at first I wanted 

 you to fuck [ m e ]

       but then I got greedy and wanted

you to l͔͎̦̳͕͍͑ o̼̘̭ͩ͂ v̎̍ͥ͋ e͈̠̼̩ me

"Not all love is gentle. Sometimes it’s gritty and dirty and possessive, sometimes it’s not supposed to be careful or soft at all. Sometimes it feels like teeth."

Azra T (via flawlez)


surprise kiss


JeanMarco Week, day 1: Zero Gravity



"You don’t win shit.” Spat irritably over his shoulder having once more returned to his concerned examination of the mutilated door frame. There was no way he could fix this now. He should have known this would end bad. From the moment the asshole got that look on his face, innocently asking if Jean still owned a baseball bat. Personal choice of stupid ignorance to what could be, and now was.

"Someone’s gonna call the cops. Oh, fuck. Someone probably already did. You just had to take this out on his place. What, did my stuff become boring?! Not satisfied ruining my life, you gotta fuck up someone else— Hey!” The stress induced rambling only ends because of his counterparts continued invasion on his neighbors home. Looking after him, back into the hall where so far no other door has opened, and back to the bastard stalking around in the dark with his weapon of choice. Sarcastic, rage inducing words, sharp tongue and aided today by the baseball bat.

"I don’t fucking know or care believe it or not. Get the fuck out of there. We’re leaving.” Might as well order one of those old gimmick pet rocks to do a back flip for all the good his demand does. Hesitantly, he takes a step inside, using the end of his jacket sleeve to rub at the door frame where he’d earlier grabbed. He’s paranoid. It’s justified. He doesn’t miss it though, when that look turns on him, says everything he’s thinking without speaking and Jean straightens up, eyeing him.

                                             ”Don’t. You fucking. Dare.”

A laugh. Again. For all the flaws his sour-faced partner-in-crime has and all the complaints that will inevitably be thrown his way for being a miserable little shithead, he is surprisingly good at tickling a snort there and a cackle here. “Sure I don’t,” because he never wins so long as the big boss says it’s so. Right? Whatever helps him sleep at night.

Ignoring the flurry of concerns spouting from the other, there’s a time and a place his seemingly endless stream of worries are to be listened to and it’s not now nor here. There’s a huge TV sparkling at him, just begging to be demolished. That screen, he thinks, would create quite the smash and the shattered remains of it being spread all over this nice, neat carpet…oh the temptation, he’s just gotta do it.

“No, don’t you dare.” He spits back immediately, teeth bared under the up-curl of his knowing grin because“I know, I fucking know there’s a part o’ you in there that wants me to.” Pointing at the personification of doubt and hesitation with the very weapon he wields and intends to trash this place with, he preaches, “This asshole makes your life hell almost every day, gives you no end of aggro you don’t need and your pissy li’l attitude dwells on it all day—I’ve seen you,” the bat tilts, directed at the television set beside the lesser of two evils. “You know I could do worse; I chose to take on his assets ‘stead of his legs, did I not?” 


“If you’re so worried, why’re you still here?” He has had this coming for months, no, years. “The damage is a’ready done,” the cops will be called and the neighbors will be questioned regardless of whether they choose to walk away right now or after they—

                                                                          “—Make it worth it.”



W h y me….

    He can’t actually look at the mess on the floor yet. Stuck as a sort of, deer in the head lights, gaze locked onto some spot on the far wall where a family picture hangs just a fraction off kilter. At his feet he can feel where the splattered coffee has soaked into his pants leg; a quickly cooling reminder of the dreaded mistake he’s just made and must now face. Still refusing to look at either the shattered birthday mug, or his personal demon, Jean points rigidly toward the door.

                            "Get the fuck outta my house.”

That moment, when you know you shouldn’t laugh so it just makes it three times harder not to. That’s the moment he’s having right now. Lips pressed tightly sealed and sucked under his teeth to clamp them better and yet, still, the mirth is written all over his face. Fucking god, he’s gonna die here today— 

"Right," he scoffs, very casually reaching down to pick up the remnants of his dear mama’s gift. The handle, and the handle only, of the mug picked up and quietly placed on the counter beside his…well they’re probably not buds right now. 

He grins, sheepishly slow does he step around the other and says, "I’ll. Come back later. Yeah?" 


Your OTP meets somewhere fairly normal and conventional (a bar, a party, a cafe, or something) and hit it off well, but person A can’t help but feel that person B looks strangely familiar. Later, they choke on their drink when they realize that person B stars in their favorite porn movie.

тнє ƒσχ αη∂ тнє нσυη∂


     тнαт’ѕ мσяє ℓιкє ιт. If she wanted a fight with a fucking slouch, she would just get out on the street. Or, actually she prefers a boxing bag over dead flesh. There’s something necrophilia-like about beating up someone who doesn’t fight back, as far Zoe’s concerned. The fact that he finally decided to move and grow a spine made her smile; no matter how pathetic and unskilled that movement is.

     And it was obvious he really didn’t thought this through.

     Zoe doesn’t even bother to avoid that one, and just to have another go at that ridiculous pride of his, she makes sure to look extra bored blocking his great fist of fury. It leaves him open like the legs of a 10 dollar whore and her heel slams down onto his foot, while the other hand slaps his face, open-palmed, causing the audience to burst out laughing. She knows just how humiliating this is, but it doesn’t stop her; speed is on her side.

     Sliding away to the other corner of the ring, Zoe throws his faults at him, “Too slow. Complete lack of control. Boring.” Other than a certain type of abhorrence she feels for this guy, she can’t help but wonder if there’s some talent in him. And for that, Zoe will have to push him more.

     This time not waiting for him to blindly try to have a go at her, Zoe launches herself forward and smacks him at the back of his head. A comedy. Have a taste of his own medicine, show him how nice it is not to be taken seriously. She turns her body, and with another quick swing, rewards him with a nice slap. Doesn’t even try all that much, mostly counts on Jean’s confusion and own experience.


     Zoe allows herself a look towards Mike, who just shrugs in return. If anyone could notice a talent, it would be that guy. But he can’t see anything yet, and honestly, Zoe really wishes there’s not enough talent in this tool, not even the amount that could fit under her nail. Turning back to him, she digs her heel in deep, wondering whether she riled him up enough for him to actually try and hurt her. Try and seek any openings she might leave, challenge her at least a little bit. Maybe show why he’s after the Fox in the first place. Some other reason other than being a hot-headed idiot.

To be ridiculed mid-fight as though it’s expected of him to know how to do anything more than throw a fist was infuriating. Getting slapped around during the fucking message of wisdom was humiliating. Jean retreats back a step first, guttural snarl of irritation he has no problems letting the entire gym know about. This bitch was playing with him and he’s not even anywhere close to winning; — fuck!


He swipes his hand over his cheek, ridding the slight sting and the insult of her touch off of him. A very small fuse of an immensely pissed bomb reaches its end, perhaps it was just good timing or merely luck that his elbow comes up and collides with her gut. She might insult him but she will not avert her attention elsewhere while she’s at it.

Breaths rattle ragged in both adrenaline he doesn’t know what to do with and anger he loses sensibility over, Jean’s moral flicks from not wanting to hurt the woman to wanting her mouth shut and her eyes open; she’s not about to have him rolling over just because she has the experience and he only possesses the madness. He’ll fucking fight her until he’s unconscious on the goddamn floor because he wants to.

The mere stumble forward of his weight fighting gravity leads his hands to instinctively lift up and clench by his chest readily. Against his own knowledge. It’s intuitive that his fists come ready to swing because the second his balance is regained, he’s throwing out another so his knuckles to slam against ribcage. A trembling laugh of energy comes next, “Fuck you,” Jean cares nothing for her criticism, or so he thinks.

It’s unknown that the eyes surrounding them around the ring have been faded out of mind; their laughs and cheers for this woman nothing more than faint background noise he’s missing out on because his focus sticks with this bitch and his desire to prove her wrong—prove a point. Prove his point. Jean does not care what she thinks.

He doesn’t.

His initial reason for being here can wait. If she fucking insists on a fight, then fine, she can have it. His momentum forced into adjacent shoulder, Jean’s next punch building in his bicep and pushed just as he withdraws and switches arms to throw at her. Fucking boring, huh?