#but if yall are interested i will make it!!!

[meemoop]

Temporary Post: I’ll take it down in an hour because it’s so angry and ruins the cozy vibe of the blog lol. I just have to rant…

So I just got called a TERF. Yeah, I’m not one; go ahead and get off my turf if you think I am.

I know JK Rowling needs a lobotomy, but doesn’t mean I do too. Leave me alone; I’m literally just drawing. You know who you are.

I support trans rights. I wish this was the default unless I outwardly say otherwise… What a world we live in 🙄 let us not turn against each other merely based on what our hobbies/interests are. I listen to The Smiths but I’m not a racist; I like Harry Potter but I’m not a transphobe; I enjoyed Hunger by Hamsun but I’m not a Nazi. Yeah, that makes sense if you have common sense. Not all authors/artists are good people. So let’s fortify our moral compass by grounding them when they’re outrageously ignorant, but not ignoring what makes US happy because WE are not in the wrong.

I get insults/hate all the time. But literally to call me something as if I am a vessel of hatred?? No, I cannot stand it. I support trans rights; I just wished you all assumed I did by default.

And to yall who call me a homophobe/transphobe/sexist in my DMS, you could not be more wrong. Uhhhhh You don’t know me at all, you don’t know what IVE been through, so literally STFU. I’ve been trying to ignore those comments but i got CAT called/followed today and then i opened my DMs and saw THAT??? Hell no. I’m NOT one of those disgusting, rotten people which dehumanize others and I will never be. This world is disgusting and it won’t continue with me.

Good night.

[halfmoonaria]

what we’ve been holding back

pairing: vada cavell & female reader

summary: for the first time, it’s just you, vada, and everything you’ve both been holding back.

warnings: smut (18+) oral (v receiving) fingering (r receiving) explicit sexual content.

author’s note: i hate this more than tongue can say but hope yall enjoy it anyway.

Vada never got the house to herself.

Not really, anyway. There was always someone around—her parents, of course, but more than anything, Amelia. Her little sister was like a permanent shadow, always appearing at the worst times, always needing something.

If she wasn't barging into Vada's room without knocking, she was hogging the TV remote or loudly FaceTiming her friends right outside Vada's door. And if she wasn’t being actively annoying, it was only because she was looking for new ways to be.

There were nights when Vada would be stretched out on the couch, half-asleep and watching some movie with you, only for Amelia to come crashing in, demanding to know exactly what you were watching before declaring it boring and switching the lights on. Then there were mornings when she'd blast music from the bathroom, knowing full well that Vada was still trying to sleep. Even on the rare occasions when she wasn't in the way, she was still there, existing in the background, always within earshot, ready to interrupt.

So when Vada found out that, for the first time in forever, she would actually have the house completely to herself, she barely knew what to do with the information at first. It didn't feel real.

It had started as a normal enough evening—her mom mentioning something about dinner plans as she moved around the kitchen, her dad chiming in with something about not waiting up. None of it really registered with Vada until her mom casually added that Amelia was already gone for the night, off at a sleepover.

That was what made Vada sit up.

The realization hit her all at once. No parents. No Amelia. No interruptions. Just her. Just you, if she got you to come over.

Excitement bubbled up fast, making her reach for her phone before she even fully processed what she was doing. She barely thought about what she was going to say—just that she had to tell you, and she had to tell you now.

The second you picked up, she was already talking, rushing through the words like she was afraid she'd lose the moment if she didn't get them out fast enough. You didn't even have time to say hello before she was telling you about the miraculous turn of events—how her parents had made last-minute plans, how Amelia was staying at a friend's house, how, for the first time in what felt like forever, she had the house to herself.

And more importantly, how that meant she had you to herself.

She barely gave you time to react before she was asking if you'd come over. It wasn't really a question—more of a demand disguised as one, her voice all hurried excitement as she told you to bring something nice to wear, even if she didn't know what for yet. She wanted tonight to be different, she told you. Not just another hangout, not just another "date" in name only, but something that actually felt like one.

Because most of the time, your "dates" weren't really dates at all. They were sitting on her bed watching bad movies while Amelia threw popcorn at you from the doorway. They were laying in the grass at the park, pretending the $3 slushies in your hands were expensive cocktails. They were long drives with no destination, no plan, just a vague hope that you'd end up somewhere interesting.

It wasn't that she minded. She loved that time with you—loved that it didn't take some grand gesture for you to want to be with her. But part of her still wished she could give you more than that.

She wished she could take you out somewhere nice, somewhere that didn't have sticky floors or fluorescent lights. She wished she could take you to a real restaurant, one with candlelit tables and expensive wine lists, where she could pull out your chair and hold your hand across the table without worrying about her little sister making gagging noises in the background.

But neither of you had the money for that, and even if you did, her parents were always home, Amelia was always home—there was always someone home. So your time together had to fit into the spaces left between.

Not tonight, though. Tonight was just yours.

So she'd cooked.

She wasn't a great cook—not even a good one, really—but she wanted to make something herself, something that at least resembled an actual date-night meal. Something better than the usual microwave dinners or takeout containers you two shared on her bed. So, she kept it simple: pasta. She figured it was hard to mess up, but even then, she still managed to overcook the noodles a little.

It wasn't fancy. It wasn't even that impressive. But it was hers.

And that had to count for something.

She'd even gone as far as lighting candles, the only ones she could find being the old, half-melted ones her mom kept under the sink. They smelled like vanilla and something vaguely floral, and the flames flickered unevenly, casting wobbly shadows across the table. It was probably stupid—it felt stupid. She could already hear Amelia's voice in her head, making fun of her for trying so hard.

And honestly, Vada would've made fun of herself too, a few months ago.

This was the kind of thing you two used to laugh at when you watched rom-coms together—how cheesy and soggy it all was, how ridiculous it was that anyone actually took the whole candlelit-dinner thing seriously.

But now? Now, she was starting to get it.

And that was enough to make her feel like maybe, just maybe, all of this wasn't as ridiculous as she thought.

Then the doorbell had rung.

Vada had barely had time to shake herself out of her thoughts before she had rushed to answer it, almost tripping over the corner of the rug in her hurry. She had stopped just short of yanking the door open too fast—because cool, she had needed to be cool—but all her effort at playing it smooth had gone straight out the window the second she had seen you.

You had stood there on her front porch, bathed in the dim glow of the porchlight, a bottle of wine in your hand. You had lifted it slightly, eyebrows raising as you had teased, "Thought this could make our very serious, very fancy dinner even fancier."

Vada had huffed out a laugh, eyes flicking from the bottle back to your face. Your face. Soft in the low light, lips curved in that easy way that had always made her heart trip over itself. The way your hair had framed your face, the way your eyes had flickered with amusement, the way you had looked at her—it had all been enough to make her forget her own name for a second.

She had recovered just enough to snatch the bottle from your grip, fingers brushing against yours for half a second longer than necessary. "You stole this, didn't you?"

You had grinned, tilting your head. "Define 'stole.'"

Vada had rolled her eyes but had still taken a step back, letting you in. And the second you had crossed the threshold, setting your hands on her waist, any and all of her previous self-consciousness had melted away.

You had kissed her before she could make some smartass remark, before she could even think about saying something stupid. It had been soft—slow, even—but warm in a way that had settled deep into her bones, making her feel weightless and anchored all at once.

And God, she had been able to taste the trouble on your lips already.

When you had pulled back, she had barely had a second to process before you had been taking in the dining setup behind her, eyes flicking over the candles, the plates, the pasta. Your smile had stretched a little wider, amusement clear in your gaze as you had turned back to her. "You really went all out, huh?"

She had felt her face heat, but she had just shrugged, trying to downplay it. "You're welcome."

You had hummed, clearly unimpressed by her attempt at being casual. Then, tilting your head, you had smirked. "So... which cooking tutorial did you follow?"

Vada had groaned, tipping her head back dramatically. "I hate you so much."

You had just laughed, nudging your shoulder against hers before stepping further into the house. And even as you had poked fun at her, even as you had made some offhanded comment about how the noodles had looked a little overcooked, she had been able to tell—you had liked it.

You had liked this.

Dinner itself had been a blur of easy conversation and laughter, of stolen bites and exaggerated reactions to how terrible her cooking had been. It hadn't been fancy. It hadn't been perfect. But it had been something.

You had liked this.

Vada had been able to tell by the way your smile had lingered as you ate, how you had stretched your legs out beneath the table, nudging your foot against hers like it was second nature. And maybe it had been. Maybe it had always been this easy for you—to just exist like this, to fit into every space you were given and make it your own.

She hadn't been able to take her eyes off of you.

Not while you had spoken, hands moving as if they could shape your words in the air. Not while you had twirled your fork through the pasta, the candlelight catching on the rim of your glass as you had lifted it to your lips. And definitely not when you had picked up the wine bottle, turning it between your fingers before tilting your chin up slightly.

"Some more wine, ma'am?" you had asked, your voice lilting in a way that had made her groan.

Vada hadn't even bothered to respond, just shaking her head as you had poured more into her glass anyway.

And now, even with the food long gone and the plates abandoned in the kitchen, she still couldn't take her eyes off of you.

The movie playing on the TV was one she had seen a hundred times, something you had both agreed on without really thinking about it, but she wasn't paying attention. Not to that, at least.

Because the way you were curled up against her, legs tucked over hers, fingers tracing lazy patterns against the back of her hand—that was more interesting than anything on the screen.

The movie had been playing for a while, the glow from the screen flickering across your face, catching in your eyes as you stared at it. Vada was supposed to be watching too, but her focus had started to slip long ago.

She had barely touched her glass of wine, her fingers curled loosely around the stem, more preoccupied with the way you had sunk further into her side, your body relaxed against hers. Every so often, you would shift slightly—reaching for more wine, adjusting your position, stretching out more against her. And every single time, she had to fight the urge to look down, to get distracted all over again.

She only snapped back to reality when you suddenly let out a breath, shaking your head a little before speaking.

"Okay, but why do people pretend this is the best movie ever? Like, it's fine, but it's not that good."

Vada had hummed in vague agreement, even though she had no idea what part you were talking about.

But then, a moment later, you turned your head toward her. Your brows furrowed slightly, like you were studying her, before your lips quirked up in a knowing smile.

"Are you even watching?"

She had barely caught herself in time, blinking and shifting her focus back toward the screen like she hadn't just been completely lost in staring at you.

"No, I am," she had said quickly, smiling through the lie.

And then she had forced herself to look back at the screen, even though it took everything in her not to glance at you again.

Vada had tried—really tried—to keep her eyes on the screen. But it was impossible when you were sitting right there, barely a breath away, looking the way you did.

Maybe it was the wine. You hadn't had much, just enough to feel the edges of everything blur, to make the warmth in her chest settle a little deeper. But still, it was enough to make her wonder if that was why she couldn't seem to look away from you. If it was the reason why, for the past ten minutes, she hadn't absorbed a single thing from the movie playing in front of her.

The glow from the TV flickered over your skin, soft and golden, mixing with the dim light from the streetlamp outside that slipped in through the window. It caught in your hair, traced over the curve of your cheek, reflected in your eyes when you blinked. You weren't even doing anything—you were just watching the movie, completely unaware of the way Vada was looking at you.

But she was looking.

And she couldn't stop.

Her gaze drifted over every little detail of your face—the faintest crease between your brows when you concentrated, the slight part of your lips when something caught your attention, the way your lashes brushed against your skin when you blinked. She felt your fingers move absentmindedly over the back of her hand, tracing slow, barely-there patterns against her skin, and the way it made her stomach tighten was almost embarrassing.

It was all so effortless. So you.

And she couldn't believe she got to have this. That she got to sit here in this moment, surrounded by nothing but the warmth of the house and the flickering light of the candles she had been embarrassed to set up, and just watch you.

She should have looked away.

She didn't.

And of course, you noticed.

You let out a quiet, breathy chuckle before turning toward her, amused. "What?"

Vada felt her stomach twist, her face warming under your gaze. She hesitated, just for a second, before letting out a soft breath.

"You're beautiful."

The way you blinked, like you hadn't expected her to say that, made her heart lurch in her chest. And then you smiled—really smiled—something small and teasing but still so genuine. Your fingers slowed against her hand, resting there, your touch lingering.

Vada's gaze flickered down before she could stop it.

Your lips.

She felt something settle low in her stomach, spreading through her chest, making her breath come just a little shorter. She didn't even think before she spoke again, voice quieter this time, rougher, like the words were forming before she had the chance to second-guess them.

"And I want to kiss you."

You tilted your head slightly, your smile deepening at the edges, the teasing glint in your eyes making her pulse quicken.

"Is that so?”

You didn't pull away.

Instead, you shifted, leaning in just a little, just enough that your knees brushed against hers, your fingers tightening slightly over the back of her hand.

And God, she must have looked ridiculous. Because she could feel it—could feel the way her lips parted slightly, could feel the way her eyes were stuck on your mouth, could feel the way she must have looked at you, like she was desperate, like she was starving.

She barely managed to nod.

And then you leaned in, closing the space between you.

Your lips met hers, soft and warm and slow, and for a second, Vada forgot how to breathe.

The kiss started slow, soft, just like it always did. But it never stayed that way for long.

Because Vada loved kissing you.

You had made out more times than either of you could count—on her bed, on your bed, in the backseat of your car, pressed up against the wall by your front door when neither of you wanted to say goodbye. It was something she would never get tired of, the feeling of your lips against hers, the way your hands always found their way to her waist, the way your fingers would tangle in her hair when you got impatient. She loved all of it.

But this? This felt different.

Hotter.

The kind of different that made her ache.

Your fingers curled at the hem of her shirt, not pushing, not pulling, just holding. She felt the way your touch lingered there, like you were thinking about doing something with it. And God, she wanted you to. But she didn't have time to dwell on it before your lips parted against hers, before your tongue flicked against hers, slow and teasing and just enough to make her stomach twist.

Vada let out a quiet hum, barely even a sound, before her hands found their way to your face, fingers brushing over the heat of your skin, thumbs smoothing over your jaw as she deepened the kiss.

It still wasn't enough.

So, without even thinking, she shifted.

Her hands slipped down to your shoulders, pressing against them lightly for balance as she adjusted her position, swinging a leg over your lap. Her knee sank into the couch next to your hip, then the other, her weight settling over you as she straddled you properly.

And still, her lips never left yours.

She felt the way you reacted instantly—the way your hands gripped her waist a little tighter, the way your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of her shirt, the way your breath hitched, barely noticeable, but she noticed.

Of course she did.

Because she noticed everything when it came to you.

It deepened fast, all sense of restraint unraveling the second Vada settled on top of you.

And maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was just you—the way you felt underneath her, the way your hands kept fidgeting, like you couldn't figure out where to hold her. Whatever it was, it had something twisting tight in her stomach, making her push closer, kiss harder, until she wasn't even sure if she was kissing you anymore or just trying to devour you whole.

She barely realized what she was doing—how desperate, how messy she had gotten—until she felt you chuckle against her lips. And God, that should have slowed her down, should have made her think, but instead, it only made her worse. Because the second you smiled, the second you mumbled something about her being so needy, Vada groaned against your mouth and kissed you even harder, hands threading into your hair to keep you right there.

And your hands?

God, your hands.

They moved constantly, like you couldn't decide where you wanted them most. First, your fingers tangled in her hair, threading through the strands, tugging just enough to make her whimper. Then they slid lower, pressing against the thin fabric of her shirt as they smoothed down her back. And then—fuck—then they landed on her ass, barely a pause before your fingers squeezed, firm and possessive, making heat shoot straight through her.

Vada gasped against your lips, the sound half a moan, and she swore she felt you smirk.

But just as quickly as your hands had gotten there, they moved again, fingers skimming up over the curve of her hips, finally settling there, thumbs pressing lightly into her skin through the fabric.

And then—oh God, then—you guided her.

The touch was loose, barely even forceful, but she felt it. The way your fingers flexed, the way your grip tightened just enough to encourage her to move. And before she even thought about what she was doing, her body responded.

Her hips rocked against yours, slow and experimental, sending a sharp, warm shiver straight up her spine.

Oh.

Oh.

This was new.

Your hands had wandered before, gotten a little bold when you made out, but this? This had never happened before. And the realization, the fact that you were doing this, that you wanted her to do this, sent a rush of excitement straight through her, making her stomach flip.

So she did it again.

And again.

Each movement growing a little more confident, a little more sure, until she didn't even have to think about it anymore. Until her hands were gripping your shoulders just to keep her balance, until she was pressing herself against you exactly the way she wanted to, the way you were leading her to.

And Vada had never been more excited in her life.

Because she had noticed.

The second she opened the door and saw you standing there, she had noticed. The black off-shoulder top clinging to you, the delicate curve of your collarbone on display, the way the fabric settled so perfectly against your skin. And she hadn't thought much of it at first, just that you looked really fucking good. But then, when you leaned over the table to pour more wine, when the neckline of your top shifted just slightly, the realization hit her—

You weren't wearing a bra.

And now, as she pressed against you, her hands skimming over the soft fabric of your shirt, the thought was making her dizzy.

She wanted to see you.

Her fingers curled at the hem of your shirt, and she hesitated for only a second before pulling away just enough to look at you. You understood immediately, a slow smile playing at your lips as you raised your arms, giving her permission, encouragement, and—fuck—Vada could barely breathe as she pushed the fabric up, over your ribs, over your chest, finally tugging it over your head and tossing it somewhere.

She didn't care where it landed.

Because—

Oh.

Oh.

She froze.

Her hands, still mid-motion from discarding your shirt, stilled. Her breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat, and her brain completely short-circuited.

She was fucking gone.

She had imagined this before—of course she had, she was only human—but nothing, nothing, compared to the reality of it. The way the candlelight flickered over your bare skin, painting you in soft golds and shadows, the way the warm glow from the TV barely illuminated the curves of your chest, making them look almost unreal.

God.

Vada just stared, mouth slightly open, eyes wide with something between disbelief and absolute, stunned awe.

She wanted to touch. Wanted to feel.

But all she could do was look, completely mesmerized, completely wrecked, because holy shit.

Vada barely realized the word had left her mouth until she heard it. "Wow."

It wasn't intentional—just something that slipped out, breathless, awed, like her brain hadn't caught up with her mouth.

She hovered her hands over you, close enough to feel the warmth of your skin but not quite touching. She wasn't sure why she was hesitating. Maybe because she didn't want to ruin the moment, or maybe because she didn't know if she could handle it.

But you didn't seem embarrassed.

Didn't shift under her gaze, didn't cross your arms over yourself or make any move to cover up. You only smirked, a soft, amused chuckle slipping past your lips, and somehow, somehow, that made everything even sexier.

Vada swallowed hard.

And then, finally, finally, she touched you.

Her hands settled on your breasts, hesitant at first, just feeling, getting used to the weight of them in her palms. Her thumbs brushed over your nipples, and when she felt them harden beneath her touch, something in her snapped.

She grew bolder, kneading them more firmly, watching your expression shift as your lips parted just slightly, as your breath hitched.

God, she loved this. Loved how soft you felt, how warm, how responsive.

Then she leaned in, capturing your lips again without stopping her movements, her hands still exploring, still touching. She felt the way you sighed into her mouth, how your fingers slid into her hair, tugging her closer, deepening the kiss.

But it wasn't enough.

Vada needed more.

So she let her hands drift down, gripping your waist as she shifted lower, trailing her lips from your mouth to your jaw, then lower still, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the side of your neck.

And then she kept going.

She slid down your body, slowly, adjusting herself as she moved lower, her knees sinking further into the couch cushions, her body stretching out across yours so she could reach. Her lips trailed past your collarbone, over the slope of your shoulder, and then—

Lower.

Her mouth hovered over your chest now, and she hesitated for just a second, looking up at you.

Your head had tilted back against the couch, your eyes fluttering shut, your lips parted just slightly as the softest moan slipped out.

And fuck, that was all she needed.

Vada pressed soft, lingering kisses along the curves of your breasts, giving them both equal attention, her lips parting slightly to suck at the delicate skin. She took her time, savoring the way you reacted, the way your body tensed and relaxed beneath her touch.

And when her tongue flicked over your nipple, circling it in slow, deliberate motions, she swore she felt the way your breath caught.

It should have felt new. It was new. She had never done this before, never been in this position with anyone. But somehow, it didn't feel unfamiliar.

It was like second nature, like her body knew exactly what to do without her having to think about it.

Maybe it was because she'd watched people do this before—had spent more time than she'd ever admit scrolling through videos, studying the way hands moved, the way mouths teased, the way lips wrapped around sensitive skin just like hers were doing now.

Or maybe it was just you.

Maybe it was the way you made everything feel so easy, so natural, like she was supposed to be here, like she was supposed to be doing this.

Your hands found their way into her hair, fingers threading through the strands, gripping just enough to make her feel it, to make her shiver.

And then—

"Fuck, Vada."

Hearing you say her name like that, breathless, desperate—God, it wrecked her.

Vada barely had time to process the effect it had on her before she felt your hands on her sides, fingertips pressing lightly, almost hesitantly, before they trailed up. The warmth of your touch sent a shiver through her, and when your fingers slipped under the hem of her hoodie, she swore her heart skipped a beat.

You didn't need to say anything. The way your hands lingered there, the way your thumbs brushed over the bare skin just above her waistband—it was enough. And she wanted it too.

She hesitated for just a second, her breath catching in her throat, before she pulled away just enough to reach for the fabric herself. In one smooth motion, she lifted the hoodie over her head, her hair falling messily around her shoulders as she tossed it somewhere—she didn't know, didn't care. Not when your hands were already reaching again, already touching her.

You started slow, fingertips grazing her shoulders, sliding under the straps of her bra. The touch was light, teasing, and yet it set every nerve in her body on fire.

She felt your fingers pause at the clasp.

Her breath hitched.

And then, slowly, so slowly, you worked it open.

The straps slipped down her arms, the fabric falling away, and then it was gone.

Vada wasn't sure what she expected—if she expected anything—but when she finally gathered the courage to meet your gaze, what she saw made her feel like her whole body had just been set ablaze.

You were staring.

Not just looking. Not just seeing. You were taking her in, eyes dark and hungry as you admired every inch of her.

Vada had never been in this position before—half-naked in someone's lap, completely exposed—but somehow, she didn't feel nervous. She should have, maybe. But the way you were looking at her... it was like you wanted her, like you needed her, like this moment had been building up for so long that neither of you could hold back anymore.

And when your hands found their way to her waist, gripping just a little tighter than before, pulling her back in like you had to, like you couldn't stand even a second apart—she swore she could have melted.

You pulled her back in, your lips meeting hers again, slow at first—like you were savoring her, like you wanted to take your time. Your hands traced gentle paths along her waist, your fingers spreading out over her bare skin, warm and steady, grounding her in a way that made her dizzy.

Vada let herself sink into it, let herself melt against you, let herself feel everything. The softness of your lips, the way your breath mixed with hers, the way her whole body felt like it was burning from just this.

And then, between kisses, your voice came, soft but certain, against her lips.

"You're beautiful."

It was so simple, yet it sent a rush through her that she hadn't expected.

She hadn't realized she needed to hear it—not until you said it.

A smile pulled at her lips, small at first, then wider as she let her forehead rest against yours for just a second, breathing you in. She knew she was beautiful, she'd been told before—but hearing it here, Now, from you? With your hands on her, your lips brushing against hers, your gaze still lingering like you meant it?

She didn't feel shy anymore.

She pressed another kiss to your lips, slower, deeper.

"I can't believe we're doing this," she murmured against your mouth, the words slipping out before she even realized she was saying them. But she didn't regret them. Because she couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe that after all the teasing, all the stolen kisses, all the almosts—this was happening.

And God, she never wanted to stop.

Vada pulled back just enough to look at you, her breath warm against your lips, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded with something deeper than just desire. It was hunger—real, undeniable hunger—but beneath that, something softer, something nervous. Not because she didn't want this, but because she did—so much that it made her hands tremble slightly as they brushed over your bare sides.

Her gaze flickered over your face, searching, memorizing, as if she were trying to commit every second to memory. Because this was happening. Finally.

She swallowed hard, blinking down at you before her lips twitched into the smallest, almost shy smile. And then, she kissed you again—deeper, slower, savoring it. But it wasn't just that. It was purposeful. Like she had already made up her mind about something.

You felt it when she shifted, her hands smoothing over your sides, then lower, gripping your hips as she carefully slid back, slipping off of your lap and sinking to the floor between your legs.

Your breath hitched.

She kissed her way down as she moved, lingering at your jaw, your collarbone, your chest—her lips pressing reverent, open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin there. Then lower, down your stomach, her nose brushing against your skin, her breath warm, making you shiver as she went.

And then she stopped. Right at the waistband of your jeans.

Her fingers hovered there for a second, hesitating, before she glanced up at you.

Her lips were slightly parted, her pupils blown wide, and yet—her eyes searched yours, questioning, asking without words. She wasn't unsure about what she wanted, but she needed you to tell her. To say it.

You held her gaze, your chest rising and falling a little too fast, your skin still tingling from the way she had kissed her way down your body.

Then, finally, you nodded. And when you spoke, your voice was barely above a whisper—soft, but certain.

"Please."

That was all it took.

Vada let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and then—her fingers moved. The button of your jeans came undone, the zipper following soon after, and then—she was tugging them down, her hands warm, her touch careful but eager, as she pulled them off of you.

With your jeans gone, the only thing left on you was your underwear, a thin barrier between you and her. And Vada—she just stared.

Her breath was uneven as she reached for them, her fingers hesitating against the waistband, her nerves flickering back to life despite the overwhelming heat between you. But it wasn't uncertainty. It was something deeper.

Because this was it.

She was really about to see you. All of you.

Her lips parted slightly, her eyes flicking up to meet yours again, searching, almost like she was waiting for permission all over again. And you—God, you looked so good like this, half-naked on the couch, skin flushed, chest rising and falling just a little quicker than before. You weren't hesitant.

You weren't second-guessing anything. If anything, the way your lips curled into a soft, expectant smile—the way you lifted your hips slightly, giving her silent permission—only made Vada's heart hammer even harder against her ribs.

So she tugged them down.

Slowly. Carefully.

And then she saw it.

Her breath hitched, her fingers freezing against your thighs as she took you in.

Fuck.

She didn't know what she was expecting. It wasn't like she hadn't thought about this before, wasn't like she hadn't imagined it in the back of her mind on nights when she was alone, when the teasing had been too much, when she could still feel the ghost of your hands on her skin.

But seeing you—like this, bare and spread out before her—was something else entirely.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, her wide, dark eyes flickering between your thighs, drinking in every detail, her hands still resting against the tops of them. She could feel the heat radiating from you, could see how wet you were, and it sent a dizzying rush straight through her.

God.

She almost laughed—half out of disbelief, half because she suddenly felt so overwhelmed, like her brain was short-circuiting, like she was having a hard time processing just how fucking gorgeous you were.

But all that slipped past her lips was a soft, breathless—

"Wow."

Her voice was barely above a whisper, filled with something almost reverent, almost awestruck.

You let out a quiet chuckle, your head tilting slightly, watching her, waiting for her to do something, say something more. But you didn't look embarrassed. You didn't try to shy away or cover yourself, didn't shift under her gaze like you were self-conscious about the way she was staring.

And that only made this even hotter.

Vada hovered her hands over your thighs, fingers twitching, like she wanted to touch you but wasn't sure if she was allowed to yet.

You reached down, running your fingers through her hair, tugging her closer, a silent encouragement. And when she finally touched you, sliding her hands up your legs, gripping your thighs and spreading them just a little wider—she swore she felt herself ache with need.

Because fuck—she wanted you.

All of you.

And now she was finally about to have you.

But just before she dove in, she looked up at you again, her lips slightly parted, brows furrowing as if she was only now realizing what she was about to do.

"Should I...? Do you want me to—"

The nervous energy crackled in her voice, a sharp contrast to the hunger in her eyes, and God, it would've been adorable if you weren't already aching for her.

You cut her off, your fingers still tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to get her attention.

"Vada, baby, please."

That was all she needed to hear.

"Right."

And then she did it.

She started slow. Tentative. Like she was testing the waters, figuring out what made you gasp, what made your fingers tighten in her hair. But she wasn't unsure. Far from it. She licked a slow stripe up your center, tasting you for the first time, and Jesus Christ, she nearly moaned.

You were so wet.

For her.

Her hands flexed against your thighs, gripping them as she let herself sink deeper into it, flattening her tongue, pressing in closer, wanting more.

And the sounds—God, the sounds you made.

The quiet gasps, the breathy little moans that slipped past your lips, the way you exhaled her name, voice shaky and wrecked—fuck.

She had never done this before. But somehow, she knew exactly what to do.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the way you reacted to her—your body arching, your breath hitching, the way your thighs tensed when she flicked her tongue just right. Or maybe it was the fact that she had definitely watched people do this before, studied the way they moved, imagined what it would be like.

Either way, she wasn't stopping.

Not when she had you like this—breathless, desperate, falling apart under her tongue.

And God, she loved this.

So she should've felt confident. The way you gasped, the way your body tensed, the way your fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer—it all should've been enough to tell her she was doing this right.

But still, she couldn't help the doubt creeping in, the slight hesitation in her movements as she pulled back just enough to look up at you.

"Does it feel good?" Her voice was soft, uncertain, lips glistening as she spoke.

You barely managed to open your eyes, your head still tipped back against the couch, breath coming in short, uneven pants. And God, Vada loved how wrecked you already looked.

Your fingers twitched in her hair, tightening just a little. Keeping her there.

"Mhm." You nodded, voice barely above a whisper. "Baby, it's great."

That should've been enough for her.

But she still watched you, eyes flickering between your face and the way your chest rose and fell, like she was waiting for more.

And you could feel it—the slight hesitation, the way she was still holding back. Still unsure.

So you tugged her in closer, your voice coming out rushed, almost pleading.

"Please, continue."

And fuck, that flipped something in her.

Any hesitation she had before—gone.

She dove back in with renewed hunger, her hands gripping your thighs tighter as she flattened her tongue, moving with more confidence this time. More intent.

And when she felt your fingers tighten in her hair again, pushing her down just the slightest bit, guiding her to exactly where you needed her most—God, she nearly groaned against you.

Because that told her everything she needed to know.

You wanted more.

And she was more than happy to give it to you.

Vada never considered herself patient, but she took her time now—partly because she wanted to savor this, and partly because she was still figuring it out. But she knew one thing for certain: she wanted this. Wanted you. And judging by the way your body tensed beneath her, the way your breath hitched every time she moved, she was doing something right.

Her hands gripped your thighs, thumbs tracing slow circles against your skin, grounding herself as she let her mouth explore. She started off careful, tentative, trying to gauge your reactions. But the second she heard your sharp inhale, the quiet, breathy "Oh—" that slipped out before you could stop it, something in her ignited.

She pressed in deeper, her movements growing more confident, more eager, and she felt the way you responded instantly. Your fingers curled into her hair, not pulling, just holding, tugging her closer. And fuck, that did something to her. The idea that you wanted her right there, wanted more of her.

And God, she wanted to give you everything.

Your head tipped back against the couch, a shaky breath escaping as you murmured, "Oh yeah, that's good." Your voice was unsteady, like you were barely able to get the words out, and that was all the encouragement Vada needed.

Her grip on your thighs tightened, holding you still as she settled into a rhythm, pushing past her nerves, following nothing but instinct now. The more she gave, the more she wanted—you were warm, soft, intoxicating beneath her, and hearing those quiet sounds fall from your lips only made her more determined.

She could feel your breath coming quicker, the rise and fall of your chest growing uneven, and when your fingers in her hair tightened—really tightened—she felt another rush of pride surge through her.

And when she heard you whimper her name, that was it.

Vada swore she could've stayed like this forever.

But it was clear you couldn't.

The way your thighs started to tremble, the way your breath hitched on every exhale, coming out in these ragged little gasps—it told her everything. You were unraveling, slipping closer and closer to the edge, and fuck, she could feel it. The heat of you, the way your body arched into her touch, desperate, pleading without words.

And then there was the way your hands had tightened in her hair, no longer just holding but gripping, like you were keeping yourself grounded. Like the pleasure was so overwhelming you needed something—someone—to hold onto. The realization made something deep inside her clench, a rush of pride, excitement, maybe even disbelief washing over her all at once.

She was the one making you feel this good.

She was the one drawing out these breathy little moans, these broken gasps, the soft, helpless whimpers that sent a shiver down her spine.

You rocked against her, chasing the feeling, chasing more, and she let you, gripping your thighs as she worked her tongue in slow, deliberate motions.

Vada never wanted to stop.

But then your hips stuttered—just slightly, just enough for her to notice. Your breath hitched sharply, and the hand buried in her hair tugged before you let out a shaky, "Fuck, I'm close."

Your voice, wrecked and desperate, sent a bolt of heat straight through her, but she didn't dare slow down. Instead, she gripped your thighs, keeping you in place, letting herself sink even deeper into the moment.

You needed this.

And God, she needed it too.

Vada didn't let up.

If anything, hearing you say that only spurred her on. She flattened her tongue against you, dragging it slowly before flicking the tip against your most sensitive spot. She could feel the way your body reacted, the way your thighs tensed beneath her palms, your hips jerking up ever so slightly like you couldn't help it.

She did it again—slow, teasing, before switching back to those quick, precise flicks, alternating between the two until she felt you start to tremble. The way you whimpered, the way your fingers tightened in her hair, almost pulling her closer, told her you needed more, needed her to keep going just like this.

So she did.

She wrapped her lips around you, sucking gently, adding just the slightest pressure as her tongue moved against you in tight, perfect circles. You let out this soft, strangled moan, your thighs twitching against her, and fuck, that sound—Vada swore she could feel it, deep in her chest, in her stomach, everywhere.

She didn't know how she was doing this so well, didn't know how she knew exactly what you needed—but she wasn't questioning it. Not when you sounded like this.

And then you broke.

Your body tensed, thighs clamping around Vada's head as a sharp, breathless moan escaped you. Your fingers tightened in her hair, pulling just enough to make her whimper against you, but she didn't stop—not yet. She kept her tongue moving, guiding you through it, slow and deliberate, savoring every second as you came undone beneath her.

She could feel it—the way your stomach clenched, the way your hips stuttered before finally stilling, the way your breath came in short, uneven gasps. She didn't stop until she felt you physically twitch from the sensitivity, until you exhaled a shaky, "Vada—" that sounded so sweet, so wrecked, that she had to listen.

Only then did she finally pull away, lips glistening, pupils blown wide as she looked up at you. And God, she had never seen anything more beautiful.

You were still trying to catch your breath, chest rising and falling unevenly, body still warm and buzzing from the aftermath. Your head was tilted back against the couch, lips slightly parted, eyes half-lidded as you blinked down at her. You looked completely wrecked in the best way, and Vada could not stop staring.

She stayed between your legs, grinning softly, her own breath still uneven. There was something so intoxicating about seeing you like this, knowing she had been the one to get you there. It made her stomach twist in the best way.

After a moment, she tilted her head, eyes flickering up to yours, and asked, almost shyly, "Was that good?"

You let out a breathy chuckle, still dazed. "Amazing, baby."

And God, Vada swore she could've melted.

But then you spoke.

"My turn."

Vada's grin faltered for just a second at your words, her breath hitching as realization settled in. Your turn.

You had finally caught your breath, but she lost hers.

She stayed between your legs for a moment longer, her hands resting on your thighs, but now there was a shift—something in the air that made her shiver. You reached for her, fingers curling around her wrist as you guided her up, and she followed without hesitation.

You kissed her again, slow and deep, before gently maneuvering her until she was straddling your thigh, her knees pressing into the couch on either side of you. She was already breathing heavier, already so affected by just the idea of what was coming next.

Her hands found your shoulders for balance, and you smoothed yours down her sides, over the curve of her waist, before sliding them lower. Your voice was soft, but certain—confident—when you said, "I want to make you feel good too."

And just like that, Vada felt like she could combust.

Your hands dipped lower, fingers working at the button of her jeans. It wasn't the easiest thing to do with the way she was straddling you, but you didn't seem to mind the challenge. Neither did she. If anything, it made her pulse race faster.

She bit her lip as you popped the button open, then dragged the zipper down. But when you tried to push them down her hips, the angle made it impossible. She huffed a soft laugh, already desperate to get them off.

"I should probably—" she mumbled, already moving before she could finish the thought.

You let her go, watching as she stood, hurriedly shoving her jeans down her legs. They pooled at her ankles, and she kicked them off, nearly stumbling in her rush. A breathless giggle escaped her lips as she caught her balance.

Her hands were already at the waistband of her underwear, but before she could do it herself, you reached forward, hooking your fingers there.

"Let me."

She swallowed hard, nodding, letting you pull them down in one slow, smooth motion.

And now she was bare for you. Just as you had been for her.

She was already moving back toward you before she even thought about it, climbing into your lap again, her breathing uneven as she settled against you—closer than before, warmer than before.

And God, she needed you.

The moment she settled back onto your lap, you pulled her in for a kiss—deep, slow, intoxicating. Your tongue brushed against hers, and she whimpered softly into your mouth, her hands gripping your shoulders for stability.

Your hands didn't stay still for long. They traced their way up her sides, fingertips ghosting over her waist, her stomach—warm, soft, nervous. She shivered under your touch, but she didn't pull away. If anything, she pressed in closer.

And then your hands cupped her breasts.

Her breath hitched—sharp, surprised, new. No one had ever touched her like this before. Not anyone else. Not even close. The only hands that had ever roamed this part of her body were her own, and this was so different. This was you.

Her lips parted against yours, a soft, shuddering exhale slipping free.

You parted from the kiss, your breath mingling with hers as your hands settled on her hips, thumbs smoothing over her warm skin. Your eyes met hers—dark, wanting, hungry, but underneath it all, there was something else. Something softer.

Love.

And then, in one fluid motion, you shifted, guiding her onto her back against the couch, your body hovering over hers. Her breath hitched again, eyes wide for only a second before a grin tugged at her lips—God, she loved this. She loved you.

Her legs instinctively wrapped around your waist, pulling you in as her hands slid up your arms. But when your hand moved down between her legs, she shuddered, her grip faltering as her thighs loosened slightly around you, just enough to give you the access you wanted.

Your fingers trailed down, brushing over the heat of her, feeling how warm, how wet she was for you. The slightest touch had Vada sucking in a breath, her stomach tensing as her hips shifted instinctively toward you. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second, like she was trying to process it, to hold onto the feeling, but she forced them back open, locking onto yours. She needed to see you. Needed to watch you.

You kept your touch light, teasing, dragging your fingertips along her inner thigh before moving back to where she was desperate for you. Her body reacted instantly—another sharp breath, the way her fingers dug into your arms, holding on like she needed something to ground herself. And maybe she did.

"Is this okay?" you murmured, your voice softer than ever, filled with nothing but care. The way you looked at her, the way you asked—like she was something delicate, something that mattered more than anything else in the world—it made her dizzy.

Vada swore she could've come just from that. Just from you.

She tried to answer, but her throat felt too tight, the words tangled somewhere inside her. So she just nodded, quick, almost frantic, because yes, yes, she wanted this, needed this.

And then you pushed in.

Two fingers, slow but certain, sinking into her with ease. The air left her lungs in a sharp, broken gasp, her head tipping back against the pillow as a sound she'd never made before slipped out of her mouth. Her body clenched around you, hot and tight, and she couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel.

Couldn't do anything but feel.

Your fingers moved with purpose, slow at first, letting her adjust, letting her take it all in. The way you filled her, the way your touch sent warmth spiraling through her body—it was overwhelming, almost too much, but she didn't want it to stop.

A sharp, breathless sound escaped her as you curled your fingers, pressing against something deep inside her that made her entire body jolt. Her hands clutched at your arms, her nails digging into your skin, as she let out something between a gasp and a moan.

Your face was so close to hers, your breath ghosting over her lips, hot and unsteady. She could feel you, all of you—your hands, your mouth, the way your body pressed into hers, keeping her grounded even as everything inside her felt like it was unraveling.

Her mouth fell open, but no words came, only the broken sounds of pleasure slipping past her lips. It was nothing like she imagined—no idle fantasy could have prepared her for the way you touched her, the way you knew exactly what she needed.

You whispered something to her, voice low and soothing, and she barely processed the words. All she knew was that she wanted more. That she never wanted this moment to end.

A shuddering breath left her lips before she could stop it, her whole body tightening as your fingers pressed deeper. "Fuck." The word slipped out before she even realized she was saying it, half-whispered, half-moan, raw with desperation.

She didn't know what to grab. Her hands twitched, searching for something, anything to hold onto, but the couch beneath her wasn't enough. Her fingers curled into the fabric, gripping tight, but it didn't ground her—it only made her more aware of how good this felt.

Her hips moved instinctively, chasing the pressure, grinding against your fingers as heat curled low in her stomach. It was intoxicating, the way you touched her, the way you watched her. She could barely keep her eyes open, barely form a coherent thought, but that didn't stop the words from spilling out of her mouth, breathless and unfiltered.

"Jesus—God—that's—fuck, you're so—" A strangled whimper cut her off as you curled your fingers again, hitting that spot that made her body jolt. "So good."

Her voice was shaking, her breath uneven, and she couldn't stop herself, couldn't stop the way she was moving against you, couldn't stop the way she needed more.

Her fingers clawed weakly at the couch cushion behind her, nails dragging against the fabric as her hips moved in rhythm with your hand. Her head tilted back, lips parted, breaths choppy and uneven. She kept trying to say something, kept opening her mouth like the words were there—right there—but all that came out were broken sounds, strangled moans that cracked in her throat.

And then, between gasps, she finally said it—barely audible, like it slipped out without permission.

"I've thought about this," she breathed, voice hoarse and raw. "So many times."

You didn't stop, just kept your pace steady, fingers dragging in and out of her with that perfect angle, that perfect pressure that made her thighs tense around you. Her stomach flexed with every wave that built, and her eyes fluttered open—just barely—to find yours.

There was a flicker of something deeper behind her dazed expression. Lust, obviously. But also disbelief. Awe.

"Not like this though," she managed, her voice catching in her throat. "Not this good."

Her gaze dropped to where your hand was moving between her legs, the slick sounds of it only making everything more intense. She looked at your fingers like she couldn't believe what they were doing to her—how deep they were, how wet they were. Her jaw trembled, and her eyes rolled back again as another moan tore from her.

Vada's legs were starting to shake around your waist, but her hips kept moving anyway—needy and uncoordinated, like her body didn't care how far gone she already was. Her head lolled to the side, teeth catching her bottom lip, but she couldn't bite back the moan that spilled out next. Her hand slid from the couch to your arm, gripping like she needed something to anchor her.

"I used to think about this so much," she panted, eyes blinking slowly, trying to keep them open. "Like... I'd imagine you touching me, sometimes when I couldn't sleep, or when I was just—" She broke off for a second, the pleasure crashing over her words. "I never thought it'd feel like this. I thought I'd be nervous, or too in my head—"

"Baby," you murmured, your voice low and uneven, but she kept talking, trying to push through it even as her body clenched tighter around your fingers.

"—but it's just you, and it feels—fuck—it feels so—"

"Vada."

Her name landed like a spark on her skin. Her voice died out, breath catching in her throat, and the sound that left her was more of a moan than a response.

"Yes?" she whispered, almost a whine, her eyes fluttering shut and then open again like she couldn't decide if she wanted to look at you or just fall apart.

Your lips hovered close to hers—so close she could feel your breath in her mouth, warm and shallow. The only thing separating a kiss was your restraint. Your nose grazed hers. And she could feel how breathless you were too, though not quite as wrecked as she was. Not yet.

"Please shut up," you said, barely more than a breath, but you were smirking—hot and slow—like it was a warning and a tease at the same time.

Vada didn't argue. Her breath caught again. She went quiet instantly, and the look in her eyes made it clear she liked that. Liked how wrecked she felt under you. Liked that you could still manage control even when she couldn't.

And you didn't stop.

Your fingers curled up inside her with practiced pressure, the pads dragging against that one spot that had her breath catching every time. You didn't let her hips escape you either—your free hand slid up her side to hold her in place, your palm splayed flat just under her ribs as she squirmed.

Vada let out a choked moan, her nails digging into your bicep now, trying to hold on to something as her thighs tensed around your waist again. Her body was too responsive to hide anything—every time your fingers thrust in, slow but deep, her whole chest jolted forward, her back arching off the couch in little jerks she couldn't control. Her head tipped back hard against the cushion, exposing her throat, her mouth slack with whimpers that kept slipping out between her gasps.

You dipped your head, lips grazing along her jaw, your breath brushing her ear as your fingers pumped faster. You didn't need to look to know how wet she was—you could feel it, slick and warm, coating your fingers and dripping down over your knuckles.

And her face—god, her face. She looked like she was losing it.

Her brows were furrowed, cheeks flushed, lips trembling as she tried to breathe through it. But she couldn't keep still. Her hips were chasing every motion of your hand, grinding into your palm like she needed more, needed it harder, deeper, anything. Her thighs clenched around you again, tighter this time, and a broken curse left her mouth.

"F-fuck—"

Her voice cracked halfway through it. Her whole body stuttered, trembling under your weight, and her hands flew to your shoulders now, clutching at you, nails scraping lightly down your skin like she couldn't hold herself back anymore. And that's when you knew—she was right at the edge.

So you stayed right there, fingers moving with purpose now, pushing in just a little deeper, curling up just right. You let her ride it out, your face still so close to hers that you could feel every unsteady breath against your lips. Your name tumbled out of her mouth like a plea, broken and urgent, over and over again.

And then her whole body seized—legs locking, mouth falling open in a silent moan before the sound finally caught in her throat.

She came hard.

You felt it all—every twitch, every clench around your fingers as her orgasm tore through her. Her whole body arched beneath you, thighs trembling, her chest rising fast as her moans broke apart into gasps she couldn't catch. It hit her so suddenly and so deep that she was left stunned, lips parted like she was still trying to speak, but nothing came out.

You didn't pull away, not right away. You kept your fingers buried inside her, letting her ride out the aftershocks as her body spasmed beneath you. Slower now, gentler, your touch shifted—fingertips stroking her from the inside, coaxing every last ripple of pleasure until she was too sensitive to take it.

Only then did you ease your hand away, and her legs fell open, limp and trembling. Her hands slipped down from your shoulders, dragging weakly across your back as her body sagged into the couch like she had no bones left to hold her up.

Her chest was still heaving.

Her skin was flushed.

And her eyes—when she finally blinked them open—were glassy, dazed, and somehow still locked on you. You leaned down, brushing your lips against her jaw before you settled over her again, your hands gentle now as they smoothed up her sides.

Vada was smiling.

Barely, lazily, breathlessly.

She looked wrecked. And it was maybe the hottest thing you'd ever seen.

Still catching her breath, she gave a quiet laugh, lips twitching like she couldn't quite form real words yet. But she tried.

"Holy shit."

You kissed the side of her mouth, slow and warm, and when you pulled back, she finally looked at you fully—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hair messy against the cushions.

And then, with a small smirk and a husky voice, she whispered, "I can't feel my legs."

You didn't say anything right away. Just let yourself look at her, really look—at the way her lashes stuck together at the corners from the wetness in her eyes, at the little flush still lingering across her cheeks and chest. Your hand moved without thinking, gently brushing sweaty strands of hair back from her face. She leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a second like even that soft contact was too much.

Still breathing heavily, Vada shifted slightly beneath you, her thighs twitching in aftershocks as she tried to get comfortable again. She winced a little, laughing under her breath as her body reminded her just how hard she'd come. You whispered something close to her ear—some soft murmur that made her smile—but mostly, you stayed quiet. Let the silence settle around you both.

Eventually, you started to move. Carefully. Slowly pulling her underwear back up her legs, tucking her in again like you were scared she'd break. She watched you, dazed but glowing, her fingers brushing against your arm as you helped her. When you sat back down beside her, she immediately curled into your side, her head resting against your shoulder like it belonged there. Her breathing was steadier now, but you could still feel the occasional hitch in her chest when your fingertips moved over her bare skin.

You let your hand rest on her stomach, your thumb tracing idle little circles as you both just... lay there. Warm. Spent. Close.

And then she tilted her face up toward yours again, eyes half-lidded and mouth pink from all the kissing and gasping and biting down on moans. Her voice was rough, still catching on the tail end of her own breathlessness.

"Can we do that again?"

[pellowinksx]

You people make the law so complicated. yall are literally just saying words atp like what even is this. We're always ALWAYS affirming. Affirming is just thoughts. Are you telling us not to think?? Lmao. Sure you don't have to affirm like a maniac. But I find it so interesting how in these types of posts they never explain how to assume/accept it as a fact. Obviously, if I'm broke as shit how will I be able to fully with 100% belief feel as if I'm the richest person in the world without repeated affirmations? Stop just stop acting like feelings manifest, "deep down you don't accept it" Ok, and? it will still reflect because my subconscious heard it. This is exactly what I was talking about in my post, you "just decide and feel it real" people are so unhelpful I have to laugh. Let me tell you why I so strongly disagree with this. "Look at you telling yourself "Oh I'm affirming for my SP" and that being reflected back: you affirming for your SP." Now this could make sense if she was saying "You're affirming for your SP but you're also going back to the old story" See if she was saying that I wouldn't have even made this post. But...the juxtaposition in this single sentence to the point of the post itself??? lmao. So you're saying you need to make an assumption but it actually won't reflect because you're affirming for it. Maybe just MAYBE I'm misinterpreting because I don't see how this makes any sense. If you tell yourself "I'm affirming for my sp" your subconscious hears "Yes we are saying we have our sp because we have our sp" Your subconscious looks for our DOMINANT thoughts and then believes it. It does not look at our feelings. It does not ask "ok but how do you feel about it" Our feelings are none of its business okay? "The printer doesn't ask why it's being printed" -Sammy Ingram. "Figure it out and actually just spend time with yourself to pin point where you are struggling." why should you identify with struggle? who the hell cares if you "don't see it yet" don't reaffirm the old story and persist in the new one. And who the hell cares if you can't accept it as true? your subconscious does and that's all that matters. to make an assumption, you affirm No matter how you view your affirmations it will always fucking reflect."view it this way, no view it this way, you're affirming to get not affirming because you have it" Bro Just stop...I can't believe I have to say this but it's the law of ASSUMPTION not the law of feelings and views. And once again, to create an assumption you affirm. This is YOUR reality. Your subconscious accepts whatever you tell it that's literally the law. Obviously, if I use repeated affirmations it will reflect. fym "The only thing that will reflect is you affirming" Well yeah it will reflect my desire because my affirmations are my desires??? For the last fucking time, the law is just "ignore and affirm" ignore anything that suggests you don't have it and affirm that you have it until you believe it. no matter what you are always affirming. I'm not saying this to attack OP. I'm saying this so you can keep your fucking SANITY just affirm bro this is exactly why everyone says get off Tumblr and just say you have it.

How to GENUINELY create an assumption without feeling like you’re lying to yourself/pretending/have to “convince” yourself. How to actually accept your desire as TRUE.

Please, please understand that an assumption isn't forced or something you have to "try" to believe because it's just something you accept as true without question. You don't wake up every day wondering if you have a name, if the sky is blue or if gravity works. You just know with certainty. That's how conscious manifestation works. You decide something IS true and of course it reflects like every other assumption. You need to ACTUALLY assume you have something to get it please don't pretend or hope. A real assumption isn't forced, it's something you accept as fact without needing proof. If you say you assumed something but then claim it didn't happen you didn't actually assume it lol. You either doubted it, contradicted it or held another assumption alongside it. You assuming is NOT a technique and it's not something you "do" to get something.

The reason some people treat creating an assumption like it's a technique is because they think if they repeat it enough their mind will suddenly be tricked into believing it. That's NOT how an assumption works. An assumption is just accepting something as fact. If you're trying to "convince" yourself you're admitting you don't actually accept it as true. Come on… your mind is not stupid. It knows when you're forcing something versus when you genuinely accept it as reality (assume it). You need to be so certain that questioning isn't even an option and idc if other people disagree because who questions an assumption? An assumption is something you accept as true without proof go search it up. You must stay firm. It's not hoping, testing or checking for results it's about knowing aka accepting it as a fact. When you truly assume something it becomes your reality instantly. Reality will always reflect your truth.

So how do you truly accept something as true? It's actually simple but people overlook because they think taking time to face what's holding them down will waste their time. It's better to find out why you're finding it difficult and address it instead of staying stuck in a loop forever.

You need to find out what is preventing you from accepting your own word as the truth. Why don't you trust your own word as a fact? If you tell yourself "I have my desire" but deep down you're doubting or waiting or looking for proof then ask yourself "why don't I trust myself?" What thoughts are making you second guess your own reality? Is it because you're treating the physical world as more real than your own assumptions? Is it because you think that the physical world is the reason why you think you don't have what you want, when in reality it's because you assumed it first for it to reflect? Did you forget that reality is a mirror of your assumptions? Could it be you're looking at your circumstances and saying ughhh this is what's happening instead of actually understanding that what's happening is just a reflection of what you have been assuming up until this moment? Or maybe you've placed your power outside of yourself right? You believe circumstances or external factors hold weight in your manifestation rather than realising that NOTHING is set in stone and the only thing dictating your reality is your current assumption right? Maybe you think you have to do something and this is far too simple?

Figure it out and actually just spend time with yourself to pin point where you are struggling. Stop running away from your problems and address the reason why you can't accept your word as the truth. Remind yourself of the basics of the Law if you need to.

Now ask yourself what are you ACTUALLY assuming? Look at you telling yourself "Oh I'm affirming for my SP" and that being reflected back: you affirming for your SP. Look at you treating the concept of "just decide" like another method or technique to get to your desire and that being reflected in your reality: you in the process of using "just decide" like a technique to manifest. See how perfect the Law is? It's reflecting exactly what you're assuming. You're seeing your assumptions play out exactly as they are because manifestation is always based on what you're ACTUALLY assuming. You're STILL giving options to reality when there are no options… it's only what you say it is. As soon as you drop the debate you have with yourself in your mind and stop entertaining opposing thoughts you'll see how easy it is. You don't argue with yourself about basic facts of your life do you? You just accept them as true. That's exactly how you need to see your assumptions. Yes you need to be that certain and firm.

I PROMISE you the "key" everyone talks about to getting what you want… repeat with me… is to decide once and for all that it's done and that's it. Just accept it as true. Please just say f*ck all and accept it as true. What will you lose? Just do it.

[psychhound]

im musing on bleed & the types of character-player relationships between my pcs and npcs

for a quick primer, bleed is the exchange of thoughts and emotions between player and character (great article about bleed here). for a lot of people, bleed leads to more immersion in the character, which can mean a more emotionally resonant and rewarding experience. some people try to play for bleed and some try to avoid it, but a lot of the time its not controllable. and some people tend to experience high bleed generally while others rarely have bleed with their characters

i was pondering why i, broadly speaking, tend to have higher bleed with my npcs than i do with my pcs, because i assume that is the opposite of a lot of people. especially coming off of a changeling the lost arc with @theresattrpgforthat that was intended to be high bleed (& succeeded!!) which is not an experience i get with pcs a ton, especially so quickly

and i think what i landed on is that i almost always create pcs and npcs with different relationships to myself according to bowman's 9 types of character-player relationships

for my npcs, i have to put pieces of myself into them intentionally from the get go because im inhabiting a lot of different people and have to have some sort of connection point to jump into these different minds in unpredictable situations as quickly and smoothly as i can. sometimes an augmented self, sometimes a regressed self, sometimes an idealized self. i take all the Me and then i hit it with a pickaxe and put the fragmented pieces into all these guys so i have tethers to the whole cast

and then of course i have to take all these fragments of myself and figure out their role in an overall story and figure out what their personas are going to be ... then they get a character sheet, if they get one at all, if the game calls for them to have one

whereas almost all of my pcs start as experimental selves. depending on the game, theyre either mechanics-forward because i want to try a funky build, or i have one Concept i want to play with that i build a whole character around. a recently divorced wolf dad guardian in wanderhome. an former-hivemind-member insectoid cult leader in starfinder. a bard/paladin who works at medieval knights orlando in 5e. sometimes i end up finding a new relationship with these characters that invites some bleed and sometimes i dont. sometimes they just stay me doing mad science with the game mechanics

which is really interesting to me as someone who really enjoys bleed and immersion, when it goes well. i didnt realize this pattern at all until i was like okay. mint asked me to make a high bleed character, why did it actually work

i definitely think there are ttrpgs that invite bleed more than others. when done intentionally, these are called 'bleed designs'. im aiming for a bleed design with spiritkeep since thats kind of the whole point. of the ttrpgs ive played (i need to count, but maybe around 17 now? multiplayer games at least), i think the two that come to mind are apocalypse keys and changeling the lost, especially in character creation. maybe thats too telling about me, though! theyre both games that very intentionally play with themes of trauma and thats a big bleed factor for me

idk ... curious to hear what yall think!! adding a poll cause why not :)

[jesncin]

"Constantine: Distorted Illusions" Sure Did Distort My Illusions

When it comes to transformative art I always say, "changes are fine, it's what you say and do with those changes that I'm interested in." This is cape media, they're always reimagining things to tell new stories. So any notion of "accuracy" feels like non-starter arguments for me when discussing a text as nebulous as cape comics. That being said, what does cursed YA graphic novel "Constantine: Distorted Illusions" do with the many changes it makes to Hellblazer lore? Because I'm seeing all these surface level illusions (heheh) to Hellblazer but huge changes are made that undermine the radically punk text of the source material.

Bullet point review of thoughts below, sorry for exposing yall to ken doll Johnstantine again lmao, I just want a meta that goes beyond "I hate that he's pretty":

Let's get this out of the way, the writing is bad. I don't want anyone saying "it's because it's YA/for teens!" because there are fantastic YA graphic novels out there, heck even within DC that's the case (Girl Taking Over, read it). I've read middle grade graphic novels with stronger writing than this. The MG Constantine graphic novel is easily better.

The dialogue is generic and the character voices are not indistinct (if Kami Garcia believes that making John say "Bloody" and "brilliant" and "toss" makes him British, she is mistaken), the relationships are superficial and lack depth, the plot arguably doesn't start until over halfway through the story. I'd argue the story only really starts when Mucuous Membrane gets blacklisted from performing and John decides to summon a spirit for revenge. Otherwise the beginning half is such a drag of nothing.

The art. Compliment sandwich: It's a very appealing style that teens especially will really like. Isaac Goodheart's clearly very skilled in drawing fashion and hairstyles- which again, teens will love.

The not good art: it's the part where, in pursuit of making all the characters look model-level attractive, that it disrupts the momentum of the storytelling. John especially is drawn to be so handsome-squidward that he's rendered with these duck lips in every panel, it's haunting.

Like he's threatening to kiss the reader at any second (and I did not consent). But it isn't limited to John- all the characters have a "supermodel stiffness" that gets in the way of their acting. When someone is devastated, they can't ugly cry- they still have to look hot so they can't fully emote. It makes it hard to treat any emotional beat seriously when the characters are posing for a magazine cover every minute. Some pages felt more like pin ups than truly composing a moment for storytelling reasons. In their quest to make these characters hot, it made me incapable of connecting with them- because they're not emoting like people.

Second end of compliment sandwich for art: The colors are good (props to Ruth Reymond) and some of the layouts are inspired! The painterly pages especially look very cool.

I think Distorted Illusions' biggest sin and what makes it so antithetically Hellblazer (and not in the good way- I'm all for re-imaginings that challenge the source material) is this groveling to authority figures. OG Hellblazer is a punk text- John is a born and raised punk from the 80s to 90s, hates the rich and tricks Gods, Demons, and Devils with his wits. He humiliates beings of authority, proving how their pride gets the better of them. But in Distorted Illusions, John has to apologize and ask for help not just from his dad Thomas (canonically abusive in the og canon text)- but his stepdad and a magician he failed to apprentice under. They all come to help him after he apologizes for being reckless.

In contrast, the Hellblazer middle grade graphic novel "The Mystery of The Meanest Teacher- a Johnny Constantine Graphic Novel" actually understood this! Even for a graphic novel I would consider to be the most safe and commercial way to pitch Hellblazer to kids (it's comedic, plays it safe- sets the story in America, lighthearted), it is still inherently an anti-authority narrative. The plot there was for John and his friend to uncover why their teacher is targeting them as magic-user kids. Johnny uses his smarts to outsmart authority. It's a communal effort with similarly marginalized friends against a bigger threat.

Distorted Illusions on the other hand has John dawdle around in America for a while before he eventually messes up and has to come crying to his dad, stepdad, and teacher for help. A whole coven of magic users of authority just exorcize a demon out of John's hospitalized friend. There wasn't even any smarts involved. No trickery. They just "do powerful magic that John can't do because he doesn't train" and leave. Frankly, with the state of the writing, I don't think Garcia is clever enough to think of a classic Constantine silver tongued solution.

What I do think both the MG and YA graphic novel (and to an extent all of DC!Johnstantine) misunderstand about og Hellblazer is that,,, magic isn't inherently special in the world of Hellblazer. Sure John is from a bloodline of Laughing Magicians but there's plenty of Constantines that don't practice magic. One of the things that surprised me when reading the very first issue of Hellblazer was Gary Lester (John's Mucous Membrane band member and friend) performing an exorcism pretty casually. Tons of characters either dabble in occultish stuff or are experts, but it's framed as something anyone can do.

But then what makes John special then? I thought magic was his power? Well no, it never was. It was his smarts. And I believe that's key to keep in mind. Hellblazer is an anti-genre superhero text- no one person is picked to be exceptional. Anyone in Hellblazer can do magic. John's power is mundane but that's why he's a compelling character. It says anyone, even a working class drunkard can overcome powerful obstacles. When John is "a special birth magic boy" as a means to fit him into some kind of Harry Potter mold, it misses the point for me.

General diversity representation thoughts time. It's apparent that with any adaptation of old source material that "this time it's those characters again but more diverse" and sometimes those changes inform the characters (Girl Taking Over, my beloved) and other times it's diversity paint and the characters are interchangeable with their original counterparts (MAWS, my behated). For Distorted Illusions' case, this means adding more women, characters of color, and John being just a bit more outwardly bi (he just says a guy is hot and ended a relationship with a guy named "Liam" who we never see. It's scraps).

I'm torn here because as a reader of color who loves og Hellblazer but also occasionally finds it a frustrating read from its outdated portrayal of characters of color and general racism/colonialism plots, I turn to the more modern Hellblazer stories like maybe Spirit World or even Distorted Illusions for what I hoped are stories that handled characters of color better. Instead I end up annoyed because while og Hellblazer had outdated writing, those characters of colors' identity mattered to the history and context of the story. Their identities were politicized and therefore not interchangeable with whiteness.

Distorted Illusions wants you to praise it. "Look John has gal pals now! His best friend is a girl! His stepdad is a Black man, his mentor is a Black woman, and his love interest is a brown girl! Also John is definitely bi in this!" But if I changed all these characters to be white or straight people would the story really change that much? Were their identities integral to the narrative or who they are as people? Because they sure would be in og Hellblazer, even if sometimes poorly done- they certainly were trying.

And how diverse were those changes anyway? Distorted Illusions is already a pathetically un-punk text with how it grovels at authority, but we're in an era where there's more queer characters than ever- and yet we're still terrified of having mainline bi characters say the word "bisexual". John doesn't say he's bi in Distorted Illusions. He keeps saying he's punk, but unlike his friend Slaughter, he's not given outfits nearly as punk as him (John still has to look commercially attractive after all). He can't even wear his gay right earring. You're telling me a text from the 80s and 90s isn't afraid to say gay, lesbian, queen, f-g, and AIDS but comics in the modern day think calling a guy "hot" is enough? I'm tired. It's cowardice. Who needs the Don't Say Gay bill if we're already doing the censorship ourselves?

There's other insidious changes too. John's mom is alive (didn't die from childbirth like in canon) because I guess John needs more women in his life. Okay. Where's Cheryl (John's big sister) then? Why are we trying to fit John into a nuclear family structure so much? They live in this aesthetic cozy house because I guess the lower-working class upbringing og Hellblazer John grew up in just isn't aesthetic enough. John's bio dad, Thomas Constantine, isn't an amputee. He has two arms. Oh, but don't worry we have a magic user authority wizard woman in the end who is a wheel chair user. We did our disability rep quota! Because disability rep is only limited to what DC fandom recognizes as Oracle!Barbara.

It's transparent that while these are all more superficially diverse changes, they're all so palatably safe. John has gal pals because his occasional misogynist outbursts in his og Hellblazer run is just too messy. John doesn't have a single parent for most of his life, swapping households in extended family member's homes because that's too messy. What's the point then though? These changes don't challenge or innovate Hellblazer. All they're doing is fitting John into a commercial box.

And that's my general feelings towards Distorted Illusions. It's a continuing trend of superficial aesthetics that try to frame itself as more progressive than the original source material but falls flat on its handsome squidward face. It's easy to make fun of this book, the writing is bad, the yassification of John, and the "inaccuracies to Hellblazer" are all beaten like a dead horse. But there's other insidious stuff in Distorted Illusions' mediocrity. And it's worth examining as much as any other Hellblazer text.

[lc-birdie]

I would love to read your thoughts on Shen

Ok this is me slightly projecting but I see alot of myself in Shen (or Shen in me)

Some Background

From the jump, we see Shen as this almost too calm character; to the point, some thought he would be out of his depth and incapable of handling the MCI. That quickly gets pushed back into no hes just a cool-headed (probably jaded) doctor that is self-assured and confident in his abilities and capabilities. He's also the "utensil specialist" which I'm taking to mean he's prob been 'forced' to remove a utensil or 2.

Headcanons (sfw)

He's the type that really studies his partner bc that's what he's already programed to do; he's made it this far to being an attending and still listens to medical history podcasts. he's dedicated to his passions and his partner would be one of those. i.e. he knows all the lil quirks the twitches in your sleep, the way you take your coffee, your under the weather meal. All the things that makes his person tick

I can see him being very clingy but not into PDA. at home he's going to be attached to you like a second skin. you're washing the dishes he's wrapping his arms around you and resting his head against you. you're cleaning, he's 2 steps away working in tandem with you. watching TV on the couch, at minimum needs your feet resting on his lap but more often than not he's going to be laid across the couch with his head in your lap asking for you to scratch his head.

However PDA is a no-go. He has moments where he's kinda jokey and a lil awkward (when he joked about getting the holidays off) and immediately backed away from the joke when he felt push back. PDA kinda puts too much attention/opinion(?) his way. like he wouldn't wanna be perceived in an unfavorable way.

He's gotta be stubborn as shit. For him to be a healthcare worker for atleast 6 years (med school+residency) and still using the "q-word" yk he's been scolded multiple times for that shit and still does it. he's going to have his particular ways to household stuff

He's also gotta be a home-body. he admitted himself that the only thing he had going on was his interest in medical history and he works nights. that doesn't leave alot of time for normal people activities nor the energy really so I see him wanting someone who's gonna be chill with him

Headcanons (NSFW)

He studies his partner so obviously he's going to know just how to get them off. from the first time onwards, he is going to keep notes on likes and dislikes, favorite positions, which surfaces give him the best access, etc

Along with the clinginess, obviously turning into cuddling after sex. I think it would also manifest into marking. He's gonna want to leave little love bites, maybe so bruises on the hips where he might have gone a lil too hard one night, in places where only he has access to seeing them

he's definitely a giver. he wants his partner to be thoroughly pleased and begging for more

also definitely into cockwarming, like just let him be close to you. he'll lock his arms around you, holding you to his chest, planting lil kisses on your head and the sides of your face

kinda unserious in bed. he obviously is going to want to make his partner feel good but wouldn't be the "daddy/sir" type. he's going to laugh to himself when one of yalls hip cramps a lil or when a weird noise just kinda happens. the whole act is going to have a more tender and chill atmosphere

wildcard: he's a biter but like in a cuteness aggression type of way like "fuck I love you so much I just need to bite your shoulder or arm or whatever is accessible

IDK this went longer than I expected and I'm probably going to expand more later. 💖

[ggghoulish]

Still thinking on the large embroidery project that I want to do but now I’ve got a few ideas I’ve been thinking on

- map of Tamriel (I would have to make my own design though since I’m not satisfied with any current official map art)

- the different provinces of Tamriel, separately (because I am a masochist) but slightly smaller (because I have Some self respect)

- the Durin lineage tapestry from the Desolation of Smaug (I am a dwarf lover at heart, this is an important fact about me)

- the map to the Misty Mountains from The Hobbit (I already have my own painted recreation of this on my wall, as I’ve had for years but I love it so much I wouldn’t mind a second)

- a map of Middle Earth, of my own design (the official art one is just too plain for me. I could similarly make separate smaller projects of different areas in middle earth since I’d really like to do something elvish but alas,, do I have the willpower)

[coffee-milky-way]

yall gotta stop worsening my obsession with these two fucking cookies by making BEAUTIFULLY DONE ART AND INTERESTING VISUALS!! IM SUPPSOED TO BE DOIMG BIO HOMEWORK. like my college class or these two cookies which is more important to me-

I know the answer but i will lock in to bio because i don’t wanna get murdered but in all actuality this is so cool omg 😭😭

these cookies got me bad

(yt link under cut)

[amfstargirl]

I think chapter 3 will be a lot eye opening to readers character than some of yall expected😭 listen, as much as I want to focus on the batfams yanderism I also want to show how much the neglect has affected the reader-the damage that they are making up for. And as it may have seen that the reader is a good person in the past few chapters im here to say that they are far from a good person🙏 neglect is something that alters your way of thinking so much that it affects the way you behave and the way your morals are. Their insecurities mainly was focused on being depressed in the past chapters but let's not forget that anger is also a product of it. They get blinded by jealousy easily and they tend to self sabotage. They somehow builds this relationship with another person progressively and then destroy it just because of envy. SO PLEASE DON'T HATE ON MY SHAYLA WITH A DISORDER🥺 kidding aside it's my way of saying that they are a person and they have problems and they will NOT be kind to ANY person they interact with-not even their possible love interest.

LMAO THAT'S ALL

[sober-stupid-shithead]

Hey guys, not sure who all will see this but its a pretty important PSA about the SFW vore community and the vore community in general.

As of late a LOT of trolls are going around making fake accounts pretending to be someone in the community and then sending slurs, death threats, and generally nasty things to people through their inbox. Likewise, any anon asks with a signature of another creator using this kind of language is also a troll. Please be on the lookout for these accounts and block and report them when you see them! Take screenshots and dm whoever is being impersonated to let them know.

If you ever get an ask with threats or hatred coming your way and they look like me, it is NOT me. I would never do something like that.

It's been happening more frequently so I thought I'd just let yall know. Stay safe, and never feel bad about having harmless interests, no matter how mean other people can get. Much love ❤

[amnotgeto]

i am making an agender oc but idk how

hallo look at the title yes

now i hardly have time to make ocs, but whenever i do i think about how badly i wanted to make an oc who is not under the binary trans umbrella.

its just that i never met anyone agender irl or online, nor have i seen much content about them. i did some brief research but i figured that most of my information come from the people and not potentially from influencers/speakers who arent agender.

now i know what its like to see queer characters and have their personalities/backstories be nothing but their queerness.... which sucks, so NEVER FEAR i will not do yall wrong like that.

i understand concepts of dysphoria, gender, pronouns, euphoria, etc and i wanted to know how it may be similar or different to binary trans people? how do agender people interpret/discover their own (nonexistent) gender in the first place? what is the common gender expression practices, or some things that give them dysphoria/euphoria? what are some stereotypes that are harmful that i should avoid? some dynamics that would be interesting/unique to consider?

i know that everyone is different, but if youre agender what are your experiences? maybe you know someone who is agender, what kind of stuff do they do in regards to their identity?

+ if i accidentally offended anyone, pls tell me i dont want to fumble up thank you!

[midnight1nk]

would you like to ramble about thoughts on the one Four scene we had in the movie?

my time has come......

(literally, probably expect a college thesis if there was an ask letting me ramble about 4/goop!4/heterochromia 4, puzzlevision+/the showgrounds/etc. I would be so hooked)

First thing's first, a fact about me: like anyone would, I have a collection of favorite characters, right? Well, I have a subcategory in what I call "saviors in blue" ↓

my boys 🥹💙 actually I picked some traits here and there for my oc as inspo. so anyway we gotta talk the specialest of boys, our blue meme guardian 4!

oh, where do I even start? 4, throughout the whole arc, was such a sweetheart. Lending a supportive hand to Karen, just giving comfort in general. And y'know he would spoil Beeg4 rotten, with ice cream. He may not be a fighter, but he has to try. Then the explosion happened. Dude, I'm telling you, I SPIRALED in devastation bc I knew something was wrong when the team didn't do it ragdoll style and the music stopped for a bit. I mean yall know that already. Coma 4 and goop!4 happened during the wait. Then the movie comes along, I see the Castle pop up on screen, and:

HE'S OKAY 😭💙

bandaged but okayyyy. Honestly, it's way better than having him be fine without any elaboration.... and ig coma 4 bc I would be on the news if it happened, even if it would be interesting to see how the show would go on like that.

Can we talk about the bandages? Let's talk about the bandages.

I suspected that it had technically been a few days after the "Enough is Enough" episode, so 4 probably was recovering during that time. Also hc that the true reason the lights are off at the Castle was so 4 doesn't have to exert himself and start to get a headache from his head injury. Look, I may not be a medical expert, but I don't think that the collision is the only reason why he needed those bandages. Sure, at best, he would have a head and back injury. I could excuse the arm sling if the fall was that bad. BUT I can't be the only one who sees this, right?

The fact that:

wrap around his head covers exactly where his lobotomy scar would be — it makes sense for his head injury

sling on his right arm is the same arm that broke free from IGBP corruption

bandaid placed on top of his logo and his cheek, both on the left — I mean... yall should know who I am by this point. anyway his perfectionist side needs healing/the goo's forced to be involved in the healing process :))

(sidenote: i think, i may be stupid, but i think 4 got a gash from "Enough is Enough" across his right cheek/jawline but doesn't in the movie. pretty sure that's dirt. yeah probably but it looks different to me ok?)

We were probably right of him constantly had to heal himself from his past injuries and the explosion was the final nail in the coffin, not literally though.

so anyway goop!4 might be canon— *gets run over by bus*

There's a reason why I brought up the bandages first, and that's just so we can talk about 4's advice, my favorite part about this scene. Like we already knew, 4 isn't the type to fight to fend for himself/until it's absolutely necessary, but he's willing to be there for people. And it would be within his character to be standing while he's still recovering. After all, he didn't know WPNZ, but he must've known something was wrong for Karen to come to the castle without her kids beside her. The lament of a mother, wanting to drink her sorrows away. She needed someone to lift up her crushing troubles, so despite whatever pain he had, his friends always came first. (...and I'm already starting to tear up again thinking about this scene fuck)

Taking 4's speech, as in 4 the character by itself, what he says comes from a place of familiarity. He knows what it's like to protect loved ones at all costs. What does it mean to sacrifice, to keep them happy. The way he does it, he creates content for YT. Makes sure his friends are happy and okay. Perhaps he realized it or not, simply 4 being there matters a lot for the rest of the Crew. As said in "SMG4 doesn't meme for 1 second", the Crew even admits that they appreciate his presence and humor as a part of their lives. No matter what happens, 4 will try to be there for them.

He would truly do anything to not lose his friends *head in hands*

There's another layer to the same familiarity: Luke talking directly to us through the screen. Long ago, Luke wanted to follow the passion that made him happy (animation) and it was actually Kevin who supported him. Their parents eventually came around, but if it weren't for Kev, the SMG4 show would've been discontinued before the Waluigi arc. Glitch would have never existed. And Luke is forever grateful that his brother was by his side, supporting him with what was considered at the time a risky choice. All it takes is one person's support to make a difference. 4's scene is a retelling of Luke's story and hope that anyone could be that person for something else, to be happy. Siblings, friends, parents. All it takes is one.

It has a very IGBP kinda vibe and mixing these layers together, it really got me in my feels, hopefully the Team would do more stuff like this. Man, how can you hate 4? no seriously, how? I can never understand it, let's blame reddit for that.

so anyway, heterochromia 4 :D

thanks for letting me ramble!

(just a sidenote here uh, I'm SO sorry it took so long to answer. tumblr literally deleted my draft when I was post it, my ramblings were too strong 😔 /lh)

[thingsthatbleedfic]

I know I've said this several times in my comments on ao3, but I've had TTB on the brain and I just wanted to reiterate how incredibly skilled yall are when it comes to crafting tension and suspense within the narrative! It's been inspiring me to try and explore more horror-esque elements within my own writing projects, and I honestly sorta wanna print out the whole fic so I can go through it with a highlighter and dissect all the ways yall make it work. It's so incredibly impressive to me how effectively you've crafted this story and it's honestly making me want to go through and write a literary analysis essay or something about how different elements and themes are built up over the course of the story akfhskhfskd

thank you SO much oh my god???? 🥺 We work really hard on this fic and so it's REALLY rewarding anytime anyone says something like this or takes such an in-depth interest not only in the story but in the mechanics of how it's written!!!! We put so much care into the style and technical aspects of fiction writing. We were just recently interviewed by @dannyphannypack about this sorta thing when it comes to fanfic for a university project of hers!! All that to say.... if you ever wrote an essay just know I'd be begging to read it. I SWEAR!!!! my eyes are pressed to the glass. We're all SO flattered by this Beastie. We're so glad that you enjoy our work this much!!!!

[yourlocalbadgerscales]

I feel like we need to talk about what Will went through with the Upside Down monsters more… like— “I felt it everywhere. Everywhere.” We’ve already established that this is an obvious metaphor for SA.

That feeling he’s describing, the feeling of feeling the monster’s presence everywhere, is extremely unsettling and my heart goes out to anyone who actually relates to this. I truly cannot imagine what Will and all people who are victims of SA went through and what the aftermath is like.

But this is important to me anyways, and ik a lot of y’all are weirded out at the thought of Byler and sex. So am I when it comes to just pure smut or whatever. The act itself doesn’t interest me in the slightest when it comes to Mike and Will. What interests me is Will’s relationship with his body after everything he went through and is still going through by the end of s4, and more specifically how it will affect his relationship with Mike as they grow older.

We know his suffering isn’t over. There’s a whole season left with new horrible things in store for Will (which is absolutely heartbreaking because my baby deserves a break brooooooo I’m tweakinggggg 💔💔💔), and we know he still feels Vecna’d presence. Which means that this terrifying feeling of feeling something, someone, everywhere… it’s not over for him yet. It’s still happening.

When it’s all over I can’t imagine him having a good relationship with his own body and definitely not with sex. And I feel like this isn’t talked about enough. If you don’t want to read hardcore smut about two minors then that’s fine lol, neither do I. But this fandom’s way of completely dismissing anything sex related because it’s ‘weird’ is getting out of hand imo. Sex doesn’t have to be what yall make it out to be. Chill out guys

[sepublic]

I’m not sure how “canon” we can consider Manny having been an ambulance driver, since this was part of a S1B episode that was never animated; None that Camila is also listed as a nurse as was the original assumption by the fandom.

Did the writers change Camila to a veterinarian to create more of a thematic bond between herself and her daughter and Palismen, esp for the scene in Thanks to Them where Luz muses on what hers will be while at her mom’s workplace? To tie into Camila adopting a snake-like demon, who was caged and hunted like an animal, only to be treated with love? Manny heals humans, so Camila matches him as someone who heals creatures, thereby suggesting she helped inspire and contribute to Luz’s experience with them and taxidermy?

Regardless, it’s better than nothing! And in light of this revelation, also from the aforementioned TTT;

I wonder if Manny was one of those people who’s fascinated with body horror and gore, since those are considered “weird” interests and it’s thematically fitting, and it played a role in his profession? Because he’d have to see a lot of damaged and even mutilated bodies at the very site where they were hurt, and handle them with care.

If he’s not one to shy away, it’d make Manny all the better at it; Perhaps he could come across as a tad disconcerting about it as well, like Robbie’s parents in Gravity Falls being overly cheerful about their funeral profession and embalming work. Maybe he grew up with others considering Manny “troubled” because he drew gore and the like, but no he was just genuinely chill and a nurturing person who brought more life and healing than he ever did harm, just as his wife and child would do the same for an entire corpse that was a world.

He’d have loved exploring and understanding the biology of the Boiling Isles, and another protective ‘father’ to Luz who died affirming her before passing on a final gift relating to witches. And given my HC on Healing Magic essentially being flesh manipulation and thus quite good at body horror in its ability to change the form to one’s needs, it fits perfectly with what kind of magic Manny could’ve gotten into, in another world; Of course we learn about his profession in the cancelled episode where Luz figured out the Healing Glyph! Do yall think Manny taught Luz her eyelid trick? I’d like to think so.

[colorfulwastelandvoid]

As a black woman myself, her “supposedly” being black means nothing. The black community itself has a misogynoir problem so she can hop off with that. I’m at my wits end with this fuck ass fandom trying to water down what happening just to uplift their white fav. Any decent person would be disgusted with how Mel is treated by this person and the people she is in community with hence why the racism allegations are sticking about JayVik (who is also heavily racist towards Jayce too but I digress). Hell even some of the most prominent JayVik shippers are starting to walk away citing the racism so it’s not just MelJay fans.

One quick glance at page and you’ll see literal #anti MelJay tags. She says that MelJay is just FWB which is a gross misrepresentation of both Mel and Jayce as characters and yall wonder why no one listens to yall when it comes to the show. Mind you the show, the official art book and the MelJay voice lines in League says otherwise. They are quite literally star-crossed lovers torn apart by duty. They are literally playing on racial tropes about Mel and Jayce when they say shit like this.

For the last FOUR YEARS, yall been saying the same wrong shit. Mel is not manipulative. Jayce isn’t stupid/gullible. Mel doesn’t look down on Viktor. Mel and Vik don’t hate each other. Mel fans do talk about her flaws, yall just don’t like that her actual flaws humanize her and make her sympathetic. Her inaction due to her ptsd caused by violence, her conflict avoidance and her insecurities.

“Her fans attack anyone for how she appears in canon” the surface level thinking yall spew is why yall get attacked. Also what y’all say doesn’t even happen in cannon so…

At the end of the day I’m glad the tide seems to be shifting away from these degenerates. For four years we had to see them call Mel a Jezebel in everything but name. Saw them call a charcoal bitch, Photoshop her onto gorillas and make Mel a conduit for Jayce feelings towards Vik. That is misogynistic regardless of race and I would still be upset but racial ramifications of it is even worse, given how black women are often treated in the romance genre as just a placeholder for the nonblack person love interest.

Also wanted to say that there have been several Mel organ harvesting/ torture fanfic that several different JayVik shippers have produced since to most infamous one, so yeah.

Ps are yall deadass not unnerved by the racism Mel or Jayce face? It’s just “ship wars” to you guys? Be so fucking for real. Just a bunch of bird brains flapping about.

Pss don’t even get me started on the racism Ekko, Caitlyn, Sky and Ambessa face. This isn’t a coincidence it’s a pattern.

If you get viscerally angry at literally any & every depiction of a character in which they're not faultless & above reproach, no matter how flattering said depiction ultimately is, then you cannot be mad when people decide to stop engaging with them altogether. People like to write & read about characters. Characters who are allowed to have an actual personality & character arc in which they grow & learn. Not perfect cardboard cutouts who never ever change.