#but everything you see here will be available

[vowill89]

Imagine it's been a long day. A VERY long day. The attempt on the chancellor's life by the Jedi, the assault on the temple, the end of the war. Imagine you're reading the news after everything that has happened and you see a list. A list of names, of traitors, of the Jedi. You read the paragraph before the list, saying to report to the office of the Imperial Security Bureau should you encounter a Jedi. You scan through the names listed. All of them fought in the war, all of them led their troops into a rain of blaster fire and smoke, all of them held the Republic's best interests at heart. Or should have. You guess the Jedi are gone in more ways than one The people, the religion, the ideals. Much like how the Clone Wars ended, so too did the Jedi. As you scan the list, a small thought enters your mind. Some small nagging idea that you can't get rid of. Someone's name isn't here. You think on who it might be, crossing off names from both the list in front of you and in your mind. Plo Koon? No Mace Windu? No Luminara Unduli? No Who? Who was missing? Who can't you remember? And in a flash, you realize. A small plucky kid in that one exciting Boonta Eve race who then became a Jedi and war general. Anakin Skywalker. His name's not on the list. Excitement takes you as you begin to look up his feats and achievements, hoping to find something proving he's alive. He was the first human to win that race, he then went from being a slave on that dust ball of a planet to something great when the Jedi meant something. He, out of all of them, didn't deserve to go out like that. But as you spend time going through the publicly available archives, an unease knots up in your gut, confusion furrowing your brow. You can't find him. You can't find his name. For the second time that day you cannot find his name anywhere. The public archives have no mention of Anakin Skywalker. Even in fights where you KNEW he led the Republic to victory, his name had been wiped away. Sentences that began with "Led by Jedi General Anakin Skywalker" were now replaced with some variation of "Led by our brave military generals". You search and search, rereading articles you've gone over a dozen times, reading the same sterile edits in each and every one. A horrid realization settles in you. This was deliberate, this was planned. Your galaxy's history was revised and edited, and you don't even know why. And because of those edits... He was gone. Like he never even existed. As you sit back, letting the excitement of your little mission ebb away, you look out the window. As you do, another small yet just as persistent thought lingers in the back of your mind. A thought that brings dread and remorse. It's only going to get worse. More will disappear like Anakin.

Imagine you’re some pod racing enthusiast watching the Boonta Eve Classic and some literal child enters with the shittiest scrap pod you’ve ever seen. He built it himself. He then proceeds to absolutely demolish every other professional racer. The kid never enters a race again but his legacy lives on in the hearts of the pod racing community.

About 10 years later, you tune into a news stream to catch some news about the Clone War. The announcer is talking about a particularly pivotal battle, saying something about “Jedi General Anakin Skywalker”

YOU MEAN THAT KID FROM THE BOONTA EVE CLASSIC???

[vampirq]

— somnophillia if you want it to be. i dunno i’m sleepy and feeling like ellie in this drabble.

ellie was a mess. a whiny, whimpering mess. her fingers pounded into her cunt repeatedly, trying to chase a high that won’t come. see, it’s been a while since the two of you have been intimate with each other. every time you were free, ellie was busy and vice versa. so, there was never availability for some alone time.

tonight would’ve been perfect. you’re staying the night at her apartment, but you were exhausted beyond repair. work drained you of life and you could feel the weight of the earth dragging you down with each step. soon enough, with some kisses and cuddles, you lulled off to sleep. unknowingly leaving ellie high and dry. 

and here she was, knuckle deep in herself next to your sleeping figure. she felt guilty, disgusted with herself even. masturbating while her girlfriend was fast asleep next to her? how perverse.

“fuck, need you so bad, y’ look so pretty.” her words are hushed, not wanting to wake you up. heavy pants and quiet whines fill the silence of the room. watchful eyes casting over your peaceful body. 

she was frustrated. no matter how many times she makes herself cum, it won’t ever compare to you. you’ve made her see literal stars, experience feelings she didn’t even know existed. but she couldn’t get to that same peak without your hands on her, so she hoped watching you would substitute. 

“my pretty girl, wish i had your, aah— wish i had your fingers, baby.”

you stirred in your sleep, and ellie swore her heart stopped for a second. luckily, it was only to push the sheets off, exposing your half nude body. a gush of arousal spewed onto ellie’s fingers, biting down on her bottom lip to not let out a moan at the sight of you. 

it took everything in her to not pounce on you like a wild animal, desperate for a taste of you. but ellie wasn’t that evil. she knew you needed your rest, and she let you have it— settling for admiring from afar and an achy, unsatisfied cunt. 

[irascus]

Nonduality is so simple, but it can never be understood by an individual, which is only a sense of being someone and therefore doesn’t understand anything at all. A sense of self can’t do anything because it’s not actually a thing with its own existence. Instead, understanding belongs to awareness, consciousness, being, or whatever you’d like to name it—literally, whatever seems to stand under all appearance of phenomena. And this “pure consciousness” is the best candidate for being our Self—not the bundle of thoughts and sensations we normally take ourselves to be.

Direct pointing can sound obtuse, like you’re holding back the punchline, asserting claims without proof, or making word salad. But direct pointing is pointing to what is always immediate, always here, always available—the you in which “you” appear and which precedes all concepts.

Conceptual thought can only produce a conceptual facsimile of understanding. Look directly. You are not and never were the self you have always believed yourself to be (or have at least believed since around the time you were two years old).

Awareness can see that it’s not the mind, not the body, and not the person. And yet the sense of being a person seems to stick around and still seems to be real even after the initial recognition of its unreality. That’s just how it seems to work.

(Sorry to use “seems” so much, but much is only seemingly so.)

But if a person persists in being exposed to concepts that point beyond the conceptual, then it seems like there’s the potential for the “body-mind system” to do something different. I.e., when the conditions are right, the mind gradually stops layering the sense of doership/ownership on everything that seems to happen.

Eventually the recognition of non-doership/non-ownership can “stabilize” and become the default mode of living for what seems to be an individual. And eventually for everyone, the person dies for good—either when the body dies or allegedly, in the case of enlightenment, before the body dies.

Nonduality is the most liberating shit on offer. Continue to go back to it and when you’re ripe for awakening, the person will be exposed as being empty and the emptiness will be exposed as being you. And that will change everything without changing a thing.

Or don’t think about nonduality at all. That’s fine too. Whatever happens, this is just this, exactly as it is.

[cece693]

So I just read a fic on Tumblr about reader acalling their lover 'bro', 'dude', etc. and I thought it was hilarious. Like it's something so harmless but your lover sees it like betrayal. I couldn't think of a person who would allow such a thing, but then comes in Joe Goldberg :)

You’re My Bro—Wait, What?

pairing: joe goldberg x male reader tags: 'bro' zoned, power bottom Joe, no explicit smut but mentions of it, reader is amused, Joe is not, casual turned into relationship, Joe monologuing

You’re starting to think Joe might be just a little too possessive—but hey, that’s half the fun, right? The two of you are standing at a crowded bar, shoulders touching as you each cradle a drink, when one of your friends strides over. You see Joe tense the moment they look between you and him, curiosity shining in their eyes. “So are you guys—?”

“Buddies,” you blurt, before you can think of something more diplomatic. Joe’s entire posture goes rigid as a steel rod. You can practically hear him grinding his teeth.

(Joe's inner monologue): You have got to be kidding me. First, “friend.” Then, “buddy.” Now, “bro.” Every time he does this, it feels like I’m being listed on some discount website: ‘And here’s my pal Joe, 50% off while supplies last!’ Doesn’t he realize he’s basically advertising that he’s still on the market? Am I a placeholder until some new fling shows up? Because I am definitely not a placeholder.

You finish the interaction with your friend, laugh awkwardly, and they move off to join the crowd. You turn to Joe, but he’s already looking at you with that borderline laser-focused stare. “Hey, buddy,” you try, testing your luck with a playful grin. Joe’s brow twitches, and you mentally kick yourself—buddy is basically the forbidden word at this point.

(Joe's inner monologue): He’s doing it on purpose…right? He must be doing it on purpose. Is he oblivious, or am I supposed to interpret this as some twisted come-on?

“Not now,” he says under his breath. “We’re going somewhere quieter.” He practically grabs you by the wrist, weaving through the bar crowd, until you’re both in a dimly lit corridor near the bathrooms. The incessant clacking of pool balls and muffled Top 40 hits fade behind the hum of neon beer signs.

You watch Joe pace in a tight circle, raking his fingers through his hair. It’s endearing and simultaneously a bit intense—like he’s one step away from either kissing you or strangling you. (In Joe’s defense, that’s basically his resting expression.) “Okay,” you begin, leaning back against the wall, “what was that about?”

He whirls on you, eyes narrowed. “You keep calling me your buddy. Or your pal. Or your bro. I’m not some backup plan you keep on the sidelines until you find a better guy to binge-watch Netflix with.”

You chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Dude, it’s just—”

(Joe's inner monologue): Oh, now I’m ‘dude?’ Fantastic. Might as well just write ‘NOT AVAILABLE FOR COMMITMENT’ on my forehead.

“It’s not just anything,” he hisses, crossing his arms. “I’m pretty sure after everything we’ve done—” He lowers his voice, leaning in. “After letting you do literally every position we saw in that questionable YouTube video—maybe you could stop calling me bro.”

You open your mouth, realize no words are coming, then awkwardly clear your throat. “Alright, maybe I have been a little casual about this, but that’s only because we’ve never had the talk. I didn’t think you’d want me shouting from the rooftops about how we’re—”

Joe cuts you off, stepping closer. “And maybe I don’t want a rooftop announcement. But I do expect more respect than a frat-house label.”

(Joe's inner monologue): Just say it. Just say you want me. No big speech, no elaborate plan—just an acknowledgement that I matter. That’s not too much to ask… right?

“Fine,” you admit, swallowing your pride. “You matter. I’m not looking for anyone else. I’m not hooking up with random guys. But, Joe, you gotta give me a little grace. I’m not great at labeling…this.” You gesture between the two of you.

Joe exhales loudly. “Right. Labeling is apparently your kryptonite. Noted. Just...can we skip this weird in-between? Because every time you say ‘bro,’ it sounds like you’re flipping the sign on the door from exclusive to vacancy.”

You sigh, stepping in closer, placing a hand on Joe’s waist. “Dude—I mean—Joe, you’re not replaceable.” You soften your voice. “I’m not looking to replace you. I’m not looking for anything new. I’m good right here.”

He stares back at you, arms still crossed, but his gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up. Before you know it, the tension in that cramped hallway flips from charged anger to charged…something else. Joe’s eyes flash with a challenge, and you swear he’s daring you to make a move. You lean in and give him a slow kiss, feeling him momentarily stiffen before melting against you. It’s kind of funny—he’s so prickly about your label issues, but the second your lips meet, he’s turning to jelly. Well, controlling jelly.

He tugs on the front of your shirt, yanking you closer so your hips align with his. You groan against his mouth, the adrenaline from the argument still spiking through your veins. “Still want to argue?” you tease, pulling back.

Joe’s cheeks flush, but his gaze is steady. “Oh, I can argue and get what I want,” he mutters.

There’s a momentary scramble of limbs, heated looks, and the two of you decide that maybe the corridor behind the bathrooms isn’t the best place for what’s about to happen. Next thing you know, you’re ducking into the single-occupancy restroom—fortunately not locked. You twist the lock shut behind you while Joe promptly shoves you against the sink, eyes blazing.

(Joe's inner monologue): We’ve done this in decent places: my apartment, his place, that weird bookstore corner once (don’t get me started). But a bar bathroom, mid-argument? Maybe it’s not the classiest setting, but I need him to understand: I might be the one on my back, but I’m the one running this show.

He’s on you again—biting kisses, needy hands. Every swipe of his tongue is laced with frustration, wanting to prove a point. The comedic reality that you’re in a dingy bathroom, complete with flickering fluorescent light and a questionably stained sink, is not lost on either of you. But you can’t find it in yourself to care.

Joe’s breath is already ragged when he spins around, shoving you onto the closed toilet lid. He straddles you, controlling the angle despite being underneath—or, technically, on top—of you. You blink up at him, a little stunned by how quickly he’s taken charge.

(Joe's inner monologue): He might be bigger, physically stronger, but I’ve never had trouble taking the reins. Because if I don’t, he’ll probably just keep calling me ‘pal’ until the day we die.

His lips brush your ear. “You’re gonna remember who I am after tonight,” he murmurs, voice husky. “No more ‘bro’ or ‘buddy.’ Unless you’re aiming for round two of this discussion.”

There’s definitely some comedic irony that you were just seconds away from strangling each other verbally, and now Joe’s tugging you into a feverish, borderline out-of-breath makeout. He’s got that gift of making every single movement deliberate—grinding down just enough, leaning back just enough, whispering exactly what he wants.

A short while later—between the occasional slam on the wall from someone in the hallway telling you to hurry up—Joe’s making sure you fully understand your position. He’s the bottom, but he’s the one guiding the pace, telling you exactly how he wants it, and you, well…you’re happy to give it to him.

(Joe's inner monologue): He’s going to call me something else from now on. Not ‘bro.’ Not ‘buddy.’ Something that actually says I’m important. Because the truth is, there’s no one else like me. He’ll see that. By the time we’re done, he’ll more than see it—he’ll feel it.

Eventually, you both emerge, hair mussed, lips swollen, clothes hastily adjusted. The rest of the bar patrons give you a mix of amused and annoyed looks—apparently, you were in there a while.

Joe clears his throat, straightening his jacket with that almost comical air of dignity (as if he didn’t just thoroughly test the structural integrity of the bathroom sink). You wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him close. He doesn’t protest—although he narrows his eyes suspiciously, like he’s waiting for you to casually toss out the dreaded word again.

“So…” you start, leaning in so only he can hear you. “No more ‘bro’ or ‘buddy.’ I get it, loud and clear. Boyfriend good enough?”

His lips part. You’d swear you see relief flash across his face, but he masks it quickly with mild annoyance. “That’ll do for now,” he grumbles, but his hand slides into yours, interlocking fingers. The contact is firm—possessive, even.

You grin, guiding him back toward the bar for that second drink (which you both probably need after the fiasco in the bathroom). He glances up at you, expression softening.

(Joe's inner monologue): ‘Boyfriend’…that’s what I wanted to hear. Maybe it’s not a rooftop shout, but it’s a start. And if he even thinks about calling me ‘dude’ again, well…I’m not opposed to repeating that whole argument just for the fun of making up.

He notices you smiling to yourself. With a mock glare, Joe warns, “Whatever you’re thinking, I’m on to you.”

You chuckle and press a quick kiss to his temple. “Relax, boyfriend. I’m just thinking about how this’ll be one hell of a story to tell…well, maybe not the bathroom part.”

[coquettebratzdoll]

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

I feel that shifting is the truest form of love.

And, no, I don't mean love as in the butterflies in your stomach thinking of your s/o; getting giddy thinking of scenarios; that excitement with every symptom or anything like that.

I mean the way we yearn for a life unlived, an experience un-had, a thought unimagined. One that had supposedly only existed in the space between our eyes and eyelids: a place our hands can't grasp, and our lips can't kiss. A place where attachment was futile, yet we latched on with reckless abandon, every fiber of our being poured into it. A place which does, indeed, exist within and without.

The way we long for those we care about. To feel their skin, their presence, them, and know that they are here. To see their eyes crinkle and their nose scrunch. To hear their voice calling your name. To smell that scent that's sorely familiar. To taste a sliver of their personalities, their being, a promise of a life beyond our expectations.

The way we crave something new; knowledge, skills, reality. The Library of Alexandria pales in comparison to the sheer amount knowledge available to us. Every hobby, every desire, could be pursued on a whim, mastering crafts we've never even heard of. The unending thirst to learn, create, and know satiated by the fountain of wisdom at our feet.

The way we ache for something bigger than ourselves, for shifting is an experience so universal, yet so mystifying. Everything that we have been led to believe about reality deconstructed before our eyes, a house of cards toppling to reveal the beauty of shifting.

To want a life, a person, an ideal so much that you are willing to alter your very perception of reality for it?

Isn't that love?

[demonic0angel]

Could I get a WIP of Bernard X Danny on a first date, where jazz asked Jason to help her spy on the date of her little brother (overprotective jazz) and sometime during that they lose Danny and Bernard and ended up accidentally going on a date themselves?

No problem if you refuse

(Lmaooo sure)

Jazz stared at the window, where her little brother was dating a random boy from Gotham City. She squinted before startling as a pair of binoculars was placed in front of her face. An arm wrapped around her waist to steady her, pulling her close.

“Here,” Jason said.

Jazz beamed at him and took the binoculars. She was thankful that he had the patience to accompany her so she could stalk watch over her little brother. “Thank you, Jason.”

“No big deal. What’s your problem with Bernard, by the way? Is he creepy or something?”

Jazz frowned. “I hope not. He seems nice enough, I suppose. But I’m still worried, y’know?”

Jason hummed. “You’re a good sister.” Jazz flushed, before she turned her head away. Jason continued, “Don’t you feel bored, though? Are we just going to stay here and watch them the entire time?”

Jazz hummed. “I don’t know Bernard. I have to make sure he keeps Danny safe.”

Jason snorted. “It’s not like he has enemies. I mean, unless people want to kidnap him because people found out that his conspiracy theories on his anonymous accounts are too good or something.”

Jazz opened her mouth to respond, but then paused as she stared at the sight of a crowd of people running their way.

“What—” she squeaked as Jason immediately grabbed her, tossed her over his shoulder, and then started running along the crowd, even outpacing them despite carrying her. “What the hell?! Jason! They’re just running! Why are we running with them?!”

“This is Gotham! Like hell I’m not running when I see other people running!” Jason cried in a panic, but then he opened the door to a random store and slid inside, placing Jazz back on her feet. Her knees were weak, so she leaned on him, almost dizzy from the suddenness of everything. “We can hide here for a while,” Jason said, wrapping his arms around her and moving her away from the door.

Jazz gasped, jerking her head upwards. “Oh no! Danny is still on his date with Bernard! We should—”

“Excuse me. Table for two?” A voice said and both Jason and Jazz whirled around to look at a restaurant server, who stared at them. “Uhm. A table is available for two right now.”

Jason and Jazz looked at each other. Jazz’s face flushed before she nodded shyly. “Uh. That’d be great. Thank you.”

Jason pulled her to his side and they both walked to the table with the waiter in the lead.

He looked up at her and asked, “How about we have dinner and then we’ll go back to watching over Danny? He should have some privacy for a while, and I’m sure that they won’t get into too much trouble for the next hour.”

Jazz stared at Jason. He had been a perfect gentleman and had indulged her many times before. It… wouldn’t be too bad if she had dinner with him. She was sure she’d enjoy it. And later, she could always find Danny again and make sure he also had a good date.

She nodded with a small smile. “Alright. Let’s have dinner, Jason.”

They quickly forgot about Danny and his date soon after. Later, as Danny snuck Bernard into their shared apartment, he was completely and utterly blind sighted by Jazz sneaking in Jason too.

[nikoniclove]

hope your vacation is going well :)

so happy to see the new updates! appreciate you getting something out despite being away

we haven’t gotten an update for the yours, mine, and ours in a little while. i was rereading the chapter of ace in emily’s sweatshirt and there’s some subtle references to ace in boxers..

was wondering if you could play more into that look? half asleep ace walking around the house in boxers or even just wearing them after a long day at work.

Just for you!

Emily’s Boxers

Ao3 link here

AN: NSFW, timeline set sometime after When Past Meets the Present but it really doesn’t matter (it’s just the reference to a house instead of an apartment)

“Fucking finally,” you groan loudly to the empty hallway as your key fits perfectly into the lock. The thump of the security giving way sounds magnificent.

Your day was endlessly tedious for no good reason. Delayed and rescheduled meetings kept shifting your run later and later until it just didn’t happen, and while running at 11:45 PM at night is something you’ve done more than a few times, today the weight of the day’s boredom and inconveniences might affect your reaction time. Instead you shed your clothes as you walk in the door. One boot at a time, not nicely placed together on the mat, but one flopped over onto its side. Then the next a few feet later. Your belt hangs over the back of a chair. Your jeans puddle to the floor wherever you are on the trek to the bedroom. The shirt is flung vaguely in the direction of the laundry basket at the bottom of the stairs.

The movements you make up the stairs could only be compared to clomping. Tired, trudging limbs complimenting a dull throbbing headache. Bra, underwear, and socks scatter every few steps. It’s second nature now. You beeline for Emily’s set of drawers, first finding a pair of her worn boxers. They’re black like almost everything else she owns, but the band is faded rainbow elastic from a Pride event years and years ago, well before you even knew what Pride was. With the amount Emily wears them (and the amount you steal them), you’re surprised they aren’t more threadbare.

The second item is more of a search. Her Yale sweatshirt… well, the Yale sweatshirt you prefer to steal… it’s also her favorite, no surprise there. Because she forever likes to poke fun and tease, she hides the sweatshirt every time she goes away on a case without you. Sometimes it’ll be folded in the laundry room. Other times, it’ll be tucked beneath your pillow. Once it was in the snack bin of the pantry as a clever reminder that you needed to eat. Today you find it with your guitar, the hoodie slotted over the case’s neck as if the leather was chilly in her absence. You roll your eyes at the silliness, even though no one is there to see it and you (not so) secretly love it.

Dressed in Emily’s boxers and sweatshirt, you belly flop onto the bed. The familiar scent and cushion surrounds you, and your lungs finally expel the last of the stale air from the tediously long day. There are things you should do — food, teeth brushing, and meds to name a few. You could plug in your phone, check in with your partners or even just slot yourself beneath the sheets.

Nope.

All of that sounds far too involved. Face first on the bed, with your legs hanging off the side. This seems like the only reasonable thing to do now that you have Emily’s clothes on. You miss them. Both of them. But you got to see JJ this morning before she left for a quick testimony somewhere in Rhode Island. Emily has been gone for eight days though. Her available communication has been limited thanks to cell service and sheer busyness.

Your phone is somewhere. Probably in your jeans wherever those ended up. You should check in with your people. Even just to send them an emoji of a bed and a skull if that’s all you can manage. But finding the phone feels daunting in a way that melting into the bed does not.

——

Emily curses a red streak and something very creative that would make the Roman nuns who taught her profusely cross themselves. A thin layer of dust and sand repels from her bag where it thumps to the floor. At first glance, Ace’s go-to combat boots are not in their usual spot. The further into the house Emily ventures, the more of her girlfriend’s clothes she finds. She knows exactly where the trail leads.

Sure enough, the young woman is asleep on top of the covers, curled slightly, nowhere near any of the pillows. Emily can’t help but smile. Sleep never comes easily, and the girl looks so content and calm, adorned in stolen clothes. Lust sets off throughout her body like fireflies in a summer evening sky. Bright flashes of desire that Emily won’t act on until tomorrow. (Or maybe that’s just later today given the 3 AM hour.) Ace or JJ in her clothes always flips the switch; it’d be stupid not to. She remembers explaining it in terms of her ‘caveman brain’ and the possessive way it makes her feel.

More than that though, there’s a peacefulness about finally being home, someone she loves here who cares where and how she is. That was never what the Embassy houses around the world felt like. Never home. Whenever teenage Emily returned, the only people waiting for her were people who were paid to. Her mother only cared where she was when it was necessary to display a certain kind of closeness to further a political ambition.

So this… coming home to a place that feels like hers, its walls bursting with memories of love and laughter, her partners waiting for her… it’s everything.

Eventually Emily removes her clothes, separating the pieces between laundry and dry cleaning. She cleans her face of make up and brushes her teeth. After she puts on her pajamas, murmuring under her breath about the thief who stole her clothes, Emily pulls back the sheets and manipulates her sleeping girlfriend under the covers where she’s supposed to be.

The young woman barely notices, and Emily smiles fondly at her, looping wild strands of hair back behind her ear. “C’mon, my love,” she murmurs softly. “It’s bedtime.” Subconsciously, Ace seeks out her safety. Emily adores how Ace mimics the shape of her side, cozying up instinctively. “It’s good to be home.”

——

Your body is warm. More than that, your cheek is warm. Hot even. From the smell and the way your body feels in the bed, you know you’re home. Your eyes flutter open, and you blink blearily a few times before recognition kicks in. Beneath your cheek, still fast asleep, Emily is home. Her chest, the heat source for your face.

Her hands settle on your hips though her eyes haven’t opened. You would have sworn she was asleep. “You’re squirming around,” Emily mumbles, voice heavy and slow. “Hmm, what has you so excited this early in the morning?”

“You’re home,” you respond, your volume keeping the low, soft tone that protects this sleepy shield around you both. “I missed you.”

“You thieved from me is what you did.”

“Borrowed,” you counter, easily falling into the usual rhythm of banter about her clothes on your body.

“Hmm, it does look good on you,” Emily agrees. Her eyes are still closed, giving away just how tired she is. “C’mere.” Using your hips, she drags you more firmly into the middle of her body. Her fingers search out skin, following a tried and true path over and under your stolen clothes. “It’s a shame both of us were too tired to act on it last night.”

“Seems like you still might be too tired,” you quip as your thigh presses intentionally between Emily’s legs, rolling your hips forward just so. “Do you want to sleep? Or do you want to take your clothes off me?” Emily’s throaty chuckle goes straight to your core. Her fingers bite into your sides. “If you open your eyes and I learn you’re hiding another concussion, I’m going to smack you myself,” you threaten.

That one startles a laugh out of her; Emily catches you off balance, a quick movement of her hips swaps your positions. You look up into a sea of beautifully dark eyes and swaying, sleep-mused black hair. “Still have questions, brat?”

“Always,” you retort, keeping your thigh firm between her legs. Tenderly, you brush through her hair before cradling her cheek. “I missed you,” you say again like a declaration of love caught in this soft morning moment before the rest of the world rushes in. Emily prefers actions to words, so she leans down to let the tip of her nose graze yours, slowly, slowly before she kisses you sweetly.

When you’re breathless and your heart pounds against the confines of your ribs, Emily pulls back with a quick wink that makes your insides tremble. Her silky camisole and short set ends up on the floor before she reaches in the nightstand for her preferred harness and strap. “Take my boxers off.”

“You don’t want to do it yourself,” you challenge. “You keep insisting they’re yours after all.”

“We do not have nearly enough time before work for me to brat tame you. Don’t test me,” she growls, the sultry register like music to your ears. “Boxers off.” The thin black fabric adds to the growing pile on the floor near the bed. Emily leans back against the headboard, situating a few pillows to support herself. You know what she wants, so instead of straddling her like the good girl you’re supposed to be, you lean down to lick up the underside of the shaft. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Emily groans, her head thumping back briefly, as she processes the visual and feels her body respond in kind. The cool silicone is familiar now, in your mouth and elsewhere. Relaxing your jaw, you take her cock in until its tip bumps the back of your throat. The breathy sound she expels might be enough to convince you that Emily can really feel every swipe of your tongue or hollow of your cheeks.

When you gag once, then twice, Emily grabs for you, directing you to kneel over her hips. The silicone toy, now plenty wet, nudges your inner thigh. Always conscious of your readiness, her fingers part your folds. “Green,” you consent.

“Not yet.”

“Emily,” you grumble. She wants you wetter before she stretches your pussy. You don’t give a damn, but you know you won’t win this battle. Her thumb swipes tight circles around your clit. With her free hand, she tugs the zipper free on the hoodie, the two sides revealing your bare breasts and torso to her hungry gaze. “Fuck… Em. Just let me ride your cock.”

“Not yet,” she repeats, even as her voice gives away her intense desire. “Wait.” The slight dominance weaves its way into every interaction somehow, some way. Maybe it’s the way she grabs your chin and forces eye contact. Maybe it’s the commanding grip on your hips. Maybe it’s a simple instruction that from anyone else could be innocent. Between you, the underlying relationship of those traditional roles simmers to the surface, even in moments like these where a scene isn’t the intention.

Your thighs tremble before Emily gives in. “Say it again for me, love.”

“You made me wait,” you counter while you try to take matters into your own hands. “So maybe I don’t want to say it again.” Dark eyebrows arch in a challenge, her fingers delivering a quick pinch to your clit. “Fuck!” Her thumb soothes the sensitive nub while she waits somewhat patiently. “God, you’re such a bitch,” you whine.

“Mmm, careful, love. You’re starting to sound like our favorite blonde. She loves to remind me how much of a pain in the ass I am.”

Thirty seconds, maybe a minute if you’re generous with the estimate - that’s how long you hold out before bumbling through the phrase again. “I want to ride your cock, Em.”

“There’s my good girl. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Wrapping her fist around the toy, Emily rubs its silicone tip along the length of your slit. “Can’t say the same for this though.”

On the top, you can control the speed you take her toy, and you’re more than ready, have been well before she insisted on more teasing. The stretch feels wonderfully familiar. You ignore her joke in favor of feeling every inch of her cock. “Fuck,” Emily moans, one hand tight on your hip while the other traces a reverent path between the open halves of her sweatshirt, still draped over your shoulders. Part of the fabric covers one of your breasts, so she shifts it out of the way, her thumb damp with your slick rubs your nipple. When you take it off, Emily stops you. “Leave it on. I love seeing it on you. You know why?” Hips rolling, hands braced on her ribs, you shudder. “Tell me.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp.

Her praise arrives in a hum and the tightening of her grip on your hips, dictating your movement. Your pussy flutters around her toy cock. “Not yet, love,” Emily insists for the third time since you woke up on top of her.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding,” you groan, a delicious blend of frustration and pleasure. With Emily, those go together more often than not. She moves one of your hands to her breast, a wordless instruction.

Treading the edge carefully, you go straight for the moves that make a mess of her — nails scratching over the tender skin of her breasts, her nipples caught between your fingers for a sharp pull or twist, barely there grazes along the underside that make her shiver. “Keep… fuck… keep doing that.” Her pale chest flushes, swatches of skin turning pink with desire. Black hair splays out across the pillow.

“Emily… Emily, fuck,” you moan as a warning. Her gaze is heavy, palpable, as she takes in every detail of your body on top of her — pussy dripping onto her cock, stomach muscles tense, breasts swaying, and her fucking sweatshirt rustling with each movement. “Oh… right there… oh shit,” you mumble, your spine curling as your body clenches in the split second before your release washes over you. Her quiet groan of completion makes you moan again. You tremble through the residual effects, her cock still fully buried in your pussy. “You could have woken me up for that.”

She chuckles, thumbs brushing over your hip bones slowly. “You were asleep, curled at the foot of the bed on top of the covers like a cat,” Emily quips fondly.

“You like both kinds of pussy. I don’t see the problem.”

Emily barks out a laugh at your response, helping you off before hugging you tightly. “Fuck, I always miss you so much,” she whispers into your hair. “Even if you steal my clothes.”

“You love it.”

“Mmm, and I love you,” Emily agrees. Her muscles tense as she notes the clock for the first time. “And we’ve got to hustle because we are going to be very late for work.”

“Slow mornings for you,” you tease as you clamor off the bed. Even with the rush, you’re elated to have her home, but she’ll have to pry her sweatshirt and boxers from your cold, dead fingers if she wants them back.

[winterbiite]

pathetic boy

"do you trust me?" you looked down at armin who lay in between your legs, his back to your chest, hard cock out and aching to be touched. your chin was just above his shoulder, breath hot against his ear.

"y-yes, so much.." his voice sounded shaky, almost as if he were nervous or even afraid at that. you'd hardly even touched him, only some light grinding, but the poor boy was so sensitive and gave into you so easily, it was almost pathetic.

at first, he was unsure. you pulled yourself onto his lap, kissed him messily, and he just let you. how could you resist when his big, sea blue eyes sparkled up at you helplessly, his lips slightly parted. though when you started grinding down on his cock, clothed by his pants, that's when you really got a taste for who armin arlert was: a desperate boy needing to be put in his place. one who'd let you do anything to him as long as you gave him attention.

now here you were, your thumb grazing the pink head of his cock. he was at your mercy, completely vulnerable in his position. especially due to the fact that you were more clothed than him. your free hand grazed up and down his abs, which didn't match that cute innocent face of his in any way. his body in general didn't match the way he whimpered and buried his face in the crook of your neck when you slowly pumped his cock, not fully giving him what he wanted.

"faa..ster, please.. please go faster.." he mumbled, kiss-swollen lips grazing your skin.

"tell me what you are, armin" you wanted to hear him degrade himself and acknowledge his place. he was yours, which meant he was yours to do whatever you wanted.

"i'm your pathetic boy, your sweet boy, please, please, i'm yours.." he'd repeated the dirty things you'd told him before.

"so you listened? then of course i'll give you what you want, baby" you began stroking his cock at a faster pace than before, speeding up every few seconds.

"oh my.. oh.. thank you, thank you.. oh my- thank you.." he spoke under his breath, incoherently repeating the same few things over and over again. armin tried to resist his squirming to little avail, especially with the way you scratched at his skin with your nails, providing more sensory to his body.

as his breaths became more rapid and whimpers more frequent, you slowed down, sending a disappointment of disappointment through his body and arousal through yours.

"w-why'd you.. why'd you slow down? i'm sorry, i-i'm sorry" armin didn't know what he was apologizing for, he just felt like he had to. he tilted his head up, meeting your eyes.

"aw, my sweet boy.." you planted a loving kiss on his forehead as you sped up, figuring it was best to give him what he wanted.

by this point, armin had been babbling things from 'i love you' to 'i'm so pathetic' and everything in between. degrading himself, praising you, begging, it was so hot every time he opened that mouth of his.

"can i cum? please, mommy?.." he watched you pump his cock and couldn't help but buck his hips up. your free hand pushed his core back down, not letting his body move.

"no, armin, not yet." you wanted to see just how much the boy could take until he broke and until his whimpers became moans and his mind blank, thoughts of you and only you.

he looked up at you once again, tears welling in his eyes, showing you that he could barely take it anymore. you sped up the pace even more and watched as a tear spilled from his innocent eyes, then another, and another, staining his rosy cheeks. the sight alone had awoken something in you, and you knew that you would break this boy over and over again in the future, not allowing anyone else to touch him. if he wasn't yours then he wasn't armin arlert.

"think you can hold it anymore, armin?" you asked him, making your voice delicate and gentle for him. another tear spilled from his eyes.

armin shook his head rapidly "no, no i can't, it hurts, please! i need to!" he cried out "i'm a pathetic boy! please, mommy, please.."

"bite me, right now, if you bite me you can cum." you craved the feeling of his lips against your skin, and also a sort of pain which sent ecstasy through your entire body, right down to your soaking core.

armin hesitantly obliged, not wanting to hurt you, but if you asked for it then that's what you wanted. he opened his mouth against your neck, teeth digging into your flesh. he couldn't wait any longer, with a loud cry and more tears falling from his eyes, hot ropes of cum shot from his cock with force, as if it had broken out of a cage it'd been in for a cruel amount of time. you tilted his cock just slightly so that it would land all over his abdomen, continuing to pump until he'd been fully drained. his teeth had almost broken skin from how hard he'd bitten into you, now sobbing as you didn't stop jerking him off.

finally you slid your hand away from his cock, fingers spreading his warm load all over his abs.

"thank you, mommy, thank you, i love you.." he whispered once more, feeding into your ego as he always did.

"you're so hot, armin, do you even know that?" you always gave the boy his well deserved praise after ruining him.

"am i?" a small, lazy smile tugged at his lips.

he slightly lifted himself up to look at you, though didn't have strength to entirely sit up. you cupped his cheeks, angling his face to yours. you kissed his cheek, the salty sting of tears reminding you of his pain and pleasure. he pressed his lips against yours, pulling away shortly after to collapse in your arms.

"are you tired?" you asked, though already knew the answer. you knew he wouldn't want to get up for the next little bit.

"mhm.." he hummed in response

no matter how many times you said it to him, he was pathetic and sweet and needy and cute and you loved him.

i wont lie this is just most of the things im into so its mostly just written for my likings BUT thats ok we ball!!!!!! this could be for anyone really i just chose armin bcuz hes my current obsession. why are sweet and innocent guys so hot what is the psychology behind that. maybe i should actually do research on that i will

[code-swap]

That time of year is once again upon us! The sign ups for Code: Swap 2025 is here!

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Fill out the form here

[erithel]

Hi! Happy birthday! (If it still is in your timezone, and if it's not - happy belated birthday!)

Seeing your latest post, i wanted to tell you how much your fics, comics and art in general changed my life.

Reading your fics got me through the hardest times of my life. It's written to a degree so high it's astonishing. No fic i have ever read has made me feel the way yours did. Each and every one of them - even the unfinished ones - are so important. To me and so many others who have read them.

The things you write about, the angsty, sad and angry parts of life many are afraid of - they make processing the accidents that happened in your readers' lives so much better. Reading the characters letting their feelings out, reading them talk about the harsh truths, is what makes doing it in real life so much easier. It makes it less frightening.

Through your fics i learned how to communicate so many problems and difficulties in the last two years of my life, i genuinely don't think i would be alive today without them.

Your art has made a place in my heart at least 3 years ago. Your art has been a lighthouse in a dark, dark ocean. Always saving the lives of so many.

Your art-style, your comics, are some of my favorites. It's so beautiful, and it's so delicate - every detail perfected to a fault. The plot in your comics is, in my opinion, on par with the plot of your fics. Every plot twist is masterfully crafted, each word impactful. The characters never lacking in any way.

Your effort is showing in ever comic page, in every new chapter of your fics. It's been a pleasure to follow your art for so long, seeing the new things you tried. It's never invisible, never wasted. The thought you put into every single piece of any form of art is appreciated, and very viable.

Your art is never going to be replaced as long as people buy and read it, and i know it's never going to be replaced because i am one of those people. I will always be exited to see your url on my notifications, never mind the state i'm in or how uninterested i am in the fandom at that point in time.

Your art saves lives, and it's not going to stop doing that. Never.

Thank you for continuously putting out your art, even at times when you felt like giving up on it.

I hope this made you feel a little better about yourself in that regard. Your existence itself, and not just the art you put out, is important and appreciated. By many. Please never stop doing what you love as long as it's not hurting you.

I had to sit on this message for a bit just to process it.

Now, I think I want to say three things in response.

This is incredibly meaningful and the fact that you took the time to type this all out means the world to me.

I hope that you are okay. Obviously since this is posted anonymously, I cannot reach out to you directly or privately, but learning how to process emotions and communicate issues is such a tough road sometimes. It's one I'm learning to do, myself, and I am so happy to hear that you are learning what works for you. Progress might not feel like it's there at times, but it is there, I promise.

Everything that's been written here should be validating for anyone who writes or reads fan content. Personally, I have always written stories that hold personal importance to me, and I know I am not alone. A lot of people use fanfiction as not only an escape but as a means of catharsis. It feels more personal, in a way, than some traditionally publishes books or widely available shows/movies. And it makes sense because people aren't writing about things that will do well in the market at the time, they are writing about things they truly want to write about. Things that often hold deep, emotional meaning to them, and they are simply using the form of already established characters to convey those things. Creating fanfiction can often feel like something not to be taken seriously (and, to be fair, there are those who truly just do it for fun). But I know I need to remember — and others probably need to remember, too — that you never know who might find your story at the exact time they need to read it. You never know how much these things might stick with someone, or what they could mean to someone other than yourself. Thank you for reminding me that even though these fan creations aren't taken seriously by so many, the chance that they might actually have an impact on even one person is the thing that matters.

[nochd]

Up till now I've mostly been talking about the points where I disagree with Post #1, so let me turn around and talk about some of the points where I think OP has put their finger on something important.

...nudity is not considered inherently sexual, or somehow traumatising to witness. What that means in practice is that there is a clearly drawn line between sexual and non-sexual nudity.

Yes. That clearly-drawn line is critical. Blurring it is directly destructive to the naturist cause.

I haven't personally seen that sort of behaviour in real-life naturist contexts, but I see it all the time on "naturist" tumblr. Everything depicted in the photos is bona fide naturism and yet somehow they're all of slim young able-bodied cis women and there's an awful lot of crotch shots.

There are nude scenes from legitimate films, but if the actresses have speaking lines in those scenes then somehow the clip is always uploaded without audio -- it's not like we're here to listen to what they have to say!

Anyone whose only experience of naturism is "naturist" tumblr would conclude, wrongly but quite reasonably on the evidence available to them, that we're all slavering exhibitionists and voyeurs. This is a never-ending nuisance to those of us who are here because this is the only social media site that accepts us.

I have a strict boundary. If you interact with a naturist post on my tumblr, and I check your tumblr and I see porn -- i.e. sexual activity that would be unambiguously sexual even if everyone in the picture was clothed and cishet -- that's an instant block.

(Yes, I get so few interactions on tumblr that I can still check out every visitor individually. Did you have a point to make?)

I know my audience here consists of people who already agree with me and people who don't care, but just in case I can move someone's heart -- please don't do this. Please don't mix naturism and porn. And please stop tolerating it from other people.

"So why do you reblog pictures of naked strangers four times a day?" Well, my goal is to contribute to the desexualization of nudity by spreading images of nudity occurring in non-sexual contexts. That's why I tag them all #normalize nudity.

After two years I'm starting to rethink my strategy. While writing this post I got a message from someone wanting me to know he had a "dad bod" and a small penis. Not my first time getting a message like that.

"Why would you think that would ever work in the first place?" Well, because desexualization and normalization generally go together. It happens all the time.

Look at dance. Waltz, ballet, tango, and others were considered shockingly explicit when they were new to the West -- look how closely waltzers cling to each other, how much thigh ballerinas show! As they became mainstream they became desexualized. There's hope for pole-dancing yet.

But it goes the other way as well. I gather -- if I'm wrong, I'd welcome civil correction from a Japanese tumblr user -- that mixed nude bathing is becoming a thing of the past in Japan as it's increasingly sexualized, initially by Westerners being gross, but (as it continues to retreat from the mainstream) by Japanese people too.

In the Anglo world -- mostly in the US, but we've felt the chill of its shadow here in Aotearoa -- in one of the stupider developments in the history of culture, breastfeeding is being pushed behind closed doors and under covers, and simultaneously being sexualized.

As for us naturists, there do exist places, like Cap d'Agde in France, which began as naturist resorts with non-sexual social nudity, but then caved to the demands of people seeking public sex. And what happens pretty much immediately is that the clothes go back on, despite nudity still being officially allowed. People don't like being sexualized as they go about their daily lives, you see.

Naturism is relentlessly sexualized by the larger society; it forces us behind three-metre walls, does everything it can to peer through them, and blames us when it succeeds. I for one don't feel like just knuckling under and tolerating this. But the alternative is to normalize nudity by whatever means will work.

I thought naturist tumblr might be one means to approach that goal. Was I wrong?

I wish tumblr would let you reblog two separate posts and kind of merge them, because I've seen two posts that I want to respond to together. They're both fairly reasonable but their points are in tension with each other. They're both about the niceties of the consent ethic and they're both relevant to naturism, and I feel they need a response.

So I'm going to copypaste them both here, and then later I'll come back and reblog this post with what I have to say about them.

Post #1 is from @homunculus-argument:

I come from a culture that has no nudity taboo - nudity is not considered inherently sexual, or somehow traumatising to witness. What that means in practice is that there is a clearly drawn line between sexual and non-sexual nudity. There is nothing wrong or inappropriate about nudity in a sexual context, and nothing wrong or inappropriate about nudity in a non-sexual context. However, it is 100% inappropriate to be nude in a situation where it is not obvious from context whether this is sexual or not. I've seen random kids who briefly escaped from their parents bolt across a public park buck-ass naked after they were playing in the water fountain and their parents were in the middle of changing their kid from wet clothes to dry clothes when the small nudist escaped. Changing your small kid's clothes right there in public is ok because there is obviously nothing sexual about a child whose clothes got wet. But although people will have baby pictures of their kids in the bath or just running around the house like that because sometimes little apes hate clothes for some reason, it's considered common sense to not share those pictures on facebook mom groups and such, because you have no way of knowing who's seeing them, and that blurs the line of context. It all boils down to the clearly defined context. Bathing nude in the same sauna with five of your co-workers at the office christmas party? Clearly nonsexual, therefore completely fine. Your friend-with-benefits inviting you to come over and opening the door in nothing but a doggy collar and the most porn-scented perfume? Clearly sexual, therefore completely fine. A woman checking her breasts for lumps in the gym lockers just before or after a shower? Clearly non-sexual, therefore completely fine. But if you went to the bank today and there's some guy who walks in and immediately strips naked, doing his banking business wearing nothing but a deep smile and being clearly very content with this situation, you have no way of telling whether he's getting kicks out of this or not. There is no contextual reason for him to be nude. Therefore, that is inappropriate. Then you go home and post on tumblr - as one does - going like "there was some dude completely fucking buck-ass naked in the bank today. That was fucking weird and I wish he had not done that." And someone immediately swoops into inform you that actually nudity is not inherently sexual or inappropriate, and there are cultures out there that have no nudity taboo. It's not fair to call somebody a freak for something like that, maybe that guy was just finnish.

Post #2 comes from @unconventiononthelawofthesea:

like, okay, consent does literally just mean agree. which is what enables this little rhetorical trick. because there's all this cultural emphasis on sexual consent, which is just expressed as consent, a lot of phrases whose intended meanings are "rape is bad" can be taken literally to mean "i should get to agree to everything that happens in my vicinity." for an example, "i didn't agree to seeing you wear that shirt" is straightforwardly a fucking insane thing for someone to say, but people regularly make use of this trick to make the (functionally identical) statement "i didn't consent to seeing that"

And @fucktoyfelix reblogged and said

Strongly recommend that people familiarize themselves with the white supremacist concept of "right to comfort" because of how scarily that concept aligns with this behavior THIS is where the logic comes from that drives misogynistic control of what women wear, how fat people exist in public, how disabled people exist in public, miscontrues kink-related fashion as the same as sex itself, and prevents people breastfeeding their children in clean environments. Its interesting what demographics are effected most negatively by this huh

[hansoeii]

I'll be at Dokomi next weekend! ✨ Booth 3L70!

Here's my catalogue of all the stuff I'll have to offer! Excited to meet you there!

[arsenicflame]

Bonus round! Do you use a queue tag?

[xxplastic-cubexx]

hey you guys want to rotate this spray with me for the next two months

pulled from this post

[freshthoughts2020]

[secretsimpleness]

Storytime, when I started a second playthrough it was mainly because I craved sudoku. Female Ryder (custom), Scott Ryder / Mass Effect Andromeda (c) Bioware