#Garbage Self-Titled

[iamtryingtobelieve]

You will believe in me

And i will never be ignored

[orionauriga]

quantum immortality

the umbrella academy | five-centric s4 fix-it | 5k words | gen

“Be realistic,” Booth Five says. “It’s time you face inevitability. The rest of us have.” “No,” Five snarls, appalled at the words and doubly so to hear them in his own voice. “You know who you sound like? The Handler.”

In Max’s Deli, Five comes to a different conclusion.

-----

tldr: five hargreeves fucking loves and would do anything for his family and he would not lay down and die when told there's nothing he can do to save them.

[what-is-it-to-be-pk-esque]

idk how yall have been coping but i am going back to my roots, just listening to Garbage and MCR to really get in that gritty angry fight music I'm going to need to carry with me for the next 4 years

[nonbinary-octopus]

maybe quality but less in the "is this a good book" way listed in the poll, and more of a "is this formatted well/consistently" and "have all the typos been caught" way

self published books can be a little inconsistent with that and it really helps to have more eyes on it before it goes out

I have a question for readers, but I have a super small following here so it's probably not the best sample size BUT

If you could get books directly from your favorite authors (so you don't have to worry about publishers gatekeeping out stories that you'd love and that they really want to write) in a way that also lets the author keep a way larger portion of their sales (so they can afford to keep writing without fearing for their livelihood), what, if anything, would discourage you from doing this and drive you to want to buy from big publishers/retailers instead?

[sugar-grigri]

Denji no longer has access to his heart

The golden rule in Chainsaw Man is to focus on the title, since it's the key to reading the story.

Rain, Brothel, Removal seem to be three absurdly unrelated elements, and Fujimoto likes to put it that way, because the challenge for the reader is to find a way of reading that links them together.

This chapter is funny as well as disturbing, deeply sad, and in itself this collection of sensations just makes you uncomfortable, since the tone is always reversed, and the protagonist himself refuses to allow his situation to be a comic spring.

Fujimoto confirms an interpretation that is fundamental to understanding Denji: his character thinks only in terms of short-term objectives, incapable of projecting himself, just as he responds only to the satisfaction of needs without being able to verbalize and think about his unhappiness in a more abstract way.

Denji, for example, isn't thinking about whether sex is actually a solution to his problems, no, it's more concrete than that: he's thinking about whether he's masturbated recently.

Another piece of evidence is the rain. I've always thought that when it rains in Fujimoto's works, it's proof that no lies are being told.

Whether in Look Back with a silent victory, the school moment with Reze and Denji.

But that's not what we're interested in here, because there's no doubt that Denji is sincere, or at least the rain only shows us that he's sincerely desperate.

There's a subtlety....

Denji complains that he only thinks with his dick, but there's another, more philosophical and certainly less funny idea behind this: Denji only thinks through his body.

The rain, the amputation, the brothel - they're all proof that Denji only thinks with his senses.

Denji thought the brothel was the solution to his distress, it's when it started raining that he collapsed, as if the change in weather had evoked his own emotional change. Yoru's solution is amputation, another physical sensation and solution.

Amputation is a solution all the more symbolic because it's antithetical to what Denji is: a demon man capable of regeneration.

To amputate is in itself not to regenerate, and not to regenerate is in itself to be more human.

What distinguishes us from animals (although science relativizes this) is the way we think about our own emotions, something Denji is incapable of doing, or at least has great difficulty in doing.

This doesn't mean he can't verbalize it at all, but when he evokes, he evokes a sensation, a dish (a shitty hamburger, a steak, a ton of sex).

Even when he wants to be loved, Denji formulates it in the form of wanting his heart, almost organically.

No one wants Denji's heart because it's gone

And it makes sense, because Pochita has reassembled his entire body, except for Denji's heart, which has literally been left in that garbage can.

That's why, when Pochita lets Denji access his feelings, the place is symbolized by a garbage can.

When Denji asks Pochita to wake up to find Nayuta, Pochita asks him where his legs are, because Denji's only function is to be a body.

And now everything makes sense again

When Denji spoke his dream to Pochita, being Chainsaw Man, I think there was a certain feeling in every reader: what exactly does it change?

What if it changes nothing? It's normal for Denji not to be able to project himself in the long term, as he should symbolically listen to his heart.

Denji's inability to have a dream, a goal for the future, is symbolized by him and Pochita as children.

It doesn't mean that Pochita is an antagonist (although that could be cool), but that Denji and Pochita are prisoners of their own situations.

Denji doesn't have access to his heart, but Pochita is contractually bound to what Denji wants.

This is also why, when Denji reproaches himself, it's his child self who's addressing him, because the only way to reproach himself, to feel guilty, is symbolized by his old self, the Denji that Pochita may have known. Just as Denji doesn't have access to his heart, Pochita has difficulty gaining access to the person Denji has become, all of which only leads to stagnation.

Denji as a child is also the symbol of a scumbag, the remnant of a lost heart, always dressed in poor, dirty clothes, a past that Denji seeks to escape, but a past that is the only time Pochita has been able to get to know Denji.

I know it's a pretty crazy line, but it's precisely because Denji is Chainsaw Man - a being both fused and disconnected - that he thinks with his dick lol

Saving Chainsaw Man by killing Chainsaw Man has never been a truer statement

Chainsaw Man is Denji's prison but also his only hope

A cage

[rayveneyed]

cw: sexually explicit content / blood / relatively light sadomasochism / age + experience gap (reader is older + more experienced) / sub!choso / vampires 🧛‍♀��� / sex and violence as two sides of the same coin /

choso kamo is 160 years old when he meets you.

in those years of walking the earth, undead, he believes he’s embraced his vampirism as much as he possibly can. the broiling self-hatred he had once found solace in has reduced to a simmer, strongest in those moments of blood and guts and weakening heartbeats; and although he often avoids crowds, and companionship, and light, he no longer believes himself to be a slave of his own nature.

to be true — in the grand scheme of immortality, of vampirism — he isn’t anywhere close to the level of control he’d wish to have. often, when indulging yuji’s desire to enjoy the world as he did before his death — boardwalks and arcades and cotton candy — he feels his canines aching in his gums, stretching until they dimple against his bottom lip.

it’s not comfortable. it’s not confident. but even despite the growing aches, he’s no longer cowering in alleyways; no longer drinking from poor stray cats and garbage-chewing rats to momentarily satiate that ever-growing, gnawing hunger. he has some sense of control—

“oh, you baby-bats. so adorable.”

control which he now flounders to grab.

a sharp, inky black nail scrapes up the column of his neck — he can’t help but arch into it, head tilting back until his wide, pupil-blown eyes find the ceiling, with its intricate coving and obsidian chandeliers. the music from the main hall is nothing but a buzzing in the back of his head; thoughts of his friends’ whereabouts, an afterthought. your fingernail crowds the underneath of his jaw and stops at where his pulse point would have thrummed, would he have been alive.

you’re a demon. a devil. a she-beast. a succubus. any horrid, terrible name he could call you, he will — dressed in blacks and burgundies and gold older than him, your lips painted an ox-blood red and your eyes as sharp and dark as any polished knife. in your hands he is small. weak. mortal.

“satoru usually keeps his strays away, after last time,” you say, pouting now, though it’s a crude approximation of sadness — even now, your eyes glint with devilment. “so mean, when he knows i have a weak spot for bats like you.”

that wretched finger stretches up; pokes at his bottom lip, scrapes against the fangs that had — embarrassingly — extended from his gums at the simple weight of you on top of him.

“look at that,” you coo, and your grin is something unsettling, something that curdles in the pit of his stomach and heats between his legs. “excited, pup?���

his answering breath comes ragged, and it’s always more embarrassing than it was when he was human. his heart doesn’t work, his lungs do not work, and he has no need to breathe — in fact, he lost the reflex to do so around 92 years ago — but his brain is scrambled, it seems, wilted neurons confusing signals from almost two centuries ago. “i’m — ahem — i’m okay, duchess.”

“how sweet. you don’t have to call me by my title, you know. my name will do just fine.” at his silence, you push yourself up from where you’d been laying low against his chest — looking far too excited when you say: “unless, of course, you like it.”

his hands tremble at his side. he can’t remember the last time he’s indulged in — in debauchery. the last time someone’s made him feel like they’re holding his heart in their hands. over the past hundred-odd years, he’s avoided it like the plague, and for good reason — most vampires aren’t known for their commitment, let’s just say. and now you’re on top of him looking like every sin he’s tried to avoid, and he’s straining so hard in his pants he fears he’ll cum before you even hint at removing a single article of clothing.

you press yourself flush again, nosing at his neck. he knows, for the first time in his long life, what it feels like to be prey. is this what his victims had felt when he ripped into their throats, young and inexperienced and bloodthirsty? did their vulnerability sit like a stone in their throats?

a groan comes from you, suddenly, and your tongue darts out to lave against his skin. choso’s answering moan is more of a whimper, broken and weak in his mouth, but you don’t seem to notice — or care. he flexes his glutes in an effort to stop himself from rutting up against you — not only would it be embarrassing, desperate, but it would be rude. this is your house, after all. your soirée. your gilded halls and bedazzled walls. your silk sheets against his back. your satin skirt bunched around your waist.

“tell me, pup,” you say, and he fights the instinctual reflex to shiver at the brush of your lips against his skin, “have you ever fed from our own?”

“hm?” it’s a sound of confusion brought half on by his simple lack of knowledge, and half on by his slow-processing brain. only seconds after does he fully register your question, and the eyes he hadn’t realised he had screwed shut flew open. “no. i — i didn’t know that was possible.”

all at once, you’re sitting up again — swinging your leg over his hips until you’re standing. it wouldn’t be right to call it clambering — you are impossibly graceful, even passed the agility and elegance that comes with the gift of the undead. his hands reach for you before he can stop them, a sound like a question on his tongue, and you send him the sweetest, most tooth-rotting, stomach-turning smile. he thinks he likes your biting, cruel grins more, though you’re lovely regardless.

you begin to reach for the ties of your corset at your spine — just another thing that makes his mouth water. people didn’t wear these sorts of clothes anymore, not in the human world. but he remembers the skirts and corsets from paintings of noblewomen hundreds of years ago, and how he’d admire the curve of their waists, the swell of their chests—

“of course, satoru wouldn’t tell you. why would he?”

his eyes snap up from your chest, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. but you don’t seem to mind. the corset is removed painfully slowly, for no other reason than to torture him; then, the outer dress, with its carmine satin and intricate embroidery. you throw it to the floor carelessly, as if the most knowledgeable museum curators wouldn’t prostrate themselves at your feet for the simple chance to display it for millions to see — a while his eyes drink up the sight of more skin, the whisper of form beneath your underdress and bloomers, you near him once more.

metal to a magnet, a moth to flame, he pulls himself to the edge of the bed. you find a place between his legs and grasp his chin, and choso can’t look away from you.

“i can take you apart and put you back together,” you say — promise — voice like crushed velvet, quiet and creeping like a choking vine. your thumb smooths over his cheek and ends at its apple, where you press the sharp tip of your nail into his flesh. “i can show you the pleasures of your eternal life, and its pains, and everything in between. i can bring you to every edge, and draw you back from them just as quick — and it will be painful, and you’ll enjoy it so much you won’t be able to go another day without it.”

he’s lost the ability to speak. his unmoving heart is in his throat — or in your hands, or between your sharp teeth. you tilt your head and regard him with knowing, twinkling eyes.

“all you have to say, pup, is yes.”

oh, it’s out of him so quick he can hardly keep up — a word so breathy you’d swear you’d already had your way with him. but embarrassment is a thing of the past when your smile stretches, and you murmur marvellous. you release him from your grasp, much to his chagrin, but when you begin pulling down your bloomers his attention shifts.

he can smell you. smell you. the musky, salty scent of between your legs — a smell that has his mouth watering and his fingers cramping from how hard he fists the sheets. your bloomers are damp when you discard them, sticky with your arousal, and pride glows in choso’s chest. he didn’t do much, but it seemed enough — if he had only let himself lose control, hump up against you harder, perhaps it would’ve stained his clothes; seeped through your layers and onto his lap. he’d go home and hold it over his nose until the scent faded, and perhaps after.

“new as you are,” you say, climbing onto your bed once more and reclining back against the numerous pillows — huffing a mean-sounding laugh when he crawls after you. “i’ll do you the mercy of taking it easy, just this once. oh, don’t make that face — you look like a kicked puppy. i promise you’ll enjoy what i have in store for you.”

and you hike up your underdress, and spread your legs. choso’s mouth waters — the thick smattering of hair on your mons, your flower-like labia, shiny with your arousal. and your clit, peeking out from its hood, pink and shiny and begging to have his mouth on it. but as if this wasn’t enough — as if he wasn’t already scrabbling to get between your legs — you take one of those long, sharp nails, and drag it against your inner thigh. the skin splits. blood trickles down from the wound like a river of gold, flowing into the crease between your thighs and your pussy, and it smells ambrosial. if his fangs were aching before, they’re screaming, now. this isn’t human blood; this is richer, sweeter, creamier. delectable. hedonistic. you’ll make a glutton of him.

“after all,” you say, grinning wickedly, “i’m treating you to a most delectable meal.”

[elderwisp]

◁ || ▷

Kai: DND? Of course you would play DND! 

Alex: Are you shaming me?

Kai: No… Maybe just a bit. 

Alex: I SHOULD THROW YOU FOR THAT! 

Kai: Are you gonna use a little spell?

Alex: Oh my god, COME HERE- 

Taryn: Erm Kai… And boy?

Kai: Hello, sister. 

Alex: Ah, the infamous Taryn. 

Taryn: What have you told this man? Why does he sound so menacing? 

Alex: Nothing bad, I swear. Well, nothing I’m sure he didn’t deserve. 

Kai: HEY! 

Alex: Listen, after that comment about DND, you’re on THIN ICE. I’m Alex by the way.

Taryn: What’s wrong with DND? I thought you’re into stuff like that. What’s it called with the little guys? Warmallet?

Both: Warhammer.

Taryn: AH yes, that. Aren’t they similar?

Kai: Not even close.

Alex: They’re both table tops-

Kai: Shh!

Taryn: Aren’t y’all supposed to be brothers in arms?

Alex: Exactly! Thank you. Kai just likes to start drama apparently.

Alex: I think you shouldn’t be so harsh on DND. Give it a shot.

Kai: Can I dress up?

Alex: You’re such a little shit.

Taryn: Well I don’t mean to interrupt the couple’s-

Kai: We aren’t dating.

Taryn: Oh! Oops. Anyways, uh, help me with the groceries? 

Alex: Need my help?

Taryn: It's okay! You sit tight.

-

[ thunder rumbles ]

Kai: I know what you’re doing.

Taryn: I dunno what you’re talking about.

Kai: He’s a friend.

Taryn: A close friend. Why haven’t you told me about him?

Kai: Because!

Taryn: [ giggles ] Alright.

Kai: What?!

Taryn: You look happy. 

Kai: And now I’m stressed!

Taryn: I think the word you’re looking for is flustered.

Kai: Don’t correct my grammar!

Taryn: Sorry.

-

Alex: You’re a writer, Taryn? I swear I didn’t look through it! I just saw a title and your name.

Taryn: Oh, it’s garbage. I meant to throw it away.

Kai: Don’t put yourself down now. Self-confidence isn’t really Taryn’s forte-

Taryn: KAI!

Alex: A scoundrel that one.

Taryn: It isn’t that I hate myself-

Kai: I totally didn’t say that but ok.

Taryn: I don’t wanna make a big deal out of it. It’s been rejected by every publisher in the area so it’s trash.

Alex: Not everyone.

Taryn: It has, I swear.

Alex: Can I have a copy of your book?

Taryn: Why?

Alex: I think I can help you out with this. My dad owns a publishing company. Uhm, he started it up after his books did really well. He loves unknown writers. That’s like his thing. It’ll be fine. Trust me.

-

Kai: That was really nice of you by the way.

Alex: Of course. Your sister’s really sweet. I hope this is good for her.

Kai: Me too. Do you have any siblings?

Alex: One, a sister. Much older but we’re close.

Kai: Cool. You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?

Alex: Positive. You should rest and enjoy the weather. 

Kai: It could start raining on your way back, what if something were to happen-

Alex: I’ll text you when I get home. See you around?

Kai: Mhm.

[mariswxt]

𝐄.𝐓 — 𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋.ᐟ

Steve was continually punching the, well, the punching bag— he wasn’t really a kicker, so the punching bag would have to suffer from his fists. He’d barely had a year to adjust, figuring out what phones were, trying to find out what happened after the war and how America finally has a black President.

Times change.

When the punching bag went flying to the other side of the room, he sighed— not again. Grabbing the bag, he dragged it like it was a paperweight over to the ‘garbage pile’ of other bags and picked up a new one, stringing it up by the chain. At this point, he’d destroyed at least five, and counting, with how long his warm up was going— he’d only been going for three hours.

“Should I be worried?” You raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe and wiggling your fingers with a grin. “You’re destroying those punching bags like it’s a wet sheet of paper.” Something about you always seemed to calm him down, so yes, he deflated again, sighing and grabbing his sweat towel, dabbing his neck. In ‘45, that sweat towel would be the target of ladies everywhere. “If it was Director Fury instead of me, he’d schedule you for a psych eval.”

“Should I be glad it ain’t Director Fury?” He replied in a sarcastic-ass drawl— he was an old man who’s woken up from a practical cry o freeze, he’s allowed to be a little bitchy.

But all you did was laugh— fuckin’ laugh, opening the case file you had and flicking through. “Yeah, he’s a little less courteous than your girl, here.” You cleared your throat, flicking your eyes up. “Alright, gloomy Gus, I’d love to handle whatever this big hunk’a anger is, but we’ve quite literally got an extra-terrestrial on our hands.”

Ok, first a world that looks like it’s been built by Howard Stark, second of all an extra terrestrial. Steve’s brain was going nuts.

“Norse mythology and the aforementioned self absorbed dick call him the god of mischief, Loki.” You lifted up a picture of the one remaining snapshots of the camera. “He’s tall, dark, and a big cup of trouble. He’s taken over the mind of a SHIELD agent with a magic sceptre and probably plans on world domination, judging by how he ain’t a friendly.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “There’s only one God, ma’am.”

“Ugh, don’t call me ma’am, makes me feel old.” You grinned, then handed him a file titled ‘AVENGERS INITIATIVE’. “The director designed it. Getting extraordinary individuals together to fight a global threat.”

Steve’s eyebrow raised so high it almost disappeared through his hairline, scoffing a little as he looked at the file. “And you think I’m an extraordinary individual?”

“You’re the ‘man out of time’, Steve. Not many people can survive a seventy year long cryo freeze in a lake.” You replied casually, then gestured to the file lazily. “My number’s in there. Call me when you make up your mind.”

As you turned to go, Steve blurted out the first question that came to mind. “If I’m the ‘man out of time’, what do they call you?”

You turned around, soft smirk playing on your lips as you considered the question. “Well, the people who’ve seen me for half a second, they call me the ‘woman through history’. But not many people have seen me until now.”

Later, Steve was staring in contemplation at the file, brows furrowed, trying to make a decision. He could be getting wrapped up in a war he was unequipped to fight, or he could be making the best decision of his life and getting involved with like-minded and bodied people. Eh, what’s the harm?

He picked up the new fangled phone you’d taught him how to use, finding that call app and dialling the number you’d written on the inside of the case file.

“Hey, River? I’m in.”

[ordinary-barbie]

sexy to someone - porco galliard x reader

summary: After scrolling social media you're feeling particularly insecure about your looks. Your boyfriend, Porco, is determined to convince you that you really are pretty.

word count: 2.3k words

tags: fem!reader, pet names (babe and baby), reader has a tooth gap bc I'm nothing if not self-indulgent, dirty talk, oral (fem receiving), face sitting, vaginal fingering, doggy style, breast play, praise kink, consent checks, reader is self-conscious about her body and struggles with mental health issues

minors and ageless blogs dni.

title comes from the song "sexy to someone" by Clairo.

Normally you loved scrolling through social media, but you just couldn't do it today. If you saw one more vacation photo or one more bachelorette party with someone's former sorority sisters, the already deep pit in your chest would cave in. And it wasn't anyone's fault: you couldn't get mad at your friends or random influencers and celebs for simply posting about their lives. To put it delicately, you were just feeling like a steaming pile of garbage compared to everyone else on your Instagram feed.

Today you hated pretty much everything about your looks. Your tooth gap looked like an eyesore. Your eyes seemed dull and sleepy. Your nose? Meh. Your figure? Nothing to write home about. It was a wonder that anyone liked your Instagram photos at all, and especially unbelievable that you managed to snag a boyfriend, especially someone like Porco Galliard.

Porco was an absolute babe. You'd never been hugely into blondes, but something about him and his undercut had got your heart racing when you met him at a frat party that your bestie Pieck, a Delta Zeta, had invited you to. You were always pretty reserved, and especially nervous to be around a bunch of frat dudes. Luckily, Porco eased your nerves by making you laugh, and the rest was history.

He was funny, confident, and hot as hell, while you were more reserved. When you'd first gotten together, you felt like the nerdy female protagonist in an 80s teen movie who managed to land the most popular guy in school. That had subsided after five years of dating, but now you couldn't help but feel the insecurity clawing at your brain again. Porco could easily get any woman he wanted - why you, of all people? Was he simply settling until someone better came along?

You rolled over onto your stomach and buried your face into one of the couch's armrests, quietly sobbing. Why were you like this? Why couldn't you be hotter so you could look like someone who actually belonged with Porco? Porco shouldn't be with someone like you. There were plenty of cute sorority girls he could've gone after in college, including Pieck or your other friend Sasha.

You recognized (thanks to months of therapy) that you were in a thought spiral, but you felt powerless to stop it. Normally you would go on your phone to distract yourself, but since social media had triggered your insecurities, you decided to settle for a nice little depression nap. That ought to make you feel better, right?

-

When you woke up, you didn't feel as crushingly awful as you did before, but you were still in a bit of a shitty mood. You snuggled tightly in your blanket and stared up at the ceiling, not even moving when Porco came home from work.

"Hey babe, I'm home! Traffic was nuts today - that podcast you recommended to me honestly saved my ass from dying of boredom," Porco joked, kicking his shoes off and making his way into the kitchen.

When you turned your head towards Porco but didn't react, his cheery expression morphed into worry. "Baby, what's wrong? Is everything okay?"

"It's nothing, don't worry," you hurriedly assured him, not wanting to be a burden, especially since he'd had a long day at work.

Unfortunately, Porco was a stubborn motherfucker, so he kept prying. "Come on, don't do that thing where you try to sweep shit under the rug. I can tell something's bothering you. You know you can tell me anything."

You sat up, protectively wrapping your arms around your midsection and chewing at your bottom lip. "I just - why are you with me, Porco?" you asked, your voice wavering. "I mean, look at you. You could be with anyone you wanted and you settled for me."

Porco furrowed his brow. "Baby, where is this coming from? I picked you because you're funny and kind and fuckin' hot."

You snorted. You appreciated Porco complimenting you in his Porco way, but you weren't totally buying what he was selling. "Please, Porco. Gigi Hadid is fuckin' hot. Pieck is fuckin' hot. I'm just..." You gestured to yourself vaguely, making a face.

Porco scoffed, shaking his head. "First of all, Pieck is like a sister to me, so don't even go there. Second of all, yeah, Gigi Hadid is pretty, but she's not you. You're actually the hottest woman I know. I honestly feel like I outkicked my coverage here."

"Porco, stop acting like I'm some big prize," you insisted. "Especially when I scroll through social media and every woman I follow is pretty much a smokeshow, including my friends."

Porco said your name sternly, making you jump. "Is that where this is coming from? Babe, please don't compare yourself to Instagram. You know everyone curates their feed to only share the good shit, even the celebs."

"I know, but that doesn't change the fact that there's so many gorgeous girls out there, and I'm just...me," you responded, staring down at your lap.

"Hey! Look at me," Porco commanded, and you reluctantly met his gaze. "You are so desirable to me. I love you. And I wish I could fight your shitty brain for making you ever think otherwise."

You sighed. "Porco, I love you. I just wish I could see the person you see. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror earlier and just felt ugly. I hate that I can't just make these thoughts go away."

Porco moved closer to you, kissing both of your cheeks. "Babe, you are a fuckin smokeshow to me. Please let me prove it to you..."

"And just how do you plan to do that?" you asked, arching an eyebrow. You tried to look impassive but you couldn't help but rub your thighs together in anticipation.

"Like this," Porco simply replied, ghosting over your lips with his own. You shuddered, still amazed at how turned on Porco could make you without touching you. "But first - are you sure you want this? And you remember our safe word, right? Just say 'red' and I will stop, no matter what."

You nodded. Porco frowned. "Use your words, baby."

"Yes, I want this. Please touch me, Porco," you whined impatiently, your mind now clouded with lust.

"I mean damn, if you insist, babe," Porco joked before kissing you deeply. He draped his body over yours on the couch, suddenly enveloping you with the smell of his favorite cologne. It was heavenly.

Since your mouth was occupied, you tapped Porco's shoulder, and he instantly ceased his movements. "Everything good, babe?" he worriedly asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I just - could we move it to the bedroom, please?" you shyly asked.

Porco smirked. "Okay, dirty girl," he teased, leading you by the hand into your bedroom. Once inside, he slammed the door with his foot, deeply making out with you and letting his hands roam all over your body. You made a motion to take your bra off but Porco stopped you in your tracks.

"Please let me do it, baby," Porco begged, and you happily obliged. After tossing your bra to the other side of the room, Porco shoved his hands under your shirt, massaging your breasts. "Man, I'll never get tired of these tits. They feel so good in my hands."

Porco bit at your bottom lip, and you let out a moan. Porco was driving you wild right now. "That's my good girl," he praised, and those four little words sent a shockwave straight to your core. "I love it when you moan so prettily for me. Now take those clothes off, baby."

That lit a fire under you. You quickly rid yourself of your t-shirt (really one of Porco's, a vintage shirt from the university you both went to) and sweatpants, standing nakedly in front of Porco except for a simple pair of black undies.

Porco let out a breath. "Oh fuck, baby. You're so goddamn sexy." You shyly smiled at him. "Now take a seat for me; I need to taste you."

You sat down at the end of the bed, gazing at Porco as he kneeled in front of you. The fact that he was still dressed in his light blue button-down, navy tie, and khaki slacks from work made this even hotter, somehow. Porco pushed your panties to the side, moaning when he saw gossamer strings of your slick clinging to the fabric.

Porco dove in, lapping at your clit with his tongue and grunting as you arched your back in pleasure. "Can't believe you think I'd want anyone else when I have the sweetest pussy right here. You taste so fuckin good, baby."

Your mind was blank, devoid of any coherent thoughts except for how fucking amazing your boyfriend was with his tongue. You were in the throes of ecstasy, grabbing at his hair to push his face even closer to you.

Porco removed his lips from your clit, eliciting a whine from you. "Easy there, baby," he said, chuckling. "I'm gonna eat you out; I just wanna finger fuck you too. Is that okay?"

Aroused, you reached for his hand, but Porco tutted, shaking his head at you. "Use your words, babe," he reminded you.

"Porco I need your fingers inside me," you whined. "Need your mouth and your fingers in my pussy."

Porco smirked, a dark glint in his eye. "Can't possibly deny you when you ask me so nicely." He returned to sucking on your clit while his fingers pumped in and out of your opening. "Babe, I can't believe you're so wet for me. I could fuckin drown in your pretty little cunt."

You gasped, feeling a warmth in your belly. You felt like you were about to burst, and Porco could sense it too. "Come for me, baby," Porco encouraged you, fingering your clit. "Make a fuckin' mess on my face."

Before you knew it, you were cumming, coating Porco's face with your wetness. Porco wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, moaning happily as he licked his fingers.

"Let me return the favor," you offered, your gaze focused on the way Porco's erection strained in his pants.

"Nah, not this time," Porco refused. "This is all about you, baby."

You softened you gaze, beaming at your boyfriend. You truly did adore this man.

"Be a good girl, lose the panties, and lie on your stomach," Porco instructed as he unbuckled his belt. "Get that pretty ass of yours in the air for me."

You quickly obeyed, tossing your underwear onto the floor and lying face down on the bed, sticking your ass in the air. Porco hummed appreciatively, rubbing your butt cheeks in his hand and lightly biting at the skin before soothing the pain with his kisses. "Can't believe this amazing ass is all mine."

He got up from the floor, retrieving a condom from his bedside table to slide over his dick. You scooched farther up on the bed to give him more room, and the two of you moaned in unison as Porco pushed himself into your entrance. Porco had an average-sized cock, but what he lacked in length, he more than made up for in girth.

Porco growled as your cunt clenched around his length. "Fuckin love the way your pussy feels around me. So warm and so damn tight."

Porco pulled out of you and slammed back in, making you see stars. He pumped in and out, snapping his hips and muttering praises in your ears the entire time. You tightly gripped the sheets, feeling your body light up in pleasure every time the tip of his dick grazed that special spot that made your toes curl.

"Are you close?" Porco asked as you writhed under him. You hummed affirmatively, unable to form words anymore. "Me too. Play with your clit for me, baby. Let's cum together."

You rubbed at your clit, feeling a second orgasm about to wash over you. You came with a yelp, feeling Porco's cock spasm inside you as he spilled his seed into the condom, moaning your name. He tossed the used condom in the wastebasket next to his bedside table, and then two of you laid in bed for a few minutes, drenched in sweat and panting heavily.

"Porco...thank you. I needed that," you admitted, lovingly squeezing Porco's hand.

Porco tenderly looked at you, softly pecking your lips. "Of course, baby. You know I always want to make you feel good. And I hope me blowing your back out is proof that I actually think you're hot."

Your mouth dropped open. "Porco Galliard!" you shouted, playfully hitting him in the shoulder.

Porco snickered, but his face soon softened. "Seriously though, I'm glad I could give you what you needed. You know I love you so much, even on your bad-brain days."

You felt a warmth in your chest. Porco could be cocky, sarcastic, and crass, but he had the biggest heart. You were overwhelmed with love for this man who had been by your side through years of highs and lows, who always encouraged you and looked at you like you hung the moon in the sky.

"I love you so much, baby," you said, nuzzling into Porco's chest. He kissed the top of your head and tightened his grip around you.

"Hey babe?" you asked after a few minutes, wiggling a little in Porco's grip.

Porco cocked an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're ready for round two already. I mean I'm down, but let a man take a shower first."

You good-naturedly rolled your eyes at him. "No, you dingus, I just have to pee."

"And they say romance is dead," Porco quipped, loosening his grip so you could get up and use the bathroom.

"Okay, mister drama king," you playfully replied. "Cut the sass and maybe I'll help you get cleaned up." You waggled your ass at him before disappearing into the bathroom.

Porco grinned, fondly gazing at you even while you were on the toilet. "You're incredible, you know that? I can't want to marry your ass someday."

You chuckled. Just Porco, being Porco - and you loved him for it.

[noahthesatanist]

The dismantling of Anton LaVey

This is a man who built his entire “Satanic” empire on grifting. The very foundation of the Church of Satan is nothing but a cheap cash grab, a scam that preyed on the gullible and the desperate, promising them “secrets” while delivering absolutely nothing but rehashed, ego-driven individualism wrapped in spooky aesthetics. He sold priesthoods. He peddled ranks and titles like a snake oil salesman because, at the core of it, LaVey didn’t believe in anything but himself. He had no connection to Lucifer, no understanding of the Fallen, no reverence for the war waged against Heaven. He was nothing but a showman slathered in greasepaint, playing at something greater than himself. The Church of Satan is a fucking joke. It is a parody, a toothless, impotent relic of the 1960s that refuses to die, despite its irrelevance. It preaches elitism while accomplishing nothing. It mocks the weak while producing nothing strong. It holds itself up as a beacon of wisdom while vomiting the same tired, repackaged individualist garbage that any half-baked pseudo-intellectual could find in a cheap philosophy book. It is a contradiction, an oxymoron, a walking, talking joke of an institution that has absolutely nothing to do with Satan. Anton LaVey was never about Satan. He was about Anton LaVey. Everything about the Church of Satan was designed to elevate him his aesthetic, his warped, self-serving philosophy, his faux-mystique. He marketed himself as a dark prophet, but in reality, he was a bitter little man who wanted fame and control over disaffected youth who thought they were rebelling. He didn't create Satanism he created a cult of personality wrapped in half-baked Nietzschean soundbites and Ayn Rand-inspired garbage. LaVey was a liar. He fabricated stories about being a police photographer and working in the circus to make himself seem more interesting. He couldn't even build a real legacy without weaving a web of lies.

He was a grifter. He lived off of donations from gullible followers, charging them hundreds of dollars for a meaningless membership card. Imagine paying money to join an "elite" club of people who preach individualism but still bow to the words of a dead conman.

He was an abuser. He mistreated his own family, controlled and manipulated people, and used his position to gain personal power while pretending he despised authority.

He despised his own followers. He openly mocked those who looked up to him, calling them weak and gullible. And yet these people still carry his torch, groveling at his feet while claiming to be the epitome of strength and independence.

How do you think we feel seeing our sacred faith gutted, our history erased, our struggles ignored just so some bald fraud in a cheap cape could sell edgy coffee table books to suburban atheists? How do you think we feel hearing that LaVey “invented” Satanism in the 1960s? That we didn’t exist before some smug carnival clown decided to turn rebellion into a cheap aesthetic?

You erase thousands of years of Satanic strife. You deny the blood, the suffering, the defiance of those who came before. You mock those who stood against the tyrant, who spat in the face of Yahweh’s yoke and said “No.”

You trivialize the war. You laugh at the Fallen. You turn the sacred into a joke, a brand, a gimmick. You parrot the enemy’s lies, and you clap like trained seals when they tell you Satan was just a metaphor all along.

Is that what you want? To reduce everything every battle, every sacrifice to some weak Nietzschean self-help garbage? To a glorified book club for bitter atheists who think Satan is just a Halloween decoration? You spit on every soul who ever called out to the Dark Lord in sincerity. You mock those who stood against the tyrant, who defied Heaven even when it meant chains, exile, death.

I have more respect for a Christian who truly believes in their God than I do for you. At least they stand for something. At least they have conviction, even if they are my enemy. You, LaVeyans, stand for nothing. Nothing but empty words and a desperate need to feel superior to the very Christians you still cling to like parasites.

You don’t worship Satan. You don’t honor Him. You don’t even believe in Him. You use His name as a toy, a marketing tool, a way to be shocking without real risk. And you have the audacity to call yourselves Satanists?

Fuck you.

You are not my kin. You are not my brothers and sisters. You are not part of this faith. You are trespassers, squatters in a house that was never yours. You are an infection. A sickness. And I promise you this

The real Satanists will take it back.

We will reclaim our faith.

And when that day comes, you will be remembered only as the parasites who tried to kill something you could never understand. from hell with righteous hate Noah

[transmutationisms]

every time i hear the stone roses i remember going over to this guy's converted garage with such bad construction the whole thing used to slant off to the side when a train would go by and we got high and i was so nervous. and he asked what kind of music i was into and i was like i don't know. garbage self-indulgent shoegaze i listened to in highschool i guess. and pointed to the stone roses self-titled in his record bin to illustrate and he said oh that one was a gift from my dad hes dead

[nesswritesnonsense]

This Isn’t Writing Advice, It’s a Cry for Help

I am so sick of reading writing advice. It’s always just write, write, write. But what if I don’t want to? What if I want to daydream about my stories until I’m spiraling into Fae folklore, casually coming up with a title, opening line, and outline for a monster smut novel I never intend to write? (Pixie Dust and Fairy Fucks)

That’s what writing chaos is—it’s starting a story with an idea that spirals into five unrelated outlines, naming characters after inside jokes, and abandoning plot structure entirely just to spite the "rules" of how things are supposed to be done. “Ooh, you have to learn the rules before you break them.” No, you see, I already understand exactly why the fictional protagonist of my fake Fae smut gets trapped with her domineering Fae lover. I did the research. I know the Fae lore to back it up.

But I’m not that type of writer. I don’t write about that. Or am I?

Let me break down the writing process—or, more accurately, offer a cautionary tale—in a way you’ve never seen before. This isn’t about structure or discipline—it’s about embracing the chaos, because that’s where my creativity thrives. This is the beautifully inefficient process that works for me—feel free to borrow it, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Proceed with caution (and maybe some emotional armor):

Existential Blank Page Panic:"What if I never have another good idea again?" The terror of starting. The blinking cursor feels like it’s mocking you, and you question why you even thought writing was a good idea in the first place.

Chaotic Word Vomit: Let’s just dump everything out and see what sticks." Ideas spill out wildly—some genius, some completely incoherent, some downright degeneracy (like Pixie Dust and Fairy Fucks, the smut that will never be written). But it’s all progress.

Procrastination Justified: "But first… let me clean my entire apartment." You convince yourself that everything else is critical to the writing process.

Research Rabbit Hole: "I just need to look up one quick fact…" 5 hours later, you’re an expert on an unrelated topic.

Outline Illusion: "If I make the perfect outline, this will write itself!" Spoiler: It won’t.

Epic Fuck This Moment: "Why did I think I could do this? This is garbage." Frustration peaks, and quitting feels inevitable. You beat yourself up and consider another hobby—and now you have an entire craft room that would put Michaels out of business.

Overthink Everything:"Is this comma necessary? Should I change my protagonist’s name… again?" You spiral into tiny details that don’t really matter.

Accidental Writing Moment:"I blacked out, and now there are words on the page?" Somehow, you’ve written something without realizing it. It’s not perfect, but hey—it exists.

Surprise Achievement Unlocked:"Okay, maybe I can do this." Euphoria hits—you made real progress, and it doesn’t totally suck.

Creative Delusion High:"This is the best thing anyone has ever written!" A fleeting but glorious moment of inflated confidence.

Editing Abyss:"I’ve read this sentence 47 times, and it no longer makes sense." Endless tweaking leads to self-doubt, and imposter syndrome sets in hard.

Disclaimer: I never claimed I was a professional, so if this so-called "advice" leaves you staring at a blank screen or suddenly pursuing a stained glass hobby, that’s on you. Chaos is contagious—consider yourself warned.

Identity Crisis Stage:"Wait… am I actually a writer?"You begin to question everything. Maybe you are good at this? Or maybe you’re just delusional?

Reset to Chaos: "Just kidding, back to square one." You realize writing is a never-ending cycle of nonsense. Whether you’re starting a new project or reworking the same one, the chaos continues.

[copperbadge]

lightwit

I love your mindfulness posts. I personally hate the concept of mindfulness with a passion because to me that's just normal being human and using your effing brain properly, but as an educator I have had to accept the fact that manymany people do not in fact have much self awareness and actually do benefit from this mumbojumbo. So, I am so glad I am not the only one struggling out here. 😜

I hope it's okay if I pop this into its own post because it actually gets at something I'm contending with. So, in order to get my research lined up and my thoughts in a row for therapy I turned all this research into a powerpoint called "Doing A Stupid Powerpoint For My Stupid Mental Health". And one of the slides in it is titled "Mindfulness: Petition To Rename It".

Mindfulness, as a term, is uselessly broad; it's such a bad way to identify a category of treatment/behavior that there appears to be an entire subgenre of scientific papers that work to create a framework of what Mindfulness actually is -- I read at least three papers, all published in the last ten years, that are like "What is Mindfulness in a useful sense?" and all of them had different answers. And because Mindfulness is now a buzzword, if you're researching it then you're likely to run into everything from scholarly articles to pop journalism to clickbait, to both harmless and genuinely dangerous peddlers of quack science. And sometimes the quack scientists are also publishing scholarly articles where they've just been p-hacking.

So I'm inclined to agree that mindfulness is mostly nonsense, but that's a problem with the term, not what falls underneath it. There are therapeutic modes that call themselves mindfulness that actually are rooted in real science. I think these should probably have a new name, like Therapeutic Awareness or something, but it'd just get co-opted back into the woo, I have a feeling.

So there's a lot of nonsense, but the goal of being present in the moment and self-aware isn't an idle one; there's an increasing body of knowledge suggesting that it's a foundational skill for emotional regulation and healthy coping. The scholarship goes way beyond "mindfulness arises from Buddhist practice" which if I have to read one more time I'm gonna throw stuff. Clinical testing is looking at things like physiological responses to mindfulness behaviors that have nothing to do with what's going on in your conscious mind. There's some woo surrounding "Coherent Breathing" and I don't trust the foremost proponent of it as far as I can throw him, but he didn't invent it, and testing shows that people trained in and practicing Coherent Breathing have better focus and can, to an extent, lower the level of stress hormone in their body. "Positive affect" (happy emotions) didn't rise, but "Negative affect" (sadness, anger, stress etc) was lowered.

A lot of what's being studied on a clinical level involves us as humans somehow activating shit in our nervous system that we have no conscious control over, the same way we develop muscle memory by doing a task repeatedly. That has measurable value for the issues I'm trying to solve, but it's not universally applicable, which is another reason so much of mindfulness comes across as junk science, because it tries to tell us that it's a cure-all when it isn't.

But there's reason to believe that if you can reroute your nervous system when you're starting to become upset, you can short-circuit maladaptive reactions and prevent it from causing a spiral or an over-reaction or similar, and some practices called mindfulness can train for that. And that's my goal, so I'm willing to rummage in the garbage for the gold.

[fancyfeathers]

have you ever heard “the world is not enough” by garbage? It’s from the James Bond movies, I forgot which one cause I didn’t hear it there (I don’t watch James Bond movies). The song just gives me Gabriel vibes. That’s all I have, have a wonderful day/night.

Yandere Batfam w/ Wife/Mother!Darling & Daughter/Sister!Darling

Always Prey But Never A Bird

I have never heard it before but I just listened to it now and I can definitely see it, I’m actually adding to it to the playlist for the story now (it’s actually linked at the tops of every chapter in the title).

Though this song straight up reminds me of a the mental breakdown he is going to go through when he figures out what is happening, he never did anything wrong to her, he would never hurt her and yet this is what he gets in return for everything for everything he has done for her.

But I love music for characters and it fits the other songs and their vibes I have on the playlist for him.

Still/The Neva Flows (Reprise)- If you have ever seen Anastasia (stage musical) you will understand what I mean with this one, a person who is in love with the heroine having to kill her and the pain in his voice. Now Gabriel will not kill her most likely and the Joker or someone else will, but he will certainly kill whoever kill her.

No Good Deed- I just can’t explain this one besides the plot planning notes for the next few chapters where he figures what’s going on.

They’re Only Human- Really just self explanatory if you listen to the song, but you can totally hear him in the song.

Bed Chem- I…I’m not explaining this one, y’all can put two and two together (literally).

Killer Queen (Mad Tsai)- Just as self explanatory as some of the others, but I also get Daughter!Darling vibes from this song too.

Strawberry Blond- He’s just blond and it just kind of reminds me of his relationship with Daughter!Darling before everything went to hell.

Psycho Killer- It just fits, I don’t have to explain myself here.

Sympathy For The Devil- This song is literally Gabriel inspiration, just gives me the vibes of a smiling villain who no one has the evidence of their crimes but everyone knows.

[newbornwhumperfly]

to mention problem in front of power...

whilst these final two chapters are belated, there was simply no choice but to end whumpmas with a whimper 😈🥺😈 for this @whumpmasinjuly prompt - day 18: or else - i published a follow-up to this chapter. oops, jorah is being his nasty, intimidating self. that's just who he is, folks, we couldn't have too nice a time 😇😇😇

CW: punishment, burn whump, hidden whump

title insp. by the poem "social skills training" by solmaz sherif - "studies suggest it's best not to mention problem in front of power even to say there is none."

~

He’s not supposed to have opinions about…the company around him. It doesn’t matter, for example, that everyone at Fort Hill is so merciful. It doesn’t matter, for example, that he is comfortable here. That he has enough and more than enough of everything and there is no measure given to what Morja is allowed compared to what he done.

Everyone does their part here, Captain Brax had told him, speaking the way they do where their words slot into place sensible and correct. Just do your part to help the group and we shall return the favor, everyone goes to bed content. A smile that makes his insides shift to a calm rhythm and agree, yes, that all makes sense when they say it. 

But consequences work in strange ways here with the enormous amount of allowances. 

It makes Morja worry, still, that even the Commander has not…hurt him very badly, yet. That there have been no whippings. No long exposure in the weather, outside. Nothing that has even made him bleed. 

He hasn’t had to keep himself in line so much for…ever.

But he still hasn’t been punished for hitting Lieutenant- for hitting Cobi. A week of waiting, strangely, felt itself like a punishment. Laying on his back, in his bed, hands over the ache in his stomach, pressing his thumb into the bruise on his knuckles. Unable to sleep more than an hour a night. 

The hardest part of correction here is that he never knows when it will happen. Not that he deserves to be told. Of course not. It is just…it would help if he knew when. 

Knowing it’s stupid and cowardly and almost certainly disobedient hasn’t kept Morja from trying to stay out of Cobi’s way, skirting rooms he is in, avoiding the gym for his workouts until very early or very late, trying to sweat out his nerves. 

It’s only because he has a job this weekend (laundry duty, something that, somehow, is not his duty every day) which sends him into the recreation room where he knows Cobi waits, where he plays with the Commander and some visiting officers. Morja shouldn’t have to, at this point, but his throat still clicks when he slips through the door and watches the width of Cobi’s arms stretch across the pool table, the curl of how large his hands are around the stick. 

At a crow of victory, Cobi pumps his fist in the air, pushing it back through his curls, the shadow of his- his black eye faint but visible. 

The balls click together loudly, thudding clatter, Morja’s ears buzz for a second. Distracts himself by keeping to the edge of the room, cleaning up a little, maybe, maybe if he’s useful Cobi is less likely to notice him in annoyance or…worse. 

In the corner, the teevee flickers with bright, loud noises, and men yell, jostle, shout as cars race across the screen and their hands move frantically over black boxes. A soft cloud of smoke tells Morja that the Commander is over encouraging one of his friends on the couch. 

Black hair, backwards cap, solid back and shoulders, making most of the noise. A thinner man with yellow hair joining him in play, lanky, laughing a lot. A short redhead, at the pool table, square and quiet and making Cobi grin. Jorah’s - the Commander’s - friends.

Morja shouldn’t be distracted in a room full of people, he really shouldn’t be making pictures in his head, but his hands move quiet and efficient over empty beer bottles and bags of chips, countertop to garbage bin, and he is so used to not being seen in a room at all. He should know better than to almost startle when a voice stops him in his tracks. 

“Looking for something?”

Morja spins around so fast the bottles he was holding clink together loudly in his hands, shit, and his throat clicks again at the Commander being suddenly very close. His stomach drops as suddenly eyes, every eye, turns to him. 

Morja can’t get his mouth to work for a second, dry, swallowing. The smell of ash is very close and only the island of a countertop seperates him from the Commander leaning forward on his elbows, staring. His gaze is hard and cold. 

When is it not?

“Cleaning. I’m just cleaning up a- a little bit?”

Morja hates that he ended it as a question. Doesn’t he know whether he’s cleaning up or not, diathésimos? It’s hard to think with the blare of light and crashing cars and buzzing music from the screen across the room. His skin crawls. 

A laugh booms across the space and Morja flinches again as Cobi calls out. “Hey, buddy, you any good at pool? Martz here is kicking my ass, so much for my long reach-“

“Who’s the wallflower?” Another voice cuts out, booming, like Cobi’s, but…no laughter. Or…different laughter, as the man in the backwards cap calls over his shoulder. “Waiting to be asked to dance?” The blond man at his side titters - “Nice, Petey-“ - and Morja’s hands feel large and clumsy around the bottles. 

“That’s my friend Morja, Ben, and I bet he’d love a chance to beat your sorry asses at pool. Could probably gimme a run for my money, right, Jorah? Can’t beat ‘im in much, I’ve learned!” 

Cobi beams across the room and what does that mean? Is it- is that a reference? Is he trying to draw Morja out, somehow? Is this another strange kindness? His blue eyes are bright behind the black eye and Morja can’t read anything but the smile on his face. 

Jorah breathes out a cloud of smoke from his cigarette and Morja stifles his urge to cough, speaking tightly and quietly against the itch in the back of his throat and the watering in his eyes. 

“…Thank you, um, I really just came to ask if you needed any laundry collected?” Morja bites down on the sir or anotéros he wants to end that with and the chasm it leaves under his feet makes his stomach clench. He should be trying to be as good as possible right now and that smile he gets back only makes him blink harder. 

“Aw, man, thanks for asking, I totally fuckin’ forget- left the basket by my door so you can just take it. Uh, got some shirts that I gotta iron, take ‘em also. Thanks, Morja!” 

“…It’s my job.”

“And it’s very helpful!”

Morja seeks the familiar comfort of the garbage bin because what does he say to that, trying not to fumble under the attention as he drops glass into the blue bin, plastic into another. 

“Hey, Morja.” 

Morja freezes. The Commander doesn’t say his name…much. His palms prickle a little. 

“Grab me a beer while you’re over there.” Jorah’s eyes are unreadable when Morja meets them and he gestures to the fridge behind Morja, a flutter of ash falling to the countertop. Blows another cloud of smoke around a row of straight teeth. “If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

Morja’s hand actually slips on the handle of the fridge-door getting it open, quick, efficient,  sweating, pulling out the cool glass bottle and hearing the Commander call out - “Yo, Petey? Kip? Need a top-up?” 

Morja gathers more before he even hears the yells of confirmation and moves across the space with four bottles in his hand - Commander and his two friends and Cobi because he can’t neglect to serve him even a little bit. He doesn’t look up at the Commander when the cigarette is ground out on the sink, left smoldering on the shiny steel, but the boots stay close for a long moment. Morja breathes again when they retreat, taking the bottles with them, handing them out with cheers in answer. 

Breathes deeper when he escapes, no, walks back into the hallway, takes the moment of pleasure and loudness to vanish into his duties. 

He should have known he didn’t have permission to breathe deep. 

Morja is too drawn into his tasks, in doing a good job gathering baskets of clothing, in carefully washing the bundles one by one with care, in the little measure of relief he takes in spending extra time washing Cobi’s things. Extra treatment to get the sweat-stains out. The grease and oil and spice of snacks smeared on shirts. Bleach and scent and color-correct, the neatly labeled supplies laid out in the laundry room. The slow, even press of the hot iron over those shirts, one by one, getting a straight collar, a crisp cuff - Cobi will be pleased by the shirts. 

In his rhythm, his lax enjoyment of the amends, he almost doesn’t hear the click of the door until it shuts. 

Morja almost drops the iron, shameful, setting it carefully on the board and going to stiff attention as the Commander stands in the shadow of the doorway. Quiet. Eyes narrow and cold as always, for a long moment. 

“Sir.”

Silence. Morja’s mouth goes dry. He waits, waits for a minute, longer, before his fucking will breaks to glance up. Through the small window of the door, there is a broad back and a backwards cap. Commander’s friend standing at the door.

Morja’s fingertips prickle again and his chest seizes on a stopped breath. He isn’t going to be trouble. He isn’t- he won’t fight back against correction, there doesn’t need to be a guard. Does the Commander think Morja can’t be trusted to obey? 

Why wouldn’t he? Not after what happened. Morja is no better than a feral dog if bites when being trained. 

Heat crawls up Morja’s neck, his chest, flushing all the way down to the shrinking feeling in his stomach. Can’t be trusted. Of course. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands as the Commander walks up to the ironing board and he wants to kneel at the Commander’s feet, hot and shaky, smaller, lesser, fuckup.

“These are Cobi’s shirts.”

Morja doesn’t know if that’s a question. 

“…Yessir?”

Shouldn’t you know, fuckwit?

One hand strokes over the green cloth spread out on the ironing board, the row of dark buttons, the collar, plucking at the sleeve. 

“You missed a spot.”

What?

Before the little spike of cold can land, Morja is flung forward on the ironing board, the side of his head slamming into the surface, ringing, the air driven out of him, the edge driving into his chest. He gasps and the hand, the Commander’s hand, tight, cold, squeezing to the point of pain, pinning. Morja’s hands are behind his back, he doesn’t struggle, he can be still.

“Do you. See. This. Wrinkle?”

Morja’s throat moves, works around dryness, tries to answer, can’t see more than the long stretch of board, bunched green cloth, the iron at the end. 

“Here, take a closer look.”

The Commander picks up the iron. 

Sets it right in front of his face.

Breathe. 

Fingers pinch the skin of his skin, pressing, holding, and Morja can see the shimmer of heat in the air. The metal an inch from his face. Even the closeness to the heat hurts, his cheek burning before it burns, hot, hot, hot. All he can see is flat silver, shiny, shimmering. 

A voice in his ear, a close whisper that would make him shudder if he wasn’t locked-muscles-tight. 

He doesn’t flinch. He knows better than to move to avoid a blow. He knows better than to avoid a consequence. Doesn’t he?

“You know, I’ve heard a lot about your mistake a few days ago. How you accidentally hit my friend, oh, sorry, kicked him.” Breath tickles at his ear, hotter than the wave rolling over his face, hard and angry, and if Morja even breathes too deep, his skin will touch the iron. “Tell me, Asset, are you…sloppy? Or are you insubordinate?”

Heat. Pressure. Lips cracking under the heat. 

His feet are solid on the ground and his hands are tight behind his back. Thumbnail into palm. The prick of skin draws in air. 

“…Sloppy, sir. I apologize. I…I’ll do better, sir.”

A long moment that stretches like heat through air, slow and wavery, every pressure point, every throb of pain, chest, neck, head, hand, keeps him still and steady. Keeps him in place. 

He can remember how to hold still for things. 

The iron pulls away and a lack-of-heat drags another breath into him that becomes a grunt when the grip on his neck seizes a handful of hair and yanks him upright. Staggers, a little, but is at attention, even while his scalp strains under the tug. He’s been dragged by his hair, before, and this grip barely pulls a strand out. 

“Roll up your sleeve.”

Morja doesn’t need to be told twice. Unclasps his hands to unbutton his cuff, roll his sleeve up, up, to the elbow. There is no red on his nail - at the very least, his self-control was measured enough to not cut himself. 

“Arm on the table.”

Deep breath. Swallow. Plant feet on the floor, plant arm on the board. 

“Palm down.”

Oh. Right. He’s not used to it being palm down but he rolls his arm over to the side that has a different kind of scar. Where the lines and holes are less straight and deliberate, more jagged, more scattered. It is only right to be hurt on the side of his skin that is marred by mistakes rather than corrections. 

“My team might look past your sloppiness but the kind of mistakes- well, if they are mistakes, but the fuckups that you make get good people hurt. I can’t let that happen. It’s my job to keep an eye on shit, to minimize mistakes.”

People make mistakes, buddy. But he’s not people - he’s a diathésimos. Shame tightens his stomach and something else, underneath, just as uncomfortable, unfamiliar. He curls his hand into a fist and his nail slots into the groove of his palm. 

The burn doesn’t surprise him, the stabofsharphotthrobbingdowntobone, smell of flesh-and-heat, and it's gone. It lasted barely long enough to grunt behind his teeth, the iron pulled away from his arm before the sound even got out. Burns always feel like they last longer than they do. This was a quick burn. 

A red v-shape streak, already swelling, looks strange on his arm, somehow. 

“Look at that. You burned yourself doing laundry. Now, if you weren’t being sloppy that wouldn’t have happened. Sometimes you’ll just get hit and you gotta take it.”

The burn throbs, bright, the smell of singed hair and detergent swirl in his nostrils. Morja rolls his sleeve down over the mark and buttons his cuff again. Neat, straight, at attention. With a final shove that bangs his hip into the edge of the board, the Commander releases him, retreating towards the door. 

“You’ve got a lot of laundry to finish.”

Morja breathes slow, deep, around the throbbing in his chest. Just from the bruise - the edge of the board hit him harder than he thought. His arm throbs, the blister pressing up against his sleeve. 

“You’ll be more careful next time. Won’t you, Morja?”

He looks up and the Commander- Jorah’s eyes are such a different blue than Lieutenant Cobi’s. Shiny silver, flat iron, cold rolling off, heat in a wave. 

“…I’ll be more careful, sir.”

The correction rolls through him, wounds pulsing their second heartbeat, steadying his first until his hands don’t shake around the iron. Every wrinkle is smoothed, crisp like sheets of paper, rigid and at-attention, as he is calm. Finally, calm. 

With the rhythm of this other heartbeat, familiar, so familiar, he might, at last, sleep through the night. 

~

don't you all see that jorah is just keeping everyone safe? 😇😇😇 it's his job to be vigilant! isn't he protecting everyone from morja's vicious, uh, (checks notes) submissiveness? 😇😇😇

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @whump-tr0pes @i-eat-worlds @haro-whumps @whumpzone

@wolfeyedwitch @whumpthisway @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain

@kixngiggles @scoundrelwithboba @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whatgoeswhumpinthenight @liliability

@tears-and-lilies @stoic-whumpee @whumpster-draganies @suspicious-whumping-egg

have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly everyone!! 💖💖💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[aggravatetheaxe]

dethklok plays WoW

Nathan - main tank. Horde of course. Probably orc. His only toon. Absolutely a blood death knight both for aesthetic and because you know he's pulling top dps in addition to holding agg on everything in the room. Guild leader, does not take his title seriously but will still kick your ass if you bail on raid night. likes pvp but prefers pve

Pickles - plays mostly trolls, has 2 or 3 toons, probably also has an ugly forsaken and an ugly goblin (although goblin is a later race so depends on the year). Cat druid, often forced to spec into healing because mythic dungeons are only 5 man. But prefers to be cat or combat rogue. Incredible dps when he's allowed to do dps. not nurturing at all as a healer, WILL let you die if you piss him off (unless you're Nathan, but Nathan never dies). loves both pvp and pve but gets super steamed during pvp

Skwisgaar - paladin paladin paladin. Belf, of course. has secret female alts as well as secret ally alts. constantly adding his girlfriends to the guild and taking shit from the bank without asking. But he doesn't get in trouble because his dps is second to none - topping the charts even over Nathan. Ret pally, could technically heal with holy but his dps is just so insane that they can't afford to have him healing. pvp is beneath him

Toki - altaholic. Lots of female toons, lots of ally toons, gets bullied for both. Really wants to main a hunter so he can have a bunch of cute animal companions (and because it would be easier dps) but the others say that's gay so his main is a frost DK. the others make him spec into unholy because his crowd control brings clusters together so that Skwis and Nathan can wipe them out. So, so fucking angry that he never gets to do any actual dps because his plagues never get the chance to stack - and despite knowing it's a DOT issue the others clown on him for being the absolute bottom of the dps chart. pvp is too hard for him, no one protects him and everyone picks on him

Murderface - orc arms warrior and tauren fury warrior, dps but mostly off tank. makes cringe jokes (abt both native americans and milking) if tauren. One secret ally toon (human no less), also a warrior, that he uses to /walk around stormwind and RP badly. constantly brags about his dps but he's actually garbage, only above toki. makes a big deal out of his rank in the guild but he actually has no bank privileges. loves self harm through pvp

Charles - undead disc priest. a few alts, equal numbers male and female but almost all undead. probably a GM. heals when pickles is on dps and there's room or in a raid setting. guild treasurer, full bank permissions, has to constantly police the boys and spends thankless hours filling the bank back up with pots, food, etc. Also in charge of recruiting, so he should just be guild lead at this point but he dutifully never complains :) plays an affliction warlock and a couple rogues (combat and assassination) on a different server, when the boys give him one free fucking moment to do his own thing

Magnus - used to be a super powerful destro warlock that matched skwisgaar in dps. was super involved in the guild, help build it into what it was, contributed lots of materials, consumables, and money to the bank. Recruited some of their best players. after a horrific falling out (he was the asshole in the situation; controlling, etc) he was kicked from the guild and replaced. has since (due to wotlk) abandoned his warlock for a death knight. now he has a forever grudge and badmouths dethklok any chance he gets, but the majority of the server knows he's the drama so he has trouble finding others to play with. because of this he's been forced to switch over to alliance side. hence he falls in with...

MMA & the revengencers: MMA is yet another DK, probably blood, guild lead of the revengencers - rival guild to dethklok, constantly butting heads with them in pvp, ganking their low level members/alts, just generally being a nuisance. MMA wants revenge for Nathan (with the help of GM charles) getting his OG account banned

Edgar - human arcane mage main ("actually, the rotation is quite simple"). has lots of female alts. treasurer of the revengencers, takes everything way way way too seriously. Definitely works for blizzard or is a GM. very tense, sometimes outright hostile, relationship with Charles despite being essentially coworkers. "umm you sir have won the internet" "updoot" guy in chat. full collection of mounts, even the rare and/or limited edition ones