etc etc. Even after Grace wrote that she intended to reply herself.

I watched this republican respond to all the easy, quick insults by saying "this is why I don't think any democrats can be Christian, this is how you all speak to me." If Grace hadn't put so much work into writing her response in a way that was tailored to fit this person, I would not be surprised if that person left Facebook doubly certain that Christian nationalism is the way to go.

I'm not saying we can't cuss out jackasses. I'm not saying everyone needs to respond to bad faith arguments like Grace did or use their time like she did.

But this was on Grace's Facebook page, and interrupted the work she already volunteered to do. Just so these individuals could feel like they "did something" and got a shot off at an enemy.

I think that's selfish and childish and unproductive. They could have said anything they wanted in their own space, but they made grace's job harder for no fuckin reason. And then "loved" her reply and said "that was beautiful Grace, thank you for sharing your thoughts"

Like... Buddies. Pals. If someone volunteers to scrub the toilet fucking let them.

[gaysticks]

i should've never left a comment on a sp video i feel like im gonnaget called a slur or something

[celibibratty]

i'll never understand the urge that men/machos have to insist on this wude ending🙄

[zhelin-thames]

The Joker was ranting again, his shrill laughter echoing off the walls of the Justice League’s holding cells. Danny Fenton—or as they knew him, the Ghost King—leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a scowl etched on his face. The tension in the room was palpable, the League standing by in case the infamous clown decided to get creative. But Danny wasn’t worried. He’d dealt with worse.

“You think you’re so scary, huh?” Danny muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. The Joker’s grin faltered for a split second before he burst into laughter again, clearly unfazed—or pretending to be. Danny rolled his eyes. “Pathetic. You’re just loud and messy. Real fear doesn’t need a laugh track.”

The room went silent. Superman shifted uncomfortably, glancing between Danny and the Joker. Batman’s eyes narrowed, taking in the Ghost King’s uncharacteristic venom.

It wasn’t that Danny was usually chatty during these encounters, but his utter disdain for the Joker—his unwillingness to engage in anything more than curt dismissal—was becoming a pattern. Everyone noticed it, and no one dared ask. The Joker, for his part, didn’t push further. Something in Danny’s glowing green eyes made even him hesitate.

But when Jonathan Crane—the Scarecrow—was brought in a few weeks later, the mood shifted entirely.

Crane was quiet as he was escorted into a separate cell, his lanky frame hunched but his eyes sharp, calculating. The League had just wrapped up an exhausting mission to stop one of his fear toxin rampages, and they were still on edge. Crane didn’t bother with his usual monologues, which was unusual enough to make everyone uneasy.

Except Danny.

As soon as Danny saw Crane, he snorted. Loudly. The kind of derisive snort that made Wonder Woman glance his way in confusion. “This guy?” Danny said, pointing at Crane with his thumb. “Seriously?”

Crane’s head tilted ever so slightly, his curiosity piqued. “The Ghost King,” he said, his voice low and rasping. “A being of great power and…fear. How delightful.”

“Don’t,” Danny interrupted, holding up a hand. “Just don’t. Whatever you’re about to say, I’ve heard it before. And honestly? You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Crane blinked, caught off guard. “Embarrassing myself?”

Danny sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I get it. You’re all about fear. Big bad Scarecrow, master of terror, blah blah blah. But do you even know what fear is? Real fear? Because from where I’m standing, you’re just a guy with some glorified bug spray.”

The room went dead silent. Flash stifled a laugh. Batman’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering between Danny and Crane. The Scarecrow, however, didn’t seem angry. If anything, he looked…intrigued.

“And what,” Crane asked slowly, “would you consider real fear, Your Highness?”

Danny’s eyes glowed brighter, his voice dropping an octave. “Real fear is the kind that makes your soul ache. It’s the kind of fear that lingers in the dark corners of your mind, whispering that you’re not enough, that you’ll never be enough. It’s watching everything you love slip away and knowing you can’t stop it. It’s the void staring back at you and realizing it doesn’t care.”

He leaned forward, his face inches from the glass separating them. “Your little toxins? They’re cheap tricks. Flashy illusions. A waste of potential. You could actually do something with all your knowledge, but instead, you play Halloween in Gotham like some knockoff horror movie villain.”

Crane didn’t reply immediately. For once, he seemed at a loss for words. The others stared at Danny, half-impressed, half-confused. Even Batman’s ever-stoic expression had a flicker of something resembling surprise.

Finally, Crane chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted. “But fear, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps one day, you’ll see the artistry in my work.”

Danny scoffed again, turning to leave. “Don’t hold your breath, Doc. You’d pass out before you made anything actually scary.”

As Danny walked away, Superman stepped up beside him, lowering his voice. “You’ve faced worse, haven’t you?”

Danny shrugged. “I’ve been worse. That guy? He’s just a waste of scary.”

Superman frowned. “What does that even mean?”

Danny smirked, his eyes gleaming. “Stick around, Big Blue. Maybe one day I’ll show you.”

[reidswhre]

Hello 🤍 can i request BAU!reader and Spencer getting caught making out at the office? hahahah

spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

warnings: making out obviously

a/n: this was so much fun to write loll thanks for sending it !!

A kiss. And another one. And another one.

“Spencer…” You laughed as he kissed your cheeks. “Stop.”

“Why?” He murmured between kisses.

“What do you mean why? We’re in the conference room. Someone could walk in.”

“No one’s going to come in, the chances are low.” Another kiss.

“But there is a chance.” You laughed.

“Sure, it’s always possible for a phenomenon to occur under certain random circumstances,” he said after giving you a quick kiss on the lips. “But most of them aren’t even present, so the risk is low.” Another kiss.

“But there is a risk.”

He stopped kissing you to look at you with a mock disapproving face. “No.”

“Don’t give me that look, you know it’s true.”

“You’re challenging my knowledge of probability.”

“You know what beats your knowledge of probability?” You asked him.

“Light me up.” He gave you a kiss on your earlobe.

“How nosy everyone is around here. Morgan could show up at any moment and won’t leave us alone for months.”

“Is that so bad?” He asked with a smirk and kissed your jawline.

“Yes!” You answered indignantly.

“What could be worse?” He pressed his lips to yours.

Honestly, you gave up the battle and decided to surrender. It wasn’t like you were going to hold out much longer anyway.

He placed his hands on your thighs and in one swift motion, lifted you onto the desk, positioning himself between them. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your hands getting lost in his freshly cut hair. One of his hands held your neck firmly, the other resting on your waist.

You were completely lost, and how could you not be? He was stunning.

You let out a small moan when he bit your lip.

Someone cleared their throat behind Spencer.

You felt your heart drop, and by instinct, you pushed Spencer away from you.

“Hey! Violence wasn’t necessary,” he complained.

“Nor was unprofessional behavior during work hours,” Hotch said to both of you.

You felt like you were going to die. It was the most likely outcome.

“My office. Now.” He said firmly as he left the room.

You exhaled all the air you didn’t realize you had been holding in your chest.

“You know..? That is definitely worse.” He pressed his lips into an uncomfortable line.

“Really? No kidding?” You replied sarcastically, giving him a look.

He chuckled a bit.

You gave him a playful shove on the chest. “If I get fired, you’ll never see me again in your life,” you said as you walked out of the room.

“Blah blah blah.”

“What was that?” You turned around.

“Nothing.” He gave you a wide, sarcastic grin.

You rolled your eyes and smiled on your way to your boss’ office.

It was worth ending up there.

[alllgator-blood]

I don't usually do anything for pride month cause I'm fruity every day of the year, but ahhh let's just say this year it felt especially important. Hope everyone is doing safe and that your ally friends/family members are giving you all their worldly possessions + sacrificing heretics in your name! I actually drew a very similar picture last year but didn't end up finishing it, some of the flags were definitely different though. NARINDER HAD THE EVIL AUTISM FLAG FOR SOME REASON. Shamura was the only one I finished so I'll just drop them off here:

Wow look at them go, rejecting humanity and encompassing cosmic knowledge and ceaseless war rather than masculinity or femininity....what an icon

Over the year that I've been in this fandom, I've had a lot of thoughts about Shamura's gender that I'll dump here, I WILL SAY it gets more ranty than I've ever gotten on this blog + talks about the fandom itself, so I hid it under the cut. But I feel like I've been pretty tame on this blog so far and because it's pride month, I have the legal right to make ONE rant about a queer fictional character's perception by the fandom

My weak enby heart still has a fucking death grip on shamura that hasn't been loosened in over a year at this point. They're not the best nonbinary representation in media but they're MY FAVORITE and that's all that matters. I can't stress how awesome it felt playing an actually cool, fun game a couple years ago and seeing that the Wisest, Most Powerful Eldritch Beast in all the land was a disabled nonbinary person. And it goes completely without question, it's like yeah that's shamura and *they're* going to traumadump on you and mind control your followers to rebel against you. Don't even worry about it bro

Being like....nonbinary and disabled and native and butch and yadda yadda, I swear to god I just got used to having no media/characters I could relate to. I didn't even think about how bad it felt until I'd stumble into the odd comic or indie game that had a Diverse Cast that MAY feature someone like me, but generally those types of things don't really *do* much with those characters. Not to be like THEY JUST WANT BROWNIE POINTS but...uhhh.........is it so bad to say that sometimes it does feel that way lmao, I won't play your game or read your comic if I feel like you see me as a checkbox to tick rather than a person with a fundamentally different experience.

I'll take this time to say it is kind of disheartening to see the fandom's treatment of shamura's gender sometimes, as someone who uses exclusively they/them. I've got a thick fucking skin, I've publicly acknolwedged I was genderless since before the nonbinary flag was even made, I've had a lot of time to roll with the punches that inevitably come from being trans. But literally one of the first comments I ever got about my shamura headcanons (when I still posted on reddit like a year ago) was that they didn't like that I made them AFAB and said "why can't they just be completely genderless". Like...making the TRANS character TRANSITION at some point was a bad thing? I wasn't saying "they're a girl in my drawings lol" and I even explained that I made them AFAB so I could connect with them better but. Ough

I s2g just mentioning this character brings up arguments, same with the lamb to a lesser extent, but DO NOT look at the reply chains on the youtube uploads of ANY of shamura's songs. It's always that someone calls them a him or her, someone corrects them, someone crucifies that person for being the Woke Police, blah blah blah IT'S AWFUL. It's funny in a way that the mere presence of a nonbinary person is enough to start a small war, but it also feels dehumanizing to know that my gender just cannot respectfully be talked about the same way binary genders can.

While I'm still talking about this, I don't hold it against people who played the game in other languages and call shamura "he" or w/e because from their perspective, the character is male. I've not changed my perspective of the character because I found out they're male in other releases, so I can readily accept that those folks won't either. But it feels....gross to see people who played it in english who just picked whatever binary gender they wanted shamura to be and went with that. Literally every single character with a confirmed gender is male except like, Heket + Forneus + Monch, so to take the ONE undebatably nonbinary character and decide they're not good enough the way they are is....ough. "It's my headcanon" bro that's erASURE IDK HOW ELSE TO TELL YOU. The people doing it probably literally do not comprehend what it's like to never see themself in the media they consume so I don't hate them or anything, but it took me like two decades to find a character whose gender feels like mine. It's lonely out here man

There's something to be said about me talking about that while making my kallamar nonbinary, but I'll just say this: there are so, so many male characters out there. If there was a crowd of millions of characters and ONE GUY vanished, you wouldn't be able to tell. But if there was like...a broom closet with like 9 they/thems, you'd fuckin notice if one was gone. AND I DO. Nonbinary representation isn't good enough rn to be taking the very few they/them characters out there and being like "nope my headcanon is that you're just some guy/chick", especially when sooo many people do it. Me taking one sopping wet man out of that crowd and being like "you can still be a sopping wet man, but sometimes you're a girlfail and sometimes your gender is squid" isn't the same I don't feel, otherwise I wouldn't have done it. I can't stop anyone from making shamura binary, we're all just random internet artists and do as we please, but I'm still allowed to judge from afar. I've definitely had people judge my headcanons from afar lmao

edit: I walked away and had to run back because I need reiterate, if you give Shamura features that are seen as "binary" but keep them nonbinary I think it's cool and based, especially if you are also nonbinary and just want to connect with the character more. "Gendered features" or w/e that are on a nonbinary person don't detract from their nonbinary-ness and we don't owe anyone perfect androgyny. I have boobs and an hourglass shape but also a lot of body hair + mustache and a good amount of muscle mass, doesn't mean I'm more girly or manly.

Okay end of rant, I had to get that off my chest for like EVER tbh. I really really hate discourse or drama or w/e but this is a topic that does mean a lot to me, so I made an exception this one time to make my opinion known.

[pshmisu]

Drop The Act! | P.Sh x Reader

|| You hated Sunghoon for how perfect he is. For how he makes your stupid heart feel. For how he makes you feel like a fucking high school girl, all smiles and blushes. But man, was it hard to keep acting like he didn’t occupy every one of your thoughts.

|| Or…where Sunghoon finally gets you to break the act. Who knew all it took was for him to roll up the sleeves of his hoodie?

Characters: childhood friend!Sunghoon x reader

Genre: Fluff, Smut

Warning(s): Both reader and Sunghoon are down BAD for each other but hoon’s better at controlling his emotions. Strong language. Heavy sexual tension between the two. Sunghoon walks in on reader touching themselves. Reader is implied to have a fem anatomy. Fingering, soft dom!hoon, he watches you masterbate , pussy slapping (but it’s more like a tap), slight name calling (he calls reader a whore like once) super fluffy i cringed while writing and then cried cause none of my relationships made me feel this way. Happy ending!

Fuck Park Sunghoon. (Literally)

You’d always worried how long it would take for you to just give into your desire to pin him against the wall and just kiss him all over his face.

Why? Because that’s how you felt your entire life. Or for as long as you’ve known Sunghoon.

He’s always been perfect. You’ve known that since you met him for the first time during your shared skating classes.

He’d never reach out to you first, you being a loud kid and him, the only boy in an ICE skating class. And so you’d approached him when he pulled out his lunch box filled with mini heart shaped pancakes.

“That looks so cute! Can I have one?”

And that my friends, marked the start of a very promising friendship.

Turns out Sunghoon wasn’t really a quiet kid, it just took a while to decode his very questionable persona and that kept you entertained for a while. It was a nice distraction from how adorable of a kid he was.

But his personality failed to keep you from noticing how he’s budded into an absolute brood of a man.

Sure, he’s always been a good looking kid. But man did he age like a fine wine. All throughout high school, and your shared teenage years he gave off a cute loser vibe and now?

Oh man, if gods had a favorite, it’d definitely be him.

“For fucks sake, are you evening listening?” That ought to snap you out of your stupor.

Sunghoon glared at you from his position on your lap. That look’s supposed to make you laugh at your success in annoying him but god does he look hot pissed off.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I bring you to your present predicament.

Sunghoon had come in earlier to complain about how Jake absolutely ruined his day by delaying practice, pulling Sunghoon down along with him when he tripped on the sidewalks and how Jake blah blah blah you weren’t really listening.

How could a person look absolutely gorgeous adorning a simple black hoodie, some grey sweats, his hair all long and messy but perfectly framed and his face, oh his face; you’re this close to risking it all to press tiny kisses on his cute little moles that just makes him look even better.

His build doesn’t help either. With the new group of friends he’s been hanging around (which includes the said “Jake” he was bitching about), Sunghoon has been a regular to the gym. And his previous track as an athlete gave him a head start at building an absolute unit, accompanied by his height? You wouldn’t be surprised if Sunghoon pointed out that you were visibly drooling.

Because Fuck Park Sunghoon. (Again, literally)

“I am, I am trust me” You finally reply, looking everywhere but directly at him

He narrows his eyes slightly, staring at you intently before his lips curl into a subtle smile, closely bordering on a smirk, “Sure you weren’t staring at my lips again?”

Right, about that.

This is not the first time you’ve been caught just staring point blank into his soul.

You’re not sure when it is that you started noticing a shift in your thoughts towards Sunghoon. Or was it that his energy shifted in a way? You’re not sure.

It started with a small lingering look, you’d stare at his face a few seconds longer than needed. Flush a little when he’d adorn that stupid smirk that makes your knees buckle. How he’d purposely brush your waist, or your arms, or the small of your back while walking past you.

How you’d have trouble getting words out when he looks at you with those half hooded eyes and a lazy smile. How you now fail to keep eye contact with him for more than a few seconds. How he’s gotten much bolder with initiating skinship with you. How his confidence seemed to have grown so much, a stark contrast to that quiet boy you first encountered. His presence overwhelmed you. In a good way, of course but man, fuck park Sunghoon.

When you gave him a look, much alike a deer caught in headlights, he let out a hearty laugh. “You need to stop looking at me like that, Y/n”, he sat up straight, adjusting his hoodie a little before shifting his attention back to you.

“Like what?”

“Like you’d get on your knees the second I flick my wrist.” Those words left his mouth so casually you’d think he was telling you a fact like the earth is round or something.

You hate that he’s not wrong, it would quite literally take not more than a look from him, for you to drop everything and please him until he deems fit. But the way he said it? Definitely did not help your pool of arousal. Or your budding feelings for him.

“Hoon, what the fuck?!” You squeal, swatting aimlessly at the air, at him in hopes to land a few hits, only for him to laugh even louder at your flushed self, all agitated and worked up and he hasn’t even said anything more than a handful of words. “I’m just saying, you’ve been giving me that look a lot lately. If you want me to do something about it, you just have to ask, doll”

Fuck Park Sunghoon.

“You wish I wish for you to fuck me. -You’re unbelievable” you glare at him, ready to swing again when he gets off the couch, heading to your kitchen with long confident strides. “whatever you say, doll, whatever you say.”

That stupid nickname again, as if you weren’t already all wet and ready from how he kept stroking your legs while he laid on your lap, his voice did nothing to help, and neither did his gaze but the nickname? Oh you hope he doesn’t notice how often you rub your thighs together to ease the tension if not even a little bit.

You know what’s worse? You’ve always imagined how he’d go about fucking you. If he’d take it nice and slow, give you little praises here and there, call you his good girl.

Or if he’d be an absolute menace about it, take every chance to tease you much alike he does now, if he’d edge you, make you beg for it and then still deny you of your release and go about that cycle until he gets you to cry for him.

You don’t know which one you’d prefer because honestly? At this point you just want him to touch you, fast or slow that wouldn’t make a difference as long as you got to keep him close to you.

You get up to follow him to the kitchen, not before fixing up your own hoodie that goes right below your ass, and your excuse of a shorts that is barely visible underneath the hoodie and you’re willing to bet your soul that there’s probably a stain right at the crotch. “What are you doing?” You ask, squirming uncomfortably as you lean against the counter with your elbows resting on it.

Sunghoon leans forward, his palms on the counter, “Trying to see how long it takes until you finally admit you’re soaking for me” he turns around and reaches for your snack cabinet “And cooking ramen, you want some?”

You get a whiplash from his attitude. How does he keep saying stuff like that like it’s second nature and then pretend he didn’t say it at all?

You take a while to reply, still flabbergasted, “N-no I’m good, thanks”, he turns around with that fucking smile of his again, clearly enjoying the sight in front of him. You were positively panting now, finding it very difficult to look at him and instead, fixating on the tiny penguin shaped fridge magnet.

“You sure?”

“Mhm”

“Sure Sure?”, “Yes, hoon! oh my god stop asking.” You huff out, finally looking at him, only to see him roll up the sleeves of his hoodie, and what a sight to behold was that. “Suit yourself” he gave a nonchalant shrug, fixing the bracelet around his wrist before getting on with his task.

You felt like a Victorian man seeing a women’s ankle for the first time because, the sight of his hands, his very veiny hands, all thick and pretty was your last string.

You let out a whine before beelining it to your bedroom, offering no explanation to Sunghoon for your sudden departure. But you heard a faint chuckle and you’re not sure if it’s your mind playing tricks on you.

Fuck Park Sunghoon, you really wished you could.

At the comfort of your room, you start panting. The ache between your legs bordering on painful, the subtle rubbing of your thighs only offered so much relief.

His hands, his smile, his smirk, his eyes, his words, him.

God you’re sure you’d worship the ground he walks on if he asked you to.

You barely make it to your bed, plopping down on it, before clutching at your hoodie, vigorously humping the air as you start to feel hot and heavy. You knew it was risky what you were about to do. But knowing Sunghoon and his insatiable appetite, he’d probably be too engrossed in eating to pay attention to your shenanigans.

With a quiet promise to not so much let a whimper out, your hands slowly inch their way down to where it hurts the most. Immediately failing to keep your promise as you let out a loud whine of relief at the pressure, shutting your eyes tight.

You press against the crotch of your shorts, confirming your suspicions that it was indeed all wet and clammy with arousal.

Not wanting to torture yourself further, you immediately get on with pleasuring yourself. Pushing aside your soiled panties and shorts, rubbing tight quick circles onto your clit.

You imagined it to be Sunghoon pleasing you as you easily stuff yourself with two of your fingers, your arousal helping you accommodate them with no resistance. Your other hand finds its place inside your hoodie, tugging at your hardened nipples. The thought that your best friend is just a door away only aided to your bubbling climax. Eyes still screwed shut.

A low whistle from the entrance of your room has your body locking up. (Locking reminds you how your dumbass forgot to LOCK the door before touching yourself with the reason of your arousal right THERE)

You slowly open your eyes, to see Sunghoon leaning against your door frame, sleeves still rolled up, arms crossed in front of his chest as he licks his lips once, twice and then straightens his posture.

“By all means, continue.” He speaks, his voice carrying a dark tone, his eyes glazed and his smirk permanently plastered on his lips.

Mortified, you sit up straight to come up with a sorry excuse, “Sunghoon-“

“I said continue.”

Is all he says before he’s walking towards you, his smile dropping, his eyes shades darker than you remember, his demeanor heavy to a point you can barely breathe. And through it all, you just stare at him, chest heaving up and down as you try to catch your breath. Eyes slightly glossy as you just accidentally edged yourself, cheeks flushed and your fingers wet with your arousal.

“I’ll say it one more time before I do it myself, Y/n. Continue. And scream my name as you cum” He repeats, his tone leaving no room for disagreement. You bashfully try to cover yourself up, trying to pretend it was nothing, and that’s all it took for Sunghoon to pin you to your bed, his knees pressed up against your crotch to keep you from hiding yourself.

“None of that, you hear me? You pulled strung me along for so long, only for you to act like a dirty little whore with me in the house? You can drop the act now, baby. Tell me what you want”

With his heat so close to you, you can’t help but succumb. His lips right beside yours, teasing you with an almost kiss but not really fully giving in. His smile back on his face when he sees you finally lose your resolve, trying to connect your lips. “Sunghoon, please” you whine.

“Please what, doll?”

You didn’t want to admit it, this is definitely scenario 2/2 on how you imagined he’d fuck you. You knew he’d be a teasing little mf but experiencing it first hand? You could cum with just him talking to you.

You buck up your hips with an attempt to find some pressure by rubbing against his knees, his body over yours offering not much room for movement. “Please” you let out feebly again. Your hands squirming against Sunghoon’s grip making him let out an airy laugh.

“Just say the magic words, Y/n and I’ll give it to you

Not wanting to drag it on any longer you finally admit to your deepest desire, “Please, Hoon. Please make me cum”

And that’s all it took for him to finally connect his lips to yours, hands unleashing your wrists as they roam about freely, exploring every inch on your body. The kiss was nothing short of rough, feelings pouring in through a hot and messy clash of your lips.

His cold hands (sleeves still rolled up btw) make their way under your hoodie, hissing when he realizes how you just spent the entire day around him with nothing but a hoodie and no bra.

Your lips part in a loud gasp when his fingers flicker your hardened nipples, Sunghoon takes the chance to slide his tongue into your mouth, further deepening your kiss.

Distracted by the feeling of his tongue you failed to notice his hand trailing down to your very bothered pussy.

Sunghoon breaks away from the kiss first, to sit up straight and drag your excuse of a short and panties down your leg, you lift your hip to help him out.

“Fuck, would you look at that?” He says with a raspy voice, his fingers immediately feeling around your arousal, “All that for me? Just from me showing you my fucking arms?”

You moan his name out loud when you feel his palm connect with your pussy in a gentle smack, thighs clamping together for a second before they’re pried open by Sunghoon again.

“Sunghoon, please!” You felt like a broken record at this point, repeating the same words with hopes he’d drop the teasing and just get on with it. And it seems to be working, for his patience’s also seemingly close to snapping.

“Only because you beg so pretty” is all he offers before he eases a single meaty finger into your pulsating hole. Oh it was already so much better than your fingers, and definitely better than what you’d imagined.

He sets a steady pace, pumping in and out completely, watching your face contort in pleasure and he uses his other hand to push your hoodie up, his mouth immediately latching onto your exposed nipples.

The pleasure has you seeing white, “Sunghoon, hoon-fuck!” Is all that you can seem to get out with how he’s working your body. Like he’s done this a hundred times before.

He continues before slipping in another finger, the added stretch only aiding to push you closer to your edge, and fuck! He uses his thumb to press down on your clit, causing you to arch your back deliciously.

“Who’s making you feel so good, pretty?” He mumbles against your chest, looking up through his eyelashes as he waits for your response.

He nips at your bud slightly at your lack of response, which makes you yelp, “Answer me, doll”

“Y-you Sunghoon, fuck, it’s you!”

He hums with satisfaction, pressing a tender kiss to your boobs before his lips find their place on your neck. The pace of his fingers increasing a tad bit, causing your eyes to roll back.

“Who does this pussy belong to, hm?” He asks as soon as you mumble a quick ‘I’m close’ in a rushed tone.

“You! Only you, hoon!” You offer immediately, body spasming as the coil in your stomach tightens unbelievably.

Sunghoon continues to mark your neck, his fingers working relentlessly. He lets out a low groan as he feels you squeeze his fingers, not wanting to hold back your climax from you (Also because he wanted to see how pretty you’d look when you cum for him)

“You close, love?”

You can only manage a “mhm” before you feel the coil begin to snap, you quickly open your eyes, to find him looking at you already. His gaze, so full of lust, so full of admiration, so full of love was your final thread.

“cum for me, Y/n.” Almost like your body was waiting for him to say those words, you immediately reach your high, feeling pleasure like none before, your mouth muttering a constant chant of his name, your eyes practically at the back of your head at this point.

And fuck what a sight to behold was that. Sunghoon would have you coming around his fingers, his mouth, his cock, anything at all times just to look at your pretty fucked out face.

His fingers slowly come to a stop after dragging out your orgasm for as long as he could until you began shaking with slight overstimulation. You heave heavy sighs to catch your breath. Sunghoon waiting for you to look at him before he brings his soiled fingers right to his mouth, sucking off your arousal. His mouth curling to a subtle smirk as you whimper at the sight.

For a while you both watch each other in silence as you couldn’t find to courage to use your voice after your best friend just made you have the best orgasm of your life. But apparently you had nothing to worry about, as he flexes his arms above his head,

“So it was as simple as exposing my arms to get you to drop the act?” He smiles at you, a shit eating grin adorning his face the second you cover your face with your hands with a loud groan of annoyance.

Man truly, Fuck Park Sunghoon.

(Because you’ve finally gotten a taste of it and you’re not willing to stop at just that)

[pearwaldorf]

I hate that you can't see a tweet thread anymore if you're not logged into Twitter (as a gesture of disrespect I refuse to call it by its rebranded name). Here is a copypasta of a thread from Dan Olson, a Canadian documentary filmmaker, expanding upon camera quality, the guilt trips Somerton used to goose his Patreon subscriptions, and how the best tools will never make up for lack of dedication or patience. I have added clarifications in [[double brackets]] where I feel it is necessary.

START OF THREAD

Okay, so, back in April I snapped at James in reply to a tweet that was linking to this video (which James has since delisted but not deleted) and I want to talk about the full context of that but I don't want to make a video, put your beatdown memes away. [[The video has since been deleted. I can see the title of the video is "Maybe the end (not an April Fool's Day thing".]]

The first bit of context is that I initially got keyed into James to fact-check his claims about indie filmmaking in Canada. As a filmmaker the entire Telos venture was immediately obvious as a juvenile fantasy dreamed up by someone with no idea how to make a movie.

Just wild claims about their plans that weren't worth debunking because they bordered Not Even Wrong. But in watching one of these pitch videos I noticed that he had a $4000 current-gen camera in the background as a prop, and that seemed both pretentious and weird.

You don't use your best camera as a prop, you use your second best camera as a prop. So being an obsessive weirdo I needed to know, and I watched his BTS stuff until I spotted his main rig, a $6000 camera with about $1000 in accessories.

Now, these in isolation are unremarkable because his Patreon at the time was bringing in ~$8000 per month, his channel was a full on Business business, and so investing in some professional equipment of that level is maybe a bit indulgent but justifiable.

What was weird is that he doesn't shoot multi-cam, doesn't shoot outdoors, doesn't shoot on location, and in a studio the two cameras kinda really step on each others' toes. Basically if you already have one and don't need a B cam there's no reason to get the other.

Again, on its own, this says nothing, it's just indicative of poor financial decisions, maybe impulsive purchasing, Gear Acquisition Syndrome. Biblical sins, but not crimes.

Paired with the constantly inflating fantasy scope of the Telos films it was clearly an expression of a very, very common bad filmmaker habit of "if I just get the right gear then my movie will basically make itself" Buying stuff because it feels like progress.

At the end of February he tweets "I want to start shooting anamorphic" and then three weeks later in March he posts the worst, out of focus, under-exposed "I just got a new lens!" video I've ever seen, showing off his trash-covered bedroom.

Based on what's available for his cameras and the lead time, that's enough time to get a Laowa Nanomorph or Sirui Saturn from B&H but not enough time to get a Great Joy from the UK or a Vazen from China. And with the flaring blah blah blah, $1300 lens.

Again, [gear acquisition syndrome] is not a crime and these lenses are budget options. Bit of a pointless impulse purchase since he only used it for the Showgirls video. But this is what he was doing just a few weeks before that above video came out: effortlessly impulse purchasing lenses.

James has (had?) a habit of regularly, aggressively driving viewers to Patreon by claiming that videos were getting demonetized. While tacky, it is something a lot of queer YouTubers have dealt with, so there's precedent there. But people were noticing he did it a lot.

Mid-March he humble brags about needing to work so hard to make 6 videos in April because he has over-booked sponsorships.

Then March 29th James posts this whole incel screed on Twitter about how sex work should be "subsidized as a mental health service."

[two image descriptions.

1. "For the majority of people sex (and human contact) can be imperative to a healthy state of mind. A kind and talented sex worker can make someone feel wanted for the first time in their life. I know sex workers who have pulled people back from suicide just by being there for them." 2. "Not only should (sex work) be legal, but it should be subsidized as a mental health service."]

He spends several days getting absolutely *roasted* for this, just dragged across the pavement and read for filth, and doubles down in the replies the whole way.

So this is the context immediately surrounding James waking up on Friday, and posts the above video and the below tweet.

[image description: "We just got the lowest Patreon payout we've gotten in well over a year. Like, a "maybe we need to rethink things" kind of amount... NOT an April Fools Day thing btw. But I don't know if we'll be making videos much longer."]

Now, this unfolds in kinda two directions. The first is that I'm convinced he was just lying about this income shock in the first place.

There's a million theoretical edge cases about what maybe happened and if maybe he just misunderstood the data or saw a glitch and panicked, maybe one of those happened, I don't believe it, I think he just lied because he was salty about getting dragged and felt owed a win.

A big tell to me is that he doesn't blame Patreon. He says he doesn't know what happened, but let's be real, Patreon screws up all the time, they're the first people anyone blames if anything confusing happens, just as a reflex action, even if it's completely not their fault.

The only reason to not blame Patreon is if you already know that it's not their fault and that any investigation on their part might reveal embarrassing details.

Instead he indirectly blames his viewers for not watching enough, not sharing enough, and not turning on auto-renew.

So regardless of the unknowable truth, this segues into the second, far more offensive direction of the messaging itself. "I don't know if we'll be making videos much longer." "Maybe the end" He explicitly framed this as an immediate existential threat to his channel.

In the video he is vague about everything, leaves a ton of hazy room for plausible deniability on how long the channel can keep going, but the messaging is "I need more patrons right this minute or my YouTube channel is over."

He repeatedly evokes all the "fun stuff" they had planned that would never see the light of day if this didn't turn around right away.

And his audience received this message loud and clear. Tons of people making far, far, far less than him left very heartfelt messages about digging a little deeper to subscribe or up their pledge or unsubscribe from other channels to move their pledge to his.

1200 new patrons in one day.

Since I simply don't believe the income shock was real in the first place that would put his post-"Maybe the end" Patreon income at around $10,000 per month. US. Add YouTube income, he's spent the last seven months making around $18,000 per month.

I have seen creators scale back their capabilities to the bone purely to keep making videos for the love of just, like, making stuff even as their funding evaporated and they needed to go back to a desk job to cover their bills.

You'd have to be so outstandingly reckless with your finances as a channel that a one month spook leads immediately to "channel over, sorry about all the fun stuff we won't get to do with you, our patrons, specifically because you, our patrons, aren't giving us enough money"

And not a spook where you then spend a couple weeks crunching numbers. Oh no. A shock so violent where less than two hours later you're weeping on camera about the channel being over.

Three weeks later he brought a brand new Sony FX6v for $8000 CAD to add to his pile of cinema cameras despite the fact that he was, but scant moments earlier, in such a precarious position that a single bad month would kill his channel.

He stole your money, and for that I'm profoundly sad and angry. That's why I snapped at him in April. I'm sorry I couldn't give you the full context then, and I'm sorry if that anger upset you.

END OF THREAD

[emonaculate]

Emon babbles...

This idea has been plaguing my mind, but I couldn't figure out how to write it in the way I visualize it in my brain. So, why not give you all what I have in the meantime?

Bandmate!Gojo x Readerــــــــﮩ٨ـ

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo who didn’t even want to be at this tacky-ass three-day audition. He had better things to do than wake up before the birds and the worms just to hear sob stories and half-baked songs from wannabe musicians hoping to ride the coattails of his fame.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who’s uncharacteristically… cruel? He claims it’s just because he’s not a morning person—that it has nothing to do with the reason they’re even holding auditions for a new bassist. But Gojo Satoru has always been a terrible liar. Everyone knows it. Especially Shoko.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo still manages to tower over his bandmates, Nanami and Shoko, even while slouched in his seat—absently clicking and unclicking a pen, expression unreadable behind nearly pitch-black shades. He rolls his eyes as another girl onstage gushes about how he saved her, how she loves him… blah blah blah.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who gets elbowed—hard—by Shoko. She doesn't need to see his eyes to know he's zoning out and back on his bullshit. She always knows.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo isn’t usually the bad guy. A menace? Sure. Annoying? Absolutely. Cocky? Always. But this version—this cold, detached, almost cruel version? That’s new. That’s not him.

But he doesn’t know how to go back. Back to when the band was whole. Back to when music actually meant something. Back to when Geto was still with him. with the band.

Nothing's been the same since.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo watches the girl slink offstage, dejected after failing to get her “main character moment.” He shouldn’t feel satisfied, but he does. Something is intoxicating about having that kind of power over someone.

“You’re a piece of shit, y’know that?” Nanami’s voice cuts through the silence. Calm. Cold.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who usually lets criticism roll off his back like water. After all, he knows who he is: a prodigy, a pioneer, a legend in the making. His influence will echo long after he's gone. But what unsettles him—what really gets under his skin—is when someone sees through the performance. Past the cocky smirk, the designer sunglasses, the tattoos and piercings, the curated persona. Nanami might be one of those people.

And that terrifies him.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who pretends Nanami’s stare doesn’t make his skin crawl—doesn’t make him feel seen in the worst possible way. He shrugs, casual and dismissive, but his fingers tighten around the pen in his hand until the plastic creaks.

“Nanami…” Shoko warns, her voice low. She can feel the tension thickening, like a storm about to break. This conversation? It’s been a long time coming.

“No,” Nanami cuts her off, voice gentle but firm. “He needs to hear this. The label won’t say anything, and I know you’re tired of getting dragged for his behavior too.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo feels his eye twitch. Slowly, deliberately, he drags his gaze up to meet Nanami’s. A smirk curls at his lips, and he lets out a low, mocking laugh.

“You got something you wanna say to me, Kenny?”

“I’m glad you think all this is funny,” Nanami replies, voice steady, hands tucked neatly in his lap like he’s discussing the weather. “Let me tell you what I find really fucking funny.”

He turns his chair to face Satoru directly and leans forward slightly, manspread, not to intimidate him—but to talk to him, man to man.

“You’re a twenty-three-year-old burnout lashing out at everyone around you. You're angry at the world, but the truth is, you're the reason everything's falling apart. You’re the reason Geto dumped you.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo shoots up from his chair, the metal legs screeching violently against the floor before the whole thing crashes backward with a loud clang. The sheer aggression in his movement makes the air crackle. That mocking smirk is gone.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who takes a single step forward, and before the second one even lands, Nanami is already moving—controlled, practiced, deliberate. In one fluid motion, he swaps places with Shoko, placing himself squarely between her and Gojo without a word.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who seethes as his chest rises and falls, fists clenched tight, turning his knuckles white at his sides. The pen, long forgotten, lies cracked on the floor near the upturned chair.

“You wanna say that again?” He growls, voice low and venomous like a snake ready to strike. His shades had been discarded during the commotion, and his gaze was nothing but a dark azure color as he glared.

Despite how scary Gojo looks at the moment, Nanami remains unshaken and firm. “I don’t repeat myself. You heard me the first time.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who suddenly feels like he’s vibrating out of his own skin. His vision flashes white-hot with rage and—something else. Guilt, maybe. Pain, definitely. But mostly, he just wants to hit something. Break something. Make someone else feel the way he’s been feeling for months.

Shoko forcefully wedges herself between the two men and lets out a low hum as if she hasn’t just been caught in the middle of a powder keg ready to blow. She gives Nanami a reassuring smile, relieved to see the blonde ease up immediately.

“Alright,” she breathes out lowly, “who wants to explain to the label that the bassist auditions ended in a fistfight? Let's just get through the last audition and call it a night.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who doesn’t move. Who doesn’t breathe for a second too long? His eyes still locked on his target; Nanami.

Because for all his anger—for all the pressure in his chest and heat behind his eyes—he knows Nanami is right. And that’s what pisses him off the most.

“Please… Satoru?” Her voice is soft, tired in a way that hurts way more than yelling could ever compare. And for a flicker of a second, something in him stirs. Guilt. Once upon a time, he was the guy who would tell someone off for stressing Shoko out. Once upon a time, he was the guy who would protect her.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo tears his eyes away from Nanami wordlessly, jaw tight as he forces himself to back down. The rage in his chest doesn’t vanish, but it simmers just enough to allow him to move. For Shoko.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who bends to pick up his chair with slow, deliberate movements, as though controlling the pace of his own unraveling. He counts silently in his head as a means to calm down while he moves the chair. He sets it upright without a word, the echo of metal legs scraping across the floor barely audible over the hush of the room.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who doesn’t acknowledge the crew’s concerned murmurs. If they were so concerned, they would have done more to help alleviate the situation besides just watching.

"Are you alright?" "Do you want some water?" "Should we take a break?"

He ignores all of it. Eyes forward. Shoulders squared. Like nothing happened.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo sinks into the chair again, but it’s different now. The slouch is gone. His hands rest on his thighs, clenched into fists. He picked up his sunglasses and placed them on the top of his head. They're slightly lopsided, but he makes no move to fix them.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo was sure he hated himself more than anyone else could.

Y/n, who had been waiting backstage for what felt like hours, hears her name finally called—flatly, almost like an afterthought. Damn. Maybe calling out of work to be here wasn't the brightest idea.

“Next up... Y/N L/N.”

Y/n, who walks in clutching a slightly-too-big journal to her chest, its edges worn and dog-eared from being dragged through years of lyrics and late-night thoughts. A seaweed colored bass, with various aged stickers on it as decor, is slung across her back.

Y/n, who had promised herself she wouldn’t freeze—wouldn’t fangirl or stumble or stare too hard. But when she steps under the lights and sees him in the flesh for the first time, her breath still hitches.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who barely even looks like the version of himself plastered across album covers and magazine spreads. There’s no spotlight glow here, no teasing grin or playful arrogance. He was just there.

Y/n, who felt that starstruck shimmer fade, like fog burning off in daylight. Because this close, Gojo Satoru doesn’t look untouchable. He looks hollow. Like someone who lost something or someone important and never figured out how to fill the space it left behind.

Y/n blinks, clears her throat, and adjusts her grip on her journal as she crosses the stage. Her scuffed red high-top Converse echoes with every step.

“Y/n, right? Thanks for waiting.” Shoko meekly smiles; it's clear she wants to give an explanation for the delay, but knows better.

Y/n nods absently and begins shifting her bass around to rest in front of her. “Yeah. Of course.”

She doesn’t say she’s been waiting for this moment her whole life. She doesn’t say that the only thing keeping her from throwing up backstage was the sketch she doodled of her setup in the margins of that same battered journal.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who still hasn’t said a word. Still hasn’t really looked at her. Y/n feels something twist in her chest—not disappointment, not exactly. Just the quiet understanding that legends are people, too. Flawed. Fractured. Geez, angsty much?

She plugs in. Fingers hover just above the strings.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo doesn’t bother to look up as the girl starts playing. He’s already heard enough bad renditions of their hits today to fill a lifetime. The stage lights hum. Someone in the crew coughs in the corner. The low rumble of nervous fingers plucking strings reaches his ears. He pulls his shades back down over his eyes; he could already feel a migraine coming on.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo clenches his jaw as she stumbles through the first few measures. The rhythm is off. The timing slips. Her tone’s there, somewhere, but it’s drowning in nerves and a touch too much hesitance. He hears her miss a transition—rookie mistake.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. He finally lifts his head just slightly, not enough to meet her eyes, but enough to glare over the rim of his sunglasses.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who’s done. He can’t stand another second of it.

“Alright,” he snaps, voice slicing through the room like a whip. “Stop. Fuck. Just—seriously. Stop.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who stands up, raking a hand through his snowy hair with visible agitation. “This is insane. Every person that walks on this stage either wants to fuck me, cry on me, or butcher my songs like it’s some kind of sick talent show. I don’t need another hopeful fangirl with a decent smile and a hobby.”

His voice rises.

“Where are the real musicians? The ones who feel it in their goddamn DNA? Who play like they’d bleed for it, not like they’re worried about hitting the right note just to impress someone they saw on a magazine cover!”

“Jesus, Satoru…” Shoko winces and mutters under her breath.

“You could’ve just said she’s not ready.” Nanami, presses a hand to his forehead.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who meets her stare for the first time. Actually looks at her. And for a moment, something about the way she’s holding her bass again—this time not as a shield, but like a weapon—makes him pause.

“…I appreciate the opportunity…”

Y/n starts and leans into the mic, her voice soft and sweet. She trails off, but her gaze doesn’t break. Something’s changed. The stage lights don’t feel so big anymore. The nerves melt right off her shoulders as she tilts her head, considers him—really considers him. Her gaze flashes from what was once starstruck to almost condescending.

Her sweet, soft tone sharpens into something sharp-edged and raspy—the kind of voice that belongs in front of crowds, under spotlights, on vinyl.

“You say all this about real musicians and what true artists are… but you don’t even look like one yourself.”

The room stills.

“I know I’m a real musician. I know I could keep up with you on your so-called ‘level.’ OR even outplay you. Hell, I could play any song you throw at me blindfolded and I wouldn’t miss a single note.”

She steps closer to the mic, wrapping her manicured hand around it as she raises her voice. The bass hangs at her hip now like it’s fused to her. Her voice is filled with pure confidence and snark.

“So go ahead and throw your tantrum, bitch. But don’t talk to me like I don’t fucking belong here.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who lets out a sharp laugh—humorless, more reflex than joy. She really just said that. To him. He steps forward slowly, only the sound of the chains around his neck is heard with how quiet the room is.

“Oh, you’ve got nerve, I’ll give you that,” He mutters, tilting his head just slightly to the side. His voice lowers, smug and dangerous. “Big words for someone who can’t even hold tempo under pressure.”

Y/n, however, doesn't waver. Doesn’t shift. She just watches him, chest rising and falling steadily, like she wants him to try her. The look in her eyes screams nothing if not defiant.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who sees the challenge in her eyes and decides, Fine. You want to prove it? Let's see you burn.

“Alright, hotshot.” He lifts a hand and snaps his fingers toward a crew member. “Bring me a six-string. Get the monitors live.”

“You’re seriously doing this now?”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who ignores Nanami's protests, is already pulling off his black aviator jacket and letting it fall carelessly behind a speaker. Someone hands him his guitar—a weathered custom model, black body, silver hardware, nearly as iconic as he is. His toned arms flex underneath his grey wife-beater as he holds the guitar.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who doesn’t even need to tune it. Just slings it on and strums a few warmup chords with effortless precision, muscle memory sharp from years of living in this world. He looks up at her, eyes glinting behind his crooked shades.

“Let’s make this simple,” he says, voice low. “You say you can hang with me? Prove it. ‘Charmolypi.’”

Y/n stills as she hears the title—not from fear, but sheer shock. That track was never released as sheet music. No tabs. No official breakdowns. Only the live version exists online—jagged, brutal, unforgiving. The song that reminds him of Geto. The song Gojo never plays anymore.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo watches Y/n closely now, waiting for her to fold. Daring her to.

“Blindfolded, right?” he adds with a singsong grin that’s almost cruel. “Unless that was just another line for the mic.”

Y/n slowly, silently, pulls her journal from the amp where she left it. She sets it down. Unzips a side pocket. Pulls out a black ribbon and ties it calmly around her head—right over her eyes. The room suddenly became even quieter.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, whose smirk falters for just a second. Y/n lifts the bass effortlessly and adjusts her grip, then rolls her shoulders back like she's about to dive head first off a cliff.

“I hope you’re ready to keep up with me,” Y/n says into the mic.

There's a pause in her words...

“Bitch.”

Ah there it is.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who can’t stop the sharp, stunned laugh that bursts out of him.

“…You’re insane.”

But this time, he doesn’t sound mad. He sounds alive.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo doesn’t look at her right away. He watches her in fragments. Through the slant of his lowered head. Through his lashes. Through the spaces between his thoughts, where the ghosts tend to live.

Charmolypi. A song with a name that means joy mixed with grief. A kind of beauty that hurts to hold. It was never meant for public ears, just something born between long nights, cigarette smoke, and a friendship that cracked before it could heal.

He plays the opening chords like muscle memory—because it has to be. His fingers know the way better than his heart does. That part of him got buried under too many headlines and hangovers, under too many nights he couldn’t quite remember but always seemed to end with Geto’s name stuck in his throat.

The strings hum.

And then she begins to play. Y/n, blindfolded, hands steady, pulse louder than the amp she plugs into. And yet, she starts anyway.

She comes in slightly behind him at first, just a breath too cautious. He’s already rolling his eyes in the back of his mind when she catches the rhythm mid-step, and holds it. No stutter. No flinch. It’s like watching someone walk a tightrope barefoot, terrified and trembling, but still refusing to fall. He almost respects it. Then she improvises.

Not just to show off. It’s nothing flashy. No desperate finger-speed acrobatics like the other posers who tried to impress him with technique and no soul. This? This is something else. She adds four notes. Quiet. Intentional. Mournful in a way that feels too intimate to be accidental. A deviation so subtle it would’ve gone unnoticed—except Gojo feels it; right in the center of his goddamn chest.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo suddenly looks at her. Really really looks. The blindfold. The curve of her mouth, not smirking, not posing. Just concentrating. Like she’s trying to wring something honest from a song that was never meant to see the light of day. Her hands move like she’s searching. Not for applause, but for meaning.

And something sharp pierces the haze behind his eyes. For a second, he sees Geto.

Geto, who used to press his forehead to Gojo’s back after long studio sessions and hum the bassline into his spine while Gojo pretended it didn’t make his breath hitch.

Geto, who co-wrote Charmolypi in a hotel bedroom while the rest of them slept. Who refused to write lyrics for it because he said the music should “ache in silence.”

Geto, who walked out of Gojo’s life without ever saying goodbye. No closure. No letters. Just an empty seat, and a song that no one else was ever supposed to touch.

Until now.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, whose jaw clenches. Because she shouldn’t be able to play this. She shouldn't understand the weight of it. And yet—here she is. Breathing life into something he left to rot. Y/n, who improvises again during the bridge. Adds a cascading fill that slips through his melody like water through fingers. It's like she’s not playing with him. She’s playing to him. Speaking in a language only musicians and broken people understand.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who suddenly can’t look away. There’s something infuriating about her. About the way she walks in here, green and trembling, but still braver than half the industry fakes he’s had to deal with in the last year. She’s raw. She’s rough around the edges. But she’s honest. And that’s the one thing he’s been starving for without even knowing it. The final note hangs in the air. It echoes like the end of a confession. Silence follows. But not the kind that asks for applause. It’s heavier than that. Reverent. Like something just shifted.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo exhales, and realizes he was holding his breath. He hates that she made him do that.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who speaks first, low and flat. “You improvised.”

“Was I not allowed to?” Y/n, still blindfolded, lifts her chin.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo almost says yes. Almost says she ruined it. But he remembers the ache in that bridge. The way her fingers knew where to fill the silence.

“You made it better,” he says instead, the words tasting like betrayal.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who looks at the girl still standing on that stage like it doesn’t take everything in him not to ask her to play it again. Not because he needs proof—but because he needs to feel that truth again. That ache. That joy. That grief. He’ll never tell her what Charmolypi really means. He’ll never tell her how he and Geto played the song for the first time together, as a confession for things unsaid, both of them bleeding in different ways, neither willing to say it out loud. He’ll never tell her that this was the first time the song didn’t feel like a grave.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who knows now: he’s going to keep her around.

Not for romance. Not for drama. But because something about her matters. And for the first time in a long time, Gojo Satoru wants to see what comes next.

Part II ???

[thee-horny-thicky]

The holiday season is quite lonely for Simon 'Ghost Riley'. Gaz, Johnny, and Price might not have the best relationships with their family, but it's decent enough for them to take time off for Christmas and spend time with their folks.

More importantly, they're still alive for them to spend time with, something that can't be said for Simon's family.

He thought you'd take time off, too. You're a bubbly American lass, not only the only female of the 141, but the youngest. A hacker, hand picked by Kate herself. Despite your brutal profession, nothing indicated you had any baggage you were lugging around.

So, imagine his shock when you're one of the only poor assholes left on base.

Simon wouldn't lie, he was curious. You weren't his favorite person, too close to his Johnny for comfort, but he still wanted to ask what the hell you were doing there. He didn't, though, knowing it'd be cheeky, since he'd never divulge his past to you.

At least, he never intended to.

Come Christmas Eve, you and Simon were drinking together and playing a game of cards. The conversation flows easily, and you even laughed at his stupid dad jokes. As the evening dragged on, the liquor loosened inhibitions. Somehow, you confessed you didn't particularly care about patriotism or terrorism, but needed a way out of your home. He confessed the military was all he was good at, and he wasn't interested in learning new skill sets.

Soon, you two ditched cards for twenty questions. Normally, he wouldn't agree, but normally, he wouldn't enjoy your company, so why not? He wasted no time diving into your past, asking why you needed to leave home. You replied your mother had died young, your father was shitty, and his many girlfriends were allowed to do whatever they want with you. The military allowed you an easy out, and a way to pay for school. You kept the energy, asking why he didn't go home for Christmas. He answered his flat was lonely, he had no friends outside the 141, and his family was dead. That confession was more than most knew; only Price was aware.

After a while, the questions became more sexual. He can't remember how it started, something about him having a fat arse. Whatever it was, the night ended with you in his bed, your plush cunt snug around his cock. He should've felt bad about bedding a drunk, vulnerable woman a decade his junior, but you mewled so pretty for him, he couldn't care.

Neither of you were under the impression that it meant anything, that it was more than a drunken one night stand. Some might call it a mistake, a complication, an abuse of power, blah blah blah. But, fuck, he had no regrets. And for some odd reason, the coming days didn't seem quite so daunting.

[thatbuddie]

(the one where mel and frank kiss)

mel/frank | 1.4k | rated t | silly, secret relationship, kissing, silly, inspired by that one friends scene (you know the one), silly, fluff, did i say silly?

♡

Mel loves her salad. She really, really loves her salad. She loves her salad with its cherry tomatoes, its mini cucumbers cut in precise and even slices, its mozzarella pearls. She loves her salad with the soggy iceberg lettuce, its oxidized avocado, its too crunchy sunflower seeds.

She loves her salad so much she is chewing it slowly, meticulously. Some would say she is savoring it.

Some would probably say she is avoiding having to take another bite of it, but she refuses to turn around and even look at this some no matter how many times this some nudges her with his elbow.

That is, until some knocks his elbow into her arm so hard that he makes her poke herself on the cheek with the fork she was carefully bringing closer to her mouth. The piece of avocado that was pierced on it feels mushy against her skin and leaves a trail of oil from the corner of her lips to almost her right sideburn.

When Mel finally looks at Frank, he has the gall to look amused. His right eyebrow is raised, he is biting his bottom lip, and she can read his face perfectly.

It says, “I told you so.”

Just for that, she uses her fork to spear through some more of her salad and makes a show of eating it.

“Yummy,” she hopes the expression of her face says to him.

If his growing smile tells her anything, it’s that he doesn’t really buy into it, though.

“It’s not too late to admit defeat,” his eyes scream as he nudges his paper take out bag closer to her.

He’s been periodically reaching in to grab a fry at a time from it for the past two minutes, the moves purposefully casual but so incredibly mocking of her pain just the same.

Not that she is in pain eating her salad. Because she loves her salad.

She tells him so with just a scrunch of her nose. “I love my salad.”

Scoffing, he shakes his head lightly pursing his mouth and very loudly telegraphing his thoughts at her.

“You should have listened to me,” he thinks at her, smug and empathetic all at once. “Making the salad last night means it’s too squashy now and you’re hating the texture. And you were so tired making it that you definitely accidentally dropped half the salt shaker in it.”

Well, his thoughts are probably not as detailed as that, but they absolutely carry the same message. He was right. She wants his fries so, so bad. Blah blah blah.

“Take them,” his nudging of the bag says. “Baby, just take them.”

She is 95% sure he calls her baby in his thoughts as often as he does so out loud.

With a resigned sigh, Mel extends her arm and reaches inside the bag, coming away with a handful of golden fries.

His smile radiates victory. She would be more annoyed by it if not for the fact that the fries really taste as good as they smell.

Mission clearly accomplished, he dusts off his hands as he pushes back his chair, standing up.

“Back to work,” the cracking of his knuckles indicates.

She already knows what he’s going to do next, so she half turns her upper body to make it easier for him to bend down at the waist and press their lips together.

He hums against her month which definitely means, “You taste like fries.”

She playfully tugs his bottom lip with her teeth, telling him, “Go save some lives and leave me and my fries alone.”

“Ahem,” someone says, very much out loud.

Frank freezes, his mouth still against hers. Their eyes open and meet as he slowly backs away.

“You totally forgot they were here too, right?” his stare silently asks her.

“Oops,” she wordlessly replies with a shrug.

They look around the room in synchrony. Sitting on Frank’s other side, Cassie is shaking her head in amusement. Next to Mel, Donnie puts down his phone very calmly in a way that is definitely suspicious.

From her place leaning against the counter, Dana —obviously the one that interrupted their kiss— fiercely judges them.

Mel looks up at Frank once more and finds his stare bouncing wildly from Cassie to Dana to Donnie and then back to Cassie again. He does this twice, and then three times.

Cassie to Dana to Donnie. Repeat.

“Well,” he says, throwing his arms up and then moving his index finger around the break room like he’s trying to point at all three of their coworkers at once. “I’m not kissing all of you now.”

Mel tilts her head, confused by the conclusion Frank has seemed to arrive at.

“Please, Langdon,” Cassie says. “I promise you no one wants you to kiss them.”

“I do.” The words escape from Mel’s lips before she’s even aware she has thought them. She would regret them, but they’re the truth and nothing but the truth.

The way Frank turns to look at her also helps. His eyes are so soft and affectionate, and she can hear his “I love you” loud and clear even though he doesn’t even say it. She can feel it, really.

“Okay,” he says, quite reluctantly looking away from her to stare back at everyone else in the room again. “So that’s settled. I’m not kissing anyone else just to cover up that I accidentally kissed Mel. This isn’t exactly how we would have wanted this to go but whatever: me and Mel are dating. There you go. The cat is out of the bag.”

His announcement is as grandiose as it is underwhelming. Mel doesn’t feel like the world stops turning or like the tectonic plates shift. She barely feels a skip in the beat of her heart.

The most she feels is a little proud of them. Going seventeen shifts keeping it a secret is more than she expected of them, but Frank had been adamant that they could keep it professional and hushed and only their goddamned business. His words, of course.

“Wait,” Dana says, pushing away from the counter as she points at Frank with her mug of coffee, “you think you— You really— We don’t—“

And then she hinges forward and begins laughing harder than Mel has ever heard anyone laughing in her entire life. She didn’t think human beings were capable of laughing like this. If she didn’t know Dana so well by now she would suspect her of faking it, but Mel does know her so she is sure this is the realest laugh in the world.

It’s Donnie that finally says, “Dude, we know. We’ve know for weeks now.”

“What?” Mel and Frank ask at the same time.

“About two weeks ago, when you were both on the night shift, Shen saw you quote unquote going at it on the roof. Then Shen told Ellis, Ellis told Santos, Santos told Whitaker, Whitaker told Javadi, and Javadi basically wrote a newsletter and mailed it to the entirety of the Greater Pittsburgh region,” Donnie explains.

Two weeks ago during a night shift. Mel remembers that, of course, as she had been called to cover for Ellis when she came down with the stomach flu , and Frank had been elated to know he wouldn’t have to go for an entire shift without her.

That had been, if Mel is doing her math correctly —and Mel always does her math correctly—, two shifts into their relationship.

Two shifts of keeping it a secret. Yeah, that definitely is a lot more realistic of them.

“So everyone knows?” Frank asks, putting strong emphasis on the word everyone.

“Everyone, kid,” Dana confirms.

Frank looks pensive for a second, brow furrowed.

“Neat,” he says, shrugging. “In that case…”

He turns back towards Mel, bending down again and using his hands to grip her face, bringing their mouths together in a kiss not exactly filthy but definitely too dirty for the workplace.

Mel doesn’t put a stop to it, though, because she’s not stupid and because she really, really, loves to kiss Frank. It might even be her favorite thing in the world.

“I’ll see you later, baby,” he says when they pull apart.

He pecks her on the tip of her nose once before moving away from her and the table. He salutes everyone as he opens the door and exits the break room, being swallowed by the chaos of the ED once more.

Silence reigns for a second before Mel breaks it.

“Does anyone want my salad?” she asks, nibbling on a perfectly salted fry and moving her open Tupperware container to the middle of the table.