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boop-le-snoot · 3 years

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@buckyownsmylife hey babe! Remember that one time you threw that cool challenge? Here's my entry. Prepare to get absolutely ruined because daddy!Bruce is exactly that sort of man.

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emotional support nerd

Your best friend's dad, Dr. Bruce Banner, is hotter than you thought he would be. 6k words, NSFW. Kind of Alt!Reader - she refers to herself as 'goth' in one instance. Tony Stark makes an appearance because God forbid I write a fanfic without him in it.

This is filthy pron, ft. age difference (reader is college aged) daddy kink, throat fucking, dirty talk, praise kink, cream pie, possessiveness, belly bulge and ending with a hint at a threesome. I really crammed all I could from Eyre's wheel in here, didn't I. Oh well.

"How much longer, dad?" Lyra's annoyed voice struck a chord within me. I tried to hide my snickering - unsuccessfully might I add - causing my best friend to shoot me a hurt look, equally fed up with me as she was fed up with her forgetful adopted father. "You know what, we'll take the subway."

Lyra's father's voice, both agitated and apologetic, reached my ears in bitten-off phrases as the traffic noises around us grew in volume, NYC rush hour rapidly approaching its peak.

With a sound huff, Lyra removed the phone from her ear, staring me down with the most amount of petulance I've ever seen on her usually reserved, placid face. "It's twenty more minutes. Apparently he's driving Tony's car," she offered in the way of explanation, like it actually did anything to better the cold, wet situation we found ourselves in. "Please, and I can't stress this enough, please don't be weird."

I felt a flood of amusement at Lyra's pleading tone. "Darling, if you wanted a normal friend, you should have looked elsewhere," I gestured to my outfit. I looked like a goth boy's wet dream: chunky platformed boots, fishnets, heavy eyeliner. Of course, all in black.

"You know what I mean," she whined, waving off my pointing hand and fixing me with a hard stare. "The least my dad needs is someone that is terrified of him just because sometimes he turns into a big green monkey. It's not as exciting as internet thinks, anyway," the last part of the sentence was mumbled but I heard it nonetheless as Lyra stared out into the traffic, clever eyes looking for a particular car model.

What Lyra didn't know was that I was not at all considering to be terrified by the man who dosed himself with radiation and developed an advanced version of split personality disorder. I could be intimidated by him, sure, because he was incredibly intelligent, a world class scientist with more PhDs than I had zeroes in my bank account, but even despite his green problem, Dr. Bruce Banner was about as far away from 'scary' as a man could be.

The few scarce pictures of him on the internet showed a short, stocky man with kind eyes and salt-and-pepper curls, always dressed in un-ironed, crumpled button-ups with dorky patterns. Looking at him, I mused that there was a high chance he spoke with a stutter and that fact amused me to no end. Jekyll and Hyde, alright.

Lyra was much the same way. Shy and reclusive, with curly brown hair and doe eyes, she spent a good chunk of her first semester in college being avoided by everybody because of her last name; I, on the other hand, avoided everyone out of habit, I'd never been a social butterfly, but the way people subtly made sure to exclude Lyra from all the activities filled me with quiet, seething rage, and I stepped over my general distaste of people and removed my bag from the seat next to me so Lyra could at least study in relative peace.

Yeah, yeah, you've heard it all, I'm sure. Weird goth chick adopts a socially awkward, shunned nerd and they become best friends forever. I had to admit that under the shy exterior, Lyra was smart, witty and even funny sometimes. She was willing to entertain my crude jokes without moaning, at least, and I was perfectly okay with listening to her rant about science every now and then.

Rain banged on the slanted roof of the café we were hiding in, the autumn wind howled, making both of us shiver at the prospect of having to go outside, even if it was for a short moment to run to Lyra's dad's car. The day had started out warm and sunny, but much like a badly calculated chemical formula, it all went downhill a split second after we had set out to leave campus.

"There he is," the grouch in Lyra's expression had me once again unsuccessfully attempting to conceal my snorting.

Nonetheless, I followed her out into the rain, struggling to keep up with the brisk running in my platformed shoes, unceremoniously crawling into the car behind her without sparing a glance at the driver in my eagerness to get out of the freezing downpour.

"Hi, dad," Lyra's tired voice spoke up at the same time as I angrily shook out my hair.

"I've just about McFuckin' had it with New York," I was afraid the dye in my hair would bleed out into my clothes, or even worse, the nice, cream-colored car seats.

"Hello, ladies," the voice that greeted us was low, gravelly and apologetic to boot.

My eyes shot up, meeting an expression full of surprise and amusement. I stared at the shockingly handsome face of Dr. Bruce Banner like a deer in the headlights.

The fine mimic wrinkles had stretched into a resemblance of a smile, soft, plush lips revealing a set of straight, white teeth. The five o'clock shadow framed his jaw, giving it a sharp, defined edge, his clever brown eyes slid down my form, faltering on the pentagram on my belt and my fishnet-covered legs, settling on my chunky boots before hastily snapping back up to my face.

"Dad, this is..." Lyra's voice was full of suspicious bewilderment as she attempted to dissipate the sudden awkwardness.

"Oh, yeah, I'm Dr. Bruce Banner, but you can call me Doc or Bruce," he cleared his throat, turning himself towards the windshield and starting up the car.

"Nice to meet you," I busied myself with putting away any stray hair just to occupy myself with something during the time I needed to recuperate from being just... Looked at by Lyra's dad.

It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I was so taken aback by his handsomeness and his aura of a gentle but powerful man that the ride to Stark tower, however swift, went on in slightly awkward silence. The streets outside were, thankfully, noisy, and the lack of an attempt to have a conversation could easily be attributed to Bruce's need to focus on the road, but Lyra's increasingly concerned looks did very little to settle the sudden racing of my heart.

"C'mon, I'll give you some sweats so you can let your..." Lyra's vague gesture towards my upper body disappeared behind her side of the door. "Hey, Tony," she suddenly interrupted her sentence, very obviously addressing another person who I managed to miss as Bruce parked in the spacious garage.

"I've been told you're finally bringing your friend, Green Pea," a voice I'd heard a thousand times on the TV poked fun at Lyra.

She bent down to retrieve her bag, shooting big eyes at me and mouthing an exaggerated "Sorry!"

Tony Stark looked about a week in debt on sleep, a contrast to the way he usually appeared in public. The exaggerated eyebrow raise made me shuffle awkwardly in my spot; the Led Zep tee caught my eyes as I lingered on it, aware of my own Mötorhead top on display. He noticed it too, causing his face leave the snide territory.

"Wow, I didn't expect kids these days to have any resemblance of taste in music but you've surprised me, Corpse Bride," he gave me a quiet wolf-whistle, watching me through lidded eyes.

I felt my eyebrow crawl upwards at his attitude but Bruce spoke up before I could say anything: "Tony, no," so firmly, I had to raise both of my eyebrows. I felt a smile tug at my lips, the situation strikingly familiar in it's essence. Like father, like daughter...

"No," Lyra's identical expression, fond and annoyed, topped up with an accusing finger pointed in my direction had everyone snorting a giggle at the situation.

"Lyra," I whined, just so I could coax her grin that she was very obviously trying to conceal. "See, I told you, every crazy genius needs their emotional support nerd," I fixed her with a pointed look.

She promptly grabbed me by the arm, leading all of us to the elevator as the two men behind us shared a hearty laugh at my well-timed joke. It was either that or I would have completely embarrassed myself by gaping and drooling over both THE Tony Stark and Lyra's father.

The rush didn't stop there. I was promptly and generously offered not only a spare pair of pants but also a whole room to stay in after an invitation to dinner I simply could not refuse. Dr. Banner firmly coaxed me into staying overnight with his pleading eyes and a hearty seasoning of guilt tripping, softly crooning how he simply could not let a young woman to wander the cold, rainy night in NYC alone.

Tony added something too, in a tone way too surefire and patronising. I guessed he noticed my eyes lingering on Dr. Banner, being a genius and all.

In a short amount of time, I found myself seated at a dinner table next to a happy, giggling Lyra who'd downed a glass of wine and was well into her second. I found it adorable how much of a lightweight she was; not hesitating in the slightest to point out that fact when she made hands for a pitcher of water.

Tony was the first one to snark back something vague about his college days and all the wild parties he used to throw, booing Bruce upon discovery that he, in fact, actually studied in college in favour of partaking in various illicit activities. That had both me and Tony giggling with Lyra promptly joining in, both of us losing it over the running joke or her being either a test tube baby or the result of immaculate conception.

Bruce's face blushed scarlet. He sputtered, a few stray drops of his lemonade landing on the (ironed!) collar of his purple shirt, cough disappearing in the wake of Tony's truly amused cackling. Dr. Banner was well on his way to either choke on his Lo Mein or turn green; thinking quickly, I decided to defuse a situation by sharing a harmless, funny story that happened to me as a freshman.

"I went on a date with this guy who said that music was the most important thing in his life, and I thought, wow, that's so beautiful!" I began my story over Lyra's incessant snickering. "So we had dinner and went back to his place because I'm a whore," the whole table erupted in laughter at my deadpan remark, Tony reaching over to give me a high five.

"And as we got there, he put on one of his demos which was just a bunch of sampled and remixed Guns'n'Roses songs, and I thought wow, that's gotta be one of the worst things I've ever heard," I pointedly looked away as Lyra's cackling grew in volume, having heard the same story several times by now and the outrage I expressed at the situation first hand.

"But instead of that I said, wow, that's so cool! Then we did the thing and his whole bedroom was covered in Axl Rose posters and I'm sure at some point Mr. Rose stared right up my asshole," there were tears streaming down Lyra's face as Tony flopped his upper body onto the table and Bruce convulsed helplessly in a silent fit of giggles. "And then I thought to myself: wow, I would have to pretend to like his music if I dated this guy and I just couldn't do that..." I breathed out, succumbing to the mirth at the dinner table. "It was good but not November Rain good, y'kno?"

Bruce snorted loudly, sliding down his chair with a hand over his face. The table shook with the force of Tony's cackling; I didn't see his expression but the howling, rasping noises sent me into another fit of laughter, right on par with Lyra.

"Is this..." Tony rapidly inhaled the much-needed oxygen. "Is this why you keep wincing whenever I play the 'Roses in the lab?" Tony wheezed and Lyra nodded.

"I just... I can picture it, and I-" she made a vague, encompassing gesture and a face.

"Please, don't," I urged with a snort. "There are better ways to get disappointed."

Dinner went on by smoothly after that, everybody happily making remarks on my dating fail, the topic of Lyra's birth and Tony's college shenanigans dismissed.

I caught Dr. Banner's pointed look as we finished our dessert - he was studying me, eyes searching for something that he very obviously wished was there. From the damp roots of my hair to the soft, cotton top clinging to my chest, I wasn't left unscrutinzed and unexamined. Like one of the many specimens he studied on a daily basis, Bruce lingered on the many characteristics that made me stand out in the grey crowd.

"Would you like to see the labs?" He asked, appearing behind me without a single sound.

The freshly cleaned dishes clattered in my arms. I'd almost dropped them, startled, but Bruce's hand landed on the top of the stack right before the top plate would have slipped off and shattered into pieces on the cold tile of his kitchen.

Blood rushed to my ears. "I'd love to," my brain had briefly returned to reality, the rush of meeting both Stark and Banner succumbing to logic and reason. My and his fields of study briefly overlapped, the question he posed was more than reasonable. In fact, many people would cheat, lie and steal to be in my position.

Bruce smiled, opening a cabinet and taking half of the dishes I was holding to stack them up in their proper place. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, exposing wide, muscular forearms littered with dark, coarse hair.

I was sure my face was flaming. After waving off Lyra's attempts to put shoes on me and leaving her to watch her TV show, a wide, warm palm rested on the back of my waist, gently steering me towards the elevator.

I tried to keep my eyes off Bruce in the large mirror on the walls of the car as it swiftly moved down, scrutinizing my appearance instead. My throat bobbed, the elevator car suddenly too small and too hot.

His eyes left marks on me - invisible ones, the kind that I knew were there just from the scorching heat sizzling on my skin.

There was a certain je ne sais quoi about him. Perhaps, it was in the way he was acting - a polar opposite of what I'd had expected, Dr. Bruce Banner possessed a quiet confidence and his patience appeared to be endless, heartily doused with an appreciation for his closest ones. The way his eyes lit up in response to people smiling around the dinner table was hard to miss.

When Bruce spoke about his research - whatever wasn't classified, anyway - the spark expanded into a mischievous fire. I could hardly understand the nuances in his work, scratch that- I could not understand a single word he was saying, at all. The individual syllables registered as they should, but my traitorous brain could only focus on the way he licked his lips in between quickly inhaled breaths.

"You're not... Following, are you?" The corner of his mouth lifted upwards, clever brown eyes fixed on my face.

God, I hoped I wasn't drooling. But to deny the obvious would have been a stretch. "No, not really," I swallowed, willing my eyes to lift from the large veins on the hand that was pointing at a set of equations. Reasonably good at math any day, they looked like the scribbles of a madman to me at the time.

Dr. Banner sighed, letting silence creep among the whirring machinery in the lab for a brief moment. "I don't scare you?" He removed his glasses, cleaning them with the corner of his shirt.

The question reeked of self-doubt and, perhaps, insecurity. "No," I answered simply, not giving him the slightest chance to find doubt in my words. I was barely holding my voice from shaking, afraid he'd misunderstand my reaction to the sudden change in atmosphere.

He was closer to me than I recalled. My hip was almost brushing his, the bulk of his shoulder millimeters from touching against my bare skin, the smell of something herbal, like tea, and sharp chemicals clouding my senses. It was such a contrasting experience.

Bruce turned to me, an expression between hunger and regret forcing me to shiver and look him straight in the eye. A hand landed on my waist, holding me in place with gentle firmness. "I'm a monster, I could hurt you," he whispered, leaning into me like a touch starved kitten. The man screamed contradiction. "We shouldn't."

Vivid images of the Hulk and the rampages years prior flashed through my mind; the rubble, the collateral damage in the form of many lives. I barely remembered it, having been too little to really understand what was going on. One thing, though, I knew for sure: ever since the world became aware of Lyra's existence, there had been no incidents. Sure, the Hulk still appeared when there was a threat, but there were no documented incidents of the green creature running amok, accidentally.

"You won't hurt me," I spoke with conviction. Perhaps, I was bluffing just slightly but I wouldn't lie like that to myself. The variable, the... Twelve or so percent chance of things going... Awry, it made a small, malicious worm inside of me rejoice and fill my limbs with familiar adrenalised yearning. "You're not a monster. Far from it, actually," I used the hand that was not supporting me against the desk to gently cradle the side of his face, letting my fingertips brush over the rough five o'clock shadow on his cheek.

Bruce emitted a sound somewhere between an agitated grown and a pleading whine, sagging with the sound exhale, pressing himself flush with my chest. His face slipped from my palm, the warm tip of his nose running a steady line up my neck, sending goosebumps running wildly down my back as his hot breath tickled the arch of my throat.

"Baby," the nickname punched a stuttered gasp out of me with the intensity contained in just that one word. "I've been hearing all these amazing things about you," his voice dropped, low baritone rumbling straight into my ear. "I won't be able to hold back. I'll want you all to myself," his bicep flexed under my hand.

My knees would have bucked if I wasn't grasping onto Bruce for dear life after those words. I had some sense of personal pride in me, so while my body was an easy, traitorous thing, my mind was more than eager to participate in this game, to ping pong a little bit before... "Yeah? What things?" I breathed.

Teeth briefly closed around my tender skin, nipping for just a second. "You're kind, beautiful," his hand took a steadfast hold on the back of my neck, exposing my throat to his mouth. More skin to mark, more time to whisper. "Intelligent, bright and clever," the more he spoke, the fiercer he became. Bruce's grasp tightened until I was pliant in it, willingly following his silent commands. "A bit of a pain in the ass," a healthy dose of humour was added into the mix as my ass was roughly grabbed, our fronts pressed together at his insistence.

"That sounds about right," I didn't resist the sudden urge to snark, thoughts lazily floating in my head, like clouds on a bright sunny day, fleeting and sparse. None of them caught on. I was focused on feeling the need, on my need to feel.

A sharp smack landed on the plump of my ass, the sound resonating in the eerily quiet lab. The sounds of machinery had dulled at some point, leaving just the two of us panting our lust into each other's space. "I know you can be a good girl. Will you, princess?" His fingertips dug into my flesh, surpassing the soft sweatpants as if they weren't even there.

I could only nod, dumbly, overcome by the sudden rush of blood to my body. The life coarsing through me sang, demanding a release of the pent-up tension.

"What's that?" Bruce removed himself from my neck, catching my unfocused eyes with a crooked smirk on his lips.

"Yes," I swallowed, breathing through my mouth.

"Mmm," he hummed, running both hands over my sides, over the frayed edges of my Mötorhead top. He admired it, briefly, setting his eyes on the band logo that was right over my breasts. Having decided something to himself, Bruce promptly removed it, lifting it over my head with ease and leaving it right on the science lab table.

Taking hold of my hand, he walked over to a hidden set of sliding doors that revealed a rather large, frequently used bed, shutting them just as I walked in, wearing only my bra and borrowed sweats. My back was pressed to the door in mere seconds, hot palms chasing away the chill of the lab as Bruce slotted his lips over mine.

He tasted like something I've never had before. His lips - so plush and supple, took hold of the kiss with practiced gusto, sucking me in without a chance or the desire to escape. I drank from him, sucked on the bottom lip as his tongue explored my mouth, danced with mine.

The room was spinning, the ringing in my ears growing in volume. I was only partly aware of the sensation of sliding down the wall; our knees thudded on the carpeted floor simultaneously, heavy breathing the only noise I could distinguish.

"Breathe, baby, that's it," Bruce coaxed, gently stroking my nape. The soft cotton of his shirt crumpled under my fingers where I held onto him, desperately searching something to ground myself with.

The buckle of his belt clattered and then clinked again as he wrapped the worn leather around my wrists, bringing them together in front of my chest. I exhaled sharply at the intimate gesture, a whine bubbling up from my chest when Bruce used a single fingertip to raise my chin.

My eyes met his; a brown iris tinged with the faintest of green around the outer edge. "This okay, princess?" He sought my face for confirmation, for agreement, for anything.

I nodded, stuttering mid-gesture, remembering our previous interaction. My mouth did not want to cooperate but I forced it to, even if it came out as little more than a pitiful mewl. "Yes, daddy," the word, sweet and sticky like fruit syrup, poured from my lips.

My eyes slid shut as my conscience - or was it common sense? - took hold of the situation. I was on my knees in front of my best friends dad, a virtual stranger, and I'd just-

Bruce's soft chuckle stopped the negative spiral of my thoughts. "That's my girl," he sounded a tad more breathless now, a hairliner in his perfect façade of self-control. As if he'd sensed my indecisiveness, he tugged on the makeshift restraints, pulling me closer, closer and into his lap.

A warm, solid chest with a healthy amount of fluff greeted me. Bruce let my lax, pliant body fall into his arms, catching me effortlessly and bringing my face to his lips. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, you're my good girl," he peppered soft kisses all over my flaming cheeks, my twitching nose, my fluttering lashes.

"Please," I begged, shame giving way to the flood of arousal that seemingly hit me all at once. I was aware of the dampness collecting in my panties, the stiffness of my limbs from holding back the ravenous desire to paw at Bruce like a wild animal. "Please, daddy..."

"I know, I know, baby girl," he soothed, not stopping his tender assault on my face. "Daddy will make it all better. I know just what you need," Bruce finally pulled away. I heard the sound of him undoing his zipper and then the awkward shuffle of him shucking off his pants.

Somewhere in between of all that, he'd ended up sitting down on the bed, wearing only his boxers, his shirt hanging open. The red crawled down his chest, partially masked by the coarse salt and pepper hair; his lips were cherry red and his hair was sticking out in odd directions. Bruce looked sinful.

My eyes inadvertently landed on the impressive bulge in his boxers; in response to my widened eyes, he reached out for it, stroking the outline of his thick cock through his boxers. "Like what you see, baby?"

"Yeah," My mouth watered.

"Baby wants a fat cock?" He teased, sounding like he knew exactly what he was doing, testing my self-control like that. With a flick of his wrist, it sprang free, slapping against his tummy, coating the fine hairs with drops of clear, musky fluid.

I swallowed, feeling the taste of him from afar and yearning for more where I was parked between his spread legs.

In a gesture almost loving, he tugged on the belt still wrapped around my wrists, bringing my face to his leaking shaft and my hands to the base of it, letting me feel the weight of his balls in them. The cock throbbed, neglected, weighed down by the heaviness of his full balls.

"Go ahead, baby, suck my cock," the encouragement came with a gentle push to my head.

I obediently followed, wrapping my lips around the pink, moist crown of it, a hum beginning in the back of my throat. My God, Bruce tasted heavenly... I whirled and slipped my tongue a around his head, I dipped into the slit to drink the nectar right from the tap, idly coming to awareness of the broken, choked moans coming from the man above me.

Raising my head got me a view of his chin; head thrown back, the lax O of his mouth glistened in the meager light. My eyes slid lower, to the flex of his abs. Bruce fought hard to stay still. The desire consumed me, a sudden rush of power at having Dr. Bruce Banner's cock in my mouth and the man at my mercy; I inhaled, sliding my mouth further and further down his throbbing length.

"Fuck," I heard him mutter before his hands gripped the sides of my face. "Hungry, baby, are you?" His eyes glowed a faint green; I shuddered at the power he held within himself. Held back for me. "Tap my thigh twice," he spoke and I had no choice but to obey. "Okay. Do that if it gets too much, alright?" I nodded. He gave me a wide, beaming smile. "Good girl," he praised, experimentally bucking his hips into my mouth a few times.

In and out. I focused on my breathing, sharp, little inhales: his girth took up all the free space in my mouth, the tip of it barely fit into my throat. The burn, the stretch; I felt every tenth of an inch, every bulging attempt of my body to accommodate Bruce's huge cock. It was delicious, I couldn't help but crave the same stretch in my neglected, sopping wet pussy.

"Fuck, you're taking it so well," Bruce moaned wetly. "Your mouth... S'like heaven... Could fuck it all day, that's my good girl," the rambling increased in it's intensity as the pace of his hips hastened. Drool and tears flowed like a river; my chin was dropping with it, spit connected my face to his pelvis. "Oh," there was a brief pause to his movements; suddenly, he pulled out, fisting the base of his cock, staring me down with a ferocious gleem in his eye.

I must've looked a straight mess; my face like a crime scene, my clothes disheveled, covered in fluids and most of all - I was desperately grinding against my own feet, too focused on the glorious cock in front of me to notice the weakness of my own flesh. "Daddy?" I questioned, wincing at the grating of my own voice.

Without a word, the belt was tugged once more; in a set of movements just slightly north of acrobatic, I found myself laying on my back in the middle of the bed, my sweatpants suffering a haste demise in the corner of the room.

Bruce crawled atop me, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses on every inch of my skin he could reach, mouthing something inaudible into every pore of my body. As he drew closer, I discerned bitten-off phrases, stringing my desire into sticky, tangy mess at the apex of my thighs.

"My perfect baby girl," the words reached me; all tongue, he kissed me once more, arching into me as much as I arched into his hot grasp. A brief inspection of my face - he was satisfied with what he saw - and Bruce crawled back, settling in between my spread legs, breathing hot air on the lips of my sex still covered by a sopping wet piece of fabric.

"Oh fuck," I yelped, feeling him smooch it soundly, the hot wetness of his tongue penetrating the meagre lace barrier with ease.

He moved it aside anyway, with a single finger, giving my pussy a broad lick, moaning into my cunt like a man gone mad. It took a few more licks for him to feel sated enough to surface, all the while holding my hips down. I was so sensitive, I felt even the tiniest flicks to my clit, I was sure if I didn't cum then and there, I would explode.

"Such a pretty pussy, princess," his heavy breathing paused briefly. He nipped my thigh. "So wet, is that all for me?"

"Yes, yes, daddy," I rasped, pushing my cunt into his face, losing all shame and trepidation.

"So tasty," he continued the torture, outlining my lower lips before taking another nosedive right into it, swirling his tongue around every fold, sucking onto my clit.

Bruce ate my pussy until my thighs shook, until my core quivered and I could no longer hold back the choked, ragged screams starting somewhere in the low of my belly and coming out as unholy, all-consuming yowls filled with unadulterated lust.

"Louder for me, baby," he inhaled rapidly, and then, he sucked on my clit.

The world stopped, halted on it's axis, every muscle going rigid in my body and every nerve ending simultaneously coming alive. Faintly, I heard a chant, repeating two syllables over and over, it sounded like my voice - but I had no control over myself. All I could do was weakly grind my hips against Bruce's mouth, faltering when the crashing waves of my orgasm began to recede.

The infuriating overstimulation stopped; blinking hazily, I saw Bruce's eyes glimmer brown and green in front of my face. His nose and his chin was glistening with a thin coat of sticky fluid; disheveled and red, he looked a man on the verge of a revelation.

Something hot and blunt nosed at my cunt, bringing back the moment to me - I realized, with a great deal of impatience - how empty I felt. The decision was minute. "Daddy, fuck me, please, I want your cock," the words came easily.

"That's my girl," his eyes fluttered shut as the first inches squeezed through the snug of my cunt. I was sopping wet and as relaxed as I'd be, but even then, it was a stretch. "Good girl, good baby," the mumbled praise made me whine and my pussy clamp on his cock. "Relax, let daddy fill you up." Breathing through it, I consciously unwound myself around him, letting my palms rest freely on his shoulders. "Let daddy take care of you."

Like melted sugar, his husked words stuck to me inside and out. Short, sharp thrusts; Bruce was patiently burrowing himself inside of me, making his way to reach the deepest parts of me I didn't even know existed. His cock head pressed against something hard and spongy inside of me; stars burst behind my eyes I'd clamped shut on reflex.

I moaned weakly, tugging on his arm, pressing myself closer. It felt so, so good. Like a raw nerve had been exposed and he was stroking it, pushing that little switch with every stroke of his hips.

"I'm not gonna last," he muttered as once again, my cunt squeezed him snugly in place, just as greedy as I was to feel that tiny explosion spark up within me again.

"I want..." I panted. Bruce set in a punishing pace after that, a palm under my ass, squeezing it so hard there would definitely be bruising. I craved it, I needed to see the evidence this was not some elaborate fever dream. "I want... Daddy to fill me up," words came out garbled; it sounded like gibberish to my ears but Bruce - they spurred him on.

"Oh yeah?" That breathless, boyish cockiness was back in his voice again; despite how fucked out he sounded, I prepared myself for something truly out of this world. I just knew.

He sat back on his shins, dragging me by the hips with him, making me shiver and moan and twitch and clamp onto him again as his throbbing cock hit that special spot again. And again. And again.

"Look at me, baby," a hand on my belly and his eyes burning right through me. As they slid down, towards the apex of my thighs where he was still moving within me almost lazily, I saw it.

"Oh fuck," I couldn't utter much more than a two-syllabled profanity. There was a bulge in my belly, just above my pelvis, moving in rhythm with Bruce's hips. And then he pressed on it and I-

Something, someone, somewhere was screaming. The noise was loud and pitched, but even then, I could barely hear it though the neverending waves of bliss that enveloped my whole being. Gold and silver at the edges of my rapidly darkening vision; I was drowning in something that smelled and felt like Bruce. The safety of his arms, the warmth of his heated body, the rapid snapping of his hips-

Oh.

"I'm gonna, fuck," the last word was but a ghost of a human speech. Growling low and filthy, Bruce leaned into my ear, his breath hot and moist. "Mine," his hips stuttered, his cock nestled deep, the sensation bordering on painful, forcefully extracted pleasure. It throbbed with every spurt of his seed; each one felt like a solid punch in the gut to my abused pussy.

"Daddy," I mewled, my body jerking away from him but my mind and my soul yearning for more. His rapidly softening flesh made the idea of being separated unbearable.

"S'good, s'my good girl, m'so proud," he mumbled, looking slightly disoriented as he removed himself from me, immediately pressing me to his side and interwining any free, flailing limbs.

We laid in silence, each of us slowly coming back to Earth after the completely unreal experience we just had. I didn't know what to think, didn't know what to do as the realization set in, the post-orgasmic haze giving way to a sudden rush of clarity.

"I can hear you overthinking," Bruce's voice was fond.

Before I could muster up the courage to snark back, the divided doors opened, one very concerned Tony Stark standing there, armed with a tranquilizer gun in one hand and a pack of cookies in the other. His mouth, previously open to (probably) yell at us, remained as open when his eyes had registered the scene in front of him.

I stared at Bruce. Bruce stared at Tony.

"The noise," he offered in the way of explanation, dangling the pack of cookies, looking, for once - speechless. He recovered quickly, however, even if the remark was a thin ghost of his usual sass: "You pick the nerd over me? I'm hurt," he scoffed in mock irritation, although I was pretty sure I saw some satisfaction in there, too.

Bruce looked at me. I looked at Bruce.

A mischievous grin slowly crept up his face, an identical one beginning to appear on my own face seconds after.

"Hey, two nerds is better than one, right?" My response is what did it; or, rather, it was the evidence of my previous throat-fucking clearly audible in my voice... Tony dropped the cookies and then, the tranq gun.

Bruce Banner taglist: @pilloclock @mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins @persephonehemingway @mostly-marvel-musings @schemefrenzy @lillsxd @bluecrazedandbeautiful @slothspaghettiwrites @sapphicnoodle69 @couldntbedamned @xoxabs88xox @marvelsbanner @tripleyeeet @tatestripedsweater @stuckybarton

#bruce banner x reader #bruce banner smut #bruce banner x you #bruce banner x y/n #Bruce Banner #bun writes #I haven't written shit in a month and boom #6k words in three hours #i don't like the ending #I'm bad at them #okay #okay .

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cisphobicagenda · 5 years

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How to be a Real Trans Boy™ as shown in trumeds transpho- I mean completely acurrate & should be followed caricatures!

- Have short hair. Like that stereotypical guy haircut yknow? Have brown hair too. Idk why it's always brown

- Be skinny but!! We're not fatphobic it's just those nasty tucutes tend to be fat so :^/

- Be white apparently. But I swear we're not racist I swear-

- Wear a hoodie. Either black or gray that's ur only choices

- Wear jeans & basic ass shoes. If I so much as see a skirt anywhere near you-

- Never dye your hair anything but a natural color. Especially like pink cause that's a girl's color & you're trying to pass

- Wear! a! binder! I don't care if you have health problems or can't afford/get one or just plain old think they're not comfortable. It's doesn't matter. Wear one or ur a filthy trender. Your titties should be non existent.

- Don't wear ANY pride merch, especially not trans stuff. God forbid anyone knows you're not cishet. Cause if the real cishets find out you're not one of them they'll tell the church & you'll be a trender who is single handedly causing the oppression of all trans people.

- Give your entire ass to cis people in hopes that they'll respect you. God please cissies just give me attention I beg-

- Oh yeah & have intense dysphoria even tho that's already been proven wrong lol

#this is a joke obviously #please appreciate this i wrote it out then tumblr crashed so i hate to re do it #text.jpg #anti trumed #anti transmed #anti truscum #anti terf #trucute

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segenassefa · 4 years

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3. A Semi-Original List of Things To Do During Quarantine

Niggas all over the timelines are baking banana bread, doing headstands, and making Tik Toks. Yeah it was fun the first few weeks – but now we’re almost four months deep into quarantine and the gworls need some change! A bit of variety. Some pizazz, if you will.

Well, fear not!

I am here to help (as per usual). Digging into the depths of my chicken breast-like brain has been hard, but I’ve done it to compile a list of things to try now that quarantine is dragging along. Some of these you’ve definitely heard before (but they were so good, it was worth mentioning again), some of these you may have considered but never really saw the value in, and some of these seem like I pulled them out of my ass, but I promise, they’re a fun time and definitely worth the try.

Take up a new workout routine now that gyms will probably cease to exist.

I can’t even speak on this one (my record this quarantine has been four days without leaving my bed), but health comes in different forms. Even back in the early stages, one of my favourite things to do was get a coffee and aimlessly walk around downtown – it got me out of the house, it didn’t feel like exercise, and was an excuse to take advantage of the warm weather. Exercise is both important for physical as well as mental health, as cited by a million and one studies, and can break up the monotonous cycles of online shopping, self-loathing, and eating that everyone seems to be trapped in these days. Your options, however, go beyond yoga and walking. Buy some weights or use one of the jars of canned tomatoes you have sitting your pantry (…) and do a weight routine. Go for a run. Climb some stairs. Bring back step aerobics like the bad bitches from the 80s. Ride a bike (Queen’s Quay is really nice, and pretty empty on the weekdays). The other benefit to establishing a good routine now is that you can carry it out through the winter. Maybe not the bike riding part, but you get my point.

Socialize (safely).

I never understood the obsession with patios until I went to El Jefe a few weeks ago, and it got me thinking about how fun that actually must be when everyone isn’t terrified of getting a virus from the person eating chips and guac two tables over. But! There are alternatives! I know you don’t believe me but there are! Toronto has more parks and green spaces than you’d think, and now is the perfect time to take advantage of them. Connect with nature, friends, and socializing in an environmentally friendly space (throw those White Claw cans in the trash, please) and you and your friends will literally be the peak of ecofeminism. If you’re tired of wearing your crop tops and lashes to the grocery store, picnics and beach days also give you a reason to look cute in public again (and with a mask, you don’t even have to put foundation on the bottom half of your face. #win). Some of my favourite places include Trinity-Bellwood Park and Woodbine Beach. If you have a car (or a lot of patience) Scarborough Bluffs is also definitely worth the commute. I think it’s a game changer that “going out” now means sitting in the grass making small talk, instead of getting hammered in some dark, damp club, but maybe it’s also improvement.

Clear out the clutter that you always tell yourself you’re too busy for.

I know you see it, bitch. That box of clothes overflowing in the back of your closets. Or the basket of random hair ties, scraps of paper, and pen caps on your shelf. What about when you open social media – Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, whatever – a see all these random people on your feed that you don’t remember following, much less ever meeting in real life. Quarantine has forced us to retreat to our own spaces, physically, mentally and emotionally, and now more than ever is the best time to reflect and take inventory of what brings you joy and (God forbid we’re in this situation again) what you’d be ok with surrounding yourself with 24/7. It may be hard – times of crisis especially encourage a scarcity mindset instead of an abundance one – but it doesn’t hurt to try and reframe your thinking!

The 3 Restaurant Rule

If you’re anything like me, then you love Uber Eats. Since this virus has stripped the joy of going out to eat from my small and soft hands, we’ve had to find ways to work around this. One of these compromises has been Uber Eats. But that, much like anything else in life, can soon get repetitive (and niggas were clowning me for actually enjoying Swiss Chalet. Fuck y’all.) So, I established some ground rules, one of which being the three-restaurant rule. Do I follow it all the time? No. But knowing that it exists had made trying new foods more like a game. Here’s what you do:

1. First, pick a type of cuisine (I’m partial to sushi, so we’re going to use that for this example).

2. Next, really study Uber Eats. Find the best restaurants in your area specializing in that kind of food and pick three restaurants that look the best to you. Another alternative (especially if you’re lucky enough to live downtown where a majority of restaurants are doing take out) would be to curate a list of places on Yelp! I loved doing this when outside was open – it made eating out feel a bit more purposeful, almost like it was for research).

3. Then, keep a lil list – on your phone, on paper, in your camera roll - wherever. When you’re not in the mood to cook, consult the list, and don’t pick a restaurant twice in a row. Start building up a list of places that you can say you’ve tried. Keep tabs on how you felt about the food to compare it to in-person dining when restaurants re-open, or make it an event with friends. Dress up, get together, crack a bottle of wine (or some beers, or sake, ya know – whatever floats your boat) and make it an event.

The other upside to this is now when people ask me for recommendations, I can give them with confidence instead of bullshitting like I would have before (sorry y’all LOL).

Learn how to do your own personal upkeep.

It would probably take me ten hands and feet to count the number of videos I’ve seen of nail salons throwing customers out for being black or on the prejudice of race and/or class, or the number of hair salons and stylists who charge extra fees for thickness, length (or lack thereof), or for specific styles and modifications, etc. If you knew me, you know I was devoted to my nail salon. I loved the feeling of getting a full set of acrylics, having all the work done for me, the little burn on my cuticles when they’d slide my hands under the UV light. But in quarantine, a lot of things happened – nail salons closed, I became unemployed, and suddenly, $60 manicures every two weeks were not realistic. YouTube has so many videos on how to do basic self-care - things like cutting or dyeing or braiding your own hair, doing your own nails (whether it be acrylic, gel, even a basic polish manicure), doing your own eyebrows – the possibilities are all there. And, if you get good enough – you can always go ahead and make it your own side hustle (with salons operating at half capacity, the demand for people that do house calls is rapidly increasing). I’ve recently swapped my acrylics for press on nails and let me tell you – game changer. They last just as long, look just as good, and allow me the freedom of talon-like nails without having my bank account scream at me (a post on how I do my faux-acrylics at home coming soon!)

Try to watch something that isn’t reality television.

I know 90 Day Fiancee is that GIRL. And if you’re like me, you tend to get very sucked into YouTuber mukbang drama as well (if anyone wants to discuss Nikocado Avocado with me, I am more than willing). But after a while, it gets kind of repetitive, and there’s no harm in educating yourself on other topics. Netflix, Amazon Prime Video, Hulu, even YouTube all have so many documentaries on a variety of topics – from crime, to health, to cults – there’s literally something for everyone. Plus, there’s something really self-satisfying about learning something on your own. If you need a place to start, my personal favourite is Bikram (Netflix) and any of the Vice documentaries on YouTube, but there are so many, so browse around and find one that suits your personal taste.

There are also many documentaries on environmentalism and the Black existence/experience/life in America and globally. Considering all the things that are going on right now, it would be wise to educate oneself, especially when the tools for doing so are a few clicks away. My personal favourites are 13 and Who Shot the Sherriff, but there’s so many that you don’t have an excuse not to at least learn SOMETHING.

Severe ties and blame it on the pandemic.

This one is pretty self-explanatory. Maybe there’s the persistent wanna-be friend who you tried to avoid in your Thursday 11-1 lecture and would incessantly text you for notes. Or the creepy guy who would always be in your study spot in Deerfield and message you after with the dumbass eye emojis. Maybe it’s that one friend you used to call to console you of your issues, but by the end of the chat you felt more unnerved than understood. Whomever it is, don’t be afraid to stray away a bit and use the excuse of social distance or “getting your head together” to gradually give yourself some space and make things a bit obvious without having to be a total asshole. It can help, tbh, and the last thing you need in a time like this is to feel guilty for someone else’s feelings.

Be ok with doing nothing.

Life is always on some go,go,go shit. With people posting all those fucking memes about hustling or whatever, it can be easy to feel like you’re sitting in quarantine wasting your life away because you haven’t joined Forex, or OnlyFans, or started three side businesses, or taught yourself a new language or whatever. But listen – look at quarantine like a break. You had a nice long break to re-cooperate and self-indulge a lil bit and you know what? That’s ok! You’re not less of a person because you chose to rest or hang out in bed more than you should have. Don’t let other people’s progress (or lack thereof) be a measure of your own. How can you expect to bounce back after a GLOBAL PANDEMIC if you spent the entire time beating yourself up for not living up to other people’s idea of success? …Exactly. This list is just for fun and personal growth, but realistically, quarantine is for doing whatever the fuck you want (safely and sanely, of course), but literally look at this time off as God, Allah, Buddha, whomever, pumping the brakes on what is a normally hectic life. Slow down, enjoy the small things (ALL the small things), and allow yourself to be what you are – a human being, not a fucking machine.

#cashmoneysegs #blog post 3 #quaratine #i'm losing my mind

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flopgoblins · 5 years

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Ocelot Emperor

We emerge from the mists of Ireland - where we’re on retreat with next to no internet - to lay this offering at the feet of one of our favorite people and wish her a very happy birthday! @brazenbells we love you, thank you for two consecutive years of helping us write our boys, and for letting us throw them at your own.

Without further ado, the crossover smash the fans (us, mostly) have been clamoring for! Thanks, Ted.

King Abran's throne was as vast and glorious as his kingdom. Made of teak, varnished until the wood seemed to glow with an inner fire, inlaid with gold and etched with scenes from myth and legend and the founding of his dynasty.

And upon it, his wrists heavy with bangles, his fingers dripping rings, his eyes dark with kohl, lounged the crown prince, golden and glorious as a lion at rest. His eyes were lion-tawny too, and his neck was straight and proud, easily bearing the weight of the shining crown that rested upon his brow.

“See,” said Matt, angling his phone so Nico could get a better look at himself. “You look way better in all this sparkly shit than I do.”

Nico slid off the throne with a gentle chinking and untangled the gold-ish polymer crown from his hair. Beneath the gilt, it was dark brown, but for the stark white streak Makeup had sprayed there two hours ago. “Yeah, the casting choices feel a little strange. I can see why everyone on Twitter was pulling up those fanart comps to complain about it. Still not as bad as the, uh - ”

“I know,” Matt said morosely, taking the crown back and putting it on wonky. “I don’t even tan.” They’d dyed his hair again but thankfully drawn the line at trying to make him any less pasty. Manufacturing sexual tension with someone who looks like a stretched out Oompa Loompa might be beyond even Nico’s prodigious talents.

“I’m billed above you though. That’s progress.” Nico tried to get the crown to sit right but succeeded in tilting it drunkenly to the other side. “And, hey, it’s not every day you get a big-budget fantasy epic with a queer romance.”

“They cut out the incest. And most of the sex.” Around them, the studio walls yawned tall and green; the only solid things onset were them and the throne, and the throne was mostly resin.

“There wasn’t that much sex in the book,” said Nico, who’d picked up the novel as soon as the casting call went out and gone through making characterization notes on every page.

Matt, who’d read the first draft as it was posted on AO3, complete with thirteen chapters of kink that hadn’t made it into the published version, sniffed and forbore from commenting. Some hauteur was probably in keeping with playing Gael anyway. More in keeping with Tigris, though, which was further evidence Ted Nord couldn’t cast to save his life.

“I mean, I love it, it’s a really interesting role, but I’m finding it hard to get to grips with,” Nico had said, on the first day of shooting. “Spending your whole life pretending to be being vain and shallow, because it’s not safe to be anything else. Wearing a mask so long you must start to wonder whether you’ve become it. What does that do to a person?”

“Dunno,” Matt had said. “Did you see Ray Lelacheur’s Vogue cover yet? Terrible shoes.”

Now that Nico had abandoned the regal warmth that had settled on him as if it was second nature while draped over the throne, he was stirring the pages of the script again, frowning at his lines. Tigris had been the most he’d had to stretch for a character to date, he’d told Matt, though he’d earnestly added he liked the character’s ‘chewiness.’

Matt, who’d struggled equally hard to locate the generosity of spirit and ease of power that was Gael, continued to think that Ted was just as bad at casting to type as he was to aesthetic.

Nico tossed his white-streaked hair back from his forehead and dragged on his black velvet cloak. “Will you run this scene again with me? I keep not getting the timbre of his ambition right.” He mouthed a few lines, twisted a green gemstone on his finger, and cast an agonized, kohl-rimmed look at Matt. “How do I channel the appropriate volume of petulance, the feeling of a man deprived what by all rights should be his?”

Matt draped himself over his rightful throne, trying to arrange his limbs with the same boneless grace Nico had achieved so easily. “Remember when we were at that falafel truck last week and it took twenty minutes for your order to come and you started cursing god?”

“Suck my dick, Rose,” said Nico reflexively, but looked thoughtful.

“Later,” murmured Matt, and closed his eyes to wait.

“Spy,” snarled the prince, rounding on his cousin. Tigris stood his ground, jaw set against the taller man’s fury, lip curling with defiant derision. “You intrude here, in my father’s house, not content to be left to your life of indulgent luxury, so desperate for attention -”

Tigris’s eyes flashed, enraged despite himself. “Attention? You think that is what I crave? Heavens forbid I seek a world beyond the gilded cage my uncle keeps me in, indulging me like a spoilt puppy and giving me just as much freedom. Attention? I would give my eyeteeth for less! If one could trade condescending oversight for actual knowledge of how our kingdom is run-”

“Our kingdom,” repeated Gael. He cocked his head to the side, curiosity warring with the outrage in his noble features. “You truly think it so, do you? But our father-”

“Uncle,” said Tigris, under his breath.

“Our uncle -”

“My uncle,” said Tigris helpfully. “Your father.”

“My - okay, your -” Matt stopped. “Gawd. This doesn’t work at all.”

“See? It doesn’t work half as well without the incest.” Nico flicked a gem-encrusted finger at Matt’s nose.

Matt wrinkled it and adjusted the hang of gold chains over his collarbones. “You say this like I’m the one who made the script changes. And for the record, Cindy was as cut up about it as you are.” Cindy, script doctor extraordinaire, had also lurked the story on AO3 as it sailed up the ‘Original Fiction’ rankings, and was as distressed as he was about the loss of the throne sex scene. “It’s not my fault transgressive familial kink hasn’t crossed over from the hets yet.”

“Kink shmink, it totally shifts the dynamic.” Nico flapped his cloak emphatically. “Adopted cousins isn’t close to the same sort of layers of resentment and entitlement being a bastard half-brother would be.”

“Right,” said Matt, who’d definitely only re-read chapter 12 seven times for the entitlement, and not the way Tigris hissed ‘brother’ while bound to a bedpost. “The morality groups would lose their shit, though. Probably it was the right call.” It was impressive enough his agency had let him sign the role at all; he’d already rocked the boat enough asking if his casting was whitewashing.

“The morality groups are gonna lose their shit over the gay factor anyway,” said Nico stubbornly. “In for a penny...”

“What about the negative associations of homosexuality with sexual taboos?”

“What about double standards?”

“Sure, it’s a double standard and it sucks, but you gotta start somewhere. It’s a story about being an outcast and fighting for scraps of dignity, fighting to be seen as human by people who want you to be less than that, and that’s gonna resonate with a lot of kids. You gotta lay the groundwork then fuck your brother.”

Nico raised an eyebrow and Matt shut up quickly; he, or rather his agency, had made a point of never letting him be drawn into these kinds of debates. “And I think compromise robs art of its power. What does the author think?” They both glanced across the set to where a woman in a peacock-print dress watched as Ted struggled to coral the child actors for the carnival scene. Her expression, behind her glasses, was unreadable.

“Dunno.” Matt ran his hand through his hair. The dye had dried it out and he winced at the brittle, dead-grass feel of it. “Only time we spoke, we both tried to get each other’s autographs and it was really awkward. Bet she’d have some notes for you, though.”

“D’you know, Rose, that’s not a bad idea.” Once resolved, Nico was all action and he stood, script pages fluttering to the floor, velvet cloak swirling around his ankles. The jut of his jaw said that nothing short of poor falafel truck service would defeat him.

“Ask her to show you the predicament bondage scene,” Matt told him helpfully. “There were some really important character beats in that, I thought.”

“You think you’re too good for me, don’t you?”

“What?” Matt looked up, taken completely off guard. He was stretched out in Nico’s window seat, deeply absorbed in a thinkpiece on why Kai Bourke would have been a better casting choice for Gael, and thoroughly agreeing with it. Seeing his boyfriend prowling towards him with a look of cold fury and a bare chest was enough to stop him mid-anonymous comment.

Nico stalked across the room towards him, the taut anger etched in every muscle creating a frayed grace that was almost violence. “That’s the worst of you, your highness. It’s not that you hate me. It’s not that you think less of me. It’s that you think nothing of me at all!”

Finally cottoning on, Matt swung his legs around and tried to remember his lines; it was hard, he truly couldn’t remember what part of the script this was. That in itself was unusual. Matt would hardly claim himself a natural thespian or even a diligent professional, but memorizing lines had been a skill drilled into him since he was eight years old and it was a tough habit to shake. Still, while Nico’s words - Tigris’s words - sounded vaguely familiar, he couldn’t for the life of him place them in Ted and Cindy’s script.

“But I’m going to make certain you don’t forget me, brother,” whispered Nico, and that was just it, Matt realized. It wasn’t the script at all. It wasn’t even the book. It was the original.

“You read it?” he mouthed, as Nico’s hand wrapped around his wrist.

“Shocked to learn I’m literate?” spat Nico, but favored him with the shadow of a wink. No shadow around his eyes this time, no gold woven into his hair, but he was more Tigris than he’d been on the soundstage.

It was, simultaneously, extremely Nico.

Matt tried, experimentally, to free his wrist and found he couldn’t. He shivered, feeling his pulse jump, knowing Nico could feel it too. “Was that an attempt to dig deeper into the artistic truth of the work, or to mine it for weird, kinky shit?”

“Yes,” said Nico, bearing him down onto the cushions, beautiful and vengeful and careful not to knock Matt’s laptop off the seat.

One of the advantages of shooting a gay film with your boyfriend - one Arose had certainly never intended - was that when Nico turned, grabbed Matt by the lapels, and kissed him on the red carpet, everyone laughed and smiled and Matt knew the gossip mag headlines would be jokes about dedication to the craft and not shock sexuality scandals. His father probably wouldn’t- okay he’d definitely mind but it’d probably be a side note in a meeting about how to capitalize on the film’s success.

And it was a success; some desperately hot sex aside, reading the story - the real story - had apparently been what Nico had needed to pull it together. All the pride and fear and desperate clawing longing of a tiger caged that had risen like a heat haze from Tigris’s story, and Nico had captured it, had reveled in it, and put it on the screen for all to see.

Matt straightened his tie and winked to the paps - just a joke between bros, nothing queer here - and resolved to fuck Nico senseless in the restrooms after the premier. Nico laughed and stuck his tongue out. He’d left the white streak in his hair for the red carpet, as stark as the collar of his suit, and Matt had to say, it was growing on him.

#tiger prince #brazenbells #star boys #incest mention #HAPPY BIRTHDAY KELSI WE LOVE YOU

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girlafraidinacoma · 6 years

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IN THE LAP OF THE GODS Ch.2:

Summary: What do you get when you mix a tight-knit art community, young, hot-blooded twenty-something university students and good old-fashioned British Rock & Roll? Probably the next best hope for art and music that generation has to offer. With her friends’ band skyrocketing to fame, what exactly does a girl do when she suddenly finds herself sitting in the lap of the gods? The answer: do the only thing she can do, rise to the occasion of course!

Pairing: Gwilym Lee!Brian May x Original Female Character [chill guys, this WILL be a Bri fic…eventually].

Warnings: swearing, a very dramatic Freddie, Rog has a bit of a moment with a pastry...

Words: 2.2k +

Author’s Note: Chapter 2, Baby! I hope you guys enjoy it, and pls feel free to comment, reblog or leave a like if ya feel like it!

Kind of AU, contains both elements from real life and the Bo Rhap universe, so imagine whoever you prefer whether they be the real thing or the Bo Rhap Boys–be free.

Link to the Ao3 fic!

Chapter Playlist:

Chapter Two - That One Time When Fred Went Out for Coffee Or, Why Being a Young Entrepreneur is Harder than You Think

Kensington, 1969.

Out of breath and flushed pink, a young woman strode inside a musty little stall in Kensington Market, the shop bell giving a faint sort of ding upon her entrance. Freddie, who was quietly cataloguing their inventory in a faded blue balance book, smiled when he looked up to greet his friend.

“Wyn Clemens! You’ve come to visit me.” Fred said, ecstatically skipping his way to her from behind the counter before hugging her shoulders.

The girl made quick work of untangling the woolen scarf she had wrapped several times around her neck and mouth, placing that and her coat on the hook by the door.

“I swear I’ve gone up and down the place twice and both times I’ve managed to miss you entirely! Blimey, I didn’t think it was this small.” Her eyes scanned the darkened interior.

Currently their stall was nondescript, tucked away in between a carpet wholesaler and a shoe repair place, hidden away amongst the plethora of other stalls just like it. Cozy was one word for it, cramped was another, more accurate descriptor. Really, it was more of a booth. There they sold various garments and accessories to clothe the young bohemians, rockers, mods, punks, hippies and everyone in between who seemed to frequent the market there. Their shop was manned and looked after by Freddie and his friend Roger, and only by them, which was why, while their inventory was not exactly vast, it did quite literally seem to swallow the entire place in velvet, faux fur, leather, and brocade.

“Hey!” someone yelled in indignation, “This is a very fine establishment we run here, I’ll have you know!” A blonde head emerged from the back of the shop, a little area sectioned off by a dark curtain. It hid a tall, narrow mirror and served as both their stock room and fitting room.

The girl raised her eyebrows, feeling slightly sheepish at having offended this new person. “Wyn, this is Roger, the friend of mine I’ve been telling you about. He runs this dismal dispensary with me.” He said, not looking behind him as he gestured his head towards the blonde’s general direction. “Rog, this lovely creature you see before you is my new friend, Wyn.”

“Ah, the Ealing bird. Well, I suppose I could let that slight go for your pretty face. The name’s Roger Taylor, very nice to meet you, love.” He gave her his hand to shake, his lips upturned in a smirk.

“Careful there, Rog.” Freddie reminded him, which earned him a mischievous look from the blonde.

“Wyn,” the girl announced, unfazed by Roger’s cheesy smile, “I’ve come bearing gifts!”

“Ooh! Gimme! Gimme!” Freddie cried happily, his hands making grabbing motions all the while.

Wyn tutted at his antics shortly before presenting him a brown paper bag. “I thought it would cheer you up, while you’re stuck here.”

Freddie opened the bag and what he found there nearly brought him to tears. The bag was filled with fresh pastries still warm to the touch as he poked his nose inside and took a long whiff. He placed it on the counter before examining the goodies one by one, a hungry Roger joining his side. “You do care, Wyn! It’s just like Christmas! And here I thought everyone had forgotten about me. It feels like I haven’t seen the sunlight in days.”

“Weeks, really,” Roger added mournfully, before stuffing his mouth full of pastry. They had both been cooped inside their store trying to peddle their wares since the weekend and it was now Tuesday afternoon.

Freddie had a dramatic faraway look in his eye, his mouth shaped in a forlorn ‘O’ before finally snapping out of it. God, Wyn thought, he really should have been in theatre.

“C’mon then Wyn, tell us about all the changes in the outside world,” Fred was prattling away again, “Is dear old Liz still on the throne? How about Coronation Street, is it still playing? And what about tie-dye? Are people still wearing tie-dye?”

There was a quiet moan of “Oh Jesus, that’s the spot.” that came from Roger as he polished off an apricot danish.

Wyn gave the two of them a fond chuckle, trying to ignore the ridiculous sounds of ecstasy from the blonde as he delved into a croissant. “Let’s see,” the girl gave a pause for dramatic effect, “Yes, God forbid anyone else who’s set their eyes on that chair. Everybody knows Coronation Street is for ever. And it brings me to tears just thinking about it, but yes, unfortunately, the tie-dye lives on.”

“I knew it! It’s useless, Rog.” Freddie shouted, calling Roger’s attention. “Just bury me in these fur stoles. Even if they’re not real at least I’ll be kept warm and they haven’t assaulted anyone’s retinas.” He had trudged over to a rack of miscellaneous animal coats and stoles and buried his face in them. His further rant became muffled and unintelligible as he cried into the mass of faux fur.

“How long has he been like this?” The girl turned to the blonde with a worried look.

“On and off since Saturday,” he informed her, brushing stray crumbs from his mouth. “We’ve hardly sold anything.”

“This is no good, come on Fred. You just sit down, I’ll go out and grab us a couple of coffees and come straight back.”

Freddie perked up upon hearing this and was almost back to his usual spirits. “I have an idea, can I go get the coffees instead, darling? I want to go outside, I want to hear the birds chirping and smell that London smog. Maybe that old lady from the fruit and veg stall could yell at me, that would really get me going.”

“Alright Fred,” she said with a comforting smile, pouring into his open palm a handful of coins. “Happy hunting.”

Freddie had taken off so fast he had forgotten to bring his jacket which he left still hung up on the door.

“That’s probably the happiest I’ve seen him all weekend,” Roger said, wistful.

“If he’s happy, then I’ve done my job.”

Wyn had started to look the clothing racks, her fingers stroking the garments in fascination. She also took out two or three items she had liked, inspecting them fully before shaking her head and putting them away, Roger meanwhile stood beside her giving his opinion on them. Soon he was entertaining her by spinning little yarns about several pieces, how they acquired them, whom they were worn by, all made up but increasingly fantastic.

“You looking for anything in particular, love?”

“Not really, whatever catches my fancy, I suppose.”

“How about now,” he said as he had stood in front of her, hands on his waist and a twinkle in his eye, “Do I catch your fancy?”

“I’m in the market for clothes today, Roger, not a boyfriend.”

“Who said anything about a boyfriend?”

“Uh-huh. Maybe some other time, Taylor.”

“Alright, alright.” he said, pacifying her. “Something to wear then. Something that will work for your figure?”

“I’d never be opposed to looking good.”

Roger was still flirting with her, but he also appeared to have a clear focus now, he was a man on a mission to find her something she could be persuaded into buying. “Do you like wearing patterns?”

“I’d give it a go.”

“How about colour?”

“Love them.”

“Any you’re partial to?”

“Every colour of the rainbow!”

Roger scoffed playfully in exasperation, she really was no help, but he enjoyed her company. “I think I have just the thing for you,” Rog said with a snap of his fingers before darting behind their makeshift stock room/ fitting area. He came back about a minute later with a frock on a plastic hanger.

What he presented her with was a white and green houndstooth dress in the mod style which had a black peter-pan collar and a short mini-skirt. Wyn let out a pleased hum, “I like the way you think, Taylor.”

Roger barked a laugh though he seemed to glow in praise, “That might be the first time a woman has said that to me.” He reached into his pocket and fished out a packet of smokes and a lighter. “Go on, then. Try it on.” He urged her, pushing her behind the curtain and sticking a cigarette between his lips.

Roger sported a boyish charm, all buoyancy and pent-up energy. Wyn thought it was ironic the way that he was blessed with the looks of a cherub by Raphael, yet flirted like a devil. It was little wonder Freddie had warned her about him when the topic of his friends came into conversation. Before she could wrestle the corduroy off her legs Roger’s hand had slipped in between the partition, throwing a pair of shoes at her.

“Black gogos? Oh, you really must be out to get me. I’m going to freeze out there.”

“You’re just fitting them on!” The voice behind the curtain replied. “You don’t have to wear them out…You don’t have to wear anything at all.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Just saying.”

A couple of minutes later she stepped out from behind the curtains, smoothing down the dress where it wrinkled a bit in her midsection. “What do you think?” she asked, striking a pose.

Roger took another large puff from his half-finished cigarette before putting it down on the ashtray on the counter. He began to sing lowly as he drew near to her, “Is there anybody going to listen to my story, all about the girl who came to stay?” There was another cheesy grin on his face as he took Wyn’s hand abruptly and led her into an impromptu slow-dance. “She’s the kind of girl you want so much it makes you sorry. Still, you don’t regret a single day. Ah, girl,” he sung as he spun her.

Wyn smiled, “I’m going to take that answer as a ‘yes’, but I wouldn’t know how I’d wear it though, my hair…”

“You could wear it swept back, or up.” Roger suggested, now extremely close. He removed his left hand from her hip and used it to gather her thick hair up and away from her face, fingers grazing the back of her neck.

Wyn cleared her throat, her cheeks and neck heating. “You think Fred will let me have this for cheap if I asked nicely?”

“I think if you asked nicely, he’d let you have the whole shop.”

“It’s probably costing him more to run it at this point.”

“Us both.”

The two broke out into a fit of laughter, not even acknowledging the customer who had just walked into the shop.

“Okay, Rubber Soul. So these are the kinds of guerilla tactics you’d stoop to for a sale?” Blushing furiously, Wyn pushed away from him when they finished their dance, choosing to hoist herself up onto the counter next to her bag of sweets.

“Only the best service to our most important clientele.” he said through half-lidded eyes.

“How much for this?” a voice said from behind them.

Roger groaned in annoyance having forgotten the presence of this third person. It was a shame Fred still hadn’t come back, that way he could have dealt with this new nuisance while Roger turned his attention to the girl in front of him. Rog barely spared him a glance as the man held up the garment in question. “Seven pounds.”

Wyn watched the interaction with great amusement.

“Five quid.” the man tried to haggle.

“Seven.”

“This button’s loose, five and five pence.”

“Six if you leave here now.”

“You’re fleecing me.” the man whined handing Roger the money with reluctance.

“Actually, that’s crushed velvet.” said Roger with a cool, impassive grace, plucking his cigarette from the ashtray and taking a puff.

Slipping on his new jacket, the man set off grumbling, nearly bumping into Freddie who narrowly avoided him, carrying a tray of hot coffees in styro cups.

“Took you awhile Fred,” Roger called, leaning against the counter and smoking casually.

Freddie placed the coffees down on a bench by the window. “Roger,” he began slowly with a disgruntled look in his eye. “Was that man just now, wearing my coat?”

“Huh?” this alerted Roger somewhat, he had stopped what he was doing. His eyes grew large as he looked to Freddie and back down at the crumpled note and small coin in his palm.

“Rog, you absolute pillock, did you sell my coat?”

“...Fuck.”

As quick as a bolt Fred had crossed the room in two strides, snatched the money right out of Roger’s grasp and ran back out the door. Freddie ran after the man who bought his beloved jacket, shouting and swearing like a madman all the way.

At the end of the day, Wyn had felt so guilty she ended up paying for her things in full. She had no regrets though. Sure she was down a couple of pounds, but she had managed to get herself a great fitting dress, and a killer pair of boots, not to mention the favour of the infamous Roger Taylor -- a feat she hoped she had managed with all her dignity intact. Or at least she hoped.

#queen #bo rhap #bohemian rhapsody #brian may #brian may x original character #gwilym lee #freddie mercury #roger taylor #rami malek #ben hardy #in the lap of the gods #itlotg fic #bohemian rhapsody movie

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characterkaleidoscope · 7 years

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【OC TEXT DUMP #1】

–〚DANNY PHANTOM〛

Persephone Rose Wakeman

Zephyros Jasper Wakeman

Brother and Sister.

Persephone is 16. Zephyros is 20

Persephone prefers to be called Penelope or Penny. Zephyros prefers Seth, Zeff, or Z.

Seth is often called by his middle name by his sister because she had a lisp, among other speech impediments as a young child.

Penny and Seth had a lot of similar interests growing up. They stuck with each other a lot instead of playing with others their age. They have a pretty nice relationship, but they aren’t without some typical sibling quirks.

Penny’s favorite color is green. So, her brother gave her the nickname ‘Peri’, short for Peridot, to parallel his own gem name.

Their parents are divorced.

Their step dad is a good dude but,, hes not,, the best,, at parenting. He’s really fond of them and gets along with them well enough. He’s just flawed as a care taker. They’re more like,, kids who live in his house. They’re old enough to feed themselves and they do a lot of the housework while he and their mom do whatever. It’s not like these kids have any other obligations. It’s fine.

It’s not fine.

Their mom is emotionally and often verbally abusive. Their mental health was going down the toilet and they really couldn’t stand living there anymore. Seth worked himself like a dog so he could get his little sister out of there.

Seth was literally like 'I’m moving out and I’m taking Penny with me and you can fight me.’ It didn’t go over so well as first. But Seth won the battle, with the support of their birth dad.

Birth dad had some addiction issues, thus mom taking the kids all those years ago, but he went to rehab and kicked it’s ass and he’s doing better now. Though he became a bit of an adrenaline junkie as a result of coping with withdrawals.

Birth dad is wild and irresponsible at times but still trying to be good and pure. He’ll fuck with you if you so much glare at his kids. He’s also a huge greek mythology nerd.

He’s in the military now, and though he understands why his kids don’t feel good enough about his past want to live with him, he’s going to support them as much as he can.

They moved to Amity Park cause their Dad lives in Elmerton, the next city over. Penny and Seth live in an apartment much like one Valerie and her father live in. (Whether its the same building is yet to be determined.)

They have a pupper named Lil Ceb, a play on Cerberus.

Penny is agender. She doesn’t mind male pronouns but mostly sticks to ‘they’ if not ‘she.’ Seth is masculine-nonbinary. Male pronouns.

Seth is bisexual, biromantic. Penny is biromantic, graysexual.

Penny has albinism and is also autistic. Seth has heterochromia and generalized anxiety.

Penny wears dark tinted glasses due to her photosensitivity and always keeps a pair of noise-cancelling headphones around her neck just in case things get Intense. She also has a fair share of stim-jewelry.

Penny’s largest special interest is paranormal phenomena.

Shes an amature Ghost hunter. Far from 'Fenton levels’ of ghost hunting, though. If anything, she would much rather learn about them, try to understand them, and help them move on than try to destroy them.

Seth thinks preserved dead things (bones, mummies, shit in jars and stones) are hella neat. He also loves the sky.

Penny believed in ghosts ever since she was 9. She had a dream where her sick Grandpa (mom’s side) visited her and when she woke up she didn’t need to hear from her mom that he had just died. She just knew.

Their grandma (dad’s side) really loved gemstones. Growing up, the kids really came to love them, too. Each of them got a chunk of her collection when she died. They still add to it to this day.

Seth is in college. He attends university in Elmerton.

Seth wants to major in like a million different things. Someone help this boy. He’s shooting to be a pilot, and a paleontologist.

Penny is a sophomore at Casper High.

Penny has no idea what she wants to be. But she’s considering majoring in biology, or geo/gemology, among other scientific fields in the future. (COUGHEctobiologyCOUGH)

Penny is excited to live in 'the most haunted town in America’. But then a ghost attack happens and she literally stands up in class like “wHAT THEFUCK????”

Valarie actually mistakes Penny for Phantom upon seeing her on her first day at a glance, because of her white hair, and almost attacks her on impulse. Luckily, Danny bails her out.

Penny dyes her hair red after that. Val feels super bad.

Danny also told her it was probably best for her get colored contacts, cause god forbid someone thinks she’s being overshadowed.

Penny really wants to be friends with the main trio, as she can tell they’re social outcasts too, but they seem so close and tight-knit and she’s so socially anxious, she can hardly bring herself to approach them.

Seth is terrified of ghosts being a real threat now and he really counts on his sister to keep a level head when shit gets fuck, but she doesn’t always succeed. He also worries about her constantly while they’re in school. They text and talk on the phone during the day whenever they can.

#penny #seth #danny phantom #danny phantom oc #text #text dump

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wildestdreamsgardens · 7 years

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Echinaceas: A Little Over the Top

Yes, it was exciting when the Big Sky Echinaceas came out in their soft yellows and oranges and promised a real breakthrough for lovers of the old-pinky purple coneflower, who were longing for something new. Then we brought these newcomers breathlessly to our gardens and found out very quickly that they didn't last. Not here in the north, anyway. Now everybody and their plant snipping brother is producing new and wilder shades in every flowering form and configuration possible. Double Deckers, pom poms with short petals, pom poms with long petals, greens, screaming reds, an impossible array of tropical looking orange and yellow shades with tropical sounding names like Tiki Torch, Aloha, Pina Colada and Hot papaya, and, of course, dwarf container sized plants with cutsy names too (just what a prairie plant was meant for, right?). They have, and so have we all its seems, become intoxicated with the equatorial fever of our garish new coneflowers. They would surely look at home in the tropics.

The problem is not just a matter of their shaggy tropical looks (in fact the absence of actual cones on many of these so-called coneflowers), but of the persistent issue of garden toughness. Even the rugged sounding Cheyenne Spirit series (available from seed as well as plants) have proven to be weak growers and better used as annual fillers than reliably hardy garden plants. They have certainly lost some of their prairie toughness along the way. I have tried both nursery bought plants and seed grown Cheyenne Spirit, not to mention the Big Skys. Most disappeared or never developed into full grown plants, and few have persisted into their 3rd year in the garden. Next year I'm going to be trying out a compact but thankfully not miniature new orange coneflower called Adobe Orange. Unlike the Big Sky's developed in the Southeastern US, these have been trialed in Michigan and are rated Zone 4 hardy. We shall see. The good thing about these is that they maintain an old-fashioned Echinacea look. They have a prominent cone and some petals that point downward (God forbid we grow anything so primitive and unstylish in our gardens these days).

Which brings me to a rant about the series of mop-head coneless coneflowers that look like little more than bad dye jobs on top of bad hair days. The ones with the mops and the long widely spaced petals look like a sad gappy daisy with a pom pom Zinnia or Mum dropped on top of it. Please just grow Zinnias or Mums. They still come in a wider range of colors and will probably last just as long in your garden without fading.

There's always an exception. I have seen one very strong group of the Double Decker Echinaceas returning in the local veterinarians garden, but then wouldn't you know that the very ugliest and earliest purveyor of bad hair is the only one that seems to survive here. It of course is in the traditional pink.

The fact remains, while our nurseries are full of these bold new coneflowers our gardens are not, which is one of the best proofs that these plants are little more than an impulse buying scam designed to part you with your hard earned money. And have you noticed how many of the oranges fade to an anemic, grubby pink after about a week. The greens turn pink and the oranges turn pink and the reds don't hold their colors either.

Here's an idea. You'd think having taken pink and yellow and white (the original Echinacea colors) and bred them into unbelievable shades of orange and red, that they'd be able to get the original pinky/purple Echinacea to a true purple. That is what I am waiting for. That is the evolution that would make the most spectacular of coneflowers, because it would preserve that pleasurable shock of contrast between the pink and orange that made Echinacea purpurea so irresistible in the first place, but turn it into a delicious complimentary color combo.

At the very least we are on the verge of losing our appreciation for what made the coneflower so unique, it's internal color contrast and, increasingly, the cones themselves for which these plants are known.

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the-little-red-noodle · 7 years

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4/22/17 10:25pm a letter to my writing teacher about callum

you’ve probably gotten the email by now, so why haven’t you said anything? Well that’s tough, because you haven’t said anything for months, not since that night when, I guess, you thought you’d said everything you needed to.

I want to hear your side of the story

I never thought I’d have to defend myself so much to you, especially considering you were the one who fucked up between us. You abandoned me when I reached out for friends. You told me “If you ever need support, just ask for it. I want to be there for you always.” Well I was asking.

Hey where are you? I need a friend right now

You never responded that night. I saw a half assed text the next morning of, “Hope it all worked out.” But that was bullshit and you should have known that. As your self-described best friend on campus, I would have expected a little more warmth, but I knew where you were. I knew you were with the problem, and you’d take her side because god forbid you risk blue balls helping your friend.

I wasn’t even mad that you two were getting to know each other, you never would have met without me. I hope it gives you both hell that I set you up. Me, this 'disgusting racist, stupid bitch.’

White people don’t talk about politics

The catalyst for this clusterfuck of my sophomore year was her, ranting about how white people are all inherently racist because they don’t talk about political issues at family events. I wasn’t even the first one to call her out on this. The whole room seemed on my side that there are a lot of reasons why people wouldn’t want to start fights over politics with older relatives. It seemed so strange to me how mad she was that people were challenging her. She scoffed and glared and sent huge angry rant texts to you about how the whole room called her out. Eventually the conversation lost the topic and it just sat with me.

Hey I don’t mean to start fights, but this thing you said yesterday kind of rubbed me the wrong way so I was wondering if we could clear it up? I just don’t feel like its fair to say that ALL white people avoid political discussion ALL the time. Its not appropriate to debate grandma on your differing views on politics at christmas because fighting at christmas just isn’t cool to do. You think I wouldn’t like to talk to those relative that i disagree with and argue my side? You don’t do that at thanksgiving.

Im not going to defend white people. You dont talk about politics because you don’t need to, racial issues don’t affect you.

Ryan’s thanksgiving had the same parameters to not talk about politics.. His extended family is all japanese, but they still don’t agree on political issues that aren’t about race, like money and women’s rights..

*ignores my point* if they disagree with you then you should cut them out of your life. you shouldnt sit idly by while your family is racist.

there are a lot of reasons why you shouldn’t cut yourself off from relatives.. money reasons, or the fact that they’re family...

*scoffs*

I never meant to get her angry at me. I hate confrontation as much as the next introvert, I just didn’t like feeling like things were unsolved. I never expected her to blow up. That night after we parted from a her screaming at me for 2 hours, I texted you for help. I reached out. you were the one who abandoned me, but that didn’t matter. You only heard her side of the story when she was angry and getting high off aggression. That didn’t mean that you had to defend her and ask for my side in a nasty way. I thought you knew me better than to think I was such an awful person, or believe the lies she was telling you.

You weren’t even there, you don’t know what I said

You’re disgusting. You’re a racist. You deserve what’s happening.

I would expect a fight from the problem girl, but not from you. Did you forget about every night you came to my door to cry on my shoulder? Did you forget that I made you dinner every other night for the past two years? Did you forget every time that you said you needed a friend, and I was there? Apparently none of your previous memories of me were as fact as what she was telling you. Forget about the years of our friendship built on honesty, and support, even when you messed up. I took your side in your first breakup, I believed you. I held your head in my lap as you sobbed about how she hurt you. That was me being there for you, not Ms. Problem. but i guess i’m happy i could secure you a side chick for the rest of the year, my parting gift. But through our whole fight, past you calling me a disgusting racist, was calling me stupid. You knew my weak spot. Years of being the dumb blonde and bullied in middle school to eventually dyeing my hair; things you knew. Thus you sculpted your flawless argument of attacking my intelligence

Use your fucking pea sized brain you idiot and read what i just fucking wrote you. Are you really that dumb?

I just want to know what I did wrong.. what did i even do to you?

You are impossibly dense, fucking retard

When you only hear one side of the story, you believe it. That’s true of you, along with the rest of my now ex friend group. I was the only one who didn’t live in this house. The whole lot of 10 people who I thought i was friendly with took the same side you did, blind hate for me. I don’t know what I expected from the rest of this group. Gossip and berating other students was just their way of bonding, and i was the next target wheeled out.

It feels like my feet are drilled to the floor as this gang takes an archery class. None of them heard my side, and they never would. instead, they collectively shunned me. Ms. Problem kicked me out of the musical crew for Cabaret. Both relieved to not see them anymore and angry at her, I didn’t come back. The whole crew blocked me on social media and would avoid my gaze as I passed by. Some openly glare at me and give me death stares. There is nothing more isolating than your only friend group one day deciding to hate you, and you never get to defend yourself. You’re just screaming under water, no one can hear you, or rather bothers to listen.

Do you feel good harboring this much hate inside you?

No, but I’d rather keep it to myself and you fucking stop trying to talk to me

This is ridiculous.. I’m just gunna go cuz I can’t take you attacking me like this.

Good, finally you’ll leave me the fuck alone

I never thought our friendship would end like this. that was the last conversation we ever had. Those will always be your famous last words to me. A text fight ending with ‘Finally you’ll leave me the fuck alone.’

You used me for 2 years. Convinced me that you valued our friendship, pretended to care when i was broken, and lapped up my generosity.

you always preferred your significant other to your friendships. you would ditch me in a heartbeat if she said she missed you. ironically, i hope you treat Ms. Problem better than that and don’t run back to your ex. Despite being my bully, I still believe she deserves better. No one wants to be someones second choice, like i apparently was for years. It’s such a disappointing feeling when you learn the hard way that you cared way more than the other person.

I feel too soft to stand up for myself, I am so easily steam rolled and affected. Like stepping on gum, I stick to all the hate and can’t let it go. “Kids can be mean”, my mother would tell me. I feel guilty for complaining and for taking everything so personally. i was just trying to have a civil conversation. i never said anything about race, or racially fueled. I wasn’t trying to defend white people either, I just didn’t want to sit idly by while my friend said a pretty prejudiced statement. I just wanted to hear her out more and speak civilly and have a conversation like grown ups, and from that sparked two huge fights that cost me my two closest friendships on campus and an entire friend group

sometimes i dont even have the strength to be angry, i just curl up and cry. i’ll get glared at and cry, or get another nasty message and cry. i feel haunted and terrorized and bullied but also guilty for saying anything at all.

something that had been eating at me was the brown paper bag of your things that you’d left in my apartment. a constant reminder of the friendship no longer. a red bowl and a red spoon, followed by your owl mug. id cook you dinner every night in that bowl and hot chocolate in that mug and we’d eat on my cardboard box table on the floor of this room and talk about the little things. that was then. now i was haunted by your little napsack of memories. you’ve probably already gotten the email. i went running around campus to student affairs and westlands desk to finally have the purple door accept it as a lost and found item.

Hi i have this bag of stuff that belongs to a student, but i dont feel safe continuing communication with him, can you take it? its just some kitchen stuff but the other places wont hold it..

we can email him that we have it

thank you

#samiswriting

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