#Direct-to-Consumer

[lightspeedmedia1]

[ruinix]

Quinn with a size kink. Out of his mind aroused fucking his girl who is a lot smaller than him.

Lovely anon, lovely.. i don't write.I mean, I do but i've never tried an RPF or drabble. Just fictional men on my secret AO3. So I don't want to disappoint but i'll try for you... It won't be good though so yes, put the bar down. I beg 🧎🏻‍♀️

How does one do this? TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Size Kink (as requested...slightly if you squint), Mild choking, Unprotected sex (please use protection)

Count: 726 words | Masterlist

You are so small. Quinn fucking loves that. It's not your height. No. It's everything else.

It's your hands that seek his every time you two go out. The same ones that run down his back, his nape, his hair. Your trimmed nails--or your acrylics--that scratches his scalp. You are always so gentle in touching him that he would always fall asleep on you, beside you, or underneath you. So small as you dig them into his skin as he fucks you long and deep.

It's your feet on his palms when he helps you wear your heels. Your ankles are so easily dwarfed by his hands when he fastens the anklets--with both of your initials engraved on the little silver hearts--he gifted you for your birthday. So tiny as he kisses them when he puts them over his shoulder, his cock filling every inch of your wet cunt.

It's your soft and supple lips giving him featherlight kisses. On his cheek, his jaw, his nose, his eyelids, his eyebrows, then his lips. It always ends with his lips. Your kisses are soft and warm and oh, so careful. Until he shoves his tongue pass your lips, swallowing your needy gasps and whines.

It's your neck that was a blank canvas before him. You've never liked necklaces until he gifted you one after another. Every time you give him a hug, he would smell your choice of perfume for the day--vanilla, rose, lavender, jasmine, blackberry, caramel, or whatever the fuck, you simply smells beautiful. So pretty and delicate with his hand wrapped around it, feeling your pulse the vibrations of your soft moans, controlling your breaths, your oxygen, your life. Your hand grips his wrist, the silvery glint of your matching bracelets only made him squeeze. So fucking small.

It's your thick thighs that you always moisturize with lotion. He's reaping the benefits of touching them when you let him. Of looking at them when you wear your little panties around the apartment. Of seeing them be covered with jeans or sweatpants or pajamas. Of seeing them spread wide, trembling and quivering as his cock disappears into your pussy between them. Of seeing them so wet with your mess, so red from his slaps, his grip, his thrusts.

It's your soft voice. One time you said you had a strange voice, but it's never strange. You sound so beautiful. He can listen to you ramble about your day, your problems, your interests without getting sick of your voice. Your voice is music, melodic, tantalizingly exquisite. So high and whiney as he slows down to keep your orgasm at bay. So hypnotic that he almost let you cum right then and there.

It's your eyes that are always so understanding and patient even when he came home frustrated from a game loss. Your eyes that will smile and crinkle at the sides, already knowing his excitement when he's keeping it at bay. You see his soul. He sees yours. He sees when your happy or sad or angry or upset or zoned out. So devastatingly beautiful as your eyes burn when he's not moving as you would like. So breathtaking when your pupils dilate when he started fucking you harder.

You're so fucking small yet you take him so well.

Your pussy that felt like it's custom-made for him. Always so wet. Always so eager for his taking. Your pussy tightens, quivering around his cock. The sounds of your groans and his, of his cock sinking into your pussy, are getting to his head.

Small. So fucking small that he wants to consume all of you. Your pussy. Your face. Your body. Your gentle and soft and warm soul. How can perfection fits so well in your small body?

He wants all of you that it fucking aches that this would have to stop. So he prolongs it. He fucks you slower when he can feel you almost cumming again and again and again. He kisses you, hungry for your taste, hungry for your whines.

He's so close, but not yet. Not fucking yet because he has to fuck you until you couldn't live on without him. Until you go as feral that you would finally shout at him. His little ball of fire. He wants you to fucking crave him as much as he already does.

[longlivetv]

The culture around creation right now is fascinating to me, because whether we’re talking a blogger with a couple hundred followers on a dying website or the biggest artist in a generation, huge groups of people seem to think that creators should mold their creations to suit the consumer and get angry when they do not. When in reality, the creator gets to decide the direction and it is on the consumer to let it go and find something else to consume if it isn’t what they want.

[jeeliebeeliegoomiebear]

On Isolde and Many Doors (and One Key)

Thinking about Isolde and how she feels like she is constantly trapped in a small cramped room full of 1 million doors. Each door represents a presence that haunts her, an identity that lives inside her that calls to her from beyond the grave, a new mask to dawn.

If every person in the world were to have a room, most would have just one door, their own. But not Isolde.

Isolde feels like an empty vessel who is only there to serve as a point of entry for other people and their spirits. She has been forced to become so repressed by her environment, upbringing, and her nature as a medium that she finds it easy to forget herself. Her “self” is not someone she has ever been allowed to know.

The room grows increasingly smaller, claustrophobic and strangling her with pressure as the amount of doorways in it only increase, every new person she meets a new doorway she is plagued with, a new voyeur who has granted themselves full access to her life and her body. Something she is now willing to let them do. It is easier that way. Easier to let someone else command her vessel, something that never solely belonged to her to begin with. An escape from all the pressure, the expectations, the perfection demanded from her. It is something she should do. The duty of someone like her. Something to hide her wretched face from view, to give the people what they want, to uphold her family’s legacy. A performance that was never allowed to end. Each new door lead right back to that.

The only exception is Kakania. The only person Isolde believes has ever really seen her as more than a host for other identities or something to mold into shape, prop up as a set piece. A perfect lady. The star of Vienna. A tragic heroine. A dangerous hysteric witch. A curse manifested. The only one who was ever interested in finding Isolde’s door and that door alone. When she is with Kakania, a new door does not appear in that ever shrinking empty room, although at first she expects it to. For the first time she meets someone and is not greeted with a new ghost to haunt her. Not a door. But a key. A key that Isolde knows can unlock her own door, even when she herself cannot find it.

[atotalpitch]

Anna Kendrick talking (briefly) about Beca's relationship with the Bellas was NOT on my 2024 bingo card. in fact, i'm actually physically shaking. what the hell.

[14dayswithyou]

That is all thank you

ANSWERED: Art credit for da first Ren meme goes to @meo-eiru!!

BUT HELPPPPP THESE ARE SO FUNNY JDSGJH T_T The Moth meme + Uno meme had me CACKLING lmaoooooooo

[saint-hymn]

what ur favorite dsmp character. like i feel like its wilbur but i wanna make sure. my favorite is technoblade cause adowdiafjjef idk man i love him so much

[news4dzhozhar]

[littlelightfish]

I will scream at every non-romantic post I see about these guys. Writers be not afraid. I will love their non-romance fics. I'll blow up your coment section all alone if I have to. I will find you. Artists be not afraid. I will reach tag limit on your artpiece. If I see it at least. And if I don't, I will eventually. Or I'll try. Or @me so I won't fail you.

[wifegideonnav]

Dude, Ethel Cain is so currently awful. Wtf

dude, why are you trying to start drama in my inbox. i can listen to an album without condoning everything the artist ever did. also i dont even know what you’re referring to but im guessing i don’t agree that it’s as egregious as you think, just based on your tone here.

[power-chords]

Reppin’ some of our menswear clients today (Corridor, John Elliott).

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

I don’t think we talk about Wanda with a gun enough 😩 Like I know she has her powers but can you imagine her with a glock?!?! I’m wet

WANDA WITH A GUN KINK SAVE ME

putting it between ur lips :3 makin u suck on it tellin you… “that’s right darlin’ suck on mommy’s strap”

(Hehe get it bc strap also means gun)

[ehlnofay]

my tes secret santa for @anotherclassicpretence! truth be told I've been having a tad bit of writer's block lately but some of your prompts were VERY interesting (I liked the idea of writing delphine before the main quest a lot... this more or less counts) so I hope I've done them justice. hope you're having a splendid holiday season!

...

“Steady on, Hilde,” Delphine says with a brusque, manufactured sort of calm. “You’ll do yourself a mischief.”

It's a relief, she thinks, that the day Hilde has elected to barge in with world-upending news is a convenient one; it isn’t as though Riverwood is the kind of place to attract crowds, most of the time (part of the reason she chose to live here at all) but the inn is unusually quiet now. Orgnar is nominally organising something in the cellar, which means that he’s spending an hour swapping two bottles around and calling it a day, and the dining hall is warmed to a swelter with the ever-going hearthfire, and utterly empty. No-one’s come in for lunch yet. No rooms rented out last night, either, so it’s all silent on that front; it’s just Delphine and her wet cotton cloth, wiping down the stained tables till they shine, and Hilde with her hair wrapped and her string of beads tangling round narrow, hard-knuckled fingers. She’s sat herself on the chair with the wobbly leg; it needs fixing soon. Ordinarily, Delphine would herd her onto another, but right now she doesn’t think there’s anything in the world that would get Hilde to listen.

“Hark at her!” she complains to the bead-string - all marbled glass dyed blue and red and yellow, clinking together on their leather cord. “Do a mischief - do a mischief - it’s as if she can’t bloody hear me -”

Delphine swipes the cloth over the chip in the corner of the table. “I hear you,” she replies (does she ever hear her). Hilde’s hands are white where the necklace bites into her skin; her lips are pinched into a puckered line. Her eyes are red-rimmed and fierce. “Hilde. I’m going to get you a drink to calm your nerves, and then we’ll talk it over properly, all right?”

“Talk it over,” Hilde repeats, high and scornful, and then her face screws up quite suddenly as if all the fight has fled it - the wrinkles in her cheeks deepening to uneasy valleys, knuckles pressed to the thin slat of her mouth, beads digging hard into her cheek. “Nine have mercy… thank you, Delphine.”

The inner corner of Delphine’s lip snags, near imperceptibly, between the blunt ends of her canines. She nods once, and she ducks behind the bar, folding the cloth with damp precision as she goes. The cask of ale is near empty, the mugs lined up on their shelf, sparkling clean, cutlery rattling around in its tin. It's not fancy - Riverwood is a small, old town, built on the bones of an older one, and no matter how well-run the inn has been since she bought it it's not exactly a prime destination, but it's a good sort of a place. And innkeeping is decent work. Keeps you busy. Keeps your ear to the ground. Gives you something to focus on, in the meantime -

When Delphine grabs a tankard, she notes with some incredulity that her hand is trembling. She stills it. She pours the ale until the cup rim is flecked with froth.

(Gives you something to focus on in the meantime, in between real work, while you're waiting -)

(There is a feeling rising in her body, foaming like the ale; a sour, stomach-turning excitement, as if she's in her twenties again and wet behind her ears, biting back all the intrigue. Like she has an unlined face and fresh armour and is standing again in line for her induction ceremony. Like she's staring something in the face and thinking, finally.)

Delphine caps the cask. She is not in her twenties, and she is not staring anything down; bar Hilde, a seventy year old woman with tannin-stained hands and the latest in a line of tall stories. Delphine didn't get this far (how far?) (still alive, isn’t she) through credulity. She's a pragmatist through and through - won't believe anything she hasn't seen evidence of with her own eyes; and yet.

And yet.

She sets the mug down on the table; a pale and lukewarm drop slides down the pewter, just next to the handle. She'll need to wipe it all down again, after this.

Hilde takes it, absent-minded; the beads slither from where they’re strung around her hands to rest in a smooth curve over her chest. Her hands are shaking - she doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t stop them. There is a look about her, all of a sudden, that seems dreadfully, fixedly haunted, like a woman looking down the barrel of a cannon, some rapid-rigged explosive, something to level the town. Like she’s caught the apocalypse’s eye. Delphine reaches out, perfunctory, and pats the back of her hand; Hilde grimaces and downs half her tankard in one long, desperate swig.

Light’s coming in through the window-slats up by the rafters, dull and gold, dust motes in the shafts of it. It makes the white wimple of cloth swaddled hastily around Hilde’s head shine in places.

“Big as the mountain,” she mumbles into the lip of the tankard, fingers wrapped tight around its handle, “black as night - flew right over the barrow like something fit to block out the sun.”

Delphine’s teeth scrape over that spot at the corner of her lip. She can’t help but say, “Are you sure -”

“I know what I saw,” Hilde snaps. Her knuckles and lips are blanched and colourless. Liquid sloshes over the edge of her cup with her sharp, abortive gestures. “I saw a dragon.”

Delphine is very careful not to let her face do anything at all, there.

(It’s adrenaline, she knows; the pointed, muscle-coiled readiness to move - to act - to make a plan in service of a solid end and carry it off perfectly; the comfort of seeing possibility roll out before her like a long many-doored hallway, like a road she might be able to walk instead of these four walls she’s circled for too many years. Innkeeping is decent work - keeps her ear to the ground - keeps her busy in the interim, but it’s not what Delphine does, not what she’s been trained to do; not a purpose, not something to strive for, and oh, Divines -)

(None of this is substantiated. Delphine is not a rash and green youth, not anymore and not again, and she will not start running away with silly fantasies before she’s checked anything at all; she has had her fill of disappointment, and should know better than to invite it - should know better than to start spinning grand plans, before she’s even sent out some missives to the pale cobweb of contacts she has left - over the barrow; west, then - is there a significance, to the barrow? Does she have anything about it in her side room? Nine, it’s times like this she misses the old library and the mad old codger that kept it, and, no. No.)

(Yes.)

“It’ll come back,” Hilde’s saying with fearful certainty; lips flecked with spittle and beer-foam, hands still shaking. “It’ll come back, and it’ll kill us all, and then you’ll believe me -”

“I believe you,” Delphine tells her, and it is inexplicably, regrettably true. (She’s thinking about the library. She’s thinking about the dragonlore. She’s thinking that if dragons are back, someone will have to do something about it - and oh Divines how she has missed being the one to do something about it.)

Her hands are still, but only through some effort.

She feels like she’s been dozing for twenty years and only now has been shocked awake.

Hilde looks at her, white-mouthed and white-scarved; she frowns, a tense, sour thing, and she says doubtfully, “You look like you need a drink.”

Delphine laughs. It’s a short, gruff bark of sound. Her hands are flat on the tabletop; her hair is coming loose in thin wisps from the tight knot at the base of her skull. Sunlight trickles through the windows, golden-fresh. “No,” she says. “No, thank you, Hilde, I'm good."

[xinyuehui]

Hua Gongzi ‖ First Apperance

[captainrufflebanger]

"For someone who's very online, you sure don't know a lot of [pop culture] things"— my very-online coworker, 21

How do I explain I spend my time online drawing vampire milfs, searching international recipes, and listening to video game let's plays, without sounding like I don't give a flying fuck about popular media or celebrities? (Bc I don't give a flying fuck)

Rant moment:

I don't have tiktok, my Instagram was abandoned years ago, I barely open Twitter anymore as it's too depressing, all sports bore the hell out of me, reading time is sparse despite being a librarian, I've been plagued by some kind of mental block stopping me from reading fanfics for over a year, Let's Plays are basically the only way I experience video games, I haven't seen a full anime in years, I don't watch movies or shows unless another person sits me down to do so, hell even when I was in the height of my theatre work I couldn't be assed to remember famous actors in either film or stage!

I'M JUST BUILT TO LIVE AS HERMIT AND I'M UNINTERESTING I GUESS! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME???!?!??!

Makes me feel terrible because I cannot feign interest and an embarrassing number of people look down on me for it. "You haven't seen-?!" NO. OKAY? No I haven't and I probably never will!