#strawberry writes

[strawurberries]

Stretchmarks

Summary: Vash learns about those little markings he's seen on his lover, and oh God does he fall head over heels.

Authors Note: This is written with Tristamp! Vash in mind, and this idea was sparked by this post :) This is written as a fem! reader. I hope you all enjoy! (Also, here's your tag @blackkiwi! I hope you like it :) I went in a bit of a different direction so I might revisit this idea in the future!!)

Warnings: Mild nudity, sexual themes, self-hate.

Vash didn’t understand it—how could someone so beautiful, holding something so unique and precious, hate themselves and their markings? He felt bad for staring, he really did, but the damp air from the shower seemed to settle around her, water droplets becoming stars and her eyes morphing in a galaxy of possibilities. She, though, didn’t seem to understand his awe. All she saw was the man she loved staring at a part of her she didn’t hate, per se, but rather didn’t love completely. He knew he should’ve looked away, apologized and let her know that he was stunned with adoration, not disgust. Yet he didn’t. Like the fool he was, and always will be, he didn’t have the bravery to confess.

“Ah, sorry,” with a nervous grin she had tried to cover her hips, where the most prominent of her stretch marks were. “I didn’t know you were coming back so soon.” She grabbed her things and shuffled back into the bathroom, wearing only her underwear and a towel loosely draped over her shoulder, “I was just getting my clothes.” With a quiet click, the bathroom door shut and the room was plunged into a somber darkness. 

Idiot, he bit at himself, why did you just stare? The patterns though, those curlings lines and loveable little dots and spots, it reminded him of himself; when he looked in the mirror and saw his face staring back, covered in blue lines that marked him as alien, foreign. Was she. . . like him? He turned to look at the bathroom door, listening to the quiet rustling within. No, he thought, she’s human. But there was something so remarkable about those lines, he couldn’t stop thinking.

Like me, she’s like me. 

Later they sat in their shared room, the silence acting as a tyrant, holding its grip tight and solid over the melancholic atmosphere. Neither one had spoken since she had retreated to the bathroom an hour earlier; she being silent out of fear and embarrassment, and he out of nervousness and curiosity. 

After finishing getting ready for the night, she laid in her bed across the room. Vash, on the other hand, was sitting criss-crossed in his, staring at his fumbling hands. 

“You know,” he said, cringing at the abruptness of his voice, “I think you’re really pretty.”

She shuffled slightly in bed, blankets falling off her shoulders, “thank you, I appreciate it. You’re pretty as well.”

He blushed at the compliment—thump, thump, thump, beat his heart. It roared at him to confess, to open his mouth and say everything he wanted too. He didn’t. He fiddled with his hands and lightly tapped his cheek to cool the scorching redness that had overtaken him. “Earlier,” his voice was quiet, a pip-squeak of a noise, “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“It’s okay.”

He started to disengage his prosthetic arm, small clicks and whirs making the silence seem louder than before. “I—” he gently set his arm on the ground beside his bed, rubbing the raw and sore flesh. He didn’t often sleep without his arm, for a fear of being attacked in the middle of the night, but his body couldn’t handle it much longer. It pulled and gnawed on his shoulders, making his entire body ache with a pain he can only describe as deafening. “I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings, but if I did, I apologize.”

She finally turned over, watching as he hopelessly stared at her with a twinge of fear and. . . something else she couldn’t describe. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she smiled softly, “I was jus’ thinking.” She could never be mad at him—not that she was mad at him in the first place, in fact, she had only felt mild embarrassment towards the whole situation. The day had been long, and even if he hadn’t caught her getting out of the shower, she would’ve been quiet and exhausted—, and looking at him now only made her feel like she was gazing at a kicked puppy.

He tilted his head, “about what?”

“My body,” she huffed and sat up, “you know those days?’ Her voice was a little quiet, less teasing than it usually was, and so, painfully somber.

He understood. Sometimes he’d sit out in the desert, watch the sunset and wonder why he felt so unnatural; as if he wasn’t a person, but a thing occupying space in a body that didn’t belong to him. And sometimes he’d cover up mirrors with his coat, afraid to look into them and see what he really looked like. And other times he’d look down at himself and shove back the tears because he was a mural of pain and he wouldn’t have it any other way but God, did he wish there were other options. And sometimes he’d simply lay in bed and think about everything he hated about himself, starting with his personality and then moving on to his actions, and then he’d think about his body and then he really felt the pain because he belonged to this prison of flesh and bone, this sacred thing, and he had managed to decimate it in so many ways it would never be able to recover. And, sometimes, he hated how he looked because she deserved better. And sometimes he, without any reason really, despised the man he was, and the way he looked. So, yes, he understood those days. He understood better than anyone really; and it made his heart hurt thinking she had felt the same way. 

In his eyes she was the most beautiful thing. She rivaled the stars, the ones he watched on that ship all those years ago. The greenery of flora and the nature of Earth couldn’t even compare. And even if some Goddess was to descend from the heavens, bearing all her glory and luxury at her bosom, he would deny it and find himself back in her arms. In his eyes, she was worth everything and more.

He stumbled over to her bed, momentarily forgetting himself as he slammed into the mattress with an abundant lack of grace and caution. “I get it, I do,” 

She blinked at him.

“Somedays I–I hate myself and sometimes I can’t even look in the mirror, and really almost everyday I can’t even look at myself,” he forgot he had taken his prosthetic off, trying to grab her face with his hand. He paused and cursed a little under his breath, stub awkwardly hanging between them. “I forgot I took that—okay whatever,” he used his other hand to grab her face, fingers tracing her jaw, “but you know what makes me feel better about myself?”

She huffed a little and laughed, crossing her arms. “What?” she asked playfully. 

“You.”

She smiled softly, “I’m glad I can help.” A little sliver of anxiety still rested in her eyes.

He took a deep breath and steeled his resolve. “Yeah, so, let me help you this time,” he sat back on his knees, suddenly realizing how close he was. “If–if that’s okay. . .?” All his confidence, his burning determination to help, dissipated into the air and floundered about his mind in a wave of unease and mild embarrassment. 

She glanced down at herself, thumbing the edge of her shirt before nodding, “alright,” she wrapped her arms around his neck, “you’ve convinced me.” She gave a nervous smile, one unsure of what was going to happen but trustful in the one before her—she had no doubts that he would keep her safe, happy, and comfortable.

He let out a goofy grin, slowly pushing her back onto the bed, “okay so um,” he stared down at her, blushing a delicious red as he slowly came to understand what position they were in. Her arms were slightly settled to the side, hands above her head and chest slowly rising with each suspenseful breath. Utterly divine, was the only description he could think of. “Uh, could you. .  uh, take your shirt off, maybe?” He wanted to cry when he realized his voice had cracked—uncool, so uncool.

She laughed, “alright, what are you really trying to do?” She grabbed the ends of her shirt and whisked it off, tossing it somewhere in the room. Neither of them really cared where it landed.

He waved his hand in the air and panicked, “no! No! I promise I’m not trying to do anything like that unless you want that—or, I mean, not right now! Uh, sorry!” His hands slapped over his face, covering the vague blue markings that had begun to peak through his skin.

She let out a boisterous laugh and grabbed his hips, lovingly drawing circles into his skin, “calm down, I was joking, pretty boy.”

The tips of his ears turned red, nearly drowning out his wonderful, brilliant blue, “pretty boy,” he mumbled. “Where’d that come from?” he squeaked out. 

“Jus’ tellin’ the truth,” she hummed, “now, why is my shirt off?”

“Oh!” his hands flew off his face and came to settle on her torso, nervously pressing into her skin. “I wanna—well, can I see your markings?” he leaned a little closer, tempted to put his forehead to hers, but he was too scared—what if she knows what that means? What if she hates doing that? What if she hates me?

“Markings?” she raised an eyebrow, “what do you mean?”

“On your hips.”

“Hips?”

He gently hooked the edge of her pants, looking up at her for permission and when she gave it, he pulled them down slightly, revealing the little lines he had been so obsessed with earlier. Despite everything in him trying to keep his smile back, he couldn’t. “These,” he mumbled, tracing the marks with his fingers. His markings, no longer dull and scared, flowed to the surface of his skin and danced along his fingers. “They’re really pretty.” He wanted to see them in their entirety, observe how they rested along her skin and how they intertwined with one another—that would require less. . . clothing, and the thought made him blush madly, making his markings blink a bright blue for a moment.

She grabbed his hand and gave him a questioning look, “they’re not markings, they’re stretchmarks.”

He tilted his head.

“It’s like. . . little scars from when our skin stretches or shrinks too fast,” she smiled somberly, “they’re not as precious as your markings.”

He huffed and went back to caressing her skin, “I still think they’re amazing.”

“Not many people do,” she closed her eyes and savored the feeling of his touch, “so I appreciate it. Thank you.”

He hesitated and pulled his hands back, “do you. . . do you have more?”

She hummed. 

“Can I see them? If that’s okay with you?!”

She sighed and opened her eyes, “you love them that much?” A slight bit of hesitance, disbelief.

A child-like joy seeped into his voice, “yes! They’re like mine, but they’re so much prettier.”

She blinked, a small embarrassed expression coming to rest upon her face. “I mean, if you really want, I can show you.” 

He grinned excitedly and sat patiently on the bed as his lover slowly shimmed out of her pants, leaving them hidden by only two, thin articles of clothing that covered barely anything (not that he minded, but he was trying his hardest to focus on the markings solely—he didn’t want to be a creep. He was also trying to ignore the fact that this was only the third time he had seen her so vulnerable before. It made his heart soar, thinking that she trusted him so). After a moment, she returned back to bed and presented her thighs, where stretch marks were painted across her skin like a mural of heaven. “Here’s some more. They’re mostly on my legs and hips.”

“Oh,” he breathed out, “they’re a lot prettier up close.” He leaned down and pressed his forehead to her legs, closing his eyes. For a moment, he could’ve sworn he felt her very soul, as if he was connecting to a plant, and he shuddered out a sigh. “So, so, pretty.” He was lost in her now, gently tracing his fingers along her skin, nose buried into the side of her leg and he cherished every giggle and breathy laugh that came from his lover. 

“I never knew you’d like ‘em so much,” she tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging slightly when he got a little too dazed and trailed his head up further than he should’ve.

He kissed the inside of her thigh, “they’re so. . . you’re so beautiful.”

She smiled softly, “you are too.” 

The compliment flew over his head, focused solely on the Goddess before him. The divinity that had graced his presence. He sloppily kissed her thigh again, trailing his love up and up and—

She tugged on his hair, “hey,” she warned, “you’re getting a little too close there, pretty boy.”

He stared up and blinked, chin settled in between her legs and nose dangerously close to the bottom of her underwear. It took a moment for him to come back to reality, realizing that he was in a position he’d only dreamed about. “Oh,” he blinked again. “I’m sorry!” he shot up and rested back on his knees. With her hand still in his hair, he was slightly bowed forward, eyes deliciously plastered to her legs. 

“Don’t apologize,” she whispered, “you’re fine.”

He whined a little, “I made you uncomforta—”

“When did I say that?”

He peered up at her through his eyelashes, watching her coy smirk expand into a sly smile. He stumbled over his words and quickly decided it would be better to shut up. What’s happening? Wasn’t she supposed to be yelling at him? Ashamed he had given into his desires a little too much? This was supposed to be about her, and how wonderful she was. Not him and his inability to hide his lustful curiosity. 

“In fact,” she tugged on his hair a little more, forcing him to crawl halfway on top of her to stop the dull pain in his scalp—he really didn’t mind it though, which made him rethink some things about himself. “I really enjoyed it.”

His markings glowed so bright, she had to look away for a moment. She snickered and brought one hand to his chin, the other leaving his hair and slowly trailing down his chest. “If I’m being honest,” she sighed, “I didn’t really like my stretch marks. They’re ugly and gross, but,” she stopped trailing her hand down when she got to the hem of his pants, “you made me feel better about them.” She smiled.

“I’m glad!” he nervously grinned and tried to adjust himself so the position would be less. . . intimate, but she didn’t let him. Part of him was begging her to do something, and the other part of him was screaming with fear and embarrassment so loudly he almost didn’t hear what she said next.

“So,” she drawled out, “if it’s okay with you, can I help you feel good?”

“What?” he squeaked. “Like–what? What does that mean?” Oh my god, he cried to himself, I’m an idiot! He beat down a whine that threatened to erupt from his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted the ground to swallow him up and never let him go.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and pressed herself into him, hips bucking up and creating a delicious friction. He sucked in a strangled gasp and let his face fall into the crook of her neck, “sen–sensitive!” he cried. He gripped her waist, fumbling for a moment before once again realizing he had taken his prosthetic off. Vaguely he wondered if he should put it back on, but she bucked again and all thoughts fell out of his mouth as he cried.

“What do you say?” she purred, “up for a little fun?”

“You’re a,” he panted and ground his hips into her, muffling his moans in her flesh, “a tease.” He shouldn’t be doing this, should he? Should he have asked before he pressed himself into her, or was that normal? He didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing here.

“C’mon pretty boy, I have to hear a yes,”

“Y–yes!” He whined and ignored the blue light that bathed them both—this is so embarrassing.

“Good boy.”

He squeaked and buried his face deeper into her neck, “oh my god.” This was going to be the death of him—not that he really minded.

[strawmyberry]

thank u for the kyle tickle hcs... him being the most ticklish out of the m4 AND being weakest to light tickling is SO IMPORTANT TO ME

you get me anon!!! lee kyle is so cute!! so cute in fact- i got a little surpriseeee! thank you all so much for all the kind words on my first fic!! im so glad you guys liked it 🥹 soooo…here’s another one!! i hope you guys like it!! thanks again!!

— ❤️🍓 strawberry 🍓❤️

🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓

B for Broflovski!

Lee Kyle / Ler Stan

Word Count: 4,229

With Kyle panicking over the “horrible” grade he got on his History test, Stan puts a little extra effort into convincing him that “B” doesn’t always have to stand for “Bad.” In fact, to him, it stands for something a thousand times better.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Stan knew Kyle was a perfectionist. Kyle knew Kyle was a perfectionist. The entire town of South Park knew Kyle was a perfectionist; yet, somehow, despite that, Stan was never really prepared for when Kyle would have one of those days.

“It’s bullshit, dude! I’m telling you; it’s fucking bullshit! Mr. Garrison has some kinda’ personal vendetta against me. I fucking hate him! ‘Fucking asshole, it’s ridiculous!”

Stan had gotten used to walking quickly besides Kyle since Kyle had the tendency to walk and talk, especially when he was in a bad mood. Luckily for Stan, he was pretty good at keeping up.

“And Cartman? Oooh, ‘fucking Cartman? I’m going to kick his ass- I deal with a lot of shit from him. I take it! I suck it up and I take it! But this? I’m done. I’m going to shove my foot so far up his ass- I swear to god-“

Stan had tried a million strategies when it came to this issue, and he had found that the best thing to do was to let Kyle get all of it out of his system. Let him ramble, eventually he’d get tired of it. After that is when he’d be able to talk logically with his, figure out what to do next.

“The only reason he got an A was because he cheated off of Tolkien. But, of course, Garrison doesn’t see it! As if it’s not the most obvious thing in the world! It’s so fucking dumb dude, I seriously can’t- Ma, I’m home! Stan’s here too, we’re gonna go upstairs, okay?”

Okay, Stan had to admit, it was a little funny how Kyle’s rage was like an on and off switch when it came to his mom. He’d be cursing up a storm one second and the next he’d go all Positive Paul on him. He’d shout a quick hello to Kyle’s mom too, because…manners, before following Kyle up the stairs and into his room.

“It just- It pisses me off so much! It’s not fair- I studied so hard for that stupid test!”

Stan would place his backpack next to Kyle’s dresser. He’d proceeded to chase the redhead around his room a little bit, stopping his endless pacing for a second so he could take the backpack off his friend’s back. He’d plop it next to his own before throwing himself onto Kyle’s bed, already getting himself comfortable. Knowing Kyle, this could go on for…god know how long.

“I fucking hate South Park…”

Kyle loved to rant and rave, yeah. It always made him feel a lot better- since he was able to get all his anger out without punching a hole in his wall. But…he could only talk for so long without breathing. So, he’d take a small break, just so he could regain his breath. Kyle would turn back to Stan- only to see the position he was in.

Stan was laying in his bed. Yes- yes that’s what beds are for- but Stan was laying in his bed. Like, laying in his bed. Head amidst a sea of pillows, body sinking slightly into the soft mattress, limbs languidly sprawled across the bed; the whole works. “Oh- sorry, ‘you done?” He’d ask, his words muffled by all of the pillows around his head.

“Uh…no. Not yet. Sorry- I can stop if you’d like-“

“No! No, keep going. I’m all ears.”

“Ooookay…?” Kyle would nod, confused as hell. How long had he been like that? How didn’t he notice before? Why was he messing up his pillows? Well- now he couldn’t remember where he had left off. He’d stare at the bed post as his mind wandered, trying to retrace his steps. Oh! Yeah! Hating South Park!

“…I think today was stupid.” Kyle would start, starting the tirade off slowly. “Everything about it, yeah, but the changing seats thing was really stupid.” He’d continue, the momentum slowly picking up as he spoke. He was getting the hang of it again!

“I mean, I get the changing seats thing. But I told him! I said, “Mr. Garrison, please keep me next to Stan. He keeps me focused.” Which is true because you’re one of the only ones in class who isn’t a total moron. And even when you are- you don’t do it to annoy me- you just-“

“Wait. Uh-go back? …Why am I being called a moron? What did I do?” Sitting up from his extremely habitable position, Stan would raise his left eyebrow; his face laced with confusion. Stan would usually listen to everything Kyle had to say before talking, but that little comment about him just threw him for a loop.

“Huh? I’m not calling you a moron, dude.”

“Uh…you just did though?”

“Did I? Really?” A flicker of his own confusion would cross his face, accompanied by a subtle furrowing of his brow as he stood there for his moment. He’d tap his foot, humming a bit as he thought before it clicked. Kyle’s face would turn white. “Oh shit.” His eyes would widen, quickly holding his hands up in defense. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that…I don’t think you’re a moron…sorry..”

“No, I know. It’s okay, man, really!” Stan would give a reassuring smile, letting the comment just slide off his shoulders. “You’re upset, dude, it’s all good.” Stan had gotten used to that too. Kyle was a very…passionate person- he’d go really big when it came to his rants. Stan knew better than to actually take offense to anything Kyle said when he was in one of those moods.

“Yeah…It’s just- maybe I get Garrison not putting us together because we’re Super Best Friends. I mean- I don’t really get it- but I could see the logic behind it. But, at the very least, he could’ve sat me next to someone who wasn’t a total asshole! Sit me next to Craig! He’s quiet! Or Tolkien! Tweek! Jimmy! Butters! I would’ve been fine with anyone! Anyone! Except, Cartman! And guess what happens! Guess who I get sat next to! Guess!”

Stan would nod along as he listened, staying sat up this time instead of going to lay back down again. He wouldn’t really notice he was supposed to answer the question at first. He thought it was rhetorical! After all, he was literally there. He saw all of this happen already. But…okay? He’d play along? “Uh…Cart..man?”

“Fucking Cartman! I’m pissed, but I’m like: “OK, whatever, I can deal with this, no big deal.” But then, I’m in the middle of the test- the test. ‘You know? The thing where you’re supposed to do your own work and shut the fuck up while you do it? And for some goddamn reason-he just won’t shut the fuck up! And I’m thinking: “Is it really that hard to just shut your fucking mouth for five seconds?” But, whatever, I studied for this test so I’m gonna get a good grade on it! Right? No! Fucking no! ‘Cause it’s let’s all dog on Kyle day! And I think his voice was just so fucking grating- I just forgot half of the shit that I studied! He fucked me! He literally fucked me!”

Man. Who needed TV? Who needed Assassins Creed, Indiana Jones, and Lego Batman when you had Kyle Broflovski as your super angry, Super Best Friend? He was basically free entertainment at this point! Stan’s eyes would follow Kyle around the room, and Kyle was moving so much it looked like Stan was watching a tennis match.

“-And you know what really upsets me? ‘You know what just irks me like just a little bit? The fact that I know I’m gonna have to walk in the school tomorrow, and Wendy is gonna come up to me-and she’s gonna be like, “Oh, Kyle! How did you do on the history test? I’m really happy with my grade!” And I’m gonna have to be like, “Oh yeah, Wendy! I’m sure you are!” And then she’s gonna rub it in my face like she always does-“

“What? Wendy doesn’t rub her grades in your face…” Stan would, admittedly, get a little defensive at that statement. This was his girlfriend they were talking about! And…well- she wasn’t here to defend her own honor like he knew she would’ve liked to- so he was gonna do it for her! “Wendy wouldn’t try to make you feel bad about yourself, Kyle-“ Stan would start to say, cutting himself off when Kyle randomly pointed his index finger at him.

“You know what’s funny? I knew you were going to say that!” Kyle would argue, his eyes lit with a combo of satisfaction and frustration. “I knew you were going to defend Wendy! You’re biased, Stan!”He’d accuse. “She rubs her grades in my face all the time! You just turn a blind eye to it because you’re biased!”

“What are you talking about? Dude, if anything, I’d be biased towards you. I’ve known you longer.” Stan would jump to defend himself, rolling her eyes as he did. “I’m sorry if she’s hurt your feelings, Kyle, but I’m sure there’s no bad blood there.” That was a bit of a half-assed apology. Again, Kyle was ranting- so Stan had no idea if he actually meant half of the shit he was saying. He just wanted to resolve the situation.

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure it’s not a big deal to you! You’re not the one who’s gonna be ridiculed for getting a B on the test!” Kyle would retort, crossing his arms as he huffed.

“I’m sorry…what?” Stan looked stunned. Staring at Kyle as if he had three heads, Stan would open his mouth to speak- just to cut himself off before he managed to say anything. He was trying to think of a nice way to put this. Really really hard. “…Run that by me again?”

“Don’t be an asshole! I got a B, okay?! It’s embarrassing- I know!”

“…Dude.” Stan would pinch the arch of his nose, letting out a long, irritated sigh. “That’s what this is about? Seriously?” He’d clarify. “…This whole time, I thought you had gotten an F- or, at the very best, a D. You got a B?” Stan wasn’t even mad, honestly. Actually, he was a little bit impressed. “Kyle…” At this point, Stan couldn’t help but laugh. There was no way this was actually happening. “A B is a good grade, dude. You have nothing to worry about.”

Now, Stan knew he was one to say stupid things sometimes- but this time, he could’ve sworn that what he said was actually a little bit smart. But the look Kyle was giving him? It almost made him doubt himself. Kyle was looking at him as if he had just said he puts milk in the bowl before the cereal. His jaw would drop, holding his hand out in front of him in shocked horror. “…You did not just say that to me.”

“Kyle, seriously, you’re wigging out over nothing!” Stan would try to explain, getting up from the bed. “You don’t need to beat yourself up over this. It’s just a B! A B is, what? …80%? That’s good! That’s really good!”

“I can’t believe you’re actually telling me this right now! You have to be shitting me! Do you even know what the B stands for, Stan?” Kyle would ask, the look on his face saying that he already knew the answer. “Do you? Do you, Mr. Isaac Newton? Care to enlighten me?”

“Jesus Christ…” Stan would grumble, rolling his eyes yet again. He’d stand there for a second, shrugging the question off. “…I dunno, brilliant?”

“Brilliant?” Kyle would repeat. “Brilliant?!” Kyle’s eye would twitch, as if Stan had just said the most absurd thing he had ever said. “No! It stands for BAD. Bad, Stan! B. A. D. Bad!”

“B doesn’t stand for Bad…” Stan would state. “F stands for bad.”

“Bad doesn’t start with a F, Stan!” Kyle would scream, frustrated. “B stands for Bad, Bummer, Buffoon- think of a word that starts with a B- nine times out of ten it’s a negative connotation! It’s the most obvious thing in the world!”

“I know that YOU’D be happy to get a B- but I’m perfectly valid in being upset about it! God!”

Ouch.

The air in the room was tense; and the silence that came after Kyle’s groan didn’t really help that. They’d stare at each other for a solid minute, waiting for the other one to say something. In that moment of stillness, Kyle had to opportunity to realize how mean what he said just sounded. In that moment, Kyle would brace for impact. He expected Stan to scream at him- or storm out the door and never come back. But…Stan didn’t do any of that.

Stan would take a deep breath. A long one. “…Okay.” He’d say, breaking the silence. “You need to chill out.” Kyle would open his mouth to apologize or, at the very least, give Stan a verbal agreement- but Stan would quickly cut him off.

“You broke Baseball Rules.”

Kyle’s eyes would widen. Shit. No. No- he didn’t. Did he? Oh god. No- he definitely did. Fuck! “…Y-You didn’t tell me we were playing Baseball Rules.” Kyle would hold his hands up in defense, backing up slightly.

“I don’t have to tell you when we’re playing Baseball Rules. That’s the whole point- we don’t have to repeat the rules, they’re just in place.” Stan would remind, a mischievous smile creeping onto his face. “You said three really fucked up things about me. Three strikes. You’re out. You broke Baseball Rules.”

Baseball Rules was a game created by Stan, a game that Kyle reluctantly participated in. The rules were simple, whenever the two were in an a little tiff, if either of them slung three insults in a row, they’d strike out.

Stan made the game in order to prevent the two from blowing up at each other, and it worked pretty well! But, admittedly, Baseball Rules wouldn’t be half as effective if it weren’t for what came after you struck out. That worked like a charm every single time.

“Stan, wait…” Kyle would try to reason, glancing behind him quickly to try to get an idea of how far he was from the door. Maybe he could run if he tried hard enough? “I’m sorry, dude…I don’t think you’re stupid, really-“

“I know you don’t!” Stan would cut Kyle’s apologizes short, stepping forward with the attempt of cornering him. “I’m not mad at you! But…rules are rules! If I let you get away with it this time- where do I draw the line, ya’ know? I’m sure you understand.”

Kyle would yelp at Stan stepping forward, quickly turning himself around to dash around him. “Just this once! I’m really sorry- I won’t do it again! I’m not upset anymore-“

“That’s great!” Stan would exclaim. “I’m glad you’re not upset anymore! But it’s the principle of Baseball Rules. I really wish I didn’t have to! I wanna let you off easy, really!” He didn’t. He knew he didn’t, Kyle knew that too. Just like how Stan knew Kyle well enough to know that he’d try to run around him; that’s why he’d turn as well, cornering Kyle officially.

“Stahahan!” Kyle would stumble backwards, his legs hitting his bed. He’d sink to the floor, already beginning to kick his legs. “It’s just a made up gahahame! Plehehease!”

“I’m not even touching you yet!” Stan would tease, wiggling his fingers right above Kyle’s hips. “I’ll go easy, okay?” He’d sink down right after him, sitting down in front of him.

“Noho! Nohot okahay! DohohOHOHON’T-“

“Don’t tickle your ears or your neck. I know, I know!” Stan would cut Kyle’s desperate pleas short, abruptly beginning to drill his fingers into his hips. “You’d think I’d know how to tickle my Super Best Friend. I can’t believe you’d think I wouldn’t! You cut me deep, Kyle.”

“That’s nohot-!” Kyle would shake his head, cutting himself off as he started to impulsively swing his arms in defense. Kyle was way too ticklish as it was, but Stan’s constant teasing was making it a thousand times worse.

“I knowww, that’s not what you were going to say. You were going to ask me not to tickle you, and…” Stan couldn’t keep the shit eating grin off of his face. “…you know I’m not gonna do that.” He’d laugh, fighting back the urge to make fun of how red Kyle’s face was.

“Stohohop ihihit! Plehehease, I’m sohohorry!” Kyle wouldn’t even last ten seconds before pleading for mercy. That was one of Stan’s favorite things about playing Baseball Rules, besides being able to hear Kyle’s laugh. That was always first on the list.

“I know you’re sorry! I forgive you!” He’d reassure, managing to dodge every punch Kyle threw at him. “Let’s do this, okay? You let me get a few words out, and then I’ll let you go, okay? I’ll stop tickling you once I’m done.”

Kyle wasn’t 100% sure how legit that offer was. Normally, Stan would stop when he wanted to- so it really depended on how merciful he was feeling on that day. For all Kyle knew, Stan could just say sike and keep going. But…at the same time, maybe he wouldn’t. If anything, he might as well take the bait.

“Okahahay okahahay!”

“Okay? Great!” Stan would smile, moving his hands from his hips to his sides, squeezing them as he began speaking. “I get that you like getting A’s. That makes sense- everyone likes getting them. But it’s okay to not get them sometimes. You shouldn’t be stressing yourself out about your grades, you’re doing an awesome job with them.”

“Buhut-“ Kyle would start, just to be cut off by Stan suddenly skittering his fingers against his ribs. “SHIHihihit!! Ohoh my goHOHOhod! Dohohon’t doHOHO thahahat!!” Kyle would squeal loudly, his eyes flying open as his kicking and punching intensified.

“I’m not done yet!” Stan would sing-song, poking in between each rib for each syllable. The shit-eating grin on his face would only grow as he continued. “As I was saying; you’re doing awesome, dude! I’m not saying you shouldn’t focus on your grades- i’m saying you shouldn’t stress yourself out about them.” Stan would clarify.

“Your grades don’t determine how smart you are. And, either way, you have some kick ass grades, dude! You are the smartest person I know, Kyle-“

“Thahahat’s nohohot trUHUHUE- OHOH MY GOHOHOD- FUHUHUCK OHohohoff!!”

Stan would jokingly roll his eyes at Kyle’s cackling, shaking his head softly. “I’m barely even touching you!” That was true, all he was doing was fluttering his fingers over his stomach. Of course, he knew how effective that was- he just chose to play dumb. ‘Made things more fun!

“It is so true.” Stan would insist, his tone genuine and honest. “…And if you even try to tell me I know Wendy, I’m gonna roll up your jacket. Don’t fuck with me.” He’d playfully threaten. “Wendy doesn’t count. Wendy- Wendy is different. That’s the thing- you guys are both smart. And we’re allowed to have two smart people in South Park. With the amount of morons we have- god knows we could use ‘em.”

“Kyle, I wouldn’t be calling you smart if you weren’t. You are so smart, dude! You know fucking Pig Latin! Do you know anyone else who knows Pig Latin?”

“YOHOHOU!” Kyle would retort, doubling over with laughter. “YOHohohou knohohow pihig lahatin tohohohoo!” He’d would swing at Stan’s face yet again, not expecting it to horrible backfire like it did. Stan would take the swing as an opportunity to snake his hands under his arms, quickly skittering his nails all over his armpits.

“Because you taught me it, Kyle!” Stan would exclaim, having to hold back his own laughter as Kyle shrieked. “You ran right into my point! You make me smarter! I would be a total moron if it weren’t for you! Do you know the amount of times I’m stuck on something and I think to myself, “What would Kyle do?” You’re a genius, dude!”

Maybe it was the fact that he was laughing so hard, or maybe it was the surplus of compliments Stan was dumping onto him. But, either way, Kyle was bright red; practically screaming with laughter as he tried to sink himself into the floor. An effort that was obviously in vain. His arms were slammed tightly down against Stan’s fingers in an effort to protect himself; of course, not even realizing until after the fact that it was having to opposite effect.

“S-STAHAHAHAHAN!”

“Okay, okay I’m almost done!” Stan would quickly say, yanking his hands out from under Kyle’s arms; moving them back to his stomach, lightly skittering his fingers again. “All of this is to say- you’re being too hard on yourself! You are more than a grade you get on a test- putting aside the fact that a B is already a good grade!

“And- you know what? B doesn’t stand for Bad!”

And with that, Stan would still his fingers. The two of them would sit there, Kyle immediately noticing how Stan didn’t seem to be making any attempt of getting up. He’d still be giggling from the aftermath, eyeing Stan up and down expectingly.

“…One more thing.”

Of fucking course!

“…What does B stand for, Kyle?”

Oh shit. Shit. He was fucked. The truth of the matter was Kyle had no clue. It obviously wasn’t Bad. But…he didn’t really know what answer Stan wanted from him. From the expectant look on Stan’s face, he obviously already had an answer in mind. Kyle would think long and hard, searching every crevice of his brain in the hopes that somehow, someway, the answer would magically come to him.

“…Beheheautiful?”

“Ohhh…that’s a good one..” Stan would say in mock amazement, beginning to turn; as if he was about to get up. Kyle would let out a sigh of relief, thanking the universe for sparing him this time. The funny thing about that, though? He wasn’t. Stan would swiftly turn back around, making a buzzer noise to signify that Kyle had gotten the wrong answer before blowing a quick raspberry on his neck.

It all happened so fast, Kyle didn’t even have time to say anything- the only thing that left his mouth was a screech; jolting so hard that he yanked himself away from Stan, falling onto his side. He’d quickly scrunch his neck, along with covering it with his hands.

Kyle was too busy giggling on the floor to realize that Stan had gotten up, walked back over to Kyle’s backpack, and came back with his water bottle. He’d sit next to him, offering his hand to help him up. Kyle would hesitantly take it, a relieved sigh escaping him as Stan pulled him up- no strings attached.

“Broflovski.”

“Whahahat?”

Kyle would raise his eyebrow with giggly confusion. Stan had never referred to him by his last name. They were strictly on a first name basis! Stan would return the confused look with his own confused look. After a few seconds, his eyes would widen as he realized why Kyle looked so confused. He’d shake his head, beginning to chuckle softly.

“Noho! Broflovski! B is for Broflovski!”

It would take a second for Kyle to understand what Stan was saying. Once it clicked, Kyle would turn to Stan, a fed-up smile on his face. God, he was cheesy. He’d hold out his hand as Stan gave him his water bottle, glancing at him again before rolling his eyes and taking a sip.

“What? You don’t like it?” Stan would tease, elbowing him as soon as he closed the cap to his water bottle. “It makes sense! I thought it was funny! Broflovski! It starts with a B- and it’s your last name! Get it?” Stan would repeat, his eyes bright with excitement.

“The more you repeat it the less funny it gets.” Kyle would jokingly groan in annoyance, even scooting a little further away from him! For bit purposes! Stan would scoot right after him, the giddy smile still on his face.

“…Can I tell you something?”

“If it’s B for Broflovski again, I’m gonna hit you.” “It’s not! It’s not.” Stan would say, the smile on his face never wavering. Kyle couldn’t help but smile with him, ushering him to continue with what he was going to say.

“I’d take a Broflovski for life over an A on a test any day.”

Maybe it was stupid for Kyle to be as grateful as he was for Stan. He knew he had a bit of a temper when it came to things like this- and he knew he could be a huge handful at times. But, for reason, Stan stuck by him. Maybe he was bored? Maybe he had nothing better to do, no one better to be with?

But when Kyle looked at the pure happiness on Stan’s face, he couldn’t help but feel like that wasn’t the case. It made him happy, knowing that Stan enjoyed his company just as much as he enjoyed his- even when he was being dramatic. They were Super Best Friends through thick or thin, no matter the circumstance. That felt…nice.

“Thanks, Stan…that means a lot.”

[innerstrawberrypolice]

2,604 words into writing my fic, and all the reader and Snow have done together is shake hands (he has also already called her, in so many words, broke and nasty)

[strrwbrrryjam]

hi, so i havent written in years??? but i wanted to get back into this. i like it, i think. its sweet, i hope you guys like it too, constructive criticism is appreciated <3

[strawberry-whump]

Betrayal

[Plain text: Betrayal]

Content warnings: betrayal, captivity, (implied) neurodivergent whumpee, second person POV

Word Count: 335

Fulfilling day 1 of @whumpshaped’s “write me a novel” challenge. Prompt used is friends.

———

“Look,” Aaron says. “If I weren’t here, you’d be in way worse of a situation, okay?”

You don’t look at him, just keep on staring at the wall of the room you’re in. God, you’re an idiot. Why the fuck did you think that anyone— that any of them— To think that you thought you could be friends.

You don’t say any of this out loud, just swallow and ask, not letting your voice betray your anger, your grief, anything. “Were the others in on this?”

They shake their head. “No, no, but it was going to happen whether I helped them or—“

“Just shut up and fuck off, okay.” Your voice cracks at the end of your sentence. “I don’t need your protection, whatever that means. Just go away and lie to someone, and stop pretending to be my friend.”

You’re not going to cry. You’re not. You’re not.

“I’m trying to help you,” they say, as they leave. You don’t validate that with a response.

—

You’ve moved around a lot, it’s been like that since you were a kid, and never really stopped when you were an adult. Never really good at forming bridges, all too good at burning them, so getting in your car and driving and driving and driving, like that woman from Gravity… it was never all that hard.

Something about this town, though, was different. One of your clients, Aaron, it’s funny how he’s the first you met, invites you to grab a drink with him and his friends, and it’s unlike you, to say yes, but there’s something about this town, and something about the mood you’re in, and something about how he did pay you a good amount of money… so you say yes.

His friends are nice. Quieter than you expected, and for some reason you can’t figure out — maybe it’s something in the air, maybe it’s your mood, maybe it’s the way they’re all so excited when you talk about art, or photography, or playing the violin — you really like them. Is this why everyone finds it so hard to leave?

So, you stay.

Idiot.

[imagine-shenanigans]

thinking about you going up to three broad shouldered men in a bar because your crazy ex/some random creep/etc is following you and you beg them to pretend they know you. You slide into the empty space at the table theyve commandeered and right as the other guy comes up a scary looking big motherfucker with a balaclava and eyeblack slots himself right in next to you. You press yourself into his side when the creep comes up and you call Ghost your boyfriend, and Ghost (as you later learn to call him) grabs your hip possessively, tucking you in closer.

He doesn't let you go, later, when the creep fucks off. Instead, he slips your phone out of your pocket and puts his contact inside. Texts himself and slips it back into your pocket while making eye contact. Blows smoke in your face and snorts when you wave it away, huffing at him and sticking your cute little tongue out at him.

You have fun with the military men that night, Ghost even walks you home to feel safe. You wake up the next day, happy to be safe and sound, and go about your day. Forget all about Ghost for awhile, because he never texts you first.

Weeks later, youre in the middle of your kitchen when he walks in, a copy of your key in his hand. Slots himself in behind you and rests his chin on your head even when you panic and claw at him.

What? He's home now, came home to you, his partner. Just like you wanted, right? You wanted him, now you've got him.

[inkskinned]

did you really let them ruin that for you?

when i was younger i worked on a farm for 3 years. during late july and august we would have unfettered access to the strawberry plots. they were all warm and ripe and fresh. i think i ate a pound of dirt back then. i think i picked enough seeds out of my teeth to build a temple. the summer hours are long; i'd come home with the bruising stain of juice running in a seam along my cheeks and fingers and jaw.

why didn't you protect your precious things from other people? you knew this could happen.

i can't eat strawberries from the store anymore, they don't taste right. something about the florescent lights and the chill of them and the way they are absent from the vine. they feel bleached and bland, a wasted party dress. i watch other people eat strawberries and miss enjoying them. none of the store-bought strawberries will have mold or bugs, okay. they will be big and bright red and perfectly shaped. but they are not the ugly and real strawberries of my summer, awarded by the soil and the hot sun up ahead and hours spent crouched, plucking.

i didn't mean to let it get ruined. i wish it hadn't been. i miss having it. but i came back to it afterward and it just wasn't the same as it had been. i know love is never wasted. but it feels like - love did this. it's not that i never loved it, you know? it's that i did.

[becca-e-barnes]

I’ve been enjoying some premature ejaculation thoughts recently and it’s probably time to talk about them before they makes me even dizzier 🤤

Just the thought of slipping Bucky’s thick, leaking dick slowly inside you while you’re on top. The glide down on top of him is wonderful and when he’s as deep inside you as you can manage, you take a second to just enjoy feeling stuffed full.

You feel him throbbing inside you, his dick twitching and although he’s trying to keep it together, he’s determined not to let you know that.

After a couple of seconds, you raise your hips and let them fall again, working just a couple of inches towards the base of his cock.

You do the same again a few more times, barely establishing a rhythm before you feel Bucky’s grip on your hips tighten. “You have to slow down for me, sweetheart.”

The strain in his voice floods you with panic for a second and you stop moving.

“Does it hurt? We can try a different position if you like.” You cradle his face with one hand while holding yourself up with the other, staying as still as possible.

“It doesn’t hurt. Just might not last very long like this. Feels so good.” He’s a little embarrassed to admit it but he’s got nothing to worry about.

“Oh? You like this?” You roll your hips once more and enjoy the sharp intake of air it forces into your partner. “Is this too much for you?”

He nods sheepishly, aware of how much he wants this but of how much he wants to please you too.

“You gonna cum inside me already?” You tease, biting your bottom lip while you raise your hips up, letting him slide almost entirely out of you before sinking back down.

The moan it draws from him is beautiful but you’re not stopping there. “You are, aren’t you? You’re going to stuff my pretty pussy full of cum for me. Gonna make sure you have nothing left tonight.”

“Fuck, fuck.” He groans, his hands gripping your waist, pressing you down so he can finish as deep inside you as he can. His face is scrunched in pleasure while his hot cum shoots in thick ropes against the walls of your eager pussy.

There’s something so satisfying in the knowledge that it took no time at all for him to finish and if the rest of the evening is like this, it’ll be a whole lot more fun than you imagined.

[webdiggerxxx]

꧁★꧂

[strawurberries]

Rain

Summary: Vash has never experienced rain, but she is how he imagines it to all be.

Authors Note: Wrote this in one sitting, edited (lol not really) in one sitting, and posted this in one sitting. Guys I think I might be on drygs or something? This is scary how did I do this all so quick?

Warnings: Fem!Reader (she/her) pronouns, 3rd person writing.

Rain, as it had been described to him once, felt like feather light kisses upon sun-smothered skin; a relief that only the heavens would offer, and a delight that only the blessed could experience. As a child, Vash had been in awe, hoping that he would be able to one day feel such a thing. He could practically imagine it: the small, cool raindrops that would glide down his forehead, against the curve of his nose and over the corner of his mouth, finding its way over the edge of his chin. He could imagine the softness of his hair after the rain, the smell of wet Earth, and the calming energy that seemed to permeate the very air with its existence. After he wandered the deserts, though, he came to the realization that rain would never come to him, and he would only be able to imagine such an intimate touch by the skies—until the day she kissed the nape of his neck.

It was a hesitant, fluttery thing—as fickle as man’s nature yet as sweet as late night laughter. She had pressed her lips right above a jagged scar, deliciously gentle and faint. The ghost-like affection made him crave more, a thundering in his heart and an uncomfortable feeling blooming in the pit of his belly. With a small giggle, which he didn’t even know he had whispered out, and a vague stammer in his voice, he had asked what she was doing. 

And she, in all her holy-ness, had smiled and responded, “loving you as best I can.”

And this morning, when she had wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed the awkward jut of his spine, just below the back of his neck, she had said the same thing. With that sleepy, barely-awake-but-still-vaugely-there gravelly voice making his ears turn a faint red. He knew she could see that, and he knew that later she’d tease him, and then he’d pout and whine, and they’d laugh—but right now he didn’t want that banter. He wanted to enjoy the silent love that flowed through the warmth of her arms and the slight pain of her chin digging into his back as she stared up at the ceiling, counting spider-webs and the knots within the wooden beams. 

“Morning mayfly,” he tilted his head up as well, one hand squeezing her arm and the other dropping to his side. “How’d ya sleep?”

She hummed and pulled back slightly, “good. You?” A gentle kiss was pressed into the middle of his back, another one below, and one more above. Her nose dragged along his exposed flesh, hot and lightly layered in sweat from the sweltering heat of the day. Like raindrops, she indiscriminately showered him in divinity—a kiss there, a smile here, a squeeze of her arms, or the loving tone of her low, morning-sung humming. 

He hung his head and stared at her intertwined fingers. He wished he could lace his hand with hers; their bodies pressed so close together that every crevice and curve filled with the other's skin, morphing into a set of lovers who ascended beyond themselves, and came to understand each other in such entirety that they were nothing but one. He tapped the knuckle of her left ring finger, feeling the patterns on her flesh, memorizing her down to the atom. “Perfect,” he mumbled, “the best I’ve slept in a while.”

He could feel her grin, another raindrop of love pressed to his side, “good. You needed it.” She loosened her grip and opened her palms up, a silent question. He couldn’t help the bashful, knowing smile that tugged at his lips. Almost hesitantly, as if his touch could break her, he set his palm against hers. They slotted together like it was destined—it was the only thing that made sense anymore. The curl of her fingers and the awkwardly bent angle of his, the dip of her palm giving way for the hills of his. The feeling of being so full, so perfectly complemented, made emotions well up in his chest. His heart tightened and he remembered what he had been told about rain:

“The clouds hold the water until the pressure is so great, so overpowering, that they weep and burst. From the sorrow of the clouds comes the life below. Every horrible experience can be also understood to be a blessing by others. The clouds cry and the flowers drink.”

The love, he felt, would burst out his pores in waves of stuttering conviction and hidden affection that sometimes he, himself, didn’t understand. He could feel the waves of emotion tumbling over his heart and lungs, making his eyes sting with pain and pure adoration for the woman behind him, for the kindness she showed and the patience she held between her teeth.

The pitter patter of rain drumming against the edge of the human conundrum, the human condition, and the human experience. Everyone is so different, yet at their cores, all life requires the same of each other.

“I love you.”

Drip, drip, drip; each raindrop plays a part in a nature-wide symphony of music. The ancient song of life and everything that follows thereafter.

She gripped his hand and pressed her cheek against the rough edge of his shoulder blade. “I love you too.” As gently as the Earth accepted the rain, as the plants drank the water, and as the animals bathed in the heavens—as easily as they had listened to their natural instincts, she had admitted her love. Without doubt, without the pain of the clouds nor the hesitation that Vash showed in every action and movement, she had said the words he so desperately craved. 

He squeezed her hands, no longer knowing where his body began and her’s ended, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“I love you.”

A rainstorm of kisses dripped down his spine, “I love you.”

Teardrops fluttered off his eyelashes, dripping onto their intertwined hands. Like rain, the tears slid across flesh and disappeared into the crevices of flesh. “I love you.”

Another raindrop, another smile, another tear, another burning confession.

The storm, it seems, will go on.

[strawmyberry]

aaa omg i absolutely loved your headcanons they are so cute!! 💗 also im tumblr is being mean 😭 i hope everything gets fixed soon <33

aa do you think you could maybe write something with kenny?? lee or ler is fine, anything you want!! your hcs for him are just so adorable i can't choose which side i like more 😭 i honestly am just looking forward to anything you have planned <3 tysm!! i hope you have a good day! 💗💗

aaaa!!! toast you are the sweetest 🥹 thank you so much for all the love and support!! it truly means the world! im so sorry this took so long!!! i hope it’s at least a little bit worth it- im still trying to get into the swing of things- so im sorry if it isn’t the best! also it has a super long intro sorry sorry sorry!! i hope you guys enjoy!!! (first fic yayyyy!!!)

— ❤️🍓 strawberry 🍓❤️

🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓

Swallow Your Pride!

Lee Kenny / Ler Stan and Kyle

Word Count: 3,038

With Cartman in Nebraska for the first few weeks of summer, Stan and Kyle think a celebration is in order! Kenny is a bit iffy on the idea; but every problem can be solved with just a little bit of friendly persuasion!

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

“Oh shit, dude. I’m so sorry to hear that.”

That day had started like any other. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and even though it was summer, the snow kept snowing. Softer than it normally would, sure, but the snow was a bit of a damper on the Teen Beach Movie summer that Stan had secretly been yearning for. 

It wasn’t hard to believe that Stan expected today to go like it typically would: a casual hang-out, at his house, with his friends, the four of them having a fun little Mortal Kombat: Onslaught tournament. 

“No! No, really, I am! It’s not gonna be the same without you, man. How long are you gonna be there for?” 

But it seemed like fate had other plans today. With his phone held against his ear, Stan would pace around his living room as he spoke. Kyle sat criss-cross-applesauce on the floor while Kenny laid on his side behind him, resting his head comfortably on one of Stan’s throw pillows. They were (not so) patiently awaiting Cartman’s arrival. They wanted to start kicking some ass already!

Every now and then Kyle would manage to make eye contact with Stan, shooting him a look that could only be described as a mixture of irritation and confusion. “Where the fuck is he? What’s taking so long?” He’d whisper, crossing his arms tight against his chest as Stan held up his “give me a second” finger. He’d grumble a bit at that, adding an eye roll to the mix. They could’ve started thirty minutes ago if Cartman came when he was supposed to! 

“Yeah.” Stan would pause, nodding his head. He’d turn, his eyes bouncing between Kyle and Kenny. “No, don’t worry. I’ll tell them.” He’d say, turning back around as he’d begin pacing a bit more. That seemed to peek Kyle’s attention even more, now turning to Kenny with a raised brow. 

“What do you think they’re talking about? What excuse is Cartman gonna try to pull this time?” He’d ask, trying his hardest to keep his volume low. He had never really been the best whisperer. 

“I don’t know..” Kenny would shrug, getting up from his comfortable laying position to be able to hear better. 

“Maybe he died.” Kyle would joke, letting out an overdramatic sigh. “That would be fucking awesome, wouldn’t it?” He’d add, cupping his hands together in a wistful Disney princess pose. 

Kenny couldn’t help but let a few giggles slip at Kyle’s dramatics, beginning to tighten his parka. Kyle would start softly chuckling to himself as a result of Kenny’s infectious laugh, being quick to shush Kenny while still staring at Stan intently. “Shhh! Duhude, shut up! I can’t hear!” He’d whisper through his own giggles, batting his hand at him. 

“I hear you. Okay. Yeah. I’ll let them know.” Stan would stop his pacing, now beginning to walk himself back to the center of the living room. Kyle’s giggles slowly faded as he analyzed Stan’s facial expression. He looked…upset. Shit. Did something genuinely happen? He was only joking about Cartman dying-!

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you later. Bye, dude.” 

Stan would wait for the click, shifting his eyes from his phone to the two curious boys sitting in front of him. He looked…sad. The somber expression on his face scaring away the playful atmosphere that had once graced the room. Kyle couldn’t help but hesitate before asking his next question. 

“…What happened?”

Stan would blink at that question, staring at his phone again before slowly sliding it into his pocket. “Kyle…it’s Cartman…” Stan would start, his tone heavy and serious. Oh god. Kyle would begin mentally preparing himself. He prayed to God that Stan wouldn’t start crying. He couldn’t handle Stan crying. But, after a split second, it was apparent he wouldn’t have to worry about that at all.

“Cartman’s gone for two weeks!” 

The mood in the room completely changed. Stan’s face completely changed. The frown on his face turned itself around real quick, now replaced with one of the most vibrant smiles Kyle had ever seen. Dramatic asshole. That was his first thought. After he had comprehended what Stan said though, he had a completely different thought. 

“You’re shitting me!”

“I’m not! I’m not shitting you!” 

“You’re not shitting him?”

“No! No, I’m not! Cartman’s-“

“Dude!”

“-going to Nebraska-“ 

“No way!” 

“-to see his family! For two weeks!” 

“Thank you, GOD!” Kyle would cheer, jumping up from the floor. “Dude we gotta- we gotta do something!” Kyle could hardly contain himself as he celebrated. Deep down, he wanted to burst out into song. ‘The Witch Is Dead’ sounded like a pretty good option at the moment. And he wasn’t the only one pumped up either! Kenny was bouncing on his toes with excitement! They had prayed for this day for so long- and it was finally happening! 

“We need to celebrate!” Stan would exclaim. “Uh- shit! What should we do? It has to be something special.” He’d begin pacing around the room again, only this time; he was joined by Kyle and Kenny. 

“We should go get food!” Kyle would suggest. 

“Yeah! Let’s get food!” Kenny would second. Sure, you couldn’t see the smile on his face because of his parka; but you could pretty much hear it! 

“Okay! Food!” Stan would agree. Perfect! This was going great! “It’s settled then! We’re getting food!” He’d announce, the real question settling in as the words left his mouth. “…Uh. Where are we going to get food?” Oh. Yeah. They hadn’t really thought about that. Huh. The three boys would exchange looks, waiting for one of the other two to offer up an idea. 

“Bennigan’s!” Kyle would confidently propose, an accomplished smile on his face. “We never go to Bennigan’s! Let’s do something new and go to Bennigan’s!” 

Stan’s jaw would drop, nodding his head. “Dude! You’re a GENIUS! Hell yeah, let’s go to Bennigan’s!” With that settled Stan would rush over to the door, Kyle following closely behind. The two were so eager, they wouldn’t even notice how Kenny wasn’t following after them. 

“I can post it on TikTok- so he knows how much fun we’re having without him!” Kyle would smirk. He had always dreamed of this moment. He could only imagine how red his stupid, smug face would get after seeing how not-in-shambles they were without him there. 

“Dude. Perfect! This is gonna be sick!” Stan couldn't help but smile as he opened the front door. He’d turn, now noticing how Kenny was still in the same place that he was ten seconds prior. Maybe he hadn’t heard them the first time? “C’mon, Kenny! We’re going to Bennigan’s!” He’d call, beginning to make his way out the door.

“You guys go without me- have fun!”

Well- that wasn't what they expected. Stan would walk back into the house, Kyle following. He’d close and lock the door, a frown forming on his face as he walked toward Kenny. “But...you have to come! It won't be a celebration without you!” He’d insist. 

“Yeah! ...Do you not like Bennigan’s?” Kyle would ask, trying to offer up solutions. “We can go someplace else if you don't wanna go to Bennigan’s!” 

“No…Bennigan’s isn’t the problem.” Kenny loved the sound of going to Bennigan’s. Sitting and eating with his friends sounded like so much fun. But…he didn’t think he could afford that right now. It sucked that he had to turn the offer down, but it was much better than the alternative-

“Kenny…you know we could pay for-“

“No.” Kenny would deny Kyle’s offer before he even got the full thing out. It wouldn’t be the first time this exact scenario had played out; and every single time Kenny agreed to let them pay for him, he’d get home and have to deal with the guilt of it all. He didn’t wanna deal with that today! 

“Dude, it’s really not a big deal. Kyle and I can split-“

“I don’t want you to pay for me.” Throwing himself down onto Stan’s couch, he’d cross his arms. He wasn’t going to budge on his one. “Just go. Have fun!” Grabbing the drawstrings on his parka, he’d pull it shut, signaling that he was done talking. Conversation over. 

“But, Kenny…Kenny, we really want you to-!” Kyle would start to say, only to get cut off by a hand being placed on his shoulder. He’d turn to Stan to give him another look; just to be met with a completely different look staring right back at him. 

They’d stare at each other for a few minutes, not a word leaving their lips before Kyle finally broke the silence. “…Gotcha’.”

“Kenny…” Stan would start, glancing at Kyle every now and then to make sure he was getting into position. “We really want you to come.” He’d say, sitting down on Kenny’s left. He’d wait for Kyle to sit down on his right before continuing. 

“Surely, there must be some way we could-“ Snaking his hand around, he’d loop his hands under both of Kenny’s arms, turning him counterclockwise. “Twist your arm on this?” With that line dropped, he’d give Kyle a wink. His silent way of saying “He’s all yours.” 

Kenny would let out a surprised yelp at being grabbed, taking a second to truly comprehend the predicament he was in. He’d try to open his mouth to bargain, or beg, or something that could save him- but Kyle wasted no time. All he managed to get out was a startled, “Wait- please don’t!” before Kyle began digging his finger into his sides. A squeal would be ripped from his throat as he immediately began to thrash from side to side.

“Guhuhuys! Stohohop ihihit!!” He’d giggle, a bit embarrassed by how easily it was to make him laugh. He’d thrash around in Stan’s hold, kicking his legs in an attempt to break free.

“Don’t kick me, Kenny! I’ll make it, like, ten times worse!” Kyle would teasingly threaten, squeezing both of his sides one at a time. Like a little pattern! “You know, I’ll stop tickling you if you come to Bennigan’s with us!” 

“Mm-mhmhmhmhm!!! I dohohon’t wahahanna!!” Kenny would frantically shake his head, throwing himself to and fro as he laughed. He’d clench his hands into fists, yanking himself forward. But it seemed whenever Kenny thought he got the tiniest bit of leverage- Stan would just tighten his grip. 

“Kenny, c’mon! Kyle’s being so nice to you right now!” Stan would remark, speaking from experience. Actually, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit jealous. Why couldn’t he go that easy on him? “Don’t you want to quit while you’re ahead? He’s being super merciful.”

“Stan. Don’t backseat drive, dude. If you think you could do better, we could just switch-“ Kyle would scoff, although it was easy to tell he wasn't as offended as his words made him sound. “If you don't trust my tickling abilities, that’s fine-” He’d grumble, sneaking his fingers under Kenny’s parka. He’d walk his fingers up and down his sides, making Kenny squeak from the sudden switch-up.

“No! No no- I get what you're doing- building suspense! I'm down for it, 100%. I'm just... bargaining with him! Tactics. You know?” Stan would quickly change his tune, nodding in agreement.

“Chrihihist!! Thihis ihis sohoho duhuhumb!!” Kenny would whine through his giggles, throwing his head back in annoyance. “I sahaid I dohon’t wahahanna gohoho! Stohohop ihit alreheheady!”

“But you do wanna go Kenny, that’s the problem!” Kyle would insist. “We know you wanna come- make things easier for yourself! We don’t mind paying, just swallow your pride and have lunch with us!”

“Nohohoho!!!” Kenny would squeal as Kyle started poking at his ribs. He’d jerk even harder, still being trapped between the couch and his two friends. “I dohohon’t wahahanna gohoho anywhehere wihihith yohohou dihihickheheads!”

“Dickheads?!”

“Dickheads?”

Kyle would gasp in feigned horror and offense, halting the tickling momentarily; whereas Stan would just blink in confusion. “Where did you get dickheads from? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call us dickheads before-“

“Dickheads! He called us dickheads, Stan!” Kyle would shout, a stunned expression on his face. “We can’t let him get away with that, right? He called us dickheads!” Kyle would repeat yet again, just in case the word went totally unnoticed. “Say sorry, Kenny! Say you didn’t mean to call us dickheads!”

Kenny would visibly weigh out his options as his sat there, Stan’s arms still holding his tight while Kyle’s hands laid flat on his ribs. Sure, the logical choice would be to just concede and chalk it up to a slip of the tongue. But…Kenny just wasn’t in the mood for that. “…No!” He’d confidently exclaim after a couple of beats. “You guys are dickheads and I don’t wanna go to Bennigan’s!”

“No? Fine! Suit yourself, dude. Stan, can you focus up there?” Kyle would ask, removing his fingers from Kenny’s parka. He’d crack both his knuckles, watching as Stan grabbed both of Kenny’s wrists with his left hand before beginning to hold them above his head. “You wanna be an asshole? Fine then, be an asshole!”

Kenny would giggle in anticipation, pulling at his arms, hoping for some miracle surge of strength that would let him pull his arms down. But it seemed like his luck really wasn’t there today, since no miracle surge would ever appear. He’d squeeze his eyes shut, bracing himself as he got ready for the countdown. They would have to do a countdown, right?

Wrong. Kenny was very wrong. Stan and Kyle would have some prolonged eye contact for a little bit, communicating when to start. About five seconds after Kenny closed his eyes was what they settled on. Kyle would give Stan a moment to go first, nodding his head as Stan abruptly began scribbling his fingers into Kenny’s armpits.

“WAHAhahait! Stahahan!” Kenny would jump from the sudden attack, a peel of laughter pouring out. “Hehehey, nohoho fahahair! It’s two agahahaisnt ohoneEE-“ Kenny would start to complain, not really expecting Kyle to actually go for the kill. Sure, he said he would…maybe he should’ve known better than to doubt him. But doubt him he did, so he was nowhere near prepared when Kyle dove into his hips.

“SHIHIHIHIT!” Kenny would jolt, letting out a noise that could only be described as the scream of a man who was being brutally murdered. And, for this situation? Pretty valid. “NAHAHAHAT THEHEHEHERE!” He’d cackle, practically screaming with laughter at this point. Very fitting. He’d flail his legs, trying his hardest to get one good kick in- just for a little bit of leeway. Even if it meant he had to roll off the couch, he’d take anything at this point.

“Aw, damn it…” Stan would let out a very fake sigh of disappointment, tsking as he shook his head. “I’m sorry to do this to ya’, Kenny…but I can’t understand you. Like. At all.” He’d say, pouting his lips. Just for the dramatics of it all! “I’m normally fluent in Kenny! I don’t know what happened…” He’d sigh yet again, going agonizingly slow with his portion of the tickling. “…Kyle? Do you know what he said? It’s really bumming me out…”

“Oh, Yeah! Don’t worry dude, I got you!” Kyle would nod with a bright smile, immediately going along with Stan’s little bit. “He said “Please keep tickling me Stan and Kyle! I love being tickled allll over! It’s just soooo much fun! That’s the real reason why I’m being such a dick to you guys! I just loveee being tickled!” Thank you for being so honest with us, Kenny! You should’ve just asked sooner!”

“Ohhhh, I gotcha!” Stan would nod, speeding up his fingers. “Yeah, you should’ve just said so sooner, Kenny! We could keep doing this all day! Oh- actually- that just gave me an idea! Let’s do this instead! We don’t need Bennigan’s, let’s just tickle Kenny alll day long!” Jesus fucking Christ on a bike, Kenny felt like he was going to turn into a fucking tomato. With how red he was, there wouldn’t be that much of a difference. Kenny wanted to keep on a brave face, just let them have their fun until the eventually got tuckered out. But upon hearing Stan’s new “brilliant” idea, Kenny couldn’t help but worry that they actually would put that plan into motion. He couldn’t handle that. Actually, he couldn’t really handle this.

“OKAHAHAHAY!! OKAHAHAY OKAHAHAHAY! I’LL GOHOHOHO!!”

“And?”

“I’M SOHOHOHORRY FOHOHOR CAHAHALLING YOHOU GUHUYS DIHIHICKHEHEADS!! I’M SOHOHO SOHOHORRY!”

Kenny would wave his verbal white flag of surrender in the air, and it would only take milliseconds for both Stan and Kyle to stop tickling, remove their hands, and let him go. He could’ve sworn he saw the two fist-bump as they did, but he was so out of breath, maybe he hallucinated it? He probably didn’t, but he wouldn’t point it out. Just in case.

“Great! Don’t bring your wallet, ‘whole thing is on us!” Stan would casually say, making his way to the door yet again. Kenny wasn’t able to fight the look of utter confusion on his face. The two acted like nothing had just happened, like they didn’t almost kill him a few seconds ago. How the hell-?

“We’re really happy you’re coming, Kenny..” Kyle would say, staying behind for a bit as Stan walked out the door. “You can catch your breath- but don’t take too long! Stan and I are gonna wait for you outside, and we’re not going without you!” And just like that, they were gone. Like nothing had happened. Kenny would be left on the couch; feeling breathless, confused, and kind of…grateful?

They really wanted him to go that bad? He thought he was just being a burden, but they went through all that trouble convincing him- just so he would come? That meant something, didn’t it? Maybe they had a weird way of showing it; but that meant they cared, didn’t it? It had to, right? Words couldn’t really describe how he felt at the moment. In fact, only two words would be able to leave him mouth; let alone come to mind at all.

“‘Fucking dickheads…”

[innerstrawberrypolice]

1,606 words into my fic, and it's just exposition. God help me, God help us all, actually.

[strrwbrrryjam]

so! i've just started to collect all of my drabbles, headcanons n prompts on ao3 if u wanna ever see all of them

[imagine-shenanigans]

i havent written anything in a hot minute but creepy neighbor johnny? anyone? shakes him like a bag of chips at you all

He lives in the same shitty building you're stuck in, with no in unit washer/dryer, and the only machines are available in the basement. They're ancient but they work, and they're just so much cheaper than a laundromat and you can barely drag yourself down into the basement when youre off of your night shift to wash your work uniform, let alone drag your carcass down to a laundromat outside of the safety of your locked building.

And usually despite being tired it works great! You can chuck down an instant meal while you sit in the laundry room after work, scrolling through your phone. You get all of the four washers/dryers free for yourself (though you never use all four, youre not crazy).

And whenever Johnny's home he's always jetlagged to fuck, and if he's alone he'll just do his laundry whenever he feels like it - which usually tends to be in the middle of the night, because if Mrs Johnson from down the hall grabs his bicep one more time he'll scream.

His obsession with you immediately snaps into place when he sees you sitting on top of the dryer, half asleep as you play on your phone. (Because like hell are you leaving your clothes unattended.) He tries to make small talk, making jokes or asking questions just to keep hearing your tired, slightly incoherent voice.

"Cold water," you yawn, rubbing at your face.

"What's tha' hen?"

"Blood," you clarify tiredly, leaning forward a bit to point at one of his shirts. "You wanna use cold water for blood. Not hot. The proteins in blood clump or something? I think? Anyway it'll set the stain."

Johnny blinks, and flicks the knob to cold instead of hot, a chuckle rumbling in his throat. He finishes loading the washer, and then moves to bracket his arms on either side of you, leaning in just a liiiitle too close and thanking you.

Plucks at your sleep shorts and runs the flimsy fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

Makes an off color joke about what a good little housewife/spouse/husband you'd be thats just a LITTLE too enthusiastic. Doesn't move back nearly far enough when the buzzer of the dryer finishing "saves" you. It makes it so you brush up against him when you clamber down and bend to get your clothes.

Watches you leave and memorizes what floor you set the elevator to. Ecstatic when he realizes you're on the same floor - nearly goes rabid when he hears your voice coming from the adjacent wall the next morning when your shower kicks on.

From them on he seems to ALWAYS be doing laundry when you are, like he's got a sixth fucking sense for it. He never does it where you can see, either but you SWEAR he's taking your underwear from the laundry basket on purpose. You just can't prove it because no matter how hard you stare or keep watch, or wait... he always, without fail, produces a pair of your skimpiest/most revealing/tightest pair of underwear from SOMEWHERE and chuckles that he found something of yours.

Then he asks for a finders fee, and, without fail, every single time, his request escalates from the last one.

He starts with asking for a hug, then a few weeks later he's escalated to a kiss on the cheek, but he always turns his head at the last second. By the third week he's giving you a sloppy, open mouthed kiss that leaves you breathless before he'll even think about giving your underwear back.

(And, god forbid you refuse, because he'll just fucking pocket them.)

He steals your mail, comes over for a cup of sugar, anything he can think of to be in your space he will. And, of course, should you choose to ignore him, and pretend youre still sleeping? He takes advantage of the fact that you're the only neighbor on his side of the hall, and absolutely makes a menace of himself. Presses to the adjacent wall so hard even he worries he might break through it, and moans so loud you're convinced he might go mute.

And at first youre like. okay! no worries! ill just put on noise cancelling headphones! (and if you do anything without those headphones on, thats between you and god.) But then he starts moaning YOUR name and panting like youre in the fucking room with him, until you inevitably get complaints and nobody believes you when you say youre not fucking the hot military veteran because everyone heard it. (or thought they did)

and, if you ever find something of HIS and return it?

He's going to ignore your request for him to stop as your finders fee. He has some more creative ideas for it after all

[katsukiizmoon]

[Types of Kisses from Katsuki]

2:45 AM

You wake, covered in sweat and jaw in pain from undoubtedly clenching in your sleep. You’re shaky as you take in your surroundings.

With each blink you remember where you are and reality comes crashing down on you again. It’s okay, you’re okay.

A grumble from your right makes you glance over. Katsuki is blinking awake and scoots closer to you. A quiet rustle of the blankets and creak of the bed accompanying his weight.

“Y’good babe?” He mumbles, deep voice rumbling in his chest.

“Mmmhmm jus’ a nightmare, go back-ta sleep.” Your heart beat begins to slow by the second, body relaxing into the bed.

A strong, thick arm wraps around your middle and pulls you into his chest. Thick, warm, soft- you can hear his heartbeat if you press your ear to it.

“My baby, shhh.” He soothes.

A kiss is pressed to the top of your head. Once, twice, and again. A third final kiss before he tilts your face upwards a little. Your eyes flutter close and your shoulders sink, arms laying purchase around his body.

He wets his lips and kisses your forehead, slowly, leaving them there for a few moments. His own eyes are shut as he returns to sleeping, still in that position.

Rest encompasses you, wrapping you in a blanket of comfort.

[dragonmuse]

How to be a Dirtbag Fic Writer

I got to do some talking about writing today and I couldn’t stop thinking about it so here are my full thoughts on the matter of being a dirtbag fic writer.

Being the disorganized thoughts of someone two and a half decades into the beautiful mess that is writing fanfic (and a few non-fanfic things too).

What is a dirtbag fic writer? 

 I am talking about someone who is not cleaning up anything. We show up filthy, fresh out of rooting around in the garden of our imaginations. We probably smell a little from work. We will hand you our hard grown fruits, but we have not washed them and we carried them in the bottom upturned parts of our t-shirts. The fruit is a little bruised. It’s not cut up or put in a bowl yet. But we got it in the house! It’s here. Someone can eat it.  

Why dirtbag it? Because the fruit gets in the house. If you’re hemming and hawing, if the idea you want to do seems to be big or you want it perfect and shiny. If you’re imagining a ten thousand step process, so you’re not taking the first step? Dirtbag it. 

How do I dirtbag? 

That’s the best part. You just write. Sit down. One word after the other. No outline, no plan, no destination. No thought of editing. Just word vomit. Every word is a good word. It’a word that wasn’t there before. Grammar sucks? Who cares. Can’t think of the perfect word? Fuck it, put in the simplest version of what you mean. 

Write the idea that you love. The one thing you want to say. Has it been done 3000000 times? WHO CARES human history is long, every idea has been done, probably more than twice. YOU have never written it before. It’s your grubby potato that you clawed out of the ground and guess what someone can still make it into delicious french fries. 

Now here’s the critical part. Write as much as you can squeeze out of your brain. One word in front of the other. 

And then I challenge you this: at most, read it over once and then put it into the world. Just as it is. AND THIS IS IMPORTANT: DO IT WITHOUT APOLOGY OR CAVEAT.  I challenge you, beautiful dirtbag to not pre-emptively apologize. Do not make your work lesser. THAT IS YOUR POTATO! It has eyes and roots and dirt clinging to it because that is what happens.  We are dirtbagging it today. Hell really confused people at do #dirtbagwriter on it.  

Dirtbag writes id, base, lizard brain. Dig in the fertile garden of your imagination. What is the story you tell yourself before you fall asleep? What’s your anxiety this week? Your fantasy? What is going well? What do you wish things looked like? Who is the feral imaginary character you’ve been crafting to take your frustrations and joys out on? 

But, VEE, I wish to have an editor and an outline, use a cool software like scrivener instead of retching up onto a google doc and making it look NICE and PRETTY!

COOL! DO THAT THEN! IF YOU’RE ACTUALLY DOING IT! You should have a process! That’s cool and healthy and necessary for sustainable writing. But if you’re not writing because all of that seems too much? THEN DON’T. 

Did you know fic is free? That we do this from love? From sheer desire? For the love of the game? If you have a process, and the words are flowing, amazing, I love that for you, you don’t need this essay.  If you don’t, let us continue. 

What does dirtbag writing look like? 

It’s messy. It’s a little raw and tatty around the edges sometimes. It’s weird.  It’s someone else’s first draft. Maybe it winds up being your first draft, Idek, that’s your business. 

It’s jokes that make YOU laugh. It’s drama that would make YOU cry if you read it. You are your first commenter. You are your first audience (and possibly continuing pleasure! If you don’t go back and reread your own work sometimes, you might be missing out on one of your favorite authors cause you wrote it for you! Wait until you’re not so close to it. Years sometimes. Then hey, maybe some of this is pretty dang good actually.) 

It has mistakes. 

Dirtbags make mistakes, but dirtbags have published pieces. They have things other people can read out there. 

What if I don’t get good feedback? 

Look, the most likely outcome of any new, untried fic writer (and even established writers trying something new-ish)  is that you get no feedback. That’s real. Silence. It’s eerie, it’s terrible, it sucks. I don’t want to pretend it doesn’t. But nothing is not negative. It’s a big fic-y ocean out there and we are all wee itty-bitty-sometimes-with-titty fishes.  

You should still do it all over again. And again. And again. You get better at writing by writing. You just do. Nothing else replaces it. If your well is dry? Fill it with new things. Go do something new, read a new kind of book, watch a new film,  (libraries have so much good shit, you don’t even have to spend money for so many things if you have a library card), just go for a walk in a new direction. Stimulate yourself. Got a cup of something hot and eavesdrop on conversations. Refill yourself with newness. 

And hey, speaking of, do you leave comments? Because you get what you give. You can build relationships with people by commenting and that builds community and community means places to get feedback in the end. Comments are gold. They are all we are paid in. Tip your writers with ‘extra kudos’ or ‘this made me laugh’. And hey, when you go back for a re-read so you can tell them your favorite part? Ask yourself how they made that favorite part? What do you like about it?  Tone? Metaphor? The structure? Reading teaches us how to write too! 

BUT, okay. Sometimes. Sometimes there is actual bad feedback and people suck. 

You know the best part about being a dirtbag? Unrepentant block, delete, goodbye. You don’t own anyone with a shitty opinion any of your precious time on this earth. You did it for free, you gave them your dirty, but still delicious fruit and they went ‘ew, this is a dirty strawberry, how could you not make a clean tomato?”  Because you didn’t plant fucking tomatoes, did you? Don’t fight, don’t engage. Block. Delete. Goodbye. 

If someone in person, looked you in the eye when you brought them a plate of food to share at a party and they said “Why didn’t you bring me MY favorite? This isn’t cooked well at all.” You would probably write up a Reddit AiTA question about it just to hear five thousand people say they were an asshole.   Fic is no different 

And hey, when you dirtbag it? You know you did. It’s not your most cleaned up perfect version. So who cares what they think? You might make it more shiny and polished next time! You might NOT. 

Ok, but what if I don’t finish it? 

Fuck it, post it anyway. 

What if it’s bad? 

Fuck it, post it anyway. 

What if it doesn’t make sense? 

That’s ART, baby. Fuck it, post it anyway. 

What if what I want to write doesn’t work with current fandom norms? 

Then someone out there probably needs it!  And what the hell is this? The western canon? FUCK IT POST IT ANYWAY* 

*Basic human decency is not a ‘fandom norm’. Don’t be racist, sexist, ableist, fat shaming, classist or shitty about anyone's identity on main, okay? Dirtbag writers are KIND first and foremost. Someone saying you are stepping into shit about their identity is not the same as unsolicited crappy feedback about pairings. In the immortal words of Kurt Vonnegut: "God damn it, you've got to be kind.”

You’re being very flippant about something that’s scary. 

I know. I know I am. I know it can be scary. But no risk, no reward and hell, you aren’t using your goddamn legal name on the internet are you? (please for the love of fuck do not be using your legal name to write fic) You’ve got on a mask. You’re a superhero. With dirt on your cape. 

That niche thing that you think no one cares about? Guaranteed you will find someone else in the world who wants it. Maybe they won’t find it right away. Maybe they will be too shy to comment or even hit a button. But your dirty potato will stick with them. They will make french fries in their head.

You have an audience. But they can’t find you if you have nothing out there. 

Go forth. Make. 

You have some errors in this essay. 

PROBABLY CAUSE I DIRTBAGGED IT.  But I picked this strawberry for you out of my brain, so I hope you run it under some cold water and find the good bits and have a nice snack. Or throw it away. Or use it to plant more strawberries (I know that’s not how strawberries work, metaphors break when stretched).  

#dirtbagwriter 

Go forth and MAKE