Scribblyne

Serial Lurker || She/Her || Wanna-be fanfiction writer || Taking reqs !!

[scribblyne]

Who is Scribblyne?

~~~~~~~~~~ Hiya! I'm Scribblyne, and I've been a serial lurker for a VERY long time. I'm an avid writer, and I've been itching to get back into the fanfiction scene, because I guess it's one of those things that never leave. Admittedly, I'm coming from ao3, so have some mercy on me. ~~~~~~~~~~

What am I willing to write?

Just about anything, really. Big big fan of just the nice simplicity of writing fanfiction, so of course the usual angst, fluff, and smut are welcome, as well as ships and x readers. But, let's get onto the important boundaries.

What WON'T I write?

Dubious Age Gaps

Extreme Fetishes (Scat, Age play, vore, etc)

Smut relating to underage characters

Anything related to dark romance (non-con etc)

Of course, if it's unclear where I stand on these boundaries, you are more than free to ask. I'll probably need to update this as time goes on, because these were my absolute NOs off the top of my head.

~~~~~~~~

And now my favourite part, the fandoms I'm a part of!

Attack On Titan

Jujutsu Kaisen

Into/Across The Spiderverse

My Hero Academia

Rick And Morty

Stardew Valley

Arcane

The Boys

Mob Psycho

Great Pretender

Saiki K

There are probably more, it just seems like I've forgotten every piece of media I've ever consumed.

Anywaysies, REQUESTS ARE VERY MUCH OPEN !!!!!

[scribblyne]

The hand that feeds (2/?)

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Part 1

Summary: Y'all wanna fuck SO bad

Warnings: Plenty Sexual Tension (and innuendos), man playing guitar at you

WC: 2000

Author's Note: I took forever to write this, SO much has been going on. I swear to god, that fanfic writer curse is a real thing. In any case, they still aren't in each other's pants, writing smut scares me just a bit because I DREAD the word 'member' like it's out to kill my family. Anywaysies, please enjoy!

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“Oy, get those shoes off. I don’t want you tracking dirt onto my floors.” 

You obliged, leaning your hand against the wall for support as you slipped your foot out of your shoes, and then the other. You couldn’t say his home was anything beyond what you would have expected: it had an arranged mess type of look to it, punk themed magazines strewn along tabletops and shelves, though not quite organised in any particular manner. Along the walls were paintings and artworks, beautiful displays of bold and striking colours, posters for bands you’d only ever heard in name. Down the hallway, to your immediate right was a kitchen, a single plate and fork sitting in the sink impatiently waiting to be washed. It was nothing large, not as though he would have needed it to be, but it seemed well suited for the space. Further up ahead was a couch cradled to the corner of the room, a forest green complemented by orange pillows. 

“Welcome to casa de Brown, breakfast is from 7 to 10, and we don’t do lunches here, so don’t expect it.”

“Ah, and what of dinner?” “Depends, will you be having dessert at the dining table or on the countertop?”

“How much of a mess do you intend to make?”

He shrugged, an almost coy smile spilling against his lips as you walked ahead of him, immediately drawn to a collection of guitars displayed above his couch – that was what you’d come to see, after all. They weren’t anything particularly expensive or extravagant, a fact that seemed strongly contrary to what the persona he had constructed in your presence suggested. If anything, they looked mildly aged. “These are awfully boring for an alleged rockstar,” You said as you placed a knee on the couch, leaning forward to strum a finger across the strings, only to be met by an off-key sound. “Yikes, out of tune too? Not helping your case here, Brown.” 

“You judge a man by the look and sound of his instrument, ay? Just let me get my girl, I named her… Actually, I didn’t name her, but that’s nunya business.” He walked through a door beside the couch, leading to – what you could only assume was – his bedroom. You took a seat, hands folded over one another in your lap, it was almost polite, something uncertain. The whole place smelled of him; that natural unfamiliar scent you’d find in every place that wasn’t your own. You pulled one of the persimmon cushions into your lap, an immediate gust of that wooden undertone he carried with himself, a pleasant aroma by all means. It almost felt intimate, the way you could imagine his skin bearing the exact sensation with your teeth pressed to his throat. You’d hope in such a situation you’d be feeling more than just the way he smelled, perhaps it would be his coarse hands wandering below your shirt, exploring the warmth at your abdomen – if he were bold enough, possibly lower. 

“Here she is, the beauty.” He held up an electric, pressing a kiss to the upper bout. Its body a stark faded red, covered with a couple doodles and stickers, strings fraying ungracefully past the tuning pegs. In its odd and chaotic look, it presented a pleasant contrast – reminded you of him in the same way pets supposedly resemble their owners. 

“I expected something a little more impressive,” you retorted as you leaned back into the sofa, your arms crossed, cozying into the seat as if it were your own. 

“Well, if that was the case, the audience would be staring at the guitar and not the stud playing it. We can’t have that, now can we?”

“Go on, then. Give me a show, pretty boy.” The way you said that stroked something in his ego, he felt it in the way his tongue caught against his teeth; abundant hesitation. He felt himself weak in the palm of your hand, the way you spoke grazing against something delicate, something sensitive and unseen. The way you moved your tongue had his throat full of all the things he couldn’t say, his wit robbed from him in the broad daylight of your affection. 

A bulge pressing against his cheek from the inside, he hung the strap of the guitar against one shoulder, the instrument pressed against himself diagonally. His fingers found the frets with apparent ease, his right hand resting on its waist, confirming the thing was a long term partner of his. 

He pointed to a large black wire curling beside a comparatively small amp, something that could almost be called compact. “Be a doll, yeah? Grab that cable there.” You obliged, standing beside the machine, holding the very end of the wire – the part that would attach to the guitar. “Just like that… D’you know how to turn it on?” 

As he plugged the cable in with a satisfying two-part sound, your fingers trailed over the very top of the amp, searching for a switch. “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?” A soft click hit the top of the system, a gentle buzz pouring from the front as he placed his fingers over the strings, something hinting at expertise in the way he did it. “Alright, any requests? I don’t usually give my fans this opportunity, so you better pick something good, yeah?” He placed his fingers on individual strings, running a dark pick down the strings, a warm hum seeping out of the amp in response. 

You stood, approaching the bookshelf beside him; more vinyls than there were books. You ran your finger over the sides of them, pushing them apart to get a peak at the names of the albums. A monochrome sleeve caught your eye, bright orange words in opposite corners, a dark airship occupying a large chunk of the cover: Led Zeppelin. You pulled it out from the shelf, holding it with both hands, briefly admiring his taste. 

He watched you pick it, the way you moved your fingers in a cautious way, as though you were at risk of tearing the thing apart with your mind; he admired the back of your figure, up and down, his eyes lingering at certain parts of you. He knew the risk he put himself at, guiding you to his home, the subtle pour of light through translucent curtains hardly illuminating the desire that pressed against his torn denim jeans. “I can’t quit you, babe.” With a sharp downward strum, he played the first chord of the second last song on the track list. He said it with playful ignorance stuck to his lips, his fingers trailing down the fretboard, picking the strings his fingers held down against the instrument’s neck, pressing and pulling with an arrogance that could only be found in mastery. “You wouldn’t be the first,” you placed the vinyl sleeve back on the shelf, your eyes strictly on his as you ran your fingertip over the edge of it, slowly pressing it back into its nook between the other vinyls. His eyes flicked downwards to the motion of his own fingers, you took the moment to sit back down, leaning back as far as you could, legs crossed. He was the performer, you were the audience. 

You watched, the way he moved his fingers, the way his eyes kept finding yours; a very distinct glint in his eye asking, “Yeah? You like this, don’t you?” Of course he knew the answer to it, he was nothing if not self assured. You heard the squeal of the strings as he pressed them into the board, stretching out the sound, distorting it in a pleasant way. There was a way he smiled, as he ran his fingers up and down the throat of the instrument, it begged for so much more attention than just a mere glance. Something in the dim sparks in the room glistened against his skin, shining against his silver adornments. 

 He stepped closer, his fingers dancing up and down the strings in quick practiced languid motions, a slight enchantment in the way he moved the whole thing in the slow swells of sound, pushing it forward with the rest of himself – there was his performer’s flare. You had to admit, the guitar pressed against his torso really did prove to be a good combination, a distinctly alluring match up of his arms straining to strum at the right speed, the effort to urge the right sounds out of the thing. He was good at making it loud, he played it hard enough for it to still be pleasant. His fingers dug hard into certain notes, a tense vibrato spilling out onto the living room floor. 

“Eyes on me, yeah?” 

He gradually got closer to the couch, the instrument uncoiling the tangle of wire beside the amp as he approached, his fingers held across the board to hush the thing in the meantime - almost like a hand pressed against a mouth, just to make sure things weren’t too much of a ruckus. 

You kept your eyes on him, eventually looking up at him from the seat. He looked almost cocky, your face something of an inch above his belt. He rearranged his fingers against the fret, his other hand held back as if he were admiring something below him. “Think you can tame it?” 

You offered him a scoff coated in the remains of an upward tilt against your mouth, eyes keen on his as you answered, “Didn’t think you were the type to want to be played with, superstar.” You moved your hand forward, closer to the space where his abdomen would meet his thighs, sedulous fingers running over the strings, a soft sound followed by a single harsh note where your nail met the last string. His focus was on your hand, the way it moved, the way your eyes focused right ahead, the faint colour of your iris peaking through curved lashes. His breath gently pressed out his lips, the sharp ends of his imagination catching on the soft fabric of reality. 

The things he wanted to do to you clawed down his back, chains of the foreseeable consequences keeping his hands from wandering to your throat, from tipping your head up, from letting your lips feel the rough tip of his thumb, begging for entry before running it against your tongue. He’d hold you there, bass on the line. 

“Something caught your tongue, Brown?”

You gave him an almost coy look, big eyes looking right up at him in something alluding to your lips pressed against the very bottom of his torso. A warm and loving mouth lathering him in sensations that could only be appreciated in incoherency. He smiled all the same, his own dark eyes running down along your cheek, down to your jugular, as if he were staking the kill. 

“You know just what you’re doing there, don’t you?” “Oh, and what is it that I’m doing to you, hm?” 

You snaked your fingers away from the strings, north bound. Cold fingertips slithering just above his belt, contact made against the warmth of his torso. Conflicting sensations sparking between the two of you, the kind that would shatter glass. You flattened your palm just above where his jeans hung on to his torso, running it up against his stomach; appreciation in each divot your fingers conquered. He relished in that frigid hand slaughtering every inhibition, deliberate forgetfulness in every possible repercussion to be had. 

What kind of fool bites the hand that feeds?

[scribblyne]

"So you just run." (1/?)

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Summary: You wish it were as simple as ignorance, or as complicated as being intertwined; it was intrinsically both and neither. Hobie couldn't help it, the chase was what drove him mad, and he didn't want to spoil that just yet. Warnings: Plenty Sexual Tension (and innuendos), Cigarette Smoking, Booze WC: 2000+ Author's Note: This is my first proper dip into the tumblr fanfiction scene, so I'd absolutely love to hear any and all feedback from the lovely people over here. Anywaysies, please enjoy!

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Companionship. A cruel and pious thing we all search for; be it in the comfort of another’s body, or in the understanding of one’s words. It’s an aching desire we are all born with, you’ve never been short of this comprehension. And you’ve been well acquainted with friendship, you’ve scouted the boundaries in the people you’ve found safety with, something so clear and tangible. You’ve never felt bare at the sensation of their skin against your own; nor heard the bass in their voice, and had that occupy your mind with affections they hadn’t bestowed; let alone find scripture in the motion of their fingers along the rim of a glass, the impious dip of a single finger below the rest, the gentle swirl of his wrist in matching the circular nature of the tumbler. This uncertainty was something unfamiliar, something thrilling, something that caught you in a high like nothing else. The insistent unpredictability in what was said, was there more lying beneath the blanket of his words, or was it simply as he said?

You hadn’t known Hobie long enough to warrant a guaranteed understanding of him, perhaps that was what kindled the flames of your banter. And every time you met, it was a play into insincere coincidence, an interaction with more silent begging than open admission. You burned to find your name held between his teeth, something harsh and bare, just about to break skin. This night was something known; a familiarly occupied bar, friends greeted with frequency, and no responsibilities to be had at dawn. Your arms were spread wide, ready to embrace the hangover the next morning as you downed another shot, your fifth or sixth of the night – you hadn’t kept count. 

A group of seven at a round table: five cozied up against the curved couch of the booth, with a noble duo sitting across on creaky wooden chairs, their backs open to the rest of the establishment. You were amongst the couch-sitters, one person away from the outer end of it. He who held your glare was closer to the opposite end of the seat, a sacrificial lamb sat on a shitty barstool. Even as the soft sway of the drinks settled in your stomach, your eyes remained focused on him, something holy in the way the edges of his skin blurred into the light. Something intoxicating in the way he carried himself, the casual way he leaned his weight on his arm as he spoke to someone other than yourself. The soft drum of his fingertips against the dark mahogany of the table, the arrogant upturn of his lips as he hesitated a laugh; how he’d shut his eyes and cock an eyebrow up in place of a chuckle. 

The burn of the liquor sank down your throat, coating your mouth in something like heaven,though calling for sin in its influence; much like the warmth he cooed under your skin, a subtle beckoning of dilation beneath the surface. Each breath filled your lungs with something unsanctified, a new thought articulated in the bend of his fingers, the soft rise at his knuckles, down to his wrist. A simple ponderance of what those hands could do lingered at the back of your mind, if they were firm in their holdings, or gentle in their caress; perhaps they were hands that stilled the body and soul, stirred a cold ring of pleasure in everything they fondled; could it be that they were rough at your throat, if they indelicately stole the hum of your sound against themselves.

At the other end of the table, certain unsubtle stares were discreetly caught from the corner of his eye, held tightly in the palm of his hand, to be kept in his pocket for later use. There was something enticing in the way those pretty eyes observed the mundane, a feeling he could only call blatant flattery. It wasn’t the first time he had caught that look in your eyes – he hoped he’d never have to see the last – but he knew that there was a thin line between where you two stood now, and where he wanted you to be: probably against a bathroom stall if you’d let him. 

But then the chase would be over. And what more would there be between the two of you? He saw you, the way your eyes caught his own, the soft curve of your neck, the dip of your clavicles, and he had never been tied up in such a tight knot of menial interaction. He was afraid of indulging you, afraid of indulging himself. But, by god, did he think of it. In the empty spaces of time, idle hands craving the sacred and profane touch you beheld. He pictured his name filling your mouth; you swallowing him whole. He bucked into the thought of your hands, masterful in their artistry; the gentle way you’d sculpt him to perfection: creating him in your image. It was desperate, the pathetic way he clung onto the thought of you as he wrapped his hand around his bedsheets, pleading for the heaven at your tongue.

“Are you even listening to me right now?”

And there it was again, the reality of everything you weren’t to him crashing down after the tangled thoughts of his hands caught in your hair. He looked over at the other end of his conversation, shaking his head, “Sorry, man. Just kinda zoned out a bit. Think I need to go out for a smoke, yeah?”

The other looked mildly annoyed, but dismissed him anyhow. 

Wasn’t that a cue, if nothing else. Surely the liquid confidence was enough past this point, something to finally crack that iceberg of common sense between the two of you. Maybe you’d finally have a reason to hold him as something less than holy. Tapping the arm beside you, asking for room to pass, you stood up. The fuzzy dizzy feeling of the liquor finally sinking into your arms and chest. 

“Hey.” 

You found him leaning against the outer wall of the bar, right next to the entrance, struggling with his cigarette in his mouth, and his lighter supposedly out of fluid, as implied by the futile clicks of his thumb against the sparkwheel. 

“You got a lighter?” You dug around the pockets of your jacket: his lucky day. A stupidly bright pink thing. You held your hand around the tip of it, checking if it actually worked before you gave the man more false hope than he could bear. You stepped closer, flicking the flame into existence as the space between you two shrank. He leaned in, the head of it burning as it should. He took a deep breath, inhaling the first bits of smoke before pulling it from his lips and exhaling. 

“Y’know, I think you’re the only person I know with a pink lighter.” You laughed, stuffing it back in your pocket, “Call me one of a kind,” “One of a kind is putting it lightly.” He took a drag, blowing it out of his mouth before speaking again, “You want one?”

“Ah, I’m not really a big smoker,” You paused for a beat, considering the moment, the proximity, “Actually, fuck it, gimme one.” He chuckled, taking another puff as he dug through his own pockets, pulling out a half empty  Marlboro pack. Flipping the lid open, he held it in front of you, urging you to take one. As you began to dig through your pocket again, he looked at you, “C’mere, let me show you a magic trick, yeah?” He ushered you closer with the forward fold of his fingers in his direction. 

You leaned in, holding the cigarette to your mouth in a way that was almost amateurish, he pressed the tip against it, taking a drag as a way to encourage you to do the same. You looked at him, the way his eyes were focused down at the space between you two, dark eyelashes folding over them. You inhaled, choking back a cough as he looked up at you; your eyebrows furrowed, the nicotine clawing at the back of your throat. He spoke, smoke falling out his lips, “You alright there?” Still holding back a cough, “Yup- Just… Just fine.” “Y’know you’re allowed to cough, right?” You let out the smoke, a couple of throaty coughs following. 

He patted your back, laughing, “Alright, easy there. Don’t want you passing out on me.” You looked up at him, a teary eyed laugh also coming from you, “I bet you think you’re so much better than me- cough cough Mr Lungs Of Steel over here.”

He took another drag, smiling at the compliment, “Practice, love, practice. That’s all it takes.” 

You held the thing between your fingers, recovering from the near dry heaving experience you’d just had, debating any wisdom that would be had in another hit. He seemed to have a far easier time with it than you did, holding it to his lips and exhaling with no qualms. You took in the sight of him: the resting bitch face he had, the single snake bite on the right side of his lip. You wondered how it would feel against your skin, if it would be cool against any heat you could offer him. Of course, there was something rugged about him. The edges of his skin looked as though they’d tear through your flesh, and much like a moth to a flame, you begged to touch him. Yearned to be devoured, shred to bits under his touch. It was vicious, violent, and oh so compelling. 

He dropped the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot. Stuffing his hands back into his pockets, turning to you – only half way through yours. 

“Need a hand there?” 

You rolled your eyes, taking small puffs to avoid the embarrassment of choking out a lung, “Sure you’re not just looking for an excuse to have another cigarette?” 

“Does that matter? Didn’t your parents teach you that sharing is caring? You greedy thing.” He lightly tugged your wrist closer to his face, using your fingers as a substitute for his own, pressing his lip to the end of the bud, lightly caressing your fingers as he did so. His grip on your wrist failed to relent, he held you there – not as though you would have moved otherwise. You could vaguely make out the calluses on the tips of his fingers, hard and rough.

“You play guitar?” 

He parted his lips from the butt, a curious look in his eye as he turned to you, an almost cocky smile curving his lips, showing off that pretty piercing of his, “What gave me away?”

“I know an insufferable bastard when I see one.” He playfully placed his palm over his chest, hinting that you’ve broken his heart, “I’ll let you get away with that one, especially since you’re not wrong.Though, looking at a guy like me, you’d ought to be more shocked if I didn’t know how to strum a chord or two,” He spoke with his arms gesturing down at his clothing. The thought ate at the back of his mind, how easy it would be to ask you to just head over to his place, just to ‘see his guitar’. Maybe he’d let you play with it, run your hand along the neck of it; he could have your back on his chest, hold his hands over your own and teach you just how to play; how to move your hands, how to strum every important chord. He could be the best teacher, you’d just have to listen

“Can’t have you walking around looking like you belong on a stage for nothing, right?”

“That’s precisely it, y’know that’s what the fans love to see,” he could see it in his mind. Right in front of a mirror, he’d do it for you first, give you the lessons you’d need, his lips right at your earlobes, praising every correct motion. He knew you’d learn quick, wouldn’t you? You’d turn to him, eyebrows raised, a half laughing sound pushing out your mouth, “Of course, a performer. No wonder you act like you’re so much better than everyone!” “Ever considered that I might just be?”

“Oh yeah? Prove it, then.” He wasn’t so blind that he couldn’t take a hint when it was being pointed at with several large red arrows, and he wasn’t so daft that he’d let such a wondrous opportunity go to waste. “I can give you a show, just me and you.” He’d gently take your hand, plucking the cigarette from it and savouring a final puff before dropping it to the ground and stomping it, much like he had done with his own. “How about it?”

Next Part ;3