#he also still has a goddamn book about stars

[astrhae]

crowley used the metal tool in season 1 to start time, and we learn that he's used it first to start space. to create the stars -- he still remembers how. he still remembers all of heaven's passwords: in the book crowley is described as an optimist because he has the "utter surety... that the universe would look after him". not god, but the universe. and of course he does: he helped create it and he's looking after it, too.

think about it: aziraphale had a sword, but crowley is about to face satan who wants to destroy the world, and crowley's only weapon is a tool of creation

[peachdues]

BIRTHDAY SURPRISES — NSFW

Sanemi Shinazugawa x Reader

A/N: there is nothing redeemable about this. It’s just 7.9k words of pure filth in honor of my man’s birthday.

My husband got a boner reading this, so enjoy you whores.

CW: MDNI • Explicit sexual content • daddy!kink • elevator blowjobs • creampies • rough sex • kinky sex • brat-taming/mild dumbification • overstimulation • fluff at the end followed by more smut • not proof read lmao

Sanemi Shinazugawa has never liked the month of November.

For starters, the stupid month can’t decide what damn season it wants to be. It’s somehow too cold to really qualify as autumn and the leaves have usually fallen to the ground, brown and dead and useless, but it’s also still too warm to snow.

And November is such a tease — smack dab between two great holidays yet offering nothing but a restlessness that persists until the end of the year.

So no, Sanemi Shinazugawa isn’t fond of this time of year. But the universe has never shied away from giving him the middle finger, so Sanemi supposes he shouldn’t be surprised his birthday falls during such a bullshit month like November.

He’d been content to spend the day of his birth like he did every other year — hunkered down in his apartment with some cheap takeout, alone, without anyone to make a big fuss about it. That was the plan — his goddamn plan.

So how the fuck did he end up here?

The “here” in question is a suite at one of the city’s most exclusive hotels. The room is stuffed full of faces, some familiar but most not, packed together like sardines. The music is loud and pulsing and it threatens to give him a nasty headache.

It was Tengen who convinced him to allow this — though, Sanemi doesn’t suppose he was given much of a choice in the matter. But his friend group learned of his impending birthday a few weeks earlier, and before Sanemi could level a few, well-backed threats against any party planning, Tengen had booked the massive suite in which he now found himself, and promised Sanemi that he wouldn’t have to buy a single drink.

Sanemi agreed only on the condition that he be allowed to book a separate hotel room — several floors below where this godforsaken party now raged.

At least Tengen had meant it when he promised Sanemi wouldn’t have to spend a dime on alcohol. He took care to run up his friend’s tab by ordering several shots of Grey Goose, throwing them back as easily as water.

Hey, it was his birthday, after all.

The hotel suite is a blur of lights and colors and bodies pressed together in dark corners. Truthfully, Sanemi really can’t find any one thing to pay attention to; it’s ironic that this party is supposedly for him, and yet he feels like the most invisible person in the room.

But then he spots you — beautiful, witty, and charming you — seated in the lounge area, surrounded by both shared friends and strangers, and it’s like a spotlight has been pointed directly at you. All else seems to fall away, recessing into the shadows of the room, and his attention is locked solely on you; the star of the show that is his birthday party.

The feelings swirling in Sanemi’s chest are dangerous; lethal. He knows he should look away and accept the fact that you, with your endless pick of eligible women and men, would never deign to chase after someone like him, someone with as many scars on his heart as are seared into his skin. He knows that. He knows he’s only setting himself up to get more pissed off — to hate his birthday more than he already does.

But he can’t stop watching you.

And even if he could, he doesn’t want to. He’s only been in love with you since the moment Shinobu tugged you into a booth at a bar they all frequented. There hadnt really been any room for you to sit — not with seven of them already packed tightly onto the bench — but you’d taken one look at him and grinned, something that could only be described as mischief lighting your eyes.

“You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” You’d asked him sweetly as you plopped your ass right down on his lap. “You look like you’re the comfiest one here.”

Sanemi, who was known for having a quick temper and an even quicker mouth, had been stunned into silence by the presence of a beautiful woman, perched on his knee like it was the most natural thing to sit on a stranger’s lap. His friends had been hard-pressed to suppress their smirks at the way Sanemi gaped at the back of your head, and he was fairly certain it was because you’d been so ballsy that you’d secured a permanent spot in their weekly bar rotation.

That had been over a year ago, and Sanemi’s infatuation with you grew deeper by the day.

Not that he’d ever done anything about it — even though, at times, it felt like you were all but baiting him into acting on his feelings. He wanted to believe the way your eyes followed him wherever he went in a room meant something, that your lingering touches were an invitation for more, but he could never bring himself to find out.

That cowardice, he supposed bitterly, was exactly what led him here, sitting alone at the suite room bar, watching as countless others flirted with you and you, right back.

A few times your eyes had tracked him across the room; one time, you looked as though you were about to push through the throng of people shoved into Tengen’s suite to come talk to him, but a hand on your bicep caught you and diverted your attention.

It’s then that Sanemi snaps. The moment he watches as the asshole in question pulls you against him for a slow grind, that jealous, monstrous thing in his chest rears its ugly head, growling and gnawing to be let free.

He’d hoped, for one pathetic moment, that you would push the man away, shake your head, do something that indicated you weren’t the least bit interested in him, no matter how fascinating his multi-colored eyes were, or how charming his feral grin was, but you didn’t. And the moment he sees the douchebag pull your hips flush against his, Sanemi knows he needs to get some air.

So with less grace than he knows he probably should show, Sanemi shoves his way towards the door leading out the suite and into the hallway.

Fuck it, he decides. He would go back to his room, several floors below, take a shower and hit the fucking hay. His birthday was bullshit, anyways.

He storms towards the elevators, slightly tipsy and certainly angry. He stabs a finger against the down button, his leg bouncing as he waits for the elevator to come and save him from his own party.

“What’re you doing out here, birthday boy?”

His stomach sinks to his ass at the familiar cadence of the voice behind him. Reluctantly, he turns and sees you making your way down the hallway wall, a smirk on your pretty lips and looking downright sinful in that flimsy, silvery dress that barely reaches the middle of your thighs.

That damn elevator can’t come fast enough.

“Go back to the party,” he says tightly, though he still won’t look you directly in the eyes. “Don’t let me interrupt your good time.”

You draw up short. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sanemi only scoffs and jabs frustratingly at the elevator button, willing for the telltale ding that will allow him to step into the lift and get far the fuck away from this rager he didn’t want.

From you.

“What’s wrong with you? Did something happen?” You push, resuming your advance on him and shortening the space between your bodies. “Sanemi —“

“Save it,” Sanemi bites, and because he cannot help himself, he adds, “I just don’t particularly feel like watching you spread your legs for some lowlife asshole who can’t be bothered to remember your name.”

You blink, comprehension dawning on your face before melting to anger. “That’s what you’re so pissy about?”

Sanemi silently begs the elevator to hurry the fuck up, because now you’re only a few feet away from him and he doesn’t want you to see his fraying restraint.

You fold your arms across your chest, hip jutting out to the side. “You’re acting like a bitch because some jackass tried to grind on me? Why do you even care?”

Sanemi dodges your question with ease.

“You’re the one who fuckin’ followed me out here.”

The elevator dings and Sanemi is damn near falling to his knees in gratitude at its timing. The double sliding doors have barely finished opening before he’s already inside, jamming his finger into the button marked 26, praying it’ll move faster than it arrived.

The doors start to close but a pair of hands slam against both sides of the doorway, preventing them from joining in the middle.

You stand in the center of the threshold, eyes bright and nostrils flaring, the elevator doors half-closed around you.

“It wasn’t easy to throw this party together y’know,” you snap at him, and dully, Sanemi thinks the glare you give him is strong enough to wither plants. “Everyone went out of their way to try and make you feel special, but you’ve been nothing but an asshole about it.”

“I didn’t ask you all to do this — I begged you not to,” Sanemi retorts just as hotly, his arms folding across his chest. “I didn’t want a fuckin’ party.”

“Well, what do you want?”

the silence that stretches between you is more telling than any answer he could have given. By the way your lips part, you seem to realize it at the same moment he does, and that’s when Sanemi knows he’s fucked.

The two of you stare at one another for a moment, the weight of Sanemi’s unspoken admission hanging above your heads like the sword of Damocles.

But then, the blade drops, and it must impale you both, because suddenly your hands fall from the elevator doors and are tangling in his hair at the same moment Sanemi’s fingers latch onto your waist, and your mouths slam together in a fiery clash of lips and teeth.

The elevator doors slide shut behind you right as Sanemi presses you up against the paneled wall and slides his tongue into your mouth.

At the first stroke of his tongue against yours, you tense, and for one panicked moment, he fears he’s gone too far. But then you’re melting against him, and the way you tug on his hair and whimper his name against his lips makes Sanemi loses his goddamn mind.

Time stands still and there are no thoughts in Sanemi’s brain but the feel of your hands running down his arms, his chest, pushing under the open collar of his shirt to dance along his burning skin.

They can’t get to the 26th floor fast enough, no matter how fast the numbers tick past, bringing them closer and closer to privacy —

The elevator jolts to a stop, somewhere between the 29th and 28th floors, and does not move.

It’s just his fucking luck; the girl of his dreams is pressed flush against him, her lips at his ear as she begs for him, and the goddamn elevator has forgotten how to work. If his hands weren’t so busy pushing under the hem of that slip you call a dress to fondle the curve of your ass, he might’ve put a hole through the one of the doors.

He punches the button for the 26th floor again and again, his sanity fraying with each urgent jab of his fingers, yet the elevator still does not move.

If the idea that the pair of you are stranded in a metal box of death suspended over twenty stories high bothers you, Sanemi wouldn’t be able to tell — not when you’ve decided to turn your attention someplace else.

“What’re you —“ Sanemi’s voice is hardly more than a croak as your hands busy themselves with the buckle on his belt, fumbling and tugging until the leather fastened around his hips gives way.

“Shhh!” A press of your index finger to his lips silences him. “Birthday boys shouldn’t worry!”

Your fingers hook under the waistband of his pants and suddenly they’re following you down as you slide to your knees before him.

Sanemi’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head at the way your half-lidded gaze drifts from his face down his body, coming to rest on the tent of his briefs, jutting out from between his thighs.

Your voice is syrupy and warm as you whisper, “I guess I should let you have your first gift,”

Sanemi forgets how to breathe when you peer back up at him, your eyes suddenly round and wide; he nearly forgets how to stand when you lean forward and press your cheek against the side of his cock where it strains against his underwear.

Sanemi sucks in sharply through clenched teeth at the sudden rush of cold elevator air against the heated, sensitive skin of his bare cock, your fingers having tugged him free from the confines of his briefs.

“F-first?” He can’t stop the way the question stutters out, not when your lips, just barely gazing against him, drag from his base to his tip. The soft exhale of your warm breath up his length has his hands shooting behind him for something — anything — to grip.

You hum in confirmation, and Sanemi’s vision almost blacks out when your tongue peeks past your glossy, red-stained lips to trail over his leaking head.

“But you’ll have to wait ‘til we get to your room before you can unwrap the next one.”

Sanemi swears he’ll set the entire hotel building on fire if the elevator doesn’t start working in the next fucking minute. His vicious promise, however, fades to the back of his mind, along with every other coherent thought he’s ever had as your lips part around his head and you take him into your mouth.

“Holy fuck,” Sanemi hisses and his head falls back against the elevator wall with a dull thump.

You him pleasantly around his cock and Sanemi nearly cums right there, the vibrations from your mouth too sweet, adding gasoline to the already raging inferno of his desire.

At first, you keep your hands primly folded behind you, only allowing your mouth to work his shaft. Every time you slide up off him, you curl your tongue against the underside of his cock and every time, Sanemi has to draw upon every morsel of self-restraint he possesses to not buck further down your throat.

But soon, your hands pat their way to his, and you bring his hands against either side of your head. You hold them there for only a moment, just long enough for Sanemi’s stomach to flip as he realizes what you’re giving him permission to do.

You peer up at him with those big eyes, so wide and deceptively innocent, and he knows you’re trying to kill him.“Motherfucking — Y/N,” he moans, threading his fingers through your hair. “Fuck.”

With his grip in your hair secure, Sanemi begins to fuck your mouth. His cock slides in and out of your heat, every push shoving a little more of himself further into your mouth. You only relax your throat, your tongue still curling against the underside of his shaft in a way that makes Sanemi see white.

Sanemi’s hold on your hair tightens. “Fucking take it,” he pants, hips bucking against your face. “My little cock whore.” From his position over you, Sanemi can see the way his words make you squirm with need, your answering moan long, and deep.

Your hands flutter to the side of his thighs, and Sanemi almost winces at the prick of your nails against his skin. But despite the saliva steadily trailing down your chin and the guttural sounds choking in the back of your throat, you’re tugging him closer, your fingers inching around to grip his backside, pressing him closer and closer to you until your nose brushes his groin.

The elevator jolts with movement and resumes its descent, but neither of you notice. All Sanemi can focus on his the way his tip bumps against the back of your throat, and how your cheeks hollow against him as he ruts into your mouth.

Sanemi makes a strangled noise in the vague shape of your name. “I-I’m gonna —“

You only need to swallow around him once before Sanemi is filling your throat with his cum. With a deep groan, his head drops back, his hand splayed across the back of your skull, keeping your nose pressed against his base as he rocks his hips, his cock twitching violently in your mouth.

His eyes fly open when he feels the wetness from your tears against the sensitive skin of his groin, and he’s quick to pull out of your mouth. Your hands bracing against his thighs as you gulp down air in heavy, shuddering gasps.

“Fuck — I’m sorry,” his hands smooth worryingly over your hair. “That was too rough, I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“

Your head snaps up, and Sanemi feels a brief moment of panic at the sight of your mascara, streaked down your cheeks from an onslaught of tears. Bht then you’re smiling at him, a big, triumphant, radiant smile, and Sanemi feels almost as dumb in the head as he had when your mouth was around his cock.

The elevator slows and Sanemi hastily tucks himself back into his pants. The moment his belt is refastened, his hand is on your arm, gently guiding you up to stand right as a ding! sounds, and the doors slide open to reveal the 26th floor.

You step out first, turning back to him expectantly. “Well? What room?”

Sanemi’s heart falls to his ass as he beholds the assured confidence blazing in your eyes. “2602,” he manages to croak.

You tug him out of the elevator and for a few moments, he’s dumbstruck by his good fortune. It almost feels like a dream, that your here, leading him down the winding hallway of this oversized and overpriced hotel, eager to get back to his room and do whatever the hell it is that’s lit that fire in your eyes.

Sanemi’s awe is short-lived, replaced by a crashing wave of need and boiling desire, hot and furiously bubbling under his skin. His hand tightens around yours and he jerks you around, spinning you until you’re caged tightly between the hallway wall and his chest.

His mouth attacks your neck, biting and sucking his claim into your skin, no matter how temporary. Your leg hikes up to hook around his hips, your foot pressed against his calf, and it seems neither of you care that you’re very much still on an open hallway as opposed to the privacy of his hotel room.

“I’m not holding back with you,” he whispers against the hollow of your throat. His hands slide hotly down your sides, fingers toying under the absurdly short hem of your dress, kneading just beneath the curve of your ass. “You asked me what I wanted — I want this. You.”

Your sultry giggle in his ear chokes off as Sanemi’s finger dips under your ass from behind to run firmly over your clothed slit. A breathy fuck falls from his lips as he feels the wetness seeping through the fabric of your underwear.

“That’s your main gift,” you’re tugging on his hair again until you’ve pulled him away from your throat so that you can slant your mouth over his. “Me. However you want me.”

You take his bottom lip between your teeth and suck, and Sanemi swears he’s died and gone to heaven. “As many times as you want.”

“And in whatever positions you want.”

Sanemi has never been a particularly religious man, but he thinks he’s about one nanosecond from dropping to his knees in worship of you.

Sanemi wastes no time in hauling you over his shoulder, throwing any and all cares to the wind of being seen as he slaps your ass and books the remaining trek back to his hotel room. Youre lucky his room is only around the corner, given that you won’t stop groping his ass.

Somehow, Sanemi manages to fumble for his keycard and swipes it, and he has you inside his room and pushed up against the door before it even fully latches shut.

You’re moaning and panting just from his hands, and Sanemi can feel himself already growing hard once more. His lips are feverish as they roam from your lips, to your neck, and down to the hem of your dress concealing your soft breasts from sight. His hands are even greedier, bunching the tissue-paper-like fabric of you dress between his fingers as he explores the curves and dips of your body.

“God you feel so fucking good,” he mutters against your lips between kisses. “I can’t get enough of you.”

From the way your hands drag down his chest, fingers sliding between the undone buttons of his shirt to explore his chest, he knows you’re just as starved as he is.

With a slight whine, you push him back, breaking your kiss. Sanemi looks at you, but the question building on his tongue does as you kick your heels off, your fingers flying to the straps of your dress.

Sanemi feels locked in place by the heat of your gaze, and he swears he can feel his pulse tick in his neck. One by one, you push the straps of your dress from your shoulders, letting the satiny material fall down your waist and puddle around your feet.

If Sanemi thought he was losing his mind before, he knows for certain that he likely needs to be committed now.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sanemi’s stare is unabashed and gaping. For beneath that flimsy scrap of shiny fabric pretending to be a dress was not your bare skin, but dark green lace and mesh and corset paneling.

A teddy.

You twist slightly so you’re looking over your shoulder, fully exposing your ass and the thong-like back of your one-piece to the slack-jawed birthday boy.

“I figured you would like this one.”

Your words knock Sanemi right off his axis, his head spinning so fast, it’s a miracle it’s still attached to his shoulders.

You’d worn fucking lingerie for his party.

For him.

You’d gone out of your way to wear something you thought he would like on the mere chance you’d end up as you were now, here in his room. You’d planned for it.

You didn’t leave him any other choice; he was going to fucking ruin you.

His hand flies behind his neck to grip his shirt, ripping it over his head and throwing it unceremoniously to the side.

Sanemi doesn’t fail to notice the way your tongue darts out to wet your lips, your pupils blowing wide at the sight of the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen.

He kicks off his shoes and his hands shove his pants quickly down his legs, grateful that he hadn’t bothered to refasten his belt or button after the stunt you pulled in the elevator.

“C’mere,” he orders, roughly. Left in just his black briefs, he lunges forward to take you into his arms once more.

Your peal of laughter as Sanemi throws you onto his king-sized hotel bed is the prettiest thing he’s ever heard. He wastes no time pouncing on you, eager to reconnect your lips, to kiss you until you’re left as breathless and wanting as he is.

Between messy kisses, Sanemi’s hands make their way down your body, squeezing and marveling at the way your body seems made for his touch. And as if the feeling of your skin beneath his palms isn’t enough to drive him wild, you’re so responsive to his touch. Every stroke of his hands seems to bring you alive until you’re practically thrumming with want and begging him for more.

His fingers slide over your lace-covered cunt and he swears at the dampness he feels clean through the fabric of your teddy.

“Eager, are we?” He hums, his lips following down the path he traced with his hands. “Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”

Your hips buck impatiently against him as his face settles between your thighs. He grins at your desperation, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your inner thigh until he reaches your covered slit.

He lets his tongue peek out between his lips and drags it over until he reaches your other thigh, groaning at the faint taste of you dampening the lace.

Sanemi’s fingers push under the edge of the teddy, a breath blowing past his lips when he connects with your dripping cunt.

“Look how fucking soaked you are,” he says in awe, marveling the way your slick coats his fingers. “Is this all for me?”

You groan, pushing your hips down to grind harder against his hand.

“Just fuck me already,” you huff. “I’m ready now.”

Sanemi tsks softly at you. “You need to ask a lot nicer than that, sweet girl.”

Your impatient demands taper off into soft moans as Sanemi sinks a single finger into your entrance, his cock growing impossibly hard at the feeling of you clenching easily around him.

Sanemi practically trembles at the thought of sinking into your heat, of how you might feel clenching and pulsing around his length while he fucks you the way he’s been dreaming since he met you.

But while he might be pent up, Sanemi isn’t so much of an asshole that he wouldn’t make sure you were good and ready to take him.

So he simply tugs the crotch of your teddy aside and without any further teasing or torture, he latches his mouth to your cunt with a deep moan.

As his tongue darts between your folds, Sanemi realizes that all the cake in the world couldn’t compare to how fucking sweet your pussy tastes.

You cry out, his name stuttering out between a staccato of moans and cooes for more. Your hands twist in his hair, alternating between pulling his face closer to your core and pushing him away, the pleasure almost too much for you to bear.

Sanemi thinks he could get drunk on your taste. His eyes open to watch the way your face pinches, how your jaw goes slack to let his name drip from your tongue.

Your hands unwind from his hair to tug at the sinful draping of lace fitted against your body like a glove. “Off,” you whimper. “Off.”

It takes him a moment to realize what you want. But after another plea of “off,” Sanemi’s hands are already working to push the teddy down your lithe form.

“I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you,” he soothes, dragging the lingerie off your legs. Sanemi swears softly at the sight of you, bare and spread out on his mattress, your body pliant and ready for him to use however he chooses.

“S-Sanemi,” he can’t suppress his grin at the apparent whine in your tone. “I feel so — so empty —“

He doesn’t try to hold in the groan resounding deep from his chest. Youre asking — practically begging — for his cock, and Sanemi doesn’t have the willpower to deny you.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, and suddenly your body is caged under his, his hips slotting perfectly into the cradle of your thighs. “I need to be in you.”

His lips dance feverishly up the side of your neck until they reconnect with yours.

For a moment, your kiss slows to something more sensual and passionate, as opposed to the heated and frantic kisses you’d exchanged earlier. The sigh you exhale against his mouth is the sexiest thing Sanemi has ever heard, and the feeling of your fingers latching in his hair is a sensation he never wants to forget.

Your tongue swipes along his lower lip in a silent request for entry that he’s only too happy to grant. You moan against the taste of yourself on his tongue.

Sanemi knows he’s been head over heels for you for a long time, but the way your tongue dances languidly with his has him utterly undone.

If you wanted to, he’d let you swallow him whole.

Your kiss melts into something more needy and frantic, and Sanemi feels your wetness grind down against his thigh, a pleading whimper building on your lips. With an eagerness that makes his head spin, your legs shift to lock around his waist, and one of the hands you’d had latched in his hair drifts down his abdomen until it finds his cock, heavy and hot in your palm.

“I’ve got a condom —“ Sanemi manages between desperate kisses. “In my wallet —“

But your legs tighten around his hips and your hand pumps harder at his stiffened length. “Don’t need it,” you murmur against his lips. “On the pill.”

Sanemi thinks he might pass out. “Fuck — are you sure?”

You nod, eyes bright and alert even in spite of your sleepy, fucked-out smile. “Wanna feel you, baby.”

Don’t have to fucking tell him twice. Especially not when you’re calling him baby, even if it’s a pet name you’ll only use on him for the night.

With deft hands, Sanemi flips you so that your front is pressed against the mattress. You scramble beneath him to plant your knees, raising your ass high in the air, your cunt held out in an offering he could never refuse.

He gives one of your pert ass cheeks an appreciative smack before he shuffles forward on his knees. He rests one foot on the outside of your leg, parallel with your hip, and slots his other knee between your parted thighs. One hand grips the base of his cock while the other kneads at your hip, holding you steady while also keeping your limbs relaxed as he lines his tip up with your dripping entrance.

“Unless you say otherwise, ‘M goin’ hard,” he warns, his voice rougher than gravel. “Been waiting too long to do this.”

Ever the devilish little minx, you wiggle your hips back against him, and his breath chokes in his throat when your wet heat catches him at his tip.

You look back over your shoulder and Sanemi’s gaze darkens at the challenge in your eyes. “Give me everything you’ve got.”

Sanemi decides to respond to your taunt not with his words, but with his body. In a single, fluid movement, he plunges his cock deep into your heated core, his fingers tightening around your hips with bruising force.

“Jesus fuck,” he pants once he’s fully embedded to the hilt inside your warmth.

It’s unreal; the feeling of your silken, pleasure-soaked walls moulding around his cock like you were made to take him sends a bolt lightning surging down his spine, making him shudder.

A cross between a cry and a scream tears from your throat, muffled only by the press of your mouth against the starchy blankets of his hotel bed. He’s about to ask if you’re okay, if you want him to go slow for a bit since he knows he’s a larger than average. but then you’re throwing your hips back against him, circling and grinding and mewling for more.

“Fuck me,” you moan. “Fuck me, Sanemi — please.”

“God fucking damn,” Sanemi hisses through clenched teeth. And he knows he can’t deny you, not when your whining so prettily for him; nor when your pussy feels this fucking good.

He draws back, his cock sliding out of you until only his tip remains. He lingers there, for just a hair’s breadth of a moment, teasing.

Your impatient whine doesn’t last long as Sanemi slams you back onto him, the sound choking off in your throat. He doesn’t give you time to recover; he digs his fingers into the flesh of your hips and drives his cock into you again and again, pounding a relentless rhythm into you that has you sobbing into the mattress.

“Yes, yes, yes!” You blubber, your fingers fisted into the blankets below for purchase as you push yourself back to meet his frenzied thrusts.

Sanemi can’t tear his eyes away from where his cock, shiny with your wetness, disappears in and out of you. “You’re taking me so fuckin’ well,” he says in awe. Your pussy is gripping him like a vice, practically sucking him back into your heat. “You like letting me use you, huh?”

Sanemi shifts so that his weight is on the knee resting beside your leg, allowing him to push harder and deeper into your cunt. You try to lift your head, but Sanemi’s hand leaves its place on your hip to press down on the back of your neck, squeezing lightly.

“Oh f-fuck,” you groaned, voice slightly muffled from where your face was half-pressed into the mattress. “Oh god — just like that — D-daddy, yes —“

Sanemi’s hips stutter. Daddy. No one has ever called him that in the bedroom before, but fuck if it doesn’t somehow make him harder than a fucking diamond.

Especially because it seems like it slipped out of you without much thought, your eyes too busy staring at the back of your skull as every punishing thrust of Sanemi’s cock into your pliant cunt makes your body bounce against the mattress.

He likes it. A lot.

“Should’ve known you’d have a daddy kink, filthy little thing,” he groans, his hand reaching under you to toy with your swollen clit.

You only moan in response, and Sanemi can’t help but to swirl his fingers around that nub, savoring the way it makes your thighs quiver beneath you.

The hand still pressing against the back of your neck slides up to grip your hair, and Sanemi pulls your head up from the bed. “Do you call everyone ‘daddy,’ sweetness, or just those who fuck you the way you like it?”

“Not everyone” you gasp, voice strained against the tight arch of your neck. “Just you — ah! Only you.”

With a growl, Sanemi’s arm locks around your middle and hauls you up until your back is flush against his chest. One hand wraps around your jaw, his fingers squeezing your cheeks to keep your head back as he continues pounding into you.

“Look at you,” his exhales hotly against your ear, his teeth grazing your lobe. “Daddy’s pretty little toy.”

Your thighs quake in their effort to keep you up. Your moans raise an octave, warbling out of your throat as you settle heavily against him, utterly helpless against the pleasure rolling through your body.

Sanemi’s hand drops from your jaw to drag teasingly down your torso. When he reaches your lower belly, he presses his palm flat, the pressure allowing the blunt head of his cock to rub against that sensitive spot that makes you sing his name.

“You feel that, baby?” And the whine that slips out of you is one he wishes he could bottle up. “That’s all me — that’s how deeply I’m fucking you.”

He’s practically holding you up, your limbs little more than jelly, but he doesn’t mind. He only increases the pressure of his hand, rubbing slightly over the softness of your stomach.

“And that’s where I’m gonna fill you up, ‘til you’re nice and full, hm?”

A stilted cry of his name is dragged from your lips, and Sanemi swears he’d marry you tomorrow, if you’d let him.

It’s not lost on him that this is likely a one-time thing; that you’ll likely leave his hotel room and the two of you won’t speak of it again, but he can’t find it within himself to give a shit.

It doesn’t matter if this is just a slightly drunken hook up — it doesn’t matter to him if it’s just sex. You’re letting him use your body for his pleasure, and that thought is enough to make his brain turn to liquid between his ears.

Sanemi falls back against the bed, bringing you with him, your back still pressed against his chest. He winds an arm around one of your thighs, holding it open to allow himself to continue fucking up into you with the speed of a racehorse.

“God you’re so fuckin’ tight — don’t want me to leave, do you, precious?”

He chuckles in your ear, catching your lobe between his teeth. His hand wedges between your thighs to play with your clit again, and the way your pussy flutters around him signals that you’re right on the precipice of your orgasm.

The first of the night, if he had anything to say about it.

“Maybe I should make you my own personal cocksleeve — would you like that, sweetheart?” You’re mewling, nodding frantically as you squirm and thrash atop him.

“Would you like to sit on Daddy’s cock all day, keep him nice and warm?”

“Yes!” You sob, and Sanemi’s fingers circle your clit even harder, determined to to make you cum. “Yes, ‘Nemi, please! I’ll be your good girl — I’ll be so good —“

Sanemi’s pace falters slightly at your words, a new idea — a wicked idea, forming fast in his mind. “You will, huh?”

He abruptly pulls out of you, though the anguished cry that rattles out of you at the loss of his warmth tugs at his heartstrings. After all, you’d been so close.

Sanemi wastes no time flipping you under him, hooking both your legs over his muscled shoulders until the underside of your thighs press flat against his chest.

“You’ll cum when I say so,” he shoves his painfully hard cock back into your pulsing warmth, his knuckles turning white under his grip against the rumpled blankets as he fights to keep his eyes from rolling back at the feeling of being sheathed back inside you once more.

“And you’re gonna fuckin’ look at me when i fill you up,” Sanemi snarls between ferocious snaps of his hips. “I wanna see that gorgeous face when I cum inside this pretty little pussy.”

“Yes! Yes s-sir.”

“Yeah? And who’s fucking you this good?”

“Y-you,”

He ducks his head down to nip sharply at your breast. “Try again.”

“You are — D-daddy,”

Sanemi’s pace only increases. “Still not what I’m looking for, princess,” he’s borderline cruel and he knows it, but he also knows what he wants. “Tell me whose pussy this is.”

You don’t answer; you can’t, given how slack your jaw has gone, your mouth frozen in a perfect “o” as Sanemi pushes the head of his cock right at that spot deep within you that makes you seize down on him hard enough that he sees stars.

He growls your name and when you still don’t respond, he snaps his hips particularly hard against yours.

“Say it.”

His hand shoves between your bodies, and Sanemi pinches your clit harshly between this thumb and index finger.

“Sanemi!” You wail, writhing under him. His fingers rub soothing circles against your clit, though the relentless thrust of his cock does not ease.

“That’s my girl,” he praises, and the pressure of his fingers against your throbbing nub increases. “Now cum on this fucking cock.”

That does it.

Your back arcs sharply up off the mattress, thighs tightening around his hips as your cunt clenching around him with earth-shattering force. Sanemi feels a smug wave of pride as a surge of fluid springs forth and coats his abdomen and groin.

You fall back against the bed, limp and spent, but Sanemi isn’t done with you yet; you won’t be, not until Sanemi has left his mark.

He shifts over you, his full weight pressing you down into the mattress; his hands pushing your knees up until they’re level with your chest. You sigh and hum, still wading through the haze of your orgasm, but given the way you let your thighs spread a little wider, you’re aware enough to know that Sanemi is readying you to take his release.

It’s not enough; Sanemi doesn’t want you lost in the aftermath of your euphoria — he wants you crying out for his.

His hand grips your face, your cheeks squishing together beneath his fingers as he forces your head to tilt toward him. Your eyes flutter open, bleary and unfocused before the clouds part and your attention is locked wholly on him.

“Beg for it,” he grits out, his hand smacking against your clit until you howled. “Beg for my cum.”

“Please!” Your cry is shrill and desperate, your hands tightening weakly around his shoulders. “Please f-fill me up — oh, Sanemi —“

He nearly loses it at the way you say his name, like it’s some damn prayer and he, your salvation, but he holds back. It’s not enough — he wants you as filthy and wanton as him.

“Use your words,” his words leave him in a single, inexorable command.

Your lower lip wobbles. “Your cum — please, please fill this pussy up. Fill me up, fuck it into me —“

Sanemi cuts off your babbling with a single, bruising kiss. He feels his balls tighten, and the prickle at the base of his spine grows hotter, signaling just how close he is to nirvana.

His hand finds one of yours where it clings to his shoulder, a fruitful attempt to anchor yourself, and he pulls it away. Sanemi presses your hand back against the mattress, interlacing his fingers with yours.

Your pussy flutters around him in time with your thumb stroking over his knuckle, and that’s all it takes.

“Oh fuck —“ Sanemi grunts before he feels himself explode. With a strangled yell, Sanemi’s hips slam into yours, pushing his cock as deep as it can possibly go, and his release crashes into him with mind-blowing force.

it’s the hardest and the most he’s ever come in his entire life. Nothing else has ever or will ever compare to this.

But even as his release spurts heavily inside your honeyed core, Sanemi doesn’t relent in his pace. His hips keep rolling steadily into you, prolonging his release to the point his toes curl, and he wonders whether his nose might start bleeding.

The corners of your mouth tilt up, a pleased groan vibrating loud and wanton in your throat as you feel him fuck his hot seed right into the Eden of your body.

Despite the mind-numbing pleasure of his orgasm, Sanemi won’t let himself look away. The face you make as he fills you up is the prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen.

Sanemi stays buried in your heat for several more moments as he comes down from his high, his head dropping into the crook of your shoulder. With a grunt, he pulls out, dropping down next to you in a flurry of messy blankets and pillows.

You push yourself to your side, a hand coming to push the sweat-dampened ends of his bangs from his eyes. “Good birthday?” You tease, your cheeks flushed bright red, your eyes bright.

“The best,” Sanemi agrees, his eyes scanning your face, committing every detail of you and your post-sex glow to memory.

The two of you lay next to one another for a little while, talking and quietly laughing. Neither one of you seems eager to leave the bed, and Sanemi in particular finds himself hoping today never ends.

Eventually, nature calls and he excuses himself — reluctantly — to the bathroom. When he emerges, he’s greeted with the sight of your ass, bare and exposed as you nestle into the bed, one leg kicking lazily up into the air behind you.

Fuck, you’re too beautiful, and he is far too weak.

He approaches the side of the bed, stretching out one hand to drag teasingly down your spine, until he reaches your ass, knuckles kneading the soft flesh.

His eyes flit to the small clock perched on the hotel nightstand. Sanemi’s grin turns lupine as he reads time reflected by the green-tinted digits.

Sanemi’s fingers skirt down to your ankle, gripping it firmly in his hand. He tugs you over the side of the bed until your head dangles off the edge, your hair stretching towards the ground. “Looks like it’s still my birthday, darling. I ain’t finished enjoying my present yet,” he grips the base of his half-hard cock and taps it against your lips. “And I’ve been dying to cum all over this pretty face of yours.”

—-

True to his word, Sanemi takes him time ravishing his birthday gift. When the clock on the nightstand finally reads 12:01 AM, he flops down next to you, chest heaving as he works to catch his breath.

You lay beside him, panting in tandem with him from the exertion of the night’s activities. There isn’t an inch of you that isn’t sticky as a result of the heady mixture of your sweat and Sanemi’s cum.

You feel his eyes searing into you as you trail a finger through the milky white splattered across your chest — a favorite place of his to cum, as you’d learned, second only to spilling inside of you.

Sanemi hardly holds back a whimper at the way you bring it to your lips, letting your tongue lick your finger clean of his pleasure.

“You’re trying to drive me wild, woman,” he throws a tired arm over his face, shrouding his eyes. “You torture all your hookups like this?”

He’s surprised at how quickly you sit up in bed, your eyes flashing.

“Hookup?”

Sanemi props a fist under his cheek. “Well, yeah,” he winces slightly, searching for more careful words. “I don’t expect anything from you. I appreciate the birthday surprise, though.”

Your gaze is leveled, and your voice even. “I don’t buy lingerie for one-night stands, Sanemi. That shit is an investment.”

His eyes blow wide, and he feels the erratic thrum of his heart stuttering in his throat.

“I want you,” you say firmly. “And I had every intention when I followed you in here tonight for this —“ your hand waves back and forth between your chests. “— to continue.”

It’s a miracle Sanemi is able to speak at all. “I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give.”

You grin. “Well, now that you’ve fucked me, I guess you should take me on a date.” You pause, trailing one delicate finger down his chest. “But I won’t make you wait until we’ve been on three before I let you fuck me again.”

Your hand dips below the edge of the blanket and glides teasingly over his cock, already beginning to stir once more. “You’re far too delicious.”

Sanemi snatches your hand and rolls you under him before you can blink, your answering giggle the sweetest music ever to grace his ears.

“Y’know, in other parts of the world, it’s still the 29th,” he murmurs huskily, grazing his lips against yours. “So by that logic…”

You nod, eyebrows drawn together in seriousness. “We’re obligated to keep celebrating.”

Sanemi’s lips are already trailing down your body, savoring the taste of himself on your skin. He settles back between your legs, marveling at the way your thighs fall to the side so easily to accommodate his mass.

He presses a sweet kiss against your clit. “You’re just the gift that keeps on giving, aren’t you, darlin’?”

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Helloooo your recs give me life. You’ve probably done this before, but any recommendations for fics that include a brutally pining Derek and oblivious Stiles? Ideally canon-verse but aus are also loved. Thanks in advance!!

I'm sure I have, but I love pining in all fics. So I'm happy to make a million lists of it.

Fun by Halevetica

(1/1 I 3,889 I Teen)

Stiles convinces Derek to go to the annual Beacon Hills bonfire with him, with the promise of fun. What he gets instead are a lot of assumptions that he and Stiles are dating, and Stiles' too-eager dismissals, which are decidedly NOT fun for Derek.

Game On by stilinskisparkles

(1/1 I 6,391 I Teen)

Derek first sees him from across the quad four days into fall semester. He’s sitting on one of the long benches, a marker pen in his mouth, grinning at something the kid lounging on the bench beside him is saying. When he laughs properly he pulls the pen out and throws his head back, his neck a long, lean line Derek is entranced by. He flicks the page in his book and highlights something, tossing the cap up in the air and catching it with his teeth.

Written in the Stars by Quixoticity

(6/6 I 26,586 I Mature)

Derek Hale is a lucky guy. He's got a great family, good friends, and a fulfilling job as a tattoo artist.

He's also one of the twenty-five per cent of the population born with a soul mark.

He likes his life, but he's waiting for his soul-match. The odds of meeting them aren't great but hey, Derek's a lucky guy. He has faith.

He can't believe how good his luck really is when one day his soul-match wanders right into his studio, all long limbs and copper eyes. There's just one problem: Stiles is there to get his soul mark covered up. Permanently.

Mating Habits of the Domesticated North American Werewolf by lielabell

(5/5 I 35,458 I Mature)

Derek doesn’t do pining. He doesn’t. So when it becomes clear that Stiles is much more interested in having Derek as a new best friend than a boyfriend, he puts on his big boy pants and makes it fucking work. He becomes the best goddamn friend a spastic teenager could ever hope to have.

too busy being yours to fall for somebody new by whiry

(12/12 I 64,278 I Teen)

Stiles, worried that Scott may actually leave him behind because of his newfound popularity, is desperate to cling to something away from the drama of Lydia Martin's amazing parties and the woes of high school lacrosse. What he finds is Derek Hale, a guy who seemingly hates Stiles at first, but slowly, and insistently, becomes friends with him. As their friendship grows, Stiles starts to wonder if they could ever become something more or if pushing what they have will lead him to being alone for good.

All the Weird Kids (Know How to Take it Slow) by Ionaonie

(26/26 I 112,477 I General)

Stiles never thought being part of a werewolf Pack would end up being so normal. Even being around Derek had a degree of normality about it. Even if he was still an overbearing jerk most of the time.

When it all comes crumbling down by Littleredridinghunter

(18/18 I 216,191 I Not Rated)

Stiles is recovering from the Nogitsune. Erica is the only one that is really there for him, Scott's too busy rekindling his relationship with Allison and Stiles feels like he's falling apart.

When a near-miss with a kelpie results in an encounter that he could never have predicted, Stiles begins to think his life might be getting back on track.

He's wrong.

Stiles' life is so messed up he can't even begin to explain it, maybe it's time for him to finally do something for himself and get out of Beacon Hills. But where will that path lead?

With Stiles involved, no doubt danger and death won't be far behind.

[glorified-red]

I'm seeing all the hate The Sun & The Star is getting on this hellsite and its so obvious that people aren't reading this book for what it is.

It's literally a children's novel written for children. The book is supposed to be easily digestible and stupid and explicitly written because kids books are supposed to be completely laid out.

Rick has always written dorky things in his books but he has also prioritized writing about real world issues and struggles. He's written about trauma, abuse, PTSD, depression, anxiety, etc. For years.

So here he is writing about deep rooted insecurities and self-doubt and learning to accept all those dark parts of yourself as well as others, AND tackling internalized homophobia and queer struggles, and we're upset the book is too focused on the relationship?

The entire point of this book is to teach the audience how to navigate a rocky relationship with compassion and understanding. It's showing that relationships aren't perfect, you can be upset with your partner and your partner can be upset with you but the point is that you talk about it and you try to do better.

Is it such a bad thing for young teens to be learning this?

Is it such a bad thing for them to see that love is effort? And can and will be flawed and that's okay??

This is the first time we've seen this topic discussed by Rick and I've never seen a book tackle this topic because we always see the Hollywood depiction of love---yet that's unrealistic.

This is showing that love can be flawed but still be oh so beautiful. That you can be traumatized and still worthy of love.

And I am so proud of Rick and Mark for not only showing a healthy attempt at a relationship but also showing countless times that those lessons apply to any relationship. They put significant stress on platonic and familial relationships and how that love is also effort, compassion, and understanding.

Yes, it focused on Solangelo a lot.

Yes, it had soooo many flaws that even I cringed and got disappointed at times.

But the fact that we got a book that finally lets two characters talk about their feelings is incredible, and the fact that this new generation gets this book??

If I had a book like this when I was young, showing me how to navigate conflict and that relationships CAN be hard?? My god, the healing that lesson could have done.

Perspective is everything for this book. Hell, perspective was everything in HoO. It showed that how characters are perceived is very different from how they perceive themselves.

Leo was literally always shown as comedic relief and nothing more until we saw how incredibly lonely and sad that kid was from his point of view.

Percy was always said to be intimidating and powerful, but in his perspective, he's a kid who has no clue what he's doing.

So yea, in this book, it may seem like these characters have shifted, but once again, Rick is relying so heavily on perspective.

Nico was edgy and depressed for as long as we knew him, even in BoO when we first got his POV. But now that he's accepted, loved, and healing, why are we getting mad that he's a dork again---how he was before all the trauma? Why are we mad that Nico is growing and healing and becoming himself again because he feels safe enough to do so.

Ofc he's gonna feel different than how he was written a canon year ago.

And this is the first time we've had Wills perspective. He's always been seen as this sunshine happy character but we FINALLY get some acknowledgement that he's deeply terrified. He's shown as a leader and camp counselor but he's got anxiety written in his bones.

He felt like a burden this book because he's a healer. He's absolutely terrified to be a fighter and yet we got to see him become one in his own way. He was out of his element but he was trying.

Because he's so goddamn afraid of losing someone else.

Call Will an asshole all you want, but Nico had been to Tartarus and the Underworld more times than he could count.

Will is literally walking into a place he's never been to before and is the complete opposite of anything he's ever known---for Nico. The comments he makes about plants and lack of sunshine? It wasn't him being a dick, he was him being genuinely confused because hes only ever known earth logic.

If I saw flowers blooming in a pitch black room I'd be a little confused too. He says the Underworld is depressing because it's literally draining his energy.

You yell at Will for not being open-minded yet won't comment on the fact that Nico hardly made an attempt either. Nico could have been more understanding about the fact that Will, a guy who's exploring this place that's slowly killing him, might not like the place at first because he doesn't understand it.

Because Will wanted to understand.

And the second Will finally began to understand the beauty of the Underworld, he was nothing but supportive.

You get mad at Will for making mistakes yet refuse to acknowledge that he learned from them.

The Sun & The Star tackled a hard topic that doesn't get talked about often. It portrayed a queer relationship and it emphasized characters who learned and grew. It's different from other Rick books because that was the point. (And it wasn't just Rick writing it)

This book was about accepting change within yourself and "daring to be different."

And the fact that you can't even accept a book that does the same just shows that the lessons this book taught went straight over your head.

I've never been more disappointed in this fandom. We begged for this book. We begged for queer representation. Yet here we are criticizing every little thing about it as if we aren't lucky to be getting this book in the first place---a book about two side characters.

This book had soooo many flaws but it wasn't a bad book.

Isn't that the point of it all? To love something even though it's flawed? That flaws dont necessarily mean it's broken and bad forever?

It's okay to hate a book.

That doesn't mean it's a bad book.

It just wasn't for you.

There are dozens of other books in this fandom to love and cherish, but don't hate this book just because it's different from what we're used to.

[shuttershocky]

Do you have a dislike for media universes that "rewards" people for watching/reading all of it in general?

Or do you think there is one that executes that idea well?

I'm answering this 5 months late, but I'm pretty sure I still remember this ask being prompted by a post making fun of the MCU.

Do I dislike story universes that reward people for reading all of it? Not at all. I mean, I'm a fan of both Middle Earth and Star Wars, I fucking love big, big universes with plenty of stories in them. When they intersect in some small way it's a delight to me, I love those little personal winks from the author for having read their other works or recognizing the most obscure names only a nerd would know.

However, there's a difference between a little reference in a story meant for people who can connect the dots, and making something almost required reading for your enjoyment. It's the difference between an acknowledgement from the creators that you liked the setting enough to come back for a new yet familiar ride, and a company realizing they've found their cash cow and can't wait to milk it for all its got until it's dead.

And dead the cash cow will be, eventually. It's been said before that the reason why the Big Two of western comics have ceded more and more ground to manga over the years is that Spider-Man has 10 different starting points while Naruto starts with Volume#1. That's not just a funny joke. Onboarding new readers has genuinely been Marvel and DC's problem for decades, which is why it was both incredibly predictable yet shocking all the same that this is what the MCU turned itself into.

Sure, early on you could ask the audience to watch a couple movies before the big Avengers crossover, but now they've got all these TV shows on top of the movies that you have to watch in order to "catch up", and it's not even about the cool characters anymore. More and more of their fanbase is going to stop caring once the barrier of entry gets too high, and it's ridiculous to me that Marvel went this road with their movies when they know this is what happened to their comics first.

I mean, are you serious, their next big bad is Kang? I am not watching several TV shows and an Ant-Man movie that's somehow worse than the second one all to see how the currently left Avengers meet goddamn Kang the Conqueror. He's in both the TV shows and the movies, which means they're somehow giving Kang more buildup screentime than Thanos. Why? Either I've been extremely out of touch with Marvel comics or the MCU picked a wild choice to headline their next billion dollar franchise when Doctor Doom is actually available to them now and barely needs an introduction.

Sorry, got lost for a bit. Back on topic, yeah I know I know, all art right now exists under capitalism which means every setting that becomes a wider story universe is an author trying to milk their existing fanbase. Whenever a creator makes a thing that I like, and then announces they have a new thing set in the same setting as their first thing but isn't a direct sequel so they can keep gaining a new audience while keeping their existing one, I know I'm being suckered in.

Just, don't make it so blatant. And don't make it so hard. I am the exact target audience for these shenanigans and even I'm starting to feel like it's homework because it's all fucking required now.

If I, a lifelong Star Wars fan, want to watch the newest Star Wars thing, I have to see a hundred hours of other Star Wars media first. If I want to watch The Mandalorian Season 3, I can't just have seen Season 1 and 2, oh no, I have to also see The Book of Boba Fett too, because halfway through that show became The Mandalorian Season 2.5. Well I did see Boba Fett, and the combination of my dislike for turning it into required homework AND the show itself just being kinda dogshit meant I never touched season 3 of the Mandalorian. That show used to be so great because it wasn't tied down to any existing story arcs or characters, so it stood on its own and made for an amazing watch no matter how much Star Wars you've actually seen. And then it succeeded and so had to become the new spine for the entirety of Disney Star Wars afterward. Fuck. Now if I want to watch their latest show Ahsoka, I have to have seen the Clone Wars animated series AND Rebels, because the Rebels cast are in it too! I mean I did see Clone Wars and Rebels, but that still sucks!

That makes me worried now! Andor was also really fucking good and it stood on its own so hard you didn't even need to see Rogue One, the movie that introduced Cassian Andor in the first place. But now that season 1 was a success and everyone sang its praises, it certainly means season 2 is suddenly going to get real cramped with Ahsoka and Luke Skywalker and whatever guys are currently alive in its timeframe. Shit, they're probably gonna add Cal Kestis in season 2 of Andor. The Respawn Star Wars games are still doing their own thing which means it's time to connect to something else.

I hate what all this has become. It was fun to read the Silmarillion and see what kind of fuckery one family of elves got up to that eventually turned Sauron from minion to big evil eye parked next to evil mountain, but you didn't need to read all that before The Lord of the Rings. LOTR didn't assume you knew anything at all (and oh boy did Tolkien never miss an opportunity to explain shit).

Let me repeat. I am the target audience. I live for the ridiculously nerdy habit of reading things set in the same universe as other things and connecting all the dots. If /I/ feel like it's become homework, I can't imagine what the average person thinks of all this. Make it stop. Stop running everything I once loved into the ground in the name of endless profit. Star Wars was already doing this to itself before the Disney acquisition and yet it didn't feel this bad.

[wannaeatramyeon]

mooooom! i got a request for youuu~ 💌

-young reader learned taekwondo from hansu, but never got to meet his son. so, she only knew taehoon from hansu's stories and cute photos of him aaand that's how she developed a crush on taehoon. years later, she finally meets him... but her "cute" image of him immediately shattered the moment he opened his mouth; chaos ensues 💀

this scenario has been on my mind for a while now and it makes me giggle to an unhealthy degree that i want an entire fic of it 😭 also if it wasn't obvious, i thirst for hansu content 🥺🫶 tysm in advance 🤧

p.s. i really REALLY love your fics and your writing aaaaaa 🫠 ik i already told you before and but im saying it again hehe hope you have a great day! ilyy~~ 💖💖

My dear lovely baby Rie! I saw this and thought yes, let's drop everything INCLUDING Tears of The Kingdom and write this.

But... I'm sorry, there really isn't much Hansu in this, it's very very Taehoon centric.

One of the best things about fandom is bringing people together and I'm so happy to have met you!

Seong Taehoon x Reader: Strangers to... a Not-Crush

Follow up with Hansu and Taehoon here

You're pretty sure you're in love with this Taehoon.

The first time you heard his name was during your very first Taekwondo lessons, many many years ago

Schedules, circumstances, situtations; all the usual life happenings has stopped you both from actually meeting.

But Hansu waxes lyrical about his son. You must have heard for the hundredth time how he is a spinning prodigy, how he has surpassed Hansu at a similar age, how he will be one of the best. His name destined to be written in the history books.

As Hansu talks about his son with stars in his eyes, you can't help the shine rubbing off on you too.

.

.

"Y/N, this is Taehoon."

Your jaw drops. Sure, Hansu has shown you countless pictures. Compared to the real living thing though, the gap is so vast you might as well say he's the least photogenic person alive. That's really saying something, because Taehoon photographs well.

He's one of the prettiest boys you've ever seen.

With his lips and eyes and even his goddamn hair. Are those lashes even for real? And then you notice his stature and his muscles, his rock-solid chest and abs peeking through.

Maybe he's not pretty at all. He's fucking hot.

You jaw drops even further.

Why on earth hasn't Hansu ever shown you a full body picture, he could have at least prepared you. Like a cliche, you feel weak at the knees. You feel light-headed-

Then Taehoon opens his mouth and the illusion shatters. Splinters into a hundred million little pieces. With his next words, you've never felt more pissed off in your life.

"Keep looking pervert, and I'll pluck your eyes out,"

What the fuck is this guy's problem.

.

.

For once, the stars align, and you see each other constantly.

You curse the damn stars. You curse Hansu for passing your tutelage to Taehoon. Most of all, you curse Hansu for creating this.

The idea of Taehoon is much better than this... this fucking menace you have to see day in day out.

Taehoon makes you address him as Master. He hits you on the head for stepping out of line (you bite your tongue every goddamn time), he takes no prisoners during your spars together, makes you repeat exercises over and over until you're on all fours and trying not to throw up.

And infuriatingly, he touches you.

Little corrections with his hands, his elbows, his knees, his legs, his foot. "Your stance is shit," he tells you, "your technique is still off," as he taps the offending body parts, mere millimetres out of place. Your cheeks burn every time and your skin is on fire even hours later.

What's worse is your head swims every night with Taekwondo and Taehoon.

Lying in bed, all you can see is him. That antagonising smug smile on his lips. You want to wipe it off his stupidly handsome face.

See if he has any cutting words left when, not if, you beat him in a spar, and you gloat over him, straddling his hips, trapping him between your thighs and you can feel how aroused he is-

Oh.

Shit.

You hug your pillow tighter to your body.

This relevation is a fucking nightmare.

.

.

Taehoon reckons your skills are average at best. What he's most impressed with is your dedication and tenacity.

No matter how many times he kicks your ass, you still get back up for more. Regardless of all his nitpicking and corrections with your form, you take onboard his words and listen.

He hasn't missed that it's all through gritted teeth. Still.

He also hasn't missed you blushing and your breath catching in your throat when he touches you.

Nothing not out of necessity, all completely above board. But it's still funny. Messing with you.

Taehoon tells himself he is completely unaffected. People fawn over him all the time, you looking at him with hearts in your eyes is nothing new.

It's just amusing, that's all.

.

.

You don't know whether this is heaven or hell.

Taehoon piggybacks you all the way from the studio to the emergency room. You're so close you can almost taste him, see all his faint freckles, the vein in his temple from the exertion and concern.

All this proximity is doing nothing for your crush. Which you are determined to get over, by the way. Because this guy is a goddamn asshole and nothing else.

It was a silly accident, really. You went for an opening when there was none, causing Taehoon to mistime his kick. You collapsed like a sack of shit.

Worried hands check up on you even as his mouth runs.

"It's fine," you say, waving off his concern. When you tried to stand up, your ankle is in no mood to bear any weight.

You go down for a second time.

Taehoon's patience is unexpected. He waits with you until you are seen to.

Conversation is strained, and he doesn't talk much, just giving you wary glances every now and then.

But you fill the silence, telling him little anecdotes from your life and your day. Bridging the gap between Taekwondo and the little pieces that make up the rest of your life.

His lips quirk as you speak. The smiles aren't condescending.

Eventually, when the nurse tells you it's just a simple strain and will heal if you keep off it, Taehoon is the one that nods and asks follow up questions.

At the end of the day, after another piggyback this time to your home, you thank him for his time and he is surprised at your sincerity.

.

.

Taehoon doesn't miss you. Definitely not.

The only reason he is at your door with stew and kimchi is because his old man told him to check up on you.

You're not able to attend any lessons while you recover, and Hansu wanted to make sure you're ok. Not Taehoon. Taehoon could not care less. He also did not jump at the chance of seeing you again, so much so that even Hansu gives him a questioning look. Ridiculous.

Why is his palm sweaty? Must just be the heat. Taehoon wipes it on his jeans before knocking twice on your door.

"Come in," you call out, and Taehoon hasn't missed your voice. And he hasn't missed the sight of your face neither.

He doesn't greedily take in the colours of your bedroom, the pictures on your wall, the books on your shelf.

He doesn't memorise your handwriting when he walks past your desk, something that is so uniquely you, like a fingerprint.

And when you give him a shy smile and apologise for the mess, it doesn't affect him.

Nor when you take the proffered food and have a mouthful, Taehoon doesn't soften at this.

The ensuing silence is not comfortable. He doesn't want to stay longer. His fingers don't twitch in your presence, having grown used to casual touches with you.

.

.

This song and dance is continued for the next few weeks only because Taehoon is a good son, and an even better teacher.

He needs to check up on the welfare of his student.

And then finally, after too long, when you show up at the studio again, Taehoon's heart absolutely does not soar.

[idolatrybarbie]

for my fifty follower celebration! @bastardmandennis asked: dieter bravo and prompt no. 5— "ghosts aren't real, except when they are." it's scary story experiment...i haven't written horror in probably two years. enjoy the pretty graphic if nothing else.

rating & word count: mature | 2.8k

warnings: referenced substance abuse, mentions of alcohol, dieter is sober, one song-based joke (please get it plsplspls), reader is gender neutral, a good ol' haunting tale.

It’s late. How late? Excellent question.

You’re technically on vacation—one week out of fifty-six, when your boss takes his annual trip to Seoul to “unwind.” You’ve never asked him what that means, exactly. Better not to know what Dieter Bravo gets up to in the name of relaxation.

For the past thirty-four months, you’ve been working with the Hollywood troglodyte, following him around the world and across productions to take notes and document the goings on of his life. All of this in the hopes of ghostwriting his tell-all book. Technically, you were supposed to start outlining a manuscript this spring. The publisher doesn’t think you have enough material yet to make the memoir appetizing. What they don’t realize is that Bravo is not a very appetizing man.

He’s…odd. From the moment you first shook hands with him, you’ve felt an off presence surrounding him that you still can’t quite place, even almost three years later. He treats you more like an assistant than anything, asking you to fetch him coffee or an eight-ball; the request varies based on his mood. His actual assistant, Carla, is a bit of a shadow. Still, she’s there to share anxious backseat smiles with you on the way to Dieter’s red carpet appearances, a silent shoulder to lean on.

Sitting on the broken couch of your one bedroom apartment, you’ve lost focus of the Word document on the screen of your laptop. You’ve been transferring the last two months of paper notes to digital copies for the last three hours, resenting the task the longer it takes. Dieter wanted to experience the Swiss Alps before the first day of autumn, dragging you to the mountains for a six week stay. Apparently, they don’t have mobile connection at four thousand feet.

The thought crosses your mind to call it a night, leave the rest ‘til morning. This is your only real time to rest, after all. Before you can act upon it, though, your phone buzzes beside you. “Entry Of The Gladiators” blares from the pinhole of a speaker. The song has a Pavlovian effect on you, meeting the song with a sigh and the tick of your jaw.

“Dieter,” you answer, holding the phone to your ear. 

“You picked up,” he says.

“Why are you calling?” You can’t hide the irritation in your voice. Shifting your laptop off of your thighs, you stand and stretch, wedging your cell between your cheek and shoulder. 

“I just—I thought—”

“Aren’t you in South Korea?” you ask. Aren’t you supposed to be bothering someone else?

“Came back early. Got a bad vibe,” he says.

“A bad vibe?” you ask. “Come on, Dieter. That trip was important.” Important for you to have a social life for a sweet seven days, but also for him, too. If you remembered correctly, he was supposed to have a business meeting with Genesis Motor about starring in their new campaign of overseas commercials.

“I rescheduled with Genesis, everything’s fine. Don’t bitch at me,” Dieter says.

“I’m not—” you stop yourself, pausing mid-pace on the worn shag of your living room. Thirty-four months, and this is how he’s treating you? “You know what, fuck you. Fuck you, Dieter. My one week off from your crazy goddamn antics, and you’re fucking it all up. I’m done. Done.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he urges.

“Calling the publisher in the morning, so you can find yourself a new ghostwriter.” Satisfaction rolls through you as you hang up on him, the tiny button on your screen giving you power. Yeah, fuck that guy. You plop back down on the on the couch, pulling your laptop back to you. Going through your hard drive, you start to load every file from the past three years with details on Dieter into the recycling bin.

Cold air rolls in from the window, cracked ajar to keep patchouli incense smoke away from the dingy plastic alarm on your ceiling. The rattling outside barely catches your attention, another noise lost to the wind. You blink. Blink again.

You know that feeling, like someone’s watching you? It’s a sense you’ve become mighty acquainted with in the last handful of years. Following a megastar around like a toddling penguin in his entourage tended to pull some attention back on you. When you look up your name, there are a handful of Variety articles, a PopCrave tweet or two that show up. A snapshot of your professional life, all in relation to Dieter. Over time, it’s gotten less uncomfortable. People love celebrities, and they just want to see them. Harmless.

But this feeling…you don’t want to look up from your screen. Continuing the task of putting every last document on Dieter in the desktop’s recycling bin, you switch over to a new tab when you’re done; search for something unimportant, waiting for this to pass. Your breath catches in your throat, heart skipping a beat. Finally, when you can’t fight the urge anymore, you turn and look.

Nothing. The smog-ridden navy sky of Los Angeles meets you with the pathetic twinkle of a far off star. You breathe in through your nose, then out again in a deep sigh. Nothing. Nothing’s there.

Exhaustion claims you when you aren’t paying attention. Your sleep is dreamless, for the most part. You hear a subtle dripping the whole night, searching for the source in the dark. With your eyes closed, the task is impossible. You let the noise come closer, long and loud enough now that you learn to tune it out. Nightmares of a leaky faucet; how odd.

You wake up in the bathtub, laptop beside you, pressed between your clothed thigh and the fiberglass. The faucet leaks steadily above your head, water dripping down onto your skin. It’s gotten all over your face, at the edges of your hairline, in your eyes. Spluttering, you sit up. Your scalp is damp. Water has seeped into the collar of your shirt. Certainly you didn’t settle on the idea of a bath in the middle of the night.

Before you can question it more, your cellphone rings from another room. Scrambling out of the tub, you almost slip and fall against the wall tiles. Getting a grip on the edge of the tub, you step a foot at a time onto the bathroom floor and pad to the living room. Your phone is wedged between the cushions of the couch. Wrenching it from the fabric, you answer on the last ring.

“Hello?”

“I need to see you.” Dieter. Again.

“Dieter, my mind hasn’t changed since last night.” Looking at the clock on the wall, it hasn’t even been twelve hours.

“This isn’t about that,” he says. “Can you just come over?” It almost sounds like he’s begging…almost.

“Look, I’m busy today.”

“Tonight then.” His voice cracks, and you can only imagine the wiry, wide-eyed man on the other end of the line. “Please,” he whispers.

In all of your time spent with Dieter Bravo, you have never heard him use his manners—much less ask for something with such desperate politeness tacked onto the request.

“Okay. Okay, fine. Tonight. Just…don’t do anything stupid, alright?” you ask.

“Yeah. Okay,” Dieter agrees. Then the phone call dies.

You really don’t have anything to do today, the Friday of your week away from Bravoland. Sitting on the couch, you look around your apartment, taking stock of the life you’ve cobbled together here. Instead of pride or nostalgia, it fills you with dread. The glassy frames holding photos of family and old friends make your skin crawl, their resin paper eyes boring holes into you as they stare. A chill crosses over your body, prickling at your arms. You go to close the living room window to find it already shut.

You stay out of the living room, hiding away from a sense of unease in your bedroom. Still, it lingers in your doorway. That watchful sense returns. Your eyes stay open, glued to the ceiling as you lay down. You can’t leave, but you can’t sleep. Keeping your eyes open seems to be all you have—like letting them flutter closed would be an invitation for the unease of the apartment to waltz in and consume you.

Time slows to a drag, the sun absent from the sky as the day passes you by. The grey light from the window bathes everything in an uncanny dullness. Your laptop still sits in the bathtub. When night finally falls, you exit the apartment without looking back. The door closes behind you with a slam. You don’t even touch the handle.

The drive into the Hollywood Hills is the only moment of peace you’ve had since you woke up in that bathroom. You refuse to acknowledge whatever is going on at your place. You’re overreacting. All the work has set you on edge, and now your mind is playing tricks on you.

Yeah, that’s what it is—the work. Fatigue. All those late nights transferring and taking notes, or following Dieter to club after club, waiting for him to finish snorting a full 8-ball outside bathroom doors. Most nights blur together these days, the only thing that differentiates them being the photographs you take and the date you write at the top of your notepad. Your calendar is dependent on what colour tie Dieter wears on The Tonight Show or Kimmel every handful of months.

The Bravo mansion is modest in comparison to some of the architectural monstrosities out this way. Still, it manages to intimidate you every time you see it. Slowly, you pull up to Dieter’s place and park in the cobblestone drive. If you squint, you can see the Hollywood sign through a thick pack of warbling trees.

The sun is not shining down on the house today as it usually is. Even here, on land deemed the pinnacle of both the American and Hollywood dream, the sky is painted an ugly pewter. The building looks shadowy in its height, the twin pair of art deco doors no longer a quirky, eccentric detail of the house but a gaping maw. The small windows that frame them, a result of Dieter’s obsession with triangles, look like raw and jagged teeth. You don’t bother to lock your car when you approach the front steps, using the metal knocker at the door.

It only takes a few moments for Dieter to appear, opening one door and giving you a once-over. He’s still in his pajamas, missing his usual lounging robe. The lack of sunglasses present on his face indicates to you that he’s not hungover (yet).

“You look like shit,” is the first thing he says to you.

“I can still go home, you know.” Taking a step back, you raise a brow at him and angle your body back towards your car. The threat is empty, of course. Nothing could send you back to that place; might as well sell it now.

“Shit—sorry. I’m sorry, come in,” Dieter corrects himself.

The door opens wider with the length of his arm, and you duck in past him. The air inside the house is permeated with must, a mix of mildew and unsettled dust. Usually, the sight of Dieter’s mansion reminds you of general unwash, not a horrible monster house. Today is special.

“So?” you ask, faux-irritation lacing your tone. “You wanted me over here. You know it’s my week off, right?”

“There’s something wrong,” Dieter says immediately. He peers around the edge of the front door before it shuts. He locks the door, then reaches up to fasten the deadbolt.

Immediately, that tells you that this is serious. Forgetting the unease at your own apartment, you ask, “Is your stalker back? She’s out there, isn’t she?”

“What?” Dieter asks. “No, it’s not that. Nothing outside.”

He walks past you and deeper into the house, leaving you no choice but to follow.

“What do you mean, outside?”

“There’s something wrong in the house,” he explains.

“Like…”

Dieter looks around, giving each shoulder a hyperbolic check. Then he walks closer, so close that you can smell his breath—bubblegum toothpaste and cigarettes. Your heart speeds up a little, the proximity eliciting a light jog in your chest. It’s not like man has never been this close, but the last time…

“A haunting,” he whispers.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, an airy chuckle that pushes Dieter back a few feet.

“Come on, Dieter,” you say.

His face pulls tighter, look severe. “I’m serious.”

“Are you high?” you ask. “I don’t smell any alcohol on you. Did you take something? Because I can call your sponsor if—”

“Will you listen to me?!” he roars over you. In the three years you’ve known him, Dieter has never yelled. He gets a little wild, antics more than slightly crazy, but he doesn’t raise his voice. You watch him closely, eyes wide, as he recomposes himself. “There is something wrong in this house. I can’t sleep, can barely eat. It feels like—like I’m never alone. Moreso than usual, okay? I’m waking up in strange parts of the house, and my shit’s in places it shouldn’t be. And I called Brad,” his manager, “and he thinks I’m full of shit. Thinks I’m on another bender. I just…fuck. I just need you to believe me.”

You blink. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Dieter parrots. His eyes are all glossy, ready to spill with fresh tears. You thought that you had seen all of this man, the barest and ugliest parts of him. Now, you see you were wrong. He looks sad. Scared.

“I believe you,” you sigh. “I believe you. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“We could leave,” you suggest.

“No, no,” he insists. “I don’t think it’ll like that.” It.

“So then, what?”

“Stay here? With me,” Dieter says.

You should say no, heart racing now as blood rushes hot through your brain. Instead, you nod and follow him to his home theater, where he seems to be camping out. Dieter has too many candles lit not to be a fire hazard, with bagged snacks and bottles of water strewn about the floor and the plush horseshoe couch; the middle is stuffed with the same plush cushion as the back of the seats, making it more of a circular daybed than anything. Blankets are balled up at one end, two beaten up pillows next to them.

Dieter has the radio playing off of the luxury sound system, the large projector screen dark.

“I don’t think it likes noise,” he explains.

Dieter asks you to sit with him through the night, listening to shitty pop songs, car commercials, and every once in a while, FM radio static. He says the static is it, a creature he refuses to elaborate upon. He fists his hand into the blankets each time the station cuts out and turns to white noise.

This goes on for almost two hours. You start to get bored, and more pressingly, tired. Sleep calls to you, your mind settling the weirdness before as your imagination, and whatever is going on here a facet of Dieter’s. Is it possible for two people who haven’t seen each other in days, and live on opposite sides of town, to share in the same delusion? Surely. They had a name for it—folly of two.

That must be it. Working for a celebrity has finally driven you mad.

Leaning heavy against the cushions of the couch, you allow your eyes to slowly slip closed. Before the world disappears entirely, something is shaking you awake. No, not something, but Dieter. His wide palm is grasped over your shoulder, swaying you back and forth violently in his grip.

“What? What is it?” you growl.

“You can’t sleep,” he says.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Your irritation skyrockets as you sit up, pulling out your phone to scroll through your contacts.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling your goddamn sponsor, so he can do his fucking job and I can get some shut eye.”

Dieter says your name; you ignore him, pressing ‘call’. “Please, don’t do that.” He tries to grab the phone from your hand, but you get up from the couch, out of reach. You want to believe him, you do, but you have no faith. You can't do this anymore; won't entertain the delusion any longer.

The line rings for thirty seconds before the sponsor finally picks up.

“Hi, is this Jo—” you stop yourself. A deep, heavy breathing sounds off from the other end of the line. “Hello?”

“Hang up,” Dieter whispers, shaking his head. You raise a finger at him. “Hang up!”

He moves from his lax position, kneeling up far enough to snatch your cell phone away and end the call.

“What the fuck?”

“It’s—”

“There is no it!” you yell. “There is nothing here, Dieter! No one is out to get you, or watching you. No one cares, okay? Ghosts aren’t real.”

Dieter watches you, and you watch him back. Holding a steely gaze, you don’t register the fizzle-pop of light bulbs around the two of you until they’ve already exploded. Shards of hot glass fly from the fixtures and land on the carpeted floor. All at once, the flame at each wick of Dieter’s candles is snuffed out. You stand still, frozen in complete darkness.

Dieter uses your phone for light, the screen illuminating the hollows of his face.

“Except when they are.”

[tobiasdrake]

Well, as long as we're rafting the temporal streams, might as well head back to Dormont. Got some errands to run in the past.

I'm like 98% sure you're trying to flirt with me but you're too nervous to actually go through with it. Would you please just finally ask me out so I can rock your evening?

Look, be glad I was tasteful enough not to go for the other pun.

My guy, what could possibly compel you to think I'm not comfortable with basic human conta--

...you know what, that's fair. I guess I do go out of my way to minimize any and all possible exposure of physical features, don't I?

Anyways, go on and get out of here while I chat with my Lemonfriend.

Oh, I've always liked you. I'm just also creeped out by you. Two things can be true.

...huh. If I can die here in Dormont, then... that does make things easier. I was planning on throwing myself on a Tear once we got into the House since you said I can loop forward as well as back, but dying here in town would save me some time.

Oh shit yes. I'd love the ability to call you and chat about what I'm seeing while the rest of the crew looks at me like I've lost my goddamn mind.

Especially since the ultra-secret fourth sign is making a phone shape out of your fingers and then talking on it. That's hilarious.

This.

This is it.

This is the key to killing myself in Dormont.

...

I should probably wait until I've finished up here.

OH

ISA

I didn't realize you come up here after we're done. I don't have anything else to talk about but it's great seeing you up here.

Didn't accomplish as much here as I expected to. But at least we can take another crack at that desk drawer.

Okay between this and the rock switch, I no longer have any confidence in my own ability to do my job. It's distressing that each setback thus far has been the fault of a bad d20 roll on the primary reason that I'm with this party.

Ha! Rock trap for the Rock key. I get it.

Really? They're frozen in time right now but I am looking for a book. You think they might have set it out for me in advance? That would be awfully nice of them.

Oh shit. There was a person in town who sometimes thinks they have a sister but can't recall where they moved to. That shit got super weird. This has to be related.

No idea how it's related to our current mission. But. It's gotta be related.

Always trust in the puns. The puns are life. The puns are the secret of the universe. Those who do not heed their wisdom face the ultimate punishment.

So the Rock Key was in a room guarded by a huge rock and the Paper Key is in the library. I am. Kind of. Terrified. Of where the inevitable Scissors Key will be found.

And one Star Crest. Well. *heavy sigh* Shit.

Gonna have to temporally save-scum this one.

Can't argue with that. Isa's my brofriend-maybe-more so his vote automatically weighs more than anyone else in this--

................

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

Okay. It's okay. We can work this out mathematically.

Isa, as previously noted, is worth a million points because he's a precious slab of adorableness who flirts with me in the cutest ways imaginable and I'm super feeling it.

Mira, meanwhile, is worth half a million points because she's also awesome and cool and she's our wonderful team leader and I adore her.

Bonnie is worth infinity points because they are a child whose hopes and dreams we are responsible for and I don't want to let them down.

However, Odile is worth zero points because she's mean to me and sometimes makes me want to cry. I still haven't forgotten that crack, Odile. Even though you have because it was in another time loop.

If we add them together, then Team Beauty is worth a million and a half points, but Team Age is worth infinity points.

However my sign is Scissors, and the shape of Scissors forms a multiplication symbol, not a plus symbol. Which means that Team Beauty is actually worth 500,000,000,000 points while Team Age is worth 0 points.

Thus, the objective and entirely unbiased answer is that Team Beauty wins.

I'm sorry, Bonnie! But math never lies. We must go south. It is our destiny to go south.

I know you will. It is my destiny to have a future filled with spuds. I accept my fate, but I do not apologize.

[prettyboyeddiemunson]

omfg plss idk what your thoughts for p⭐️ eddie are but the thought of him doing it and making SCHMONEY and having the nickname the freak for good…..makes me nutz…….

HE WOULD MAKE SO MUCH MONEY EYE—

he would be a really popular one, i’m thinking. his movies sell like crazy, he’s very in demand, he’ll do pretty much anything on camera, so nothing is off limits for him. any sex act, any type of adult movie, he’s open to everything and it makes him a very sought-after star. he definitely no longer struggles financially, either; baby boy is rich now because of the movies he’s doing. and yes, he would have the nickname “the freak” for good, because of what he’s willing & excited to do in the industry. “the freak” is how he’s known in the industry, among directors, producers, and other stars.

i’m trying to think of a good p**n star name for him, though! the vampire slut in me wants to say something vampy, because he gives off the vampire vibes and the spooky vibes to many who know him. i also wanna say that if he’s a star when the dark tower books come out, he’s gonna take eddie dean as his pseudonym. he’s a nerd and i know he would love those books, and yeah, he is identifying hardcore with eddie fucking dean. he’s also a cheeky fuck, so i could see him using dracula or something in his name. but for now, I’m going with eddie dean, unless & until I think of something better!

and piercings? he’s got ‘em! tongue, nipples, possibly some kind of genital piercing, but the first two for sure. he also has more tattoos than what we saw in canon, but not many. i can see maybe a couple more arm tats, maybe two more torso tattoos, and a thigh tattoo. he still looks the exact same—long dark hair, breathtaking bambi eyes, same fashion sense when he’s not working on a set. it works well for him, though: he’s pulling men & women left and right, he’s going to parties, he’s dating supermodels, he’s living his truly best life as a p**n star.

which we all know will get even better the moment you walk into his life, because goddamn, he’s never met a girl like you. someone who doesn’t care who he is, someone who gives him a chase & a challenge, someone who won’t take his or anyone else’s shit. fuck, he’s head over heels the moment he sets eyes on you, and he has to have you. nothing else will do; he will quit the industry, if he has to. that’s how desperate he is to have you in his life.

oh, and lastly, we gotta talk about how…gifted he is inside those pants. this man is huge, like he has a hot demand for a reason. it’s his skills, too, and his abilities to do anything that’s asked of him, but his dick? nine inches long at least, pretty good girth, and he knows how the fuck to use it. it’s brought him this far, and is going to take him even further, i’m telling you.

[atopvisenyashill]

ways we could have done f&b and still “hide” information or leave stuff vague but been less annoying than archmaester gyldayn:

a dornish, manderly, or ironborn maester as the author. like gyldayn and yandel, give them a slant in their opinion that colors the sources they choose in their history, but one that isn’t so goddamn annoying as gyldayn, but can easily be just as much of a star struck suck up as yandel.

a very rich noble wrote the “history.” they can’t get their hands on proper sources so they make shit up - they tell you when they’re making shit up, sometimes - but they get popular with some of the slightly lower born landed knights who can read, because the book is hilarious and scandalous. a little foreword has been pasted into the front from a maester stressing that this is a work of fiction stop telling everyone that rhaenyra’s last words were her calling aegon ii a pussy ass bitch. yes i am saying we just lean into the “a story of a story” element and just have a mushroom type character tell the whole history of the Targaryen dynasty.

a septa writing the history but an archmaester has redacted a bunch of information. if we wanna get a lil cheesy with it, we can say that the archmaester has rejected the septa’s manuscript, and made some notes about terrible sources, and misleading writing or something, and is being really condescending about rejecting it.

a septa wrote the story. but it’s not a history of the targaryen kings it’s a history of the targaryen queens. it’s meant as a gift for margaery or dany, the way yandel meant twoiaf as a gift for joffrey tommen. that way we can brush past parts of history because the septa assumes we know it, or have some gaps because there’s no good records, or only “bad” sources (like Mushroom, but also maybe just gossip, or from a lady at court or someone lowborn) or she’s simply trying to kiss up to the new regime by omitting bad things they did - so f&b essentially, except it’s a history of the targaryen queens lmao.

really lean into the medium and have it be a history of the targaryen kings written FOR DANY by a meereenese, astapori, or yunkai writer. a slave who was meant to be a scholar, like missandei, or one of the former great masters trying to get on her good side. again, they’re kissing up, they’re making shit up, there’s gaps in their knowledge, so george can hide whatever he wants or hand-wave whatever he doesn’t care to write about.

[inkybinkyboink]

better call saul headcanons

lalo smells like every masculine scent (im talking sandalwood, palo santo, bergamot, teakwood) and smoke and fucking taco spices. i do not know and will never know what lalo salamanca smells like because he fictional, and yet, i feel dysphoric just thinking about it because i know i will never smell as good as him

nacho also smells really good, but like he burns a lot of incense and a lot of its very floral. 

wow dude i get SHIT at writing when im stoned god fuck ok

kim was 100% a book worm in grade school. her favorite book was definitely either a rainbow fairy book or like a geronimo stilton book. she would still be a bookworm but never has time to read anymore.

mike ehrmantraut sleeps like a fucking board. on his back, hands at his sides, facing up to the ceiling and he does not move for 8 hours straight.

nacho knits nacho knits nacho knits.

lalo drinks like a motherfucker but does not get drunk. that mans tolerance is sky fucking high.

saul is oddly limber. this man has never done yoga in his life but he can do the splitz like nobody’s business

contrast, howard starts his day with yoga and meditation. it does not work.

nacho lives off of warm environments. he went to vermont once in january and vowed never to go further north than colorado ever again.

saul is a sucker for keeping things clean. he needs to have things clean all the time. spotless.

kim and jimmy have movie night dedicated purely to picking out all the continuity errors they can find.

gus has never had a los pollos meal in his life and does not plan to

mike spent an afternoon once covering kaylee’s ceiling in glow in the dark stars

lmao what if howard has asthma. im making it canon rn howard hamlin has asthma what a loser i have asthma

jimmy mcgill sold burner phones for a living but man cannot for the life of him work a phone made after 2015. gene takavic is CLUELESS when it comes to technology

mike has one of those solar powered flowers on his dashboard in his car. yknow the little ones with the petals that go up and down in the sun?

lalo fucking salamanca can cook anything on the goddamn planet but is from a different galaxy when it comes to preparing anything pre-packaged. he burns kraft dinner. he sets the kitchen on fire trying to make a microwave meal. 

[yyyyanyan]

Book Club: Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir

the stars aligned (I was a minute too late to sleep for the day on Pokemon Sleep) so I finished reading Project Hail Mary and holy shit

High points: aliens!!!!!! so much aliens so many aliens so many so many so many aliens. Rocky (the alien) is so fun too goddamn

Low points: Not into the amnesia bit (it felt too deus ex machina to me), kind of a melancholy ending

I am honestly so blown away by the aliens? like holy shit the aliens. just holy shit. aliens. I think Weir just does such a good job and it (as a science un-knower) it felt so believable to me. I love Rocky to bits and his language was also mindblowing to me?? I think that's the part of me that thinks linguistics is so interesting but I seriously could not imagine what an alien could be like (actually, before Rocky appeared on screen, I even thought the alien might look just like a human) much less think about how they could communicate. My mind was blown LOL

There were two major points where my heart absolutely DROPPED and honestly I feel like that says something about this surely? I'm tired af but I was still shook y'know? I'm literally scared of taumoebas lmfao and the way they're described as smelling gross and feeling greasy... ew!! I hate it I'm so glad I do not exist in a world where I know about real taumobeas :))))

My complaint about the amnesia is really just about how convenient it was. It was a good twist that I didn't see coming but I was also kind of like is this really possible with modern technology lmao? I guess who knows what kind of stuff the government has kept in secret but it was a little hard to just read it and be like oh yeah that seems legit.

I also feel like some of the side/supporting characters were a bit too much of a caricature, I guess? Especially DuBois (the sex discussion scene with Dr. Shapiro was SO weird) because I feel like it was framed as like, he is seriously legitimately this kind of guy and he's not playing it off as a joke, which I could have been amused by. I also wish Stratta had like... a little bit more development, I guess? She was giving me girlboss gaslight take no prisoners and I liked that she was strong and tough and would do anything to give humanity a chance to succeed, but sometimes she also seemed a bit like... a micromanager? Comparing this to The Martian (which I seriously love), I think that these characters had more defining traits but in the flanderization kind of way rather than actually being more developed.

The last thing I disliked was the ending :( it was actually a good ending lol but I felt a little sad because I wanted to see more of what happened to the Earth people and I kind of wanted Grace to go home too. On the other hand, he really did not have much attachment there and I felt like with their plans Earth would probably be okay, so it really was a good ending! but I am just an earthling attached to earth so I'm still sad anyways lol

Okay wait one more thing that I know wouldn't have made sense to have in the narrative: I wish we knew what happened to Yao and Ilyukhina on the way there. I remember there was a mention of the autofeeding thing possibly malfunctioning or something but they were going to stick backups because they were light? Actually my first theory was like an allergic reaction or something or like some machine malfunction, but I guess I'll never know. I felt sad when Grace dressed them and sent them out into space.

last note: Ryan Gosling is apparently going to be Grace in the movie adaptation??? But the cited article is from 2021 so... well hey if it happens I'll go see it I love his kenergy

[thebisexualmandalorian]

Inviting controversy by asking a controversial question which you may feel free to ignore but. Thoughts on Karen Traviss' Star Wars books, from the old EU? I assume you've got Opinions

BOY DO I

I'll probably forget to include everything, but I've gone on an hour long Rant before and I'll do it again lmao

Okay, so the good. There is good in these books and I'll drag it out with teeth and claws if I have to.

I love Kal Skirata. You can crucify me for that if you want to, but as a daddy issues having bitch, I want him to be my dad. He's a wonderfully flawed character, and he owns up to those flaws. He's made mistakes and he's grown and he knows he isn't perfect but by god, he'll try for his boys. He fights tooth and nail to protect them from what he can, and what he can't, he'll go through hell with them (literally, I can't remember the exact wording, but it's said in Hard Contact I believe, that any training he puts his men through, he does it himself first). He's overprotective because there's so much he can't protect them from, and it's clear that he loves them with all his heart.

The clone and GAR and Mando culture building. This is a grayer area for me because there is a lot of internalized bullshit KT is dealing with that I'll talk about later, but! We wouldn't have nearly the background we do for these cultures without her books. I love most of what she did with it, from the military worldbuilding to the Mandalorian culture and the different facets of it we see through the eyes of different characters. And the language! Mando'a isn't a heavily developed conlang, but the tools are there, and it makes sense within the world. And we have music! We have songs.

I love the characters. There are gray areas, no one is perfect, and they all get down and dirty when things call for it. They love each other deeply and make good and bad decisions, they're realistic. The relationships are tender and gentle, and I love the interactions between everyone, the loyalty and the devotion, and the overarching feeling of grief because we know how this ends.

The clones! I love them! They are wonderful and well developed, and I love hearing their thoughts on everything, and their bond with one another and those around them. I'm not coherent about this one because I think about them for five seconds and start making high pitched noises like an overexcited dog.

The descriptions are so deliciously visceral, and I love reading them.

The bad:

Another unpopular opinion: I loathe Vau. Hate him utterly. He's a good character but a deeply horrible man, and this might be my trauma talking but it's my opinion and I'll die on this goddamn hill. He's verbally and physically abusive, and sees absolutely no consequences (or even reproach) for it in the narrative, aside from Kal breaking his nose, and he deserved so much worse than that.

The misogyny. Oh, Karen honey. That internalized misogyny got you good, huh? The blatant way she treats Etain and Besany through the mouths of other characters is... oof. There's a little bit of reversal, but it's still pretty bad. Even though they're "not like other girls," it's pretty obvious that Karen has a lot of issues with womanhood. It was the 2000s, so I'll let some of it be with the caveat that the 2000s were pretty damn misogynistic in general, but goddamn. Also, on that note, she seems to be fighting herself on whether Mandos have a gender neutral society or not? Like, she'll say on one page that there's no difference between men and women, and then go on to say that men go out and fight but women stay to guard the home and raise the kids. I am putting my head in my hands.

On a related note, Karen is the Jedi who hurt you in the room with us right now? Why do you hate the Jedi so damn much? It doesn't make any sense in the story and it doesn't make sense on a metatextual level. Bro, are you good?

Anyway! Yes! I have many opinions about this book series and I'm sure I forgot to cover everything! Please feel free to ask more questions!

[ooops-i-arted]

Filoni has a tendency to create all these parallels between Luke and his special OCs (nowadays "like poetry it rhymes" is basically Filoni regurgitating his favorite moments from the original trilogy). Yet, cowboy hat man makes it so obvious how he's ensuring Luke and Leia don't participate in galactic events that 100% makes sense with their involvement, substituting them with Ahsoka when he decides to reference Thrawn trilogy.

I see people falling for this lack of creativity over and over "isn't it cool how Sabine is literally saying the same line as Luke in New Hope?" "Omg Din said that ship was a 'pile of junk' just like Luke did!" "Teehee Anakin reached out to Ahsoka just like Anakin did to Luke in Empire Strikes Back!" Filoni relies so much on easter eggs and references to bait people and I'm just not impressed with so much of the material he churns out nowadays. Shit is stale.

Omg I just saw the goddamn "it's like poetry it rhymes" caption on Insta on a picture of Blond Apprentice getting MacGuffin StarBall Whatever next to a picture of Darth Maul from TPM getting his spy droid and I'm like NO! NO IT IS NOT POETRY, THERE IS NO SIGNIFICANCE THERE, IT'S JUST A CHEAP COPY OF ONE SHOT WITH NO EMOTIONAL MEANING BEHIND IT. "It's like poetry it rhymes" is like for, how we see Padme unite with the native Gungans in TPM after we saw Leia unite with the native Ewoks in ROTJ, both to defeat a huge threat to both of them. It shows that Leia may not have known Padme but Padme's spirit still lives on in Leia, and signals to the audience that yes, this is Leia's future mother. It actually means something.

I s2g Filoni has made the entire Star Wars fandom just braindead about Easter eggs. Easter eggs are supposed to be a fun addition that enhances something for a viewer in the know, not be a blaring red flag saying LOOK THIS WAS IN ANOTHER STAR WARS FEATURE. A proper Easter egg - and one I loved - was the brief cameo of Threepio in Kenobi. A viewer who has never seen any other Star Wars media will just see a droid adding to the Space Futuristic Worldbuilding, but my sister and I squealed in delight and had a moment of enjoyment. If Filoni had written that, he'd have the camera linger on Threepio, he'd say one of his signature lines, and then say "Oh dear I do believe I've forgotten something" as a har har har wink wink nudge nudge about how he had his memory wiped. I'm so over it, and I say this as someone who LOVES a good Easter egg, or even things like saying "I have a bad feeling about this" in every piece of Star Wars media!

I suppose at least we don't have to see Luke butchered and Leia wasted anymore like in the sequel trilogy.... but it's a sour victory when this is all we get instead. (Also, if I can be a Bad Rude Elitist Fan for a moment.... so many people are gonna think this is all just Filoni's idea, and not realize that Timothy Zahn crafted an amazing book trilogy they can read instead, and just settle for Filoni's box mix cookies instead of a carefully crafted Zahn masterpiece.)

[sensitiveheartless]

*kicks down your door*

The newest chapter of Dazai’s Moving Detective Agency is so fucking good it is now my fave chapter I did not expect THAT to be the solution to the heart thing. Also the Akutagawa and Atsushi thing was Goddamn hilarious.

*Shakes your hand, fixes the door, and leaves.*

HULLO oh my gosh I'm sorry this took me so long to respond to alskdfjskfjs this ask was one of the ones that kept disappearing and reappearing in my browser inbox for some reason — ANYWAY YESSS (I want to talk about spoilers for chapter 19 so I'm gonna put them under the cut :0)

Ok so the heart thing! I wanted to mention that I remember seeing your comment where you theorized about how maybe the heart thing would be solved by Chuuya and Dazai kissing or saying "I love you" for the first time, and that maybe they could metaphorically share a heart between them, and the way you wrote it sounded so nice and romantic and lovely and while I was reading it I was internally just thinking "oh no" because of how it was actually going to go XD

In retrospect I really did have Chuuya solve it in the most brute force way possible aksdjfksfjks — speaking of that scene though, it did change a bit from the way I had originally planned it! Since I wrote the story back to front, I figured out the ending first, then the middle, then went back to the beginning and worked forward from there — so as a result, by the time I got back to the ending, a bunch of character stuff had changed.

Basically, in my first draft, Chuuya was going to get out of the chasm, find Dazai in the castle ruins, tell Yosano "before you say anything I know this is very medically inadvisable", then immediately pull his own heart out of his chest and split it in half (much to the utter horror of everyone watching). I was kind of hand-waving the magic aspect at that point, figuring "well, he's a star with a shit-ton of magic, he can probably survive doing wild stuff like that".

...But then I started writing everything out from the beginning, and added all the stuff with Chuuya learning not to shut out the people who care about him and to let them help him when he's in trouble, and in the process of really digging into his character arc I realized that I had made it so that him acting on his own like that would have been rolling back the character development I had already given him aksjdfksdfjskj SO I thought about it for a looong time and gradually figured out how to incorporate Rimbaud, Yosano, Kyouka, and the rest into all helping out in their own ways. And I ended up liking that version way better, since it fits more with the theme of support and the importance of all Chuuya's bonds he's made along the way, so I think it was worth the extra effort in the end!

...It still is a very brute-force way to solve it though XD Chuuya has a very straight forward approach to everything ksjfkdsj

ANYWAY that was a long ramble — I'm also really glad you enjoyed the Akutagawa and Atsushi shenanigans, I ended up having way too much fun with that part :D Their interactions are actually pretty similar to how I initially planned everything out (that end part where Dazai and Chuuya are completely wrapped up in each other while everything is spiraling out of control around them is heavily inspired by the ending of the book version of Howl's Moving Castle, and I had most of the dialogue for it figured out from the beginning).

...Honestly, considering how out of order I wrote it, I'm surprised I didn't have to scrap more scenes. As it is, the only things that really ended up getting changed/scrapped were:

A part of chapter 11 (in particular, the bit where Chuuya and Dazai talk after Dazai brings Akutagawa and Kyouka to the castle was originally a very different tone, because Chuuya was not supposed to have gotten as far along his "realizing he has feelings for Dazai" arc)(I do still kinda like the original version for the comedy aspect, but I like the way the final version fits with their relationship progression better)

A scene where Dazai was going to get drunk, which had to be scrapped entirely (I was basing it off of the book scene where Howl gets drunk and goes on a rant about the curse, but I ended up deciding that it a), made things way too obvious, and b), Chuuya should have absolutely figured everything out from what Dazai said and I didn't want to make Chuuya seem like a moron)

The final confrontation between Chuuya, Dazai, and Fyodor changed a LOT. I rewrote that scene. So many times. Similar to the Chuuya-pulling-out-his-heart-scene, there was a bit in my original draft that ended up being very out of character for Dazai because of how his and Chuuya's relationship had developed in the rest of the story, so I had to completely switch around how they got into the chasm in the first place. I again think it was worth the effort though, because I think where it landed (Dazai completely losing control of the situation and having to trust Chuuya to save them both) was more interesting for Dazai's arc as well.

Anyway, all that said— I've had a really really good time writing this fic, and I'm happy other people have enjoyed it too!! (And hopefully I can actually finish chapter 20 soon aksdjfksdj things keep getting in the way of it help)

[megnificent-reads]

A Court of Wings and Ruin - Christ alive/5 ☆

Warning - this review is 1.2k words, and 98% negative. If you love SJM and the ACOTAR series, love that for you /gen. However, for your own mental health, I genuinely would not recommend you read this. For everyone else, and those who hate-read, Let's begin!

~~~

Okay, so I actually rated this 2 stars on Goodreads because I didn’t hate it the whole time but, I’m mad about it so it gets a special rating. ♡

I honestly lament when I was excited to read this book. Being what I refer to as a Lucien Lover (nuanced), I enjoyed a good bit of the beginning of this book. That’s not to say I wholeheartedly enjoyed every word of the first 100 pages of this book. 

So we start with Feyre in the throes of rage, becoming a master manipulator. Now, before I put just a minute or two of thought into it, I loved it. I love a girl tearing shit apart and using intellegence as a form of strength. However… 

Anybody think she was doing a little too much…?

Like, okay, Tamlin fucked up. Big time. I will admit justice is needed! Love when women take back power! But not only dismantling his entire country but turning everyone against him for things that he actually did not do? Crazy! He sucks! But people still live in that country. We still need order! His life is ruined now and I don’t necessarily think all that was necessary. 

Tamlin sidebar: “my father and my father’s father did the Tithe, so I’m going to do it.” Didn’t you acknowledge two books ago that your father sucks absolute ass? What fucking sense does that make? How in the first book was he the Perfect Moral Man that now can’t see the very evident immorality in the shit you’re doing. Anywhoozers. 

So, Feyre has her cool girl moments and returns to the Night Court. In book one, I was bored out of my mind until we arrived in Rhys-land. (Good one). This time, it was like the moment we arrived here the magic was lost. I was no longer excited to read. And honestly, I think the big issue was actually our beloved bat-boy, Rhysand.

I don’t know her personally, so this is not an attack on her character, but I’m starting to feel like SJM writes Rhysand based off of her fantasy version of what a man is like. Dominating, but soft and loving. Perfectly moral. Capable of evil, deplorable things, but too loving of people and their dreams to be that way. I’m going to be referring to it as PMS (Perfect Man Syndrome). 

Many of her men (sorry, males) are unfortunate PMS victims, but Rhysand is by far the worst. I wish I had underlined it when I was reading so I could cite it, but there’s just something about his actions. He is PMSing so hard that he doesn’t develop at all. He was old enough to be grown during the faerie-UK version of the Amercian Civil War where of course he was anti-slavery the entire time despite being raised by people who appeared to be violent racists. Good for our educated king. He also, of course, runs a sanctuary for abused women. 

Of course, I’m not saying that being anti-slavery and supporting abused women is bad. I love it. But like… be real with me here. I know that this is fictional. It’s not real. We can be happy here. But can I have some dimension, please? This man is the personality version of Flat Stanley. We had two conflicts between them since they got together and both were resolved by Rhys nearly getting on his knees and saying everything is his fault and he’s so sorry. The first conflict was just her thinking she stepped out of her Womenly Line and him not even knowing there was an issue. 

He’s just so. Fucking. Boring. 

Moving on. ♡.

Let’s talk about what makes me so goddamn angry about this book. I’ve seen complaints about SJM where other people are saying that other people call her books feminist literature. I personally have never heard anybody say that, but if I did, I don’t know if I would be able to control the rant that would ensue.  

I’m willing to have a civilized conversation, but I don’t remember Feyre actually doing anything. Yes, SJM puts her women in positions of power. Do they use said power? Maybe once or twice. 

Amren is an ex-god with powers above any character we’ve met so far. We see it used I think once. The rest of the time is spent talking about her power and her holding down the fort at Velaris while everyone else is off to war. 

Morrigan - also very powerful (described only). I remember her power being “truth” and never elaborating on that. She is a known soldier, that doesn’t fight. 

During the two huge battles, Feyre, Nesta, and Morrigan are on the ground while Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel are in the air fighting. After the first battle, Feyre is seen tending to her beloved mate’s wounds, Nesta is fetching water for Cassian, and Morrigan is getting mad at Nesta for wanting to fuck Cassian. So strong of all of them. 

Azriel is there doing… nothing. Which he has a habit of doing. Speaking of habits, SJM will create characters that I like because I’m excited to see how they will grow and develop. 

She then proceeds to do nothing with them.

I know more books are coming, as they will with SJM until the end of time, but it’s starting to drag. I love Elain. Well, I love what Elain could be. She’s a seemingly fragile, docile character. With her Seer powers, I was excited to see her notice the world around her sucks and develop into somone capable of holding their own. Instead, she uses her powers to relay some cryptic messages that no one heeds or even tries to, then she “snaps out of it” and can’t really do anything else. 

Azriel has a tragic backstory and seemingly a big story to tell. God, I wish I could ever fucking hear it. 

This is getting exceptionally long, but I remembered I had a list of things I wanted from ACOWAR and didn’t receive, so I’ll pick one more thing off. 

The Ouroboros. Out of all symbols, the Ouroboros is my favorite. Cycles and inevitability and all that. We spend a good chunk of this book leading up to Feyre retrieving this. It drives everyone mad. Only the strongest can look in it and survive. I was so excited to see what she saw! What the battle with herself would be like! How does she overcome it?

I guess we’ll never know.

She ended up seeing… herself? I guess she wasn’t previously aware of her flaws and then simply accepted them. Would love to have seen it!

And to finally end this review, I think the Ouroboros is a good symbol of every issue I have with this book. There’s so much build up and excitement that ultimately leads nearly no explanation. It’s like there’s ideas and concepts but then no idea how to execute them.

I won’t be reading ACOFAS or ACOSF or anything else. I already didn’t want to, then I found out about the pregnancy thing and. Yeah. I think I’m good off that.