💭... something something modern akotsk college au where sugar reader! is juggling a failing statistics grade, and a heart two sizes too big . . . after a breakup with her high school sweetheart, Aerion, and forgets she has actual work to do, besides drowning herself in Sade and 2000's romcoms . . .
💭... which is why she hires Duncan to be her personal tutor! well- they'd agreed that if she took pictures for the Ashford Ironclads (who even knew the school had a rugby team?) he'd tutor her for the semester . . .
💭... And it works out perfectly until Aerion finds a way to try and slither himself back in . . .
Immie this new pink theme is so cutesy i love it sm
eek!! hi, dottie! i've finally decided to jump on the bandwagon of cutesy pink themes because something about jack abbot makes me want to be a pretty boyprincess,,, thinking about dressing up for him, and he never teases you for liking pink or feeling girly!! he buys you the cutest tops and skirts and panties, too! (´ 3｀)𖹭
sorry for rambling! abbot is rotting my brain! ( T∀T)
pope cody is a comedian. the bank guy tells him 410k is not enough for lena to go to college and be comfortable so pope says 'i'll be back later' and robs like 5 banks in one afternoon
me and my dad on a whim decided to watch wrestlmania 42 when it was live and it acc sent me down a wwe/ wrestling rabbit hole but i feel weird writing anything about anyone but theyre SO HOT
*SEASON OF THE WOLF: a joel miller x reader story. (part one)
The giant wolf that has been killing people around town shares a very striking feature with the quiet man that keeps breaking into your home— They both have the saddest, warmest brown eyes you've ever seen.
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You meet the wolf before you meet the man.
warnings: the basics (werewolf!joel, age gap, no outbreak), some religious themes, mentions of csa, gore & violence, death of minor characters, reader is mentally unwell, talks of periods/period symptoms, animal pelts, technically cannibal!joel, animal hunting, girl dad!joel, alcohol & weed consumption, smut (f masturbation, sex toys.).
word count: 7.6k.
fox says: hello friends! here it is, the first chapter of the fic i've been teasing for months now. i poured a lot of work into this and i hope that shines through? lol also, the 178lbs mentioned somewhere in the story is about 80kg to my friends who live in places with a proper measuring system! pictures are for aesthetics only, there is no description of reader anywhere (she was written as a plus sized gal in mind but i don't think it comes up so far). as always, please let me know what we think of it!
also available on archiveofourown.
You meet the wolf before the man. There is a shortcut between the pharmacy you work at and your home, the old train tracks that haven't been used by anyone other than junkies since the mid 60s. It is a cold, crisp evening, and you're halfway home before you run into another person— It is not unusual for the tracks to me empty this time of year, when the weather gets colder and the people that reside by the tracks start taking shelter under the overpass near the only highway in and out of town.
The person in question is Henry, an old man that used to be friends with your father before he passed. You think you used to call him Uncle Henry back when he was a constant in your home, back when he pulled you on his lap and it made you want to cry; it's been many years since then, the childhood memories foggy but still anxiety-inducing, and you have just finally started to manage being around him without a panic attack. He is a big man, beer gut belly overflowing above his belt and always in a constant state of grimy disarray, most of the time mildly to highly intoxicated even if he has a whole family to care for. Henry is always smiling though, talking to passersby or to himself or to the ghosts of past mistakes that keep haunting him so. This time, there is no smile on Henry's face. Just terror.
Pure, unadulterated terror that doesn't match a grown man's face, the sort of anguish that you expect from a frightened child.
“Run!” He screams at you, but you don't. You don't believe there is any incoming threat just yet, have seen more of your fair share of drunken meltdowns to not believe a word out of Henry's mouth, be it good or bad. The boy who cried wolf, you think at the time, and there's something both ironic and laughable at how right you are about it.
Maybe you should've ran. Maybe you should have smelled the fear wafting off his pores as he runs past you, stumbling through the tracks, tears and snot running down his flushed face. Things certainly would've ended differently if you did. Or maybe not. Maybe this was fate, and things happened just the way they were meant to. Maybe you'd never get to meet the man before the wolf, maybe there was another crossroad between your path and the wolf’s further down the future before the first time you lock eyes with Joel Miller.
The wolf is bigger than any animal you've ever seen in person. It's taller than you even on all fours, its fur thick, chocolate brown mixed with gray in large swirls, snout curled into a snarl as it pounces from the heavy trees onto the train tracks. It's the eyes that catch your attention first: They're warm brown, captivating in a way that you can't explain why. Its eyes seem… Sentient. Sad and haunted like he has seen horrors you can't even imagine. The wolf approaches you slowly, its black claws scraping against the wood and gravel of the tracks, those sad eyes glued to your face like you're the best meal it'll ever have.
Still, you don't run. Not because you're so petrified you freeze, but it's almost like your brain doesn't register the monstrous animal as a threat— You don't run because there isn't any instinct in your body telling you to do so, even as Henry eats shit as he trips on the tracks, still screaming.
The wolf moves slowly until it is just a breath away from you, its sharp teeth no longer showing. It just stops, standing in front of you with curiosity in its eyes as it leans in, long snout bumping into your shoulder; it takes two bumps for you to understand it's trying to push you away and you step to the side, out of the tracks, clearing the path for the beast to reach Henry.
The events that follow are ones you've recounted time and time again to paramedics, police officers and then animal control: The huge wolf pounces forward in a flash of fur and muscles, his teeth sinking down on Henry's shoulder before you could even blink. The man screams, but the animal doesn't relent— It shakes its head from one side to the other, its movements sharp and fast, Henry's head connecting with the rusted iron of the track three times in the process. There's blood and bone shards and brain matter splattered all over the ground and the wolf, its light-colored snout turning deep crimson, bits of flesh hanging between its teeth. It all happens in a matter of seconds, one moment the wolf is by your side, the next he's dragging the dead man's leg into the depths of the woods, leaving the rest of his body behind at your feet like a gruesome gift.
What you don't tell the paramedics, police officers and animal control is how the scene made you feel. Henry's screams were pathetic, yes, but the snarling of the animal reverberated deep inside of you, the anger and violence in its eyes settling in your core, the trail of blood on the grass so enticing your underwear is still wet by the time you finally make it home, hours later, with a dismissal from the police saying they might be in touch and the telephone number of a trauma counselor.
You meet Joel about ten days after the encounter with the wolf, which has been consuming your mind at every waking moment. It's a slow shift at the pharmacy, and you're playing a game of throwing pencils up into the styrofoam ceiling when he stops at the checkout counter, three cans of toddler formula in hand. He is a tall, impossibly broad man, his curly hair — chocolate brown streaked with gray — slicked back in a fashion that tells you he cares about his looks but doesn't really have the time to put too much effort into it; the man looks tired, purple bags under his eyes and cheeks slightly hollowed, old and weathered but with a soft quality to the crinkle in the corner of his eyes, a faint scar on his temple that disappears into his hairline.
It is his eyes that make you freeze. Warm and brown and sad and haunted. Sentient and oh-so-human. You instantly think back to the wolf — the one you started calling yours in your head —, the similarity so undeniably there that you forget the greeting you're supposed to give. Joel stares at you with the same intensity as you do him, toying with his wallet for a moment before he plucks a can of mints from the display next to him and throws it on the counter.
The metallic clanking of the tin can brings you back to the present, finally being able to breathe as you start to scan his things, hands shaking so badly it takes you three times to properly scan the barcode for one of the toddler formulas.
“Who are you?” You ask, though that is not how you wish you had formulated the question. You've been living in this backwater town in Mississippi your entire life, and a man like him certainly would've caught your eye sooner. He's an outsider, someone new— Odd and off-putting, much like the giant wolf from the woods.
“Joel.” He says, not seeming one bit bothered by the rudeness of your question.
“You don't live here.” You say as he bags his own items— Something that is supposed to be your job, but you're too busy staring at the discoloration around his ring finger that tells you there used to be a wedding band there not too long ago.
“I do now.” He gives you another nod. “It's nice to meet you.”
Joel says your name as he leaves, soft as the petal of a flower, and you're so flustered by how it sounds in his gruff voice that you don't even notice you never told him your name.
After that, you see him everywhere. You're unsure whether he starts showing around town more or if you're suddenly hyper-aware of his presence, but wherever you go, Joel is there— Always with a little girl in tow, a tiny little thing that can't be older than three years old, curly hair bouncing as she waddles next to him or glued to his back like a baby opossum.
He doesn’t even try to hide his staring. Be it in line at the grocery store, or at the only coffee shop in town or as you sneak away from the morning mass at the local church — which you only go because it appeases your grandmother, not because you're particularly religious — he's always there, in the corner of your eyes, his striking brown eyes always glued to your face.
You don't realize that the wolf is always there too, almost every evening, prowling the treeline that surround your backyard until one autumn evening, when you're in your kitchen busying yourself with dinner — frozen mac and cheese that was discounted at the store because of how close to expiring it is — and you catch a glimpse of two bright lights between the trees. At first you think it might be a reflection on the window, or perhaps a trick of the light, but by the third time it happens you find yourself padding outside barefoot, your microwaved mac and cheese in hands; sure enough, a pair of glowing eyes stare at you from the darkness, tracking every move you make. You sit down on the stairs of your dilapidated backyard, shivering from the cold for forty minutes, staring at the animal that holds your gaze intently before it disappears back into the woods.
Five days later, you find a mass of black fur on the railing of your back porch; you think it is a dead animal at first, poking it with kitchen tongs to make sure it's dead before you realize it is, in fact, a throw blanket— It's made out of thick, coarse dark fur and by the size of it you think it might be from a bear; you've only seen a black bear once, when you were a kid and your father took you hunting, but you don't think you'll ever forget the fear you felt then. The blanket is heavy, the pelt clean and smelling faintly of cedar. That evening, you sit on the porch again, warm from the bear pelt wrapped around your shoulders— And when you find the wolf's eyes, you could swear it looks prideful.
You hear it on the evening news that they've found another body torn to shreds in the woods; it's in the county news, the story spreading fast considering how nobody really believes that the attacks were done by a giant wolf. The town's Sheriff goes on TV to say that it's definitely a bear attack and that people shouldn't panic or worry as long as they don't go into the woods. The body this time is of a church lady, some pillar of the community that you know to be a huge racist that buys sleeping pills from the local drug dealer but all they speak about is how kind and caring and loving she was— Her husband, who has a very active Grindr profile, cries on screen and urges people to join a vigil in her honor.
You think about all the addicts and homeless people who went missing — five in total, if your math is right — before anyone gave a shit about the wild animal running rampant. You go to the vigil anyway, in a black dress and a gold cross hanging from your neck, because you know your grandmother would call you selfish if you didn't.
Joel isn't there, and you think it is the first time since you met him that he isn't in the same public setting as you.
You go back to the train tracks the day after the woman's body is discovered. You tell yourself that you're not expecting to see the wolf again, not really, but you still have a pack of dog treats shoved deep in your pocket. You're not even certain if a people-eating wolf would like Pup-Peroni but it is cheaper than buying a steak— Which you actually considered doing, even though you've been living on off-brand cereal and discounted TV dinners for the past few months.
It's been raining all day, your black rain boots squeaking with every step you take— You want to go into the woods, want to search for the wolf but you think that might be a tad too crazy: As if standing there staring at the trees with dog treats in your pocket already isn't enough.
It doesn't take long for the animal to appear — at most five minutes, and you wonder if it's because it was already there or if it, too, had been searching for you — but, unlike the first time you meet, it doesn't come out of the protection of the tree lines. You hesitate for a moment, watching as the remnants of the rain fall on the top of its head, the fur wet but not wet enough for an animal that supposedly had been out in the pouring rain all day.
You step forward, pulling the packet of treats from your pocket.
“Got you something.” You say, opening the package and pulling one jerky stick from it. "Wanted to get you a steak, but I can't afford that right now."
You take another step, and then another, waving the jerky in front of you. The wolf watches, unmoving. “C’mere boy, I think you'll like it.”
The wolf approaches you slowly, carefully but you have the feeling that it is more for your benefit. You throw the treat on the ground — you’re not afraid of the wolf, not really, but it could easily chomp down your fingers alongside the Pup-Peroni. It noses against the treat on the ground, huffing before it turns its big head back to you. The wolf doesn’t eat the jerky, but it still stares at the package in your hand; you hesitate for a long moment, at a standstill— And then, before you can regret it, you pull out another jerky and offer to the wolf without throwing it to the ground, extending your arm as far from your body as you can.
The wolf is still careful, but not slow anymore: It moves forward, one giant paw at a time, before it plucks the jerky stick from your hand with the sort of gentleness you’d never expect from an animal this big. It doesn’t even touch you, just a brush of its wet nose against your fingers as it pulls the treat away. The wolf munches on it, and then sits back on its hind legs, watching you intently.
The expectant look makes you giggle and you offer another treat, startling when it becomes bolder, nudging your hand as it takes the jerky with the same gentleness it had before. You give it — him, you assume, awfully shy when you think about taking a peek between its legs to confirm it — a quick pat on the head before pulling back. He headbuts you, then, the treat half forgotten inside his mouth as the wolf bumps his forehead against your hand. You take the hint, scratching the wolf’s ear— The fur is soft and clean, not brittle or dirty as you expect, and you find yourself sinking your fingers into it, brushing your fingers through a small knot near the animal’s neck. In the space between his right ear and his right eye there is a small, hairless line. A scar, which must be old because it doesn’t look painful or irritated, and you only notice because of the thin strip in which he lacks fur.
He eats the entire package like that, one treat at a time, always taking it from your hand directly; you talk while he eats, blabbing away about everything and anything— You tell him about your dead-end job, about your overbearing grandmother and about how Céline, your only friend, left for college a couple of years and how awfully alone you are now; she still calls sometimes, you tell him, but things aren’t the same: She’s in a big city, working towards a medical degree with a fiancé and a whole new group of new, more experienced friends while you feel like you’re failing in this back alley town with a shitty job, no friends and barely any money to afford both groceries and your weed.
The wolf nudges your collarbone as you mention your parents, both of whom died when you were very young, and the struggles of having to go to church every week to pray for a God you don’t really believe in anymore; the shoulder of your white dress slips down, briefly, and then the wolf pushes it back into place with his snout. You’re certain it was a mistake, because no animal has the consciousness to do that, but it still makes your stomach flutter. You stay there for hours, sitting on the train tracks with your wolf until the rain picks up again— The animal walks you home, its soft fur pushing against your arm whenever you shiver. The wolf doesn’t cross the boundaries into your backyard, but it watches from the treeline as you pick up the extra key beneath the mat in front of the backdoor and slip into your chilly, empty house.
You feel Joel’s presence even before you turn around. You’re crouched with your back to the door when you hear the familiar swoosh of the automatic doors and you know it’s him— You stay where you are, restocking the candy aisle and letting Jenny deal with whatever it is that he needs; you have about twenty minutes left until the end of your shift but you start to stock the neat rows of Reeses’ Cup a little slower, acutely aware of Joel’s presence as he makes his way through the drug store, listening to the soft babble of the little girl you assume to be his daughter.
They end up in the candy aisle, naturally. You keep your head down, hating the way your hands tremble a little. Truth is, Joel Miller makes you nervous. Big, broad and imposing, always around, always watching— There is something equally unnerving and attractive about him and you’re not sure which wolf you should feed: The one that tells you he is dangerous, or the one that tells you he could fuck your brains out. The little girl says something in that language toddlers speak that only their parents seem to understand before reaching for a bag of Skittles next to your head. Joel tuts, carefully extricating the brightly colored package from her hands.
“Absolutely not.” He huffs. “You’re too young for that one. How about this?”
Joel plucks a Reese’s Cup from the shelf you’re currently stocking. “You like chocolate, don’t you, pup?”
“Has she ever had peanuts?” You say before you can stop yourself. You raise your head, still crouched on the floor. Joel stares at you for half a second as if he doesn’t believe you’ve spoken to him before shaking his head.
“Not really, but it’s better than chokin’ on a Skittle.”
“You should give it to her in the parking lot of the clinic.” Once again, you seem to be unable to hold back the words. “Just in case she’s allergic.”
“Do you have children?” He cocks his head to the side, eyes glinting as if he already knows the answer. You jump to your feet, embarrassment making your stomach drop.
“No— You’re right, I’m overstepping. Shouldn’t be telling you how to raise your kid.”
Joel flails, eyes wide and he doesn’t even notice when the little girl shoves the corner of the Reese’s package in her mouth.
“I meant— That’s not—” He closes his eyes and takes a breath. “Thank you. For caring.”
“She also probably shouldn’t be putting unwashed plastic in her mouth.” You say, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “We have a lot of rats in the storage.”
Joel pulls the package from his daughter’s mouth, hoisting her on his hip. The girl blinks at you, owlishly big brown eyes that seem to stare deep into your soul before she reaches to the cross necklace peeking from your ugly shirt uniform.
“Sorry.” Joel says, turning a little to pull her away from you. “Sarah’s going through her dragon phase.”
“Not sure the phase of enjoying shiny things ever goes away. It just gets more expensive.” You chuckle, and from the corner of your eye you see Jenny’s head pop up, her green eyes staring curiously at the two of you and you already know the sorts of tales she’s going to spin about this. You take a step back, putting a little bit more space between the two of you, arms crossed over your chest. “I’ll let you finish your shopping. Have a good night, Joel.”
You’re shaking by the time you make it to the employees only area, your heart hammering inside your chest, palms sweaty; there’s no logical explanation as to why you’re so nervous around him but your body still reacts, almost dragging you back into the main area of the store just so you can look at him one more time. It’s a crush, you tell yourself. A stupid crush because you have a penchant for older men and he’s hot and doesn’t have a wife. You’ve been alone for too long, no friends or dates for the better part of the last three years, and that is why you’re so anxious that an attractive man is giving you an ounce of attention.
You clock out on autopilot, a heavy raincoat thrown over your uniform and you wish you could’ve spoken to Joel in a different setting, somewhere you dress nicely for, maybe with a little bit of make up and your hair out of the company mandated bun. For a second you consider letting your hair out of its cage but you know that will only make it worse after a full day of being pulled back so harshly you can feel each individual strand tugging at your scalp— And it’s a silly thought anyway, because Joel probably left in the ten minutes that takes you to regain your composure.
But if that is the case, why do you still feel his presence outside the door?
You don’t see him inside the store, but Jenny’s eyes follow you as you bid her goodnight, holding your coat tight as if it could protect you from the small town gossip. Joel is still in the parking lot, Sarah in the backseat of his double cub pick up truck, drinking from a sippy cup; he’s talking to her, something low that you can’t hear, but his head snaps up like a dog to a squirrel when you step through the automatic doors.
“Let me drive you home.” His voice is commanding but not overbearing, the tone of a man that isn’t used to asking for things but would still respect your choice. You hesitate, shifting your bag on your shoulder; it’s late, close to eleven pm on a night that the clouds are so heavy they hide the moon and the stars, the parking lot dark even with the lamppost flickering just a couple of feet away.
“I don’t know…” You bite your bottom lip; you want to spend more time with him, you want to know what the inside of his truck looks and smells like, you want all of his attention but the rational part of your brain knows it’s not safe to get in a stranger’s car. “You could be a killer.”
“I could.” He answers easily. “But I wouldn’t kill anyone in front of Sarah. And she’ll be there the entire time.”
“Yeah, but then you’ll know my address.”
“Washington Street, number fourteen.” You gawk at his answer, all the warning bells ringing inside your head and you’re ready to bolt away from the man that knows your fucking address but he doesn’t seem one bit concerned by how weird that is. “I’m a contractor. I’ve been working on the Anderson’s porch and I saw you get home one day.”
You cross your arms over your chest, eyes falling on the toddler inside the car, thinking of how sweet and gentle he is with her. Joel leans forward a bit, towering over you but not crowding, and his eyes find yours. “I promise I’d never do anything to hurt you, sweetheart.”
For some stupid, self-destructive reason, you believe him.
Joel has a scar. You only notice as you’re stepping out of the car, after he parks in your driveway and you finally gather the courage to look at him; it’s faint and almost imperceptible and you think that, maybe, you only found it because you’d been subconsciously looking for it. It slashes across right his temple, from the end of his eyebrow into his hairline, thin and raised, the skin slightly discolored. The exact same placement as the wolf’s, the exact same eyes, his silver and brown hair the same shade as the wolf’s fur.
You don’t sleep that night. Instead, you call your weed guy and pay him with the money that was supposed to go for your electricity bill and you smoke and drink the cheap liquor you save for emergencies until you convince yourself that, although you are certifiably insane, you shouldn’t be committed.
But the idea is there, and you’re not sure there is enough weed and cherry flavored Evan Williams in the world that can make you forget about it.
You wake up in the afternoon after you pass out from exhaustion and intoxication, thankful that you have the day off from work. Between the headache, the dry mouth and the menstrual cramps that always show up during the worst possible time, you can barely drag yourself out of bed— Your doorbell is ringing, a sound so foreign that it takes you a moment to understand what it is. You can’t remember the last time anyone rang your doorbell, but you’re fairly certain it hasn’t happened in the last two years: There was a short period, just as you moved into this place, that you had enough money to afford Postmates every so often.
It’s Joel. He’s standing on your porch with his shoulders hunched up to his shoulders, a thermos in one hand and a to-go bag from Krispy Krunchy Chicken in the other; his hands are a little dirty, fingers stained with white plaster and his jeans smeared with sawdust.
“ ‘S for you.” He shoves both items towards you, his hair pushed back and a little damp from what you assume to be sweat. You take the food and the thermos without thinking, obeying to his silent command before you can think it twice. “Reckon the greasy chicken might help with the hangover, and the thermos has soup. I made it for you. ‘S a lil’ too salty, but I hope it helps.”
“How’d you know I’m hungover?”
“Just a hunch.” Joel shrugs, already retreating away from your front porch before you can properly process what is happening. “Put on some socks, it’ll help with the crampin’. And drink water.”
“What?! Joel!” You call out as you watch him jog back to his car but he doesn’t turn around, just jumps into his truck and drives away.
You’re so freaked out that you close the blinds and make sure the front and back doors are locked before you finally give in and eat the food he brought— The chicken is warm and just greasy enough to settle your stomach so you save the soup for later and, while you hate to admit it, the socks do help.
The whole situation is unnerving in the possible worst way; he could’ve watched you through the windows, could’ve seen you drinking through the night but there is no way he could’ve known about the cramps. You feel like crawling out of your skin, jittery as you try to settle on the couch and then on the bed and then, finally, on the back porch. There is no sight of your wolf, but you still feel like there are a thousand watchful eyes staring at you through the trees.
Townsfolk are rallying up to hunt the killing bear. You stare at your TV in your fluffy socks and heating pad, the bear pelt wrapped around your shoulders, the container of soup starting to cool down. It is announced in the commercial break on the evening news, the husband of the church lady actually buying the time slot to rally people to find the bear and kill it. The announcement is made on the parking lot of his shop, with the man in his company’s uniform and a rifle in his hands— It’s mainly an ad for his car dealership, the man that is supposed to be a grieving husband tipping his Stetson hat to the screen with a grim expression, but he talks about the bear that took his wife and then there is a brief shot of an expensive car that he calls the spoils of anyone brave enough to be a hero. He doesn’t say it out loud that the car is a reward for killing the bear — bear hunting is illegal in Mississippi, and you reckon that is why he’s looking for a third party — but the words are carefully crafted and the message is clear: There is now a price on your wolf’s head, and you’re certain half of the dimwitted rednecks in town are already gearing up to tear through the woods searching for a bear that isn’t there.
They won’t find a bear, you know that, but they might find your wolf. The giant, murderous wolf that you told the police about— The wolf people make fun of you for, thinking you’re a scared little girl that mistook a black bear for a wolf too big to be real, but you know they won’t hesitate to shoot if they come across it.
It’s late by the time you see it, doomscrolling on your phone when you come across the post from your town’s official Instagram account— It’s a public announcement reminding people that bear hunting is illegal in the state of Mississippi and that the person responsible could be fined up to five thousand dollars. The comments are atrocious, from people talking about how a ‘good woman’s life’ should be worth more than that to people offering to cover the legal fees to whoever manages to ‘catch the damned thing’ to people even saying they should overturn the law.
You jump from the little depression nest you’ve made on the couch, shoving your rain boots over your fuzzy socks and going through the old storage chest you keep in the laundry room with all sorts of shit you haven’t been able to let go of yet until you find the collar and leash of the dog you had as a teenager — a 178lbs Newfoundland dog named Cerberus that you took for yourself after it became clear your grandmother wouldn’t take proper care of him — and you’re not sure the collar will fit around the wolf’s neck but it doesn’t look like it would be too tight. Cerberus had been a monstrous yet loving thing, the sort of dog that made people cross the street and gawk at whenever you took him for a walk.
The forest is so dark the flashlight on your phone barely helps, illuminating a patch small enough that you have to take short, small steps. It helps you not step on any insects or tripping over tree roots but you’re still terrified of how dark and damp everything around you is, the forest far quieter than you thought it would be. The silence is heavy, loaded with something you can’t name but that still brings a chill to your spine. You can hear your own breathing, the twigs that crack underneath your feet reverberating like gunshots. The wolf is nowhere to be found, and you’re not sure where to look; He’s always there, always coming to you rather than the other way around, but you walk aimlessly for a bit, trying to stick to the same direction so you don’t end up getting lost.
The wolf you find is not yours. Its fur is stark black, blending it with the darkness of the trees and you think you only see it because it shows itself to you: The wolf is big, although smaller than yours, thinner and not as fluffy as it stands in your path, staring straight at you. You freeze, flashlight glued to the animal’s face; it moves slowly but it doesn’t seem aggressive, head tucked between its shoulders. The wolf bumps its nose against your stomach, pushing you backwards. You stumble but you don’t fall, your heart racing inside your chest— For some stupid reason, you think this might be the killer wolf as if you hadn’t watched your own torn a man apart on your first meeting. This interaction is different, though: The wolf isn’t aggressive, just pushy as it guides you backwards, but you don’t feel the calm and ease that come from the other one. You’re scared and unsure, thinking you should simply turn back and run as fast as you can but you’re too afraid that it might trigger some sort of hunting instinct.
The black wolf keeps pushing and pushing, never coming too close but always keeping you on your toes— You fall twice, feet tangling on roots and the wolf is on you in a second, sniffing at your legs and arms while you struggle to stand up. It nudges you all the way to your backyard, rounding you whenever you try to go off course, never letting you stray too far; this wolf doesn’t cross the boundaries into your home like yours usually do, standing about ten feet away from the treelines, sitting unmoving like a Sphynx. You trudge back home, the collar and leash grasped tight in your hand, body hurting from the falls before you turn around, your eyes catching the animal’s face. There is a brief hesitation in which you think you might’ve gone crazy and this was simply proof of that— But you were alone in the woods, with a wolf that was too organized not to be sentient and it wasn’t like it could tell people you were a freak.
“They’re looking for him.” You warn the wolf. “They’ll kill him if they can.”
The wolf doesn’t answer, even though there is a small part of you that hopes it will. It simply stands back up and rushes through the trees away from your home.
You don’t go to work the next day, your period cramps worsening throughout the night and hitting you with such force that you think you might be dying. You don’t die, though, but you do have a hellish night of pain and very little sleep so you call in early in the morning to let your boss know you won’t be coming in. Your manager is a huge germophobe — which you find quite ironic, considering her career choice — so you make up a lie about a highly infectious flu and she doesn’t even let you tell the tale of how you threw up all over yourself before she tells you to stay home. It’ll be deducted from your pay, you’re sure of it, but you feel so much like death that you can’t find it in yourself to care.
There’s more soup by the time you manage to drag yourself out of bed, a black thermos sitting on the windowsill of the window in the kitchen, the one that faces your backyard. You’re so tired you don’t even have the energy to feel creeped out, you’re just relieved for the free already-made food; you know it’s Joel’s because the flavor is exactly the same as the previous one, hearty and warm and just a little spicy. You’re starting to collect his containers, though, and you wonder if that is a sneaky little way of giving him a reason to talk to you again.
Jenny doesn’t bother to hide the curiosity when you finally make it to the pharmacy two days later, and you really wish you could just ignore her all day. Jenny is one of less insufferable people in town but you still wouldn’t call her a friend by any definition of the word: She’s a coworker, someone you’re able to put up with most days but today you really, really hope she doesn’t talk much.
It’s a fruitless hope, of course, because she’s babbling the second you assume your place behind the register.
“Some guy came in looking for you yesterday.” She says, her eyes sparkling with mischief and curiosity. “Not the same guy you left with the other day.”
You frown, trying to avoid looking at her. You couldn’t phantom anyone that might’ve come for you that isn’t Joel, and she goes on with her rant before you can cut her off.
“I mean, he didn’t ask for you by name but he browsed a lot and then asked about ‘the regular cashier’ and then I said you were sick and he got all frowny and left without buying anything.” Jenny leans in, her smile reminiscing of the Cheshire cat. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know, Jenny.” You sigh, but the entire situation leaves a pit deep in your stomach. You assumed the soup came from Joel, but what if it didn’t? What if there was another weird man breaking into your home? “Did he say his name?”
“Nope. Big guy, though. Tall, black long-ish hair with a mustache… He was with the little girl your man usually brings around.”
You ignore the jab about Joel being your man, even if the words send a small thrill down your spine. You don’t answer her at all, instead plastering your customer service smile on your face and beckoning the old lady that hovers near the register with a frown, clearly pissed off that you’re chatting instead of scanning her medication.
Mystery Man doesn’t leave your brain, though, and no matter how much you want to pretend it’s not happening, your mind keeps going back to the black wolf you saw in the forest, the one that was just as sentient as yours. Your hands itch most of the day and you find yourself doodling on the corner of a forgotten receipt during the slow hours; you haven’t drawn in years, not ever since you left your grandmother’s home, but the blue ink from the ballpen paper takes up the shape of a wolf’s snout without you meaning to, sharp teeth bared to the faded words on the paper.
You don’t take the tracks when you go home, choosing instead to walk the main street— The path is longer and you hate how busy the streets are at that time of day but it feels safer than the emptiness of the tracks, which have been even more vacant than usual after Henry’s death.
Mystery Man is coming down your porch just as you turn the corner to your street. You freeze only for a second before you quicken your pace, almost jogging to catch up to him before he gets into the pick up truck — Joel’s pick up truck — that is parked on your sidewalk. He stares at you, eyes wide as if he hadn’t expected to get caught but, to his credit, he doesn’t run.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Tommy.” He hesitates for a second, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Joel’s brother. He, uh—”
“You broke into my house.” You bark, cutting off whatever he’s going to say. “I should call the police.”
“Joel is indisposed,” The man says, a little more forcefully. “He asked me to check in on you. I tried ringin’ the doorbell, but you didn’t answer.”
You’re pretty sure he’s lying— Despite the ungodly amount of painkillers you had taken, you still think you would’ve woken up to the sound of your doorbell. You cross your arms over your chest, very much aware of how empty your street is; He’s taller and broader than you, even if he is smaller than Joel, and you know he could grab you and throw you into his car without breaking a sweat.
“Stay the fuck away from me. Both of you.” You try to sound intimidating, but your voice wavers too much. “Or I swear I’ll call the police.”
Tommy presses his lips together and he looks quite displeased but he nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
You move to the side as he walks to the truck, putting as much space as you can between the two of you. He walks slowçy but surely, his head turned to the ground and hands stuffed inside his coat. He stops just as he opens the driver’s door, looking at you over the rusted metal.
“For what it’s worth, Joel ain’t ever gonna hurt you. He just got a weird way of takin’ care of his people.”
You don’t want to trust him, but you think of the wolf, and you do.
You don’t see either of the Miller brothers around for the next week, and there are no new foods on your porch; you keep telling yourself that you don’t care but Joel is constantly on the back of your mind. You check both porches every morning, and you crane your neck whenever you walk past Anderson’s house to see if he’s still working on whatever it was that he told you he was. Joel is never there, he doesn’t show up at the pharmacy and you don’t run into him at the grocery store or at the church. You think you miss him, a little bit, and you hate yourself for that. You tell yourself that you just used to Joel hovering nearby, and that he’s actually a good cook and you’re not used to homemade meals anymore, but you think it’s more than that— The man and the wolf are both gone, and you’re plunged into a deep loneliness. The sort of loneliness you’ve always told yourself you enjoy, that you’re used to it, but now that you’ve tasted the smallest bit of companionship you can’t help but crave it more.
No people are killed in the week he is missing.
You wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, your back and your cunt drenched as the remnants of your wet dream follow you back into reality. You reach to your bedside table while refusing to think about the repercussions of what you’re about to do, pulling the toy from the drawer— the pale purple rabbit you bought out of fearful curiosity a couple of months ago and has just started getting comfortable with using.
Masturbating, for you, it’s usually a pretty straightforward affair: You don’t tease or edge yourself, just hold your toy or your fingers to your clit so you can come as fast as possible before falling asleep but, tonight, you take it slow. You take off all of your clothes before you turn the toy on the lowest setting, running it between your folds to smear it with your own wetness before you slide it upwards, setting a trail from your clit all the way up to your nipples. The vibration makes you squirm, nipples perking up as you sigh— It’s just enough to make you wetter but not enough to properly get you off, and you throw your head back against the pillow, eyes closed as you circle your nipple with the toy.
The image comes to the forefront of your mind unbidden, so strong that you cannot help but indulge in it: Behind your eyelids you see Joel, haunched over your, the bristles of his mustache brushing against the soft skin of your areola, his warm tongue just barely touching you. You imagine the weight of his body on top of yours, how his chest would press down on your stomach, his hands roaming over your body. You think he’d be sweet at first, those soulful eyes glued to yours as he licks his way down to your cunt, his rough hands prying your legs open.
You’re already on the verge of an orgasm by the time you bring the buzzing toy down to your clit just from thinking of Joel and you can almost hear the way he’d growl as he lapped at you, his fingers digging into the plushness of your thighs are enough to leave marks behind. You think of how he’d flip you over as you push the toy inside of you, of the way he’d pull your hips up and take you from behind, his cock hitting all of the perfect parts inside of you as his belly pressed to your lower back, his breathing hot and heavy on the nape of your neck.
You come with Joel’s name on your lips and tears in your eyes, your cunt spasming around the toy you so desperately wish to be the man you can’t stop thinking about; you let the low vibration remain against your clit until you’re twitching from overstimulation and you barely have the chance to throw the rabbit to the ground before you’re falling back asleep.
what's the saying...you can take the girl out the city, but you can't take the city out the girl? well, sugar!reader! feels like a part of her is in New York, and the other, fading into her big brother Marcus's shadow in Boston. New York was safe. home. Hers. But can a summer internship at the North and Vine, their particularly delectable head chef , and a little cuisine magic help her find the silver lining?
espresso martini's... Vivenne westwood...Jeff Buckley... The salty sweet tang of Boston air...
sugar!reader!who carries an extra one of everything in her bag - pads, pens, lipgloss, tissue- shit- even packing extra snacks for the stray kitties Marcus refuses to adopt, despite her sisterly because you truly never know.
sugar!reader! who spends her off time sketching and stiching, with a certain silver fox as her latest muse. She tells herself it's because his profile is so unique-authentic- that she saw him every day and he'll never see them, right?
sugar!reader! who definitely isn't falling for her big brother's best friend. and her boss. definately.
( +18 ) mdni / small smut fic. fem!reader/sous-chef!reader & soft dom!grant. power imbalance. mutual pining undertones. age gap (20s&late 40s). blowjob. food play. praise. petname (baby). gentle guidance (with hair touching). bodily fluid play (swallowing come). aftercare kissing.
reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!
Grant should tell himself this is wrong, he should.
It’s utterly, fucking, wrong. In theory. He shouldn’t be allowing this between the two of you; not only because you are now his sous-chef, but also because you are so much younger than him. Only in your twenties, you could have anyone you want. You are pretty, talented, so smart and funny… and so fucking good at making him feel like Heaven is close to Earth. With your big eyes, your smile, your ideas, your quick thinking that makes everyone like you.
Once again; he thinks this is wrong and he should stop this, and should help you get up from the floor of your kitchen. So can’t he? Probably because you have your lips wrapped around his cock, licking icing off of it. Because he doesn’t truly mind having you in this position, because the truth is, he couldn’t stop thinking about you since you had started your role as his sous-chef at the restaurant.
Because every single naughty thought he had been having had been about you since then. Because, God, he wants you.
He couldn’t even remember how it had started, only that you had invited him over for tasting a new meal you were working on. The two of you had a drink of wine, laughing and testing new proportions for North & Vine; trying to find something to show to Marcus. Grant had never laughed so hard before, his thoughts in shambles each time you walked closer to him. He could smell the perfume from your skin, the warmth of your body and he had felt his cock twitch in his pants more than once during that night.
“Salmon with a spicy orange flavored sauce? Are you trying to kill me?” He had joked during one of your ideas, making you roll your eyes. “Okay, well, do you have any idea?” You had voiced back at him, hips popped to the side and touched the kitchen counter. Grant had smiled at you before imitating your position, plus crossing his arms over his chest.
Big biceps bulged, calling your name for a second before he spoke. “No, that sounds good, alright. I just thought you wanted to talk about the dessert now.” Dessert, was it. You spoke again; about cherries, lemon icing, a sponge cake with a bed of jelly mangoes… or something.
But Grant was more focused on the way your lips moved than on the ideas themselves; imagining how it would feel like to kiss you in your kitchen, right now. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t even dare act on those thoughts even with how much you both had been flirting with the other for weeks now. He didn’t have to ask for anything, though, because the simple joke you made about licking icing from his body was enough for it to happen.
There was a kiss, soft and gentle; tempting, tasting the wine from your lips as he got closer and wrapped his hands around your waist to pull you against his body. His cock was already half-hard in his pants, twitching and begging for attention as he whined against your mouth. “Fuck, baby, I want you so much.” He spoke, and your hands traveled to his belt. You didn’t lose a second before undoing it, the button and fly soon following. Grant groaned in your ear as you broke the kiss. He was panting in your face; the faint smell of alcohol in his mouth like in yours.
His eyes squinted and he watched as you lowered yourself on your knees before him, both his hands moving to hold at the counter, his legs trembling. “You look so pretty like that. You want to suck me off?” He spoke, direct but soft and you nodded your head at him. “Yeah, I want to. Lick icing off of you, remember?” You expressed back at him and he sighed dreamily, nodding his head too.
Your hands moved with his permission, pulling his pants and boxers down to his knees. His cock was hard, slapping back to his lower-stomach and twitching for attention.
You felt saliva pool in your mouth at the view; a slight curve to the left, more length than girth, an angry pink tip leaking translucent pre-cum in beads. Hair at the base, salt and pepper. Grant felt his ballsack contract at the attention you were giving to his cock, and he licked his lips. “Do you like it? Like that old man’s cock?” He asked and you sighed. “It’s so fucking pretty, Grant.”
His hands moved and you looked up at him as he grabbed the bowl of buttercream icing from the counter just to serve a line of it all along his cock, base to tip. He watched you as your lips parted and a sigh escaped you. You moved on your knees to be closer to him, hands grabbing at his bare thighs. One of Grant’s hands moved through your hair, gently pushing your head closer to his cock. “Come on, good girl. You still wanna do it, yeah?” He asked you, suddenly feeling like this might not be what you truly wanted. But you looked up at his face before wrapping your lips around his tip.
Grant gasped at the feeling, the buttercream had been slightly cold on his cock but your mouth was warm. It was contrasting so much, making him dizzy for a second or so. You hummed around his bulbous head, tasting the slight lemon flavored buttercream icing, your eyes closing as you took more of his cock inside your mouth.
Your tongue rolled around his length, smearing the icing around. Grant’s eyes lowering to watch you work on his cock. “Fuck, such a good girl… You’re so pretty. Yeah, God, go on.” He spoke, fingers running through your hair but never pushing you closer. He wanted you to do this at your own pace.
Soon enough, you had more than half of his cock inside your mouth, your taste buds tasting both lemon and salty pre-cum. You moaned, tongue rolling around his cock and teasing his veins by rubbing against them purposefully. Grant groaned, throwing his head to the ceiling of your kitchen before looking back at you. You stopped yourself from moving more and he was thankful for that; his head feeling dizzy from the sensations of your mouth closing around his fat cock. “Such a good girl you are.” He spoke but moaned loudly when you tightened your lips around his cock from the praise.
Some of the buttercream icing was now smeared on your lips, covering them with a lemon and sugar flavor.
You felt his tip gently hit the back of your throat, but not enough to make you gag. Your jaw went slack as you started to suck on his shaft, pulling your head back and forth, teeth only grazing gently at his skin. His cock was heavy in your mouth, warm, tasting both salty and sugary. You tried to lick at the icing, getting the more off of his shaft, rubbing your tongue at different spots which made Grant whine out for you.
You gulped, saliva making his dick glisten, coating his length before leaking to his balls and mixing with the buttercream.
You suddenly pulled away from his cock, letting it pop out of your mouth with a wet noise. The length slapped back against Grant’s lower stomach, before you wrapped a hand around it. The rest of the buttercream coated your fingers but you didn’t seem to care. You started to jerk him off, smearing more icing on his shaft.
“Fuck, ah, yes… You’re so good. You’re doing so good, baby. You’re making me feel so good, you know that?” He spoke, eyebrows furrowed in pleasure. You moved your head to lick at the buttercream, running your tongue all along his cock while pumping him up and down. Your tongue rubbed against twitching veins, down to his balls.
You could feel the way Grant’s thighs were shaking as you still held one, fingers against warm and soft skin. A whine escaped his mouth as you ended up sucking on his balls, fingers still wrapped around his fat cock. Your thumb brushed against his leaky tip each time you pumped up, teasing him slightly. His skin tasted musky and salty, but also sugary from the buttercream icing. Your saliva made his balls glisten and only when you thought he had gotten enough stimulus there, you shifted your attention back to his cock.
Your hand started to pump at his base while your mouth wrapped around his tip again.
“Good girl. Tighten those lips for me, yeah? You’re doing so good. Suck me off so good, baby.” He spoke and you did exactly what he wanted, tightening the grip of your lips around his tip. Your tongue rolled around his mushroom head, teasing his slit as more pre-cum leaked, ending on your taste buds. The icing had been licked off, but his cock still held the taste of lemon.
You moaned around his shaft, the vibration bringing another stimulus to Grant and he groaned. His hand in your hair was trembling, but he tried to play with your locks, his balls contracting as he felt his orgasm close.
“Baby, please… Please, can I come in your mouth?” He whined, his breathing labored as he almost folded onto himself. Your eyes looked up to see his face, and he saw the permission in the way you were looking at him. Your hand started to jerk him faster, you sucked on him like a lollipop, saliva leaking from the corner of your mouth now. Slurping noises echoed in the room before it was filled with Grant’s loud moan, a gasp leaving his mouth as he shot his hot, creamy white load inside your mouth.
His thighs shook, pupils dilated as he kept looking at you. You waited for his cock to twitch in your mouth, the taste of his salty come strong on your tongue. Only when you knew he was gone, you pulled away, mouth filled with his semen. You swallowed it, licking your lips to not miss a drop. “God, baby…”
Grant cursed as he watched you, his hands moving to pull his pants up, buttoning them again before he helped you up. His strong, large hands made their ways to your waist to pull you closer. There was a sheen layer of sweat on his forehead, a smile on his face.
He didn’t even hesitate before kissing you again, his tongue pushing past your lips. He moaned again, his tongue brushing against yours and licking at your teeth before he pulled again; a thread of saliva connected your mouths. “You taste like lemon and me, now.” He said and you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “That’s a great combination, isn’t it? I think I like it.”
“Yeah, I like it too. I think you should taste like me all the time, yeah?”
taglist ﹏ @ravensreadingrecs @tealee @dreamersentity @amourflores @filthgf @antlerlove @mimisitaugu @dreamcastgirl99 @whitemelanin @userhotd @beaufire @s4yuriii @puppyinlace @prismozo @r-oxy1 @kill3ill @beausling @starr-jazz @ohtiramisuu ( to be added in misc section!)
Yes chef ep2 is acc the start of a rennaisance for Quinn like
''Show me how you touch yourself I wanna see you'
"Good girl"
"would you like it if i told you what to do?"
the thrusts gradually picking up and getting louder...Shawn's voice getting breathier and heavier when he's narratting the sexier stuff THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOUUUU
GRANT REILLEY! who doesn't come up for air until he's dizzy, his face buried in the seam of your pussy, his tongue, wet and warm and eager, curling against you in slow, sticky stripes that leave lines of saliva stuck to his chin and string along your puffy folds. He's sloppy with it once he feels you loosen up, thumbs spreading you open to dribble spit onto your twitchy little hole, smearing the mess against you with his fingertips. Bonus points if you're all whiny and squirmy, fingers tangled in his hair and hiccupping "More- Grant- there-" and looking down at him with those pretty fucking eyes-
GRANT REILLY! whose favorite way to eat it is from the back, snaking one of those fluffy pillows he thinks is ridiculous under your tummy, kissing from the nape of your neck down the length of your spine, little open mouthed kisses pressed against each vertebrae, humming about how sweet you taste when he finally reaches you're cunt he's starved, pistoning the thick muscle of his tongue in and out of you, groaning against your slit when you shiver around him.
GRANT REILLY! who still won't fuck you, no matter how hard you beg, or bat those fluttery lashes up at him "nuh uh, sous, you know better," he taunts slightly, but the words are so soft and syrupy, spilling nto your ear like honey and making your chest feel paticularly fuzzy, "not until you're head chef, yeah?" which makes him snicker against your neck when you pout, and distracts you by sliding his tongue against your pouty bottom lip, then against the roof of your mouth when you gasp, and once against the cheek just the watch the way your face scrunches up.
GRANT REILLY! who lets you wear yourself out riding his thigh instead, those stupidly soft, big brown eyes wrinkled with the same smug amusement he gets from whispering "too salty, chef" against your ear where your sure Taylor and her new motherly instincts had side-eyed the two of you. He splays his palm again the span of your throat, and he soaks up the way your rhythm stutters slightly, french tips curling against his biceps, a choppy little hiccup of his name and "cumming-hck-" made him roll his knee forward, meeting his whines with breathy little pants of his own, the thick ridge of his cock swollen against the zipper of his sauce stained jeans
GRANT REILLY! who reassures you that it's perfectly fine to cum when a guy squeezes your throat, and pinky promises not to tell anyone France's finest was so...easy.
as somebody who wants to study criminology as well, what's it like for you? <3
omg criminology twin 😭 I acc switched my major to forensic psychology, but I can tell you ab my experience and give you some tips! with it as a first year!
My first year was filled with alot of introductory courses, and within those courses the profs spend a lot of time going over your syllabus, doing icebreakers with the other students (talk to at least one person in each of your classes, bc i found that having friends in one class and not the other kind of demotivated me from acc showing up to the ones I didn't have friends in 😭😭)
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ INVEST IN YOUR HOBBIES !
I know everyone's different, but as fascinating as criminology is, what makes it fascinating is also what makes it so depressing. Once you start to acc peel back the layers and learn the anatomy of a crime, there are crimes that'll repulse you, criminals you'll sympathize for even if you think you won't, and while I find it doesn't completely go away, investing yourselves in hobbies, and having ways to come back down from heavy cases/subjects is important, especially as you advance in your career!
Also!! Social connection is v important so find you're people and make sure they're good people y'all. (trust me)
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ IT'S OK TO NOT KNOW EVERYTHING
omg bruh when I tell you I had the craziest tryhards in one of my lectures, he was arrogant and snarky and rude, and I knew another girl who'd turn down a scholarship from University of Melbourne to go to my college?? and I had a rough first couple of weeks finding my footing in a class where I thought I didn't belong. It's very easy to get into your head in any field of work, but then It helps for me to remember the point is that i should be learning new things, and if I knew everything wtf would be the point in going to school again??
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ STUDY, STUDY STUDY!
I'm telling you, any type of studying tricks and tips you gotta do, do it. Criminology is such a content heavy course, and there's a lot of work; case studies, research methods, strategies and law theories, and you're responsible for being caught up on all your work and following the syllabus and it's V easy to let little stuff pile up into big stuff and suddenly it's finals and ur kirkenuinely done for 💔
i'm the type of person that studies by teaching other ppl so the librarians HATED to see my ass omg, but it also helps you to make alot of new friends and connections, so if that's you're thing I'd say find friends of your field/also other fields so you don't have criminology on the brain 24/7
overall I would say it's a big decision to make and you don't wanna be saddled doing something you don't like, but as someone who grew up watching Law and Order reruns on her grandma's house on Sundays, and putting my plushies on trial studying law came v naturally to me, and Criminology is one of courses that the harder you work the more it'll pay off but that also means that when you fall off, you fall off fr
So overall, I would say definitely do more research as obviously every country and school is different in how they teach, but whatever you do end up pursuing, I hope these help! tysm again for the ask ilysm ok bai
another reminder that what you put in your public bookmarks on ao3 is public, meaning anybody can see them, including the authors.
all of this. heavy on “the fastest way to discourage fandom writers is by rating/assigning numerical value to fanfics”. also the “but don’t you want to get better?” argument is so exhausting to me. because if us fanfic writers want to “get better” at our hobbies, the things we do out of love, and if we want constructive criticism, we will either directly ask for it (so if we didn’t ask, keep your opinion to yourself) or we will go to our trusted friends, whose opinions we actually value, for their feedbacks.
because more often than not, the unsolicited constructive criticism random strangers give us isn’t even constructive criticism but what these people personally want to read. so here’s the thing, us fanfic writers write for ourselves first and foremost. we appreciate people who read our works and show us support, but we’re writing and sharing our works for free — it’s our hobby and passion, our source of comfort, something we do as a form of self care, it’s not a job we are paid to do — so we’re not writing to please anybody but ourselves.
you don’t go up to a stranger you see in public, tell them what you dislike about their clothes and how they can “dress better” then defend your actions by claiming you “have the rights to criticize their clothing because they are in public”.
if you like our fics, cool. if you don’t like them, that’s fine. you can find something else to read. or, better yet, you can WRITE THE THING YOU WANT TO READ YOURSELF, nobody is stopping you. but keep your unsolicited criticism to yourself if we didn’t ask for one.
౨ৎ Ohtiramisu!₊˚⊹ @ohtiramisuu - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
