#and an anecdote about someone trying to pick me up

[pfctipper]

My ride was with a good looking, well-spoken man with a very nice car. The conversation was pleasant and normal. Suddenly the man reached over and put his hand on my leg and suggested when we reach Spencer that he would find a nice hotel, treat me to a nice dinner, and that he would make me feel ‘very happy’. This was a ‘first’ in my life. I'd heard of guys like this but to my knowledge never met or talked to one. Immediately, I told him, "Do you see that crossroads up ahead? Stop right there. I am getting out!" He stopped. I got out.

Winters in 1996, recounting his experience of hitchhiking in West Virginia in 1941, in Erik Dorr and Jared Frederick, Hang Tough: The WWII Letters and Artifacts of Major Dick Winters (2020)

[artdnldsn]

gestalt therapy

college professor!art donaldson x fem reader

word count: 5.2k

warnings: 18+ MDNI, swearing, student!reader, age gap, porn w/ a little plot, head (f receiving), fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, slight degradation (question mark?), one mention of "daddy"

synopsis: you're done with your senior year at college, and all you want is a parting gift.

a/n: my first full fic here wow my first ever smut WOW the only thing that's not a first here is english because it's my second language so be patient pookies. college prof au has been haunting me for days so i needed to get it out. even though i have no fucking idea how colleges work in the us ;) hope you like it! happy reading

The first thing he notices about you is how ridiculously smart you are.

It's not even a stretch or him trying to justify the instant attraction he feels towards you. No, you're genuinely, undeniably brilliant, especially for your age. You've got this way with words, and concepts come to you so easily. You pick up on all his lead-ups to lecture topics, knowing exactly what the main conversation will be about a good five minutes before the rest of the class. You smile smugly, crossing your arms and leaning back, your eyes seeking his because you want him to know that you know.

And honestly, he'd be mad at you for being so smug if you weren't so damn smart.

The way you walk up to him after class to discuss your latest essay, your stance confident and voice sure, as you argue over why you deserved a 100 and not a 98. He's looking at your essay, then at you, then back at his computer screen, squinting just to appear like he's thinking it over, but he knows you're right; of course you are. Your essay is perfect. He was just being a dick about it, nitpicking because he couldn't admit you're basically flawless.

He's getting self-conscious about his teaching. There's nothing he can teach you—you come so prepared for every class that he wonders if you even have a life outside his classroom. Maybe your brain just works like that, but a small, selfish part of him hopes you spend hours prepping for his classes. The thought that you do it for him and not the subject is a nice one, but he shoves it away.

At least that way, it wouldn't be as pathetic for him to spend nights rewriting his lectures, perfecting his presentations to the point where he's sitting in his bed at 3 AM, pondering whether Times New Roman or Arial would make his point come across better.

He's always been a perfectionist, living by the book, striving not for greatness but for the reserved maximum of his natural capabilities. He never really pushed himself. But you—oh, fuck, you. Fuck you. You make him want to lose sleep just to prove to you or himself that he's certainly smarter than some college senior.

He calls you a lot of things in his head. A know-it-all, an "excuse me" because you're always "excuse me"-ing him like he doesn't have a name, a smartass, a bitch—he hates when he's in a mood like this last one because it signals it's time to sleep. You're a lot of things, but you're not stupid.

In fact, he starts wondering if you're a once-in-a-lifetime talent. Because he's rather young for a professor, he hasn't seen as many students as his colleagues, who always crack up anecdotes about past students, someone who graduated 15, 30 years ago, but the older professors still remember them. He wonders if he's going to remember you like that. He's pretty sure he will.

He's never even thought about you as a woman and not just his student. He's just respectful like that. Sure, you were hot, which only added to your confident allure. He's not blind—hell, he'd admit it if he had to—but he's never thought about you like that.

But apparently, you have about him.

You appear at his office doorstep minutes before he's about to clock out for the night. You're looking pristine as always, and with your silhouette illuminated by the office's dim lights, he wonders for a second if you're even human with your endless drive, brilliant mind, and hair that always looks like it's animated because it's impossible for real human hair to flow that perfectly.

"Good evening," he greets you, eyebrows creasing slightly in confusion. You've never visited, your final grades are in, and you're graduating in a week. He's already said his goodbyes to your class, and when he did, you shot him a little smile that he read as everything being good between you. What are you doing here then? "Can I help—"

“Are you impotent?” you cut him off, arms crossed, a challenging look in your eyes.

He actually chokes on air. “E-excuse me?” he mutters under his breath, his expression shocked, his voice strained. God, he’s ridiculed you for years in his head for addressing him like that, and here he is now.

You turn your back to him, lock the door, and make your way to his desk in confident steps. You sit on the edge of his desk, looking at him over your shoulder. "I asked if you're impotent," you shrug, arching your eyebrow.

“No,” he blurts out, his expression still one of pure horror as he doesn’t know where to keep his gaze, his eyes darting between the papers on his desk, and his computer screen, and his hands, anywhere but you. “God, no.”

“Why you never fucked me, then?” you ask, your tone still almost accusatory, but your voice soft. It’s almost like there is a hint of genuine regret in your words, and he doubts his sanity right now, wonders if he’s imagining things. He pinches his thigh under the desk, just to make sure.

“What do you mean, why?” he stutters, his cheeks flushed. “B-because.” Oh, God, it’s really bad. He’s really speechless, his mind unable to conjure up a full sentence. “Because you’re my student, and I respect you, and there are boundaries that shouldn’t be—“

“I’m not your student anymore. Not technically.” Your tone is matter-of-fact, one he’s too familiar with. One you’ve used to tell him about all the typos in his handouts, all the mistakes in his tests, all the times he’s fucked up grading someone’s papers. Only now you’re telling him… Fuck, he really can’t grasp what it is you’re telling him.

“I can’t argue with that, but I really don’t understand the point of this conversation. You’re completely out of—“

“Consider it gestalt therapy,” you shrug nonchalantly. He’s getting mad, really, with you cutting him off like that, like you’re getting back at him for years of having to listen to his lectures without having an opportunity to talk over him. It takes him a second to grasp what you’re implying. He clears his throat.

You sigh, letting your arms drop to your sides, sliding off the desk, walking up to him in these fucking deliberate strides, spinning him in his chair so he faces you, his hands lifted up in the air as if he is surrendering. He doesn’t know to what, exactly.

“Just really have to get this out of my system, Mr. Donaldson,” you sigh almost guilty, your gaze landing on his lap. He's hard, his cock straining the fabric of his trousers. Of course he is, what the fuck?

You cup him, eliciting a soft sigh from his lips, his eyes falling shut. You start stroking him through the fabric, confidently like everything you do. It makes his blood boil. You’re such a bitch. A know-it-all. A smart-ass. And so, so hot that he can’t bring himself not to kinda wish you’re intending to fuck his brains out.

He opens his mouth to say something, maybe a weak protest to give you a final out, but you lean down, pressing your lips to his in a languid, deep kiss, a thorough exploratory one like every single one of your fucking essays has ever been.

You move to his lap, straddling him, the chair creaking under your combined weight. Only when his hands move to your hips does he understand you’re wearing a skirt. God, he hasn’t even noticed that. He lets his hands stay there, caressing your bare thighs as your skirt rides up, and you lean in for another kiss.

There's no raw hunger. If anything, he’s sure he’s incapable of it in this situation, his mind still trying to catch up, trying to relabel you as not forbidden. You’re grinding against his growing erection, tugging at his hair as you deepen the kiss, your curves so unexpectedly perfect against him.

He only realizes you’re working on his belt and zipper when he hears them. Instinctively, he moves his hands to your wrists to stop you, but you just shake them away like you’ve shrugged him off all these years. He gasps into your mouth as you wrap your hand around his freed cock, stroking the length expertly, thoroughly, meticulously, as your lips never leave his. He actually relaxes into the chair, his hands gripping your waist, tugging your top up to reveal more bare skin.

No bra. Of course you didn’t wear any. You’ve come prepared as always.

You chuckle quietly, your lips continuing to move in unison with his, finding a lazy rhythm that drives you both insane. He reads this chuckle as you being amused at him taking any initiative. It makes his blood boil.

He breaks the kiss, one hand squeezing your breast firmly as he leans down, capturing your left nipple between his lips, sucking gently before biting. His other hand lands on your ass with a loud smack, making you gasp. Finally, some reaction.

He starts bucking into your hand, seeking more friction, moving his mouth to your other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, leaving a bite mark on the side, making you wince but moan. That moan—fuck, that beautiful sound. Now he’s angrier at himself than you are at him for not having fucked you sooner.

He understands you were expecting to ride him, like he’s some sexless creature, a toy to use, a dick attached to a fantasy that has nothing to do with the man he is, and it makes him even madder. He’s always admired your insightfulness, your capability to get right to the gist of things through walls of useless shit, but he’s feeling his respect for you slipping as he understands just how wrong you must’ve been about him in your head.

He peels himself off your chest, lips glistening with saliva, smacking your ass again, harder this time, groping both cheeks as he lifts you off his lap to sit you on his desk over the papers he’s grading. He’ll just tell everyone he spilled a drink. No one will miss them.

His lips find yours again in a searing hot kiss. It’s messy, all tongue and teeth like he’s trying to hurt you, but he’s not. Of course not. It’s just that something dormant is being woken up in him. You whimper as he cups your mound through your panties, making him chuckle. Well, look who’s laughing now.

"You've seriously dreamt about this?" he whispers against your jaw, his long fingers sliding into your underwear, finding your slickness. Fuck, you're so wet for him, it almost makes him black out. "Wanted me to fuck you on this desk? Or the one in the classroom? Or in the library? Or right in the fucking hall, huh? Why not? Let everyone watch." His tone is almost taunting, his every word accompanied by a painfully slow and teasing circle of his thumb over your swollen clit.

"Yes, yes, yes," you mutter, eyes squeezed shut, forehead pressing against his shoulder, hips bucking helplessly into his hand, seeking friction. It’s not clear if you’re answering his questions or begging him to go faster. It doesn’t matter; his smirk is already in place, his eyes glistening with amusement as he looks down at you, breathing hard through his nose.

"Yes, what?" he chuckles, shrugging, his eyes scanning every reaction on your face. The way your head falls back, your lower lip caught between your teeth, your cheeks flushed. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Yes, what?" he murmurs softly, his hand in your panties slowing down to the point of stopping.

A groan of disappointment escapes your lips as you snap your head back up, eyes darting open. He can see your pupils blown wide even in the dim light, the lamp on his desk illuminating you from behind like a renaissance painting. "Yes, fuck me," you say dryly, like it’s obvious, still seeing him as some pathetic, stupid nobody, but you’re slightly out of breath when you say it, so that’s a win in his book for now.

Just means he’s gotta try harder.

His arms wrap around your waist, holding you in place. He’s standing between your legs, keeping them spread wide for him. He pulls his hand out of your panties to bring it to your face, shoving two fingers into your pretty smartass mouth. Your eyebrows crease, eyes falling shut at the action, a hum leaving your lips, vibrating through his skin, but you still suck on them obediently, tasting yourself on his fingers and coating them in your saliva.

He slips one finger right inside you when it makes its way back down. He starts thrusting it into you at a steady rhythm, his lips finding your neck, nibbling on it, his teeth grazing your delicate skin, tongue sliding over the little marks his teeth leave there, as he curls his finger inside you, thrusting deeper, deeper, almost aggressively.

"God, I really thought you were smart," he mutters under his breath, hot against your skin as he adds another finger and starts stretching you, eliciting a soft moan from you. He leans down, sucking on your tits again, noticing how hard your nipples are now, almost painfully so, matching the way his dick is rock hard, still standing at full attention against his clothed abdomen. "Thought you were different. Hard-working. Proper." He sinks onto his knees in front of you, looking up at you with a glint in his eyes you can’t quite read. "Turns out you’re just a slut."

He tugs your panties down, his tongue finding your cunt, one of his hands moving to throw your leg over his shoulder, keeping it there tightly as the fingers of his other hand re-enter your cunt, starting to finger it at the same urgent pace, his tongue moving feverishly over your clit, making you moan quietly because, yes, there are still people in the building, you have to keep quiet, but a part of him, the one you’ve awoken, wishes the circumstances were different, that he could hear you scream for him.

He’s getting high off the taste of your juices, off the scent of your arousal filling his nostrils, his nose pressed into your pelvis as he fucks you with his fingers in a relentless rhythm, curling his fingers inside you, feeling your walls clench down onto him, searching for that sweet spot that’s going to make your toes curl.

“Tell me,” he rasps out, pulling away from your cunt just for enough time to say what he needs to say, peppering your inner thigh with kisses in the meantime. “Tell me exactly how long you’ve wanted this. And how you wanted me to fuck you. Leave no details out.”

You whimper when he delves back onto your clit, sucking on it, not caring to keep his teeth from grazing your sensitive skin here and there, but it’s a good feeling.

“S-since that lecture. Sophomore year,” you breathe out, you throat tight from holding back so many moans that are begging to be let out. Your mouth falls open in a silent ‘oh’ as he sucks your whole clit in, lapping at it with his tongue inside his wet hot mouth, your hand snapping instinctively onto his head, gripping his hair to pin yourself down to the reality. “You wore that slutty turtleneck, and of course I’ve thought you’re hot, but then you had one wrong date in your presentation, and I got so fucking mad at you. Thought you’re too careless to teach.”

He hums against your cunt, encouraging you to go on, or agreeing with your point, he can’t tell himself anymore. He’s completely gone at this point, drinking your juices like he’s drinking in your words. Amidst all this, he actually appreciates you not calling him stupid. You might’ve, but you didn’t.

“And you were always s-so passive, like I tried arguing with you, reading all that shit instead of going out just to get a rile out of you, and you never fucking bucked. I-I-I—“ you stutter, your mind going into overdrive for a second as he continues abusing your g-spot, his fingers moving at a frantic speed in and out, in and out. He smacks your thigh to get your attention back on the topic. “I just couldn’t fucking believe you. I was being a bitch, I was nagging you, just because. And you didn’t even care.”

He smiles into your cunt, a huff of air leaving his nose. At last, you admit it. He suddenly doesn’t feel bad at all for calling you a bitch in his head. He can feel your walls contracting around his fingers, your breathing irregular, you’re practically panting, your grip in his hair tightening as you guide him closer, rolling your hips against his tongue and fingers, seeking release. You’re close.

He pulls away, earning another cuss and another groan of disappointment off your lips. He smacks your thigh again, hard, the action leaving a red print of his big palm on your skin. “You didn’t answer,” he rasps out, delving back into you. Fucking students, he thinks to himself. Always so smart, thinking they know it all, and always forgetting to answer the second part of the question after they’re done answering the first.

Your mind is so hazy at this point, it takes you an effort to rewind the interaction in your head to understand what he means. “L-like this,” you whimper, your thighs trembling as he grips the one that’s not on his shoulder to stop it from shaking too much, keeping you in place. “I-I didn’t want you to be nice. You’re always so fucking nice, it’s not human, I knew it wasn’t true.”

He’s too set on making you cum to chuckle now, although it is pretty funny. He’s been doubting you’re human, too, but the way you gasp for air, trying desperately to hold back your moans as he feels you coming closer and closer to release, it tells him all that he needs to know. You’re just flesh and bones, not the perfect genius he’s painted you to be in his mind.

“Fuck!” you whimper, giving his hair one last tug before your hand springs up to cover your mouth, biting into your index finger to keep yourself quiet. It takes one slide of his fingers, one roll of his tongue, five seconds, and your muscles go taught as your hips buck off the desk, his pens in the glass standing on the edge of it clattering against each other, the keyboard of his computer flying up for a split second from impact of your ass slamming back down onto the desk. It’s like a mini-earthquake, that’s left your world erupt into white behind your closed eyelids.

He fingers you through it, lapping his tongue over your clit until you wince quietly from it hurting, and he pulls away reluctantly, standing up from the floor to stand in between your legs again. His neck and back hurt like hell from crouching down on the floor for so long, his muscles are not what they used to be, after all, and for a split second he considers actually giving up and letting you ride him, but it would be your win in his book, and he can’t allow that.

He spits on his hand before he leans down to kiss you, his tongue sliding back into your mouth, letting you taste yourself once again, as he brings his hand down to stroke himself, breathing softly out of his nose at the relief of some friction, finally. “You’re such a hypocrite,” he murmurs into your lips, softly, almost lovingly, the same fucking slightly condescending tone he’s always used in his classroom.

You open your mouth to ask what the fuck he means, but he pushes his tongue back into your mouth, all thoughts of a protest evaporating from your mind. You slide closer to the edge of the desk instinctively to accommodate him when he eventually pushes into you. You almost can’t wait.

He gropes your ass to position you like he wants you, his fingers digging into your plump skin maybe a little too hard. You don’t protest. He breathes heavily, like it’s physically paining him to hold back any second longer — it does,—and his brows are furrowed in concentration while he slides his tip over your clit, coating it with your slickness, the same way he frowns when he’s grading papers or goes over tomorrow’s lecture in his head.

He pushes inside in one determined thrust, piercing through you, a quiet grunt escaping his lips, a soft moan escaping yours. Before you have any time to adjust, he starts pounding his hips into yours, one of his arms hooked around your torso to keep you in place as his free hand flies to your chest, squeezing your right tit roughly, pinching your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and index finger, making it harden again.

“Careless?” he scoffs, an expression of pure disbelief on his face at the fact you’ve even dared to say that. He grunts again, his hand falling from your breast to your hip, gripping it firmly as he continues pounding into you, your breathing quickening again. He’s rather big, and it hurts a little from you still being sore from your orgasm, but you still moan softly under your nose, your wrists hurting from you leaning on the desk behind your back for so long.

“You call me careless for a typo in a presentation I made six years ago, and it’s not careless for you to come here, asking me if I’m impotent? Fuck you,” he grunts again, a grin pulling on his lips as he throws his head back, the rhythm of his hips never faltering. You’re squeezing his cock so tightly, there’s no way in hell you’re ever going to be asking him or yourself that question again.

He lets go of you, reaching behind your back to pull on your wrists, tugging them further to himself, which makes you fall back on the desk. “Fuck you,” he repeats, his words almost sounding like a moan now as he holds your wrists near your stomach, basically transfixing you. He moves one of his hands up to throw your leg over his shoulder again, another continuing holding your wrists down, as you both groan quietly at the change of the angle, the new one allowing for him to go so deep he’s touching parts of you you didn’t know existed.

“So, you wanted me to be a good teacher and a good dick all at the same time?” he muses, a smirk pulling on his lips again as he looks down onto your dishevelled form, your tits bouncing out of your tugged-down top, you skirt ridden up to your waist, your fucking face, so unbearably beautiful, flushed and your lips swollen from his kisses and from you biting on them so much. He can’t fucking get enough of how silent you are now after running your mouth at him for all these years. “Did you want me to be your boyfriend, too?” he chuckles, shaking his head, his expression faltering as he picks up the rhythm for a good minute, pounding into you so hard all the items on the desk are clattering, and you have to bite on your lips again not to scream from him practically tearing you apart, because you can’t cover your mouth anymore with your wrists held by him.

“Daddy never loved you, right?” He understands he’s probably taunting you too much, his words almost feeling cruel, but he’s too far gone at this point, he’s making a forceful effort to continue looking down at you to imprint the way you look right now into his memory to revisit later, even though his eyes are almost rolling back from just how good your cunt takes him. “That’s why you’ve been pining for my dick for fucking three years? Are you getting what you wanted?”

“Y-yes,” you whimper weakly. Yes to all that, actually, but he doesn’t need to know that. He feels too good, filling you up to the brim, you can almost feel him in your guts, he’s making your toes curl. And he’s finally not acting nice. Just like you wanted him to.

“Good,” he growls, letting go of you for a second before his hands find the undersides of your knees, bringing them close to your chest, changing the angle again as he starts hammering down into you, the room filled with the sound of your shared ragged breaths, the desk creaking under you and the sound of his pelvis slapping against yours. “Fu-uck, you’re taking me so good, none of your schoolwork was ever that good,” he’s lying through his teeth. Not about the sex — you’re taking it like a champ—but about your schoolwork. It was, indeed, that good.

He basically has no power left over what words leave his mouth, he’s completely drunk on you, the taste of your cunt and your mouth still lingering on his tongue. “Are you gonna come again?” he pants out, slowing down, feeling your walls clenching down on him, squeezing him tight.

“Y-yeah,” you mutter, fluttering your eyes open to look at him from under your eyelashes, but you can pretty much only make out his silhouette with how hazy your vision has become with just how good he’s fucking you. “I knew,” you repeat, your throat feeling tight again, your head falling back on the desk as you bring your now free hands to your mouth, covering it to muffle out the scream you know is there, brewing, destined to roll of your lips when he drives you to release again.

“You—“ he starts in disbelief, but he’s getting closer, too, there’s no point in arguing now. He just can’t fucking believe the nerve on you. What do you mean, you knew? Knew he could fuck you like you wanted to? Knew you would be walking out of here with a limp? Such a know-it-all, always thinking she’s two steps ahead everybody else.

He sighs shakily, a broken, needy sound as he brings his hand in between your legs, finding your clit again, his other hand still holding your knees pressed to your chest. He rubs at you in sync with the thrusts of his hips, his pace picking up, up, and up, until he finally lets out a low grunt, stilling, slipping out of you as he watches you bite on your hand, tears streaming down your cheeks as he feels your pussy convulsing under his fingers, another orgasm hitting you, and in a matter of seconds, after a few fast strokes, he comes, too, thick ropes of his seed landing all over your stomach and knees, and some of it lands on your chin.

For a few seconds, he just stands there, catching his breath, watching over you. He opens his desk drawer, pulls out a tissue pack, and wipes himself before doing the same for you. You're still lying there, face hidden in your hands, your outfit a mess. He's already caught you crying and knows you might feel awkward doing it in front of him, so he just makes sure you're clean for when you leave.

He tucks himself back into his trousers, fastens his belt, and walks to the other side of his office. You hear him rustling around while you try to get your breath back and keep your emotions in check. His soft footsteps approach the desk again, and you feel him gently patting your knee. You open your eyes to see him holding out a cup of water—a peace offering or an apology. But you know he doesn't owe you either. He just gave you everything you've wanted for the last three years. And he even brought you fucking water. Because he's disgustingly nice like that.

You nod in gratitude, sit up, and take the plastic cup from his hand, downing it in one gulp. It actually brings some life back to you. You breathe out shakily, fix your top, and tuck your tits back in before sliding off the desk. Your shoes land softly on the floor, your legs still trembling, your knees feeling like they'll give out any moment. You tug your skirt down and sheepishly meet his gaze, unsure where to go from here.

He steps closer and brings his hands up to your face to fix your hair. His eyebrows furrow in concentration again as he smooths it down, making sure you don't look disheveled when you walk out of here.

He sighs, letting his arms drop to his sides, and keeps looking at your face as if making sure you're not just looking okay but are okay too. “I didn’t mean that. The ‘fuck you’. And the ‘slut’ comment. Well, I kinda did,” he shrugs, averting his gaze with a humorless chuckle, “but I didn’t.”

You punch the air out of his lungs as you pounce on him, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. It takes him a second to gather himself, but he hesitantly hugs you back, just letting his hands rest on your lower back as you nuzzle your nose into his chest.

You had to get it out of your system, but now that it's in, you feel like you’ll never get enough. He feels like a beacon, one he's always been for you. The guy you picked a rivalry with your first week of sophomore year just to push yourself harder, to strive for greatness. He wasn’t even aware there was a rivalry to begin with. He's an academic, though, they’re all fucked up in the head, he must understand a part of it, at least.

And he understands. Truly. He just hopes you won’t start crying again, because he doesn’t know how he'd handle that. He pulls away slightly to look you in the eyes, cupping your face in his hands, and plants a soft kiss on your forehead.

“You’re a smart girl,” he says, his voice low, the small, friendly smile on his lips sincere, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly as he looks down at you. “You’ll figure it out. I don’t doubt it.”

He had this whole speech prepared for the class about how adult life is going to treat them, the challenges they'll face, how scary it’ll be, but also insanely rewarding. It was long, sentimental, with a few jokes thrown in. Some girls cried, but it was all bullshit. What’s real is this. Him understanding your fears without you having to voice them. Him telling you you’ve got this.

“And until you do, you always know where to find me,” he nods to the side, obviously meaning his office, a lopsided smirk making him look a good decade younger. His gaze finds yours again, and he pulls you into another tight hug, one he initiates this time.

In his mind, he’s already thinking how long it would be appropriate to wait before he can invite you for a coffee.

[plurapony]

I'd really love to see a source that states viewing alters as individuals/seperate people is anti-recovery.

let's be very clear. viewing alters as individuals and knowing you're all part of one collective are NOT mutually exclusive.

there is nothing that angers me more than the statement "your alters are all you"

now time for some anecdotal evidence, my favourite! 😋

the alters in our systems are individuals. everyone has their own name (which they pick), those who choose to make pk to talk on our discord have it, everyone has their own pronouns and how they like to be referred, gender identities and sexualities. they all have a different way they view themselves and everyone gets to draw themselves! (when they want to of course)

but while we are also individuals, we are Plura and Plura is all of us. We have dreams for Plura, Plura will work as youth support worker part time and have a youtube channel too. Plura will live in a nice house with their wife Zoey and Plura will have a lot of pets they love. Plura will also spend their free time rescuing and fostering stray animals. every single one of us is happy for Plura's future and to be involved.

and see that's what letting every alter be treated and viewed like an individual does for us. we care for each other and we all feel valued and respected which helps communication. i heard that treating alters the way we treat each other increases dissociation and this is something that makes absolutely no sense to me. we talk and we solve problems together, we share memories to reduce confusion when someone hasn't been fronting.

now this is just my opinion but i believe all those posts talking about this are simply just the poster's opinion based on their personal recovery journey. and since there's never sources to back up those claims id say those people are pretty fucking shitty for trying to pass off opinions as facts.

[misscammiedawn]

Legitimacy vs Selection Bias in Hypnosis

This has been on our mind a lot recently. It's mostly been sparked by the recent Mindless Banter podcast run by @theleeallure @enscenic and @hypno-sandwich where the three hosts spoke about how they dislike academic models of hypnosis and a recent post by @h-sleepingirl discussing why they herald hypnotic education.

One thing that is always going to be true about the advocates of our kink who have been involved with the community for a long time is that we are going to be experienced and capable hypnotists and/or hypnotees.

Likewise those who join and find themselves brought in to the fold tend to self-select; if a person is not able to find any success or joy in hypnosis because it's not working or they do not gel with the styles taught and practiced then they will not hang around.

This means that we have a functioning ecosystem of people who know the lingo, who are primed to react as they should and tend to have things work for them.

Which is great! It makes it so much easier to work out when everyone is on the same page.

But it also creates an insular community.

I've written before on why the insular nature of our community worries me.

One of the lines I wrote in that post was this

One of the big differences between the online erotic hypnosis community and the NGH (National Guild of Hypnotists) who rue our existence is that we do not require legitimacy to function when they themselves exist in a half-truth state where when receiving both of my certifications it was impressed that we needed to perform an uneasy dance of providing services without practicing medicine because hypnotherapy is not licensed psychology in the same was that chiropractors are not performing medicine.

Legitimacy is the idea of taking what we do, what we are, what we believe and what we practice and trying to make it valid to those outside of the community. It's performing studies, it's building a framework of hard rules, it's about pretending that we understand how the brain works beyond the anecdotal evidence that we witness it every day within our corners and communities.

Fact is, hypnosis is a malleable and belief-based practice that rests right in the middle between faith and science. As mentioned in the above linked post, trance can be detected on an EEG:

Source

Our last post on this topic just spoke about accepting that we exist in a soft science where what we believe, how we approach our beliefs and what ideas we allow to take root in our minds will have a firm impact on how the minds of the hypnotists and hypnotees we interact with.

Today I want to talk about why keeping the education and the science involved in the conversation is important.

Because, like the Mindless Banter crew, I have reached the point of my career in hypnoplay where should Dawn wish to induce a trance she need only find a partner, lay out what will happen and perform. The rest of it just happens.

Once you reach a level of confidence and community, it pretty much takes care of itself. The interaction between a hypnotist and a person who has never experienced trance before and the interaction between a hypnotist and an enthusiast will play out differently.

What I mean by this is if Dawn is approached in DM by someone who wants a session she will be able to pick up a number of tells without even noticing it on their confidence and experience. Someone shy, unsure and untrained will not dive straight in. Which makes the encounter less likely and even if it does happen it comes from the power dynamic of a teacher and student rather than two enthusiasts going to town.

This is normal and it's not a bad thing. It just means that the typical educator in the hypnokink community is typically aware of the "weight class" of their hypnotees which paints their expectations of how things will go and allows for a line between the way hypnosis is taught in 101 and how it is practiced in enthusiast circles.

It's why Progressive Muscle Relaxation is something which gets scoffed at a lot in our circles. The typical enthusiast does not need to spend 20 minutes on an induction when their typical partner is someone they can hold the shoulders of, stare at with intent and give permission for the hypnotee to drop.

That isn't to say that experienced hypnotists only play with experienced hypnotees. It just means that the majority of the play from those who educate does not match the material that we teach to beginners. Not a bad thing.

But it does breed this divide I mentioned. Between the experience of those who do this all the time and what is "academic".

So, besides helping new people into the community or playing in pure theoretical space, why must we keep the academic approach involved?

Well, first... the science does inform what we do. Yes, a lot of this is based on belief but there is a large amount of the science which is just fact no matter what we do. The neuroplasticity of traumatized brains is a topic we type about a lot given our dissociative disorder. I mentioned in my Dissociative Disorders and Hypnosis post that there are multiple studies that there's a higher hypnotic suggestibility in those with conditions that include dissociation as a symptom. The fact that this was being taught in a 101 class was why I made that post to begin with.

From my Mind Makes It Real post I mentioned that we need to be aware of the truths to keep ourselves in check. We should always be wondering "am I wrong?" about everything and the moment one lets go of the academic framework and commits to the loose ethos of "it just works" you lose a little bit of that footing and external perspective. We're an insular community and there's an element of "the popular ideas win out", not to stress a point too much but the whole hatred of the progressive muscle relaxation induction is a good example of this. I know a few community leaders who reflexively rant any time they hear it. These people have the ability to control the con schedule. They teach classes and part of their lesson is their personal disdain for that approach. This goes into the minds of those who were taught by that person and becomes part of the internal dogma. Suddenly you have a situation where a minority of people in the community need to defend the PMR.

I do not actually care too much about PMR but it really is one of the most accessible entry level trances and the disdain for it is a little gatekeepy, if I am being honest. I don't think any individual means for it to be something they keep out of the community but enough individuals following a trend creates a community concept, a widely held belief.

And hypnosis is entirely about widely held beliefs. Thus it is now a fact that PMR is boring and ineffective and there's more fun ways to do trance. That is an example, hopefully one that is understandable to an audience who are also into hypnokink (apologies to my non-hypnosis Tumblr followers, I hope if you're reading this you enjoy this peak into a little internet sub-culture).

Which brings me to legitimacy.

Do we really need it?

Hypnosis is both science and fantasy. A person attending a hypnokink convention could treat hypnosis with the technical skill and care that one would approach as ropeplay, learning all of the different terms and all of the safety procedures and treating it as a psychological version of what can be physically observed.

But you may also have someone who treats hypnosis as roleplay and improv with a framework not too dissimilar from a tabletop sourcebook for D/s shenanigans that they can learn and play within much the same as a D&D player can switch to World of Darkness. I guarantee there are a large number of people in the hypnosis community who do this and they're not wrong for doing it.

But as I mentioned above. Hypnosis is a scientifically observable phenomenon and it is dangerous if abused. Heaven knows I know that more than most. One must not believe in the dangers for them to be real. An immature hypnotist is a danger to a hypnotee regardless of if they think they are roleplaying or performing edgeplay. And the same is true for a hypnotee, too. If one believes it's all roleplay then their limits and safety will be at a different level than someone who is aware of the risks.

One need only look to the dark corners of our community where covert hypnosis is practiced eagerly, recruitment is a game and personality erasure is an aesthetic to know that there are uncomfortably large swaths who are practicing hypnosis from the perspective of fantasy. I do not want to pull out the news articles about how Disney Deer brainwashing ruined people's lives again.

The good news is that within the educator/convention going portion of the community we do teach this stuff. We do make everything clear. We're not currently in a community where academic approaches are shrugged off.

But it makes me uncomfortable when experienced educators in the community forget how far their words reach and dismiss the academic for the sake of "what works".

We do not need to seek legitimacy for the eyes of those outside of the community. We do not Demand To Be Taken Seriously. We have a community where people are welcome to join or not join. We do not need external legitimacy.

But we need internal legitimacy.

We need the people who practice within our care to know that they're practicing with dangerous tools that can and will mess a person up if treated without proper care.

Safety and education require we keep room for the academic and seek to legitimize what we do or those who look at hypnosis as pure fantasy will not be able to recognize the risk.

At least, that's my opinion.

-

For more of our ramblings on hypnosis and the hypnosis community, please check out our Hypnokink Writing tag for other bits of education and commentary like this <3

[archangeldyke-all]

So uhm ….how..how about sev with a corruption kink and .. 👉🏻👈🏻 a really really sweet girl who … gets reeled in by sev‘s magnetic personality and ends up just … u know … getting corrupted 👉🏻👈🏻

i'm completely chill and normal about this ask. (i'm lying) (i'm clawing at my walls and ripping my hair out)

men and minors dni

sevika never thought she'd be into inexperienced girls.

she didn't think she'd be patient enough for it. when sevika wants to fuck someone, she wants to fuck them. she doesn't wanna teach them how to fuck, she doesn't wanna wait to fuck, she just wants to fuck and move on.

but then she meets you.

she thinks you're the cutest fucking thing in the world.

you're sweet. you're the only person sevika knows who will always toss her a smile, even when she's scowling at everyone who comes in her line of vision. it gives her butterflies.

you're kind. when sevika's upset-- most people avoid her. you don't, though. you see right through the angry glare she wears to cover up her hurt. and you ask. you ask her if she's okay, if she wants to talk, if she'd like some company. and you actually listen to her answers.

the first few times she says no-- confused by the question and trying to figure out your angle.

but after a while she realizes you don't have an angle. you're just kind, eyes genuine as you look at her, a sympathetic little furrow between your brows. so she starts being honest. no, she's not okay, no she doesn't want to talk about it, but yes. she'd like your company.

and after the first few times of that, of the two of you just sitting in companionable silence, as you occasionally tell her a funny anecdote, doodling on a napkin beside her, she starts talking too.

you're funny. you make her laugh when she least expects it, little quiet quips only meant for her to hear that make her snort and smack her hand over her mouth in embarrassment. you've got this subtle snark that not everyone picks up on-- but sevika always notices and giggles when you're a bit sassy.

and it's all these reasons-- you're kind heart and sweet nature and sense of humor-- that sevika falls in love with you.

but it's your innocence that makes her fall in lust.

you're innocent. so, so innocent. as your friendship grows and you start opening up to sevika, she's shocked to find out that you (you, the girl she's been having wet dreams about every other night) are a virgin. that you've never even had a girlfriend-- that your last kiss was in the second grade when a slimy little boy held your favorite stuffie hostage until you pressed your lips against his.

she doesn't get it. she has a million fucking questions about it.

she finally snaps one evening, drunk and deadly curious.

"so then the guy tells me they're not sellin' chicken eggs anymore and i'm like what's wrong with chi--?"

"do you masturbate?" sevika blurts. you choke on your words.

"s-sorry!?" you ask with a laugh. sevika cringes and shrugs.

"well... do you?" she asks. you blink.

"i'm a virgin sevika, not a prude."

"so... yes?" she guesses. you laugh.

"yes." you say. something in sevika's stomach flutters. "don't you?" you ask. she nods.

"do you... think about sex when you do it?" she asks. you blink at her.

"well... yeah..." you say.

"am i making you uncomfortable?" she asks, suddenly worried. you giggle.

"i'd tell you to fuck off if you were. i just don't understand where all the questions are coming from." you say.

"i--" sevika cuts herself off. what's she supposed to say? i can't stop thinking about all the ways i could ruin you? that's what she wants to say, but she thinks that might be a bit strong. "i guess i just don't get how you haven't found someone yet."

you furrow your brow.

"well, it's not like women are fuckin' throwing themselves at me, sevika." you say.

"that's not--"

"i'm not an idiot, you know, i know what sex is. just 'cause not all of us aren't fuckin' walking sex magnets doesn't mean--"

"that's not what i meant!" sevika screeches out. her eyes are wide and panicked.

"well, what did you mean?"

"i meant that you're hot as fuck and i'm trying to figure out if you're a virgin 'cause you wanna be or if i'd have a shot at fuckin' you!"

it's quiet for a minute as you absorb sevika's words.

she massages her temples with her hand, mumbling to herself under her breath. you catch a few words. what the fuck is wrong with you? and this is why i don't drink clear liquor.

"you'd have a shot." you choke out eventually. sevika's head snaps up to look at you. "i-i mean--"

"what?" she cuts you off again. you shrug.

"if you wanted. but, you know, i can't-- we'd have to--"

"take it slow, yeah--"

"and i don't think i can do the whole casual th--"

"i'm in love with you." she says. a second passes, and then sevika's brain catches up to her. she smacks her head on the table with a groan. "what the fuck is wrong with me?"

"are you serious!?" you choke out. sevika huffs.

"yes. but i really didn't mean to say it. please pretend i didn't. or if it's too weird for you now--"

you burst into laughter.

sevika's known she wants to corrupt you, but she's vastly underestimated how much she'd get off on it.

like, she thinks she's more turned on than you are-- and you're always soaking wet around sevika.

even in the beginning, when she's trying her very best to keep it romantic and polite (kisses on your cheek every chance she can, a hand around your waist or shoulders almost always, sweet goodnight kisses at your door) the sweet way you flutter your eyelashes at her as you blink your eyes in surprise, the way you shyly smile at her-- it makes her cunt throb.

she spends every moment she can looking at you. half of the time it's in sweet admiration or amusement, the other half she's daydreaming about fucking you, her eyes wandering up and down your figure.

she lets you control the pace-- but she doesn't hesitate once you give her a go ahead.

so, after your third date --homemade pizza and a movie on sevika's couch-- when you shyly smiles up at her and ask if, maybe, she'd like to stay a little longer? she just has to scoop you up in her arms and carry you back to the couch, pressing her mouth to yours.

you were fumbling against her lips, gasping in surprise and trying to keep up with her pace-- but she intentionally kept you guessing-- absolutely adoring the gentle, inexperienced press of your mouth against hers and the little moans pleasure escaping your lips.

she won't pull away from your mouth, won't let you breathe for more than a moment before diving back in-- so you push her down to your neck, moaning when she starts nibbling and kissing the skin of your throat. she growls against you.

"fuck, can i give you a hickey?" she grunts, before returning to her gentle kisses and nips. you shudder.

"yes please." you whimper.

she groans as she bites into the flesh of your throat.

you whine.

sevika's got one hand on your jaw, one gently scratching up and down your back. you grip her arms, redirecting them so one hand can fondle your ass while the other can play with your tits.

sevika moans against your neck and bites you so hard you're certain she draws blood. she doesn't-- but it was a close thing.

(it's only years later that she shyly admits to you that she bit you so hard 'cause she was cumming in her pants.)

you become obsessed with her kisses. any moment you can, you're tugging her in for a kiss.

she loves it. loves teasing you about how needy you are. loves the way you'll pout-- she always kisses it away.

(also, she calls you needy, like she's not the one tracing circles into whatever patch of your skin she can reach and staring at your lips with a cocky smirk while you talk.)

you start losing track of your dates with sevika. you guys were already close friends-- seeing each other multiple times a week-- and now that you're in a relationship (which sevika loves reminding you of because she loves the half embarrassed half proud little smile it gets out of you) but now you're spending most of your free time together.

sometimes you go out, sometimes you stay in, sometimes you just go buy groceries together or meet at each other's apartments to take a nap.

but all that being said, it's about one month into your relationship when sevika first sees you naked.

you've seen sevika naked plenty of times before. she's not shy about her body, and she loves the way your eyes get all wide and glossy, the way your lips part, and your thighs clench when she's, 'just airdrying babe, it's better for your skin or something,' after her shower for thirty minutes.

so it's really satisfying when the roles are finally reversed, and sevika's left speechless as you straddle her lap, still clothed in her boxers.

it's satisfying until sevika's eyebrows furrow and she bites her lip.

your stomach drops.

you're just like anybody else-- you have your fair share of insecurities about your body. and this is the first time anyone besides your doctor or yourself has seen you naked. you give it a second, but when she doesn't move or speak, you start to panic.

"sevika?" you squeak out. her eyes snap up to look at you. she gulps.

"fuck." she gasps.

"uhh...?"

"i'm gonna say it again, shit!" she bites her lip.

"say wha--"

"i'minlovewithyou." she says all at once. you freeze. "you're so beautiful fuck i- i wanna tear you apart but-- fuck, no-- i mean i do but-- i'm in love with you. i wanna-- you've fuckin' ruined me! and now i wanna ruin you, you know?" she babbles. you giggle.

"i knew you had a kink for the whole virgin thing!" you say, pointing an accusing finger at her.

sevika clams up, her shoulders coming up to her ears and her face cringing. "i--"

you kiss her to silence her. she slowly relaxes, her hands coming up to grip your hips.

she guides your hips down, slowly grinding your wet pussy in circles against her thigh.

you pull away with a gasp, looking down at sevika's pretty blushing face, and you giggle. "i think it's cute, baby." you whisper against her lips. she huffs.

"it's not about the vi-virgin thing. it's about you. fuck. you're so good. and i wanna make you feel so good. and it's s-s-so fuckin' hot that you let me. and i-i..."

"you love me?" you guess. she nods.

you laugh, then press a gentle, sincere kiss to her lips.

"i love you too, sevika." you whisper.

she cums, her arms wrapping around, digging her fingers into your back and tugging you to her chest. "b-baby, shit!" she gasps against your throat. you giggle, and press kisses against her head as she shakes beneath you.

you're so horny afterwards that you beg her to make you cum. she flips you onto the bed, hovering over you, pressing kisses to your face, your breasts, your stomach.

"anything, baby, you want my mouth or--?"

"mouth!" you squeak. she chuckles.

"perfect fuckin' choice." she praises, before ripping your legs apart and pinning them to the bed.

she hovers above your pussy, her mouth six inches away from you, the hot puffs of her breath making your cunt clench.

"sevika--"

"just a second." she whispers, eyes glued to your cunt. you whine and shift your hips.

"sevika!"

"fuckin' hold on a second, baby, i'm tyrin' to take a mental pictu--mpph!" you pres her face down against your cunt, cutting her off.

she tries to glare up at you, but the second she gets a taste of you, her eyes are rolling in the back of her head and she moaning louder than you are.

she doesn't let go of her grip on your thighs-- she keeps you pinned as she alternates between sucking your clit and ducking down to lap at your leaking entrance, occasionally pushing against it and slipping the tip of her tongue in.

you're squealing, scrabbling at her hair and twitching in her hold-- stuttering out half words that get cut off by moans.

she chuckles against you and pulls away, her mouth and chin covered in spit and arousal, a grin on her lips. one of her hands trails up your thigh for her thumb to begin rubbing circles on your clit.

"tell me how you masturbate." she demands. you shiver.

"fuck--"

"do you use fingers? or do you just play with this pretty clit?" she purrs. you gasp.

"i-i-- both i guess?"

"mmm. how many fingers?"

"one m-maybe two if i'm really--"

"do you want one of mine?" she asks. you groan and nod, tugging on her scalp.

"please please please please--"

"fuck, but you're so tight, honey. you know i got big fingers. you think you can take it?" she asks, her lips brushing against your clit as her thumb travels down to trace your labia.

"for fuck's sake sevika--" you start. she giggles below you before shooting up, her hand still pressed against her cunt, but her lips now smashed against yours.

she pecks little kisses on your lips as she runs her pointer finger through your folds, gathering your dripping arousal and her spit, and then she thrusts her tongue into your mouth just as she eases her finger into you.

you moan. she really does have big fingers, and a much better angle than you're ever able to reach. she chuckles against your lips.

"you okay?" she asks as she slowly eases her finger back out. you nod against her.

you're sensitive-- it's so foreign feeling someone else inside you, so pleasurable, but so strange-- it doesn't take much for you to start shaking and clenching around her finger. she keeps a slow, steady pace, and you gasp. "oh fuck-- i'm gonna!"

sevika whimpers against you, ducking down to press a kiss to your nipple before squatting between your legs and sucking your clit into her mouth.

you both cum. sevika cums at the way your tight cunt clenches around her finger, and you cum and from gentle circles she's rubbing into your g-spot.

she's obsessed with fingering you.

anywhere, anytime, sevika will snatch your wrist and drag you into the nearest empty room, before shoving her hand down your pants and massaging your cunt, sinking one or two fingers inside when you're wet enough.

"s-s-sorry baby," she whimpers against you as you claw at her biceps, muffling your moans into her shoulder. "i'll make it fast-- you just look way too fuckin' good tonight." she grunts as she sinks a finger into your cunt.

she fucks you slow and gentle against the bathroom stall, both of you giggling when someone rattles the locked door.

"shhhit you feel so good, honey." she grunts. she's always all needy and whiny right up until you cum. then: she just lets her mouth run, saying all the nasty things she's thinking out loud to you.

you clench around her finger, clawing at her shoulder. "shit baby, i'm gonna--"

"fuck, baby i love this pussy. so fuckin' tight for me an' 's all mine. god i can't wait 'til you can take my cock. stuff you nice and full, stretch you out, get you squirtin' on my dick--"

you come with a loud moan.

(outside the bathroom, you hear a scandalized gasp. you both laugh as you quickly straighten up, sevika tucking you under her arm and sneaking you out of the cafe.)

it takes a while for you to get used to her big fingers but with how often she's touching you, it's not too long before you can comfortably take two, then three.

she takes it as slow as she can the first time she fucks you with the strap. she picks out her smallest, keeps the lube on the bed, tucks a pillow under your hips.

it still stings. not enough that you don't want it, not enough to outweigh the pleasure of sevika's thumb on your clit, but still enough for you to bite your lip and whimper, clawing at her abs as she inches inside of you.

"fuck, 's big!" you whimper.

sevika cums. obviously.

she tries to keep her hips steady, but the second the words leave your mouth she's thrusting the two or three remaining inches of her strap inside of you and collapsing on top of you.

the whines and whimpers you let out below her only make her cum harder.

the moment she catches her breath, she starts grinding small, apologetic circles against you where her cock is still buried to the hilt inside you.

"shit, shit, shit, take my cock baby, just like that. fuck." she whispers. you shudder beneath her, and she starts rocking her hips a little harder. "does it feel good, honey? do you like my dick?" she asks. you claw your nails into her back.

"sevika, sevika, shit, feels so good, fuck you're so deep--"

"i love you." she says, pulling away to gaze down at your body, fucking into you with fast little strokes. "look how well your tight little cunt is takin' me. 's so pretty, droolin' all over me. you've just been waitin' for the right cock, huh, baby? knew nobody'd be able to fuck you 's good as me, right?"

you're too busy moaning to answer any of her questions, but she doesn't seem to mind. she can tell by the way you're twitching beneath her that you're close.

"gonna cum?" she asks. you nod. "good girl." she grunts.

that's all it takes for you to cum, gasping and pulling sevika against your body as you shiver and moan through the most intense orgasm of your life.

sevika holds you through it, kissing your face and praising you gently. "so fuckin' good baby."

when you catch your breath and open your eyes again, you look up directly into the face of a cockily smirking sevika. you chuckle.

"pleased with yourself?"

"very." sevika says, grinning.

"'m not a virgin anymore. 's your mission accomplished?" you tease.

she bites her lip and looks down at you.

"i got a couple new missions in mind." she whispers. you laugh.

taglist!

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

[fanbasetwo]

MATTHEW HAVING A SECRET CRUSH ON YOU!

NOTE FROM SENA , thank you tea for the help with the idea!! other requests will take time since I'm sort of exhausted these days and I don't want to rush into posting. [REQUESTED] (this is a fic in a headcanon manner) MASTERLIST!!

join my taglist by sending an ask or commenting here <3

i. THE MEET-CUTE AT THE WORK PARTY

It’s one of those awkward work gatherings where everyone’s either standing around quietly or sticking to their teams.

Matthew, the new guy, looks lost but also undeniably handsome with a shy demeanor. You decide to be kind and strike up a conversation because you’ve been there before.

He’s immediately drawn to how easygoing you are—how you make him feel like he belongs.

From that night on, he always remembers the way you smiled when you told him, “Hey, you’ll fit in just fine here. Don’t worry.”

He low-key starts looking forward to seeing you around the office the next day.

ii. THE WAY HE LOOKS AT YOU

Oh, and it’s painfully obvious to everyone but you.

When you’re in a group meeting, Matthew’s eyes involuntarily soften every time you speak. It’s the small things—he watches you talk with that fond look, as if you’re the only person in the room.

He’ll make small excuses to glance over at you, under the pretense of “checking emails” or flipping through papers.

Someone at work catches this (likely your co-worker who knows everything) and starts quietly teasing him about his not-so-subtle puppy-dog eyes.

iii. THE HANGING OUT MORE EXCUSES

At first, it starts casually. “Hey, want to grab a coffee after the team meeting?” “I haven’t tried that lunch spot yet, what do you think?”

Slowly but surely, these invites turn into semi-regular hangouts—he’ll always find a reason to ask.

You notice how he pays for your coffee every time, and if you try to insist on paying, he’ll shake his head with a shy smile. “I just wanted to treat you.”

You find it so cute that you stop fighting him about it.

iv. CATCHING HIM IN THE ACT

It’s a random monday morning, and you’re coming into work earlier than usual.

You spot Matthew at your desk, awkwardly leaving a chocolate bar and a small handwritten note. The note says something simple like, “I hope this makes your day a little better :)”—it’s so pure that your heart flips.

Before he can bolt, you call him out: “Matthew, what are you doing?”

He freezes mid-step, red creeping up his face. “Oh—uh, nothing! I was just—uh…morning!”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Are you bribing me for something?”

He laughs nervously but promises (because you caught him fair and square) that he owes you dinner—like an actual dinner.

v. THE DATE

Matthew doesn’t do things halfway; he picks a stunning, 5-star restaurant because he wants it to be special. He wants to impress you, but not in a flashy way—he just genuinely thinks you deserve the best.

He shows up looking ridiculously good in a suit, and you almost have to double-take because this isn’t your work Matthew; this is “effort” Matthew.

Throughout dinner, he’s attentive and genuinely interested in everything you say. He remembers the smallest details about you—your favorite drink, how you take your food, even random anecdotes you told him weeks ago.

When the check comes, you try to pay out of courtesy, but Matthew just shakes his head firmly. “Not a chance.”

“Matthew, let me—”

“What’s a wallet at this point?” he jokes, and you laugh because he’s genuinely so sweet about it.

vi. THE OFFICE GOSSIP

After your very clear date, you start hearing whispers around the office. Your co-worker corners you at lunch, gleefully reporting, “I knew who his crush was! It’s you. I knew it all along.”

You roll your eyes, flustered, but can’t help smiling because… well, they’re right.

vii. MATTHEW’S POST-DATE BEHAVIOUR

If you thought he was whipped before, it’s ten times worse now. He’s still nervous around you sometimes but far more confident about showing how much he cares.

He casually drops things at your desk—flowers, little snacks you love, or coffee when he knows you’re swamped.

He still insists on “treating you” because “you work hard, you deserve nice things.”

Eventually, he stops pretending it’s casual and just tells you, straight-up: “I really like you. You’re the best part of my day.”

And let’s be real: You like him just as much.

viii. THE ENDING

Matthew and you become the office “It” couple—everyone roots for you because, honestly, it was so obvious from the way he looked at you from day one.

He’s still spoiling you, still making you laugh, and still getting adorably flustered whenever you remind him just how much you like him back.

© fanbasetwo | tumblr

[astroboots]

Min Redux

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Marc Spector x female reader x Steven Grant (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: Marc is possessed by a horny ancient sex spirit and refuses the help you're willingly offering. Sequel to Gift of Min but can be read as stand alone.

Content: sex pollen, restraints, Marc being a stubborn bastard.

Word count; 12,800 words (do not look at me)

ASTROBOOT’S MASTERLIST | MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST

There's a white, pot-bellied goose staring up at Marc expectantly with hunger. He ignores it, pretending he doesn't see it as he turns his head, eyes circling around the park.

If he ignores it, it will give up eventually.

"Oh hello there fella! You're a plump one aren't you?"

Marc resists the deeply ingrained urge to roll his eyes. Of course, Steven would acknowledge the animal.

“I think it wants us to feed it”, Steven says.

Marc hums in acknowledgment. He doesn't want to get into this right now. Doesn't want Steven distracted and excitedly buzz in their head with anecdotes about Geese and the bird wildlife in London when they're supposed to be on the lookout for their contact.

Flicking his wrist, Marc glares at his watch.

8:12am.

Twelve minutes late. You'd think Ancient Egyptian Deities would have some kind of culling process when picking their Avatars. Punctuality should be a bare minimum requirement.

He leans back against the wooden slats of the park bench, hands shoved inside his field jacket against the chill of the London air as a woman with a stroller walks by nearly running over the goose in the process (to Steven's outrage). For the umpteenth time since he sat down, Marc's fingers trace the lining until he catches at the sharp edge of the small golden trinket box, just to make sure it's still there.

Gift of Min. A tiny trinket box that's been sealing away some sex-crazed sprite serving the Ancient God of Sex for decades. One that Steven managed to accidentally free with his uncanny puzzle solving skills in just under a minute, getting himself possessed in the process.

Marc's fingers clutch at the brass-metal, until it's digging into his palms as he squeezes down. Flashes of your bare skin underneath Steven's hands, and the soft curves of your naked form pressed underneath him, pushes to the surface of his mind.

Fuck, he shakes his head. No, his mind is not going there. He needs to stay here, in the present, find the other Avatar and hand this over so it's out of your lives for good.

Get rid of it so that what happened last week won't ever repeat itself. He won’t allow that to happen, won’t risk putting you in harm’s way again.

It's all so vivid and Marc has replayed the memory of it so many times, every detail of it. Every gasp, moan and whimper of your voice. The way your back arched from the floor, the way your mouth fell open. The way your eyes would roll back right before you came… repeatedly. He’s played it like a VHS tape on repeat until it’s been so worn out from replays that the image is filled with static and he almost can't tell anymore if it was entirely Steven's experience or his as well, trapped as he was in the mind space. 

Steven rutting into you mindlessly like an animal. Hips snapping against your soft plump thighs. Your legs squeezed tight around his hips, around his cock as you kept coming uncontrollably, again and again and–

"Marc Spector?"

With a jolt, Marc's pulled from his thoughts at the voice. Looking up, there's a man standing two feet away from him with a much too friendly smile on his face for someone that's—Marc flicks his watch—22 minutes late.

The man reaches out a hand in an inviting gesture to shake Marc's hand.

These Avatars always want to make pleasantries and be friends, like they're all part of the Mickey Mouse Club on account of their ostensible connection of being in indentured servitude to defunct Egyptian Gods.

Reluctantly, Marc relents, slipping one hand out of his pocket. The man's hand is bony, his grip tight like he's trying to assert dominance by crushing Marc's hand. Then he lets it go, the smile spreading even wider with that uncanny eager friendliness.

"I believe you have something for me?"

Standing up from the bench, Marc reaches into his pocket again and shoves it into the man's hand.

"Ah there it is. Gorgeous little thing isn't it?" Min’s avatar holds the box up in the daylight, inspecting it as if it were a diamond, then he tilts his head with a confused expression.

"Oh dear," he says.

At first, Marc misses the alarm in his voice, because the man practically sings out the words.

"What?" Marc asks. 

Instead of answering Marc, the man hums, turning the trinket box in his hand as if weighing the contents, his friendly smile fading into a slight frown.

"What is it?" Marc repeats, irritated this time.

"Well…" the man shifts the box into his other hand, repeating the same weighing motion. Then the man holds the box up to his ear, like he’s trying to hear the ocean in a seashell.

The Avatar’s inability to give a straight answer has Marc's patience balanced on a tenuous line that he can physically hear as it snaps.

"What is wrong," Marc repeats for a third time through gritted teeth.

"The seal's been opened."

There's a tension in Marc's jaw as he grinds down on his teeth. "There was an accident. Someone opened it. But I made sure to trap the sprite back inside."

"Well whatever you did, you didn't do a good enough job.” The man says it so matter-of-factly like it’s not even an insult, and Marc has to take a deep calming breath, his hand closing into a fist. 

“The puzzle sequence wasn't completed when you retrapped the spirit and thus not sealed. It must have escaped." This time, the man flips the panels in sequence of motion, in-out-up-up-down until Marc loses track. The gears in the box whir and the box opens-- and adrenaline ramps up in Marc as instincts have him backing away from the box, holding up an arm to shield his nose and mouth shut.

But there's nothing. No blue shiny smoke like last time.

It's empty.

“Wait so what does that mean?” you ask him, as you stab the fork into the thick double slice of french toast he’s made you. Double dipped in batter drowned in cinnamon sugar, just the way you like them.

Turning on the tap, Marc fills the kettle with water as he puts it on the stove to boil your morning tea.

Except it’s not morning anymore. It’s the afternoon now, almost 1pm. You slept through the whole of the morning, but considering the morning-afternoon-and parts of the evening you endured with Steven barely 48 hours ago, Marc is hardly going to begrudge you sleeping in.

“Don’t worry about it,” Marc says, hoping his reassurance will allay any worries you may have. Because you don’t have to worry. He’s going to fix it—fix everything—and keep you out of trouble this time.

But as he looks up at you, the frown that borders on a glare on your face tells him that was absolutely the wrong thing to say.

Shit, he’s doing that thing again isn’t he? The very thing you told him not to do after the post-possession talk.

His shoulders sag. He sighs in capitulation. Right. Communication. Tell you things.

“I have to find it again. This time I’ll have Steven seal it so it doesn’t escape.”

“It’s been days, it could be anywhere, did they tell you how to find it? Do we have some kind of magical ancient artifact compass?”

Marc’s shoulders tenses at your use of ‘we.’ There’s no ‘we’ here. He’s not getting you involved in this. He’s gonna catch it. Steven’s gonna seal it. That’s the plan.

“Marc?” You ask, but he pretends he doesn’t hear you as he moves to the cupboard, to find a teapot.

“Do we know how to find it?” you repeat when he doesn’t answer.

He pretends to busy himself, foregoing the perfectly good teapots he can use that sits in the front and pushes them aside as he continues to search the cupboard.

If he ignores you, you will give up eventually.

Faintly, he thinks he can hear Jake’s (sarcastic) voice in his head. “Jefe, she’s not a Goose. Ignoring her isn’t going to cut it.”

“Stop pretending you’re looking for teapots and ignoring me. I’m just going to keep asking until you answer.”

Shit.

You’re so insistent. Worse than park geese. Worse than Steven and Jake combined.

“No compass,” Marc answers as he pulls out a random teapot in the furthest corner. Dusty from lack of use. He’s gonna have to clean this. With the way Steven cleans this apartment, it might be covered in asbestos for all he knows.

“The guy said it likes cramped small enclosed places. Tiny chests, jewelry boxes, tupperware. Anything that closes with a lid.”

“That hardly narrows it down in London!”

“Like I said, I’ll take care of it.”

Turning on the tap, he runs the teapot under water in the sink, scrubbing the dust and grime. He lifts the lid but it’s been so long since it’s been used the pot is practically sealed shut from dirt, even as Marc pushes against the top.

He can hear you approaching from behind. “You won’t get it open that way,” you offer as you turn the tap and turn it as far as it goes for hot water. Then you take the pot from him, running the lid over the running water, gripping at the base and start to turn it until he can hear it give with a quiet ‘pop’.

“Tada!”

You’re grinning at your success, and Marc has to bite the inside of his cheek to tamper down his own smile at the sight of you. Because fuck, that gloating, I-know better-than-you smile, (which should be aggravating) is infectious.

“See! This is why you need me,” you sing-song, rubbing your success in his face as you lift the lid. He’s so distracted by your easy-smile and glow of schadenfreude he doesn’t pay attention to the quiet hiss of pressure that gives from the lid.

A tendril of blue-white fog rises up, reaching towards you. Before Marc fully processes what he’s doing, he’s already stepping forward into your space. One hand clasps at your wrist as he yanks you backwards and away from the kitchen.

Gotta fucking be kidding him. That fucking thing was hiding in the teapot all this time.

It hits him like a kick in the gut. It’s like swallowing live fire into his throat except it keeps burning all the way as it travels into his chest and digs into the inside of his stomach, settling into every inch of his flesh. It’s the feeling of downing a bottle of whiskey in one sitting with none of the side sickness and nausea that he has to swallow down. It burns and crackles inside his veins.

With the intensity of the heat as it bubbles in his blood, he had expected it to hurt. It doesn’t. Instead it’s molten and slow, oozing through his system like a heated haze. He feels heady as the sensation rushes through him from the curl of his toes to the tip of his nose until it has his scalp tingling. It’s pleasant. Euphoric even if he lets his mind linger on it. He doesn’t.

From a distance he thinks he can hear your voice, and buried underneath the fog, Steven’s concerned babbling. But it’s drowned out by the blood thrashing in his ears. He tries to find you, but his vision is swimming in front of him.

Then he hears it, you’re shouting his name. You sound so worried.

He can feel you. Soft and doting hands cupping his cheeks with a tender touch that has the heat in his stomach reach a boiling point, then you tilt his face upwards to meet your worried gaze.

It’s the same expression on your face when you were tending to Steven not two days ago. Heat spikes in his lower belly, his cock twitching against the constricted confines where it’s trapped under hard denim.

‘Need you’, a voice inside his head, neither Steven or Jake’s but entirely his own, calls out. ‘Want you’.

Flashes of you, your back arching from the floor, trapped underneath him as he thrusts into you invade his vision. The phantom sensation of your wet tightness wrapped around his cock shivers through him and the ache makes the length of him pressed hard against his boxers, twitch and leak against the soft fabric.

Fuck… He can’t put you through that again.

He can’t have you here.

"Leave," he grits out, scooting backwards, dragging himself away from you by the heel of his hands along the wooden floor.

"What?"

"You need to go. Leave!" He barks out.

He tries to get up but fuck, his legs have gone all wobbly like fucking Bambi, can't steady himself, and his faulty balance has you running forwards towards him. 

Marc throws out his hands, palms up as a signal for you to keep your distance.

"No! Don't get close to me. You need to go now."

He grabs at the side of one of the wooden shelves, as he steadies himself on his feet and props himself up, but fuck, everything is spinning. He feels like he's drunk, and he closes his eyes to make it stop.

"Marc," you say his name so softly, it makes the heat in his veins grow hotter. There's liquid fire pumping through his blood.

Even with his eyes closed, he sees you.

You underneath him, exhausted and fucked out. Swollen lips kissed raw and tender. Legs shiny and slick, with your come and his, as it drips over his cock in a shiny silvery thread and down the wooden floor below.

Shit! Shit! Stop, don't think of that.

His eyes fly open to the sight of you, the you in front of him right now, your pretty face mere inches from his. Lips so close he can practically fucking taste you already on his tongue from pure sense memory.

He's getting worse by the second. He's not sure how much longer he can keep his body in check. Every inch of him wants to touch you. Fingers itching to dig into your plump flesh. His cheeks tingle and all he wants is to have your thighs pressing down and enveloping his face. His tongue is heavy in his mouth and salivating at the thought of licking every inch of your soft skin, to have the familiar taste of you fill his mouth– fuck, he can’t– he needs something to restrain himself with as a precaution.

His eyes flicker to the bed, and of course, it's not there. Where is Steven's stupid ankle bracelet when it’s actually needed? 

Shit.

Wait, the cuffs. Jake keeps some cuffs here, where did he – his eyes roam the space, until he spots the shiny metal glinting from underneath Jake's cap that he's carelessly slung against the shelf behind him.

"I'm not going to leave you here by yourself. Let me help," you say and his eyes linger on your pouty lips, the way they open and close as you bite your lower lip in worry. He wants to sink his own teeth into them until you whine for him. Slip his aching cock between them, until his hard cock is enveloped by your softness.

He shakes his head, taking a step back as he looks around himself, planning his exit route. The front door is behind you, which means he'd have to get past you to get out.

Crap. Stubborn as you are, you'd try to block him in a heartbeat, and unless he's gonna tackle you (out of the question) this is going to get him nowhere.

"You can't help with this," he says, eyes continuing to scan the room until he spots the open door to the bathroom.

You frown, eyes narrowing in irritation. "I can actually. We've been here before Marc. I helped Steven remember?"

And fuck does he remember, can't forget. That's part of the problem.

Your hand reaches for him, fingertips brushing over his fisted knuckles, and the touch of it tingles with a burning ache.

"It'll feel better if you let me help you," you say.

Marc takes a step back, arm reaching behind him, until he feels the cold metal against his hand and grabs the cuff.

"I'm not going to do that to you," he says. Before you get a chance to respond, he's already turning around. He's leaping on his feet, darting to the bathroom and slams the door shut behind him.

His fingers are trembling, cold sweat dripping down his forehead as he fumbles locking the door.

From behind the door he can hear your panicked voice calling for him.

"Marc? Marc!!"

The rickety panel door rattles and shakes against the frame with your effort to slide it open. “Marc, did you lock the door?! Marc!” 

You sound so worried, and a small pang digs under his skin when he hears you. 

It’s so stupid. He knows you’re safe, that the worry in your voice is meant for him, and yet every instinct in his body is screaming out for him to check on you and make sure you’re okay. He fights it. Eyes darting around the tiny confined space to search for something, anything, permanently affixed to the wall that he can cuff himself to. 

“Marc, open the door or I’m gonna kick this bloody thing down. I swear to god.”

Marc doesn’t have much to work with. There’s the toilet, the sink, with nothing he can attach the cuffs to, and the railing to the shower head that looks… flimsy at best. Still beggars can’t be choosers. 

Forcing his stupidly shaky hands to bring the cuffs to the shower, he tightens one end to his wrist until he can feel the sharp metal dig through his skin, hard enough that it’s probably going to cause the blood flow to constrict. 

Stupid, he’s so stupid, he knows better than this, but his coordination isn’t cooperating and if Marc is honest with himself, the blunt pain helps. 

Helps his mind to sharpen and to distract himself from the burning heat that’s riding him hard at the sound of your voice on the other end of the door calling his name. 

Helps him to shove down the pathetic need that sings in his vein to tear off the flimsy panel door and run into your arms and beg you to help him. 

Helps him find the will in himself to clasp the other end of the cuffs around the metal rod before it clicks satisfyingly to let him know the deed is done. 

Safe. the metal click tells him. You’re safe from him now. He couldn’t get his grubby hands on you even if his weak will breaks. 

The rattling of the door has stopped now. The room fills with silence and you’re no longer shouting for him. Marc turns back and sees the shadow of your feet under the spring as you walk away from the door. You’ve finally given up on him. 

Good. That’s good. 

You should get as far away from him as possible. With any luck, you’re already halfway down the stairs towards the tube.

He knows you’re pissed. Probably slamming the front door on your way out. But that’s ok. He’ll take your anger over your worry. He can deal with anger, knows how to handle it like an old shitty friend he wants to cut ties with but never can. What he can’t take is the way you sounded when you were calling for him. 

The worry. The care. You always care. And it’s wasted on him. All that’s ever earned you since you got involved with him is trouble. 

If you weren’t involved with him then you wouldn’t have been in their apartment that morning when Steven opened the stupid thing. If you weren’t there, Marc would’ve taken over, would’ve taken care of himself instead of — instead of– 

‘Steven, fuckfuck Steven–’ the phantom memory of your voice rings hauntingly sharp in his ears. Slurred and honeyed, the feel of you, slick and dripping between your thighs, clamping down tightly on his Steven’s cock. 

His whole body aches. Skin flushed and burning and his brain feels feverish and rubbed raw with heat at the fraying edges. 

A shower. A cold shower will help. 

Marc takes a shaky breath, as his fingers fumble with the taps. Turning the cold water as far as it goes. He thinks he’s prepared for it but he’s not. It’s a shock to the system. The cold water slams down on him with a heavy punch. Cold and piercing and bitter as it wraps all around his feverish skin and strangles his lungs with it. 

His eyes are closed, but instead of the blank darkness all he sees are your big eyes staring back up at him. Dazed and out of it, fuckdrunk, on him. 

His skin burns. Blood boiling inside his veins until it’s painful. The icy water is still pummelling down at him punishingly, and he’s grateful for it because he thinks he’s going to incinerate from the inside out if it wasn’t. His cock is hard and heavy against the clammy and cold wet denim that’s pressing up against his searing skin. It’s uncomfortable, painful. 

The memory of you refuses to leave him. The silky feel of you wet and hot and writhing on his painfully hard cock. Fuck, fuck, why does he do this to himself. One hand comes up to his face, and he scrubs it hard with the freezing water, rubbing his thumb into his eyes to help with the throbbing heat that’s growing at his temple. It doesn’t help. Can’t scrub out the image of you, mouth parted, head thrown back as you squirm on his cock, as you grind yourself on him and come… again, and again, and– again. His eyes slam open, until he’s staring at the grungy white tiles of the wall. 

There’s something inside his flesh, burrowing into his skin and veins. An infectious heat that slivers and crawls that drips with hunger and greed. Starved for touch and pleasure, it screams and it roars until it’s all Marc can feel too. He wants it, wants you, and nothing else will do. You and the warmth of your body and the way you always welcome him as you wrap yourself around him. 

Shit, he – fuck. fuckfuckfuck. 

He takes a long shuddery breath and it fogs against the cold of the room. He’s shivering but if it’s from the cold of the water stinging against his skin or the heat burning underneath it he doesn’t know anymore. Does it even matter? 

Everything feels raw and painful. Sore and tangled up inside him. He wants– fuck, no fucking stop. He needs to – 

“Marc.” He can hear it again. Your voice calling out his name. Not Steven’s name, his. It echoes and lingers in his mind, soft and sweet. The way it had been when he’d been the one fucking you into the bed between the soft sheets of their bed the night before the incident. 

The way you’d whimpered it, while your nails were digging crescent shaped marks into his skin that were still denting the back of his shoulders when he’d looked this morning. Tiny little marks that are evidence of your love for him. 

His stomach draws tight, hips hitching up without his permission, desperately searching for any friction… shit shit, it’s not enough and it’s too much, the sensation that spears through his stomach as his cock rubs against the hard seam of his jeans. Heat settles at the base of his spine and the sound that escapes him is pathetic. He’s not sure if it’s a gasp or a sob, but he grinds it down between his teeth, snuffing it out. 

Why is his brain trying to murder him like this? 

The heat (or the cold, he doesn’t know which anymore but it doesn’t matter, one of them) is making his mind fuzzy. The grout delineating the tiles in front of him is blurring together, and the room, Marc realizes, is starting to sway and swim. He draws in another breath into his chest, but there’s no oxygen in it. He tries again, and this time the sharp jagged breath hurts, like swallowing broken glass and needles. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. The body is panicking. 

Jake’s trying to push him for the front seat. Marc can feel it, an insistent presence that lingers at the edges of his mind, trying to gain and take hold. But Marc is much better at resisting him these days. Marc’s not going to let him. He doesn’t trust that Jake will be able to hold himself back when it comes to you. Doesn’t trust that the man won’t selfishly uncuff their body and run straight to where you are. His priorities are different from Marc. Jake’s prime concern is to always take care of their body first, everything else comes secondary to that man. Marc doesn’t trust it. Doesn’t trust him. Not with you. He can’t risk it. 

Alarm and anxiety blares bright in his veins, but he can take it. Can endure this. Can–

There’s a loud slam from behind him. 

“Marc, Jesus christ!” 

The sound of your voice makes him whip around. You’re standing in front of him, the bathroom door’s been shoved to the side, wide open, and you’re holding a butter knife in your one hand and what looks like the remnants of his dismantled door handle in your other. 

His heart flutters erratically, a pleasant warmth trickling into his chest. You’re here.

It lasts for a heartbeat and a half, until the realization hits him harder and colder than any ice water could have. You’re here. You’re actually here.  

There’s a concerned expression in your face as you take him in for a full second. Then you drop the items in your hand and rush forward to him until you’re standing under the shower with him. 

“The water is bloody freezing! Have you lost your mind?” You’re shoving past him to get to the tap and turn it off entirely, as you continue to scold him. “You’re going to get hypothermia”.

Your voice might be harsh, but your hands are soft and doting, palms cupping his cheeks, and your eyes are wide and worried in that way that makes everything inside him tighten. His skin tingles where your fingertips brush up against his cheekbones and it takes everything in him to not nuzzle his mouth against your wrists, chasing into your touch for more. 

“You feel like ice. We need to get you into bed, we need to–” your eyes stop at the shower rail and then trail downwards to his right hand that’s cuffed to it in disbelief. Then he hears you take a long exasperated inhale. “Of course, you did,” you murmur, “of course you’d cuff yourself to the damn shower. Where are the keys, Marc?”

His eyes flicker away from your face to stare at the tiles on his left as he grinds his mouth and jaw shut. 

You sigh, then you come closer. You’re crowding in on him, pressed tight to his chest, “fine, I’ll just look myself shall I?” You stand on your tiptoes to reach for the small shower shelf behind him, lifting a shampoo bottle to check if there’s a key underneath. 

Your hair tickles his nose and the familiar comforting smell of you surround him. You’re soft and warm, and amazing and he just wants to sink his teeth into your bare throat that’s inches from his jaw and bite into you like the sweetest and ripest fruit of Summer. 

You shift as you reach for the highest shelf, hips rubbing up against him where they’re slotted between his thighs and fuck–fuck– 

Sharp heat shoots through his stomach, white pleasure blinding and intense that rushes to his head and his knees want to fold under his weight. He groans at the touch and you freeze as he does. 

For a moment both of you are silent and still. The only thing Marc can hear is his own ragged and hash breathing. His body is trying to acclimatize to the new temperature of the room as the heat from his body is quickly evaporating out of him. But the thing under his skin, poisoning his mind and sanity is still there. He feels like he’s on fire. You’re pressed up against every inch of him, and it is screaming in his ears with an ugly hungry need. Marc feels like he’s burning up. Like he’s going to die, flesh burning away until there’s only ashes left, and that’s okay the burrowing need tells him. Let it burn away every inch of resistance left within him, and then he can have you.

Marc wants that, wants you in any way he can have. 

Wants you to grind up on his aching cock that’s so hard it hurts. Wants you to hold him, fingers tugging at his hair until it stings and burns. Want your legs and arms wrapped around him as he sinks inside of you, bury his cock as deep as it goes until he can never leave. 

Wants you, wants you, wants you. It echoes with fury and overtakes everything else. There’s no other brain process except this, as his hand clamps down on your waist and grinds you down on him. His traitorous hips hitching up until he can feel that perfect press of your body against his trapped and pulsing cock. 

You don’t stop him, hand coming up to the back of his neck and hold him close to you. You’re so fucking perfect letting him rub himself up against you, even when he’s acting like some stupid animal in heat. The pleasure sends him on the tip of his toes, chasing the high and it’s good, it feel so fucking– Fuck! 

His eyes slam open, tearing himself away from you. You’re blinking up at him with a confused look. 

The fuck is he doing? 

With his free hand, he moves you out of the range of the shower until your back is pressed against the opposite wall. 

He’s such an idiot, he’s such a fucking stupid– his cheeks burn and prickle, sweat stinging his back underneath the waterlogged shirt. He needs to cool down. Get his head straight. Needs to rid himself of this burning inferno of a hellfire that is roaring under his skin. 

A shower, a cold fucking shower. He needs to calm the fuck down. Needs to– Marc moves back towards the tap and turns it back on. 

“Marc! No! Stop!”

You’re leaping forward into the shower again, uncaring of being in the firing range of the cold water cascading from the showerhead, as you reach for the tap to turn it off. 

“You’re fucking freezing, you need to stop. Marc, I need to get you out of the shower. We need to warm you up. Where’s the keys?” 

He ignores you, tries to wrangle you away from the shower with his back and shoulders, wrestling his path to the tap again. 

You slap at his hand. “Marc, no!” you bark. “Stubborn fucking –” 

He knocks your hand away from the tap, turning it again as he tries to block the ensuing shower from you with his shoulders, and you growl in frustration. 

“Fine, fine! You want the water on, it stays on, but you have to let me–” you shove your way back to the front of the tap, turning the hot water on. It takes a few moments but then the punishing coldness turns lukewarm and almost comforting against his stinging skin. 

“There,” you murmur and back away enough until you’re both staring up at each other again. The water is hitting you too, drenching and soaking your clothes as you peer up at him cautiously. 

“Should I help you take your clothes off? It’ll be more comfortable for you this way,” you say the words slowly, giving him the time to react before you move. 

The logical part in him that’s still intact knows he should stop you. Should tell you to leave before he loses the last of his sanity and tries to maul you like an animal again. 

But his tongue is heavy in his mouth. All his words are failing him, and as you inch closer to him, all he can do is stare up at you, silently begging you– to go, to stay, to abandon him, to touch him, to run, to help him– until he doesn’t know anymore what he wants, and ducks his head to the ground. 

“I can help you if you want to,” you tell him. 

His eyes squeeze shut. He’s so fucking useless. He swore to never let this happen again to you, never put you in that situation again and here the two of you are not even 48 hours later, in the exact same fucking seat. He’s no better than Steven at this. Useless at protecting you. Instead you’re the one trying to take care of him. Maybe you’d be better off with Jake in the saddle. 

“You shouldn’t have to hel–” he starts, but you cut him off. 

“I want to help you,” you enunciate each word and syllable, leaving no room for doubt, as you’re facing up to him in challenge. Then your eyes soften as does your voice. “But I don’t want to force anything on you that you don’t want.” 

There’s a brief silence and the only thing he can hear is the water falling from the shower. Then, “Marc, look at me.” You say it softly, it doesn’t sound like an order, but not quite a request either as Marc tips his head up to meet your gaze. “I’m not going to touch you unless you want to. But I’m gonna stay here with you until this passes. I’m not going anywhere.”

He stares up at you like an idiot, eyes drawn to that determined look in your eyes that he knows he can never win against, and he feels his resolve fail him. 

“Is it okay if I take off your clothes?” you ask again.

And until he gives you an answer, he realizes, you’re going to ask him again and again. You’re so persistent, more than a goose. He loves that about you and he doesn’t know how to say no to you anymore, even if he had wanted to (which he doesn't, not really). 

So he doesn’t, instead he nods. 

You move slow, giving him plenty of time to change his mind. Your hands come to the soggy hem of his shirt, drawing it up against his torso and over his head. Fingertips scraping under the bare naked skin underneath as you go, and it fucking tingles. It tingles and burns and smolders until his insides are on fire, and for a second, Marc is sure that his knees can no longer carry his weight and he’s going to tip over and capsize. 

He leans down his head for balance, and you’re there to catch him. You ground him, as you always do. He rests his forehead against yours and for a moment, the roaring noise of blazing fire in his veins stops. It’s quiet and calm in his head. 

“You okay?” you ask, staring up at him, eyes gentle, as you go slow. 

“Yeah.” 

His shirt is left hanging on the shower rail, where his hand is still cuffed to it. Then your fingers come to the front of his jeans, nail tapping against the metal button and his cock jerks and strains against the wet and heavy material in anticipation. 

Popping open the button, you undo his fly, and the too-strict pressure of the material finally eases. He squirms, “Fuck, baby,” he gasps out, raw and broken. 

You hush him, sweet and comfortingly, with your lips pressed close to his ear, “do you want me to touch you?” 

His mouth feels thick and dry, everything turned into cotton against the roof of his mouth. He swallows, taking another long breath and holds it deep as he tries to get himself together. He’s weak, useless. Can’t get anything right. Can’t even say no when he knows he should. 

“Marc?” you ask again and he inhales deeply to calm himself, then nods. 

You smile, sweet and bright, and…relieved. You look so relieved and… happy, even. It makes it better. Makes him feel a little bit less of a colossal fuck up that you’re doing this for him when you’re smiling at him like that. Your head tips up, lips pressing up against his, and that helps too. With his eyes closed, listening to the sound of your soft hums as he licks into your mouth, he can almost pretend to himself that this is okay. 

Your hand wraps around his cock, squeezing firm and tight in that perfect way that you know he likes. It's relief and pleasure and warmth all wrapped into one, as everything inside him buzzes with a quiet soothing noise that drowns out the rest.

Your soft lips, drags downwards, mouthing at his neck, teeth nipping at his shoulder. He’s still aching, but it feels good. It doesn’t hurt this time, instead everything lingers pleasantly as your lips drift further down, soft plushness dragging against the sore muscle, down the slope of his belly and–wait! What’re you– 

His eyes fly open. He’s staring at the empty walls again. You’re no longer standing face to face with him and his head drops down. The sight that greets him slams into his ribs until he nearly doubles over. Fuck. 

You’re on your knees on the wet bathroom floor, tucked between his legs. Staring up at his cock through your water-lined lashes that glitters against the harsh fluorescent light. 

“Baby– wai–wait,” his words fumble and trip out of his mouth, brain unable to process the sight in front of him. He wasn’t prepared for this. “You don’t have to–” 

“Marc,” you breathe, cutting him off again. From this close distance he can feel the warmth of your mouth gust over the overwrought tip of his cock, and he nearly blacks out. Your voice sounds drippingly sweet and warm. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. Let me do this for you”.

He should stop you. You shouldn’t have to be on your knees and take care of him when he’s the one who fucked up and got himself caught in this mess. There’s a tight lump stuck in his throat that he tries to swallow down so he can speak, but it doesn’t ease and the words aren’t coming to him. 

Your hand comes to the side of his thighs, dragging the drenched denim down his legs and discard them into a sloppy pile in the corner of the floor. 

He gazes down on you, how the shower has drenched your oversized sleepshirt, until the white of it has gone see-through. The drenched cotton cling onto your skin and the curve of your breasts and his cock bobs up and strains against his stomach at the sight. Shit. 

Embarrassed heat climbs his cheeks, and judging from the smile tugging at your cheeks, you definitely noticed his reaction. You lean up, mouth brushing up against the length of his cock and press a kiss to the swollen flesh. White blinding heat streaks through his chest and his stomach draws in tight. He can’t think. 

It’s here again, that hungry ember that scalds hot in his veins. It’s overwhelming, his toes curl against the tiles, breath catching sharp in his lungs until he feels like the ground is going to swallow him up. His knees are giving out, the hard tiles gone soft and weightless beneath the sole of his feet. He’s panicking again. His hand flings out, clutching at your shoulders, fingers digging in, it’s too hard and too rough, and he shouldn’t be doing that – shouldn’t be doing anything of this, but he can’t help himself. 

One of your hands comes to rest on top of his, and you tilt your head just enough to press a soft kiss to his knuckles. 

“It’s okay, Marc. it’s okay,” you say, and with those words, the panic in him dissipates somewhat. Enough to have his fingers ease their hard grip on your shoulders, as you lean your back closer between his thighs. 

Try as he might, he can’t pretend he doesn’t want this, want you. Your mouth is inches from his cock, and he can see the incriminating precome welling up at the tip, where it shines slick, giving him away. His breath constricts in his chest, as he waits for you. 

You lean closer, and he catches the pink tip of your tongue as it darts out to lick at the liquid dribbling down the length of him. His spine seizes up at the barely there contact, an ugly noise tearing from his throat. 

“Marc, you okay?” you ask, and when he blinks down at you, lips slick with him, he feels undone. “Should I keep going?” 

Marc swallows down the whimper that is lingering dangerously at the tip of his tongue that wants to leap out. He nods a little bit too frantically in response and he barely has the time to meet your eyes, and how it glitters with pride at his reaction. Then your lips part and you envelop his cock in the perfect sweet warmth of your mouth. 

An electrical static noise crackles in his head. Your mouth is so fucking good. Soft silk wrapped all around him. Your tongue slides softly over the ridge of his cock and sweet aching bliss twines through his limbs. It’s slow and languid, the tip of your tongue darting out with soft, fluttering licks against his oversensitive flesh as you take your time and try to murder him. You’re succeeding too. 

Heat carves through him sharp and intense. With the way his heart is trying to pound its way through flesh and muscle and out of his chest, he’s pretty sure he’s only got minutes to spare before his heart entirely gives out and he drops dead on the bathroom floor. 

You’re so ridiculously gorgeous. Eyes half-lidded as you stare up at him with unwavering attention. 

It’s bliss. It’s torture. It’s heaven and hell. Marc doesn’t know up from down anymore. All he knows as his cock slides between your lips, wet and slippery and so fucking good, is that he doesn’t want it to stop.  

For all the composure he’s trained into himself for years and decades, he can’t seem to find an ounce of it to draw from in this moment. He never can as far as you're concerned. His hands fists at his side, every muscle in him tensing, trying to stop the way his hips cants up with small thrusts into your mouth. But it’s not working. His body is betraying him, refusing to stay still. 

Good, it feels so– The burning flame under his skin is back, the whole of his body is wracked in warm pleasant shivers and he wants to curl into your touch. 

You hum, a small quiet little sound as you suck on the tip and he can feel the pleasant vibrations of it skitter up his entire spine. He jackknifes forward, pressing further into your mouth and fuck, he can feel the head of his cock nudge against the resistance of your throat. He stops there. Makes himself stop, ignores how every muscle in him is screaming for him to move. His cock pulses eagerly on your tongue, desperate for friction. But he ignores it. 

He can’t have this for himself. Doesn’t deserve it. 

“Come back up here, need to make you feel good baby. Let me- fuck let me make you feel good,” he says, even as his balls are drawing up, cock going somehow even harder, swelling and throbbing on your tongue. 

Marc swears, bites down on his lip hard until he tastes blood, and clenches every damn muscle in his body as he backs away, and slides himself out between your lips. Somehow, miraculously, he manages to hold on. His damn dick jerks and bounces spasmodically, oozing precome all over the damn floor as he struggles for control.  And through it all you just smile indulgently up at him, eyes gleaming, the pearly edge of your teeth digging into that perfectly plump lower lip.

He wonders if you even fucking heard him, because you’re leaning back in towards him, and wrap your mouth back around his cock. That inescapable fire is building at the base of his spine, threatening to burn him to the ground, but he can’t let himself come yet. He can’t because then it will be over, and you’ll have given this to him, and he doesn’t fucking deserve it. 

Marc doesn't deserve you, period. But he definitely doesn't deserve to have you on your knees like this for his miserable ass. Doesn't deserve that warm, worshipful mouth, slicking and sliding so perfectly over his aching cock. Perfect lips stretched tight around him as you struggle to take him as deep as you can. Doesn't deserve the way your hand alternates between clutching at him and petting so gently over his skin. Doesn't deserve the loving look in your eyes. Has to close his own eyes against the sight of you or this is all going to be over in about half a second.

But somehow that's even fucking worse, behind closed eyes it makes the feeling of it all the more acute. There's nothing there to distract him. He can't escape the feel of your clever tongue and perfect wet heat of your mouth wrapped around him in the blank darkness. The way your tongue curls around him. You’re moaning just slightly with each press forward, and he can feel the vibrations of it along every throbbing inch of his dick. It's fucking killing him.

“Let me–I can’t stop, I can’t–” He’s sobbing, the sound raw and needy as it wrenches out of his throat. Pleasure sears through his entire back. 

He's trying to hold still. He's fucking trying. But his legs are fucking shaking. Trembling thighs threatening to dump him on his ass any second, and he can't seem to control the way his hips are hitching forward in tiny abortive thrusts, seeking more even as he knows he should be jerking back, pulling away, and convincing you to let him make you feel good instead. but you don't seem to mind at all. 

Fuck, you seem to love it, moaning louder every time he loses the battle with his instincts. 

This is so wrong. He’s not in his right mind, not in control. You should be shoving him away, but instead you’re clutching at his ass with one hand, fingernails digging in as you encourage him to thrust harder, deeper. Tiny sharp bites of pain that just seem to add to the maelstrom of pleasure twisting and building in his gut.

Marc opens his mouth, determined to make one more attempt at convincing you, but then you swallow around him, moan around him, and all that comes out is a guttural groan. 

"Ba-baby-," he stutters out. He tugs on your hair, trying desperately to be gentle, but he's not entirely sure he manages it. You let him pull you off, one torturous inch at a time, and he barely manages to stop the thrust of his hips, the instinctual need to chase your mouth.

You look up at him, all wide eyes and slick, swollen lips. One long shiny string of spit or precome of both still connecting the two of you.

Oh shit,  how is he supposed to resist when you’re looking at him like that? Like he's actually worth a damn, when you’re the one who's worth anything, everything. He can’t, he was crazy to think he ever fucking could.

"Marc," you say, tone mildly reproachful. Your voice is hoarse... from swallowing his cock, and for a second, he thinks that's fucking it for him.  

Close, so fucking close. It’s pushing and clawing at every stitch and seam inside of his skin and he is unraveling. No wonder Steven lost it. No wonder he gave in. Marc can taste his climax at the tip of his tongue, dangling precariously on the fine thread of his fragile sanity. He squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to block it out. 

“Let go,” you hum, and you press your mouth to the trembling muscle on the inside of his thigh that makes him jolt up and nearly swallow his tongue. “You don’t have to hold on anymore. I want you to come. Want you to come in my mouth.”

Fuuuuck. 

You kiss your way up, and he’s trying desperately to hold on, to hold back. But he can’t, not when he feels your tongue trail the underside of his cock with a long wet and devoted line. Not when you’re kissing his hips. Not when you put that perfect mouth of yours back on his cock and swallow him down. 

Your hand wraps around the base of his cock, where your mouth can’t reach, giving it a firm stroke downwards, and his toes tingle. His whole body is shaking uncontrollably now. The pleasure is almost unbearable. his muscles jerking and twitching uncontrollably with every slide of those pretty lips.

That insidious flame flickers at the base of his spine ominously. Warning him of what’s to come. It feels too fucking good, he can’t deny himself of this anymore. His orgasm swells up, large and looming, rushing out along every nerve ending and won’t be ignored. 

“Baby, fuckfuck, please– I can’t–can’t,” he opens his eyes, and looks down on you and fuck that’s such a mistake. You’re looking up at him, a dark pitch that bleeds into your blown pupils. His eyes slam back shut again because he can't survive the hungry look in your eyes.

But it’s already too late. 

His orgasm is consuming, large and looming as it’s trying to eat him whole. It wraps around his flesh and licks down to the marrow. From the curl of his toes, searing through his thighs until it’s permanently carved somewhere deep into his ribs, as he comes down your throat. Leaving nothing but a tingling ache in its wake.

It feels endless, the way he keeps pulsing into your mouth. Cock twitching against your lips, riding out his oversensitivity at your lapping tongue. 

He’s moaning and whimpering, toes skidding along the wet tiles as he desperately tries to find his footing. There’s nothing left but his undeniable surrender. Letting you take as much as you want from him. Until he’s empty and the blazing blue flame in his veins is sated and wrung dry from your attentive tongue. 

There’s clarity again. The dust and smoke clears until there’s only a faint smell of ashes lingering in the back of his mind and he feels like he can think again. His muscles ache with the soreness, and as he takes a long inhale, oxygen floods his head with a rush. Sweet fucking relief, he can breathe again. 

It doesn’t last very long. His eyes open, to see you smile up at him, bleary eyed and messy, drenched hair plastered on your forehead. The water from the shower is still running down your face as you’re trying to catch your breath.

You look like a mess. He did that to you, and you look so fucking good like this.

It’s all it takes, and the insidious heat licks at his bones, corrupting his blood again. The hunger in him returns with a devastating scream in his flesh. His mouth salivates, like what came before was only an appetizer. Now he’s gotten a taste and he’s hungrier than he was before. 

It makes him gain a new sympathy for Steven and the hell the man must’ve gone through with you two nights ago.

Fuck what’s wrong with him. Marc’s already gotten one release. That should’ve sated him. But he can already feel the simmering hunger gain hold again. All it did was make that selfish hungry monster inside him more insatiable. The greedy need claws at his veins, refusing to be ignored anymore.

There’s a knowing look in your eyes that makes his heart seize up. “Do you need more? Do you want to go again?” you ask. 

He swallows around the constricting lump of guilt lodged deep in his throat, blinking up at you, unable to answer. Unable to open his mouth to ask. You’ve given him too much already, he can’t ask for more. 

“It’s okay, Marc. You can ask me.”

You say it with that voice. Breathless, filled with love and affection, like you’d offer him the world if he asked you for it, and it’s not right, he’s the one that should be doing that. The one to give you everything. Yet somehow he keeps finding himself in this seat where he’s the one taking and you’re the one giving. 

“I’m here,” you tell him. “It’s going to be okay, I’m not going anywhere until you’re okay.”

Shit. His chest squeezes tight. The feeling is so large and overwhelming his veins are overbrimming with it. But he never knew how to tell you with words. So he shows you in the only way he’s ever known. 

He drops down to his knees, ignoring the strain in his shoulder from the hand still cuffed tight to the shower. His free hand reaches for you, cupping the back of your neck to pull you in, His mouth slant over yours, and he swallows the sweet affectionate hum between your lips. 

I love you. 

That’s what he’d say if he knew how to. 

I love you and I want to be everything to you. 

He cups your face in his one free hand, thumb smoothing over your cheekbone as he tilts you up to his mouth and kisses you. Your mouth parts, letting him lick into into your mouth properly. You still taste of him. Tart and salty, and the taste of him on your tongue makes him lightheaded. 

Needy heat rolls over his back, and he can feel it again. The demanding hunger that is consuming his insides. The one that wants him to sink his teeth into your soft and pliant flesh, lick and nip at every inch of wet skin you’ll let him as he tries to swallow you whole. It’s not enough. Kissing you isn’t enough. He wants you pressed up against every inch of him. Wants your body lined against his, your legs spread wide as he settles between them. Wants your back arching up against him, breathless and keen as he buries himself inside you. 

He leans further down, pressing you downwards until he has you flat on your back against the cold and hard tiles, and he should do better by you. Should take you into bed, where it’s soft and warm. Nice and sweet. Not fuck you against the dirty floor of Steven’s dirty bathroom like some savage. 

But his body isn’t listening to him, surging down to reclaim your lips as he grinds his hips and cock against the softness of your stomach. He’s hard again, or maybe he never went down for the count, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s aching for you. All of him dying to be buried inside of you to the hilt. 

Pleasure sparks deep in his veins at the contact, and he does it again, grinds himself needily into you, smearing precome over the fabric of your already soaked sleepshirt. God he’s such a mess, he’s ruining your clothes. 

He forces himself up again, kneeling over your body, as he stares down at you. He’s made such a fucking mess of things… of you. Your face is wet from the shower, hair matted against your forehead, and your shirt is soaked and opaque clinging wetly to your skin underneath. The sight of you makes his mouth dry with heat. 

Behind him, the spray of the shower is raining down lukewarm water over his back. It should calm him, that’s why he turned the damn thing on in the first place, but it doesn’t. He can’t even feel it anymore, can barely hear the sound of the shower drizzling down like rain. Instead it’s all turned to static noise inside his head. 

The only thing he sees is your pretty face look up at him, warm and affectionate, and so fucking loving, and he feels sick with want over you. 

“Baby, you gotta tell me to stop,” he forces out, and his hand draws down between his legs to grip his aching cock, that’s throbbing in time with his heartbeat. 

“If it gets too much– you have to–” 

You rise up to meet him, curling one arm around his neck until you’re face to face, so close that your nose nudges his. Your hand reaches down between you, wrapping your hand over his, and your eyes never falter from his, as you shove your panties to the side and guide his hand to notch his cock against your entrance. 

Fuck, you’re dripping. He’s not even inside, and he can feel you slick and warm and wet against the head of his cock. 

“Can you feel that?” you murmur, against his lips. “How wet you got me? I need this too. Need you to fuck your cock inside me, Marc.” 

Shit. 

He snaps. Plain and simple. 

He thrusts down and into you with a long and deep consuming stroke and it’s fucking everything. 

Ecstasy rushes into his bloodstream with a heady sugary rush, and he chases it with his hips, burying his cock inside as deep as you can take him, until it nudges something sweet and blissful that has you clawing at his arm with a gorgeous sob ripped from your throat. 

And it’s so good, so fucking good, he wants to crawl into that sound and nestle into it. He drags himself out of you, until only the overwrought tip of his cock rests inside you, watching you bite down on your lip to muffle your sounds, and that won’t do. Marc wants to hear you. Wants you to scream so loud his ears ring from pain with it. Fuck, he wants to go deaf with it. Wants the sound of your voice obliterate him until it echoes in his ears til the day he dies.

His arm moves to your leg, curling around your thigh to pull you in closer towards his torso, canting you upwards, tilting you at that angle that he knows will make you cry for him. Then he slams forward, his thighs tense, burning with the pleasure that threatens to incinerate him. You’re so fucking tight around him. It’s heaven if Marc ever believed in one. 

Your fingers tighten down on him, nails digging into his skin and the biting pain only makes the pleasure of it all the more ripe and sweet as you clamp down around his cock. 

He can’t stop. Hips thrusting into you with a demanding pace like his body is no longer his own, just a conduit for him to chase that mad pleasure that skitters to his brain and has him want to go harder, deeper, until he’s lodged so deep inside that you can never rid him of you. 

It’s a selfish need that Marc would never allow himself to give voice to. He keeps it jammed under a lid and pretends it’s not there. That deep gnawing hunger that wants you all to himself and never have to share. The possessive streak in his veins that wants to mark you, fuck himself so deep into you until you can fucking taste him in your throat. 

Your legs are wrapped all around him, clamping down around his torso until he’s sure you’re constricting his lungs from the sheer force of it and he almost can’t breathe. “Shit, baby–fuck, you’re so– I–” he grinds down on his teeth, and doesn't let himself say the words, swallowing down the groan that tears through his throat. 

So good, he thinks to himself. You feel so fucking good. So warm and wet and blissfully tight around his cock. He loves you. Loves you so fucking much and he can’t stop, won’t stop– Never want to stop fucking his cock into you. 

Then he sees it. That all familiar tell that lets him know you are close. Every muscle in your body goes taut, and you’re squeezing down almost rhythmically and so tight it knocks the fucking breath out of his lungs. “That’s it baby, come on my cock for me.” 

Your eyes roll back, mouth parting as your back arches upward.

And there you go. You’re so fucking beautiful. 

You come hard and punishingly tight as you squeeze around his cock. 

The pleasure swirls hot and hungry inside his gut, and it’s all it takes to push him right over the edge with you. He spills himself inside, pulse after greedy pulse as he fills you. 

He barely manages to catch himself with a palm braced next to your head on the tiles as he tries to come down.

There’s no relief this time. Not like last time, however brief it was. This time his climax only serves to fuel the pathetic need in his chest. Like someone threw gasoline over an open fire and now it’s spreading everywhere and there’s no extinguisher in sight. 

More, the hunger inside his veins scream out. Again. 

Wants to feel you come again. Wants to feel you squeeze tight around his cock, as your lips part and moan out his name in bliss again. Want to feel your slick drench his cock as you come again and again and again and again. 

He’s still hard. 

He thrusts forward, and you cry, high pitched and broken and the sound makes the blood in his veins sing. 

You're slick and excruciatingly tight, but his come drips out of you, easing the tight press of his cock no matter how hard you squeeze down on him. 

“It’s okay baby,” he hushes, and you sob in reply even as he bends down to press a kiss to your temple. “It’s okay. You can take it for me. Doing so good. You’re being so good,” he coos, as he cants his hips and pushes into you as deeply as he can again. 

Closer. He needs you closer than this. Wants his hands to touch and grip every inch of your skin. He brings his other arm to wrap around your waist, and something tugs and restrains him from behind. It locks up his shoulder, and no matter how hard he pulls forward, he can’t quite reach you. 

You blink up at him, eyes narrowing in confusion as you watch him before your eyes widen, hand reaching up for him. “Marc, wait– you’re–” 

His free arm shoots out around your shoulders and reels you close as he captures your mouth, swallowing down your words. He’s trying to come down to you, to press you down against the floor with the weight of his body, and wrap his arms around you, and never let go. Hold you so tight to him until you can never leave. But something won’t let him. No matter how hard he strains forward the strength holding back his arm won’t budge. 

There’s a metallic groaning noise that protests as he continues to pull against the resisting strength from behind him, as he rolls his hips relentlessly into you, chasing the pleasure. It digs sharp into his wrist with a jagged pain, but he doesn’t even care. Marc wants to hold you close, wrap his arm around your leg and squeeze it tight to his hips and lock you there. 

He rips against the hindrance, with an impatient and angry snarl. The strain and resistance finally gives, and he’s free to put both his hands on you. His arms lock up tight around your waist. 

There's a cacophony of sound somewhere in the distance. Of broken dishes and sharp crashing noise, but he doesn't care. The roof could be collapsing right now and it wouldn't make any damn difference to him so long as you were still here with him.

“Fuck! Marc!”

It doesn’t even register until he hears your agitated shout. He looks up in a daze at you, Your wide and alarmed eyes. Something’s wrong. 

His head whips back, tearing himself away from you prepared to leap into action at the culprit. But that's not what he sees.

There’s debris on the wall. Bare cement in the large torn cracks of the tiled walls. There’s jagged pieces of cracked white porcelain on the floor. Debris and parts of the wall along with the showerhead and the metal rod he handcuffed himself to is lying in ruined shambles below, as the shower spits out water all around like a death rattle. 

Well fuck.  

Fuck– what is he… 

Shit!

He’s completely lost control. The familiar dread and anxiety bleeds into his veins, and he can fight it all he wants, but it’s already here. 

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He was the one who was supposed to be able to keep it together. The one who was supposed to protect you from this and keep you safe from harm. The bitter acrid taste of failure lingers on his tongue and drips down his throat until it reaches his lungs. Embarrassment clings to his cheeks and burns like fire. His body wants to curl into itself and hide, until he’s so small no one can see him anymore, least of all you. 

“Marc, it’s okay,” you say as you plant an elbow against the slippery floor to you can raise yourself into a sitting position. Until you’re both at eye level with each other. 

“It’s okay. Just ignore it. We’ll clean it up later,” you murmur as you crawl closer to him, until your face is within inches from his and you press your mouth to his cheek. Then you climb into his lap, the firm press of your warm body straddling his thighs and he looks up at you in dazed awe. 

“Do you want to keep going?” you ask. 

Despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t. That he shouldn’t ask this of you, he still nods, whimpering at the reassuring press of your body against his achingly hard cock. 

“As many times as it takes, okay?” Your fingers circle around the base of his cock, and he chokes on a moan, as you position him against your entrance. You’re slick and warm and fucking dripping for him. 

“Let’s keep going until you feel better. I don’t want you to hold back anymore. Is that okay?” you say.

He doesn't understand how that's a question. Of course it's okay, it's more than okay, it's all he wants. All he ever wants. He nods, and you smile at him. That warm and affectionate smile filled with love and it fills him to the brim. He feels like his heart is going to give out again. There's no more space for shame anymore, the way your smile crowds his vision and every inch of space inside him.

You lift your hips slightly, then you lower your knees, slowly sinking down on his cock until he’s buried all the way inside you, squeezing down around his cock in that perfect way you do, and he can’t fucking think. 

You’re looking down at him like you’re expecting him to answer and he doesn’t even remember how to open his mouth and use vocal cords anymore, fuck he doesn’t even remember what the question was. 

“Marc,” you repeat, 

He still doesn’t know what you’re asking him. But it doesn’t matter does it? When it comes to you, he’s never going to say no to you. So he answers you with the only answer he has. 

“Yes.”

It must be the right answer you were looking for, because you’re looking at him in that way again, smiling up brightly at him, like he’s worth a damn, worth everything to you. He knows that you’re wrong about that. He doesn’t deserve it. But it fills his chest with something sweet and heady. An antidote to the poisonous fire that’s still burning hot and bitter in his veins. He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t fight the warm buzz that’s trickling slowly into his veins and lets himself bask in it. 

After all, who is he to say no to you? 

You roll your hips against him and your eyes flutter close with a gasp as his cock hits something deep inside, and both of you moan at the feeling as he tightens his arms around your waist. 

You lean closer, lips pressed to his ear, “I love you, Marc” you whisper in the hair above his ears and his whole back shudders pleasantly. 

He tilts his head upwards, his nose brushing up against your chin and cheeks as he tries to find his way back to your mouth. 

Marc might not deserve you. But you deserve everything you want and more, and if Marc is one of those things (for whatever unfathomable reason that he will never understand)… then that makes things a little bit easier for him. 

He wakes with a pounding headache. 

The muscles in his shoulders and back are stiff and sore, cramping up with a sharp throb as he tries to get up. Every limb aches. He feels like he was hit by a fucking truck going at full speed down a highway. 

“Morning,” your voice greets, as your hand comes to his forehead and rests there as if you’re checking for his temperature. It’s soft and soothing, a balm to the ache in body and he fights every instinct to not nuzzle into the palm of your hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” he replies. His voice scrapes against the lining of his throat, like something crawled up in there and died. 

He can hear you laugh quietly at his reply, and despite how crap he feels, the sound seeps into his chest and the stiffness melts just a little bit. The bed dips as you sit down on the edge next to him. 

“How long was I out for?” 

“Not too long. Just a bit. You needed the rest,” you answer, and it's entirely too vague for his liking. 

He anchors his elbow into the soft bedding below and despite the angry creak of the mattress and the protesting groan in his bones, he tries to get up into a sitting position. His head feels lightheaded with the sudden altitude, like he’s about to throw up all over the sheets. It’s like he’s experiencing the world’s worst hangover, the second time in less two days. As soon as he gets his hand on that sex sprite, he’s going to fling it into the surface of the sun. Don’t care how upset that will make Min’s avatar. 

Bringing his hand to his face, he rubs at his temples and the blunt throbbing pain that’s killing his head, when it occurs to him. His wrist feels light and unimpeded, there’s no sharp metal digging into his wrist.  He stares down at his now bare wrist, then he looks up at you in confusion. 

“Jake told me where the key was,” you answer. 

He frowns, but holds his tongue. That means at some point while Marc was still unconscious, Jake must've woken up without him being aware. Marc doesn’t love that. He’s still not completely at ease with Jake being around you. Especially when he’s unconscious and can’t keep an eye out to step in and protect you if something were to go wrong. 

As if something hasn’t already.

Marc is such a hypocrite, talking about protecting you as if he isn’t the very wolf at your door, fangs poised at your throat. 

Your thumb smooths over his knuckles, as you nudge his leg with your knees.  “Should I make you some coffee? Maybe some breakfast. Can whip up some omelets for you.”

He shakes his head. “No I gotta get up. Try to catch that thing before it does more damage again.”

He should tell you to leave. It’s not safe for you here. But he knows you’re going to fight him tooth and nail over it. 

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” you say as you rise from the bed, “stay there for just a sec will you?” 

You walk up to the Gus trio’s tank, sliding a few books around, and pick something up before you make your way back to him, holding an all too familiar brass-metal box in the palm of your hand outstretched to him. 

He can see from the shape on the golden lid the puzzle sequence has been properly completed, just like that obnoxious Avatar had shown him. Locked and sealed.

“How did you–” he sputters out in shock as he eyes it. 

“Steven sealed it for me.”

He blinks, feeling a little bit stunned as he takes the box from you. “How did you get it back in there in the first place.”

“You said that it liked small cramped spaces with a lid. I figured it couldn’t have gotten far from the flat like last time. So I just started opening every single item in the place with a lid. It hid in an empty shoebox this time.” 

Marc grits his teeth. “That’s dangerous, it could’ve possessed you.”

You wave your hands dismissively at his concerns. “It’s alright. I had a fly-swatter,” you answer, like that answers everything and Marc’s just being silly. 

“You what?”

“A flyswatter. I just swatted at it until it finally got back into the box. Had to chase it around the flat, reopening every jar and box in the flat for a good hour or so until it got the hint.” 

He wants to scold you, want to point out everything that could’ve gone wrong and how you should have just ran out of the apartment and gotten yourself to safety. It’s a speech he’s made a hundred times before, but you never listened then either, and those times you didn’t have the upper hand with the argument, given that he passed out and you saved the day. 

So he bites his tongue. 

“Hey,” you say softly as your hand comes to cup his cheek. “Everything worked out fine alright? It’s a happy ending. You don’t have to look so sad.” 

He bites the insides of his cheek. Flashes of you under him, soft and moaning, legs spread and wrapped around him, invading in startling technicolor.

“I’m…” he wants to say sorry, but the word won't come. His hand curls into a fist to his side with unease. “That shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let you stay and do that for me”.

“Marc, it’s not a punishment for me to have sex with you. This shouldn't come as a surprise to you by now, but I like having sex with you.” 

He doesn’t answer you, just stares blindly at his feet at the end of the bed, as the guilt crawls in his gut and tries to consume him. Maybe he should let it. It’s what he deserves after all. 

You scoot closer to him, an exasperated but fond look in your eyes as you take his hand in yours. “You see Marc, when two adults love each other very much,” you sing-song and start to jokingly explain to him about the bird and the bees.

Despite himself he can feel the smile tugging at his lips, and the gnawing anxiety fades a bit. You think you’re so fucking funny sometimes (and to Marc you are), but he isn’t going to let the laugh that wants to push up against his throat betray him. You meet his smile with your own, and that helps to take away the last of that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Can you promise me that next time something like this happens again, you won't run away… or lock yourself in the bathroom to deal with it all by yourself? We’ll handle it together alright?”

Marc meets the look in your eye. It's the same one that he keeps finding somehow even though he never quite understands why, of love and adoration for him.

A part of him wants to fight it, push it away because he doesn't deserve it... But your soft voice echoes in his ear. The weight of your arms wrapped around his shoulders still lingers from before. 'I love you', you had told him, and whether he deserves your love or not is maybe not the point. You love him regardless. And who is he to say no to you?

“Yeah,” Marc nods. “Together.”

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

Happy Moon-aversary everyone!!! I can't believe I'm still here a whole year after this show premiered. When I first saw that trailer with Oscar Isaac's strange british accent I remember telling @thirstworldproblemss I was sceptical and then I watched about 5 minutes of Steven on screen and went "oh no, I'm in love with this man" and the rest is history.

I hope you guys enjoyed this piece as much as I enjoyed writing it, thank you so much for taking the time to read it I appreciate all of you so very much.

Dedications and credit: To my co-worker, co-clown and the love of my life @thirstworldproblemss she's had a busy few months and she is everything to me please go over and send her some love if you have time!!!!

Also to my muse @guruan who draws horny sketches and the most inspiring artpieces that makes me write near 13k of blowjob for this man. That blowjob scene was particularly inspired by THIS sketch. Send her love! Send her reblogs, send her everything you have and more!

[revelboo]

ugh the bluestreak one really makes me feel things. I want to protect him and reassure him and be there for him and hold him and just let him be happy and loved 😭

Thank you for writing these fics the always make my day. I'm curious, do you have plans for the stories or do you come up with stuff as you write?

I have a rough idea where I’m going with these, but I’m not sitting down and outlining these by any means 😅

Where I Belong Pt 5

IDW Bluestreak x Reader

• “You can tell me to shut up, I won’t get mad,” he says watching your little legs swing where you’re stretched out on his desk on your belly, a blanket under you. He’s not allowed back on patrol just yet, but he can still work on the never ending supply of reports to be filed away. A boring enough job, but it’s nice to have you there with him. Someone to talk to as he works the datapad with one hand and drapes the other against your shoulders and back so you’re not shivering. You’re always worryingly cold and he likes the contact, the reminder that you’re there. That he’s not alone.

• Eyes closing as a servo presses between your shoulders, rubbing almost absentmindedly, you soak in the warmth of his touch. “You’re not bothering me,” you reassure him again. Because it’s apparent that he’s used to being told to stop talking and that makes you dearly want to slap someone. For being so big, being able to hurt you so easily, he’s shockingly careful with you like he’s afraid of accidentally breaking you. “I like your stories.” And you do, because it’s like he has years worth of anecdotes and stories he’s just been waiting to share. And he gets so excited about them, like a big kid. It’s adorable.

• “I’m sorry again that you can’t leave the Ark,” he mutters, watching from the corner of his optic as you glance at him. “You’re trapped here because of me. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay.” It’s not fair to you that he took your freedom away without even asking because he’d been terrified. Clinging to you, pleading to not be left alone. And you’d stayed, reached out to him in return. He doesn’t know if it was only pity, but it means everything to him.

• Every worried word just melts your heart a bit more. “I chose to stay and I don’t regret it.” Pushing against his palm until he moves his big hand so you can climb to your feet and walk closer to him, head tipping back to meet those blue optics. Seeing the uncertainty there, the guilt. “I like it here.” With you. And you do. You like his company even if you’re essentially on alien house arrest. Makes you wonder what your boss thought when you just blipped off the face of the earth, house abandoned and destroyed. Maybe no one has even noticed you’re missing yet. Or cared. You’d been alone and okay with that, but Bluestreak needs you and it feels good to be needed.

• He’s reaching before he can think better of it, servos curling around you, but stopping short of actually touching you. Silently asking permission, if it’s okay. And your smile is amused as you take a little sideways step to press against his palm, allowing him to pick you up. So small and warm as he lifts you against him under his chin, against his neck where the mesh is most sensitive so he can feel you there. Reassuring himself. “Thank you,” he says, trying to not cling too tightly, but never wanting to let go. Knowing that like everyone else, no matter what you say now, you’ll get tired of him. You’ll leave him too. Everyone does in the end, but for now he can pretend.

Previous

Next

[divine-crows]

🎨✨️Art Magic✨️🎨

Uses, Forms of it, and Why I Think Everyone Should Try it at Least Once.

Foreword

Right before the COVID-19 pandemic hit, I had been trying and failing to rekindle my flame for magic work. No matter what I tried to do I just couldn't get back into my studies and I was reaching a point where I was convinced I lost my spark and was doomed to live an empty life. Then it all changed when a YouTube Channel challenged how I thought about everything: Molly Roberts. That's when I was opened to the possibility of art magic, and I'll now share my love of it with anyone willing to read on.

What Is Art Magic?

A means to utilize art for spellwork, raising magical energy, or for exploring your magical subconscious. It encapsulates multiple different types of art and is generally not confined by conventional expectation (unless that's what you prefer).

You can utilize art magic by. . .

Using traditional art methods

Digital art methods

Collages

Music composition

Jewelry making

Embroidery

And much more!

How do I know if Art Magic is Suitable for Me?

There isn't a specific thing that'll indicate this form of magic is perfect for you, however I have some anecdotes from my personal experience as both a witch, and a regular artist that form a sort of idea on what could denote this being perfect for you!

First off, craving freedom from personal restraints was a big factor that pushed me towards blending my craft with my passion for art. If you want to run from the monotony of life, if you feel trapped by the social construction of boxes, or if you simply want to challenge your own mental restraints... then this idea might resonate with you.

Challenging yourself with a new form of magic, similarly, can also be a good enough reason to try. I'm the type of person who loves to constantly learn new things and I unfortunately get bored really quickly if I can't get new source materials. Using Art Magic has proven a fun challenge for me that allows me to explore a lot more topics you can't just open a book to find.

For those that may not be able to safely perform a lot of traditional style spells, this form of magic provides a discreet way to practice witchcraft. Most people wouldn't really question someone if they picked up the hobby of making art, and even if they did there's plenty of reasonable excuses out there.

How you prefer your spells to manifest themselves can also affect if this journey is a good idea or not. I find that Art Magic is really good when it comes to subtle spellwork that is more longform (though depending on how you construct them you can definitely create a spell that's the opposite).

Catalog aspects of your magical journey. Imagine a grimoire filled with pages of drawings, each one telling a story of something you experienced or learned as a witch. This especially may be more beneficial for visual learners.

You could use it as a means of meditation, sometimes art can be calming and it can open the door to your mind (so-to-speak). Especially if you're like me and struggle with staying completely still while trying to clear your mind, this may be helpful for you.

Trying to better understand archetypes, deities, types of entities, or even your own self can also be a big part of this. I've used art magic as a way to embody the "energy" of something before so I could better understand it. Especially when you're trying to seek knowledge that isn't often written on, it can provide a great way to explore more.

How Can I perform an Art Spell?

I have a step-by-step process that can give you some insight on how you may approach it:

1) Think of the intention you want. I like to close my eyes and meditate on it for about a minute then I write down if my mind wandered to any specific imagery or ideas.

2) Think of visual symbolism and colors that can help you capture the mood you want. Perhaps you need a warm color palette to invoke positive feelings, or maybe there are specific objects or animals you can include on the composition that represent something.

3) If you feel it fits your composition, you can include sigils, symbols of significance, and include shapes that have certain associations. It doesn't even have to be obvious either. You can use a circular composition to convey something endless for example, or a triangular composition to show priority over something.

4) In general follow what your heart tells you. This is a little cliche, but ultimately follow what seems best to you. Art isn't about boxing yourself in and my guidelines are just general ideas for anyone who's lost!

Why do I think that everyone should try it at least once?

From my experiences as a witch, I find that a lot of paths to be followed are quite rigid. By no means am I implying that a rigid structure is bad-- it creates a foundation from which we can work upon. I myself am exploring rigid, 'traditional' (for lack of a better term) ways of working magic. Art magic pushes you out of your comfort zone in a safe way. It makes you consider how you associate things. It makes you create new sigils and makes you research new symbols you previously wouldn't have used.

So next time you're lost on a spell, or you've lost your way in your Craft and you don't know what to do, think about maybe giving Art Magic a try. I hope my guide was a helpful starting point for anyone interested in the topic!

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: Wally had had no idea what he'd been looking at. Had barely had a reaction to it apart from subtle feelings of anxiety. In fact, it hadn't inspired anything more than a shrug and the thought of, "Neat. It's a tree."

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.16

Group adjourned with Mr. Martin's instruction to pick anything but Rudy for tomorrow's Movie Night. Maddie split almost immediately; in pursuit of another lead or to stalk Mr. Anderson, Wally wasn't sure, but once he heard the door click behind her, he sagged in relief.

Too soon, he realized. When he looked up he saw Rhonda bolt from her seat and cut through the center of the circle like a shark through water, Charley on her heels.

"What was that?" She challenged, sizing the length of Wally up with a wave of her bare lollipop stem.

"What was what?"

Charley squinted at him, quickly scanned about before he leaned in and furtively said, "Oh, I don't know. How about that monstrosity of a performance you just forced us to participate in?"

Wally gulped, "I—"

"Spare us the crap, puppycat," Rhonda snipped, "We've seen each other's transcripts."

"I saw him misspell fundraiser," Charley added in a mockery of an anecdote Wally had shared during the session. And then, accusingly, "I know you know what a pun looks like."

Wally found himself on the back foot, mind going blank as he groped for an explanation that hedged the truth enough to get him out of Charley and Rhonda's crosshairs, but that didn't expose that he'd already known about the phone call and Mr. Anderson and the hush money.

"I was just...Uh..."

Unfortunately, Charley and Rhonda were too damn smart and your skill of inventing plausible excuses on the spot hadn't yet rubbed off on him. Inwardly, he reinforced his defenses and prepared for the Spanish Inquisition (nobody expects it).

"Wally," Rhonda said, blade-sharp, and Wally winced at her use of his actual name, "I know you think it's sweet to play clueless meathead in front of your crush—"

Oh. Okay. Sure. "That's—"

"—but, trust me, it doesn't work. Don't dumb yourself down just to get her to like you." Rhonda finished with a long-suffering roll of her eyes. An action that translated to mother-hen affection in a normal person.

"Besides," Charley said, a slack hint of sass to his syllables, "I think she just wants to figure things out. Not play tonsil hockey with a ghost who probably shared biology with the teacher that murdered her."

Wally tried to make his face react appropriately, had no idea if he pulled it off, but Charley and Rhonda didn't comment so he assumed it couldn't have been too bad.

"I don't think Mr. A is that old," Wally mumbled, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "But...thanks, guys."

He had to acknowledge that it was nice that his friends cared about him. That they saw him as more than the overexcited golden retriever they often criticized him of being and wanted to make sure he wasn't trying to people-please his way into someone's heart.

Charley's expression mollified, "Anytime, big guy."

In feigned bitterness, "Well, I've done my good deed for the day," Rhonda announced, pushing past Wally to head for the door, "Let's go."

Wally turned as if to follow her, however, he caught Ajay's eye before he could commit to the action. He remembered then what Ajay had told him in the teacher's lounge about showing Wally something he 'needed to see'.

"I'll catch up in a bit," He called after Charley and Rhonda, backstepping toward Ajay to make his intentions obvious.

Charley shot Wally a lazy salute, "We'll be in the library for a while," and then turned on his heel to trail after Rhonda.

After decades of being in each other's pockets, it wasn't uncommon for members of their haunt to seek time one-on-one with each other. Everyone respected the unspoken exclusivity without comment and was especially understanding toward Wally, who had been the only teenage guy amongst them until 1992.

Bernie and Katelynn greeted Wally as he approached Ajay, though soon took their leave, Katelynn with a small and bashful, "See ya, Wally."

"Bye Katy-Cat." He said through a charming smile, ruffling her hair when she came into reach.

Katelynn shoved his arm away playfully, blowing Wally a raspberry before she continued over to the empty circle, immediately setting to work helping Mr. Martin and Bernie stack the chairs.

Wally turned back to Ajay, "Alright, my guy, where to?"

They exited through the side door, sunlight temporarily blinding Wally after having spent an hour sitting in the poorly lit assembly hall. Not giving Wally's eyes a chance to adjust, Ajay took him by the elbow and physically maneuvered him in the right direction.

"It won't seem like much," Ajay said as if in warning, "so you need to trust me." He released Wally's elbow when Wally began to move under his own power, and hurried his stride.

"I do trust you," Wally replied, voice bouncing as he picked up his pace to match Ajay's. "Whatever you're gonna show me, it's gotta be important."

Ajay's ears reddened. "Thank you."

They were headed toward the tree line along the backside of the school, the field spread out to Wally's right. Down the steps, along the path, picnic tables and chainlink fence. Cheerleaders practiced their pyramid and the junior gym class played kickball.

Anxiety began to creep over Wally as they neared the boundary line, a slow and subtle discharge of fear frequency transmitting across his brain in a cold flush.

"Heeey, are you sure this is the right way?" Wally had to ask, his skin starting to feel clammy and too tight on the bones of his fingers. He began to slow his steps, afraid of being circus-canoned back to the 5-yard line, but Ajay plowed ahead without concern. "Dude?"

Wally almost rammed into him for how abruptly Ajay stopped, the toes of Ajay's shoes so close to the invisible line it gave Wally heart palpitations.

"There." Ajay said, pointing at a tree that stood approximately two meters beyond the school grounds.

The tree wasn't anything special. Tall, leafy, burled in various places up its trunk, and roots weaved and whorled around its base, some thick enough to sit on comfortably. Carved initials and numbers and heart shapes by students who'd wanted to immortalize their memory in its bark. It was the kind of thing one would expect from a tree in a private area near a building full of teenagers, really.

"What am I looking at?" Wally asked.

"I don't know what it means, so don't ask me," Ajay stated, clearly preempting that Wally would have questions after whatever Ajay was preparing to demonstrate. Ajay crouched to gather a stone from the ground, "Watch this."

He tossed the stone. It smacked the tree, dislodging a piece of loose bark from the center of a crooked heart—bullseye—and fell without fanfare into a nest of roots, a thin poof of dirt raised on impact.

Wally waited for something to happen. And waited. A n d waited.

"I don't get it." He said after a few uneventful beats. "Was something supposed to happen?"

"It did happen." Ajay insisted, bending to pick up another stone.

That one, he handed to Wally and motioned for him to throw it at the tree. It hit, denting the bark, but again, that was the end of it. Wally peered up at the leaves—unruffled—then down at the roots—inert—and finally back at Ajay who pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Watch this." He commanded, scooping up another stone as he marched a few feet away. "Are you paying attention?" He asked, not unkindly; an earnest bid for Wally's focus.

Wally gave him a tight smile, "Yup," and a thumbs up, taking a few steps closer to prove the point.

Ajay flung the stone. Except, this time, it ricocheted back as soon as it pierced the barrier. Disappeared for a blink and then spat back out, flying in the reverse direction. Ajay threw his arms up and protected his face a split-second before the stone struck him, bouncing off his forearm to land with a thud at his feet.

Wally's jaw dropped, "What the shit?"

"Do you get it now?" Ajay questioned, dusting off his hands as he strolled back to Wally.

With a frown, "Sort of?" Wally reached for the barrier, not quite touching for fear of what could happen and where he'd end up, but just enough to feel its presence warm the palm of his hand. "I guess it would be too easy if we could go through, huh?"

"I attempted it a couple of times," Ajay shook his head, "Either way, the barrier is definitely weakest here. And," He paused, building suspense, "At four other points around the school."

Eyes fixed on the tree, Wally hypothesized, "If we figure out how to weaken it more at any of these points, we might be able to get out of here..."

"We just might," Ajay concurred, "I tried finding information in the library and the computer lab, but—" It was a Christian school board, he didn't have to say, and occult topics were heavily vetted.

There weren't likely to be any useful books available and the online network was limited, browsers blocking sites the school didn't want its students to visit. Wally's knowledge of the latter was an embarrassing smear on his reputation that he'd had to beg Charley to keep secret.

He shoved the memory back in its box and once more buried it in the darkest recesses of his mind.

Never again...

"You think my girl would know how to handle this?" Wally asked despite having already determined he was going to tell you about the barrier's weak points. He just wanted to make sure Ajay was aware and on board.

Ajay shrugged, "She certainly has access to more resources than we do. Couldn't hurt to mention it."

It was settled. Squaring his shoulders and straightening his spine, Wally broke his scrutiny of the tree and turned to Ajay.

"Alright, then, show me what we're working with."

💀___________________________

PART FIFTEEN - PART SEVENTEEN

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[allykabbet]

Sneezing dynamics I like 4

"Bless you, my lord."

A stuck sneeze that comes out "halfway," leaving an incredible sense of frustration and increasing the urge to sneeze again. "Ahckk'Ah..."

Muffled sneezes into a sleeve or scarf, in winter or under the rain. "PFDSHH! PFDSsHi!" Strong but muffled.

A sneeze from someone triggers a conversation about sneezing or blessings. Later, that person really wants to sneeze again but doesn't want to draw attention again, so they end up stifling it.

Soft laught after sneezing, knowing the sneezing fit is lasting too long and the other person keeps blessing them. Maybe followed by a congested and exhausted "thank you..." .

"No need to bless me, I'll be like this for a while."

Streamer sneezes, having a sneeze compilation, with everyone saying "Bless you" in the comments, and the streamer repeatedly apologizing for sneezing and interrupting the stream. They might share an anecdote about their sneezes or explain their cold. Maybe they disappear from the screen for a moment to blow their nose (but the sound still gets picked up on the stream).

Someone who usually sneezes very politely and softly sneezes uncovered when they think they’re alone, and it comes out louder and more deliberate. +Suddenly, a "Bless you" is heard, and the person who sneezed feels deeply embarrassed, thanking the person without looking at them, blushing.

Someone starts a sneezing fit softly and almost silently, trying not to draw attention, but when the fit continues, they begin muttering exhausted complaints after each sneeze (...Fuck / ...My God...)

Pinching the bridge of the nose to hold back a sneeze. Rubbing a curved finger under the nostrils to ease the tickle or urge to sneeze. Pressing gently on one side of the nose with a curved finger while sniffling or blinking repeatedly.

A stifled sneeze that sounds very painful, with a pained expression and a sigh that almost sounds like a groan. The other person gently touches their forearm or places a hand on their back. "Hey... Stop doing that, you're going to hurt yourself."

Guys with long hair sneezing. I'm a simple girl. 😳

Two people on a covert mission must stay hidden to avoid being recognized, but the dust isn’t helping. One feels the urgent need to sneeze and tries to stifle multiple sneezes quietly. The other person ends up pinching their nose with thumb and forefinger, holding back their sneezes.

"Pardon me... I couldn't hold it back." 🥴

Completely SILENT sneezes. The person manages to make absolutely no sound when sneezing, except for a faint "m-mtg" from their throat. As a result, their head shakes violently, and they have to release a nearly desperate exhale, reflected in their pained expression from the effort. They may swallow hard afterward, barely sniffle, and then return to work.

Small, instinctive gestures before sneezing. Like blinks several times before sneezing. Or always says, "Excuse me" before sneezing. Raises a finger before sneezing. Wrinkles their nose several times and sneezes five seconds later. It's easy to predict when that person is about to sneeze.

Someone finishes a sentence quickly because they're about to sneeze and don’t want to leave it hanging. Or someone sneezes in the middle of a sentence and repeats the phrase they were saying before sneezing.

Endless buildups because the sneeze is stuck, leading to a half-sneeze that leaves them unsatisfied and ticklish. However, when they finally sneeze, the release is absolute, strong, and leaves a sense of much-needed relief.

Love/hate relationship when someone sneezes or is sick. In the end, those who get the most annoyed with you are the ones who care about you the most. "You're sick! Why didn’t you tell me?" "I'm not sick, I just sneezed a few times." "A few? You've sneezed like a hundred times. Blow your nose properly, for God's sake!" "Let me handle this my way!" "So you can faint as soon as I turn around? Stop trying to hide it, you're human." "And you're too persistent. Do you always have to be so stubborn?" "Only when I care about you, idiot."

Someone who doesn’t usually sneeze much starts having a sneezing fit. "Ah-pXch! PTsch! PXtng! Hh... Something here is triggering my allergies... ApTSX-chu!..."

Sneezing in a helmet or mask and being forced to stifle so as not to spray inside the mask or helmet. Those around them can tell they're sneezing from the movement of their head and imagine how uncomfortable it must be.

INDUCING. Okay, I wasn’t a big fan of this before, but with the right situation... Y, usually stoic and elegant, can't sneeze and desperately needs to. They're been trying for over twenty minutes, but just when they're about to sneeze, the sensation fades, leaving them with a feeling of desperate frustration. They needs to focus but can’t. X has been watching they curiously for a while, and finally approaches, offering to help with a feather. Y accepts. X gently holds Y’s chin. Y’s first reaction when they feels the feather near their nose is to pull away, so X grabs them by the nape, pressing their neck lightly with their nails to keep them still as the feather moves along their nose. The build-ups grow increasingly stronger, more desperate. "Hold on." Y feels a mix of absolute embarrassment and pure need. Finally, the fit begins, first with soft sneezes that leave them unsatisfied, and then with stronger, uncontrollable sneezes. Y is not used to such a mess, and X helps them through it by quickly covering Y’s mouth with a handkerchief, holding it until Y regains enough control to hold it themselves. "Bless you, bless you, and a thousand more blessings! That was quite a show." "My apologies, I couldn’t stop..." Enjoy :)

[super-ace]

Ace book recommendation alert!

I’ve just finished both of these wonderful ace books and I wanted to share my thoughts! I’m not going to do a comparison because they’re both very different. I’m gonna start with Sounds Fake But Okay because I binged all their podcast episodes when I first knew I was ace and I’ve been looking forward to this book for a long time.

Sounds Fake But Okay

I enjoyed this book a lot. It’s basically the aspec point of view on a lot of important topics in life, using anecdotes and surveys to bring together a varied perspective on what it’s like to be aspec. I personally love getting other ace’s views on things because our community is so broad and covers so many differences and it’s great. It was really cool to get the aromantic perspective too. This was a really easy read and I would recommend for anyone who already knows they’re ace. They make it clear that it’s not an Ace 101 books but you can still definitely read it if you’re unsure where you fit in the community.

I Am Ace

This is the ‘asexuality for beginners’ book I wish I had when I was questioning. It’s written in such an organised and logical way that it would have definitely helped to untangle the mess that was my brain when I was trying to figure out if I was asexual. It’s the FAQs of the ace world whilst also offering advice, positivity and affirmations. If you are wondering if you are asexual or are new to the community then this book is for you. As someone who already knows they’re ace, I didn’t particularly learn anything new but it just made me so happy that a baby ace could pick this up and have all the information they need in one place. It also has a bit at the back for recommendations of resources such as other books to read, people to follow on social media and websites to check out. I’d say as well this book is brilliant to recommend to your allo friends to save you giving a Ted Talk every time you come out. You can just be like ‘here you go, here is all the information you need and then come back to me after and we’ll talk about how I fit into all this’

Have you read either of these books yet? What did you think?

[underoossss]

Breath of Fresh Air - S.H

pairing: steve harrington x f!reader

warnings: none

an: *deep breath* hi guys, I'm back with a blurb to get back into writing steve and finish a couple of longer fics I abandoned bc life got in the way. I hope you like this, and enjoy a wonderful steve harrington being wonderful when you get overwhelmed at a party. Let me know what you think!

It's always been funny to you that no matter what house the party is at, you always end up talking to people in the kitchen. Even in your own apartment, the deepest conversations and funny moments you've lived have been surrounded by the smell of something sizzling on the stove or fresh coffee being brewed in a mokapot. That's not the case right now, as the smell of someone smoking in the hallway and the thrumming of the bass coming from the living room are what stand out the most.

You don't usually come to parties, but sometimes when Steve's or your friends invite you to one you decide to indulge them and go even if it's only for a short amount of time. Which is why you find yourself in Danny Frindman's home, Steve by your side, as Danny retells an anecdote from earlier that day.

It's been a couple of hours since you arrived, and the crowd's only gotten bigger; you can't really be surprised, Frindman's a very sociable guy. Ask anyone on the street about him, they know who he is. It's like asking someone about Steve Harrington, it's a very known name where you live. But where Steve's known for his ridiculous good looks, Frindman's known for his outgoing and chatty personality –he'll talk to a brick wall and it will talk back.

Steve's presence next to you is reassuring, with his hand in your back pocket all night long, you've felt safe in the otherwise loud and crazy environment of the house. His warmth and spicy scent of his cologne are familiar and soothing in the sea of unknown people and it helps you calm down. The more the party's progressed though, the more overwhelmed you feel. The people playing drinking games get louder by the minute, more inebriated withe every round played, and someone turned up the music even more.

Danny and your friends have resorted to talking louder in front of you to be heard over the commotion and little by little your heart rate starts to pick up. You try to focus on what they're saying, on tuning out the overall noise inside the house but it's impossible. Every single noise feels like too much too soon, despite you arriving hours ago. You try to take a deep breath and shake yourself out of it but it's no use. Danny and his friends are hazy in front of you and even Steve's voice next to you feels distant.

You move your hand as discreetly as you can towards Steve's in your back pocket, and as you expected he takes it in a second. You squeeze it, hard.

Steve's face comes closer to yours, and over a soft kiss to your cheek you can barely focus on he asks. "Everything okay, honey?"

You turn to him, meeting soft brown eyes that furrow the moment you shake your head. "I think I need some air."

Steve’s eyes widen for a split second before he nods. He faces your friends, "We'll be right back, guys." His smile masks his concern for you, but you know better.

With your hand in his, Steve leads the two of you to the backyard and walks to a secluded area. The relief is immediate, the noise quiets down to a low hum inside the house and the loud conversation disappears. Suddenly embarrassed by yourself, you squeeze your eyes shut and hug Steve tightly, letting his warmth and the steady beat of his heart calm you down.

"What happened hm?" Your boyfriend holds you back just as tightly, arms secure around your back and face tucked into the side of your face. His words are mumbled over you skin. "You okay?"

"I..." You sigh and step back, looking away from Steve's searching eyes until he brings your gaze back to him. His hold on your chin is gentle, as is the way he's looking at you. "I got overwhelmed in there."

Steve hums in understanding and moves to sit down on the grass, pulling you along with him. "Come here." He smiles, even more when you lie with your head on his lap, looking up at the night sky and the beautiful boy above you. "Was it the music?"

You shake your head. "It was everything Stevie, the music, the loud conversation. It's ridiculous I know, I'm sorry."

"Babe, come on." The brown strand of hair over his forehead moves as he shakes his head. One of his hands settles on your cheek, caressing it softly. "You don’t have to say sorry, could happen to anyone. I was getting sick of the music too."

"Really?"

"Promise." Steve nods, his hand still caressing your jaw. "There were also too many people in there, I know you don't like that so I moved us to the kitchen."

"But I still..."

"Don't beat yourself up about it." Steve interrupts, earnestly trying to stop you from berating yourself. "I should've brought us here instead. It's way nicer."

You look around, there's a couple of people at the other end of the backyard and some sitting by the empty pool. All hushed conversation and laughter. "It's nice, yeah."

"I'll go get you a soda hm?" His eyes soft as he gazes at you, like he can't stop himself from looking. It makes your blood feel like spritz under your skin. "We can share."

You nod, sitting up to let him stand. "Okay. Come back soon?"

"Promise." With a sweet peck, he stands and leaves towards the house, the music turning loud then quiet as he opens and closes the kitchen door.

Steve does keep his promise, and not a moment later he comes back with a cold can of Coke and some chips for whatever reason. He sits next you and you move so you're sitting sideways, legs over his lap. You learned long ago Steve loves physical touch, and your been together long enough to know he wants you close to him all the time. You love it.

"You comfortable?" He asks, handing you the soda after you've eaten some chips.

"I'm almost on your lap, Stevie. I'm very comfortable." You smile, motioning to how you're sitting.

"No, I mean... you can always tell me if you don’t want to go to a party." He explains, eyes turning serious, like he's concerned he somehow forced you to come to Frindman's house.

"I know, Steve." You shake your head. "I'm okay. I wanted to come with you and I was having a good time but then when the music got louder and more people arrived it felt like too much. I’m sorry."

"Don’t say sorry." He leans closer and kisses your temple, then your cheek and your chin. "Thank you for telling me when you felt that way. We won’t go to a party this big next time, it wasn’t that fun anyway."

"Stevie…" You worry he's just saying that, and he hears it in your voice.

"I mean it!" He insists, eyes showing its a genuine sentiment. "How about we go home, yeah? Cuddling sounds like a good idea, besides I’ve wanted to kiss you so badly." His eyes falling to your lips.

They split into an amused smile; you know what he means but you pretend you don't. "You can always kiss me, Stevie"

"I know." He gives into his desire and kisses you once, softly. "But I kinda don’t want to mind how I kiss you." His lips move away from yours and brush your jaw instead as he speaks.

You can’t help the way you hum, being alone with him sounds like a dream at the moment. "Okay," you say breathless. "Let’s go home.

[butchsophiewalten]

03/03/24 Twitter Space Recap (2/2)

After the other Twitter Space which I already made a recap for, Martin, Eva ("Bon" and Bon's VA), Coral (Susan's VA), and Kyle (Boozoo & Charles' VA) reconvened for another space, this time with a Q&A focus, later in the day. This one was really long, and they talked about a lot, but I've summarized it here to the best of my ability:

-Someone asks "What would Jenny major in college? Because it's implied that she's in college." Martin answers (reiterating an answer he gave in a previous Space) that she studies psychology. Coral chimes in to say that they think Jenny would understand Sophie and her trauma a lot better for it, and Martin agrees, saying "Yeah, yeah, I think Jenny has a really good understanding of how Sophie thinks because of that."

-Someone asks "Hypothetically, which Tyler, The Creator album would be Sophie's favorite?". Martin answers that he thinks it would be Flower Boy.

-"When Jack and Rosemary argue, Jack sleeps on the couch and he goes to Molly, and he goes like 'Hey, could you go pick that up for me? I don't want to enter the room,' 'cause, like, whenever Rosemary is mad she's actually really scary. So Jack just doesn't- doesn't get involved. He just sleeps on the couch."

-Eva goes, "Martin, didn't we agree before that if Sophie and Brian ever met, Sophie would just kick his ass?". Martin answers, "Yeah, Sophie would hate Brian."

-"Okay, here's a Jophie fact, Jophie wasn't even supposed to be, like, an actual relationship, at first. Originally, it was gonna be, like, they would gradually start dating as the series went on. But then, we were like, Y'know what, it's way easier if they are already a couple... Imagine if you're going through the animatronic drama, and simultaneously it's just these two girls falling in love, in the middle of all that shit."

-"Will Richie appear again?" At this point the battery in Martin's phone has died, but nobody has noticed, so Eva steps in to answer, "Martin has had plans to bring Richie back for more stuff, but he hasn't really done anything with him yet, but I dunno." Kyle says he doesn't remember who Richie is, which is really funny to me.

-Someone asks if either Sophie or Jenny would like Weezer, and Coral says they think Jenny would like them unironically, but Sophie would like something like Buddy Holly ironically. Martin answers, "Y'know, I think Sophie- I've always thought that Sophie isn't the kinda person to like- like, experimental or artistic stuff too much, because she's like a very- a person that gets confused very easily. So, she would listen to stuff like Weezer and she would think internally, like, 'what the fuck is this?', but she'd go like "Oh, this is fire, Jenny, I love- I love it."'

-Kyle says he thinks it's important for Jenny to be a bit of a loser, in an endearing way. Eva slightly disagrees, saying Jenny would probably be the cool one between them, while Sophie is an absolute loser. Martin says, "I was trying to say, before we change the subject, the way I see it is that, to me, Sophie has a lot of like, street smarts, and Jenny is more like a very dorky person that probably just, like, lived a very normal and fulfilled life, y'know? She just, like, lived in the suburbs, with supporting people in her life. I think Sophie, yeah, she's kind of loser, but I think, in a way, in my opinion I think Sophie's a little braver than Jenny is. I've always seen them like that."

-Coral says, "I feel like Sophie wouldn't really know how to emote properly." and Martin says, emphatically, that she doesn't. Coral describes a scenario where Jenny is upset or scared by something, and is crying. and how Sophie would try her best to comfort her, but would really not know what to do, and would struggle immensely in a situation like that. Martin adds an anecdote, "Yeah, no, I-I told this to Eva one time, Sophie doesn't cry. Jenny has never- has never seen Sophie cry, ever."

-Eva says, "I think, like, um- [Sophie's], like, lack of really, like, full awareness of what's going on for episode 3- like, seeming really 'dead', the whole time, is like- while it could be seen as like, bad writing, it- I think it also can be taken as a part of her character. And that's also, like, further emphasized in future episodes, and here emotions are just, like really--" and Coral interrupts, saying, "No offense to Martin, but I feel like it's a mix of both."

Martin says, ""Yeah, it's a mix of both. It- the intention of making her seem like someone who wasn't really 'in there', at the time, someone who wasn't really like, aware of what's going on, is just like, barely even phased by it, was there, but it was just mostly bad writing. The way I see it is that, back then I didn't trust the series as much as I trust it now, so I was always making sure that people would understand stuff the way that I intended it to, and that resulted in Sophie just saying everything out loud. Like, 'this is very weird!'"

-Eva talks for a bit about how she gets frustrated when Crystal, Sophie's VA, gets criticism over her performance, when the problem really laid with Martin's writing. She says that one of her favorite aspects of Crystal's performance as Sophie is that she sounds very childlike, not in the way of her actually being a child, but in seeming very much like someone who never really grew out of being a child.

On this topic, Martin says, "Or- to me, more like Sophie being someone who never grew out of being a child- is someone who was forced to grow up very quickly. So, so she doesn't know how to be- she didn't get to know how to be a child, but she didn't get to know how to be an adult, either. So she's, like, stuck and is constantly- she doesn't really know what to do most of the time, because- she doesn't really understand what she's supposed to do and how she's supposed to do things."

-Eva says, "Sophie is like, probably one of the most interesting characters in the series to me, and I can't wait for her to come back, 'cause she's so interesting." and Martin responds, "Oh, yeah! I really- because I think if she comes back, she's gonna feel so different, with like, the new style of writing, and stuff. I think, um, something I really like about Sophie is that, uh, I really like how people think of Sophie like this fucking girl- oh, I mean, back in the day, I don't know how it is now, but back in the day people would think Sophie would be like, this very soft and shy person, but, no, in a way, Sophie's a very mean person! She's like, something I always thought about when it comes to her character is that she is- she has so many weak, like, social skills, that she usually gets very defensive with anybody."

-Eva talks about how Sophie is definitely a very walled-off and antisocial person, and how she tends to push people out of her life, aside from Jenny, and Martin says, "And, like, Sophie fucking hated Jenny at the beginning. [laughing] Like, she didn't hate her, but I remember telling you specifically how they met, and it took a while- not- not a while-while, but it took some time for Sophie to get used to Jenny, and actually start developing feelings for her." Coral compares the evolution of their relationship to the process of taming a feral cat.

-Eva says, "Someone said, 'What animal would Sophie be if she was an animal,' I think she'd be a deer." Martin says, "I think she'd be a WOLF! A WEREWOLF!" Kyle says he thinks if Sophie is a deer, Jenny should be a moose.

-Martin reads a question, "'Besides painting, what other art does Rose make?' Okay, this was an idea from back when Coker was part of the team, that, we wanted to make, like, a third Showstopper album, which was going to be songs composed by Rose. So, Rose was kind of like a songwriter."

-Eva says, "Someone asked for a Richie fact, and asked if he's friends with Chris." Martin hems and haws, going "Oh, I wanna talk about it, but I don't know if I should!", but then says, "Yeah, they're friends."

Kyle says he thinks they would hold hands, "In a platonic way, because it's cold outside." Martin jokes, saying, "I think they would hold hands... in a romantic way!"

-Martin reads a question, saying he thinks Kyle would enjoy answering it, "Is Felix Kranken religious? If so, what's his religion?", and Kyle says he has an idea that Felix isn't religious and never has been, but during his lowest moments in life, he prays. "He is an incredibly superstitious person, so when the going gets really bad, all he can think to do is drop to his knees, and just home that somebody's listening."

Martin says, "The Waltens actually- I mean, Sophie, Edd, and Molly aren't, but Jack and Rosemary are Christian." Eva jokes that she thinks Edd & Molly are Satanists.

-Coral asks what everything thinks is the worst thing Edd & Molly have done, and Martin says, "From the top of my head, like something I'm just making up, I really think something they would do, is they would buy all of Jack's socks, and change them for smaller ones so they don't fit his feet. So he has to go to work with, like, really tiny socks."

-Eva reads a question, "Where's Brian Stells hiding? Like, where's his spirit hiding." Martin and Eva both say that they think his ghost lingered around for a while, but that he probably just died. Like, nothing special happened to his ghost. Eva shares an idea she has, that Bon probably realized, at some point while killing Brian, that he wasn't Sophie, but continued to mutilate him out of anger that he wasn't her.

-Martin goes, "What do you think made him realize [that Brian wasn't Sophie]? I like to think that Bon looked at him, and was like, 'wait, Sophie's not fucking blonde, is she?', and he took like three seconds to remember."

-Eva reads, "Can we get a CyberTelly fact?" and Kyle answers, "CyberTelly used to be a car salesman before he joined Bon's Burgers."

-Eva goes, "Wait, Martin, didn't we agree at one point that Bon would have a ridiculous amount of exes? He's like Ramona Flowers?" and Martin laughs and agrees emphatically. He says, "So fucking funny- Bon has a fucking ex-wife that's literally just a female version of Bon. Like, Bon with a pink bowtie."

-Eva says, "Someone just asked, 'What's Richie's last name', can we just come up with the stupidest last name for him on the spot?". They spitball a bunch of really stupid answers, and land on "Richie Ratterson".

-Martin reads a question, "'Are we going to see Showbear's replacement in 5 & 6?' Yep!"

-They start talking about how Felix has a new voice actor, but at the time of the Space, they hadn't actually told him yet, that he had been picked to be Felix's new VA. They invite him to the stream and tell him live! He's very thankful and very surprised. You can find him on Twitter Here!

-Martin posted this (and deleted it after five seconds) to celebrate Felix's new voice actor. Isn't it nice don't you guys love it

After posting this he kept going "Toxic Yaoi!" in a very sing-song way.

-Coral complains that they never got kissing art when they became a VA for The Walten Files, so Martin drew this for them, and again deleted it after a couple seconds:

-Coral talks about a while about how, just before the Space, everyone speaking in the space (minus Connor, Felix's new VA) watched the finished portions of TWF6. They gush for a bit about just how good it was, and how nice it was to see everyone's hard work come together and how glad they are that everyone seems so proud of and happy with the episode.

-Martin answers a question, "Please, Martin, can you draw Felix and "Bon", I'll take it over Jelix, please don't draw that again," with, "Don't worry, don't worry, you're going to see Felix and "Bon", eventually."

-Martin talks for a bit about how he found out PepsiCo supports Israel, and how mad he is, because in Bon's Burgers there's a Pepsi ad on the wall, and it's in virtually every scene, and can't be removed. He apologizes preemptively, saying "I created that map before being made aware of that, so I'm sorry in advance for that."

-In the last minute of the space, Martin attempts a lightning round Q&A session, answering as many questions as he can as quickly as he can. Here are those answers:

-"Would Jenny listen to Ska? Okay, sure, why not."

-"Do Derek Collins and/or Frank Davis appear in 5 or 6? Yeah, Derek appears."

-"Would Sophie be an Undertale fan? No."

-My audio blipped out this part of the recording, so I can't transcribe it, but someone asked who would win in a fight, Jack or Susan. Martin initially answered Jack, but after thinking about it for another moment, decides Susan would probably win.

-"Is Susan and cat or dog person? Probably cat."

[bestworstcase]

Thanks for your response ala Ruby & Yang, great stuff!

Idle aside, but do you have any thoughts on Yang's role as the sort of black sheep of the family by dint of Raven associations?

Cos like, Tai overtly favors Ruby, projects Raven onto Yang, resents Raven being rough up and is bad enough about reminders of her Yang feels she has to apologize for his negative reactions. Let alone his... Everything else.

Then there's Qrow who doesn't seem to interact with Yang over much at all and one of if not their most major interaction. Involves him straight up saying he thinks she's either a liar hurting people for fun or "crazy".

I recall someone I was chatting with wondering: Imagine doing everything you can to keep your family from breaking apart & being compared to the woman who left you when you were a baby?

Cos I do wonder how Yang feels about all that given she seems to downplay and or try to work around her family's issues when she can. Let alone what it says about the adults in the room.

smth i think about a lot is the way yang’s narrative about her childhood shifts between v2 to v5

’cause in v2 it’s: “it was tough. ruby was really torn up, my dad kind of shut down. it wasn’t long before i learned why…” all to provide context for this anecdote about putting ruby in a wagon and running away to find her mother. and then her conclusion is “my stubbornness should have gotten us killed that night.”

and while there is a degree here of yang framing the story to emphasize the point she wants blake to understand, it’s also very obvious in her delivery that the emotional reality of this memory for yang is “the time my stupidity and stubbornness almost got me and ruby eaten by grimm”—when she was [checks notes] like five, six years old, and regularly left at home unsupervised.

but in v5, it’s: “my mom left me. ruby’s mom left too. tai was always busy with school, and ruby couldn’t even talk yet; i had to pick up the pieces. i had to pick up the pieces. alone.”

aside from the telling slip (tai, not dad)—yang centers her own feelings and the harm this situation did to her this time. which is something she’s always felt but i don’t think she could have brought herself to say it out loud to anyone during the beacon arc, because it was pressed down under the guilt on display in burning the candle, the feeling of having been inadequate and too stubborn and too selfish and and and–

coughs quietly. “my stubbornness should have gotten us killed that night.” / “you were predictable. and… stubborn. and maybe a little boneheaded.” yang’s narrative about the wagon incident—which happened when she was five or six!—pinning the blame on the thing tai imagines to be her fatal flaw is…probably not coincidental. yang in v4 after a year of being loved by her team and supported by mentors like glynda / oobleck / port has the perspective to know that tai doesn’t know what he’s talking about; but as a small child who’d just had a terrifying near-death experience with her baby sister… 😶

it definitely had a big impact on the way yang sees herself

BUT i do read qrow's talk with yang in 3.8 pretty differently ->

because the context is: yang saw mercury attack her and struck back in self defense, then had like a dozen synthetic soldiers point guns in her face, then looked up and saw the replay footage of herself walking over to shoot a boy who was just kneeling on the ground. and some of the most powerful authority figures in the world are pushing this narrative that stress and adrenaline "clouded her judgment."

like this would make anyone doubt their sanity. bc holy shit.

yang, though...a couple weeks ago, yang after being knocked unconscious woke up and blearily saw someone she thought was her mother walk away from her and disappear in a flash of red light. she hasn't mentioned it to anyone, because it's just so bizarre—yang doesn't know about raven's semblance yet—she must have just been seeing things. right?

aside from raven (who isn't here) and yang (who believes she hallucinated), the only other person who knows that yang saw her mom on the train is qrow, because raven told him about it. he also knows that:

tai insisted on not telling yang ANYTHING about her mother, and qrow respected that up until now; so yang doesn't know about raven's semblance and can't make sense of what she saw.

salem's infiltrators are the same people who attacked amber, and qrow didn't get a good look at them because they seemingly vanished into thin air—pretty damn good chance that one of them has a semblance that manipulates what you see.

ozpin wants #2 kept secret, so yang has some very powerful people actively trying to convince her that she's crazy. ironwood is straight up gaslighting her.

qrow also—based on the first thing he says, which is "why'd you do it?"—seems to consider it a possibility that it is what it looked like but yang did have a good reason, and i actually do not think that is an outrageous thing for qrow specifically to think. because qrow was emotionally abused as a child, and he knows yang, and in the event that yang really did suddenly turn around and punch a guy who was kneeling on the ground, why would she do it?

glances at shay d. mann. well. maybe this kid has been harassing her? maybe he said something horrible or threatening to her and in the heat of the moment she just snapped? maybe "he attacked me, i saw him attack me" isn't really a lie per se, she's just scared that "he's been picking on me ever since he got here and he made a disgusting remark and i just couldn't take it anymore" won't be taken seriously? as in, he did attack her—verbally/emotionally.

it's probably worth asking, at least!

so, qrow leads with "why'd you do it?" in case there is some invisible reason justifying the apparent action. yang says "you know why." qrow goes okay, well, i only know what i saw, so you're either lying (i.e., yang had a reason she now isn't telling) or crazy (i.e., yang saw something different from reality that was very real to her).

she says "i'm not lying." qrow believes her: "crazy, got it."

at this point, he knows the most probable explanation is that one of salem's infiltrators fucked with her head. the inner circle's gaslighting doesn't sit right with him; he's not going to buck ozpin by telling her the truth outright, but he wants to make sure yang knows she isn't losing her mind. he also has all the info needed to guess that yang is actually really really scared that she might be crazy.

which is why he kicks off the wall and begins to pace around. the language he uses sounds dismissive, but his tone is mild and his body language implies "let's talk about it, let's figure this out."

leading to:

YANG: Who knows? Maybe I am. QROW: And here I thought your dark-haired friend was the emo one. YANG: I saw my mom. …I- I was in a lot of trouble, took a pretty hard hit. But when I came to, the person attacking me was gone, and I thought I saw… her. Her sword. Like the one in you and dad’s old picture. QROW: You’re not crazy, Yang. That was your mom, alright. Let me guess—she didn’t say a word, did she? YANG: How did you know that? QROW: I don't see my sister very often, but she does try to keep in touch... whenever it suits her. YANG: Wait—you mean you talk to her? That was real!? QROW: Yeah, she found me. Had a tip from my most recent assignment and wanted me to give you a message.

it's really telling that yang responds to him this way. 'cause we've seen how yang acts when she feels dismissed or belittled:

TAI: Well, "normal" is what you make of it. YANG: What is that supposed to mean? Do you want me to just pretend like nothing happened? I lost a part of me. A piece of me is gone. And it's never coming back. TAI: You're right. It's not coming back. But that doesn't have to stop you from becoming who you wanna be. You're Yang Xiao Long, my sunny little dragon. You can do whatever you put your mind to. So whenever you're ready to stop moping, and get back out there? I'll be there for you. YANG: I– I...

she freezes and shuts down! her teachers have to come to her rescue!—but when qrow goes "crazy, got it" and suggests she's being "emo," yang blurts out her big secret. i saw my mom. to me that suggests a level of trust and understanding that isn't there with tai: qrow says stuff like "okay, so you're crazy" and "here i thought your friend was the emo one" but what he means is "hey, i know something's really bugging you, tell me about it," and yang picks up what he's putting down.

it's akin to how ruby goes "did you miss me? DID YOU MISS ME??" and qrow's like "nope" and they both laugh. or the back-and-forth ribbing between him and the girls in 3.4. there's this layer of mild ironic meanness in the way qrow converses with his nieces that all of them are fluent in, and in this scene he's using that mode to signal that "crazy" is not off-limits, that it's okay to talk about openly.

crucially, there's a code-switch in the middle of the conversation: as soon as yang gets real and says "i saw my mom," qrow reflects that seriousness back to her. you're not crazy, that was your mom, she found me afterward and told me about it. it was real. you're okay. qrow's ability to do that—to shift into a more serious mode when irony isn't appropriate—is why yang can have this rapport with him that she doesn't have with tai, because tai isn't... being ironic when he says mean or dismissive things to her.

anyway, qrow passes on raven's terrible message and then kind of annotates it: "raven's got an interesting way of looking at the world that i don't particularly agree with, and she's dangerous." (which is a very diplomatic way of saying he thinks raven is full of shit. lol.) but then he connects this whole conversation about raven back to what happened after the match: "you're a tough egg, kiddo. don't let this tournament thing getcha down. you had a slip-up; sometimes bad things just happen."

implicitly: yang isn't crazy. what she saw on the train was real, a product of raven's personality and her semblance. sometimes bad things just happen. qrow believes that yang had the experience she says she did when she punched mercury. he doesn't know why she had that experience—yang doesn't either!—but he knows she isn't just "crazy." sometimes things that seem crazy are actually real.

remember what he tells the girls in 3.4? "you may be acting like huntresses, but you're not thinking like one." same thing here. he's telling yang, hey, you're not crazy, you know what you saw, but you don't know what or who caused you to see it. "you cut off the head of the king taijitu, but now the second head's calling the shots."

hint, hint.

it's subtler than the hints qrow drops for ruby in 3.12, but very much in the same vein, and yang is plenty smart enough to figure it out. she might... not have? in the couple of hours between this conversation and everything going to straight to hell, but if they'd had literally just one more day, just long enough for the wheels turning in yang's head to click together with what ruby heard from velvet about coco hallucinating during her and yatsu's 2v2 against emerald and mercury, she would've had it.

more... generally, i've never gotten the sense that qrow projects raven's flaws onto yang in the way that tai does; qrow is definitely a lot closer with ruby than yang, but i think that has less to do with favoritism on qrow's part than it does ruby thinking he's like the COOLEST uncle ever and wanting to use a scythe like he does.

'cause like, qrow isn't their parent, he doesn't live with them, he's not responsible for raising these kids like their dad is, so while he obviously did contribute to fucking them both up because: alcoholic, ultimately there just isn't the same degree of betrayal or emotional abandonment; he's not their dad. both times yang talks in detail about her childhood, it's "my mom left, ruby's mom left, tai wasn't really around, ruby couldn't even talk, i was alone"—she doesn't mention qrow. there isn't that deep hurt, that feeling that qrow is someone who left.

when he isn't drunk, yang seems to feel pretty okay around him, and qrow likewise treats her... honestly a lot better than tai does:

he stops by their dorm in v3 to hang out with both his nieces; yang is fully in sister mode—cheers for ruby to beat him until ruby loses, immediately shoves her out of the way like "my turn!! >:D"—and qrow ribs them both, takes ribbing from both of them in good humor, tells both of them "you two are gonna go far."

qrow nicknames to show affection; ruby is "pipsqueak," yang gets "firecracker."

we only see qrow's goodbye to ruby, but in 5.4 yang indicates that qrow came to talk to her before he left, too. she also has complete trust that he's keeping the promise he made to look after ruby.

yang, as noted, opens up to him about seeing her mom; she's also shocked that he's still in contact with raven and indignant that he didn't tell her sooner, but—unlike with tai—she doesn't seem surprised that qrow is willing to talk about raven in general.

which tracks with what tai says in 4.11: "despite asking him numerous times not to, i know qrow told you where you're mother's been at these days"—meaning, this was a point of contention between him and qrow. behind the scenes, while tai refused to discuss raven at all, qrow was going okay well, let me tell her then, she deserves to know. and then ultimately he just bit the bullet and told her behind tai's back. i wouldn't be surprised if it turned out qrow had been straight with yang that her dad wanted to be the one to tell her the important stuff, and he wanted to be respectful of that, but raven wasn't an off-limits topic.

general contrast between yang-tai and yang-qrow dynamics; for example both of them say almost verbatim "you've got a long way to go before you're ready for the real world" (3.4/4.4). from tai it's belittling, he's insulting her; from qrow, it's meant to encourage, it's "remember you're still new to this, you'll make mistakes, just keep learning, keep trying." (rwby does stuff like this all the time, refracting an idea in different directions to highlight contrasts between characters; ozpin's advice to ruby vs port's advice to weiss is another example.)

a lot of qrow's resentment toward raven is centered on her abandonment of yang: "did you know yang lost her arm? [...] rhetorical question, i know you know. it's just obnoxious that you'd bring up family and then carry on like your own daughter doesn't exist. [raven: "i saved her."] once. because that was your rule, right? real mom of the year material, sis." like he is PISSED on yang's behalf that raven won't even try.

my impression is that qrow—although a) often away on long missions in far away places and b) an alcoholic who sometimes got blind drunk and became a burden yang and ruby needed to take care of—when he did manage to be there, made a serious effort to connect with both of them. he ended up being closer to ruby bc she wanted to learn scythe-wielding, but i do think qrow would've trained yang too (or instead) if the girls had different combat interests.

and while his relationship with ruby has a mentorish aspect, i don't get the sense either of the girls see him as a parental figure: he wasn't part of their household, he traveled a lot, his alcoholism in combination with tai's neglect eroded the adult-child boundaries because they had to be responsible for him as often as the reverse. he's a friend who also happens to be related to them. and that's especially true for yang, because he wasn't her teacher.

(i know it's a... pretty common headcanon / fanon that qrow lived with them, but i really don't think that's supported by the text? whenever ruby or yang look back on their childhoods, the family unit is always them + tai, and qrow isolates himself out of fear that his semblance will injure those he cares about. plus ozpin sending him all over the place as the one member of team strq still active. it makes way more sense to think he lived alone, and visited when he had the chance. which is the main reason i'm WAY softer on him than on tai, 'cause qrow wasn't in a caretaker/parent role; at most he was an occasional babysitter. so while his incidents of turning up drunk on the doorstep contributed to the harm... it's like, it would absolutely have been better for them if qrow were sober, but that wouldn't have changed anything about their home life. they'd just have somewhat easier relationships with qrow.)

TO WRAP THIS BACK AROUND TO THE QUESTION, tai is unfairly judgmental and harsh with yang bc he projects his idea of her mom onto her; yang also has a better relationship with her mom's brother than she does with her dad. how do these two dynamics interact? how does yang feel about hearing from tai that she's too branwen, so to speak, while also getting along better with the branwen side of her family? how might that fuel her desire to find raven?

if her uncle treats her better than tai does, then... maybe her mom would too, if only yang could reach her?—obviously it's not rational, but like. i don't think five year old yang put her baby sister in a wagon and ran away to find her mom because she thought she would ask "why did you leave me?" and then get her answer and go home. as yang grew older and developed a more realistic perspective it shifted to "i just need to know why she left" and she projects that backward onto herself as a child, but at the time what she wanted, what she was looking for, was someone who would take care of them.

[stardustdiiving]

every so often when u are a fan of something with a super large and popular fandom reputation you will run into this specific category of person who is rlly irritated by constantly seeing this media due to its popularity, which is understandable up until they feel openly resentful of ppl just being excited about This Popular Thing Everyone Keeps Talking About That They Don’t Think Is Worth The Hype and deem it as an acceptable excuse to just start picking on people for liking something

Just past a certain point I think people are just kind of being jerks to The Specific Person They Are Talking To and that is not synonymous with your Right To Dislike Something. Its sort of like, I don’t care how much the fans annoy you on Twitter or something if you are having a direct conversation with someone and they mention liking something you are just very much kind of an asshole if you feel the need to take jabs at it whenever you can, and it’s not someone being “uncritical of their flawed interest” or “not letting you dislike something” if they tell you to knock it off omg. That’s just them telling you to stop doing something that makes their interactions with you feel like an unpleasant tarpit

I’ve had this happen a handful of times since I keep stumbling into media w kinda infamous fandom reputations and it kills me everytime because I really am not going to be self deprecating about liking something that’s kind of cringe just so you can feel kind of vindicated you got back at the annoying mass of fans you don’t like on social media. Like an individual person is a person before they’re just. A fan of something omg

I think sometimes ppl also project the idea ppl are pushing the thing on them and I think in a lot of cases u need to communicate that and tell ppl to back off. Bc anecdotally from my own experiences and what I see it’s not anyone trying to push their interest on someone who’s not interested…they’re just excited and talking about it. Man