#MAn I really feel stupid after posting this

[fandomfluffandfuck]

https://www.tumblr.com/fandomfluffandfuck/760023370649812992?source=share

PLEEEAASEE WRITE A FULL THING ABOUT THIS OMGGGG 🙏

For reference, my ask box is no longer open for requests, but this is from before I closed it, so I will be writing for this ask.

related to this, that reads, "sorry i got a huge wet spot on my boxers and started whining and whimpering and rutting against you while we were play fighting. ignore it. uhhh yeah it will happen again. sorry"

HELL YEAH, I will write that and I will write the fuck out of it!!

Pre-war setting, getting together, grinding, almost underage vibes? like this is post-high-school, so they're of age, but there's also discussion about feeling young, y'know?

Time doesn't feel real for Steve or Bucky right now. It's purgatory in the sticky, hot, barely-breathable-heat-clinging-to-your-throat summer after miraculously lasting through all of high school. They're supposed to be real adults now--they graduated, they're done, move on and be a part of the real world, why don't'cha, boys? They're supposed to be adults with jobs, saving up for their brides and eventual babies as the breadwinners. Men of their houses. Respectively.

Bucky is... well... he has the job part, not so much the savings part (in this economy?) or the gal who he's supposed to be going steady with, dreaming about wedding then knocking her up with his babies, as many as they can have. He's got gals, that ain't the problem, the problem is that none of 'em that he brings around ever last that long to think about rings.

All that said, if Bucky is nearly there, then Steve certainly isn't there at all. He ain't an adult yet. Not really. He doesn't look like an adult, for one, he's still short and scrawny, far from the strapping family man he's supposed to grow up and be. But, also, he has no job, he has no savings, he has no gals mooning after him. All he has is this one last short season of responsibility-less summer before it all gets serious.

So, Steve plans to savor this one last summer as much as he can. Meaning, a'course, while his Ma is out for her evening shift at the hospital and before Bucky has to high tail it out of the matchbox-sized Rogers' apartment to make it to work bright and early in the morning, here they are. Alone. Just two pals, lounging around and melting into the sofa with the oppressive Brooklyn summer heat. Trying and failing to stay cool, even with sheets over the windows to keep the light out.

It's just the two of them and their sleeveless undershirts and boxers, sweating through the fabric. And, like always, when it's just the two of them, it's devolved into reckless stupidity--

Boys will be boys.

They start out with Bucky reading one of his sci-fi books and chuckling to himself, sprawled out to ward off excessive heat, while Steve sketches quietly next to him, more curled up since the warmth does him more good than bad. They're shoulder to shoulder. Nothing weird. They've always been close. They grew up in each other's pockets, spending as much time at the other's crowded home as their own. But. Then, they're closer than close as they're rolling off the bed and onto the floor with two matching "oof"s of air being punched from their chests.

Nearly immediately from the commotion of landing in a heap of sweaty boys in the floor, the scuffed, beat-up coffee table of Steve's Ma's--she got it for free from one of the other nurses at work--has gotten shoved out of the way. Also, the thin carpet underneath their writhing, squirming bodies gets thrown ascew, shoved over chaotically, rolling up under itself. Steve finds himself sweating even more, really coating every inch of his skin as he fights to have the upper hand in their play wrestling match.

Rolled over and rolled around, Steve is currently on top and winning because his bony fucking elbows and sharp knees are merciless weapons that give him the advantage every now and again (just when he can manage to hit Bucky in the right spots). Not unscathed, Bucky's shirt has rolled up, showing off the whole band of his underwear and a slice of his pale stomach. There's a light dusting of hair leading down towards his crotch that Steve's not seen before. That, and new muscle definition creeping in from a mix of his labor-heavy, adult job and how there's never enough food to go around these days. It's just more proof that Bucky is an adult these days. Damn.

Steve ignores those curious parts of his best pal, though, 'cause they're laughing and chuckling and upping the ante to make each other giggle, gasping for air, more until... slowly, slowly, slowly, the humor of it dies down, turning into grunts of effort and breathless shit-talk that's all bark and no bite.

Steve ends up pinned, wiggles out of it, Bucky gets pushed back onto his side, but not all the way over, then Steve's back on his back, ultimately, though--

Steve gets situated on both of Bucky's legs and victoriously grins down at him, his hair hanging over his forehead, blonde and damp. He's won. He's just waiting for Bucky to say it now.

C'mon. Say it! Say it! Steve chants in his own head, too out of breath to shit talk at this juncture.

But Bucky just doesn't know when to give up (something they both have in common as cursed by one Sarah Rogers and another Winnie Barnes). So, the coffee table ends up shuddering from the impact of Bucky's hip when he tries to roll unsuccessfully and get Steve off of him. Steve snickers at him, knowing he's not hurt. Steve clings to Bucky's larger, more muscular, more adult-feeling (and looking) body to stay put. He isn't going down.

In retaliation, on his back, smiling like a goof, Bucky sticks his tongue out. Of course, Steve just does it back. But, not before internally debating if he has the breath or not to blow a raspberry on his exposed skin--it's what he deserves for being a squirmy little shit (nevermind that Steve uses the same tactic when he's the one who's pinned). He doesn't have the breath, though. So, he'll settle for sticking out his tongue.

Even as he teases his friend, this wistfullness overtakes Steve--it's been a good summer. The heat is good for Steve's body, not for his asthma, but his joints and bones like it well enough it doesn't matter. He hasn't had a cold in ages. And, obviously, it has to have been a good season for him to be so enthusiastically wrangling Bucky like he is. Playfighting like this is peaceful. Fun. Super fun. Steve doesn't ever want to grow up if he has to give this up.

Crawling all over Bucky, gathering his wrists in both hands but then finding he can't do much else without his hands free, Steve gives them up and shoves at his shoulders instead, tickles his grossly sweaty armpits, exposed thanks to his tank-top, jabs his bared stomach, and gets all of his (light) weight centered on his hips to keep the other man down. He's got this. He's gonna keep him right here. He's stuck. Sucks to suck.

It's so fucking fun to wrestle like they are, but Steve can't help his competitive nature rising up inside him. He can't take shit unseriously. It's in his blood. He knows Bucky isn't using all his strength against him, but he knows that he's using enough. It's taking effort for them both to play fight like they are. Bucky's using a hell of a lot more force against Steve's bird-boned body than anyone else would ever dare. And Steve is relishing in it. He's fired the fuck up. He's gonna win. He's on top. He's gonna pin Bucky so good and jab him with bony knees and tickle him until he cries uncle.

Then, with the victory under his belt, he'll have ammo to hurl at Bucky for the rest of the summer, lording it over his head until he's frustrated enough that he challenges him to a second round. It'll be exactly as fun to wrestle that second time, too. So. There's nothing to lose. It's a perfect plan.

Steve is so focused. He's moving over top of Bucky, crawling everywhere, pushing, shoving, thinking about what he's gonna do next and where Bucky's weak spots are, how to exploit them, and sythesizing all this playful strategy when any and all of Steve's focus is shot to shit as--

A fractured whimper fills the heavy, hanging air between their barely-clad bodies. Loud and unable to be ignored.

Instantly, Steve stops in his tracks. Wiggling to stock still. At first, he's pretty sure he's hurt Bucky with a noise like that and so he fucking freezes. He didn't mean to do any actual damage! He doesn't want to actually hurt him! They were just rough housing and he got carried away. An apology is already spinning in his mind. But.

Oh.

Steve has stopped moving, leaving him with his thigh pushed up tight between Bucky's legs and, oh, that's Bucky's dick. Steve can feel it. It's hard as... as fuck.

It's harder than anything Steve's felt. Ever.

Still not moving, rooted in his place precarously on top of his best friend, Steve realizes that it's hot, too.

Hot and hard.

His dick.

And a new, completely different kind of heat wave washes stickily over Steve from the cheeks down. Dumbly, his mouth hangs open, he should apologize and skitter away, but he can't move; he's stuck, feeling his blood push through his veins, hotter and hotter with every rickety pump.

Bucky feels it, too. The new, fresh heat wave. It's plain to fucking see that he feels it too--with his hard, hot body and dick underneath him, close enough they're touching everywhere--he's sucked his pink, pink bottom lip between his white teeth, his eyes are squeezed shut, and his blush is a million times worse now than it was when he was just reading his book on the couch and suffering through the heat that way. He's painted in color and gloss, sweating through his undershirt now. Its thin, white fabric clings wetly to his heaving chest. Steve's throat makes a funny sound as he realizes that his friend's his nipples are hard and obvious through the fabric. Targets that beg to be hit. Beneath him, Bucky's so hot that he's nothing more than a melted puddle.

However, Bucky's frozen in time, too. It's like he's so, uh, aroused that he hasn't realized Steve's not still squirming on top of him, not still fighting, not still incidentally rubbing his leg up against his dick, making him get hard and harder, harder, making him whimper, making his sweat, making him--

Steve's brain stutters to even more of a hault--no thoughts whatsoever--as he follows the line of Bucky's body down with hungry eyes, shifting his weight enough to see, oh, there's wetness on Bucky's underwear, too.

It's not sweat.

Playfighting with Steve on top of him like this makes him leak.

The frozen-overheated moment shatters in slow motion with Bucky cracking open one dazed eye, the horror dawning on his face, realizing what he's done--the sound he's just made and the line he's just crossed involuntarily with his best pal. His lips start to shape a mornful, mortified apology. But, fuck it.

Steve lets all of his repressed, denied, wished-away wanting pour forward, and he moves forward, too, surging up against Bucky to press their lips together hard. Almost as blindingly, desperately hard as Bucky is against his lean thigh.

It's hungry and urgent and hotter than the weather outside. It's everything Steve was aching for. Wanting.

Needing.

As it turns out, Bucky's whimpering tastes sweeter than it sounds. And whaddya know, his sweat and wetness feels better than it looks, too.

Fuck.

[lioa7]

Oh? :D why ARE they here? gimme the explanation *takes out notebook* I'm Listening =] (AND AGGGGHHH I LOVE SERAPHIM! Their story is so interesting and I honestly wanted to see what they were gonna do after they were in the coding area with Gaster)

OH YEAHHHHH

HELL YEAHHHH

EAAAAAbhdhjkdjbk/vdsjbk/cascbjkbjkdv s/

BE aware CUZ THIS might… MIGHT… be a little long…

You asked 4 this, so I’m free of charge. And I tend to lose track of theeee uhhh… words when there is a lot of text…. so I’m going to TRY to keep it understandable... :D

Ok so FIRST!

(these are in no order, just how uh I’m writing about them) THE OG (UNDERTALE) [kinda also no]

SO I’m not going to go on about how great the game that Toby fox made is, because we all know it is! And I feel a bit nervous to try and explain what we all already know, plus I’m not too good with words or meanings… and I’m not sure I’d be able to write just how much I love this silly game.

Uhh… BUT BUT!!!

But I also LOVE LOVE!!!! The stuff people do with the “after” game. What I mean by that is those silly comics or artwork of life on the surface, like I feel like it can be taken to so many places!!! Like character studies or just a mundane routine that they adopt when they move.

AS ASSSS!!!! Like what do the characters think of the new change of scenery? What jobs do they get? DO they struggle with the change? Are people rude to them? Do they still carry a burden??? DO THEY GET PAST THEIR TRAUMA???? Or does it become worse? Do they ever get a happy ending? Are we seeing their journey to getting used to all of it? WHAT THE ABSOLUTE MOTHER FUCKING FUCK IS FLOWEY GOING TO DO?????? SO MANY POSSIBILITIEEES!!!!!  One that I loved a few years back was Growth Spurt by potoo brigham (on Tumblr), where we follow Asriel trough what can be best described as an awkward phase. (tho I haven’t read it in a while)

Or other can be Unexpected guests by undertalethingems (on Tumblr), that APPART FROM THE MAIN STORYLINE BEING THAT THE GASTER BLASTERS NOW GOT A FULL BLOWN BODY it also explores some of the topics I put at the beginning… (mind you, I haven’t read it in a long time so I’m sorry)  (I realized I’m kinda bad at keeping up with comics I like… L)

And I also talked about the art, in general Undertale fanart is just SO beautiful to look at, and that (unsurprisingly) also happens when people draw the monster in the surface, like I dunno… Toriel and Frisk taking a train home when the sun is setting and that stuff…

In general, I just love the ideas it can bring to the table, and how artists can like grab a piece of cannon (or fanon I dunno) and mold it to a story they want to tell with character that they love.

OK NEXT 

The edge (Underfell) 

Kinda short (doesn’t mean I don’t like it, it’s just more simple!)

I loved Underfell when I first came into contact with the fandom, it became my fave au of ALL time (probably because it was… well…edgy lol), and I loved pretty much everything it had to do with the au, if you had a thumbnail on Youtube with Underfell little me would have clicked that mf within the millisecond.

But of course, it was all mostly fanon, as I don’t really think in the 2016 or 2017 canon was too popular?

AT least not on Youtube… 

little story.

I had a phase going on when I was… I dunno, 15? 16 maybe? That I thought everything Undertale related was cringe (As you can see that was just a phase), and I was repelled by it, not sure why but it was what it was.

But many months after (I don’t really remember the specifics) I came back to the fandom, because the 4 u page just kept showing me Undertale and I decided to watch a few videos for the sake of nostalgia… then few months later I created my personal tumblr to see sOME of the art… then I followed a few people… then twitter… and before I knew it I had already jumped into the UNDERTALE bandwagon again.

But one of the AUs that made me stay for sure was Underfell (shocking I know), because I had found Fella/Vic’s (twitter and tumblr) posts and drawings, and I loved all of it. The canon is just so fun to find out about, I love to just scroll down and just read the comics or the pictures.

I really love the characters, just the little differences with the OG cast makes them super COOL.

VERY COOL!!!

I really love sans! He’s actually very very ummm…. He’s unflusterable.

Like, how many pf you knew that Fell sans does own a spike collar, but it’s FOR the pet rock, and how when papyrus found it assumes it was sans’ and was confused but ready to support sans in whatever weird shit he was into.

Like I LOVE THAT… Or or or how papyrus HATES Asgore with all his might, but stands him BECUASE of Undyne.

I gained a full appreciation for canon stuff since then. (fanon is ok!)

Plus, the fact that the au even exist is because someone asked Vic to draw “evil Toriel” just makes it better.

(PLUS PLUS have you seen the designs????? oR THE ALT OUTFITS!! THE ART!!??! They are AH! Just… just… cheff’s kiss) THIRDah

WHAT IN THE ABSOLUTE FUCK (Horrortale + a little story)

Funny thing, I’m not a fan of any type of horror, ironic yeah? 

But surprisingly enough, I enjoy Horrortale enough that I can just go about it with ALMOST no problems. The art is beautifully horrifying in the best ways, Sour Apple studious’ art style does everything right at the time of conveying just how horrifying Aliza’s journey is, like I remember that one animation they posted like a few years back where It’s just an animated screenshot of one of the pages from the comic. BUT MAN did I get scared. In general I think Horrortale conveys everything so well, from the sheer horror that the general story and topics bring, or maybe even the corruption of our favorite characters.

Like we have The Queen Undyne, she went from the hero of the story to a dictator who got corrupted because of gigantic amounts of pressure. Like the KING died, the Queen is nowhere to be seen, the human massacred a lot of monsters (the same human that Undyne considered a friend even), and all hope that the 6 human souls brought is gone, and to make matter worse the CORE has stopped working.

It’s a terrifying experience to go through, I don’t think I would have been able to handle that trauma. And the worst thing is, that Undyne being able to live through that trauma is what made her the person that she became in the present Horrortale. 

Like you would NEVER see Undyne threaten to kill someone for a candy, of course it’s limited food down in the underground, but the Undertale Undyne would have done her best to help others.

Or Papyrus, who is pretty much the only monster who still holds a semblance of a moral, but that doesn’t mean he’s naïve in the context of Horrortale. Papyrus was tricked (in a way) to eat humans, for bad and good intentions. And that messes someone up, because I don’t think he doesn’t know. 

And It’s not just that, every character that we see is just twisted in horrible ways that the situation has pushed them trough.

Horrortale takes a few years after Undertale, Aliza comes like 7 years after (8 now?) the player came and left everything to rot, and consider that monsters have been feeding of the little flesh that they can get, even the snow has become uneatable. Children are dying, magic is just not what it used to be (for fucks sake Grillby is the BEST fucking example of the undergrounds’ situation).

Now you might wonder that even after all that, why do I like Horrortale so much?… When I was a little lad (if I wanted berries and cream, mummy made me do the little lad dance), I was a FNAF fan, and one day I was watching “FNAF FUNNY AND CUTE” video (I distinctly remember one where the animatronics where in a sort of band that was playing a silly tune and the other was that the animatronics jumping into a box, and the foxy one couldn’t get through the box because it was metal) and I was enjoying myself.

Then in a moment of distraction Youtube auto played into another video, not FNAF tho, Undertale. And I DISTICTLY remember it (my memory is very weird, I don’t remember almost nothing but THAT I almost have a photographic memory of), it was a fan made video of the AU Horrortale. It was a fan’s interpretation of what could have happened to sans’ head, how did the situation play. And I believe it was before Sour apple studios released the “past arc” and we knew how exactly did Undyne break sans’ head.

I have researched a bit and it seems it’s called “Horrortale the law” I don’t remember the exact video, but I’m pretty sure it was a dub in my language… I think it was like 7 years ago?

Shortly after, I got into the fandom.

In any case, I was left pretty confused, as I didn’t know who the characters where or anything, but it’s left a bit mark on me. And that’s why my appreciation to Horrortale will always remain strong… even if I can’t really stand horror stories…

Next

Angst, angst for everyone (Gztale) [the point where I can’t put my feelings into words]

Gztale, ah yes, little me’s roman empire. I kid you not, I CONSTANTLY thought of Gztale, I was OBSESSED with it. And sometimes I still do.

Gztale, tarts with our favorite non-cannon buddy, GASTAH. With our favorite non- cannon theory, DADSTAH.  He takes some Determination from the already fallen human souls (I believe they were two at the beginning) and make some pills. And like ANY GOOD SCIENTIST he tests them on his kin. He’s like “take these son, they’ll make you STRONK, like vitamin… but with human essence in them… BUT THAT JUST MEANS IT’LL BE STRONGER!!!

NO DON’T CRY!!!  TO SHOW YOU THEY WORK!!!

I YOUR FATHER, A GROWN ASS MAN, WILL FIGHT YOU (my who knows how old son… maybe 12?) TO SHOW YOU THEY REALLY WORK AND THAT I’M NOT BEING ABUSIVE!!!!”

Fatherly love y’know?

The comic mAINLY focuses on Sans going through, y’know… the usual stuff you feel after your dad experimented on you and physically abused you to see if his experiment worked.

PLUS!!! (I don’t think I saw this anywhere, so take it with a pinch of salt) I believe Gaster also gave pap some of those pills too? AND PAPYRUS WENT TROUGH AN ACCIDENT AND EVERYTHING JUST…. BWAAAAAA!!!!!!!

AND EVERYTHING went TO THE DEEPEST SHIT.

CUZ PAP’S IS ALREADY COOL AS FUCK, GIVE HIM DT!! AND HE’S COOLER!!!

And If you ARE FAMILIAR with Gztale, or at least saw some pics, you know that Papyrus is…kind of an antagonistic force!!!  WHYYY?? People ask in the back. WELL You go and find the comic NOW, It’s very VERY COOL. 

Ok so now, I will admit, I never got to finish the comic for reasons I forgot, but I’m sure one could have been that the guy who was dubbing the chapters stopped for who know what and the second could be because my brain was SRTUGGLING to grasp the plot accordingly.

But of course, I re-read the entire thing just now to do this because my 12 to 13-year-old self’s’ mind is not the best example of a sharp memory, and I tell you I would have loved it SO MUCH.

LIKE… SO MUCH!!! In any case I always loved the…. uhm… essence? I couldn’t really say, just every time I see Gztale I just… :D, y’know?

And I really REALLY wish I could explain why, like I did with the others, but it’s such a raw emotion that I can’t possibly put it into words… Or maybe better? I dunno.

In any case, the creator golzybladedee (tiktok, twitter and Instagram) deleted the comic because they created Gztale in a not to happy time of their life and it brought them distress… BUT NOW if you go to twitter you’ll see that golzyblade has handed over the “ownership” of the AU to Nixensibrat (twitter), so we MIGHT see some uhhh Gztale in the future… 

YEA!!!

YEHI!!!! WOOO

YIPEEE

KILLER QUEEN!!! (killer! Sans)  So this one’s a little obvious, cuz we all love Killer sans. HE’S SUCH a VERSITILE CHARACTER, like I’ve seen comics back to back, where in one killer is a little shit who’s going to do the thing he was SPECIFICALLY told NOT to do, and the other is JUST PAIN, PAIN COATED IN LAYERS OF PAIN.

And I love him for it.  Like, he has so much potential in every spectrum!!!! I personally enjoy when people make him sympathetic. Like yes, he kills people, but not necessarily because he wants to kill people. Does he have a bloodthirst? Yes. Is he interested in giving into the bloodthirst? Not necessarily! like, Killer sans usually kills because Nightmare orders him to do so, if Nightmare hadn’t found him killer would probably stay in his AU rotting away. PLUS, if Dream had been the one to find Killer first, Killer would be as loyal to him as he is with Nightmare!

Killer is so out of it, that the moment a gooey version of him appeared and was like “Be my servant, the pay will be torture” he was like “sir I will now be by your side for no reason at all”. Witch also gives him a bit of (forgot the word I was thinking of, it’s like… SAD). Like ALL OF HIM could be better, HE COULD HAVE A BETTER OUTCOME!!! LIKE HE COULD HAVE ALREADY CAME BACK TO HIS AU????

Like it’s crazy to think about what happened to him, if it weren’t for Nightmare he would probably be in a better state now, probably not being in stage 0 (just sans) But like, better mentally at least. Like Core could have taken him to the OT, and he would have a better time there than alone rotting somewhere in an empty space, where his only company are the usual hallucinations and the NOT so usual people. also, his AU is still there, like it’s a sans-less AU, because once le left the world was left without its greatest source of DT, so naturally the next biggest DT person would have been Flowey. I believe that SOMEHERE in rahafwabas (tumblr) there is something explaining that.  And that Flowey reset the world and that everything’s normal again, except Papyrus is looking for his missing brother.

In general Killer (with everything, including stages and all) IS SUPER INTRESTING. Like I could stay here writing how much I love each stage and all BUT… But…

I’m struggliN as it is with 11 faves. 

…

…

Ok maybe a bit… In any case we all know the second stage, the “I’m sponsored by target” stage, it’s the most common, mainly because Nightmare keeps him in that stage as it is the most manageable while also being the most servant.

Like we’ve seen Nightmare change Killer from stage 1 (the target in heart form) to stage two, BeCAUSE that is the one he likes the most. Even then, stage two isn’t entirely serviceable (is that the word??? Like uh… he takes orders?), sometimes we can see that stage 2 has a little white pupil, that is a sign of “the sans we know”. Stage 1 Is (as I said) the target in shape of a heart (Dunno how to explain better),that is the most chill stage, like is ALMOST sans, but it’s also the more prone to hallucinating stuff. Stage 3 is KILLER GO APE SHIT (which is still great potential for angst, like Killer doesn’t remember when he goes ape shit, and even then, he is pretty tired after that and immediately goes back to two. And he can only tell he went ape shit because of the surroundings, it’s like he wakes up, sees mess and is like “aw shit”) Stage 4 we’ve never seen, but it’s probably APE SHIT multiplied by (imagine funny number). And I love them for that… BEFORE I pass onto the next(s) one(s)… A little smth smth… that liquid is his eye melting. Like you know the amalgamates right? Kinda like that.

NEZT

I messed up my painting (Error! Sans………… and Ink! Sans) [we talk a little about ships… JUST… a wee bit] Ok I’m putting these together… it will make sense in a bit… OK SO WHO ELSE SEARCHED FOR INK OR ERROR SANS AND GOT ERRORINK??? OR… LITTERALY ANY AU AND GOT (you guessed it) ERRORINK???? Well, it MIGHT not be a universal experience, but it was for me I suppose. SO for the longest time, I just assumed Error and Ink were just… Errorink (wow I deserve a noble price for that AWESOME WRITING).

In any case… Uh I never really cared for that ship, I mean people can do pretty cool stuff. But still, it was JUST there. But if you remember from the Underfell thingy, I found my appreciation for cannon stories. And this WORKS SO WELL WITH THESE TWO ESPECIFICALLY!!! Like I FUCKING WATCHED A 3 HOUR LONG  VIDEO ON GENO’S AND ERROR’S uhm.. lives? Deaths? UHHH JUST PASTS???!!! And I love it so much, you should check it out… If… if you know spaniSH. 

Español y esas cosas, con la ñ y todo eso.

[Todo detras de Error Sans y Geno Sans (+teoria) by Mat002] Now we complicate ourselves a bit

we now talk about Error: Error sans, much like Killer, Is SUCH a complex character. And he’s kinda doing it my accident??? As CrayonQueen (twitter and Tumblr) has said, Error is a mess, he’s a big man baby! As his name suggests he’s an error (wow), and everyone who has had an error on their computer will know that those fuckers are everything but easy. AAAND that’s what you need to understand Error, he’s unpredictable. In any given situation he’ll act completely different depending on… who knows what??? People usually portray him as this grumpy old man, which it’s not bad! But he’s more of a Grumpy baby, who is mad because you peeled his banana and HE WANTED IT WITH THE SKIN!!!  AND IT WAS THE LAST FUCKING BANANA!!!!

SO NOW HIS DAY IS RUINED!!!! AND YOU DID THIS BECAUSE YOU HATE HIMMMM!!!! AAAAAGHAHGSCAHJCDGJVVDJVDB<VDOIP!!!!!!!!! Y’know?

And I love him for that. Like he’s a cutesy guy sometimes, and sometimes he’s an ass. …manbaby.

Plus, the whole Geno backstory just makes Error’s more (AGAIN THE WORD I FORGOR!!!! But it’s kinda like miserable??? Like LIKE um YOU GET ME???). Because CQ told us that Aftertale had 3 possible endings, Miserable, Bittersweet, Good. We can assume that the one we got in Aftertale was the happy one… 

So that makes Error the miserable one, the worst ending.

And you know it’s just sad… Error is just the result of someone’s worst ending.

DW tho! Some Geno out there still got their happy ending!

And of course we also have Fatal! Error who IS A WHOLE ‘NOTHER THING!!!!

You from the future messed with a you from the past and made an even worse you, kind of scenario.

Now INK:

Ink is a little straight forward, but also no.

Like Ink is all about Creating, but not necessarily in parallel to Error, while also sorta yes. Ink’s backstory goes like this.

He’s from an AU that was never finished, the creator gave up on it. The only one who got any semblance of emotions was (ironically) Ink sans, but of course, he couldn’t bear to be alone. So he erased himself, it provided a HUGE problem for him, as he was emotionless, he had nothing to live for. But the creations, the creators, all of that was what gave him meaning.  And this rings incredibly close to me…

I have it since I was probably 14 or so.

I have an AU… not the silly post-it sans OC with a cool bro OC. I have an AU that was based of of a LOT of stuff in you might see in this long ass post, it started as a sans solo AU (because of course it was), and It evolved with me as I also grew up.

I’ve been working on and off of it for years.

And you might not see it honestly, because I feel so wrong about it, like the story is just bits and pieces I saw in bed just before sleeping. I barely tied those together.  And the designs are… WELL… designing clothes is pretty hard.

And I almost gave up on it…

But I really want to continue, I want to y’know…? And um… Ink’s story kind of put that into perspective for me… …

ANYWAYS!  UM…  it got gloomy… IN ANY CASE! Ink’s story hits very close to home for me, as I explained a few moments before.  But also, I just feel it makes sense for a character like him, I mean… He LIVES for the creations, and not only because he “protects them” and more like… All we (as creators) do is what keeps him alive. Like Ink’s immortal right? Well kinda, he’s almost immortal. The moment the creations stop the paints that give him a perspective into life will also vanish. He might not die entirely, but he’ll just be an empty shell, alone in a white space. So It kinda rings hard for me that he’s literally feeding from our stuff, he’s here because of u and me. And well… APART from that he’s also just an interesting character. Ink is a shell that he himself fills with temporary feelings, this kinda makes him a bit dense in some situations and might act a little out of place. BUT he doesn’t mean wrong!!! I have seen a lot of like “evil” ink, and I feel that the idea can be interesting, but also, I think that a lot of people read “NEUTRAL ink” and assume that must mean he’s just a little mean? 

Maybe unintentionally so, usually it’s portrayed as a thing that’s out of his control but that he’s also not bothered by it and does nothing to change. And I don’t really think he would act like that? Ink is a little forgetful, but he does write stuff to try and remember! Ink struggles to understand situations, but he is trying (I think)!

He likes to play pranks but I don’t think he intends them to be mean! And he’s just a cool character… Plus he’s as much of a fan of AU’s as we are. (in a way, kinda)

And all that good stuff.

And I feel like comyet (tumblr) really did make a memorable silly.

… thanks for making him… 

…

UMMM NEXT IS  AAAAA mirror (Anx! sans) [be aware… this gets a BIT personal]

So this one’s not too much like the others, I mean… I dunno… you get me.

SO this one might be shorter, cuz it goes into me a bit?

Ok…

So in 2022 (I THINK), I was ready for life! Until I wasn’t. so… y’know I went to get help!

I have severe social anxiety.

Yeih.

And it’s stopped me from doing a lot of stuff…

And it wasn’t too peppy. Until I found THIS GUY!!!! I was scrolling through Tumblr and I found hheisa’s account here, and would you look at that… they have a Sans (my personal favorite thing [kinda] since I was a child) with what I have! (kinda, almost!) So he helped me a lot! In a way, this might be cheesy, but I felt pretty alone but… then he’s there and I felt that maybe I wasn’t. and you know, that’s about it.

Hheisa hasn’t posted much of him, but I still love whenever he pops out in my FYP.

Um that’s it.

OH and because of a comic I found out that sucking on ice is pretty good for uh, not good times.

Hheisa I hope you never see this, cuz it’s embarrassing as FUCK.  But thank you… your silly helped me get through some stuff.

…. AND NOW 

A BIT OF A PROBLEM (bitty au) [self-indulgence] So if you’ve been a long time in the fandom you’ve probably seen at least ONE SOMETHING with bitties!!! It is very self-indulgent too, but it doesn’t need to be. Like m pretty sure some of you know Poetax right?

They have a string of comics about UT, UF and US sans’ and papyrus’ with their respective bitties, and as weird as it is to have a miniature version of yourself on your shoulder, they make it work yaknow??? Fucken-Crybaby left the Au for reasons I’m unaware of, but left it open for people to still use the bitties.

ok so! In any case! Bitty bones AU (or I don’t know the official name) is an AU where your favorite characters are miniature versions of themselves!

And these fuckers are tiny! Like stupid tiny. Like you do a “call me” sign and try to make it as big as you can, and that’s about as big as bitties get. this one!

But of course this isn’t a rule, you can make bitties as smol or as big as you want.

And you can adopt them!

With such an interesting prompt the AU got very popular, because you could: Give your favorite AU a mini version of whoever you wanted, you could be self-indulgent and draw yourself (or an OC) with a bitty! It was very cool! Y’know??? It was your tiny silly! There are uh, like BASE bitties, like for example a Sansy bitty is always hungry, seepy, is funny, and lazy. Or like a Fell who is like an angry cat. He will fucking destroy your stuff, is going to bite, is prone to fighting other bitties and stuff!

And there’s also Papyrus bitties and Grilbitties (love that name)!

And there was even a chart of how some bitties reacted to others! But you were allowed to make your own! Let’s say you had an OC of who knows what, and if you wanted to make it a bitty to just play with the idea, you can! Like if you wanted a Toriel bitty  you could make yours! And that’s about it! I hold this AU very dearly, is very cute and even if bitties aren’t as popular as they once were, I still think they are neat.

And the stuff you could do with them! You can just do a homey story with bitties, just hanging out. Very cute story where you (or whoever you want) adopts a bitty and you now have to learn to live together with antics and all that good stuff! Or you can try and make all the stuff of: HOW MORALLY OK IS IT TO HAVE THAT THING??? ARE THEY OK BEING SMOL? HOW ARE THEY MADEE????

And if you are into bitties like I am you’ve probably seen some of these!

Even some mixed I believe?

Ok uhhh next!!!

OH HELL YES!!! I LOVE TOUCANS!!! (Seraphim! Sans)  (GOF FUCKING DAMNIT WE’RE ALMOST AMOST DONE!!!)

Ok so Seraphim sans comes from this cool comic known as “the thought”.

It comes from sans’ thought. “What if one day, the human doesn’t reset? What is one day we just cease to exist?”  So he acts, he attacks the human when they leave the ruins.

He takes the human’s soul, and takes it to Asgore. So they’re going to break the barrier to just have an ending.  But Asgore, doesn’t really want to, he wants to wait, as he has killed so many humans… KIDS for that matter. And he’s afraid, humans were always stronger than monsters, and there are millions of more humans then monsters. But sans is like “Dude, I didn’t just break a promise to just sit around” so he makes a not so thought out decision. He’s going to do it himself.

And of course he turns into… TOUCAN.

And shenanigans happen…

I highly recommend looking for the comic made by tratserenoyreve (on tumblr).  Or look for the comic dub by Starbot Dubs (yes, they are the ones from CPAU too).

I ABSOLUTELY love HOW the author brings this story. Like come ONNNNN!!!!!

Ok so, one of my favorite things is how the characters are portrayed! Like the human souls, they are faceless here, nameless, but they still have that little bit of personality and I love that even when they are literally faceless, they aren’t completely gone! And even so, the story has a bit of a bittersweet ending. BUT FIRST WE TALK ABOUT THE STORY! So after sans does the stupid, everyone’s just… confused and hurt on what to do? The human souls are permanently attached to sans, who didn’t really stop to think about the AFTER. And they want to extract the souls from him. But now here comes the interesting part, they are all there, like Sans can communicate with ALL 8 kids, and he’s not necessarily sure of how to feel? He’d just expected to have unlimited power and that’s it, but the human souls are here to stay. So, papyrus has to take sans home, the King, Undyne, Papyrus and the former Queen decide to keep the broken barrier a secret. Until they can safely get the human souls back, of course. So that means that they’ll have to wait until Alphys has messed with the DT extractor as it wasn’t BUILT for 7 human souls. The days go by, and Alphys has finished it.

Sans gets into the lab and kinda opens up about what he knows to Alphys, why he acted so rushed? Why of everything. And it seems it’s a good start to a new beginning, but things aren’t to well. The DT extractor begins to hurt Sans’ soul, and the kids are freaking out, so Integrity tries to help by teleporting. That of course leads to them getting lost in between the files, the space between. And they find the code to the game, and get exited! That means they can mess with it and make everyone live; they can make Frisk… well Frisk! Instead of a shell we use to play. But they encounter… (drum roll)  OUR FAVORITE SILLY!!!  GASTER!!!!! And of course, he tell them that this is bigger than they could ever imagine, and the fact that they stopped “it’s” game could mean the erasure of the world.

(As in, imagine you are playing Undertale, sans kills you JUST before the ruins and your game is a permanent GAME OVER)

SO shit goes down.

I’m not going to explain the WHOLE thing cuz you HAVE TO read it!

And then Sans and the kids are left with a choice, Reset or continue. Reset means everything goes back to the loop, continuing means the possible end to their world. And It ends in a tie 4 to 4. And it’s all left to Frisk to decide.

They choose both, they ask if they can copy the game and hide it somewhere where the OG copy is the one that’ll continue in the endless loop, the one that is hiding is just them continuing to live.

AND I AAAAARGGGGGGGG!!!jvdhkbjvdsbhdvsj’vds

I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!!

I re-watched the comic dub to refresh my memory a bit, and to understand the parts that I didn’t when I was younger (because English bad).

And I cannot express HOW much I loved all of it! It’s a great story with great moments.

And I REALLY REALLY recommend it!

Just love the use of how they manage to at least save ONE COPY of themselves. Like somewhere there’s the other copy going through the loop again and again and again.

And I just can’t begin to explain the feeling that that gives me! Love it with all my heart. Now  WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK!!!! THIS IS EVEN WORSE?!?!?! (Underworld) 

Simple enough.  Not fan of horror, but I found underworld’s designs and fell INLOVE with them.  Not much to say, just that it has the potential of a hundred suns and that is it. LIKE LOOK IT UP AND YOU’LL SEE??? 

Personal favorite is Undyne and Toriel.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ok so here’s the kicker, I said they were 11, right?

But I’ve put Error and Ink together… so they count as one, right?  Because I forgot one.  (I actually forgor two but let me have my moment)  SURPRISE (YOU GUESS BEFORE I SAY THE NAME!)  So I’m pretty sure this AU isn’t known as much, as the others.

Like I’m sure there ARE people who like it.

But it’s died down a HOLE lot, the fandom grew and from the AU’s that have managed to survive it, I feel this one’s been left behind. I mean there’s still fanart, but like it’s not popping up like others. The aesthetics are MY ABSOLUTE favorite, because there’s not too much of a change in story.  I mean there IS, and it’s pretty cool. But what sells me is the aesthetics, just the whole vibe!!! And I’m sure that if you like dark fairy vibes, you’ll like this one.

Ya ready???

YA READYYYY?????? I don’t think you are ready!!!!

AAAAAHHHHHH

It’s Masktale.

Did you guess it?

(end of my thing)  …

…

…

…

And there’s also Quantumtale because they are cute kids with stupidly strong powers, and Gaster is a cute guy and I love it.

But I haven't researched a ton of the last two sorry.

but im tired sO

(We’re officially done.)

and uh thanks for asking :,)

[thatonegayship]

I loved the cowboy comic so much that I wrote a oneshot for it. https://archiveofourown.org/works/50934235 🥺 your art is BEYOND amazing, ty for the food

INCREDIBLE!!!!!

[luna7822]

congradulations assholes

u all finally got that stupid ass victory that u ppl so lovingly beg for absolutely no reason other than just to find more petty excuses to boost ur ego and outright splat any other ppl from different teams on site as if any of u dont know how to play like fair for once in ur pathetic fucking life and admittingly i do feel bad for shiver too since she actually had smth that i could agree with for once (vanilla aside) and that u assholes pretty much decided to be absolute jerks throughout the whole damn thing all cuz im on her team as if splatfests and final/seasonalfests in general were never meant to be taken srsly in the first place and overall to any stupid ass stans/spawn campers out there i wish u all a very happy go fuck urself for basically never giving me a fair fucking chance for once whatsoever and for honestly being the worst fucking idol f**base to ever exist in general so yeah

[kolyasangel]

lowkey don't feel like writing anymore

[demadogs]

it really hits different when someone, whether its a celebrity or just someone you work with, is a happily out lesbian. obviously im happy for any queer person that comes out but the majority of those who do, at least who i have encountered, are either gay men or bi women. and even tho we’re a part of the same community i still always feel a little isolated and different from them. the majority of my friends are queer but i have zero lesbian friends and it actually really upsets me. when i find out someone is queer im obviously happy but when i find out theyre lesbian i get so happy i wanna cry. its just different.

[l-cereta]

oh my god u know the hrt is working when u get genuinely white girl drunk

[chikkou]

im rewatching community and just got to what is arguably the shows absolute worst episode - the one where britta finds out all her friends have been essentially getting paid off by her abusive parents, and somehow britta is the one at fault for being “childish”??

i find this episode so cruel in so many ways honestly, and not the least bc dan harmon, after giving britta a backstory that involves CSA (which her parents didnt believe happened), chose to convey the message that britta is 100% wrong & you should always forgive your abusers regardless of all else, and we as viewers are just supposed to be ok with that.

its extra evil too because dan harmon was fired from community in the first place because he was sexually harassing one of the shows writers, and now here he is actively denying the trauma of his female character who was a victim of sexual assault. like bro. this could not be more on the nose if it tried

[welcometogrouchland]

I think the disconnect between canon Belos and (a certain genre of) fanon Belos is that in canon he is pathetic (in the dramatic sense) not sympathetic.

[strxnged]

me when music club president smells nice

[radicallicious]

.

[homingpigecns]

.

until last year i stayed friends with a grand total of One (1) friend i knew in high school and now. i have finally stopped talking to that friend. it is sooooo so nice to romanticize longevity and history and wow they have always been there but there's a point where it's like.

it is so embarrassing so i haven't talked about it because it's really like, fully pathetic, but i saw them the first time recently bc i hadn't seen any rl friends bc i had a years long slump where i just kind of took up space at home and i was embarrassed about it but i got my life together again last summer and i was like okay, i can respond to the question "how are you doing?" without breaking down into tears, and my friend did express interest in seeing me again and i really wanted to see them. so i saw them a while ago and i had fun and i was so happy and i was so grateful to still have this connection after all these years, after all the ways i've been and my colorful history, and i just. their birthday was about a month later and really extremely uncharacteristically of me i remembered, and i ordered them a weird little personal birthday tchotchke off etsy and got them a michaels gift card and hit them up like. happy birthday we should hang out soon on the day of and it was all very nice. i didn't expect something soon nor did i care too much. but a couple months ago when twitter was gonna implode i followed them on insta (even though i deleted my personal insta because i know personal instas only teach me things about people i don't want to know) and as a consequence of that i learned that my friend was not able to see me because i was not invited to their birthday thing. which was with a friend of theirs i kind of know and an old close friend from high school i lost touch with but asked about and sjdfhsdf. literally expressed interest in the time i just saw them.

DO YOU KNOW HOW PATHETIC THAT IS........JUST EVERYTHING ABOUT IT..........LIKE I AM A KICKED PUPPY. I AM 24.....I HAVE HEALTH INSURANCE............I AM A UNION MEMBER........AND I GOT REALLY EXCITED ABOUT MY FRIENDS BIRTHDAY AND I WASN'T INVITED TO THE PARTY...........

and you know there are probably actual reasons. i burned bridges with people in high school that they liked more than me, and i am too mature to care about who likes more than whoever now, and it is too insane to hold things from high school against them now that i am 24 and have regular cardiologist appointments. but it is also like. how many times do i have to die. i have grown past so many things the last three years that i thought i could never overcome and i can't, i don't want to, grow into someone who is mature enough to hold someone who's been important to me since i was 14 at arms length so it doesn't hurt when they inevitably drop me. currently, i commute an hour in the wrong direction so i can be on the same train as a work friend and i am aware the energy is insane but it is my energy and giving it and getting good things from it is like. this is better for my personal development than whichever way the other direction goes.

and it's like i don't even blame my friend from high school for how they feel about me because i was insane in a bad way in high school and i've done enough it's like. whatever. but it's like, also, when it's like, yeah this was half of the two people who permanently messed you up to the point people still are like "hey i didn't see you there. come over and say hi next time" when i avoid them because they're talking to someone else, who watched your friend group make a group chat and hang out together with everyone except you and didn't say anything and you were grateful they still threw you the bone to hang out one on one and it's like. i'm not. i don't really hold it against them, it was years ago, i don't think about those people anymore and yes i am still weird in many ways but for other reasons as well, but there is like. a very huge lack of pattern recognition and failure to learn and it is absolutely. my fault. when you put it like oh the person who killed me a thousand times throughout high school and college still has the power to kill me now and sometimes will? VERY OBVIOUSLY I AM THE PROBLEM.......i can't play high school anymore i have to play Being At Work and Surviving Capitalism Despite Everything, Did You Know I Am 24

anyway i decided to just quietly softblock my friend on everything, unfriend on discord, remove myself from the situation when there wasn't really an inciting event so i could just kind of fade out. but i did just find out that my friend did notice, and blocked me on twitter without saying a word -- which you know, is fine and understandable, because i did do all of that first. but what a metaphor you know. that is what the years of friendship are, and that they have stacked up this much to still hurt me is my fault. but hopefully for the last time.

[arcaneyouth]

turns out being consistently harrassed for like 2 weeks does something to your mental health. who knew?

[whysamwhy123]

You ever have those periods where you're struggling to write much, and you're really questioning why you even bother with this in the first place, and you look at your main WIP and you're just like what is the point? Nobody wants to read this anyway so why are you wasting your time with this nonsense when you could be doing literally anything else?

And then, out of nowhere, you get a comment on said fic, despite it being months after it was posted, despite it being a ridiculously rare-rarepair, despite one half of the pairing not being on TV anymore, and it's a self-indulgent AU that you figured wouldn't appeal to most folks in the slightest, and then you realise that it's gotten a few more hits lately too and the comment is really nice and actually, this fic has more comments on it than a lot of your other stuff, and all of sudden, it's like...shit, maybe you should keep doing this?? Maybe you should just write the damn thing (when you can) and just have fun with it and who cares about the rest?

[ceilidho]

hound dog

prompt: You pick up Ghost from a bar for a one night stand. Too bad Ghost isn't interested in a casual hook up. (nsfw, 6.7k) [based on this old post] [on ao3 here]

-

Rare is the day when a stupid girl doesn’t do stupid things.

This is just one of many such occurrences. Stepping into the dimly lit dive bar—the one miles from your place, reeking of tobacco and leather and motor oil, the noxious perfume of week old sweat and weed stinking up the joint, pardon the pun—with too much eyeliner and mascara on, and a skirt too short for you—and would you just stop fiddling with it? But you can’t because that would mean admitting that it barely fits over your ass, that putting on a skirt so short was a choice, an invite, a teasing little taunt to the men in the bar saying, what are you waiting for? I’m asking for it, aren’t I—

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

It’s why you’re planted at the bat some six weeks after being dumped, two weeks after being ghosted for the third time in a row, a smile on your face despite your crumbling self-esteem. Pride hanging in tatters. Grimacing when you find the bartop sticky with congealed liquor, the residue sticking to your skin when you quickly lift your elbows off. But there’s a time for self-pity and a time for getting it the fuck togther. This just happens to be one of the latter times.

“What’m I gettin’ you?” the bartender in front of you asks, barely impressed with your get-up. Not even attempting to conceal his distaste when he eyes you up and down, lingering on the way your tits are practically spilling out of your top. 

“Do you have any cocktails?” you ask. Wrong question. The eye roll isn’t even suppressed for your benefit when he makes it clear to you, in no uncertain terms, that it’s whatever he can pour straight from a bottle or the fancy bar for cityfolk down the road. He says it like that, the word practically sneered out. Cityfolk. 

Nerves shaken, you sip at your red wine after he leaves you to your own devices, your glass poured straight from the box. It could function passably as lighter fluid if the circumstances called for it. Still, you swallow it with a positive attitude, emboldened by the knowledge that you’re here for one thing and one thing only:

to get fucked within an inch of your life by one of the greasy-haired, cut-wearing, cigarette-smoking men lining the bar. 

Even the thought sends a thrill down your spine. 

It’s an age old question, isn’t it? What’s a girl to do (when her love life’s falling apart / when her credit score just bottomed out because her ex-boyfriend ran up her credit cards behind her back / when her job’s steadily becoming unbearable but quitting would mean scrambling to find a job that’ll pay anywhere near to what this one’s paying her) to get a drink around here? 

Evidently, the answer isn’t to use a dating app; you can say that confidently after waiting around in fancier bars than this for several no-show dates. 

You’re feeling appropriately over the whole thing. Ready to call it quits. Uninstall all of the apps on your phone and hire a matchmaker or ask a friend to set you up with a coworker of theirs. But that’ll be later, down the line when you aren’t dealing with the issue at hand.

The issue being that—

you’re really fucking horny. 

Embarrassingly so. Enough that you were willing to travel miles away from home to avoid accidentally hooking up with anyone you might run into later on while out getting groceries or on a morning run. 

It’s just better to play things close to your chest. Keep your romantic life and your sexual exploits far apart (not that you’d know much about keeping things separate; you’ve never had much of a sex life to keep hidden) lest you get mired in a stickier situation than you’re comfortable being in. 

Despite the rough start, the bar you chose seems promising. There’s a man at the other side of the bar that keeps drawing your eye. It’s the hulking size of him at first, then the grime clinging to the folds of his skin, worn in from years of hard labor. He looks like a man fresh off a fourteen-hour shift or a fortnight spent on an oil rig in the middle of the Baltic sea, freshly washed ashore, kelp and barnacles still fused to his skin, not yet pried off. 

Rough is the only word you’d use to describe him. A face covered in nicks and old scars, his upper lip slightly puckered and scarred from cleft lip surgery. When he turns his head to say something to the bartender, you catch a glimpse of a cauliflower ear, the cartilage of his tragus and antihelix swollen and deformed. 

He’s exactly what you’ve been looking for. If you’d given it more thought, you think you could’ve conjured up an image of the man across the bar all by yourself. It’s like someone plucked him straight out of your head. Big and brawny, broad shoulders that you can imagine dangling your ankles off, and well-muscled arms that you can imagine digging your nails into. It would take both of your hands and extra to wrap around his bicep. The thought makes you shiver.

You try to catch his attention subtly. Looking over at him from under your lashes, quick, smoldering glances meant to draw his attention to you, so that he approaches you first. You keep waiting for the moment when he’ll notice your stare and hold your gaze, a question being asked and answered between your eyes before reeling him in with a coy little smile. 

But when a half hour goes by without a single glance your way, your hope begins to wane. 

He doesn’t look up no matter how many times you glance over at him. It’s frustrating; you know he feels the weight of your stare. His disregard is purposeful, deliberate; like he knows your attention is fixed on him but he can’t be bothered to so much as return your stare. You wonder if that means he’s got a lady at home, a little bird cooped up in his house that he’s more eager to get back to after he’s had a drink to take off the edge than flirt with some trussed up floozy at the bar.

That makes you squirm, self-consciousness rearing its ugly head again. Maybe you made a mistake coming here. 

It’s not as though you’re being completely ignored, it’s just that the caliber of men that have approached you so far haven’t really inspired much, carnally speaking. You’ve sent the few braver ones away, a half-hearted thanks but no thanks when they offer to buy you a drink. Most leave without a word, though a few mutter obscenities under their breath before shoving their hands in their pockets and stalking away. Bitch. Dumb cunt. 

Calling it a night feels like a natural next step. With the attitude you keep getting from the bartender and the way the only man you’re remotely attracted to refuses to so much as glance your way, it doesn’t feel right to stay out any longer. Embarrassment heats you like a low grade fever, warm in your belly. Wine sloshes around in your stomach when you slip off the stool, hunger now another pressing concern. 

You’ll ask him on your way back from the bathroom. If he turns you down after that, you’ll slink off into the night with your tail tucked between your legs. There’ll always be next weekend to try again. You promise yourself that because the alternative is acknowledging how defeated this entire experience has left you, no less disappointing than going on the same boring first date with a guy from Tinder. 

In the bathroom, you dab your face with water and stare at your reflection in the dirty mirror. It looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years; finger smudges and white strains streaked across the glass. You wonder how many strangers have fucked in this bathroom over the years. The thought makes you grimace even more when you notice that the floor is slightly sticky, the ground sounding tacky beneath your shoes. 

When you come out, the man from across the bar is waiting by the door, so close that you flinch, eyes widening. The narrow hallway means that he’s barely three feet from you when you stand in the doorframe. 

“We leavin’ or what?” he growls, voice as deep as you thought it might be, gruff and husky. 

He’s just as imposing in front of you as he was from across the bar. Maybe more so. You’re forced to crane your neck to look up at him this close, lips parting on an inaudible exhale. There’s something about a brutish man that’s always taken your breath away; everything from the blunt chin to the pronounced brow. His face is flecked with pale, keloidal skin; rubbery nodules from old injuries. 

Dumbstruck, you can only nod, following behind him when he turns away from you, headed towards the parking lot out back where his truck is parked. 

You’re really doing this. You’re really doing this. That’s the only thought in your head when he unlocks his truck and pops the door open for you, waiting until you’re buckled in before slamming the door shut. 

He’s quiet on the car ride back to his place, unconcerned with getting to know you or defusing the tension in the truck. You can’t say you blame him. There’s a reason you chose a bar so far from home as a hunting ground. If you wanted to get to know someone, you would’ve met someone at a coffee shop. 

When you ask his name, he grunts it out like it’s an inconvenience. Simon. He doesn’t give you more than that, even when you awkwardly ask him what he does for work. Blatantly ignores your questions. The rebuff smarts for some reason, makes you frown and duck your chin to your chest, shoulders hunched.

His demeanor is so off-putting that halfway through the drive, you wonder if you misunderstood him somehow, if he means to drive you home instead of taking you back to his place (but that can’t be right, otherwise wouldn’t he have asked for your address?). It’s just hard to reconcile his churlish attitude towards you with his ostensible invitation to fuck. 

Maybe he doesn’t intend to fuck you at all. Maybe you managed to pick up the one serial killer in a twenty mile radius and stupidly followed him back to his truck without telling anyone who you planned to go home with. Your blood curdles at the thought, hackles raised when you imagine him sizing you up from across the bar, all prettied up and doe-eyed, easy prey. 

Your breathing picks up. “I, um…actually, c-could you…could you just drop me off at my place?”

Simon rolls his eyes so hard that it’s almost audible. “Not gonna kill ya, bird.” 

That doesn’t go a long way towards reassuring you, but you don’t dig your heels in and demand he take you home either. 

“Do you live nearby?” you ask, suddenly chatty. Why, oh why.

Simon looks over at you, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift. He drives a manual, you notice. A few too many seconds go by in silence. You wish somebody would just staple your mouth shut already. 

“Yeah,” he says finally, turning back to watch the road, taking a left turn up ahead without using his signal. So it’s that kind of drive.

You keep your mouth shut for the rest of it lest he decide you’re too much of a hassle and turn back. You’re poised right on the edge of something new and exciting, and the thought of that slipping through your fingers makes you feel a bit crazy. So many men before have shown you that same snap dislike. Like you’re tolerable over text or as a dimensionless photo, but not as a flesh and blood person, the real mechanics of you all wrong. It’s an intolerable thought—that people can only like you when you smile and keep your mouth shut.

Still, you’ll do it now, for a price. 

Part of you expects him to pull you into his lap when he pulls into his driveway and puts the truck in park. It’s what you’ve seen in movies. The rest of the night plays out in your head in piecemeal flashes; ravenous passion, hands tearing clothes off each other’s bodies, a shoe left on the porch in your hurry to get inside. Hungry, devouring; slick mouths parting for barely long enough to breathe.

Then Simon cuts the engine and gets out of the truck without so much as a glance your way, like you aren’t even there.

He still comes around to open the door for you. You frown at him through the window, affronted. Baffled at his continued nonchalance. Like even keeping your mouth shut isn’t enough to keep a man’s interest. Where you expected passion and fervor, you’re met with cool indifference. 

Simon pops the door open. “Get out.”

The house itself is nothing special. A two-story cookie-cutter house built in the seventies; weathered, beige-coloured vinyl siding and a neatly trimmed lawn, with a few patches of overgrown grass and weeds. There’s a trailer parked in front of the closed garage, a few planks of wood strapped down in the bed. When you follow him up the walkway, you notice how quiet the neighborhood is, and for some reason that makes you even more jittery. 

You stop in the doorway, frustration breaking your timidity like snapping an ampoule. “Do you even want to—” fuck me, goes unsaid. Too humiliating to even ask. But you ask anyway, the question itself implicit even in so few words. 

Dark eyes stare down at you, impenetrable. You’re struck by the sense of something primordial slithering under his skin. His expression is hard, his face carved from granite; when his expression shifts, it’s like watching tectonic plates create mountains, plates pushed upward by mantle plumes.

He fits a big paw under your chin, fingers pressing into the fat of your cheeks hard enough to make your lips purse. Your heart skips a beat when he angles your head from side to side, looking you over like a pet he’s considering bringing home. You almost go cross-eyed when he bends down, his forehead nearly brushing yours, so close that you can smell the scent of cigarettes clinging to his clothes, see the grease smudged on his face and the folds around his eyes. 

A grin flickers across his lips, gone as it came. “Yeah. I do.”

And doesn’t that tie your stomach in a knot? Your nerves in a pretty bow? 

Inside, his house is just as unremarkable. You’d know in a single glance that a single man lived here; a functional, no-frills living space. Nothing more than a worn couch, a TV, and a few pieces of obvious hand-me-down furniture. It’s hard to glean anything from the minimal decoration around his place, but he doesn’t give you much of a chance to look around. That’s not the point of why you’re in his house. 

“Eat anything yet, bird?” Simon asks from the kitchen, opening the fridge without purpose. It looks like more of a reflex than anything, the first thing he does the second he gets home for the night and the last thing he does before going to bed. From the size of him, it makes sense; his body is muscle on muscle, covered by a healthy layer of fat, just a surface layer over the bulk beneath. 

You shake your head. “No.”

“Have a bite, then.”

“I’m not, uh, hungry though,” you deflect rather than saying the obvious, which is, I came to your house to have sex, not make sandwiches at the kitchen counter together. 

He shuts the fridge door, pinning you with his stare. “Your call. Could’ve used the energy though.”

You swallow. 

The first thing you do after he herds you into the bedroom is try to pull him into a kiss, cupping his cheeks and standing up on your tiptoes. Before your eyelids flutter shut, you catch a glimpse of a cocked brow. Then you press your lips to a slack mouth that doesn’t move no matter how much passion you infuse in your kiss and feel embarrassment flare up in your guts. 

Bastard. You should’ve expected that he wouldn’t kiss you back. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, breaking the facsimile of a kiss and dropping back down onto your heels. 

You flinch when he grabs you by the back of the neck and reels you back in, forcing you back onto your tiptoes, “Don’t be,” grunted against your mouth before fusing your lips together. A pathetic keen climbs up your throat, eyelids slipping shut. 

His greed leaks from him like tar, his kiss so messy and violent that you’re almost too jarred to do anything apart from hang on. Teeth clack against yours, a horrid sensation, the lust in your belly abating long enough for the real world to slink back in and you get flashes of it: hands winding around a thick neck, a scratchy cheek against your lip when he twists his head to angle your noses better, a tongue shoving into your mouth unceremoniously, no finesse at all. Straight to the main point. 

A shudder wracks you from head to toe when you try to break the kiss only to find the hand on your neck firm, holding you in place. The subtle reminder that he can do whatever he wants with you, that you willingly went home with a man big and strong enough to pin you down and fuck you however rough he wants. 

“Simon,” you whine, squirming against him, gasping a breath and his name again when he wrestles you back into the kiss. “No—Simon—”

“Stay fuckin’ still,” he snarls against your lips, and you freeze, knees going weak when his fingers dig into your jaw to hold you in place.

The endorphin rush nearly makes your vision white out. A sudden winter storm, the blood rushing to your cheeks and the tip of your nose, your breath coming out quick and choppy. Lungs barely filling up with each inhale. 

“Get this off,” Simon growls, tugging on your skirt when you don’t move fast enough. He doesn’t wait for you to catch up, content to wrench your skirt off himself instead, your panties along with it. 

It takes your breath away, how fast you go from clothed to partially nude. Trying to match his fervor is a losing game, so you just try to keep up. Your hands tug at his belt, desperately trying to undo it, and he chuckles when he notices; big hands paw at your ass while you shakily pop the buckle out of the first loop. 

He takes over after that, popping the button on his jeans one-handed. 

“Wanna handle the rest?” he prompts, an eyebrow jutting up, expectant. Lazy with his arrogance; oozing rugged masculinity. It’d infuriate you if it didn’t get you so hot. 

Your fingers are numb by the time you pull his jeans down, kneeling at his feet and gazing up at him with wide eyed devotion as he kicks off his boots and shakes the pants off his legs, nothing under his jeans. His pale white thighs are dusted in fine blond hairs, mottled with burns and scars and old, faded cigarette marks, like someone used his legs as an ashtray. The thought makes your throat close up.  

He shucks off his shirt while you stare at the shaft heavy with blood hanging between his legs, drooping with its own weight. Flushed red at the head and streaked with dark veins, leaking a steady drip of precum. The hair at the base of his dick is of a darker shade, gold like straw. 

Your stomach swoops at the sight, dropping to the pits of you. You swallow. Maybe you’ve bit off a little more than you can chew. A lot more.

As if sensing your unease, a wide hand is suddenly firm on the back of your head, urging you closer. “Gonna give it a kiss?”

It’s not a question. You know that and you know that you’re way out of your league; that if you panic now you’ll flounder. So instead of fighting it, you lean forward and press a shy kiss to the weeping head of his dick. 

You lick your lips instinctively when you draw back, lapping up the precum smeared across them. The taste makes you wrinkle your nose. It’s salty; bitter. Not altogether pleasant. 

Simon wraps a hand around his dick and holds it to your lips. “Open your mouth, bird. Get me nice ‘n wet.”

A shudder rolls through you, but there’s little else you can do except part your lips and squeeze your eyes shut. It’s a struggle to fit more than just the head in your mouth, his dick too wide to take more than that. Your eyes water at the stretch, the musky taste of his cum overwhelming. 

Any experience you’ve had before this pales in comparison. It’s like the first time all over again. His cock is heavy on your tongue, instantly making your eyes water. The grip he still has on the base of his cock tells you that he doesn’t expect you to swallow the whole length (an impossible task; you go cold with dread at even the thought), but Simon doesn’t hesitate to grip your head firmer when he feels you falter, forcing you to take as much as you can.

When you gag, he shushes you. “Keep at it—you’re fine.”

You wonder if he thinks by saying it, it makes it true. You’re very much not fine, struggling to breathe through your nose and suck him off without scraping his cock with your teeth.

Your exhale when he pulls you off his cock by your hair is full of both relief and trepidation. Your lips feel swollen and tender when you touch them with your fingers. 

“Can we please have sex now?” you ask, dazed enough to be bold. 

Simon cracks a smile at that, endeared somehow. “Gotta get up for that, bird.”

You have to brace your hands against his chest when you get to your feet, the blood that rushes to your head making you wobbly. Even on your feet, he’s so much taller than you, a behemoth. Men like him have always been your type, but Simon is really in a league of his own. 

Glancing up at him from under your lashes, you bite your lip. You’ve seen that in movies before, starlettes bringing men to their knees with just a look. Coquette; demure. It’s harder to replicate than you thought, but you’ve never rehearsed this before. This is a one-time, live performance. The culmination of everything you’ve ever read or watched or studied. 

You keep up the ruse of being sexy by crawling onto his bed on your hands and knees, dropping down onto your elbows once situated in the middle of the mattress. The debauchery of wiggling your ass back at the man who took you home from the bar would overwhelm you if you weren’t playing a part right now. Role playing. This isn’t who you usually are, but if it’s only for one night, you can force out the self-scrutiny and timidity. 

Silence hangs in the air like a bubble, waiting to be burst. You fight the urge to look over your shoulder at him. 

Then Simon exhales, breaking the silence. Goosebumps ripple down your arms. 

The mattress dips under his weight when he settles behind you, hands immediately sinking into the flesh of your ass and pulling your cheeks apart. No preamble. You open your mouth to say something, but thick, coarse fingers are already dipping between your thighs and playing with your hole, sinking a finger in up to the first knuckle. 

You breathe out shakily, shoulders tensing. The sheets reek of him, musky and ripe; you concentrate on that instead of the fingers penetrating you, getting you ready for his dick. Your walls squeeze tight around his fingers when he forces another one in. 

When he finally feeds his cock into you, the stretch is nearly unbearable. The sharp stab of pain that accompanies it almost makes you flinch away, but Simon drags you back by your hips.

“You’re not going anywhere, bird,” he rumbles. “Relax. It’s going in.”

What can you say to something like that? 

His whole frame presses you into the mattress, the breath forced from your lungs. Bigger now that he’s got you on your belly. Suddenly making two hundred pounds seem less abstract, more real. He bullies as much of his cock into you as he can, paying no mind to the way you squeal and kick your legs. 

“Real tight cunt,” Simon grunts, humming with his pleasure when his hips punch forward and your pussy squelches around his length. So lewd.

His knees on either side of you keep you trapped in place, nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. All you can do is lie under him and let him rut between your thighs, gasping for breath with every thrust. The sweat is slick down your back, half yours and half his. 

“Ya let other men fuck this cunt, bird?” he asks. It sounds hypothetical, like it’s said half to rile himself up, and though it prickles at your nerves, you don’t complain too much because he fucks you rougher after the words slip out of his mouth. 

When you don’t answer him though, concentrating more on filling your lungs and not biting your tongue off, he grabs your face and twists your head until you’re looking over your shoulder at him, neck aching with the strain. 

“Answer me,” he demands, sounding almost pissed off. 

“N-no—”

“Good,” he grunts. Satisfied.

His words should piss you off. How dare he ask you about fucking other men as if he were your husband or boyfriend. You have half a mind to cuss him out, but then he pumps his hips forward and your face goes numb from pleasure. Electric impulses zip up and down your skin, sizzling your nerves. 

Besides, maybe it’s hot that he’s acting like you belong to him. Like you’re his; his girl that he picked up from the bar after a long shift, eager to go home and lay her out on the bed so he could fuck his pretty girl into a tongue-tied stupor. It certainly does it for you, a thin filigree of pleasure winding its way down your spine. 

It’s an intoxicating fantasy—being wanted by a man in a real, visceral way. It’s one you’ve never gotten close to before, never even grazed with the tips of your fingers, no matter how far you stretched out your arms. You don’t know what men see when they look at you, but it can’t be anything worth keeping. 

He fucks you like he wants to pry you open and leave a piece of him inside. A big hand fits around your neck and tightens; a collar, a manacle. 

Hard to feel anything but grateful though. It’s everything you wanted but never thought you’d get out of this experience. You expected to feel like a body on a butcher’s block, hacked limb from limb. Marble ribbing on the inside. Brought to a high only to be left out in the cold after. 

You never expected apotheosis. You never expected the filth murmured into your ear, the lurid, coarse diatribe in surround sound, all perfect fuckin’ pussy, can’t wait to shove my tongue inside, gonna make you suck my cock while I eat that perfect cunt out—

All—

Perfect fuckin’ girl; you don’t give this to anyone else, do ya? Knew you were gaggin’ for it back in the bar, but wanted to wait ‘n see; turned the rest of ‘em down, didn’t ya? Not a fuckin’ slut. Jus’ for me—only hungry for my cock—

It’s too rough, too much. Overpowering. Musk and body heat and raw strength, his forearms planted on the mattress on either side of your head. The scent of him suffocating, smothering. Heady. In your pores, on the back of your tongue, in your belly. He’s everywhere.

If only you could put it into words. The fire in your belly growing so wild, so out of control, that it threatens to incinerate you. Thinking dangerous thoughts—that you could be his, that he wants you so bad he can’t stand the idea of anyone having you before him, that he’ll kill anyone that touched you before, rip them apart with his bare hands, cut out their hearts and slice it ‘em up real thin so he could feed you the strips with his hands—

“Fuck—” Simon pants in your ear, pulling his cock out of your cunt. You whine, clenching down on nothing, suddenly empty, until he turns you roughly over onto your back and grabs one of your flailing ankles, hooking it over a burly shoulder. “Cunt this good oughta be locked down. Should just chain your leg to the bed so I can wake up to this pussy every day. Would’ya like that, bird?”

Like it? You think wildly—

Keep me, keep me, keep me, pleasepleaseplease.

The leg not hooked over Simon’s shoulder gets pulled around his hip, spreading your legs wider to accommodate the width of him between them. The scour of his voice threatens to erode you, smash you to pieces. There won’t be anything left after he’s done with you. 

He’s just so big. Built like an ox, broad and solid. When he braces his forearms on either side of you, his biceps bulge, skin pulling taut over the muscle. The dark hair of his pits is stark against pale flesh. 

Blood roars in your ears and over you, he moves like a wave, filling you up again and again. You’re swimming in uncharted waters now; gazing out into an unfamiliar and dangerous sea. A swell this big might take you right under. 

Too bad for you, the hazy adumbration of danger in his words is pitted against the maw in your soul, the deep, cavernous hole that yawns wider with each passing year. 

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: overlooking a sea of evergreen peaks illuminated by a silky moonlight hue, winding a long, narrow road darkened on both sides by tightly clustered trees, your arms wrapped around your chest. Cold layered like a skin, sinking deep into your bones, cold wet like a damp hate; trees clustered around your wandering soul, spurned into wandering like a little undead ghost with teeth clattering in Morse code, saying: so many wrongs done, it is almost incomprehensible.

Is it too much to ask to be wanted? 

You need it like air. 

The issue is that—

more than horny, you’re really, really fucking lonely. 

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: a dream of being a lighthouse keeper, skin saltwater slick, seafoam on the backs of your knuckles, slathering over frozen fingers clutching at the gallery railing. Beckoning something to you.

What it is, you do not know.

“Look at tha’,” Simon says wonderingly, grabbing your face and yanking it towards him, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “Just needed to get turned out on a fat cock, didn’t ya?”

“Yeah,” you gasp. “So good, Simon, ohmygod—”

“Only this needy for me, right?” The glint in his eye is terrifying.

“Only you, only you—”

“That’s right,” he growls, bearing all of his weight down on you, forehead to forehead. His sweat-slick chest slides against yours, cock buried so deep that you can taste him at the back of your throat. Dark eyes stare down at you with an intensity that steals the breath from you, glossy like he’s rapidly losing the ability to be consciously present, but ever attentive to the pleasure rippling across your face. 

When his cock grinds into the soft plug of your womb, his eyes narrow when yours bulge, and he batters that spot until you seize up and spasm around him. His buzz cut gives you nothing to hold onto, so you dig your nails into the bulky planes of his back instead. 

“Fuck—hold on, Christ, fuck; here it comes,” he spits, the veins in his neck protruding when he grits his teeth. 

Your blood goes red hot when he rams deep into you, each thrust deliberate. Hips losing their rhythm. You don’t notice the first spurt of cum, too preoccupied with the smell and weight of him blanketing you, infiltrating every crevice of your body, but the second is hot. Scorching. You ignore the screaming alarm at the back of your head, barely coherent enough to parse out its meaning. All you can focus on is the warmth spreading inside you and your own walls pulsing around his cock, milking his release out of him. 

Time blurs. You lose some of it. 

You don’t come back until Simon rolls over onto his back, taking you with him. His cock is still buried inside of you, his cum running out in rivulets, pooling at the base of his dick lodged at your entrance. You’re going to be messy when he finally pulls out. 

Despite the ache already setting in, you feel reborn. Renewed. The old, dead skin flayed off. You can’t imagine how you’ll feel when you’ve got your energy back, when even tracing your eyes across the other side of his room doesn’t take tremendous effort. The traces of him littered around the room make you curious. A half empty glass. Steel-toed boots sticking out of a half-opened closet. A damp towel crumpled into a ball on the floor. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. There’s no use trying to fill the gaps in. Whoever Simon is won’t matter in the light of day. You repeat this to yourself until it sticks. 

When you try to get up, planting both hands on his chest, he pulls you back down, forcing your head onto the pillow of his chest. “Simon, the sheets are wet—”

“I’ll deal with it later,” Simon says, eyes already shut, on the verge of falling asleep. “Now shut up. You’re ruining the fucking afterglow.” 

You wake up the next morning covered in bruises and bite marks and dried cum between your thighs and on your belly, so sore that even twitching your finger hurts.

It takes awhile for everything to come back to you. When it finally does, consciousness snaps back into you, discomfort giving way to quiet self-satisfaction. You managed to do it. Your first one-night stand. A real milestone. The tacky sheets beneath you are proof enough of your accomplishment. 

The sadness slithers in when you realize that it’s over. One and done. In a half hour or so, the man plastered against your back and breathing heavily on the crown of your head will wake up, groggy and bleary eyed, and side-eye you until you put back on your clothes from the night before and slink out, tail tucked between your legs. A few hours delayed from when you were planning to throw in the towel at the bar, but still. In the end, it always comes around. 

A gruff voice at your side tells you to quiet, bird—s'too early for your bitchin’ before manhandling you onto your stomach and shoving his raw cock into your cunt and it’s only now that it dawns on you that you were too horny last night to remember to ask him to use protection. 

The thought is wiped from your head when he bucks his hips forward, impaling you on his swollen length. You lose track of time after that. 

Breakfast is an informal affair. Cereal from a box and a bit too much milk, and a cup of instant coffee. You wince when you sit down across from Simon at the kitchen table, your inner thighs still tender and pussy sore from the battering it just took. If it strokes his ego to see how gingerly you sit down, he doesn’t show it. 

It’s weird sitting across the table from him after last night. Hard to just leave it unaddressed, the truth simmering in the air. The red marks across his back make you wince, cheeks heating. Thin crescent marks and scored nails. It’s hard to reconcile yourself with the girl from last night. 

He eats in silence for the most part though, ravenous after the night before. Doesn’t comment on the state of his shoulders or the way you shift on your chair. Not even bothering to make eye contact with you. Your appetite takes a bit of a hit watching him shovel food into his mouth, hardly even pausing long enough to breathe, but you’ve seen plenty of hungry men eat before. 

Still though, silence has always had a way of getting under your skin. You’re not comfortable around it, prone to chattering. So you can’t help the way your mouth opens and the words come out involuntarily. 

“Do you do this a lot?”

“I don’t shit where I eat,” Simon grunts dismissively.

The expression makes you grimace. “So do you usually pick up girls elsewhere or—”

The look he gives you could melt the flesh off your bones. You realize your misstep, interrogating the man you just fucked about his other hookups. Best not to ask questions. It’s not like you’ll see him again after this. 

These last few moments are bittersweet. There won’t be many opportunities like this in the future, mainly because you don’t think you’re cut out for one-night stands. Last night proved that. As good as it was—and for as many times as you came, another time in the wee hours of the morning when Simon rolled over on top of you and shoved your legs apart to eat you out (a midnight snack)—in the light of day, you feel world weary. Like something monumental happened and passed you by. 

You almost want to thank him for making it special, but the anxiety around finally pissing him off is more than you can bear. You want to leave on a good note. It’s better this way. You’ll never have confirmation about whether he’d eventually grow tired of you like everyone else. Never know if he’d one day manage to lose interest in the real you, not the made up sex kitten from the bar. 

It’s better this way.

You tell yourself that when you push your chair out and stand up, hands fisting in the oversized shirt Simon made you wear before leaving the bedroom. “I should get going.”

He stops eating, staring up at you. His eyes are inscrutable, and the longer he stares, the less you understand his look. 

You shift from foot to foot. “Thanks for… I had a good time.”

Simon doesn’t say anything, but when he drops his spoon into the bowl, the metal clang makes you flinch. 

His silence leaves you off balance, like you’ve overstepped somehow. All motion stills under his scrutiny. 

“Got somewhere ya need to be?” he asks, a vague, almost menacing undercurrent in his voice. It’s said like a warning. There shouldn’t be anywhere else you need to be. 

“I…—don’t you want me to leave?”

He looks distinctly unimpressed. “You gonna walk home like that?” His words make you tug at his shirt, pulling it down to cover your thighs.

Your whole life has been made up of misunderstandings. Missed opportunities. Men who you thought loved you vanishing into thin air. You’re a poem often lost in translation. A long game of hide and seek; people run towards you then feign right, leaving you in the dust. 

Whatever this is, you don’t recognize it. 

You swallow on a dry throat. “…No?”

Simon searches your expression for something before he nods, satisfied. “Then sit the fuck back down. Finish your damn breakfast.”

You sit back down (wincing when you do) because the alternative is admitting that you don’t know what’s next. That you’re out of step again, but this time without that sinking feeling in your belly. A wild fluttering instead. That thought again that maybe you’ve bit off more than you can chew. 

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

[cherry-shipping]

one day ill draw again i Sweayr toGod