interactive fiction fan

pfp by chwrryspear!! i’m ana, 20, any pronouns!! oc enthusiast, specifically when they belong to someone else’s world >:D (i am also @makersbreathchild) art tag

[auggiepierce]

my part of an art trade with @jack-o-bells !!!! I am in loooove with Jackie and im so so happy i got to draw her! And i love your Seven design so he made it here too! I hope you like it! Thank you for trading with me ^^

[jack-o-bells]

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

[jack-o-bells]

horny posting before bed. we had a f!ros strap discussion, i’m curious if anyone has any…m!ro dick headcanons LOL if not m!ro what type of straps do u think the f!ros would use. i mentioned f!dakota having like a hot pink custom made dragon rider and i stand by that

[jack-o-bells]

JACKIE for the nsfw alphabet!! for my loves jackie/seven obviously 🙂‍↕️

lololololl you and maia had the same idea so ill do i & e

the other answers are here doe

i = intimacy

jackie manages to make sex very intimate i think. she’s very big on eyecontact and making the person she’s with feel seen and comfortable and shit. with seven its like these two people are like SOUL-tied or smth so it’s always gonna be deep and mean something, but i think in th beginning that scares her. jackie is used to being the serious one with partners and feels the need to deflect with seven’s intensity. she tries to be silly during sex and he’s like ????

e = experience

despite jackie not having dated seven pre-fallout, after they stopping being friends she had a bit of a hoe phase LOLOL. it was this really complicated triangle of dynamics where she was a third on this couple for a while but felt like…yk a THIRD. (they had really freaky sex its actually what got her into rougher play) and then she started up sexual relationships with a couple friends. she’s never been a one-night stand kind of person, but relationships also always felt wrong. like they didnt fit. i think seven after the fallout specifically tried sleeping with people who reminded him of jackie, then felt gross about it, then just didn’t anymore.

[jack-o-bells]

J, A, C, and K for jackie and seven pretty please and thank you !!!

HA, i see what you did there. (also i have not forgotten about your other asks the seven/jackie one is turning out a lot longer than i intended HELPPSDBDH)

j = jacking off (masturbation)

so jackie doesn’t actually masturbate often because when she gets horny she just like…goes and has sex LOLOLOL. pre-seven she genuinely had a phonebook of people on speed dial it was bad. now, however, if seven is busy she’ll do her best to wait for him or take care of herself on video and send it to him. the thought of him watching it is what really gets her going even though if he brought it up she’d be like “IDONTKNOW WHAT YOURE TALKING ABOIT LALALAL—“

(this actually plays a roll in the fic im writing LOL)

a = aftercare

jackie needs to be cuddled, even with her flings they had to stay in bed with her for a minimum of 15 minutes. it’s a reassurance thing, if she has a quickie or if her partner has to leave immediately after she either feels like she did something wrong or that they only wanted her as like a sex doll or something. with seven though she loves taking a shared shower even if it isn’t practical.

c = cum

so. um. jackie actually has a cum-fixation. (DONT LOOK AT MEEEEE) she loves swallowing it, but also when someone finishes on her tits. i think seven feels kinda eh about doing it on her but his brain genuinely short-circuits when she picks it up with her fingers to lick it.

k = kink

ooh, jackie has a praise kink! seven does too which is funny there’s so many positive vibes in the bedroom. jackie also likes facefucking and being manhandled. (crazy typing this out LOLLOLOLO) i think seven has a hard time being as rough as she’d like so jackie tends to goad him.

[thecardsimagine]

SFW/NSFW Alphabet

I said I’d do it, and I am doing it! Please specify which alphabet you want (sfw/nsfw) and do me a favor of not requesting too many at a time, but you can of course request multiple times!! Thanks for being understanding that I was occupied with my October Challenge this month, I will try to focus more on this blog again for November! Templates are by @ the-coldest-goodbye (who I am not tagging directly because they probably are annoyed over people using their lists and tagging them lol)

≿————————   ❈ ————————≾   

SFW alphabet

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

≿————————   ❈ ————————≾   

NSFW alphabet

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

[skidfarts]

[dumortains]

infamous people....important question: what do we think of the ros strap game? both on an individual basis and ranked

[jack-o-bells]

*rubs hands like a little fly* THIS is my favorite question ever, i'm gonna just do the girlies (sorry august :( in my head ur a bottom anyways—)

blake. i think there's something about the aspect of fucking someone that f!blake takes to HEAVILY the power of it etc etc. like it's not a talent thing this is a skill she has HONED to horny perfection i just think she has amazing rhythm and experience and would give it to you so good you'd cry—

dakota. hear me out i think she'd be good for similar reasons to blake i feel like dakota likes to be on the giving side of things and dismantling whoever she's with. she doesn't strap often but when she pulls out that hot pink monstrosity you know you're done for. i feel like shes idk. meticulous with it.

gina. am i crazy for putting gina this low??? maybe? a little? she still is GOOD. but i think good at sex and good at strap is two different things i think when gina uses a strap she has you ride it and do all the work lowkey LOLLL. like if she's putting in 100% of her effort its gonna be bc shes using her own mouth or fingers. that being said. this is gina regin.

seven. i am self-indulgent all my mc's who had f!seven as an ex seven usually topped. i think she straps like semi-regularly but she is. like. mid. like not bad!!!. just nothing to write home about. it's like the emotional connection and seeing just how desperate she gets in wanting to see you come that has makes it so good yk??

victoria. ik amy said she likes being dom but dom does not equal good strap game man. i think if this was a who gives the best head tier list we'd be having an ENTIRELY diff conversation. for now i dont think vic has a lot of experience. that being said i think she likes giving strap so yk enthusiasm counts for smth!! take that how you will.

oriana. LOOKKK LOOKK IM SORRY!!!! i agree shes a giver but i do not think she has given strap ONCE!!!! give her like four years and you're seeing stars sure this woman has STRENGTH and ENDURANCE, but she has no clue wtf she's doing right now she would rather use her fingers. its liek when you try to do your hair in the mirror but your reflection isn't lining up there no coordination.

eleanor. she is my pillow princess baby. does not know what she is doing but yk what she dont need to just strap her up and hop on im sure yall will have a good time 👍

[jack-o-bells]

gahhh artfight crashed :( ik it usually happens everyyear but last year i was lucky and it didnt for me

[tieflingwizard]

i just get worse (at letting you go)

Griffin Reign hosts a pity party. RSVP only.

read on ao3 | tagging @jack-o-bells.

Griffin keeps very still, practically holding his breath. It’s a scenario that’s shamefully, painfully familiar at this point. The only difference from all the other times he’s waited to make sure Victoria’s asleep before creeping out of bed is the crawling feeling in Griffin’s skin.

Jesus, he can’t think about it—Vic is right there, he’s such a fucking piece of shit—but he can’t stop thinking about it. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Sascha on his knees, looking up at him with those dark eyes, like the sight seared itself on the backs of his eyelids forever from the moment it happened.

No, he tells himself, stop it, while rising beneath his panicked thoughts is a chorus of rotten, rotten, rotten, rotten. He has his answer, he supposes. Secretly he knew he wouldn’t like it.

The cheating is bad enough—God, cheating, he’s a fucking cheater, it burns like acid in his mouth—but to do it with a contestant? To do it with Sascha? Hasn’t he fucked up Sascha’s life enough already? With the cheating scandal—which he should probably call the other cheating scandal now, Jesus fucking Christ, Griffin—and Underground Wastebasket, and the challenge, and—

Griffin is really struggling to see a single reason Sascha should even want to be around him after this. Except, of course, for the fact that Griffin desperately needs him to still want that. He’s gotten a taste of him now and he already knows he won’t forget it. For all the good that does him.

Vic shifts in her sleep, sighing, and the guilt is briefly so overpowering Griffin might throw up.

He needs to get out of this bed. He needs to—to leave, to clear his head—he needs to—

—see Sascha—

Griffin flinches and shuts his eyes. No, he does not need that. That is dead last on the list of things he needs. That either of them need. It’s definitely too late to start caring about his duties as a mentor now of all times, but if he doesn’t pull back and try to get a clear head, to think for once in his fucking life, it scares him to think of what might happen.

The worst part is how easy it was.

He can’t. He can’t do this. Griffin pushes himself up, flinging the duvet off his body. Stifling. Too hot. He turns to place his feet flat on the floor, trying to pull the coolness of the hardwood up into his body. He looks down and immediately wishes he hadn’t—the sight of his cock half-hard in his boxers is that extra bit of condemnation he really didn’t need. Griffin groans quietly and covers his eyes with a hand, leaning back. Fuck me.

“Griffin?”

His stomach tries to leave his body by way of his ass. “Shit,” he hisses, glancing over his shoulder. Victoria blinks drowsily at him from her side of the bed, her red hair pouring over the pillow like spilled wine. His heart doesn’t slow any, a nervous patter sitting high in his throat. He tries to look normal. “Sorry,” he says in a whisper, voice tight. “Can’t sleep.” He shifts his weight forward, teetering on the edge of standing, hands curled tight into the sheet beneath him. He wants to bolt. “I think I’ll… go check on Allegra.” He can’t even meet her eyes as he says it. God, Vic.

“Mmkay.” She relaxes back into the bed, shutting her eyes. “Don’t stay up too long…” Her voice trails off as she drops away again.

Griffin watches her for a long, quiet minute, practically unblinking, until he’s sure she’s asleep again. Then he stands, tiptoes to the door, and slips out into the hallway.

He breathes easier once he’s out of the room and hates himself for it. For a lot of things, really. What’s one more to add to the list?

He walks softly to Allegra’s room, avoiding all the spots in the hall where he knows the old floor makes a racket, and peeks inside. She’s just as they left her, flat on her stomach with her head turned to the side, mouth wide open. She snuffles and smacks her lips as Griffin watches, rubbing her cheek against the duvet before she settles back down with a contented sound. He smiles despite himself, fondness like a bruise in his chest. The decorative throw from the foot of the bed has slipped a little from where Sascha draped it over her.

Sascha. And Griffin’s right back to square one. His smile dies.

How many more people will he fuck over? How many more lives will he ruin before he’s through? Why can’t he ever be satisfied with just ruining his own? He has to drag everyone he cares about down with him. It doesn’t even feel like a choice anymore—it’s gravitational, a fucking riptide around him that sucks everything out to sea. He ruins things. He ruins people. He knows this. Why can’t he stop?

Why is Sascha what makes him want to stop?

He leaves Allegra where she lays—door cracked so he can hear if she calls, just in case—and drifts through the house like a ghost. He runs his hands over the walls, blank eyes roaming unseeing over the picture frames. He doesn’t come here often. He can’t remember the last time he did. So many memories crowd the place, some so close that sometimes he feels like he could reach out and touch them as they pass.

And now another memory joins their number. Sascha, in his childhood home. Sascha, kneeling between his thighs. Sascha, laughing and pressing their shoulders together.

His hands, his mouth, his breath, his taste, his voice. All inextricable now. Fuck. Griffin hadn’t meant to let him in like that—he hadn’t even known it was happening until it was too late.

…but he had meant to. He had known. He had… wanted it. Griffin presses his knuckles into his eyes so hard that stars spot and flare against his eyelids. Good. Maybe they’ll burn Sascha out.

“Does your acceptance expire?”

“Nope.”

Jesus.

He lowers his hands, tilting his head back to blink at the ceiling until the spots disappear. He drops his gaze, and there it is. Waiting for him.

Griffin hesitates. He glances in the direction of his room. His bed. His wife. Then—dreading it, unable to do anything else—he moves toward the basement stairs.

This is pathetic, he tells himself, feeling his way down in the dark. This is really a new fucking low, Caruso. What is he even hoping to find? He knows what’s there. And he knows who isn’t.

He hesitates again in front of the door. It’s slightly ajar. Griffin hasn’t been back down since—

—Sascha’s hand curled around the base of Griffin’s cock, a lewd trail of spit connecting the tip of his tongue to its head, his hair falling in his eyes as he glanced up—

—since they left.

He breathes in deeply. There’s nothing, no lingering trace of Sascha’s cologne. He grinds the disappointment down between his back teeth—pathetic, fucking pathetic—and pushes the door open.

It’s as they left it, open boxes and memorabilia scattered across the floor. Griffin’s eyes go straight to the couch and he feels his skin heat, a wave of goosebumps rolling down his arms. He clears his throat and looks away, and it’s just as much a performance as it would have been if there’d been anyone in the room with him to see.

He starts cleaning up, tossing items back into boxes without much care. He doubts Victoria will find her way down here—no one does except for him (and Sascha, his asshole mind whispers)—but he’d rather not have to explain… anything, really. And if he puts everything back just the way it was, maybe it’ll…

Be like it never happened? Yeah right.

Putting aside the fact that’s impossible, Griffin doesn’t even know if that’s what he wants. He knows it’s what he should want. But the gulf between what Griffin should do and what he does has always been a wide one. He should have pushed Sascha away. He should have kept his distance. Instead, he chose to keep getting closer. He chose to touch Sascha, to encourage the blatant flirtation whenever he could. To linger. To look. At first he was intrigued. Then, a little enamored. Now—now he doesn’t know what he is.

Rotten.

Well, so fucking what?

He glares at the tour t-shirt in his hand, working his jaw slowly back and forth. So what if he’s an awful person? A cheater? Everyone obviously already thinks the worst of him no matter what he does. Would anyone be disappointed to learn this about him? Would anyone even be surprised? Or will they just shake their heads and say “ah, what did you expect, it’s Griffin Reign”?

Fuck them. Fuck all of them.

He throws the shirt into whatever fucking box and shoves the lot of it away against the wall. There. Good as new. He never got his dick sucked down here at all.

Griffin stands in the middle of the empty studio, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to leave. So he flings himself down onto the couch, jaw set, and glares at the opposite wall. He rubs at the deep furrow in his brow, then runs a hand down his face.

He’s exhausted, emotionally and physically. He’s tired of thinking. He needs a drink.

He is also, it must be said, still fucking horny.

“God damn it,” he mutters. He leans back to rest his head on the back of the couch, gaze pointed at the ceiling. Griffin shifts in place, trying to get comfortable, and pointedly folds his hands over his stomach. There. Nothing untoward. He’s just… reflecting. Anyone could walk in and take one look at him and say, oh look, there’s Griffin Reign, being pensive. Fondly recalling past glories, surely. Let’s leave him to it.

In reality his mind has already drifted back to the heat of Sascha’s mouth. He didn’t even last five seconds.

He shuts his eyes and there Sascha is, just as he’s been the whole night, tortuously close. Even before they left the club with Allegra, Griffin had been watching him. He looked good and he knew it, with a sheen of sweat from the dance floor and pants that clung to his legs like a second skin. Griffin knew he loved to dance but it was one thing to watch it on a stage, another thing completely to watch it in a club among a thronging mass of people: the touching, the sliding hands, the eye contact. He was in his element. He’d looked up and spotted Griffin at one point—Sascha might as well have been the only person in the entire place—and he’d smiled.

Griffin knew he was fucked then. Really knew it. And all it had taken was a smile.

Brow furrowing, he keeps his eyes firmly shut as one of his hands drifts down his stomach. He touches himself through his briefs, hissing as he finds his dick almost painfully hard. Just thinking about Sascha’s smile. What is wrong with him?

Plenty of people before Sascha have tried it with Griffin, even knowing he’s married. It started feeling actually insulting after a point—like they thought, just because of who he was, he’d fall into bed with anyone who batted their eyelashes nicely enough. Yeah, he’s a flirt, he likes the attention, but Griffin prided himself on staying loyal. It was bare minimum, sure, but it felt like a small moral victory. He isn’t allowed many of those. See? I’m not so bad. I’m not as bad as you all fucking think.

Turns out he is. He’s exactly that kind of scumbag. All it took was—what? The right circumstances? The wrong ones?

The right person?

Griffin’s breath shudders in his chest as he palms himself. God, this is so fucked. He shouldn’t be doing any of this. He shouldn’t even be entertaining it.

Too late for that, though, isn’t it? Damage is done. He might as well—

“Fuck,” Griffin whispers, throat bobbing as he swallows.

Might as well—

He looks down through his lashes at the empty space between his splayed knees. If he lets his eyes unfocus he can practically see Sascha kneeling there again. His tousled golden hair, always an oddly artful mess. The pink plush of his bottom lip, spit-slick and swollen from kissing. The cute little gap in his front teeth. He’d tasted like strawberries. Chapstick, or something. Griffin swipes his bottom lip with his tongue as if he could recapture the taste.

His thoughts float away from him, along with everything that exists outside this room. For the second time that night his awareness of the world shrinks to the four walls of this basement and not an inch further. Nothing else exists. All that matters is the warmth humming under his skin and the way he feels. The way he wants to feel. Here, in this moment, Griffin is someone who knows how to be happy. And it’s simple. Easiest thing in the world.

As far as lies go, it’s an intoxicating one. Familiar, too.

His hand slips beneath his waistband, practically with a mind of its own. Griffin rolls his head back as he curls his fingers around himself, imagining it’s another hand, imagining Sascha is here—he’s come back, or Griffin has followed him to his hotel like he desperately wanted to, like the stupid smitten idiot he is. But it’s not right, not close enough. Sascha’s hand is more slender than his, softer on the fingertips—the shape is all wrong, his calluses catching and setting his teeth on edge.

One handjob and now his body rejects any other touch. However amazing the handjob in question, that’s fucking ridiculous. Griffin yanks his hand out, spits in his palm, and impatiently shoves it back in.

Part of him just wants it over with. Maybe it’s a spell that needs to be broken. An exorcism. He’s still wound up because technically he didn’t finish, though, god, he’d been close. So, okay, he’ll jerk himself off and then it’ll be out of his system and whatever localized fucking madness he experiences when Sascha is in a room with him will stop. Fine. Better for everyone, probably.

Though Sascha doesn’t even have to be in the room, does he? He’s not in this one. There’s just the memory of him, the faintest suggestion, and Griffin is jerking off to it with verve and determination. He would laugh at himself if his breath weren’t coming quicker, heated desperate pants, his teeth locked to keep any errant sounds caged behind them. His free hand clenches into a fist on his thigh, nails biting into his skin.

“Fuck.” He spits in his hand again, desperate, angry at himself, but it’s not enough. He’s just spinning his wheels and going nowhere. He tosses his head back hard in frustration and nearly cracks his neck on the couch.

Okay. Not that fucking serious.

He takes his hand off his dick, folding his arms and stewing in the silence, one knee jogging uselessly in place. He goes to stand, rocks back down, then makes up his mind and gets to his feet. It makes the tent in his boxers even more obvious than it had been sitting down, and he grimaces at himself. He goes to the door to the studio to check that it’s shut, then turns the lights on, blinding himself momentarily with a hiss.

Blinking as his eyes adjust, he finds himself looking at the boxes against the wall. Maybe…

He takes it back. Yanking boxes of his own memorabilia out to dig haphazardly through them, effectively undoing all the work he just did, is the new record-setting low. He can’t even imagine what it might look like from the outside. He must look deranged. Possessed. Certainly far too self-obsessed, which—okay, fair. It’s here somewhere, it has to be, he just fucking put it away—

Griffin drags the tour shirt out with a victorious sound, then immediately feels insane. Rather than dwell on that any longer than he needs to, he paces back to the couch, falling onto it and kicking his feet up onto one of the arms. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek, holding it bunched to his chest.

Now he chooses to get in his head about it?

“Ooh.” Sascha held the tour shirt flat to his chest, chin dipped as he visibly tried to gauge whether it was his size. Griffin, watching him, smiled.

“I’ll notice if it goes missing,” he warned him lightly. He didn’t actually know if he would.

“Oh, please.” He tossed the shirt casually over his shoulders so it hung around his neck. “I wouldn’t stoop that low. Now, could you stand over there and close your eyes for a second?” His grin was blinding, and he got what he really wanted: Griffin laughed.

Griffin might have given it to him if he’d asked, but he hadn’t. The night went in a different direction soon after.

He thumbs the collar of the shirt, rubbing it between his fingers as he thinks. Then he’s in danger of thinking too much, so he drags the shirt up to his face and breathes in. His eyes slide shut. There.

He’s fucked. He’s really, really fucked.

Griffin has always taken too much notice of Sascha, from the first moment he saw Back to Strangers’ audition tape. It’d been the first one to make him sit up in interest, to such a degree that his band members immediately noticed and ribbed him for it. I think I know what he likes, Dionne had said with a sly grin, eyes cutting from Sascha on the screen making bedroom eyes at the camera to Griffin’s riveted stare. He’d shot her a dirty look and made sure to pay less attention after, which wasn’t hard to do; Back to Strangers was the only band that stood out at all that day. And it wasn’t even all due to their pretty frontman, which was high praise.

He doesn’t know colognes, he mostly just wears whatever’s been picked out for him, so Griffin can’t name the smells that are making his whole brain light up. Something citrusy, something kind of woodsy, like the overpowering smell of incense in a new-age shop with crystals and fucking… gongs in the window. It doesn’t matter; it’s not the smell itself that’s doing it for him. He’s never even been a scent guy before this moment, which just goes to show the unique weirdness Sascha inflicts upon him. He’s not himself, and in the same moment the most himself he’s felt in a long, long while.

He wants more of it. It also freaks him the fuck out, when his head is clear enough to think that way.

Around Sascha, usually it’s not.

He doesn’t even realize he’s touching himself again until a particularly good press of his palm has him arching his hips up into it, a startled noise punching out of his throat. “Oh, shit,” Griffin says, too loud, and rolls onto his side. He keeps the shirt by his face, clutched in his fist, while his other hand works furiously in his boxers.

There’s something wrong with him. There has to be. But right now Griffin’s beyond caring, and thank god for that.

His mind tumbles away, grabbing frantically for anything that will help him as he falls. Sascha by the pool, tugging his shirt off over his head and shaking his hair out of his eyes, catching Griffin already staring and shooting him a smirk. Sascha onstage across from him, mic to his lips, looking at him like he and Griffin are the only two people in the entire world. Sascha holding the hem of his shirt up, head turned just enough to look back at him over his shoulder, the arch of his spine and the tattoo nestled in the small of his back he really should’ve warned Griffin about before lifting his shirt.

Sascha. Sascha. Sascha.

He whines low in his throat, his pace quickening. Fuck, he’s close. He bites the shirt and his fist through it, acting on frenzied impulse. Just a little—

Sascha sitting pressed to his side, knee to hip to shoulder, looking at him with a little uncharacteristic pinch of worry in his brow. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends care.”

What?

He comes like a blow to the gut, blindsided and gasping. What the fuck?

Griffin trembles in the aftershocks, dazed, as the quiet of the house reasserts itself. He feels cold and hyper-aware of himself. He’s drooled on the stupid shirt; he spits it out of his mouth, his heart still hammering in his chest. He tastes cotton and dust. He makes a face, rolling his tongue about his mouth.

He was supposed to get Sascha Rose out of his system. Or try. Now he feels like Back to Strangers’ lead singer has only burrowed his way deeper into him somehow.

He turns his face into the couch beneath him and thumps his forehead into the cushion. “Fuck.”

What the hell is he gonna do?

[willgrahamscock]

sometimes you think yeah i'm over this hyperfixation then you log onto tumblr dot com and your mutual is blorbo posting in such a niche and perverted way that it relights the flame for another decade

[hutsonwoolyums]

It’s vitally important that people remember that no matter how many followers someone has on here they’re still literally just some person with a blog and not, like, The Authority on anything.

[darkfire-draws]

LAWLESS

[willgrahamscock]

thank you gif makers, editors, artists and fanfic writers for keeping fandoms alive, we <3 you

[willgrahamscock]

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[fic-dumpster]

[gunshots4]

remade some refs for artfight (under the cut)

[goombellas]

i really hope seven gets to a point where they think about the time they spent apart from mc and don't see it with any bitterness or anger at least not towards mc. like he probably missed a lot of really important and formative moments of olive's life (like her getting sober! when her drinking always lowkey worried him!) and i would like for him to be like... sympathetic and sad he missed them as opposed to his brain defaulting to the like "Well i would've been there if it weren't for the band and the vote and the betrayal!!!". in other words i would like him to eventually come to terms with the fact that he is also responsible for everything that happened bc if that drunk bar scene in chapter 5 is any indication he clearly thinks they didn't need to break up after the vote/the fight/weren't broken up but mc did think so so again he was NOT COMMUNICATING CLEARLY !!!!! which is a PERSONAL PROBLEM and he should not be able to fault us for NOT READING HIS MIND !!! sorry idk why i got so heated. oliven 4ever

[chwrryspear]

giselle haircut chronicles :)