#and it gets hard to talk about things sometimes because i feel the need to footnote everything i say with disclaimers

[tristansfreezingtheirbrain]

Actually let me talk about this for a second because I have been doing a self prompted character study on Sherlock based on the fact I DO NOT FOR A SECOND BELIEVE HE IS A SOCIOPATH.

And I think the writers of the show know this. It wasn’t an accident on their part, I think it’s very intentional.

Sociopaths are described as having little to no care about other people or their lives, sometimes even not caring about their own, but I don’t think it’s true in Sherlock’s case.

Yes he is antisocial and doesn’t appear to care who lives or dies, but we all know he does care.

What he does, is intentionally dissociates to save peoples lives.

He is right, feelings do get in the way of investigations, the reason he’s so good at what he does, is he’s able to separate himself from what’s going on, which leads me to my point…

I am by no means an expert but I pride myself on my intense love of phycology, and it’s that love that started me on this tangent that currently has its own 3 page essay in a notebook on my shelf.

I think Sherlock Holmes has a kind of dissociative disorder. My evidence:

- mind palace. A thing some people do but, I should point out, is not often seen in neurotypical people, and is also not often seen in sociopaths. The ‘mind palace’ as the show calls it, is often a place someone goes to in their own head to escape situations in which they are stressed or feel in danger. This is not technically how Sherlock uses it, but I’ll explain the connection in a minute.

- when put in situations where he needs to be at the hight of his productiveness, he disconnects all feelings he may have about a case in order to be more efficient.

Both of these things lead me to believe that stress triggers a disassociative state in Holmes.

He also ( SPOILERS!!! MASSASIIIVVE SPOILERS IF YOU HAVENT SEEN THE LAST EPISODE )

Engaged in Confabulation, which is when someone’s brain changes memories in order to protect itself from further stress, which would have been caused by traumatic events.

This is another thing that you see often in people with a dissociative disorder.

I think he has a subset of depersonalization/derealization disorder, which is the closest real diagnosis to what he seems to have.

I’ve also entertained the notion of him being on the autism spectrum, but I’m always careful with that because I have autism and I have a tendency to project so that could just be me relating to him in some ways. And, it’s very well known that autism and dissociative disorders kind of go hand in hand, so sometimes it can be hard to tell if someone has autism, or just a symptom of it, which is what dissociative disorder falls under in that context.

But if I was to say he is on the spectrum, this is why.

-often considered sociopathic ( is not, as I just explained )

- often considered narcissistic ( is not, and if you think he is you seriously overestimate how much he cares about himself and what happens to him. He does care about other people, it’s just hard to focus on things he can’t see immediately in front of him. )

- lack of understanding of feelings

-under/over stimulation

-very in depth knowledge on some things, complete oblivion in others ( unless he deems them important ) ( aka, hyper fixation )

-unable to focus on things he doesn’t care about

-disconnects in stressful situations

-often makes decisions people deem childish ( ex: not helping Mycroft solve a case because of a sibling fued )

AGAIN I AM BY NOOOOO MEANS AN EXPERT- AND I AM NOT CLAIMING TO BE- I JUST FIND THINGS LIKE THESE REALLY INTERESTING!!!

Anyways.

Thanks for coming to my red talk 🙌

He doesn’t feel things that way… I don’t think.

[olderthannetfic]

Hi OTNF and everyone,

I am finding that it's harder and harder and harder to get into anything - book, show, movie... most things seem, you know, to just not be doing it for me, be it fanfic or original stuff.

In part, I think, it's a general restlessness and that it's become harder to give anything enough time to get into the stories, the characters, the settings, the narrative voices... I guess you can call it attention deficit on my part, just a need for stories to deliver those sweet, sweet hits quickly, but they're not.

I'm not currently ficcing but I did for years (might again in the future, who knows), and it's made reading, specifically, harder. It's like I've become more aware of what goes on behind the scene, I guess? I feel like I can see the writer giving up on a sentence, skipping a scene because fuck this, trying hard to not repeat a word although it's the only one that fits, etc.

Or maybe it's just the *everything* around us in the world that is weighing on me too much? I could say it's adult life, but then again I have more free time than most (and boy do I need hours of doing nothing to survive the other hours), and no family/partner (all that would put even more pressure on me): what is wrong, to make everything so UGHHH?

I feel like I'm stuck in a rut with a brain moaning feed me, feeeed me, and whatever I try to give it, it spits everything out. (Yes, I've tried hobbies, and nothing sticks there either. I've never really found rewards or satisfaction there, so...)

Decades ago as a kid, I was a voracious reader, although studying literature took the pleasure of it away from me. It took time and discovering fanfic that brought me back to reading, but at the time the internet was starting to be a thing, too, and it can't have helped the attention thing. AFAIK I'm not ADHD but then again, I couldn't get a proper diagnosis (the therapists I saw were either dismissive or just about The Talking, which was pointless for me).

I just wonder how it all disappeared, you know? Sometimes I find something that catches my attention for a while - a book (but I read quite quickly when motivated), a fandom... but it's been a while now, and it's just so frustrating! When is it going to come back? Will it ever? *gulp*

I know that books were escapism when I was a child, and then fandom was escapism, but at the moment I find myself grabbing at air and my empty hands are mocking me. Give me my escapism baaaaack!

So, uh. Anyone here with me?

--

Yes.

I felt like that during part of lockdown. Anhedonia is common in those kinds of circumstances.

Getting your mojo back is certainly possible, but you may need to go see a professional about depression and have some chemical assistance (yes, even if you don't feel sad per se), or you may need to change your lifestyle to one that doesn't have the thing causing you to need eleventy billion hours of downtime.

Aside from serious interventions like that, you can consider a social media detox. Remove every source of doomscrolling and time wasting of that type. When the attention span is zero and nothing brings joy, the tiny and useless hits from finishing a game of solitaire or seeing one more instagram post become very attractive. This is a trap. It will suck what little energy and joy you have and make your muscles flabby for the work of getting into an in-depth book/hobby/experience.

I know the feeling of being able to see how the sausage is made, but... well... first, being in a better mental state will make that matter less, and second, reading prose that is more competent will make that less of an issue. A lot of mainstream tradpub genre fiction is not, in my opinion, very well written these days. Obviously, people are still enjoying it, and that's fine, but if you're noticing writers fumbling around, it might be time to check out some literary fiction or some other category known more for prose quality than anything else.

It's also important to have some structure and some things to look forward to. Even if you feel tired, overwhelmed, and busy, sometimes, the answer is to do more... But it must be things that are distinct and significant and that get you off of the couch, like going to one museum every weekend.

I saw some advice once about this kind of thing that phrased it as "One big adventure; one small adventure."

Every week, you should have those two things to look forward to that matter. Check out a new coffee shop. That could be the small one. Go to an event: a gallery opening, a concert, whatever.

Physical exercise and doing some things that aren't as verbal and conscious thought-involving is important too. Painting is a better hobby for zoning out than writing is. Taking long walks in nature is good for most people.

--

The kind of intense, obsessive love I had for reading as a child and that I sometimes have for fandom requires a lot of attention and some time. It's escapist, but that masks how much work it actually was. It didn't feel like work only because we were in training.

If you've filled your brain and your day up with a thousand petty annoyances or minor and useless attempts to feel something, you won't have the capacity for those deeper things.

Because you are already at a point that's equivalent to a bad sprained ankle, trying to get back to running right now won't work. You have to stay off of the ankle for a bit, then build your strength and stamina back up.

[trustmypoison]

SVT in a long-distance relationship

Requested? Yes!

Request: ‘hi! i love all of your writing! Would you be willing to write a fic about SVT in a long distance relationship? thank you!!‘

It’s physically painful to be separated from his phone - Jun, Hoshi, Vernon

You guys have a never-ending text conversation that really doesn’t have good mornings or good nights included at this point. There’s no point in it when you guys were already talking, you know? On bad days when he really misses you, he hands his phone over with a deep sigh when he can’t take it with him. Like, does he want to perform? Of course! But some nights, he’s counting down the minutes until the show is over, and he can pick up the conversation again with a simple ‘I’m back.’ Really doesn’t mind the physical distance so much as long as you’re just a message or phone call away. 

A total expert at FaceTime dates - Jeonghan, Wonwoo, DK, Chan

Complete with a recurring calendar invite every week and everything so neither of you schedule over it. You guys usually eat together, even if one of you is having breakfast and the other is having dinner. The distance doesn’t feel so bad when you guys can just simply carry each other from room to room and keep up the conversation for hours on end. And when you don’t feel like cooking for yourself on one of those FaceTime dates? You don’t know how he does it because he doesn’t even break conversation or seem distracted, but takeout just shows up at your door. When you lightly scold and thank him for it, he pretends like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. 

Constantly sending gifts to you in the mail - Seungcheol, Woozi, Seungkwan

Regular communication? Most certainly. But the little silver lining in a long distance relationship for him would be packing up a little care package every couple weeks or so. Tangible objects mean a lot to him when it comes to you, so he gives you a constant stream of them. Sometimes, it’s just snacks or little trinkets. But sometimes, it’s extravagant gifts that make your jaw drop and scold him for the expense. He sort of lives for the random text that he can sneak to read during a busy day when you say, ���Not again!!’ Shortly followed by a ‘Thank you, I love it.’ And naturally, he loves your little care packages, too. If one of his members tries to get a hold of it before he can, he can and will fight for it because you made it, and it’s his. 

Just gets on a plane the moment he has some free time - Joshua, Mingyu, Minghao

The constant phone calls and texts, regular FaceTime dates, and gifts in the mail are great and bring him a lot of comfort when he needs them. But nothing beats having some time off to just jump on a plane and go see you. He doesn’t really care if you have to go about your business because it’s a surprise, and you can’t take time off. He’ll wait patiently at your home while you have to be out and do things for you while you’re gone. And when you’re finally home, expect him to be glued to you. The ‘goodbye for now’ might be hard when he has to go back home, but it’s well worth it. 

[chaotic-archaeologist]

So to make a long story semi short; during fall term a couple unknowing found a set of mastodon teeth and brought to my anthropology professor at the college, since then they conducted some field work and found more bone. They obviously stopped because of winter but in summer the college will be offering a field work class to go help at the site. I want to do that, but as mentioned before I have Cerebral Palsy which means I don't have a lot of upper body strength or flexibility. But I can still do a lot. My I guess problem is my Professors respect me and that's hard for me to get with all the ableism and I worked hard these last two semesters to break out of my shell to get here , I guess I just don't want to 1. make a fool of myself 2. be a hindrance and/or mess something up

any advice?

This sounds like an incredible opportunity, and I would definitely encourage you to pursue it! I hear your concerns about embarrassing yourself and being a hindrance, but I think you should reframe your thinking around facts that 1) everybody deserves learning experiences regardless of their physical ability, and 2) there are things you can do that will be an asset to the excavation.

Some of these things include taking notes and photographs, documenting and storing finds, and working with any digital tools like GPS units. You may also be able to do lab work and different kinds of analysis, depending on what they find and how they run the program. A good supervisor (although not all are created equal) will be willing to work with you to come up with a plan for how you can participate and what that will look like.

Usually, classes like this have applications where students list their relevant coursework and write a brief personal statement about why they want to participate. There are a couple of ways you could go about this in regards to disclosing your disability and seeking accommodations. You can either:

Disclose early: this would entail including something about your disability in your personal statement, in an email to the professor running the dig, etc.

Disclose later: submit your application without mentioning your disability. Feel free to mention how hard you've worked to get where you are, and if you want to talk about vague challenges with your health as part of that, it's up to you. If you are accepted to the dig, ask for a meeting with the supervisor where you can then explain your needs and what you are able to do.

Generally, I advise erring on the side of disclosing later rather than earlier. As I'm sure you're aware, prejudice and implicit bias are unfortunately a thing, and sometimes the only way to protect yourself from those impeding your application is to withhold information (although obviously this isn't an option if the professor already knows you). Additionally, you have legal protections against discrimination that are much easier to enforce after you have been accepted.

That being said, I've been heartened to see that more and more people in archaeology spaces are thinking about what accessibility means in field settings and how to include people with disabilities.—perhaps this is also the case with whoever is running this dig. Archaeology is for everyone, and there are many roles in an excavation for someone who can't do physical labor.

Finally, I'll close with some resources that might be helpful.

The Disabled Archaeologists Network: while I don't think they have a ton of programming for undergraduates (yet), membership is free and can put you in touch with

Field Tested: an article about a disabled student who was able to participate in a geology field school (similar levels of work to an archaeology one). It discusses some of the accommodations the student needed, and what they were able to do.

Here's an article by Dr. Anita Marshall, the professor who ran that accessible field school. Its content isn't substantially different from the one I linked above, but at the end it also cites some good literature about accessibility in field work. You should be able to access a lot of those publications through your institution's library or @jstor's free (or institutional) service.

Good luck, -Reid

[dorabellingham]

Kissing in the rain

warning: none

characters: jude x reader

summary: when you're arguing and you leave him talking to himself, but he follows you

may contain spelling and translation errors!

It was a gray, rainy afternoon in Madrid. The sound of rain beating against the windows of the house was constant, almost drowning out the tense voices inside. You and Jude were standing in the living room, arguing about something trivial —this time, it was about which route to take to get to a family appointment, but it could have been about anything else. In the last few days, it seemed like everything was a source of friction between you.

—I told you, the route I chose is faster! Why do you always have to complicate things?

You exclaimed, crossing your arms and looking at Jude in frustration.

Jude, on the other hand, seemed equally impatient.

—Complicate things? I’m just trying to help, but you never listen! Every time we have to decide something, it turns into this.

—Turn into what, Jude? I’m not asking for help. I just want us to get there without fighting!

You were clearly tired of that argument, but at the same time, you couldn't stop arguing.

The rain outside was getting stronger, the sky seemed heavier and heavier, reflecting the tension. The eldest Bellingham rubbed his face with his hands, taking a step back.

—You know what? You're always cutting me off, always making it seem like I'm the problem.

You huffed and turned your back, heading towards the door. You weren't going to stand there, arguing, when all you wanted was peace.

—Cutting you off, Jude? Stay on your route. I'll go alone.

You opened the door, and the cold air of the rain entered the house, messing up your hair and making your skin shiver. You knew it was stupid, that you were going out in the middle of the rain for a silly reason, but sometimes your emotions took over everything. Without looking back, you walked out the door, leaving the boy alone.

Outside, the rain was falling hard, soaking you in seconds. You walked fast, almost running on the wet sidewalk, raindrops running down your face, mixing with the tears you wouldn't admit you were shedding. You were angry, frustrated, but most of all, tired of how things always seemed to be out of control lately.

But after a few meters, you heard his heavy footsteps behind you.

—Y/n, wait!

He shouted, running towards you, completely ignoring the fact that you were both getting wet to the bone.

You stopped, but didn't turn around immediately. You stood there, in the middle of the street, feeling the cold rain fall on your body as you waited for Jude to reach you. The sound of the drops was the only sound that filled the silence between you for a moment.

He reached you, breathing heavily, his soaked hair making heavier drops of water run down his face.

—Babe... we need to stop this. —He said, his voice hoarse, as if he was tired of fighting so much. —This... we're always arguing over nothing.

You finally turned to face him, your eyes shining with anger and sadness.

—So why don't we stop? Why does it always have to be like this?

He was silent for a moment, running his hand through his wet hair. The rain continued to fall, harder, as they stared at each other.

—Because... because I care too much.

Jude finally answered, his voice low, barely audible over the sound of the storm.

You looked at him, surprised.

—What?

—I care too much, Y/n. That's why we fight. I want everything to work out, I want us to be okay... and when we start arguing, I just lose control.

He admitted, his frustration evident in his voice.

You were quiet for a moment, absorbing his words. Maybe you had underestimated how much your boyfriend cared, how much he wanted things to work out between them. You always saw him as the calm guy, the one who kept his cool while you exploded with emotion, but maybe he was just as lost in this relationship as you were.

You were about to answer, but before you could say anything, Jude took two big steps towards you and pulled you close. Without hesitation, he kissed you with an urgency you hadn't expected, as if he was trying to end all the fights, all the frustration, in a single gesture.

The rain continued to fall around you, and you felt his body against yours, warm, even in the middle of the storm. You let yourself be carried away by the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck, feeling Jude’s large hands holding you firmly.

The world seemed to stop in that moment. The fights, the friction, the arguments —everything disappeared the instant Jude’s lips met yours. And for a moment, you realized that what you were doing now was much more important than anything you had discussed before. That was what mattered, what you had with each other, the connection that, despite all the differences, always brought you back together.

When the kiss finally ended, you were both breathless, but he still held you close, your foreheads pressed together.

—I’m sorry, babe.

He whispered, his eyes fixed on yours.

You smiled slightly, your hands still holding his face.

—I’m sorry too. —You said, your voice soft. —I think we just need to learn not to let small things become a problem.

Jude nodded, letting out a soft laugh.

—And maybe we should wait to argue until it’s not raining?

You laughed too, shaking your head.

—Yeah, that might be a good idea, honey.

You stood there for a few more seconds, just looking at each other, as the rain continued to fall around you. You knew there would still be fights, there would still be times when you would disagree, but in the end, what you had together was greater than any argument.

—Shall we go home?

Jude asked, finally pulling away a little, but still holding your hand.

You nodded, and you began walking back, hand in hand, soaked from the rain, but with lighter hearts. This might have been the stupidest fight you had ever had, but in the end, it had served to remind you both that, no matter how much you argued, you were still in love.

Heyyy! I'm sorry for the delay in bringing this one shot, it's my first time having an iphone and all this is very strange to me but soon we'll be back to normal :)) Do you have any suggestions for new themes?

[sobbingscripter]

Tags: [mlw][mdni][semi-public][idk man, feet? Like, she does some things but not with her dawgs out][handjob][nipple play][standing sex][unprotected sex][blowjob][implied snowballing]

"Why are you mewing?"

"What?"

Your question breaks Kento's reverie, that little bubble in which he is optimally productive and narrowed eyes raise to meet your gaze.

You look like the picture of leisure.

A pen spinning idly on your nimble fingers, your elbow resting on your desk and the plethora of colourful pens you'd stuck in your hair in an attempt to get Kento to smile. You have yet to succeed at that, but you pay it no mind, shifting closer to your desk, the wheels of your chair scuff against the linoleum floors and you rest both elbows on your desk.

"Mewing." You repeat. "The model thing?"

You elaborate vaguely and you watch as those thin, blonde brows crease into a frown, upper lip curling in distaste at the fact that you keep teaching him urban slang without his consent.

"I don't need to mew."

Kento dismisses, slender fingers moving through his sandy blonde strands, not even tousling them in an unattractive way, and you let out a whistle.

"Not you flexing your face card." You tease and you feel a sick sense of fulfillment when he lets out that heavy sigh, removing his freaky glasses and pinching the bridge of his perfect (and rideable) nose.

"I hate that I know what those words mean." Kento complains, before tugging on his tie, loosening the knot up just a bit.

"You look tired." You hum softly. "Your eyebags are heavier than usual. Overtime?"

"Another Curse." He responds lazily, slumping the tiniest bit against the back of his chair and Kento lets out a heavy groan.

"I want to quit."

The words aren't unusual when it's Kento. He's a man who loves complaining about things, and you're already fishing in your bag for your second lunch box, sliding it across the surface of your desks. He takes it, without hesitance, opening it up and picking up the sandwich, raising it to his mouth to take a generous bite.

Mayonnaise rests at the corners of his mouth but you don't hesitate to lean over, wiping away the messes with your thumb.

And Kento's lips quirk into a smile at the action.

'Wife' isn't a term everyone gives to anybody, and 'friend' isn't a term he'd give anybody.

But you somehow manage to be both. Except wife, but you're a variant: his workwife.

You behave just like a wife would. Greeting him with a coffee every morning, despite the fact that he gets his own on his way to work but always orders an extra small so that he can see the smile on your face when you slide that '#1 Husband' cup across his desk.

You listen to him complain, occasionally straighten his tie that he's left intentionally crooked just to feel the brushes of your fingertips against his skin.

And it's the little quirks.

When you work hard, you're so focused. Everytime he passes by your desk on his way to the bathroom, he sticks one of your colourful pens into your hair and it's gotten to the point where Kento just goes to the bathroom, because he wants to see the way your face tugs with confusion whenever you redo that bun and your stationery clatters to the floor.

You pack him in lunches, you talk to him all the time despite the fact that sometimes, he'd like to hear you talk with your mouth full.

Kento remembers important dates, like your birthday, your parents' anniversary, the day you found whatever stray you managed to find a home for and your doctor's appointments (which he schedules for you).

He buys little trinkets, small baubles that remind him of you and you do the same. Kento's desk has a little ornamental seashell that you gave him when you visited the beach in your hometown. Your desk has a little ornamental Big Ben replica from Kento's trip to London to get rid of a Curse.

"Kento?" Your voice brings him back, but so does the sight of your manicured fingers, snapping in front of his face. "Ken? You okay?"

Ken.

Ken.

Ken.

The sound of your voice calling him that, so soft and so sweet, makes it even harder to conceal the large bulge in the front of his slacks and Kento clears his throat.

"Hm? Yes, I'm fine. Just thinking."

You know better than to ask, so instead, you do what you always do. Your kitten heel bumps against Kento's dress shoe, in a small act of almost childish affection and Kento's tuts you.

"You shouldn't be wearing heels for too long."

A muscular hand grasps your ankle, carefully undoing the buckle and he slides your heel off. One foot at a time, and he rests your one foot in his lap, while absentmindedly massaging the arch, his thumbs enjoying the feel of the pantyhose against his finger pads.

"You know, I have no idea how you're not married or at least, seeing someone." You state, your toes curling with each press of Kento's thumb to your foot, easing aches you didn't even know were there.

"No woman would be okay with the fact that her partners goes to work and massages another woman's feet." Kento hums, eyes lowered to your feet as he presses, the sight of your manicured toes shielded by semi-transparent hosiery isn't something he thought he needed to see.

But God, was he wrong.

He likes that your toenails are the prettiest shade of nude, so lovely with your complexion. Manicured, trimmed, filed, perfect.

"Then maybe don't massage my feet?" You suggest, resting your chin in the palm of your hand as you watch Kento with a bored, almost lovey stare.

He's a gorgeous man.

Small, hazel eyes, thin eyebrows (they're natural, you asked), perfect hair and a perfect body. But you're not too focused on his body when it comes to his jaw.

A jawline so sharp it could cut glossy wrapping paper without a single fault.

"No." Kento's voice brings you to the forefront of your mind and you let out a laugh, lowering your feet from his lap and setting them on the lush carpet beneath your feet. And you lean over, cradling Kento's face in your hands and you don't miss the way his expression softens the tiniest bit.

Brows relaxing, jaw unclenching and you brush your thumbs across his cheekbones.

"You're too perfect for this world."

Kento's barely even there, working on documents like he's on autopilot, muscular hands scribbling details into blocks and he occasionally pauses to push up his goggles. And you can't help it.

Brushing your foot up his calf, and.... Nothing.

Light work, no reaction.

Your foot shifts, trailing up Kento's thigh and only when your foot reaches where you assume the leg of his boxers would end, do his eyes lift to meet your stare.

"Yes, wife?" He hums and you feel that tingle in your stomach. He calls you that like it's your name and it makes your ears itch in only a way your ankles can scratch.

"No, nothing." You shake your head. "Just wanted to see you get nervous."

"Won't work, try harder."

Kento's eyes lower back to the stack of paper in front of him, a new challenge being brought to the front of your braincell and you act boldly.

Placing your foot right over his bulge.

His really hard, really big bulge. And you swallow, eyes widening and Kento doesn't even glance up at you.

"Didn't think it through, did you?" He teases and you shake your head. "I did not."

But when you move to move away your foot, Kento's hand grasps your ankle in a pretty firm grip, and his free hand just continues to page through the stack.

And he keeps your foot there.

"Finish what you started."

The closet is stuffy, the fluorescent light is intense and it makes sweat accumulate on the back of your neck, droplets dribbling down into the collar of your shirt but you don't notice it.

Of course you don't. Not when Kento's tongue is in your mouth, his hands resting on your waist, thumbs brushing against the curve of the underside of your breasts and his cock, fucking into your hand at the slowest, most painstaking pace.

Kento's big.

Long, thick, with the prettiest little tuft of hair just above his base. He's a neat man, but he's a messy man, beads of precum sliding down his shaft, wetting your palm and making the most obscene sound that echoes in the quietness of the supply closet.

Boxes and boxes surround you. Standard office supplies, sticky notes in every colour, boxes of highlighters and gel pens adjusted to be comfortable for the grip of an office worker. Japan really is ahead of it's time when it comes to stationery, but the thought leaves your mind when Kento kisses your neck.

He's gentle, and slow, but his hands make light work of your blouse, lowering his head to press a kiss to that delicate little 'v' between your clavicles and he shudders out a breath.

"Your hands feel so good...."

Kento breathes out, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they form stiff peaks, painfully hard and just... Begging for attention from his soft, warm tongue.

"But you take such good care of your hands." He adds softly, pressing kisses along the swell of your breasts, soft tits to adorn with kisses and gentle lovebites that'll leave bruises for only your eyes.

And hopefully his.

"I like your manicure." Kento sighs quietly. "Is that with the money of our bet?"

You only nod your head. You're not able to do much when his warm fingertips are tugging so teasingly on your nipples, your head tipping back against a shelf and you let out a panted breath.

Your hand strokes him just a bit faster, your wrist having the slightest bit of torsion as you work his already weepy cock, squeezing your hand the tiniest bit tighter when you get to the tip.

The flushed, pink and rosy tip, crying thick beads of precum, twitching with each movement you make.

You're barely focused on the pens that clatter out of your hair, tumbling to the floor when Kento lifts you from the cool tiles, guiding your legs to wrap around his narrow waist.

A hole is easy to rip into your nylons, and you're pulling your panties to the side with hazy eyes and a fuzzy brain, and your body turns to a flurry of static when he slides into you.

You're so warm.

So wet and so so tight, Kento buries his face in your neck as he shifts you in his arms. He's so happy you're not wearing that pencil skirt, instead, he gets to watch the fluttering mauve fabric of your skirt slide down your thighs and rest at the crease of your hips, while his forearms hook beneath your knees.

Kento fucks into you like a man with all the time in the world. Cock dragging against your gummy insides, nudging at your cervix with the cutest, lingering pecks. All as Kento's lips find purchase around one of your taut nipples, suckling and dragging his tongue along the bud.

Your nerves are tingling.

Your fingers card through his hair, nails digging into the back of his neck and Kento's warm breaths brush across your skin, doing nothing to ease the goosebumps that spatter across your flesh. And you whine, a low sound that echoes through the room and your hips roll to meet each of Kento's thrusts.

And a low groan leaves his lips, shifting you a bit more and he begins to move you. Up... Down... Up... Down...

The repetitive motion and the delightful tingle that makes your toes curl in your heels, the scratch of his fuzzy pubic bone brushing against your clit is one of the leading sensations that make your brain glitch.

"You're tighter than I imagined."

Kento breathes out, peeking up at you from between your breasts, and that's... That's what gets you.

Fluttering walls spasm around Kento's cock, trickling liquids dribbling down his cock as your hips buck and twitch. He kisses you.

Deep and long, like his strokes, and Kento's tongue drags against the roof of your mouth. He drinks your moans like sweet nectar, swallowing each breath and sound like they're heaven themself.

You're on your knees in front of Kento before you know.

You can see he's close. The way he twitches, flushed crown dripping onto your tongue before your lips wrap around his tip, your hands following in suit. Your thighs are still shaking when you're sucking his cock, hands stroking him in tandem.

Clockwise, anticlockwise, up and down.

You feel Kento's fingers carding through your hair, keeping your head in place as he grips the shelf above him with such desperation that you can hear the wood splinter.

Kento's hips stutter when he comes.

Shooting warm pulses of cum into your warm, wet mouth, painting your tongue in that pretty pearlescent fluid that tastes distinctly like.... Cinnamon and pineapple.

"Don't swallow." Kento whispers softly, guiding you to your feet and his body presses against yours, his hand coming to cup your cheek while the other rests on the curve of your hip.

"Spit it back in my mouth, wife."

[superconductivebean]

Just my thoughts—as a fandom hermit of sorts.

Creating for nobody but yourself is actually discouraging when it's done repulsively. You'll feel its hard slap later down the line—unless your inner reader began to enjoy you as an author. They will gradually subside your inner critic and might teach them few lessons in how to appreciate maybe not the work itself—who of us doesn't have an one we dislike in some way?—but the craftwork went behind its creation.

How to do that?

Surprisingly easy.

Watch your creative decisions. Introspect. See yourself in your work.

You are inseparable in some way or another, your reflection is present within it, and by that I imply how you felt writing it and why did you think something would or wouldn't work. The only one who usually know is you, so, if you feel something is wrong, it probably is. The best is the enemy of the good, yes, but I'm not talking about perfectionism. I'm talking about the need to listen to that tingle and being able to assess it before editing.

Perfectionism is, in a sense, artistic pessimism. It tells you everything is wrong but it can't be an objective truth. Then some scenes must be wrong, and alright, good, the field is narrowed down. Which ones? Where? Why? At that point, put the work away for a day or two, then re-open, re-see, realise, that yes, that could be improved, except it isn't a scene. It's a sloppy word choice. It changed the sentence, that avalanched into a little rearrangement, and voila, everything works.

You fight the pessimistic outlook with a little bit of rest.

The more you learn how to treat your work, the more you might grow excited to try new things and not because you want to show them to the world but first to yourself.

That little part of you is who actually matter. Learn to love these little emotion abstractions. Care for the little guy, nurse them, feed them different ideas, styles, work them up to your master and see yourself forming in directions you'd never thought you would be able to simply because them—you—wanted to try something new. It would not matter if those were successful or not; when the entire process is a journey, the output's performance begins to matter very little.

Besides, the little guy would want company—and that's when other people come in. The reader doesn't like negative responses or no responses at all, true. Know who does? Your inner critic.

They're all too eager to overthink things and they're the perpetrator of your pessimism. So make them analyse why something clicks for many people and why something goes under their radar, make them a little analytics-building machine (which is also a skill), and just keep its outputs close in case you're curious how different fandoms or communities work. It's mostly a useless information. But you will be certain about things, and certainty brings comfort.

It will help to find readers in case you'd need more, too. Or if you'd like to meet someone new. But is it a guaranteed method? No, it isn't. Sometimes you'll write the most influential fandom monsterfic and all these people will pass by. Othertimes you'd write the smallest fic in the fandom but all its people will get around it because they liked your take on things or became curious with your ideas—and they can actually stuck around. You may never know. Fandom isn't business, it is rather a wild fair with barely predictable events in its main mystery.

Besides.

You can't make yourself a miracle to everyone; but be the miracle to yourself, and people will notice it and will try to comprehend you. Be Original, they say. They lie. They want the same jacket but red. Or the same jacket but sewn from kelps. Be Familiar But Be Outland-ish. Do your thing, that everybody else does, in your own fascinating way. Be the artist after all, be that bitch and leave people with the art-shaped holes in their thoughts.

I used to play an instrument once. I was bad at it, well, I was taught poorly and was only ever learning how to play from the sheets. It never go outwith or far and the instrument is long-sold, but I'm still able to recall the emotions I had while playing it. Heartbeat was the metronome, the hands were going in perfect synch, the entire body was able to feel the timings, and at some point, it wasn't simply the flow and going along with it. It was being the flow. The architect behind its creation—well, yes, the music wasn't mine, but being able to recreate it and make it sound as it supposed to sound was utterly captivating, enamouring, absolutely wondrous experience.

Years later I became enamoured with the writing—the process of it. If I manage to build the flow correctly and sail down my own rivers with little to no bump, unless planned, I'm overjoyed and amazed.

But will it go far? How well will it perform? Sometimes I do care if I know people might be interested, but beyond that, it's just doing its thing and bringing me joy because it's a puzzle, because it's a never-ending fascination—and because it's even more than that when done in the completely different tongue. And people take to it. Because it looks fun, perhaps, or it's something they had rarely seen before done in the language, or maybe it's just the way I tend to pick words and arrange them. I always get different answers. But what I know for certain: that something I found within me works both for me and people liking my things.

That what matters.

It all might sound a tad bit mental but it's so important to be in harmony with yourself as an author, as a reader, and as your own critic—who else knows you as much as you? Don't forget the people you have—the crowds will come and go, but the friends will stay.

Maybe this is a hot take, but as creative people, our #1 priority in our work should be ourselves.

It is not, AND SHOULD NEVER BE, what would get us the most engagement. Dispel "content creation," popularity, and monetization from your brain. Write, paint, draw what you want to! HOLY SHIT!!!!!!

The people who resonate with it will eventually show up. But the people who don't? Who cares???? The art you personally create is meant to help you heal, to help you express, to bring you joy and pain!!!!

You need to learn how to work on something because you deeply care for it and can revel in that self-satisfaction. Of course recognition feels fucking great! We all want it. We are humans, but you need to stop creating with the idea of other people consuming your work!!!

Give into the art movement. Create a renaissance for yourself. Fuck other people. Be that bitch! People are not going to be in your lives forever, and when you're left to your own devices, you should be able to look at what you've created and fucking love it.

[strawberrystepmom]

re: cancer men - the creators and dreamweavers of the zodiac:

okay hi hello. i was reading and am perpetually reading anthony bourdain's books and felt inspired to kind of break down at least astrologically the mystique of the cancer man. this is not a defensive essay but rather a piece that can offer a (hopeful) shift in perspective with regards to how we view these people in our world and our lives.

so the cancer man often has mommy issues. i hope you heard me sigh very loudly saying that because i hate using catch all terms for things that require nuance but it's a concept we are all familiar with based on term alone so it's what i'll use. my rebuttal to this is also - who doesn't? in some capacity? then i remember i'm a water sign and my mom was a cancer and i need to keep this moving on...

mommy issues aren't an indictment, they're most often just an indicator of areas where a person needs more support. perhaps they're a little scatter brained and need a partner who wants to help them get organized. perhaps they're a little emotional and have been told such their entire life to the point they're no longer wanting to be emotional so they need a partner who is willing to be a bending ear.

these areas of emotional need can lead to cancer men specifically tending to really need a lot of strong reinforcement from the women in their lives if they're unwilling to look inward and re-mother themselves so to speak. they can lean on their partners a lot because it's hard to talk about the deep feelings they have. when you agree to love a partner who shows you they need this support, you guys are gonna get mad at me for saying it, but it needs to be provided in a healthy and functional way. if you cannot provide that support do not take up with a man who already has inherent emotional distress just bc he dared to be born under a water sun.

that being said - i implore you, cancer man who may be reading this, to become your gentle inner voice. to reassure yourself that you're doing a good job and that you haven't done wrong. a cancer's fears can seem almost childlike to the uninitiated (do i know what i'm doing? is this going to last forever? what if they change their mind? what if? why? who? when?) but my rebuttal to that is also - all of our own inner monologues are our child selves or someone who hurt our child self. reserve judgement about the maturity of other's emotional processes.

cancers (all genders/identities) instinctively use their protective shell to get them through life. they are symbolized by the crab after all, so they sometimes assume costumes both literal and metaphorical.

in men these may be different personalities - you'll find the doer who shows up to your house with boxes and helping hands when you tell him you're moving, the quiet stoic lover who meets your needs in the most unassuming of ways, the man who is using macho as a defense mechanism who peacocks around and uses emotions as a weapon and finally, the man who is using his own machismo as a charming safe haven for others with hands that only wish to caress and heal (my favorite).

i mean god, a lot of cancer men either lean into the super affable cute sweet guy in hoodies and jeans while absolutely blasting the most insane screamo music in those headphones or they are tattooed, love to look alt because it hides that their top artist for this year was mitski just to give you an idea of the physical identities they may assume.

cancer men crave intimacy. their deep desire for enduring love, family, a place to call home no matter how transient everything else in their lives may feel isn't incidental, it's their birthday candle blow and falling star wish every time they see one.

they just have a tendency to rebuild their shells if they have broken through and start to feel unsafe with someone. they can become combative. the "yeah and what about you?" starts at that point and things can start to break down if you aren't willing to look deeper and realize he's hurting and that's why he's lashing out. it isn't okay, it isn't right, but it's the way cancers (and tbh all water signs why else do we have terror reputations) behave when they are retreating.

cancer men are gifted at making their loved ones dreams come true because almost always, they're making theirs come true as well through the process. they're life builders. commit to him and don't question him and he will give you everything you could ever want if he's done his inner work and he's ready to do so. let him build you the fantasy. embrace a man that loves you so much he wants to give you a babylonian garden of your own.

that being said, it's not your responsibility as someone who loves him to get him to that point so proceed as you wish but be aware that if you give up, you won't get the opportunity to come back once he's all fixed. don't cross a cancer - they're twice as vengeful as a scorpio with a virgo's very, very long memory and you will live your entire life being reminded that you didn't love them when they needed to be loved the most regardless of how true it may or not be. cancers deal in facts and feelings both and oftentimes their feelings are where the facts come from and experiences may vary.

but anyway yeah

[bkgexe]

to katsuki, you are: aloe on sunburn, sand on the floor of the car’s backseat, hands sticky with melted ice cream.

your mothers were best friends who always aligned their vacation days. the beach was like a second home to the both of you, not always by choice. katsuki still imagines the way waves sound when he’s falling asleep—the ebb and flow. take and give, and take always comes first.

you talked to him about it once when you were sharing a room in a rental cabin—one for your mothers, one for the both of you. you were still young enough that the idea of you two sharing a room didn’t give your mothers a collective conniption. you told him that sometimes hearing the tide was the only thing that could get you to sleep.

katsuki was cautious of the water a healthy amount. his dad told him about riptides when he was younger: being pulled out to sea, salt in your mouth, lungs burning, and the shore so much farther than you’d ever think possible. “it’s creepy,” he told you. still too young to have replaced his instinct to be vulnerable with his instinct to bite.

“you scared of the ocean?”

“no,” he lied.

“it’s okay if you’re a little scared,” you told him. you were two months older than him, and this meant your words held wisdom. “the ocean is meant to be scary, i think.”

“what do you mean by that?”

“if no one was scared of it, everyone would end up out there in the water. there’d be nothing stopping anyone from swimming and then swimming more—” you used to have this habit of pausing mid-sentence like you were cutting yourself off, like you’d run out of breath because of all the words you were trying to get out. katsuki used to find it annoying and deeper than that he used to really like it. you took a deep breath. “and then i guess you’d just swim too far.”

katsuki thinks: riptides, salt, burning. he thinks that his dad was right to warn him over and over again, even though it has heavily shaped his perception of the ocean and his enjoyment of these holidays.

the drives back to hamamatsu were the worst. there was always sand even when you thought you’d gotten rid of all the sand on your body. katsuki would find it later between his toes, clinging to the dry and delicate skin behind his ears. the two of you would sit together in sand in the backseat and swing your legs and tap your flip-flops against each other until they were all lost to the floor of the car. katsuki liked when the side of your foot was pressed against his, when he could feel the sand on you and the warmth of your skin, like the beach took up residence in your body and followed you home.

he’d like it more if the beach stayed where it was. he’d like it if your smile didn’t remind him of a saltlicked breeze and easy sunrise. this is why he started bullying you in the fourth grade, but when his mom asked him why he was being mean to you, he told her it was because you were afraid of the ocean and that made you weak and dumb, because how could the ocean every be a frightening thing? it takes before it gives, but only if you let it.

he hurt you physically for the first time right before he left for ua. you were both graduating. your moms were getting busier, older. the vacations were infrequent and rarely involved the both of you because of how katsuki had been acting. he didn’t want to go, anyway—the beach never felt right without you, without your sticky ice-cream hands and your sandstuck skin.

you said, “congratulations,” even though he’d nearly made you cry just a few days ago. you said, “you’re gonna do great at ua.”

you were a little too close to him. he could smell your body spray. something bad and a little too sweet that reminded him of childhood. he pushed you because you weren’t going to stop him, and because you always acted like this, like he wasn’t treating you any differently than he had when you were both ten and making sandcastles together, and because he could. that’s all. because he could.

you fell hard. not expecting it. you needed two stitches in your right knee. he’d pushed you on the way home, and you’d gone down on the pocked tarmac of your hometown’s rundown main street.

when he saw the blood he remembered the first time you put aloe on a nasty sunburn across his shoulders and he cried because it hurt so bad. he cried and you were kind to him.

he wanted to take away the feeling you had that you were close to him. that you were important to him. he didn’t understand what gave you the idea in the first place that either of these things could possibly be true.

this was when katsuki realized he wasn’t afraid of the ocean—he was instead akin to it. he would be the one to take before he gave. he would be the thing to fear. and so that’s what he decided to become.

he doesn’t see you again until he’s twenty-nine years old. you have avoided him every holiday season that he’s returned home, though he couldn’t say whether you returned home or not. he never saw you. his parents didn’t mention you. if he ran into your mom while he was out grocery shopping with his mom, their conversations revolved around anything that wasn’t you.

he’s tired now. he’s been the thing that people fear. he has taken and taken and taken and he has never truly learned how to give. an ocean can’t only be an ebb.

he takes his mother to the beach. she can’t go by herself anymore because she had a bad hip replacement and loses stamina easily when walking, especially in the sun.

you and your mother are there, on the same stretch of beach, and later he will find out that you’re renting a cabin eerily close to the one his mom has rented for the week. after his mother is laid out sunbathing next to your mother, the two of you head to the water and stand in the low tide, the sand just cool enough not to burn the delicate bottoms of your feet.

you grew into your features perfectly. even the non-conventional parts of you are gorgeous. the thought makes his hands feel clammy. makes him avoid eye contact for more than the obvious reasons.

“you look good,” you tell him, despite the fact that he’s scarred from face to torso and badly. “happy, I mean.”

“don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, leaves the pronoun vague. maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about. maybe he doesn’t. his face heats and he blames the sun. he doesn’t know if he’s been happy in a long time. your knee scarred from the stitches and he didn’t know that until today, right now.

you shrug and you’re already starting to burn. he wouldn’t know that if he hadn’t spent all his youth with you, here, in the sun. even if he can’t see the color, he can tell by time elapsed. you scratch at your shoulders a little, confirming how well your timetables are still etched into his subconscious. “up there in the hero ranks, lots of fans, feared by all… seems like what you wanted when we were kids.”

he’s quiet. the two of you watch a young couple play with their daughter in the foam-edge ocean surf. you’re so pretty that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“is it what you wanted?”

“i was a shitty kid.”

“you weren’t,” you say. “and then something changed and you were.”

the couple are younger than both of you. katsuki doesn’t want kids but thinks: that could have been him, in some other universe, and maybe that version of him would have wanted a daughter when he was that young and maybe he would have learned to give before he took.

“you stopped being afraid of it, i think.”

“of what?” he asks.

you gesture to the ocean before you, the glittering water and the soft spread of ebb-flow tide and the sheer expanse of something too vast for either of you to ever fully comprehend. “you swam too far.”

you’re right. he thinks: he lost his fear of the ocean when he started to believe that he was something just like it. or instead, this: conquering fear and becoming the thing that frightens you are two very different things.

“i shouldn’t have pushed you,” he says. “i shouldn’t have treated you the way i did.”

you nod. chew on a thought. “my mom thinks we’re gonna get married.”

he snorts at the sheer ridiculousness of that concept. the idea that he’d ever be good enough to learn to give for you. “you tell her we’re not?”

“tried a couple times. she’s got the venue picked out and everything.”

“they know why we don’t talk,” he says, but it’s a question. he’s never broached the topic with anyone. he likes to keep it like a hidden septic wound, poke at it to see it ooze.

“i don’t even know that,” you tell him.

he looks at you because he can. he wants you to look back at him but you’re squinting off into the horizon, searching for something. someone that’s gone too far, maybe. even though he’s right here next to you. “because i hurt you,” he says.

“you did.”

“and you didn’t deserve it.”

“i didn’t.”

“i’m sorry.”

you laugh, a sound he hasn’t heard in over a decade. he remembers your flip-flops falling to the floor of the car, the sand on your skin, the trill of laughter when you couldn’t reach them to put them back on. “i’d have liked if it didn’t take you years to get there.”

“it didn’t,” he says. this is the flow. this is the give. this is vulnerability over bite. “i think about it some days—or most. most days.”

“but you never wanted to talk to me about it?”

“i did. i just—” and he looks at you and loses his words like you used to when you were younger because you’re looking at him now too and he thinks: there is nothing but guilt inside of me. he was never meant to be an ocean. he wasn’t built to contain a feeling so vast. “feels impossible to start a conversation like that.”

“you just have to start it,” you say, like it really is that simple.

he doesn’t say anything because you’re right.

“remember when I asked if you were afraid of the ocean?” you ask.

“vaguely.”

“you lied to me. you said you weren’t.”

he remembers that. remembers lying to you. remembers hearing the tide for years and years as he fell asleep, like the ocean was following him, determined to make him remember his own failings. “but i was.”

“you were,” you say. “and so was i.”

when he takes your hand in his, his palms are sweaty and you don’t seem to care at all. and you stand together like that, feet in the ocean, staring down the thing that scared the both of you when you were younger. that still scares you now. “i know it’s not—I know don’t deserve it. but i wanna get to know you again,” he says. swallows his pride and its diamond edges. “if you’d want that.”

“i would,” you say, and this is your give—though from him, you’ve never taken. you should. you deserve to. “i missed being out here with you. didn’t feel right by myself.”

and even though it’s so different now—the both of you and your mothers all in different sections of your lives, seeds flush in a mandarin—it feels right. your presence completes this image. to katsuki, you are many things. to katsuki, you are everything to do with the beach and the sun and the sand.

“missed it too,” he says—and he can remember, just like he remembers the way your skin felt warm on your childhood drives home from the beach, what it felt like to be less of an ocean and more of a human. how empty vastness was nothing in the face of his happiness from just being close to you.

[pinejayy]

╰➤ Petite Lover uwu

featuring: trafalgar law x petite f!reader

a/n: this was a request by!! @periwinklepuff !! sorry for the wait girl!! I hope you enjoy this!! hugs and kisses to you uwu uwu!!

summary: law loves how tiny you are compared to him, he loves the size difference between you two, especially in the bedroom.

warnings: nsfw content, size differences, law being a tease,

✦•·················• 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐀𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃!! •·················•✦

Law always enjoyed how tiny you were compared to him, honestly he loved comparing the both of you. You were barely 5 feet tall while he was 6’3. Yes he wasn’t tall as other pirates or enemies in the pirate world but you were still very tiny and petite compared to him. And it made him feel very protective over you. Law loves how you have to look up to speak to him or to anyone.

Law loves when you wear his clothes, especially that black and yellow hoodie of his. And if you’re wearing nothing but his hoodie he’s definitely going to pounce you like some kind of animal.

Law loves holding his hand up against yours, comparing the size difference between them. “Look at how tiny you are, so tiny compared to me.”

Your hands are so tiny compared to his, this dirty boy especially loves when you have to wrap both hands around his dick to stroke him off. It’s a huge ego boost for him.

I can him resting an arm on your head. While he teases you. “Aww how’s my little princess doing?”

And also!! Whenever you’re mad at him, Law will grab your personal items and put them on high places. “Aw do you need help grabbing that princess? All you have to do is ask nicely.”

And also with you being tiny, he feels more protective around you. And honestly it’s kinda overwhelming, because he’s literally breathing down your neck. “I have to protect you…at all cost.”

Law loves how he can hold you close against his body, it could be either in just cuddles or during sex. He loves how easily he can wrap his arms around your body. How close to can against you, and how easily he can carry you.

Oh boy…sex with Law is very interesting. Before getting intimate with him, he was all talk. He was talking about how good he is, how skilled his fingers and tongue are. But when it came to the day you two first had sex he was a shy boy. Probably a virgin…nevermind IS A VIRGIN.

But of course you two have gotten closer so which means sex has gotten a lot more intense between the two of you. And Law loves exploring your body, with his hands and tongue.

And with your small body he can hold you against the wall and fuck you like a wild animal in heat. “So good, so tight..”

He loves whenever you ride his dick, the way your prefect chest bounces against the movements. And how big he looks compared against your pussy. And it especially makes him hard when he can see the outline of dick against your stomach.

Since you are tiny you can fit into cramped spaces right? So his favorite thing to do is get you on your knees and into the small space of his desk where his legs go. And you better get to sucking his pretty cock up.

He loves carrying you as he’s balls deep in you. “Mm light as a feather.”

Whenever you’re sucking him off, he can’t help but bite his lip. How your lips wrap around him. God everything about is prefect.

And Law loves returning the favor. Wrap your legs around his head and let him eat away. He can spend hours between your legs and eat your pussy all day.

So!! Since you are short the crew does tend to tease you slightly. And sometimes it doesn’t bother Law but sometimes they do tend to push your boundaries and that’s what gets him. No one is allowed to mock you for being short.

One time Penguin and Shachi were being their usual selfs and they wanted to mess around with you and it lead them to grabbing your favorite book and holding it high so you wouldn’t be able to reach it. And of course Law saw this and of course he was pissed off. Let’s just say that those two were scrubbing the deck with toothbrushes.

Law does not tolerate anyone picking on you for your height. One time Kid called you a ‘Shrimp’ and Law saw red. That day Eustass Kid was threaten that he was gonna be dickless.

Law doesn’t like anyone teasing you, but he’s fair game. He’s allowed to tease you. Well in his eyes. Whenever you don’t wanna give him a kiss he’ll grab whatever you have and hold it up high. And of course you’re on your tippy toes trying to grab on whatever he has and once close enough, he grab your hands and pin them above your head and lean in for a kiss.

Law loves mocking you when you have to tippy toe to kiss him on the lips. And if he’s being a little shit just grab him by the goatee.

Law behind close doors with you is very lovable towards you. He treats you like a princess. And of course he’s not that rough with you because of course he’s afraid of hurting you in any form.

Once you guys are alone he’s a huge lovable guy. He loves to hold you against his body. He must protect you. No matter what.

Loves being the big spoon. Because you’re so tiny and ahh he just wants to hold you. And occasionally he loves being the small spoon. He loves seeing you hold him.

He loves calling you sweet names. Such as… Princess, Peanut, Small Fry and if he’s being a little head he’s call call you shorty.

He also loves to pat your head. And he also loves to bend down and kiss your forehead.

[patchworkcuddlebug]

Humanity

[CW: Passive suicidal ideation.]

Being a person feels... heavy. Like I'm always full of something. It didn't have to be gross, but it usually was. Sometimes it was something with an easy word to it, like disdain or cowardice, but usually it was more vague. Some sort of congealed, disgusting mass that's been slowly accumulating for as long as I've been alive, weighing my guts down until I'm too stressed to eat and too tired to sleep.

I don't want to die. Death sounds too painful, and I'm scared of commitment. But, as I looked out into the bay, waiting for the traffic on the toll bridge to advance, I can't help but daydream. If I drove into the river, just by some freak accident out of my control, I... wouldn't do much to fight it. I would just let whatever happens happen as I sit still. Let this heaviness in my chest weigh me down and drown me.

My whole life was like that, really. Just moment after moment of letting things out of my control happen to me. My parents never really let me do much, either because we didn't have money, or they decided it wasn't right. I had to move out young after they died, and that didn't give me much of a choice in where to work and where to rent. I didn't even have a chance to think about what my major would've been.

Being a waitress meant doing what you're told when you're told, which table to go to and what to bring them, and what to clean. The work itself was fine, it's just... everything around it. The same awful people just as trapped here as I am, the same inconsiderate boss that barely pays me enough to buy vegetables, the same disgusting smell of fish and chips, all building up and coagulating little by little.

The only way I could get through an average work day was by shutting my brain off and just letting my body move on its own. The years I've worked there have just been the same fog of meaningless obedience. It's a sort of torture, suppressing your ego all just to become your work, for the sake of people you hate. Just feeling full and heavy and gross.

That's how I survived most of my life. Ever since I started school, I learned quick that you keep your head down and go with the flow. Don't be too loud, too big, too anything. Just look pretty and do what you're told without thinking too hard about what you're doing. Try not to feel too much.

Of course dying isn't that big of a deal. I don't feel like I was ever truly alive, ever something that could really be called a person.

Oh, I'm home.

God it's so cold out. It's like the wind is trying to bite me through my coat. I really wish our heating worked, but I've given up trying to fight for it a long time ago.

I can hear the music from here. I swear to fucking god if she's throwing another party I'm going to scream. She can't keep doing this, she really can't.

I fumble with my keys because it's too cold in the hallway, and I struggle with the lock because it hasn't been replaced in over a decade. This is the right key, and I keep trying to turn it, but it won't unlock and my fingers are starting to hurt.

Today needs to end. Please. I just need to stop, after everything, I just need things to stop and let me be still for a single fucking-

Finally.

I leave the door open for as little time as I can. I don't even take my coat off before I march into the living room. She's there, on the couch with more friends than I've ever met. They're all smiling, talking with each other, and having fun. They're smoking weed inside.

I need to stop looking at the one sitting on the arm of the couch, she's not important right now.

"Hey, what the fuck?!" I raise my voice to be heard over the music and drunken ramblings. "I told you that you can't keep doing this, I'M the one who gets in shit for this with the landlord!"

She looked around her, gauging her guests' reactions. She forces a timid smile. "Hey, you don't have to make a big deal out of this, alright? Nothing's gonna happen if nobody tells on us, so just relax." She turns away from me, back to the others. To the woman on the arm of the couch. My roommate falls into this sort of drunken fawning, trying to excuse my behaviour, but that woman on the arm of the couch doesn't join in with them exaggeratedly rolling their eyes or shooing me away.

"I'm not the bad guy here! You're the one who keeps...!" I wince, bringing a hand over my eyes as I recoil into the door frame. It's so loud. "Fuck it, I can't do this with you, I'm going to bed." I turn and leave and slam my door and lock it. She turns the music back up. I'm ordering food and going to sleep.

After I stop crying.

. . . . .

"Do you like your life, darling?"

I'm floating. I'm naked. I can't tell where I am. I don't think I'm anywhere.

"...No."

The woman from earlier. I couldn't stop thinking about her all night. The way she looked, how she carried herself, it was just stuck in my brain.

She's so... big. She's towering over me. I'm like a toy, barely up to her shins.

This isn't a dream. She's there. I can feel her in front of me, almost more real than being awake. I've never been more lucid before.

"Such a poor thing..." She looks so sad. For me?

She's kneeling. "Let me take all that hurt away. I've always wanted nothing more than to help someone like you live the life they deserve." I should be scared. I shouldn't trust her. "I already know you'd make such a good doll~"

I look down at my body. It's fluctuating, moving in and out as I look at myself. My torso is flat and wooden like a marionette, but with each breath in it expands with cloth instead of skin. I can feel the seems of my stitches, the plastic of my joints, the clattering of my porcelain, all at once. It feels... welcome.

She's reaching for me. I know I should flinch, I should be scared of her crushing me as she wraps her hands around me like a doll, but I can't even remember what such a distrust would feel like. She's pulling me to eye level.

Why does her touch feel so... nice?

I feel a breach, like I've just come up for air. I can feel my soul hack and sputter, and finally begin to breathe. I've never felt so light, so emptied. Everything disgusting inside of myself was drained away. Have I been drowning all this time?

"Meet me whenever you're ready, darling." I know where she means. I see her manor, grand and sprawling, but tucked away just out of sight. I can see it so perfectly. "I'll be waiting for you there."

Her hands start to loosen, and I start to fall, further and further away from Miss.

I inhale sharply, way too deeply, as I wake up. It feels like I'm gasping for air. My whole body... hurts is the wrong word, there's a heavy rawness pulsating through me. It's not the heaviness normally in my chest. I'm in a puddle of sweat. I can feel my heartbeat behind my eyes.

My phone says it's 4:37 am. I don't care. I need to see her.

. . . . .

It's a blur. I'm on autopilot, too wired to think. This doesn't feel like before, this isn't the fog. This is pure intention.

I find myself in my car, driving to her. I know where to go, I know. I need to get there. I can't afford to waste any time.

I leave my car parked on a dirt road and wander into the forest just as the sun starts to rise. I didn't bother grabbing anything I didn't need to get here, and I left what i did grab in the car anyway. I didn't even take the keys out of the ignition. Whatever happens, I'm not coming back.

It's a few minutes of walking from the road to her manor. I have plenty of time to reconsider. It's not too late to go back. I'm afraid, of course. My self-preservation is trying to restrain me by my neck. But every time I think about giving into that fear, that complacency stopping me from stepping into the unknown, the idea of returning to what was... I keep walking. I couldn't explain why. Too much momentum, too heavy to bother stopping.

I'm here. Oh god, this is really happening. I lean against the house on an outstretched arm as I stare at the front door. It's thick and wooden, like something from a fairy tale. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and raise a fist. She opens the door before I can knock.

This is really happening.

"Oh, I'm so happy you came, darling!" She quickly reaches an arm around me and ushers me through the door. "And so quick, too! I knew I made the right choice."

She sits me down on the couch and disappears just a room away. Before I can even admire the decor, she returns with two glasses, and a jug of iced tea. She sits down beside me, pours herself a glass, and sets the jug out of my reach.

She takes a swig of her drink, leaning back and swirling it in her cup. She stretches her arm across the back of the couch. I could cuddle up to her so easily, and I've never before felt this tempted to do that with someone. "Tell me what you know about dolls."

I feel something I've never felt before. Just a little, just enough.

"U-uh..." I try to gather everything I can. I don't know why I'm so caught off guard by the question, I came here for a reason. But saying it out loud, actually articulating these feelings, is something totally foreign.

"A doll is like a person, but... not." I take a deep breath. I feel like I'm standing in front of a stadium of thousands. "Witches use their magic to turn people into dolls so they can have servants. And... there are rules to being a doll, like how you have to call yourself an object, and do everything you're told."

I look at her for approval. She's waiting for me to continue. "Am I gonna be a doll?"

The witch almost... melts. She has such a kind, compassionate smile. She sets her drink down and turns her body to face me as much as she can. "Do you want to be a doll, darling?"

"I... I mean, I, uh..." I have never felt more like prey. Why is my face so warm? I'd do anything for her.

She reaches out and takes my hands, that I was holding up to my chest defensively. I leave them limp, just letting her grab them. I feel my shoulders start to lower just a little bit. She's so warm.

"Dolls are empty spaces shaped like people." She teaches me. "Dolls are objects that are obedient and docile. There's a special feeling they have called stillness, where your thoughts go away and you just feel happy." She starts to smile, a tender eagerness. "Can you feel it now?"

I feel it. I feel it. I feel it, I feel it. The stillness. She's making me still. It's gone. I don't feel heavy. I'm empty in such a wonderful way. I feel like I could float through the breeze for the rest of my life and be perfectly happy. Like I could do anything, and I would be happy. Is this what life was supposed to feel like? All this time?

"It's a big decision, darling." Her voice is so... magical. It's calming, it's exciting, it's everything to me. "This can only happen if you want it to. Think about your old life, everything you'll leave behind. This is your last chance."

I think about being a human. I think about everything that comes with being a human, the things I'll lose. My autonomy, my identity, things I was never granted in the first place. The privilege of destroying my self just a little every day, all to save myself the trouble of feeling. More than anything, that disgusting heavy feeling, the filth so deeply compacted inside me I thought it was inherent to being.

"Y... y-yes... yes, I want to be a doll!" I'm smiling so wide. Crying hasn't felt this good in a long, long time.

The witch smiles back at me. She pulls me into her, hugging me so tenderly. She's soft, and warm, and so many things.

"You're going to become such a good doll."

Good doll. I can finally feel good.

[damnbluewires]

She set up her instruments for a routine autopsy, and realized she has run out of gloves. Having no one else in the facility to fetch them for her, she headed out to the supply closet down the corridor. The lights were muted, but she liked it that way, being used to stay overtime. The work was indeed grueling and demanding, but this, staying this late, was out of her own volition. Not to be a walking stereotype, but she much preferred the company of the cold, dead cadavers to the company of her cold, and emotionally as good as dead coworkers.

Not mentioning, that the cadavers were far better conversationalists as well.

She didn't choose the profession because of her gift, it was more like the gift chose her because of her profession. Yeah, that didn't make sense to her either.

All she knew is that one day she was opening up some old man's chest cavity to investigate the potential cause of death, and the bastard started hitting on her.

She had nerves of steel, never even as much as grimaced during all of her training, despite how bad the smell was, but this, she must admit, made her yelp and stumble onto her metal tray. She eventually was just glad nobody was there to make fun of her. Apart from the man with a scalpel still poking out of his ribs.

She learned that day, that sometimes she can see the corpses rise from the dead, for exactly ten minutes, before collapsing back, that time for good. What surprised her more, was that most of the people who were brought to her morgue were already more or less prepared to die, so they were just glad to have one last opportunity to have a chat with her.

She adjusted to that new aspect of her job rather quickly, never once thinking of quitting. She would stitch some poor sod's guts back into their body, while talking to the other next in line, about nothing in particular. She would listen to odd stories, treasured memories, and what it felt like to die. It was rather nice, all things considered.

She mused on that, as she grabbed a new box of gloves from the supply and headed back.

The one she had today was some bloke they found in the alley in a pool of blood. What was odd, is that he had no injuries on him. She would have to ask about that.

She put the gloves on, rechecked the instruments, took a scalpel, and started to feel for the right muscle to open the chest from, with practiced grace. When she found the right spot, she began the incision, and heard an inquisitive and amused: "Not even going to buy me a drink first?"

"I don't drink, thanks. Half a year sober." She answered, unfazed as ever. She wanted to continue the cut, but realized it's probably impolite to do so, and raised her eyes at the man, who was dead silent.

He was quiet for a while, and then uncertainly mumbled: "…Congratulations?"

She smiled at him, "Thanks! It has been hard to resist drinking something you know you shouldn't, but it just felt so damn good. You know?"

"I might be aware of the feeling, yes… But, hold on, why am I the stunned one? Why are you not running away, screaming?"

"And miss all the fun? Plus, that honestly sounds exhausting, and I have some more people after you, so I'd rather not waste that energy." She rationalized, while the man tried to collect himself. What the fuck?

"Right. Because the corpses coming to life is just another Tuesday for you."

"It's Wednesday, actually," she beamed again. "But, yeah! Pretty much." Is this hell? Was he finally in hell?

"Are you a demon of some sort?" There was no other explanation.

"Aw, flattery? And who was asking about a drink first?" Yeah. Hell. Most definitely.

"But, no, just your average clerk. Say, how did you end up in that alley? I've been dying to know." That's it. He had to get out of there.

"I have to get out of here."

"Oh, no, you don't. I don't need another runner, thank you very much."

He swooped off the metal bed and bolted to the door. Which was locked.

"Look, I know you are confused, I shouldn't have started with the jokes, but I really need you to go back to the bed. You will collapse somewhere on the street in less than ten minutes, and I really don't need another cop on my ass."

He paused his attempts to get the door open. "You have a cop on your ass?"

"Had one in my ass also, but that was long ago."

He slowly turned at that, and stared at the mortician, who was still just sitting idly on her stool with an innocent smile.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you will be dead again soon, and won't be able to tell anyone."

"I have been dead for a while now."

"Oh, really? Would love to know about that, if you come back and sit down. I'd offer you a coffee, but I will have to be the one to clean up the mess later, and I would honestly rather not."

He did come and sat back down.

"I don't drink coffee anyway." He said, almost to himself.

"What do you usually drink then?"

"Blood of my enemies."

"Ha! And i thought i was the one with dark jokes around here." He didn't say anything to that.

"So, back to my original question, what were you doing in that alley?"

"Drinking the blood of my enemies." He said deadpan.

"I complimented you way too soon, that joke was only funny the first time." She said, and he swears, she almost sounded disappointed. He should not care. He really shouldn't. But…

"You should try it. Tastes better than any alcohol in the world."

"It does sound good, I can't lie. But I bet Becky's blood will be gross no matter how much I hate her. She's on that new 'raw meat' diet. She adds butter to her coffee!" She made a disgusted noise and a face, and his head spinned a little. Must be from the disgust as well. Must be…

"I can understand raw meat, but butter in coffee? Really? Some people just do not care about what they consume, I swear to g-" The word stuck in his throat. He forgot for a second he couldn't say it. But the mortician seemed to not catch that.

"I know, right! But I do prefer my meat cooked. I honestly don't know how I'm not a vegetarian yet. The sight of blood doesn't make me hungry at all."

He quirked his brow at that, "Not even a little bit?"

"Not in the least. Just reminds me of my job. I do love my job, though, comes with its perks."

"Like what?"

"Like talking to you."

She smiled at him yet again, and something warmed inside the place where his heart used to be. But her smile vanished, as she raised her arm to check the clock. The ten minutes must be coming to the end, and she was dreading being in silence again. Alone. Always alone in the end. Only these rare moments of genuinely nice company is all she ha-. She froze. Twelve full minutes have passed.

It was the man's turn to smile at her confusion.

"What's wrong, doc? Forgot to put in the time of death?" He seemed to be amused all over again. "You are a bit too late for that. About two centuries too late."

She looked up at him, for once lost for words.

"I told you I was dead for a while now."

"So, in the alley…"

"Yes, I was actually drinking the blood of my enemies. And it did have a strange aftertaste. Maybe that horrid diet trend is spreading." He mused.

"You are not a ghost?"

"Ghost?! I am deeply wounded by that assumption. I am something much better than a mere ghost." He lowered his voice seductively. "I am a vampire."

She blinked. "…Like in twilight?"

"Oh for fucks- Why is that the first thing people think about? There was not a single vampire in that whole production."

"There are vampires in movie production?"

"In good movie production - yes."

"I have so many questions."

"So how about that drink? Bubble tea sounds good? There is a good place just across the road, and it is still open, I know the owner. Meet you there in ten." And with that, he winked, transformed into a bat, and flew out the window.

She sat there for a while. And then snickered, starting to get ready.

"Curiouser and curiouser…"

okay I had a BRILLIANTLY UNHINGED story idea for someone to write

a mortician has the magical ability to speak with the dead so she doesn't realize anything is unusual when one of her corpses sits up and starts sassing her

only to discover that her conversationalist is actually a vampire

and said vampire very confused about why the mortician isn't freaking out, normally this prank gets 'em every time

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Do you like sci-fi and indie animation? Check out Monkey Wrench!

[pokemon-radical-red]

I hate it when I headcanon a character who’s canonically a girl as a trans man and make ships of him and a character who’s canonically a guy and I refer to it as a gay/mlm/guyxguy/whatever ship and someone gets mad. Like omg let trans people have FUNNNNN. Why are queer headcanons and genderbends cool until they’re saying that the character is trans???

“OMGGG you’re so misogynistic I can’t believe you would erase FEMALE representation!!!”

and like half of the characters in the franchise are women, and a total of… NONE of the characters are trans men. Also, my headcanon doesn’t change the source material. If my stuff upsets you, you can block me and go engage with the source or maybe every single other fanwork, since mine is the only trans man hc for this character that I’ve ever seen.

or when people are like “WTF??? this is so transphobic!!! how dare you imply that a character who looks like that could be a trans man?!?! do you think that trans men are women or something??? she uses she/her, and you’re misgendering her!”

No, I don’t think that being a trans man makes you a woman or vice versa. That’s why it’s a headcanon, and the headcanon is that this character is actually a trans man and not a woman at all! You’ll never guess what pronouns most trans men had to use at some point in their lives, and you really won’t like it when you find out about pre-(or no-)transition trans men… or trans men who are in the closet… or trans men who don’t know that they’re trans yet.

“But the character is a kid!!! Saying they’re trans is sexualizing them.”

I’ve seen this one from other queer people. Like did you miss when all of the homophobes said this about your identity, or do you think that bigotry is only bad when it’s directed at you?

“Why would you say ‘testosterone could fix her’??? Are you trying to call her a delusional woman?”

Why would your brain even go to that first? This literally has to be a bad faith reading, because there’s no way that someone could see what I said and get this unless they were specifically looking for something to be mad at me for.

(Note for anyone unaware: “Estrogen would’ve fixed him!” was a meme going around at the time I said this. I’m not sure if it’s still super big, but this was a joke to the effect of that.)

“So girls can’t be tomboys anymore? You just wanna trans everyone?”

This is like actual real life transphobic rhetoric. This isn’t even just shitting on my headcanon, but in fact, sending transphobic hate to a trans man. Thanks 👍. Maybe you should go send JK Rowling another message about how much you loved her essay instead of bothering me.

[itspileofgoodthings]

had a very nice realization about peace, especially spiritual peace, the other day. (Been brewing for a while.) and it’s just: peace is for the non-peaceful.

[icewindandboringhorror]

I occasionally wish to reach out to old friends/acquaintances I haven't spoken to since high school/some other even earlier time in my life, but I have SOOO little social energy even for required tasks (like making dr phone calls or etc), I never have any leftover for extra ones, and it would be very odd to message someone I haven't spoken to in like 5 years out of the blue but then take 4 entire months to respond back lol.. My natural curiosity with nostalgia/collecting details of the past/etc. (literally if I were born a little earlier I would definitely do scrapbooking or something lol) is very strong, but, alas, not strong enough to beat out the Social Issues Demons apparently