You can enjoy an adult fictional character and teenagers on TikTok will insist you’re a pedophile or “weird” because there’s an age-gap between you and the FICTIONAL ADULT CHARACTER.
in a perfect world, johnny would be the first to retire. he would be the first to find someone, fall head-over-heels in love, and throw all of his hard work and dedication away in favor of a quiet life by the ocean. it would be tough, at first, it would take years for him to truly shake the weight of the war from his bones, but he would do it. he would rather be a good husband, a father, than just another tragedy in an endless string of them. he would marry you as soon as his retirement papers cleared. he would give you a home full of laughter, and children, three at the very least, maybe a dog. he would be at every ballet recital and sports game, every parent-teacher conference and award ceremony. he would grow old with you, dance with you in the kitchen even at the ripe age of sixty-something, would complain about his creaking back right up until the bitter-sweet end. john mactavish would make a fine husband, given the chance.
kyle would be the next to jump ship. one day, he would see himself in the mirror, and he’d realize that he doesn’t recognize the man he has become. the years have taken their toll on him, he’s tired, he’s scared, he’s angry. his youth will have passed him by, and he’ll have forgotten to enjoy it. all the time he should’ve spent falling in love, and planning for the future, and making stupid decisions so he would have them to laugh about one day, was spent on the front lines, fighting somebody else’s war. he’ll decide that he wants no part in any of it, not anymore, and he’d turn his papers in the following morning. he meets you after, somewhere casual, maybe he’d spill his coffee all over you in his rush to get somewhere that, in retrospect, was entirely unimportant. he’ll buy you dinner to make up for it, and then again the next week, just in case his debt hasn’t been settled, and again, every friday for the next several years. he’ll marry you sometime in between, something small and intimate, with his brothers in arms as your witnesses, maybe he’ll finally give his mama the grandbaby she’s been begging for his whole life. kyle garrick would choose to be a better man, given the chance.
simon wouldn’t retire by choice. not in any world, not even a perfect one. but, eventually, it’s bound to catch up with him. even the world’s most capable soldier is vulnerable to his own damn humanity. he’d be forced to return to manchester, sooner or later, older, meaner, sore all over, all of the time. he’d buy a bike, a passion project, just something to keep his hands busy, lest he goes mad in his empty house, nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. it wouldn’t be enough, in the end. it can’t chase away the skeletons in his closet or tell him that it’s okay to be scared of the dark, even at his grown age, so he would do what any half-sane man would, and adopt a dog. a retired military mutt, just like him, who’s greying at the snout and growls at little kids when they pass by on their bicycles. he’d meet you at a dog park on a sunday afternoon, would remember your face but not your name. not until you chase him down in the street some weeks later, at least, and claim that his boy got your girl pregnant. he’d pay the vet bills, and he would help you find good homes for the puppies, and then, he’d stick around still, because he, like any stray, is desperate for a place to call home. you’d let him stay so long as got his boy neutered. he wouldn’t give you kids, wouldn’t burden you with his last name, but he’d damn sure love you. simon riley would learn to be happy, given the chance.
john wouldn’t retire until he’s already halfway to too late. the kids are nine and twelve already, old enough to resent him, and you’ve gotten used to having the bed to yourself, setting the table for three instead of four, brushing your friends’ comments off when they bring up how strong you are, doing it all on your own. your worrisome heart would sink every time the doorbell rang unexpectedly, or when he went too long without contact, fearing for the worst. it would not be some big, sudden revelation on his end. he’d notice in fragments. no, he doesn’t know his kids’ teachers’ names, and, no, he didn’t know that your son was diagnosed with asthma last summer. he can’t remember the last time the two of you celebrated an anniversary, or went out for dinner, or talked about anything that mattered. he wouldn’t make a big show of it, wouldn’t even tell you that he was considering it, but you’d wake up one morning, expecting him to be long gone, and he’d be stood at the stove, burning eggs, and he would never leave you again. he’d do what he could to make up for lost time. he’d schedule date nights for the two of you, without prompting, he’d take your boy fishing sunday mornings, share all that hard-earned wisdom over soggy sandwiches and plop his boonie hat on the kid’s head to keep him from burning in the summer sun, he’d sit on his daughter’s bedroom floor with a tiara on his head, sipping shitty tea from plastic cups, and he’d thank god. john price would right his wrongs, given the chance.
but this isn’t a perfect world.
john mactavish dies at twenty-seven, shot in the head by a man who should’ve died two years prior. you bury him before you get to marry him. your daughter’s born three months later — she’ll never meet her father, but she has his eyes, and his smile, and you know he would’ve loved her. he always wanted to be father.
kyle garrick spends the rest of his life fighting for a cause he doesn’t know if he believes in. your paths don’t cross in that little coffee shop, because he’s on the other side of the world, getting shot at, while you go about your life none the wiser. he dies at thirty-six on an operation no-one’s allowed to talk about, desperate and alone.
simon riley kills himself a month after his sergeant’s untimely demise — not like anyone can prove it. it’s impossible to claim that he walked into the line of fire intending to be shot down. what exactly was going through his mind, no one knows for certain. in your late twenties, you adopt an old military mutt, who’s greying at the muzzle and growls at your neighbor’s kids.
john price signs the divorce papers when you send them, because he knows it’s unfair of him to keep you tethered to him. he watches your children grow from afar, through the pictures you send and the quiet, solemn voicemails you leave. you never stop loving him, but you can’t wait around for him forever. you three are the only ones left to attend his funeral, when the time comes. you’re the only one with something kind to say.
Simon gets dosed with a truth serum, and Johnny is absolutely taking the piss.
Pairing: Simon×Fem!Y/N | Mild Sexual Content | Truth Serum
────────· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·────────
────────· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·────────
"Would you fuck y/n?" Soap asked Ghost, grinning ferally.
Ghost's head snapped toward him with a speed that would have been intimidating if his throat wasn't darkening to a vibrant maroon at the hem of his balaclava. For a single, long moment, the room held its breath—Gaz frozen with his coffee halfway to his lips, Price watching from the doorway with the resignation of a man who had seen too much warfare to be surprised by interpersonal chaos.
Then, the serum kicked in.
"Yes," Ghost said, and the word came out so fast and so forcefully that it actually made Soap jump.
"Absolutely. Without hesitation. In a—" He stopped. Swallowed. The serum pushed. "—in a heartbeat. In less than a heartbeat. In a negative amount of time. I would go back in time an' do it yesterday if that was an option. S'not an option—time travel doesn't exist—but if it did, I'd—"
"Christ alive," Soap breathed, almost awed.
"—I'd do it so fast," Ghost continued helplessly, the words pouring out of him like water through a breached dam. "I'd do it so—y'don't even understand, Johnny. Y'don't understan' what y've just asked me. Y've opened a door that can't be closed now. M'gonna be thinkin' about that question for weeks. Months. Forever. M'gonna be on my deathbed thinkin' about that question because yes. Yes, I bloody would. Have y'seen her?"
"We've all seen her, Lt.," Gaz wheezed, practically crying with laughter now. "She's standin' right there."
"Right there," Ghost agreed, gesturing at y/n with his cuffed hands as if Soap had just made an excellent point. "Right there. Bein' pretty. Bein' the prettiest person I've ever—I already said that, didn't I? I already said that twice. S'still true. S'more true now. S'been—" He glanced at the clock on the wall. "—four minutes. S'been four minutes an' s'even more true than it was when I first said it. How is that possible? How is she gettin' prettier?"
pairing: husband!simon “ghost” riley x wife!reader
summary: your argument got a little too heated with your husband
part 1!
part 2, another broken promise
part 3, surprise! actually fucking helpful!
part 4, final part, made sure i knew that i didn’t have to
masterlist!
“oh, what the fuck,” you mumbled under your breath, hands grabbing your poor hair. you were so stressed, in the middle of the worst argument you’ve ever had with simon.
you were upset you haven’t been seeing him lately. don’t get it wrong, you appreciated your husband working hard, doing everything in his power to provide for you and your future children, but he was spending every day at some random bar or club, staying late into the early morning hours. you felt like your husband was avoiding you, choosing to spend his free time getting drunk, away from his wife. was he mad at you for something? what did you do? how could you fix it? you were driving yourself crazy with these thoughts.
when he tried to sneak in at 4:17 am, you decided to call him out for his recent behaviors, leading to your current predicament. “need ya to get tha’ fuck off m’ back,” he slurs out, taking a step towards you.
you started feeling intimated by the larger man, not sure what to say. he’s been cussing you out, all the courage you built up crumbling beneath your husband’s drunken words. you didn’t recognize the man in front of you. where was your si?
“s-si, i’m just worried about you!” you stuttered out, taking a step back every time he took a step forward. your back eventually hit a wall, “don’ give me tha’ shit,” he was closing the space between you, “why ya actin’ all scared of m’? little fawn finally realized she’s shit outta’ luck against me? hmm?” he grabs your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. your heart broke at his usage of his sweet nickname for you, his demonization of his sweet nickname for you. “little fawn finally realized m’ could do whateva’ tha’ fuck m’ feel like with her when m’ wan’?” he continues, his accent scarily sharp.
the water works were starting now, and you couldn’t stop them. fat tears rolled down your puffy cheeks onto your husband’s thick fingers. your cheeks were definitely going to have marks from his tight grip. you felt so pathetic in his hold. you’ve never seen this side of simon, your husband’s never remotely acted this way before. you were starting to feel scared.
“and now she’s fuckin’ cryin’,” he rolls his eyes behind his mask, somehow lifting your chin even higher, you raising to your tip toes. he leans closer to your face, his breath hitting the tip of your nose, “ya wanna’ hear tha’ truth? tha’ real reason m’ stayin’ away from yer ass?” a whimper left you.
“yer so god damn annoyin’, so needy all the time,” he squeezes your cheeks harder, small ow’s leaving you. “need breaks from yer ass,” he spits out, releasing you.
he didn’t even try to catch you when you stumbled, the back of your head hitting the wall you were previously against really hard. your hand immediately reached to the injured spot, another ow departing your mouth as you rubbed your head.
you couldn’t believe what your husband just did, your other hand covering your mouth to silent your sobs. you just slid down the wall, moving to cry into your knees.
what happened to your marriage? simon was used to be head over heels for you. anyone who witnessed your relationship with him could protest to his love and admiration for you. why was he treating you this way? the man you married would’ve never said those disgusting words to you.
he sneers at your position on the ground, “for fuck’s sake,” turning away from you to exit the room. of course he decided you weren’t worth anymore of his time. you laid defeated, more sobs leaving you. you were grieving the man you once loved.
you spent the rest of the night there, uncomfortably sleeping on the hard floor, which would surely hurt your back in the morning. your husband never came in to check on you, never even threw a blanket over your shivering body.
you don’t want to leave simon, heart breaking at the idea of abandoning the future you dreamed with him, but you knew you deserved better than this.
‘how to get a divorce lawyer?’ searched on your computer’s internet browser.
Thinking about neglected alpha!Reader x 141 today.
It is such an honour to be the provider, such an amazing thing to be an alpha that your pack can need, that they can rely on when the heat hits.
Or when the world gets too loud, because you are always there. Always warm, always knowing what to say, always ready to shoulder whatever happens to press on them at the moment.
You are there for Price’s prolonged heats, you are there for Kyle’s need to decompress, you are there for anxious Johnny or for Simon’s torturous heats that wreck him if you aren’t there to make it better.
And yet, no one is there for you.
It’s not deliberate, you don’t think it is, not that they are mean on purpose. It’s just…you’d like someone to check up on you when the rut heats.
It’s not necessary, you say immediately, but it would be nice. Really really nice.
Something in your belly tightens when the rut hits again and you are just left alone.
Not a big deal, you think, shouldn’t be a big deal. But the knot in your stomach gets bigger and you have to remind yourself to relax your jaws.
You are an alpha, you can manage without anyone, not like you really need someone. You lived somehow without a pack all these years, right?
You try not to think about lying on the cold tiles alone, pain and need you cannot sate wrapping around you in a straitjacket.
It’s not fair. It has always been like that, you think.
You were always left alone because you could always do it alone and maybe somewhere along the way you forgot how not to.
Johnny reaches out to pat your shoulder and you flinch, chest rising and falling slower because breathing is difficult nowadays too. Everything seems to slow down during ruts, stretches like molasses, makes you both a dragon and a tower and the wall surrounding.
Johnny looks at you, reaches out again, watching the reaction this time and chews on his inner cheek when you pull away again.
“Just…hot in here.” You say, not even really lying, because god, you are sweating buckets, fever spiking up.
Only when Kyle leans in too close to check your temperature, you almost fall off the chair, trying to pull back.
Can’t trust the care that will never last.
You really are okay, you say, nothing’s going on.
You don’t need help. You are fine.
Price doesn’t try to touch you, but something in his eyes hardens. Makes you feel like a dumb disobeying dog.
An inadequate alpha.
Maybe that’s why you have always had to do this alone, tiny voice at the back of your mind suggests.
Maybe you just never were good enough. Maybe you just never were alpha enough.
Maybe your pack just doesn’t fucking like you.
Maybe no one does.
John offers one of his shirts to you after dinner, not the washed sterile thing, but the one that actually smells like him. The one that makes your insides go tight and pained.
The humiliation of his pity is almost worse than the rut itself. You leave it on his chair while he is still in the rec room.
Hating yourself you come back for it in the night, gulp air, nosing at the collar. Imagining it’s his throat. That your captain is spending your rut with you.
That you are enough finally.
Simon doesn’t offer a thing, but starts following you around — watches from every corner. You could ask him for help. You’ve helped him plenty in the past.
He colour return the favour, more practical part of you says and the thought of asking him for payback forces you back into the cramped bathroom and on the cold floors. You don’t need pity.
You don’t want Simon to force himself to give you anything.
How pathetic it is, that you’d need to trade it like contraband sweets sneaked on base?
So you swallow the question, the needy humiliating ‘please hug me, please don’t leave, please stay’ because if they wanted to stay they would come.
Because if you were better they’d want to be around for your ruts.
But no one knocks on your doors. So you look them down for the night, not trusting yourself not to wander outside — feverish and gone. Dizzy with the hunger you could never indulge because being needed should be enough.
Being needed as an alpha should be plenty.
Maybe if you were a better one your pack would know that it never is.
So this was a drabble i came up with when i was listening to a podcast;
Price x Younger! Assistant! reader
Price had his wife die over 10 years ago and isn't wanting to remove his wedding ring.
Reader being perfectly fine with it (goes to her grave with Price on her birthday and goes alone during christmas and leaves flowers once a month and updates her about him...) and keeps her old photos looking nice in Prices office.
When Price and reader get more serious with them talking about moving in while she's staying the night, reader finally says she's uncomfortable with him still wearing his wedding ring (people keep assuming they're married and she's having to explain that they're not...) and clearly states that she's more than happy to have him still wear it (like get it resized for a different finger, or put on a necklace, etc..) and Price loses it at her.
They've been seeing each other for almost 3 years at that point, and he cusses reader out to the point where she's crying (which she never does!) and says some awful awful things.
She leaves and ends up staying with Soap (Who she's friends with since she was a teenager) who just happened to be housemates with Simon.
Turns out they were having a game night with Kyle as well, so all three of them got to witness the more severe breakdown they think they've ever seen.
The boys are torn between the two. The end up coming to the consensus that she was completely justified to ask him to not wear the ring on his ring finger and to wear it somewhere else, and that Price was an asshole for how he handled her one request about it when they've seen how she amazing she's treated his wife since she knew about her death after she started.
They also slowly start picking apart the relationship with reader to help her realize he wasn't the greatest guy to begin with. (Despite the fact it was marked in his calendar, Price only remembered her birthday on the actual day once and could never seem to find time to spend with her.)
This turns into reader asking to be reassigned and Ghost ends up taking her on as his personal assistant while the boys are completely indifferent about Price.
Everything is kept cordial with Price for the next six months, with Gaz grabbing all of her things that were left at Price's (not much...Price also may have destroyed some of her things...)
Eventually Price gets fed up when her, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap are all talking after a meeting about doing something together they normally would include Price.
He lets some heated words out about how she's 'stolen' his soldiers and isn't worth anything now that she's not with him.
Soap and Gaz get a few choice words out before Ghost steps up and chews him completely out.
"She's been visting her grave with you the last five fuckin' years! Before you two even became something! She even goes on Christmas! Did you know that? She brings her grave fuckin' flowers once a month to catch her up on YOU! And when she finally asks for something that you can make a compromise on you made her cry! We've only ever seen her cry twice! Once when she hit a deer coming back from a mission and the only other fuckin' time was when you called her worthless! How DARE YOU be upset that we are taking care of her when you obviously weren't!"
They all leave the room, reader leaving last and giving him a cold, dead stare and states "I'll be putting in my two weeks."
Almost a year later
The boys (Soap, Gaz, and Ghost) and her got a really nice house off of base.
Soap had to medically retire due to a severe injury from an op, Gaz and Ghost end up training new recruits and giving up long missions for her. (Well, for all of them really.)
Overall.... it's nice. Really nice, with reader working at a small job (Librarian, or barista or something) and both her and Soap still getting checks (from their time in the Military) and will be probably until they're over 60.
Lots of small group dates and diy home projects, Gaz ends up getting a bucket of paint all over him at one point, Ghost accidently locks himself in the bathroom and resorts to kicking the door open and then having to repair said door, Soap ends up restoring a old car and almost lights himself on fire several times during it, Reader ends up getting a major hair change and they all absolutely love it, and everything is going amazing until...
Price knocks on their door one evening.
He's ringless, visibly distraught, and it's been clear he hasn't really been taking good care of himself recently with how much his hair and beard have grown out.
He's finally ready to admit he fucked up.
He steps into their kitchen to see reader leaning against the counter, holding a mug that used to be Ghost's, wearing one of Gaz's old sweatshirts and a pair of Soap's sweats.
Gaz, Ghost, and Soap are all there, waiting for him to speak.
He doesn't even get to open his mouth as he watches you take a long sip of tea, and more importantly, see the fact that you've clearly got a ring on your finger.
He looks at the boy's hands then, noticing that they all are wearing rings on their ring fingers as well.
He leaves quietly, with Ghost walking him to the door, and as Price glances back, clearly expecting him to try and give him some sort of positive feedback, all Ghost says is,
— one bonnie and four clydes :: 141 x female reader
not one loyal dog, but four. 1k words. sexuality and death mentioned.
Life’s a bar at 2 a.m. with the lights overhead buzzing like a bee and the whores gone home. The world owes nothing to you but a kick in the balls and a hangover that makes you swear you’ll never drink again, after tomorrow.
Jobs are slow suicides with insurance. And money is a girl with a heart of rust. Will let you in, spread her legs, show you the raw pink underneath, then laugh at you while you’re wasting on your own loneliness. Waking up in a penthouse. But damn if it doesn’t feel better than staring at the ceiling of an empty house waiting for the mailman to bring you another eviction slip. Both smell the same when the whiskey’s gone.
Four men— small, mean, horny, scared. Controlled, intrusive, violent, devoted. They’ve slept in worse places than a place they can’t pay the rent of, they don’t care.
But Bonnie does.
She’s got them circling around her like dogs around a bloody steak. Not one loyal fool, but four. Different types of the same stupid hunger. Tuesday. She smells all like them. But not quite. She’s not the town bicycle. She just lets them in just enough to smell her possibility. But not quite. One queen on a chess board and four pieces trying to knock each other off the board trying to reach her.
One Bonnie and four Clydes. They called her by your name, but she was Bonnie in every way that mattered. She’s quiet here, deadly, and impossible to look away from. Her skin glowing under cheap motel neon, and her lips, that back... she’s unfixable. She sits there at the centre of their ruined black hole wearing something stolen from one of them, hands always clean and always still.
John drove with white-knuckle control, jaw tight and eyes on the road as if he could be the one who saves you all. But every mile he felt her in the rearview, the way she breathed, the way her thigh pressed against Kyle’s, the way she existed without needing any of them and still owned all of them.
Johnny rode shotgun with fear and lust twisting in his gut, knee bouncing, fingers itching to touch her again like he had a two nights ago, when she had sat on his face in the motel, grinding her soaked pussy against his tongue, intrusion, until he was choking on her, while the others listened through thin walls. She came hard, flooding his mouth, then stood up and walked away dripping down her thighs, leaving him edged and feral for days. Now in the car he kept glancing back, cock aching hard it hurt, pre-cum leaking steadily as he remembered her taste.
Simon sat beside her, cock half-hard from just the smell of her hair and the knowledge that she saw the violence in him and didn’t flinch. In the last safehouse she sat on the edge of the bed wearing only his mask, legs spread obscenely. She had let him drop to his knees, then lifted one bare foot and pressed it against his mouth. Suck, and he did- desperate, groaning, tongue licking between her toes and sucking each like it was her clit while she rubbed yourself inches away from his face. She came with a soft sigh while he humped the floor like an animal, then made him cum all over her feet and lick every drop off. Now in the car he was rock-hard and broken, staring at her bare ankles, ready to kill the others just to have her alone. He found her first. He took her, brought her here.
Kyle, believed she and him were secret lovers. She made him believe it completely. When money spilled across the motel bed like confetti, she would sit with him. Late night when the others were asleep, she would pull him into the bathroom, or the backroom, kiss him slow and deep like he was the only one, whisper that he’s the only one who truly sees her. And nothing more, because it doesn’t need to rush. A man that doesn't know his mind, it's okay, baby, take your time, we're gonna make it, wanna enjoy it.
One Bonnie and four Clydes. Robbing banks like it’s foreplay. Counting blood money on motel beds. Dawn on the desert highway. Ford V8 humming low and tired through Bienville Parish, packed tight with five bodies and the last of the money. John’s back is straight, hands at ten and two.
Up ahead, a truck sat crooked on the shoulder of the lonely road, looking stranded in the pale morning light. Johnny saw it first.
“John—”
John slowed. Just enough.
The world exploded.
Gunfire ripped through the car in a sudden, merciless storm, metal punching through metal and flesh. Of men. Windows shattered in bright sprays of glass. The car swerved violently as John’s head snapped forward, sharp-red-three blooms opening at his chest. His hands slipped from the wheel. Control died instantly, body slumping heavy over the steering column.
Johnny didn’t even finish turning. His eyes went wide with the fear he had felt coming all night—then a burst of bullets tore across his temple and throat. He folded sideways against the door, breath gurgling once before going still.
Simon moved instantly, gun coming up, mask hiding the snarl as he fired back into the blinding hail. He got three shots off before terror answered louder, rounds slamming into his shoulder, his chest, his neck. His body jerked hard against the seat, gun dropping from dead fingers as he froze mid-defiance, eyes still open behind the mask.
Kyle didn’t reach for his weapon. He reached for her. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her down with desperate strength, but the bullets kept coming. The car caved inward. Glass and blood and torn money in the air. Her body jolted once, twice, as rounds found her too— clean hands stained red for the first and only time. His grip tightened around her for one final second. Then it weakened.
Finger by finger.
His hand slipped away.
The engine ticked softly as the Ford rolled to a crooked stop on the side on the desert road. Smoke curled lazily from the shattered windows and the barrel of Simon’s gun. Cash fluttered out through the broken glass like white butterflies in the morning light.
The desert wind whispered through the ruined car, lifting a few loose bills and letting them dance across the blood-soaked seats.
The countdown to your soul mate post from @rawme-price has my brain wheels churning. Major angst ahead.
"It always ends like this, you know?" Your voice was so thick with blood; Simon almost couldn't understand you. Your eye forces its way open to look at him, gazing lovingly at the brutal man who brought you so close to death. "The universe keeps putting us together. Like you'll love me one day." A humorless chuckle, followed by a pained whimper.
"Is that right?" He grunts, cocking the bullet into place and settling the muzzle of the gun against your temple. If he let himself imagine things, he was sure you leaned into the touch.
"You never love me more than your job." The statement pierced right through him, ripping apart his carefully constructed walls with a single sentence. "Every lifetime we could've shared together... You always kill me in the end." You explain your eye fall shut again. It was too painful to keep it open.
"This supposed to change my mind?"
"At least you touched me more, this time." Your breathing was shallow, unsteady as another glob of blood dribbles down your chin. "Can you make it last a little longer next time? Please?"
Simon's finger curls around the trigger, but it's useless. Your last breath rattles your broken ribs, tears at your raw throat, floating far away from the dingy interrogation room. He lowers the gun and turns away from you before your body can grow cold.
you get a comment on tumblr. it's a bot trying to scam you. you get a DM. it's a bot trying to scam you. you get a message on instagram. its a bot trying to scam you. you're an author and you get an email telling you how much they loved your book and want to showcase it at their bookclub. it's a bot trying to scam you (and it uses bad AI to pretend it knows your story). you get a comment on ao3 saying how much they love your fic - and they made you fanart!! it's a bot trying to scam you. you get a hate comment on ao3 which insults your writing or calls you a monster for writing something "problematic". it's a bot. but at least that one isn't trying to scam you.
there's just something really cruel and insidious about this wave of scams going after creatives. You get an email and think someone genuinely loved what you made but - no. It's another scam. It's someone trying to trick you into sending them money. On AO3, it might literally just be a bot someone made specifically to be a hateful little shit.
putting the stuff you've made out there for everyone to see is hard and scary and we're all just bumping around looking for a bit of appreciation and love and connection and these bastards are using that to try to rob us. I hate it.
i think there is a huge maturity issue in the fanfiction community. below are some things i'd like to address.
minors in adult spaces you are not 'mature' for you age if you cannot follow a simple boundary. if you lie about your age, you are also endangering the adults you contact, it's not just about your safety. just because you yourself are comfortable or going through puberty and need to get off, it does not mean you should interact and cross a very explicit boundary. this also brings me to mdni blogs who pick and choose specific minors just because "they write good smut" or "they're almost 18 anyway". if you have a boundary, then enforce it. you are making the 'mdni' label seem like a joke. don't call yourself 'mdni' if you're not.
disregard on kink etiquette there is a difference between writing dark content and normalizing real, dangerous situations. do not interpret real life cases of abuse as inspiration for your fanfics. i remember some time ago, there was someone requesting about elvis presley and his history with a minor. also, if you are into unusual things and someone is against it, it's so easy to not interact. do not step over people's boundaries just because you feel like they have more morals than you. nobody cares what you're into as long as you keep it in your own space, it doesn't harm anyone, and you don't force it onto others.
talking behind people's backs i see no issue with shittalking as long as it's something you would say to the person upfront or have no intentions to interact with the person. to mock, belittle, and 'drag' someone behind their back is, honestly, strange. most of you are above middle school age, act like it. the issue is not with shittalking, but with pretending you are above it and do it.
whining about interactions it's okay if you're frustrated that a post isn't doing well, it's okay to post about it. readers these days on tumblr need to be reminded that to keep the fanfiction ecosystem alive, you should reblog. however! posting stuff like "omg, i'm gonna quit if i don't get 100+ likes" or "all of you better like rn" just makes you look odd. write for yourself or you always get burnt out.
sympathy baiting no, you cannot have bpd nor any cluster b disorder if you are under 18 unless you have an explicit diagnosis from a professional. no, you cannot post smut as a minor just because you were groomed and normalize sexual content. no, you cannot jump into adult spaces just because you're 'mature for your age'. no, adults are not the bad guys for setting boundaries. no, mental illness isn't a silly label to put in your bio for extra points.
trauma dumping without asking we are not your therapists, we are not licensed, and no one on here wants to play babysitter to someone at risk of self destructive behavior. if you need help, then seek it irl. if you cannot, then advocate for yourself. you will not get better by being a whiny bitch about it on tumblr. you will not get better if you complain about things in your control to stop.he person upfront or have no intentions to interact with the person. to mock, belittle, and 'drag' someone behind their back is, honestly, strange. most of you are above middle school age, act like it. the issue is not with shittalking, but with pretending you are above it and do it.
if you do not have the maturity for at least most of these, you should not have a mdni blog (if applicable) nor be on the internet at all.
you guys really liked the first twt link, so I made a pt.2 <3
cw: fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, breeding, masked men (ghostface), 'making a sex tape', dry humping, car sex, riding, angry sex
You knew the consequences of what would happened to you if you stepped out of place. Who can blame you? Maybe acting out of line will force him to treat you like the whorish little slut you are~
Just before he was about to leave he decided he needed to give you...a small reminder of him~
streaming was something you really liked doing on the weekends...you decided to bring a special guest for a special collab~
having a man is nice...but having a man who knows how to use his fingers to (actually) make you reach orgasm??? Thats a rare find...
You went to his house with the intention of watching movies. well...you did end up watching some random ass film-but 20 minutes in you guys decided to make your own homemade movie~
your boyfriend was such a gentleman-took you out to a nice restaurant, payed for dinner and treated you like a princess! You were spent, all you wanted to do was go in bed and stay up all night...lets just say the 2 of you were way too excited to wait~
live laugh fucking LOVE dry humping.
It doesn't take a lot for your boyfriend to get jealous. Today you found out that it's actually really fucking easy-laugh and playfully hit another guy and your bf will be FUMING.
⚠️ I took a look at my settings and noticed something. Please check your too! ⚠️
THERE IS A SETTING YOU HAVE TO TURN OFF! OTHERWISE YOUR GIVING PERMISSION TO TUMBLR TO SHARE YOUR ORIGINAL CONTENT WITH THIRD-PARTIES INCLUDING THOSE WHO TRAIN AI!!!
⚠️ REBLOG this so others can check their settings. I don't know of this is something new or has been here for some time, I only noticed it just now. Share this so others who might not know about this see it too ⚠️
Also before anyone comes at me for using these tags, I am tagging x readers so other fanfic writers will see this too.
