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i’ll write any kinks EXCEPT for scat, vomit, feet, DDLG / MDLB, gore / “dark” interpretations of any person, rape / noncon, waycest ect

i WILL write the following; petplay, age gaps (aslong as both characters are of CONSENTING age), somno, angst, hurt no comfort, hurt w/ comfort,

imagine . . . you’ve been in the emo scene around the same time as FOB, releasing your debut album the same time they released evening out with your girlfriend

it’s not like you attempted to have a rivalry with patrick — it was actually the complete opposite, a few years down the line, warped tour with the sun blistering your skin somewhere deep at god knows what date now . . .

you watch FOB perform from the side wings of the stage, admiration painting your features, you stay until the end — being the next up after MCR.. a strange sense of belonging settling in your chest at that

Patrick comes waking off stage behind Pete who daps you up, the familiar callouses of his guitar worn hand in yours, he stops to talk to you — you’d known him for a little bit, but never spoke while Patrick was around

the conversation drags, and you see in your peripheral that Patrick is getting antsy, his a tail is as stiff as a board, ears probably lay plat to a point on his head

your ears and tail however, are haywire, wagging softly as you talk to Pete, hitting his tail with yours in banter before you turn to Patrick, a smile cracking across your face

" You were amazing out there, the high note in sophomore slump was amazin— " before you’re cut off by his low growl and a far too dismissive comment

" yeah, whatever. let’s go. " Patrick mumbles to Pete who glances back with Joe and Andy in tow, an apathetic look on his face

you’re off for the rest of MCR’s set, until it’s your own, pushing your way through “Caught Myself” and a few other songs, out of breath and sweat slicked as you finally prance off stage

the parking lot is dark when you finally get out to your bus, but before you can, your eyes land on Patrick, sitting outside of his own bus, brows knitted together tighter than anything, his awkward length hair blowing in the slight breeze that the desert allows now

you try you best to walk past him, but his head shoots up and suddenly he’s in front of you, tail swishing — and you can’t tell if it’s a threat or not, but the way his ears twitch and the small whimper you hear him let out, you assume the opposite

" Patri- mmffh! " is all you can muster out before his lips are on yours, he’s mumbling hurried apologies into your lips as he pushes you into his tour bus, his bandmates nowhere to be seen

he backs you onto the couch, practically forcing your legs apart as he looks up at you, eyes wet and pleading

" Wanna- wanna make it hick wanna make it up to you- i- i was an ass- ‘m sorry- so sorry . . . pleaseplease ffuuuck- please, could fuckin’ smell you.. smell so pretty- fuck- makes me so hard- please " of course he’s referring to your scent..

and that’s how you end up with a very eager puppy boy growling into your cunt as he laps at your heat as if it was a water bowl on a hot summers day, nose buried against your clit, his sideburns scratching against your thighs as he draws out another orgasm from you, still begging, still trying to make it up to you

his glasses are fogged up and crooked on his nose, tears pouring down his face as your fingers lace in his hair, and you ask in a fucked out but somehow still condescending out tone if he’s cum yet

and the blush that spread across his face gives you the answer that he didn’t speak.