risenlikethedead

[risenlikethedead]

Nik really, really likes to get you high.

Keep you seated on his lap, one big hand on your thigh, thumb idly stroking up and down your skin while the other nurses a blunt. He doesn't smoke much himself, but god, he loves how cute you are when you're high, so he just keeps bringing it to your lips, another one, kotik, just one more big breath for me again and again until you're doped up and limp against him, his chest solid and strong and warm.

He likes you like this. Likes you most ways, but especially like this, high out of your mind and floating, kittenish in the way to cling to him and nuzzle against him, humming softly in pleasure when he presses a kiss to the side of your head. Spoiled rotten. You're a spoiled little thing and he can't help the way his hand begins to creep its way up up up your thigh until he's toying with your clit, absentmindedly stroking through your folds to gather up the wetness.

He likes to fuck you with his fingers when you're crossfaded. Soft little sounds escaping you when he stretches you lazily with his fingers, cooing soft praise to you that he's not even sure you hear.

Adorable.

[risenlikethedead]

[risenlikethedead]

“you do whatever you want” like a week after saying “i like being submissive” this man is going to KILL me

[risenlikethedead]

see the THING IS I don't feel like I ever worked hard enough to have "earned" the burnout, which is. probably how we got here.

[risenlikethedead]

I had a diabolical idea...what if the find out reader has been faking her O's...maybe it's harder for her to cum than others and doesn't wanna bother them or maybe they're not doing enough...

Love your writing btw🪷💗💗

Oh, so we're faking it? Diabolical. I love it. Yeah, so, this is just me writing smut for the sake of smut. We want to fake it with them? Guess again. They're getting those orgasms out of us.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: swearing, unprotected piv, one-night stands, dirty talk, creampie, cock warming, praise, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal fingering

Word Count: 1.7k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

“No. No, love.” John clucks his tongue, disappointed. “You don’t fake it with me.”

He pushes off from the bed, going down on his knees. Grasping your ankles, John tugs, pulling you down to the very edge of the bed.

“John—”

“Hush,” he coos. “And keep those legs open for me, dove. Gonna make sure you come, yeah?”

John presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing lightly in slow little circles. One finger teases your entrance, slides in, and then out. John adds a second, removing his thumb, he replaces it with his lips, kissing your clit.

Slow and languid, your thighs quiver, the start of an orgasm blooming low in your belly.

“There we are,” he smiles.”

His lips part, the tip of his tongue brushing over your clit in a tease even as his fingers pump steadily in and out of your pussy.

The pleasure builds. Widening.

“You have such a gorgeous pussy,” he praises. “Love watching how well you take me. Fingers and cock.”

He flattens his tongue, running it around where your body takes his fingers before swirling up to tease your clit. The groan that claws up your throat is real and loud, and John purrs with contentment.

“Come for me. Let me hear you.”

John sucks on your clit and it’s over. Back arching, you come off the bed a bit, whimpering as your pussy squeezes around his fingers.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he groans against you, slowing the movement of his fingers.

You’re still buzzing when John stands, slotting himself between your legs. His hand lightly grasps your throat, forcing you to look at him. “Will you ever fake it with me again?”

You shake your head.

“Good. Now let’s breed you properly, yeah?”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

You force out a moan. It is higher than it usually is—louder. Kyle stills mid-thrust, the middle of his brow creasing slightly in concern.

“What was that?” he asks.

Oh shit.

It’s been a long day, and while you want to have sex with Kyle, part of you just isn’t feeling it. Having this intimacy is lovely, but you’re also not…committed.

“What was what?” you reply, avoiding the question.

Kyle shifts his weight to an elbow. “I know when you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

Busted.

“Hey. Look at me.” Kyle’s hand slides to the back your neck. “We can stop.”

You lightly shake your head. “That’s not it.”

His thumb traces the line of your jaw. “Talk to me,” he murmurs, following that caress with a brush of his lips.

“I’m—I’m just feeling it.”

Kyle hums softly, placing a soft kiss just to the side of your mouth. “If you want to stop, we can stop.”

“No,” you whisper, hooking your legs around him a little tighter. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Okay,” says Kyle. “Okay.”

Shifting from his elbow to his hand, Kyle starts to withdraw, his cock sliding out slowly. You relinquish, dropping your legs wide as he kisses softly down your body.

“Just relax,” he coos, moving lower. “Relax.”

You settle, eyes closing as his mouth finds your clit. He gives it one kiss, then two. The tip of his tongue teases. Withdraws. Teases again.

“Kyle,” you breathe, a flicker of pleasure awakening.

“Don’t ever fake it with me, love.” Kyle flattens his tongue against you. Pressure. Retreat. Pressure again.

This time your groan from somewhere deep in your throat.

“There it is,” he coos. “Come for me.”

Kyle returns, tasting and tasting in the same rhythm, never deviating, pushing you closer to your end. Another brush of his tongue and it’s over. All the muscles in your body contract, seize, shudder. Your thighs squeeze his cheeks, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care that you might crush him, continuing to lick and suck.

When your hand presses to the top of his head, overstimulation filtering in, that’s when Kyle lifts his head.

“No faking it with me, ya hear?”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Are you fucking faking right now?”

“I—no. Simon. I’m not.”

Heat creeps up your neck and ensnares your cheeks. You’ve been caught, and you don’t want to admit it.

“You are,” says Simon slowly. You shake your head but Simon tuts. “Lying won’t help, dove.” He leans in and lightly bites your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. He releases it with a wet pop. “You think I want you to fake it?”

This time, you answer truthfully. “No.”

“Think I want you to hide when you’re not into it?”

“No.”

“Come here, dove.”

Lifting you into his lap, Simon shifts you around until you’re leaning against his chest, head resting on his shoulder. Gripping the underside of your thighs, Simon eases you down onto his cock, keeping your legs spread wide and draped over his thick, muscled thighs.

“You don’t fake it with me, dove,” murmurs Simon as he nuzzles your exposed neck. He lightly bites, and then eases the sting with a kiss. “Touch yourself.”

“Simon,” you gasp as his lips trace the curve of your ear.

“Do it.”

Bringing your hand down between your thighs, you make a v with your index and middle finger, parting your pussy to expose your clit and where you and Simon’s bodies meet.

“Fucking gorgeous, dove,” groans Simon, his voice honey-sweet. “Take me so well.”

The praise washes over you, seeping into your pores. Bringing your fingers together, you slide them back and forth over your clit. Simon’s hands shift to the tops of your thighs. They press down just as his hips snap up.

“Oh, fuck,” you moan.

“That’s it,” murmurs Simon. “Keep going.”

You find a pace and sink into the sensation. With each pass of your fingers, and every upward thrust from Simon, the orgasm builds. This you can’t fake.

“Gonna fuck you hard, dove. Don’t you dare stop. Understand?”

You nod frantically, and Simon smiles against your throat.

Keeping you in place, Simon fucks up into you over and over again, driving home in powerful strokes that steal your breath. You follow his order, playing with your clit, allowing the orgasm to build until your heart thunders in your ears.

“That’s it,” coos Simon as your orgasm unfolds. “That’s it.”

It’s a full shudder and open mouth silence as you’re cracked over the head with euphoric pleasure. Simon is grunting into your ear, his hips thrusting upward quickly now as you squeeze down on his cock.

“Simon,” you manage to moan.

“Gonna fake it again with me?”

“No,” you gasp. “Never.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Fucking look at you,” croons Johnny.

His large hands palm your ass, squeezing both cheeks. Releasing slowly, Johnny’s hands slide to your hips and then up to your waist before shifting to your back, caressing your spine. You shiver under his touch, arching your hips a bit more, rocking back to take more of his cock.

From the bar, to buying you a drink, to going home with him all in the span of a few hours. Now, you’re in his bed. He’s fucked you twice, and you haven’t orgasmed once. But you’ve faked it, groaned loudly and with enthusiasm when he’s finished inside you.

Johnny’s hands wrap around your throat, and then he’s fucking you, using you like he’d use a toy. The very idea is fucking delicious and yet the building tension plateaus, leaving you hanging as Johnny holds your body against his, cum filling your pussy.

Your head drops, the tingling edge receding, leaving you aching. Johnny’s hands remain around your throat, his thumbs rubbing slow circles across the back of your neck.

“You know,” he murmurs absently. “I think you’ve been lying to me.”

Turning your head, you glance over your shoulder. “Lying to you?”

Johnny hums as he eases himself from your body. “On your back,” he instructs, lightly tapping the outside of your thigh.

You roll onto your back, and Johnny spreads your legs wide. Your cum-coated pussy greets him, and Johnny smirks at the sight.

“I know what it feels like when a woman orgasms,” he says, hands sliding up and down your inner thighs. “There’s nothing else like it.” With one hand still on your thigh, Johnny palms his cock, jerking himself back to hardness.

“How—how did you—”

“Know?” he asks, tapping the head against your clit. “Would have felt you squeeze my cock, love.”

Johnny lines himself up and slides home, bottoming out. “I’m staying right here. Play with you until you orgasm. And if you don’t squeeze my cock hard enough to make me come, I’ll keep playing with you until I do.”

A quick swipe of his thumb and Johhny drags some of his cum up to your clit. He lightly presses—swirls. A little shock of pleasure shoots through your body, and your pussy briefly flutters around Johnny’s cock.

“Just like that,” he groans, continuing to circle your clit. “Just like that.”

With your legs spread wide, you’re unable to clamp them shut as Johnny plays with your clit. His cock remains in place, unmoving. It’s just his fingers and the deliciously dirty words dripping from his lips.

“Do you know how fucking gorgeous you look right now?”

“Full of my cock.”

“Full of my cum.”

His words are slow and languid but his fingers play a perfect dance. Your breath quickens, toes curling as Johnny finds the perfect pace. You whimper, the orgasm quickly rising to the surface.

“There it is,” croons Johnny. “Give it to me, love. Let me hear you. Let me fucking feel you.”

The pent-up tension from three faked orgasms comes blasting forward. Your head falls back, and you release a feral groan, body shaking under the tension.

“Oh, fucking hell,’ grunts Johnny as his fingers dig into your thigh, keeping you firmly against the bed as he continues to flick your clit.

He rubs and continues to do so even as the orgasms crests and recedes.

“It’s too much,” you gasp, but Johnny only shakes his head.

“My cock is still inside you, love. Once I cum inside this tight little pussy, then we’ll stop.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving

[risenlikethedead]

Been absolutely feral for this idea but - request for a reader that matches their partner's freak. Is forward and horny. Throws them a pick up line, slaps their ass, whispers something filthy in their ear 😂 catch the boys off guard but quickly make them love it 🤭

Ty ty!

Ah! Anon, I love this. I love this idea. It's so fun. I think all of us are used to the guys being forward, but not necessarily their partners. This is a nice spin on it, and I'm here for it! Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader) *Price is f!reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, dirty talk, established relationship, shenanigans, pick-up lines, implied sexual content

Word Count: 600

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price (w/ f!reader)

“I want to bounce on it,” you announce.

John blinks and looks up. Bounce on it?” asks John over his tea mug.

You nod downward toward his dick, and John’s head tilts slightly.

“I mean—I want to sit on your face first. But then I’d like to bounce on it.”

John stares, and you’re not sure if he’s heard you correctly. But then he clears his throat, setting down his mug and the morning paper on the coffee table.

He reclines on his back, resting his head on a pillow. “Come here then,” he purrs, gesturing at his face.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Hey handsome.”

Kyle glances up from the stove, one hand clutching the handle of the pan in front of him. He looks around the kitchen as if there is someone else in the room.

“Me?” he asks, pointing at himself.

With a little swagger in your step, you saddle up beside him. Kyle beams, extending his unoccupied arm to accept you into his embrace. You slide your arm around his middle and place your hand on his chest, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Who else?” you reply with an alluring sweetness that has Kyle grinning like an idiot.

“You’re being awfully affectionate,” he muses, kissing your forehead before returning his attention to the pan.

You rub your hand against his chest, pressing in even closer. “Maybe I want something,” you murmur.

“Like what?” he laughs. “My wallet?”

“Like this,” you sigh, reaching down to gently cup him.

Kyle exhales deeply through his nostrils as you continue to rub back and forth, urging his dick toward hardness.

“I’m making dinner,” he breathes, eyelids fluttering slightly as you dip beneath the waistband of his grey sweatpants.

“You can still make dinner,” you reply softly as you slowly sink to your knees.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“There you are,” muses Johnny.

He strides forward, arms encircling you low at your waist, hands resting on your ass. You drape your arms around the back of his neck, bringing him even closer. A mischievous smile spreads across Johnny’s face.

He has no idea you’ve got the same thing on your mind.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, leaning in for a kiss.

“Missed you, too,” you reply, going in for your own.

“You did?” he asks, an eagerness in his tone.

This time when you go in for a kiss, you slow it down, stretch it out. Lingering. Lingering more until he softens, the tip of his tongue teasing your bottom lip.

“I did,” you affirm, opening wider to allow him in.

Your hands descend, slide under his shirt, caressing bare skin. Johnny shivers, and then he’s grinning.

“What are you after?” he asks with a cheeky smirk.

You draw back slightly, giving him your best smile. Leaning in, you press your lips to his ear, whispering. “I want you. Naked. Right now.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” groans Johnny, taking a step back as he starts stripping.

You admire the reveal, salivating over every discarded piece of clothing.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Simon.”

“Yes, love?”

You cozy up beside your husband, casually draping your arm around him. Simon leans into your touch.

“Let’s pretend I’m a shark,” you begin.

He glances at you. “A shark?”

“And you’ve got some swimmers I need to swallow.”

Simon stares at you for a long second before he chuckles. “You—”

“I’m not a meteorologist but do you think I could expect a few inches tonight?”

Simon guffaws. “Bloody fucking hell.”

“So, anyway,” you sigh. “Wanna go fuck?”

He sighs, shakes his head, but you see the smile.

“Simon,” you sing-song.

“Get to the bedroom, love.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving

[risenlikethedead]

i hc that simon could not for the life of him figure out why your showers were 25-30 minutes long most nights so he convinces you to take a shower with him and well… ANYWAYS still confused on why you are in there for so long, he asks if he can watch you. You assumed it was for sexual reasons which he immediately shot down. “Just wanna watch ya birdie.”

He became enamored with your routine. Double washing your hair, combing it out, exfoliating, the use of different types of soap, washing your face, and god forbid it was a shave day. He thought you used the time to get away from him. The whole time, you are putting on a 30 minutes world tour performance to your perfect curated shower playlist. Yeah you might be a little pitchy on the high notes, but who is he to complain when he gets a show with dinner afterwards. And if you both need a shower after that….well maybe a second playlist of duets will be made.

[risenlikethedead]

awkward!simon/pharmacy au part two | part one

"i never got to thank you for your help."

simon jumps out of his lean against the side of the building, cursing under his breath when the cigarette tucked between his fingers falls dumbly to the ground. gulping, he glances at you before averting his stare to settle somewhere on your cheek.

not your eyes, but close enough.

"s'not a problem," he nods slowly, mind blanking on what else he could say. he catches how you shift, unsure of what to do with the silence he's forced to let linger. biting the inside of his lip, simon clears his throat. "'uh, yeah. glad i could help."

you give him a small, bashful smile in return of his words and the man nearly stops breathing. he feels his face flushing once again, and he's lucky you're nice enough to not say anything about it.

more silence. you and simon squirm when you accidentally make eye contact before quickly looking away to the nearest anything. his stare lands on the bag in your grasp, filled with those damn pills and the few other items he saw you pluck from the shelves when you'd caught his eye at least ten minutes before reluctantly asking him for help.

the nerve's rattling simon soon grate into a prickly annoyance. god, you having to waste your money on something like that for someone that simon's certain is sticking it in someone else is nipping away at his sense. chest puffing as he takes in a sigh, his index finger scratches a random spot as the back of his head as he grumbles.

"wish there was somethin' i could do t' help. gorgeous thing like you shouldn't suffer over some bloke like that..."

gorgeous. did he just say gorgeous? he must've based on the gobsmacked fucking look on your face.

shit. he's fucked–and not just because his insides flutter at how wide your eyes are and how satisfying your lips look when they're parted in surprise.

simon blinks at you, eyes reading of horror and a hint of panic. when you open your mouth to sputter out a reply, the man turns and makes a b-line for the side door of the pharmacy that's a few feet away.

employees only is plastered across it and you need to know the code to press on the keypad to unlock it and get in, so there's no way you can follow after him and his red cheeks. great.

what's not so great is how foolishly simon's fingers mash into the buttons as he attempts to escape. it takes two times of the buzzer letting him know he's wrong before he can finally think slowly enough to remember the correct order of the four numbers.

simon sends you one last breathless glance and already knows that the dumbfounded look still plastered across your face–the look that has all his blood rushing downward–is going to haunt him for the rest of the day. he slips back into the pharmacy's supply room, the door clanging loudly behind him.

the man collapses back-first against the metal with a huff, one of his hands reaching to wipe at his eyes.

nice. you think he's nice?

"fuck," he whispers thickly to himself, glancing down and grunting at just how noticeable his bulge is becoming as his mind floods with the thought of you; your lips. your watery eyes. your sweet words. all of you. squeezing at his cock through his pants, he hisses at the throb it generates.

glancing at a nearby clock, simon's thinks. whether the six minutes he has before john will probably come looking for him are enough or not, simon couldn't care less.

he doesn't even bother unzipping his pants, slinking a hand into his waistband with little shame. his eyes roll at the way his palm slicks right over his head, and simon grinds into the feeling with a pleased huff.

good thing he skipped wearing underwear today. and thank fuck he threw on his darker jeans.

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[risenlikethedead]

Casual Intimacy

[risenlikethedead]

hands like barbed wire

John Price x Reader

18+ | dubcon that flirts heavily with noncon. fingering (in public). manipulation. slight corruption kink. sheltered reader forced into a wife-grooming speed run. lotsssssa good girl/sweet girl/baby abound. implied kidnapping.

You meet him in a bar.

He's sitting alone in the corner, body angled towards all the exits. There's a glass of scotch on the table that drip, drip, drips these big, teardrop-sized droplets of condensation down the glass, kept cradled between a thick, grizzled hand. The scabs on his knuckles remind you of ripe, sour cherries when they flex under the coarse dusting of hair.

There's something about his hands that catches your attention first. Keeps it.

Your daddy used to say there was a lot to learn about a man by the shape of his hands. And his, this magnetic stranger's, are rough. Worn. Dangerous. Blistered and torn up. Caution tape in pale peach. Dirt under his nails. Ash on his forefinger. Stay away, it says. Run.

But the flicker of orange sparking up in the gloom draws you in like a moth to a flame. Stupid girl—

(just like daddy always said)

He doesn’t look up when you step closer. Little moth drawn to that orange light, the shift of those fingers wet with condensation. But you catch the slightest shift of his chin from your periphery. A silent acknowledgement, but it’s all you get. He keeps his eyes glued to the newspaper he has spread out on the table. Disregarding you entirely. Ignoring you. 

(and you keep yours fixed on the clench of his hands—)

"Not supposed to smoke in here," you murmur, voice a little slip of a thing when it shudders out of your throat. 

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not sure why you do. The words roll to the tip of your tongue and drip down your chin when your mouth shifts on a small, soundless gasp. Beneath the scabs on his fingers, his skin is all scar tissue—

In an almost laughable contrast, he growls, purring like a tiger, a diesel engine, when he speaks. 

"m'not supposed to do a lot of things—" When you finally, finally, drag your eyes away from his hands (the flex of his fingers, wondering how they'd even fit inside—), you catch a flat, uneven line buried under untameable brown. But he still doesn’t look at you. "But who is gonna tell me that?"

You don't get it. Sheltered girl—little girl, he adds, all ugly and cruel; cold in his mockery because that's what you are to him: little—growing up buried in the mountains, left to rot on the fecund plains where your daddy sowed seeds and mama pickled the wares for the market. Barely scraping by on a farm doomed to fail. Some poor man's burial ground, the locals say. Cursed. But hindsight—the gold band on his ring finger, one half of a matching set belonging to a woman who isn't you; and the patch on his leather jacket, faded yellow and bold, 141 with a twisted skull—bring you to a neat conclusion:

he's a bad man. Stupid girl, daddy would bark. Ain't you know nothin'? Stay away from them folk. Bad news. Nothin' but trouble.

(Mama would laugh. And oh, honey, did trouble find you—)

Between the heavy thud of your heart, the words slip out. “Well, I just did.”

More gall. Cheek. You don't know where it comes from.

Mama would have washed your mouth with soap. Dragged you to the washroom, spitting about respect as she twisted her gnarled fingers into your lips, and tugged. 

You expect the same from him. Maybe worse. Much worse. But he just looks—

His eyes peel away from the article (train robbery down south, it says in bold, ugly letters), finally darting to take you in. There's shock, you think. Stupefied by your audacity. The disrespect. But when he rests his eyes on you—cold blue, like a glinting gem, a lagoon—the slow climb of his brows, drawn up high until three deep lines stretch across his skin, comes to a stop. 

He seems to pause for a beat. Just long enough for an exhale of smoke, twin funnels of dragon's breath, to pour out of his nose. They draw together, but it's not in anger. Scorn. It's a rough sort of contemplation. Eyes narrowing into slits as he stares at you. 

And the weight of his gaze is a palpable thing. Heavy. You try to fight the urge to fidget as he sizes you up, rolling your eyes down the length of his body above the table to skirt around intense, dizzying blue. 

But your avoidance makes him huff, and he leans back, sucking in another breath. 

"C'mere," he demands. Doesn't say, doesn't ask. Just growls the words out between the clench of his teeth buried in that cigar you tried to nitpick him about. "Come sit."

And you do. of course, you do (stupid girl).

But when you reach for the chair next to his, he scoffs. "Didn't tell you to sit beside me."

"Then where—"

He's pushing back in his seat before the words are out, thick thighs open wide (impolite mama would say), stretched tight over a pair of jeans. But even with the wide spread, you can't even see the cheap red plastic in the open v of his legs. When you don't move quick enough—head all thick, syrupy—he grunts. Reaches down mockingly and pats his thigh.

"Come sit, little girl—"

It's demeaning. Embarrassing. But there's something about him that seems to negate choice the closer he gets. Renders it into dust between his fingers. Head syrupy. Empty. No thoughts needed when he'll just think for you—

And oh. 

Oh. That thought does something to you. Static in your veins. An electric shock. Mind reeling, spinning around that single, wayward idea.

Your head is hot. Feverish. Everything inside is melted, liquified, and drips out of your ears to pool between your thighs. 

(Under the white cotton of your modest summer dress, they squeeze together, sliding in the gathering slick—)

When you don't move fast enough for his liking, he grunts. "Ain't gonna tell you again—"

And you listen. Obey. Because that's what you are: a good girl. You do what you're told, don't you?

So you slip onto his lap, letting those big, gnarled hands wrap around your waist. Holding you steady (keeping you trapped) as his thick, warm thigh splits yours apart. Wrenching you open for one of his rough, dirty hands to slide between.

His forearm anchors you to the broad, dizzying spill of his chest, head dipping to nuzzle against the shell of your ear. Shushing you softly as you squirm around the hard, thick press of his thigh against your core—cunt, he bites out, teeth nipping along the skin of your ear; can feel your hot little cunt, sweetheart—and grapple with the strange, dirty-wrong, sensation of sitting in a stranger's lap as he slowly pulls up the dress you wore to church this morning, fingers hot on your inner thigh. Chasing that sticky-slick dampness that makes him groan low in his throat when he first touches it. Softly still, a hoarse good girl—

But this isn't what good girls do.

Mama says no man is allowed to touch this hot, slick little place between your thighs until you're married. A sin, she called it. Wrong. The pastor, too. Only when you're married. Only as a wife.

You don't think he has any intention of marrying you, but he touches you like a man would a wife. Knuckle hard, firm against the thin, worn cotton of your panties. Grazing. Rubbing. All soft and slow. Not even much of a touch—just the whisper, the idea, of one.

The rasp of his smoke-scorched, whiskey-scented voice in your ear, peppering filth, sin, out as he tells you he can feel how wet your little pussy is. Feels it against his finger. And can you feel that, sweetheart? when he pushes a little harder, digging the peak of a bent knuckle into the seam of you. Can you feel him through your pretty little panties?

"Mm," he grunts, pushing harder. Arm tightening around your waist when you squirm, and squirm. "Can you?"

Yes, you think around a long breath. A little stretch. Your legs kick out under the table when he grazes over a spot that blooms a vicious, intense pleasure through your belly. Something that feels so good, that it makes you a little sick. Makes you want to run. Maybe that's why your legs kick and kick, and—

"Be good." It's a snarl. A warning. "Or I'll take you over my knee—"

Be good, he adds again when you whimper, softening the grit in his voice from granite to soot. The same tone Daddy uses when they bring him a broken horse. "Jus' wanna make you feel good, sweet girl, mm. Want that, don't you?"

"We're n-not supposed to do this if we're not—not married."

Shivering it out into the balmy, smoke-dense air of the bar feels almost like a release. Baptismal. Like maybe now you've said it, whatever spell has fallen over the two of you will be broken. He'll blink awake and right the wrong you've committed with a quick, decisive shake of his head. You'll go back to being a good girl, a simple girl from a simple family, and he'll be the stranger in a bar you think about sometimes, like the real man mama loved but her daddy wouldn't let her marry.

(A sweet little fever dream, she'd said fondly. Sadly. And then, scared, tense: don't tell daddy, though, okay?)

He hums around it, but it sounds accommodating. Placid. Like an adult entertaining the whims of a child.

"Want that, mm?" He digs the question in with a slip of his finger over the cheap lace lining the hem of your panties. "Want me to marry you?"

You're not sure. You don't know him, but he's touching you in public. Has you sat—spread—on his lap with his hand under your dress, touching you the way a husband would. There's a ring on his finger already. The suggestion of a wife. A life outside of this hovel where nothing grows, and you're just expected to roll over and grow old with whatever man daddy approves of.

"No," you stammer out because he's married already, and that's what daddy will say. "No—"

"Shame," he grunts, and his nail catches on the edge of coifed lace. Scraping it over slick, damp skin. "Jus' lost mine, you know. Been thinkin' 'bout takin' another."

A good little girl to warm my bed is said as his nail drags your panties over your swollen, slick folds.

It's instinctual to want to snap them shut. Keep him out. But his knee lifts like he's expecting that, keeping you spread. Open. His hand is hot on your skin. Burning. His thumb wedges into the hem of your panties, stretching the fabric to tuck the edges together, exposing your cunt to his wandering, blistering fingers.

There's no quarter. No choice. He doesn't let you think. Doesn't give you a minute to breathe. It's just—

Skin on skin.

His knuckle slides between the seam of your swollen folds, parting them as he touches that slick, hot space cradled inside. Groaning, too, when he does; like he touched fire. Like you burned him. Hurt him even though you know you never could.

The noise balms the panic and clots thick tufts of cotton inside your ears. The low, rolling brass trembles in your belly. A small quake. You feel it in your cunt; a strange, throbbing little hum that makes you clench down twice on nothing but the idea of that sound. The echo.

He tells you he feels it. Feels how desperate you are for him.

Needy little thing, he rasps, and it isn't kind. It isn't nice. There's a reprimand needling in against the grain of his praise. An unspoken good girl said in the tone of a man who thinks you're anything but.

"Been thinkin' about takin' a wife," he says again, dragging the rough, scabbed tip of his knuckle across the powder-soft flesh of your folds. It's ticklish. Weird. Something that makes you want to giggle and cry. Pull your blankets over your head. Lean into it more. Spread your legs wider until he touches that spot that made you shake. "But the mistake I made the last time was not testin' 'er out before I married 'er. Turns out—" the tip digs in between your swollen folds, touching where you're hot and sticky and far too sensitive for such rough hands. "She wasn't as sweet as I thought she was."

And it's electric. The rough, calloused scrape of his finger stroking up and down your split seam (your clit, he mumbles into the hollow space behind your ear, giving it a little swirl that makes your toes curl; to your hole, nice and tight and so fuckin' wet f'him, mm?) is a jolt of that dizzying, too much-not enough pleasure. A shock. Mouth open, toes clenched tight. Legs kicking. Muscles seizing as he works you over with just the tip of a finger. Barely even a touch.

"But you're sweet, aren't you?"

It sounds like he's chiding you all over again, but the cotton puffing up against your eardrums, the pleasure buzzing in your belly, between your thighs, makes everything sound so sweet. Enticing. So you agree. Nod feverishly on a gasp when his finger trails down to where you clench tight around nothing, circling your opening with the tip of his finger, nail skimming over swollen, slick flesh.

You're not sure what this is. Don't even know where to begin to articulate what you want, need, but each pass makes you feel every bit of the needy little thing he called you earlier. An admonishment drenched in fondness. Wrapped up so tight in a soft, velvet cloth of amusement that you could barely feel the pricks of barbed wire nestled inside when it rubbed against your skin.

Sweet enough that it makes you turn your head into his bicep, nuzzling against the fabric of his jacket as he works his fingers between your wet, slick thighs. Thumb against your clit. A brand. Pressing down, down, and then softening when your legs kick out, too much. That dirty, awful kind of pleasure that makes you feel like a balloon being pumped too full, ready to burst. His finger slips inside. Just a tease. As gentle as a kiss. Only up to his cuticle. Barely even a knuckle.

He tells you all of his with his beard scraping against the flushed, damp skin of your cheek. Murmuring the words into the pool of blood throbbing against your cheekbones. Reinforces them with a sharp nip of his teeth when the shame trickles in—when the easy pump of his finger, not even a knuckle, makes a wet, sticky noise as it pushes into that pool of heat inside of you.

And it's all good girl, sweet girl against the sticky-slick shine of your raw cheek when your needy little cunt sucks him in deeper. Beggin' for it, and sweet little pussy wants it so bad, mm, needy girl? and don't worry, baby, m'gonna make you feel so good.

Baby. It catches, loops. Makes it easier to ignore the noise spilling out under the thick spread of his palm, finger digging in deeper (the first knuckle is a soft good girl, the second is a rough a doin' so good, sweetheart; and the third, slipped right up to last is a low, rumbling that's it, baby, takin' it so well, ain't you?), and the clatter around you. A semi-crowded bar.

You forgot, you think, squirming suddenly. Stiffening around him, on him, as the world sharpens into a whistle. Glass on worn wood. Thud, thud. Legs squealing against herringbone as a heavy chair is dragged back. Low murmurs. Laughter. Noise spilling out from the front of the room, calls for more beer. Another shot. Hey, bartender, gimme another Jack on the rocks—

"Shush-shush, baby," he coos, finger dragging out a lewd squelch when slides back inside of you, as deep as it'll go. The slap of his bent index and ring finger hitting your puffy, drenched folds when he thrusts. "They can't see you. Can't hear you. Jus' be good for me, mm? My sweet girl."

Nothin' matters except me, he adds, curling that finger inside of you until it hooks on a spot that makes you whimper into his arm, teeth sinking into leather. I own this bar, he promises, lifting his arm up as you cling to him with your teeth. A block against the world. Nothing but faded, aged leather and stale smoke. Gunpowder. The slick glide of his finger inside of you, the sting of the stretch dissolving into a wet, sticky pleasure.

His own teeth dig into the curve of your neck. A pinch. Sucking in a mouthful of skin as his ring finger extends, drags over your messy cunt until it's pushed up against your stuffed hole, nudging inside. A shallow dip. Lemme in, it says as he bites through blood vessels with the hard suck of his mouth. Lemme in because—

"I own this town. This bar. Jus' like I own this sweet little cunt."

A shove and he's in. All the way. To the last knuckle. Quick and sudden, the sting is an afterthought; the burn is a hazy, ephemeral throb in the back of your head. Balmed by the drag of his thumb over your pebbled clit.

It feels like a seesaw. Up and down. Bending your knees, feet planted into the ground, and then kicking up, up. Weightless. Over and over again. An ebb and flow. Higher and higher until you slowly fall down—

(—into his lap. the cup of his palm.)

You tell him as much. Mewled out into spit-drenched leather as he rumbles against your spine, his voice so deep, so full, you can feel it humming in your chest when he speaks.

(feel it drip down your spine like hot wax where it pools between your thighs—)

"Good girl," he says, and you feel like anything but. Less like the girl who sat in the pew this morning, humming along to hymns in a modest, cotton dress and more like gum spat out onto the pavement. Squished down under his heel. Dragged along beneath his boot. Pretty, dizzy pinked up remora. "Bein' so good, mm? Maybe you deserve a reward."

It comes on the crook of his fingers twisting inside your slicked up cunt; blunt nails pressing against soft walls until it stings like the nip of his teeth over your cheek. You're not even sure if it feels good. It's just—

Pressure. A burning stretch. The foreign sensation of something detached from your body squirming inside of you, touching places you've never been able to reach before. Too deep and too full. His index finger is nearly double the width of your own.

It makes you mewl like a child. Twisting on his lap, trying to pull away from the place that parts for him so easily, opens up with just the crook of his finger. Leaks slick down his palm, drenching his pants. Makin' a mess, he growls, and pulls you back down on his lap. Feel it, sweet girl? Mm? Feel the mess you're makin'.

And you hate that you can. That each thrust of his hand between your thighs sounds wetter and wetter than it did before. That it pulls it out of you until it drips down your inner thighs and pools against the back of your dress. Stains his thighs. The hard thing—his cock, he tells you, dragging your ass over it with a grunt—under you that jerks and throbs and flattens up to a size that makes you want to curl into a ball and weep.

(that makes your knees twitch, wanting to spread wider—)

It's a lot. It's too much. You're not even sure you like it ("ain't nice to tell lies, little girl;") but he doesn't stop. Won't. Not even when tears drip down from the corners of your eyes, and you hide whimpers into the damp, sticky leather of his sleeve. It doesn't really matter because—

"mm, you look so pretty when you cry."

You feel drenched. Liquid. No longer a person but a puddle. Melted, leaking. Dripping down his lap and pooling onto the dirty barroom floor. A slippery little thing held together by the cup of his palm, the hook of his fingers sinking into you over and over again.

"Are you watchin'?" The arm wrapped around your waist shifts until his dry, rough hand is cupped under your wet, sticky chin, curling over your throat. "Look at us."

Between the spread of your thighs, white cotton dress rumpled and rucked up around your hips, the sight of his hand—masculine: dangerous; knuckles bruised and scarred, cherry red; big and rough and hairy—is obscene. Ugly. Wrong.

(a grunt: too tight. his fingers flex, spreading open inside of you, scissoring apart. loosen up, love, before you break 'em, mm.)

So, so wrong.

You feel small with that big, grizzled hand between your legs. Insignificant. A toy to play with. A thing to be used. And that's just what he does.

Shows you how he can play with your body when he peels his fingers out of you nice and slow until just the tips keep you open, skin shiny and wet. Glistening in the flushed, low light of the bar. And then slides them back inside, just as slow. The first knuckle. The second. The third. Wiggles them around. Scissors them apart.

Pulls them out faster now, and thrusts them back inside hard.

This cunt belongs to him, he grunts, words nestled beneath the slick, sticky-wet sound of him taking what he owns. Over and over again. That big, bearish hand works at your messy cunt until your thighs tremble, and your head throbs.

The hand on your throat is firm. Tight. And when it pulls away to slip inside your cotton dress, you realise you've forgotten how to breathe without him controlling every breath.

"Come on," he rasps, fingers working harder. Faster. His thumb catches your clit, rubbing small, tight circles; each pass brings a new, terrible pleasure rippling through you. A crescendo that builds and builds. Higher on the seesaw—up, up—

His hand is scorching as it cups your breast, index and middle finger scissoring over your nipple until it's caught between the two. A pluck. A pinch. It buzzes down your chest, sinks like a stone into the wet, muddled mess between your hips.

And that's all you are. Nothing but a soaked, hot mess of a thing in his lap. Putty. Messy girl. Silly girl. Sweet. Stupid. His.

(his low, growling voice in your ear: mine, mine, mine;) "aren't you, little girl?"

The leather between your teeth tastes like ash. Smells of gunpowder. Fresh hide in the summer's sun. Smoke. Tobacco. Potent. Masculine. Grizzled, like his hand between your thighs. The other cupped around your breast, pinching and pulling and kneading flesh you hadn't realised could feel so good when it was touched like this—

By his hands, palms hot enough to scorch, to brand. To melt you from the outside in until you leak all over his lap where you're cradled like a child. Obedient and docile.

Especially when he makes you come on his fingers. Tells you that's what you'll do before it happens—a grunt, a command, in your ear. Do it, sweetheart. I ain't askin' again—

And you do. Pulsing like a heartbeat around the thick stretch of two fingers digging deep inside of you, stabbing into that spot that makes you pant like an animal. Blooms more heat, more pleasure, that thickens inside your navel—molten. Spilling out from between your hips. Up, up, up on the seesaw—

"Good girl. Good fuckin' girl—"

He doesn't even sound like a man anymore. The rough, feverish grit of his voice pitches low into his throat, hums in his chest. Rattles like bones in the wind. Howls. Sharpens in the pit of your belly, another liquid pulse around his fingers. It sounds animal. Primal. Bearish as he claims you as his, as he curls his fingers around the heart of you, and tugs. Leaving you spun around those thick, grizzled fingers like fresh cotton candy, sticky and sweet. His to keep.

And that's what you are,

"aren't you?"

Good girl, he coos when you nod, sniffling into creased leather that smells of cade and motor oil. Too dizzy to make sense of what he's asking for, too incomplete.

Your neck feels cold without his touch, but you don't know how to ask for something you don't even think you really want. Shouldn't want.

You feel feverish, too, and it's an all-over thing. From the space between each toe, to the backs of your ears—everything is too hot, too cold. You're shivering, but you want to sink down into a pool of ice, a blanket of heat and warmth. Wrap yourself around the hot, oozing insides of a chest—like the hunter who slept inside his beloved horse—and bathe in the waters around the polynya. Icy and dark.

Mostly, though, you just feel raw. Wrong. Scraped out and hollowed. Broken into pieces and put back together with mismatched parts.

And it's worse, you think, when he pulls his fingers out of you, and you're reminded of what it feels like to be empty all over again.

"Shush, baby," he's cooing when you whimper. Chiding. "Let's have a taste, mm? Find out if you're really sweet."

His hand is drenched when he pulls it from between your thighs. Thick, clear strands make a bridge between his fingers when he splits them apart, rumbling low and brassy in his chest at the sight. Spits like a burning log, crackling sap in a dry fire, when he says, look, baby, got me all fuckin' wet—

But you can't. Not when he drags his hand up, up, over your shoulder, above your head, and sinks his fingers into his mouth with a groan that raffles through you, all the way down to your toes. Slurps on his hand, on the slick you left behind, like a man half-starved. Grunting at the taste. Cock throbbing beneath you like a heartbeat. Pulsing and angry. Enough that you cower a bit, flinching back into the broad expanse of his chest as his thick, fat cock twitches under you, eager for something you only really know about as an abstract concept. Knowledge gleaned through rummaging around in cupboards when no one was looking. Playground tales; cupped palms against the side of an ear. Stage whispers.

Husband and wife.

And oh, baby—

"you're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted," he rasps into your cheek, lips shiny and wet. Smearing spit and slick across your raw skin. "Looks like I found my new wife."

It doesn't make sense. Another abstract concept. Fragmented pieces. You want to say we can't get married, but all that comes out is a squeak. A whimper. Some shallow warble in the back of your throat that sounds like daddy, please.

But he's pulling his hand away from your breast, and clasping it tight around your neck before the words can make it through the panic clogging your throat. A firm squeeze snuffs those flames as quickly as they formed, and you swallow down the ash in the back of your throat before it can choke you.

Good girl, he says with a paper soft kiss to the bruised, burning apple of your cheek. Sweet girl, baby girl, and when he smoothes his damp hand across the rumpled fabric of your cotton dress, pulling it back over your thighs, you realise you forgot your own name.

(It doesn't matter, you suppose. You'll have his soon enough.)

When it's back in its proper spot, unblemished and pristine despite the ache between your thighs and the way your panties stick, uncomfortably, to swollen skin, he drags his hand back up your leg until his palm swallows your thigh. The warmth of his skin bleeds through the cotton, and his rough, calloused fingers catch on loose threads when he splays them wide, touch firm, possessive—as if he has the right to hold you like you're his.

But his skin is still wet, and when it catches in the light, you feel a sinking weight in your belly. An echo in the back of your head that says you already are.

His thumb strokes over cotton, and it's almost obscene, really: soft, virginal white against marled, cherry red and scarred peach; from his knuckles to the hem of his leather jacket, he's covered in a dense swath of hair. Veins bulge when he flexes, thick lines running down the back of his hand like little rivers of blue beneath raw peach flesh. He's just so—

Different.

Masculine. Big. Dangerous, you think again, and hear that muffled echo in the back of your head that said run, stay away.

(except now it sounds like stupid girl, you're much too late—)

Trapped like a fawn under his paw. One on your thigh, the other on your throat. The phantom burn, the hollow echo, of his fingers tearing through the too-tight space inside of you, making room for the heavy, fat length under you.

Soon, it seems to say, still as angry as it was when he feasted on your sweet taste.

His hand leaves your thigh, reaching up towards the half-drunk glass on the table beneath a puddle of condensation. It, too, is swallowed up under his bearish hand when he curls his fingers around it, tugging it closer, over your shoulder.

You smell whiskey as he takes the last swig, grunting at the burn, the sting. When he's finished, he leans forward, warm chest glueing to your spine, and places the empty glass back in the puddle.

The hollow thud of glass on wood seems to shake loose the cobwebs that spooled around your head. It feels like blinking to life. Waking up from a deep sleep.

The bar is still buzzing with noise, but you can hear it clearly now. A constant, endless press of voices and low hums, words you can't make sense of. You're too far back in the bar for anyone to have seen you—the bulk of his arm is a wall between you and the world—but you wonder just how much your whimpers carried under the static chatter. The wet, messy squelch—

"You're fine, sweetheart." A squeeze and the panic welling in your throat is choked under his palm. Snuffed out. "No one heard a thing."

You're not sure you believe him, but it keeps the embarrassment from eating you alive, and so you let it go with a slow, sleepy nod. A sniffle. Wet, weepy: I want to go home.

"S'right, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing another brittle kiss to your temple, one that feels the sting of a scraped knee. "We'll get you home."

(Chiding. Look at what you've done to yourself. Pitying. Patronising. Poor thing.)

His home isn't the same as the one cradled in the maw of a mountain, where the land is always barren, and your mother weeps when your father isn't around, but you relent when he tugs, pulling you into his arms. Holding you like a small child as he bites down on his cigar, and moves through the blanket of silence in the once rowdy bar. Hands firm, tight like shackles when they close around you.

Your father used to say you could tell a lot about a man by the look of his hands, and when he slips his fingers between the soft brackets of yours, filling the spaces you hadn't realised were empty, you know one thing:

these are not the sort to ever let go.

(bassbround. apodictic.)

and when he slips his ring on your finger and tells you to wear that little white cotton dress for him, you suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself.

[risenlikethedead]

it's 11pm so i still have time for my wip wednesday with some fisherman!Simon and siren!Reader *eyes peeking emoji which i'm too lazy to add because i'm on my laptop* 18+ // female anatomy + descriptions of long hair for reader

The mass slams against the side of the ship, and a whimper resounds. Soft and mellow. Sniffly. It has Simon's blood flowing faster, frothing, bubbling under his skin. It isn't excitement, but something which permeates it. His palms go slick and tighten around the webbing of the net. His jaw ticks. His muscles feather, bending against his back as he tilts his weight into his oiled brogans which squeak against the deckfloor as he pulls the mass from the ocean.

The net finally scales the railing and falls to the deck with a thud. Simon drags it across the deck, his ears ringing. A crack almost forming in the pulp of his teeth with how hard he's grinding them.

He takes the net and throws it against a softly illuminated wall. He hears another whimper, and then spits in his palm to soften his breathing calluses. He digs his boot into the net, the mass, testing its ripeness like one thumbs a stone fruit.

It's now, does he notice the storm. The lack of it. How it's been reduced to a single tongue of drizzle, barely pattering against him.

He squints his eyes.

He sees Amenchia and Penia in each of the pupils staring back at him. Big and puffy and imploring.

It trembles. She trembles, Simon quickly realizes. He places soft breasts and nipples, peeking from her ropes of hair which tangle around her like bracken. It makes his mind stir. Makes him glance lower, past her tummy and down her navel, where her skin simply disappears into purple scales.

He's briefly disappointed until he glances back up at her worried face. Swollen lips, fluttering fins in place of ears.

Simon squats to her level.

She chokes as if her lungs are water-logged but Simon supposes she's used to that. It may be the oxygen.

"You alright?" he asks.

She flinches and pushes herself against the wall, perhaps hoping it'll swallow her up. Simon almost chuckles at that. The little thing flaps her tail. Shakes her head. Makes a pantomime of herself.

"Just a little guppie, ain't you?" Simon hums.

She purses her eyebrows and wriggles against the net. The rope presses tracks into her breasts, rubbing against her nipples.

"That's all synthetic material," he rasps. "Nylon, polyethylene, polypropelyne…no gettin' out o' that."

She continues her dance. Writhing against the net, sounds of increasing panic slipping past her lips.

"Fuck…" Simon groans. "You haven't a clue what I'm sayin', do you?"

He reaches out and drums his knuckles against her skull. Chases after her when she pulls away by fetching a fistful of her hair through the net and tilting her head back, eyeing her like a piece of meat.

"C'mon, guppie…" he groans. "Say somethin'."

A sound pulses from the back of her throat. Another weep, which curdles Simon's blood. Then a murmur, something unintelligible and opaque, resounding a vespertine script. Smooth as silk but distorted by pants and gasps as it's expelled from her soft lips.

Simon grunts again, grip tightening.

The girl quivers. A tear, the colour of wax flowers, squeezes from her eyes and rolls down her cheeks. Simon feels longing on his tongue but restrains himself.

She sniffles, trying to wriggle away again. Her chin trembles as she queues another response on her lips. This time, familiar.

"Please…"

Simon freezes. He blinks woodenly and pulls away, only scarcely enough to bore into her eyes.

"Well fuck me…" he breathes. "Guppie can talk, can she?"

[risenlikethedead]

making this community inhospitable to racists does not mean posting another quarterly “fuck off racists” tag pls take a breath slow down and be serious for a minute instead of doing the circle jerk of performative outrage

If you have to clarify on your blog that you don’t want racists reading your fics think long and hard about that. Is that bumper sticker activism statement the ONLY thing alerting them that they’re unwelcome? Do you think they feel represented or find your blog relatable without that statement attached? It’s not about if you think you’re a good person or not

we’ve got an echo chamber of hypersensitive white women upholding the racist, colonial, patriarchal standard in their fics, in their art, in their reblogs, in their actions behaviors and the circles they cling to and strategically try to profit off of (in the form of attention bc literally what else are you getting from this???)

Who do you think is benefiting at the end of the day from the idolized trope of the small fragile quiet white coded female reader x hyper sexualized Latino ?

(Spoiler the answer isn’t even white women …it’s white men; they’re still the ones on top at the intersection of racism, imperialism, capitalism, and patriarchy.. don’t play yourself, they (systemically) want you to eat that shit up so they can keep their power)

instead of telling racists to get off your blog, stop catering to narratives that are designed to make white women feel comfy and special EVEN IF THAT MAKES YOU FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE

if it makes it hard for you to enjoy the fandom when you actively choose not to read those fics or engage with content that perpetuates the same stereotypes and you suddenly feel starved for content that’s the point, don’t let it go over your head

making the space inhospitable to racists means doing everything with intention so they CANNOT see themselves in the fics you write AND reblog, in the art, in the tags, or as your friend

the loud hate coming from anons is NOT going to be swayed by these posts

but you can change YOUR behavior to lessen the constant barrage of microaggressions our bipoc peers get pelted with when they open this app by not contributing or promoting more of the same

It’s like the same way ‘boundaries’ have been misconstrued from therapy speak, like you don’t set boundaries by telling someone else what they can’t do ..you set boundaries through YOUR actions.

Yell that you hate racism all day I guess, but if you’re gonna keep sharing work filled with racial stereotypes and hegemonic colonial masculinity disguised as kink, or putting white women on a pedestal then you’re still providing space for racists to feel cozy and justified and I’m so serious about that

Here have more to read:

What Fandom Racism Looks Like: Racist Fanworks, Done Out of Spite

What if we improved fandom somewhat?

From the second link:

If these posts annoy you say it out loud so *I* can remove *you* from my blog bc i don’t expect y’all to leave on your own bc that would require self-awareness

[risenlikethedead]

reblog to give your headache to elon musk instead

[risenlikethedead]

I looove when food is in a bowl. Frequently plates are being brought out and I’m thinking this could’ve been a bowl meal but nobody gets it

[risenlikethedead]

I think every computer user needs to read this because holy fucking shit this is fucking horrible.

So Windows has a new feature incoming called Recall where your computer will first, monitor everything you do with screenshots every couple of seconds and "process that" with an AI.

Hey, errrr, fuck no? This isn't merely because AI is really energy intensive to the point that it causes environmental damage. This is because it's basically surveilling what you are doing on your fucking desktop.

This AI is not going to be on your desktop, like all AI, it's going to be done on another server, "in the cloud" to be precise, so all those data and screenshot? They're going to go off to Microsoft. Microsoft are going to be monitoring what you do on your own computer.

Now of course Microsoft are going to be all "oooh, it's okay, we'll keep your data safe". They won't. Let me just remind you that evidence given over from Facebook has been used to prosecute a mother and daughter for an "illegal abortion", Microsoft will likely do the same.

And before someone goes "durrr, nuthin' to fear, nuthin to hide", let me remind you that you can be doing completely legal and righteous acts and still have the police on your arse. Are you an activist? Don't even need to be a hackivist, you can just be very vocal about something concerning and have the fucking police on your arse. They did this with environmental protesters in the UK. The culture war against transgender people looks likely to be heading in a direction wherein people looking for information on transgender people or help transitioning will be tracked down too. You have plenty to hide from the government, including your opinions and ideas.

Again, look into backing up your shit and switching to Linux Mint or Ubuntu to get away from Microsoft doing this shit.

[risenlikethedead]

So for years black girls have had to read fanfics where y/n was automatically described as being paled skinned with long flowing hair and blue eyes. We couldn’t relate to it exactly, it excluded us, it ignored us. But we read it cause it was all that was out there. Now when we start writing fanfics for other black girls to feel included and represented, now you all are saying that you ‘‘can’t relate to it” therefore don’t support black writers when we were supporting your work all those years even though you were acting like we don’t exist within these fandoms. 

[risenlikethedead]

simon riley who manages shifts at a pharmacy and nearly bites a hole through his tongue as he helps you–an embarrassed, shaky-voiced, pretty-eyed thing–try to pick out the right brand of knock-off viagra for your boyfriend who suddenly can't get it up after three years of dating.

"i've done everything i can think of. fuck, i've even taken him to the doctors and they say nothing's going on with him, like, internally, you know? we just–i don't know what else to do..."

the bastard's cheating. simon can smell it, even without the fucker being here, and it burns him somewhere deep. what kind of faithful man could have you in front of him and not chub up like he' is right this second.'s trying not to do right this second.

you're too sad to care about holding your tongue. you're also too sad to flinch away when his thumb grows a mind of its own and wipes away one of your tears. it takes him all of three seconds to realize what he's done. he rips away his hand so quick that he knocks the recommended box of pills from your grasp.

simon reddens with embarrassment as he bends to pick up the box with a name he can't bother to pronounce. grunting out an apology, he trudges out of the aisle and to the front counter.

when john, the owner of the store, asks him about the pinched look on his face simon just slaps the pills in front of the older man and tells him "'ere. these 're for the sad bird with th' pretty shirt and shite boyfriend. m' goin' for a smoke."

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚