#but just let me be it's FICTION

[wisteriagoesvroom]

snip of a fic that i may never write (but maybe i will as some sort of patriotic duty/national tax obligation for @kichona-s's sister who has asked for it to Be Written):

-----

Oscar twirls the wrench on one finger. It's a neat trick. A very gen z fidget spinner meets rustic outback mechanic vibe. Lando stares, and then reminds himself to shut his mouth, as it is frankly quite disrespectful to drool on the garage's otherwise clean floor.

Then Oscar pulls a pencil out from behind his ear - who even does that anymore, Lando thinks to himself. And who makes it look so hot, comes a worse, more intrusive voice.

"What name should I put on the receipt?" Oscar asks, peering expectantly over the notepad.

"Er."

"Er. Surname um?"

He's funny too. Christ. This is bad. And it's a minor miracle that Lando hasn't been recognised yet. Maybe the GONE PHISHING hat and ill-advised summer facial hair had come in clutch after all.

"Uh." Shitshitshit. "Marx."

"...Marx?"

"Marx. Few...stappens. Like the self-help guru, yeah."

Oscar looks like he finds something about this very funny. "I don't think I've heard of Marx the self-help guru."

"Eh, my parents loved niche old books. Boring! And okay." Lando says, conceding. "You got me. My name's not Marx. It's Mark."

"Like, Webber?"

"Yeah!" Lando says, brightening. "You seen his races?"

"It'd be unpatriotic not to. Terrible luck though. I'm more of a cricket person myself."

"Never fancied driving one of these?" Lando says, gesturing at the vintage cars. When he looks back at Oscar, he notices a streak of grease on the other man's nose. It's hard not to stare.

"Dunno. Just wasn't my destiny, I guess."

Destiny. Funny concept.

Lando's fancy rental convertible's got an engine full of dirt, and he's stuck in the middle of Wonglepong, Queensland, with only the weirdly hot town mechanic for company. Could be the start of a great thing or a true crime series, really.

Unfortunately, Lando tends to choose chaos, and quite fancies his chances either way.

Oscar tucks his wrench back into his belt, and shrugs. Lando swallows. His throat is dry. Must be the desert air, he tells himself, despite the fact that he is in the middle of farmland, and nowhere near the desert.

But Lando's still buzzing with excitement. This is better than champagne spray on a podium. Almost. The thrill of a proper chase, because this man genuinely doesn't seem to know who he is.

Or maybe he does, and doesn't care - which suits Lando just fine, too. It's why everyone loved Halloween, right. Hiding, in plain sight.

"Cricket?" Lando finally manages. "Don't those games go on for like, ages."

"When you're in the middle of nowhere, there isn't exactly, like. Much else to do."

"Oh, I'm sure I could find some way to pass the time." Lando says.

And Oscar, to his credit, doesn't even say a thing at the blatant flirtation. Just wipes his hands of grease, and wordlessly passes him the bill.

But there's a smile, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

As if Lando said something truly worth laughing about.

AU where lando's on a roadtrip and his car breaks down in rural australia. he plays dumb and pretends to not know anything at all about cars just to have an excuse to keep talking to quiet mechanic oscar

[wombywoo]

retired 🩶

[clearancecreedwatersurvival]

Is anyone gonna explain to people that ‘proship’ does not actually mean ‘problematic shipping’ or ‘problematic ship’ or are we just going to let this misinformation spread some more?

It means pro-shipping. The prefix pro, meaning ‘supporting.’ In favor of shipping.

It only became a defined position after anti-shippers who initially identified themselves as anti-a specific ship started harassing creators they didn’t like, doxxing them, and trying to get them fired from their irl jobs for shipping reasons around 2014-2016.

So people who had been in fandom for long enough to know where that kind of rhetoric leads (ffnet purges, LJ strikethru, as well as the direct harms caused by doxxing) observed this increasing trend of harassment and rallied to say ‘oh you lot are anti-shipping, as in opposed to certain ships? Well in that case, we are pro-shipping, because we follow the adage of ship and let ship.’

Before that point, it was just basic fandom etiquette to not bother people who ship stuff you don’t like, and to understand that if something squicks you out, it’s not the fault of the people who made it.

If someone says they are pro-ship, it means fuck all about what they actually enjoy in fiction.

It just means they’re opposed to harassing creators for making content that doesn’t cause tangible harm to real people. A better way to understand the ideological position is being anti-harassment and anti-censorship.

I have a lot of ships I find disgusting blacklisted so I don’t have to see them. But I am not interested in forcing people to comply with what I think is gross. That’s what it means.

Curate your online experience, and understand that your disgust response is not a defensible moral indicator or a justification to harass, deplatform, and dox fan writers.

[ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey]

Hinny prompt: Harry dealing with Ginny’s new fan base.

Ginny is starting to get her first few fan letters. The harpies try and sort them but Harry spots a few on the creepier side OR at a game he overhears some fans obsessing over the fit new Chaser. Have fun with it.😉

This might not be what you meant by "fun," but right about now the most fun thing I could imagine writing was a situation in which horrible, misogynistic men get what they deserve. Can't imagine why... NSFW (language) - Please note, there's some offensive language in this one, included to illustrate how horrible these characters are; NOT meant to condone it. I hope that's clear in the tone.

It would be blasphemous to say it, but Harry strongly prefers attending Ginny’s away matches. 

The furor around the relationship between “The Chosen One” and the rising star Chaser of the Holyhead Harpies had reached dizzying heights. Fans of their relationship flock faithfully to Harpies matches in the hope they might witness Harry cheering for Ginny, or clapping for Ginny, or something equally mundane, made exciting and romantic only because he’s the one doing it. While bizarre and invasive to Harry, this parasocial fantasy is nothing short of a PR dream for the Quidditch Club. 

The Harpies administration had been thrilled to reap the benefits of this excitement, and consequently laid out Harry and Ginny’s relationship on a silver platter: whenever Harry attended a match in their home stadium, he was offered a private Top Box at a prime location, complementary Omnioculars, unlimited food and drink, and a large Weasley Banner adorning the wall behind. 

Ostensibly a generous gesture, but in reality a nuisance, because it meant every reporter in the stadium knew exactly where to direct their cameras every time Ginny so much as sniffed the Quaffle. They’d capture Harry’s reaction and then rush to print it in the paper the next day, with interpretations so loosely based in reality that Harry’s nearly impressed at the creativity.

Once, Harry had sneezed, and his pained expression in the leadup to it was painted as “trouble in paradise” for weeks because it had happened to coincide with Ginny scoring. 

On another occasion, Harry had spent much of a particularly chilly match with his hands in his pockets. Of course, the only explanation for such insane behavior was obviously to hide the nonexistent wedding ring on his finger, which clearly resulted from a secret weekend elopement in the aftermath of Ginny’s spectacular performance against Pride of Portree. 

“They’ve got a point,” Ginny had joked over their morning breakfast. “I did deserve a diamond after that match. What gives?”

“A bit late for that, haven’t you heard?” Harry had said through a bite of porridge. “We’re already getting divorced. I’m having another affair with Hermione at the weekend.”

“Damn,” Ginny sighed. “I wanted to have an affair with Hermione.”

Much more insidious, though, were the stories suggesting that Ginny’s signing and popularity was only because of her relationship with Harry. Ginny swore she didn’t give a flying fuck what the papers wrote about her, but Harry took to ripping every story that cast aspersions at her talent to shreds.

But, Harry had finally got one over on the press. He’d called an uncharacteristic press conference and made an announcement that, due to undefined “security risks” at away stadiums, he was unable to attend matches outside of Holyhead. 

The statement had been worth all of the ridiculous stories speculating about his lack of support for his girlfriend’s career, because it meant that he got to watch the Harpies vs Falcons match – donning a thick cap, sunglasses, and a scarf, in some cheap seat that no one would suspect Harry Potter of sitting in – utterly without audience. Sure, his view of the match leaves a bit to be desired, and he’s cramped next to a rowdy group of Falcons fans, but it’s wonderfully refreshing to swear angrily when Ginny is fouled without fear of a think-piece speculating about his repressed anger issues appearing in tomorrow’s Prophet. 

It’s one of his better lies, all told, and Harry’s inclined to celebrate his stroke of genius. 

It’s not until about ten minutes into the match that Harry is forced to concede he may have celebrated prematurely, as he reckons with the drawbacks to his little caper up close and personally. 

“HI! HO! FALMOUTH FALCONS! HI! HO! FALMOUTH FALCONS!”

The lads surrounding Harry are chanting with such an obnoxious, drunken fervor that Harry can hardly hear himself think, forget hearing the match commentary. They scream with such persistence for so long that they’ve nearly earned Harry’s begrudging respect, when the chant finally succumbs to raucous cheers as Falmouth is awarded a penalty.  

“Nice to have a bit of a doss match this week,” the bloke next to Harry remarks loudly after Falmouth scores their penalty. “Gives Wickford time to rest up before we play Puddlemere.”

Harry squints up at the speeding players above and confirms that Wickford, a thick-necked man and Falmouth’s star Chaser, is indeed speeding back defensively as the Harpies offensive formation takes shape, and not resting on the sidelines. Harry shoots a sidelong glance to his neighbors, perplexed. 

“Yeah, nice of the Harpies to carry on with an all-female squad,” another dark-haired lad chimes in. “I thought they were finally going to give it up after last season. What a joke.”

The first bloke, who Harry observes looks rather like Dudley, laughs ruefully. “Gwenog Jones won’t ever admit the problem, though, will she? They just don’t have the speed or the strength, everyone can see it–” 

Harry scowls. Pricks.  

“She clearly thinks the new recruit, Weasley or whatever, is going to make them competitive again, but–”

“Does she?” the Dudley-looking one snorts. “Or do they just want the Harry Potter fangirls to bring in the revenue? It’s a massive publicity stunt, honestly, just like the whole team.”

The three of them laugh, and Harry’s scowl deepens beneath his sunglasses. 

“I’m only hoping they bring back the swimsuit calendar this year,” the dark-haired one adds. “Weasley’s fit as fuck.”

The group murmurs their general agreement, and Harry takes stock of the hexes available to him. Might be time to dust off the toenail-growing one of Snape’s… But no. He can’t get hauled in front of Magical Law Enforcement again. Robards will sack him. 

“Yeah, the Harpies can fuck around with an all-women team, as long as they all look like that,” the Dudley-looking lad adds, pointing up at Ginny who is now flying overhead, and they all get a particularly good view of her from behind. The blond one jeers. “Wouldn’t mind seeing her strutting around on my calendar in a bikini.”

“I’d go so low as to call myself a Harpies fan for one of those,” the dark-haired jokes, and they all snigger. 

Sod hexing. Harry would quite like to kill them. He’s gripping the metal bars in front of him, knuckles white, imagining creative ways of doing it when Ginny - quite literally - takes matters into her own hands: all of their attention is pulled to the pitch as she feints, drawing Wickford into an ugly-looking lurch before she dodges and cannons a shot directly into the right goal. 

God, he loves her. 

“Damn,” the blond one whistles. “Fit and fair enough at Chasing, I suppose.”

“Potter’s a lucky bloke,” they joke. “I’d let her score on me all she wants.”

Yeah, Harry thinks darkly, today’s my lucky day.

Harry thinks he deserves a medal for the level of restraint he exercises, as the lads continue to offer lewd, sexist, and leering comments about Ginny for the entirety of the match. In fact, the only reason he manages not to strangle them is because Ginny, herself, is shutting them up far more effectively than he ever could. 

“Watch this, Robbins’ll catch her, look at the difference in wingspan–”

Ginny drops a beautiful pass to Gwenog who times her formation perfectly, and the Harpies score yet again. 

“Weasley’s tiny, once they let our Beaters loose on her she’ll be a goner–”

Ginny executes a perfect Sloth-Grip Roll to dodge an incoming bludger, and manages to whip a shot past the Falcons Keeper while dangling upside-down. 

“Knock her off her fucking broom!”

Wickford, clearly frustrated, fouls Ginny – hard. While the referee blows a shrill whistle, Harry lets out a stream of abuse, “Dirty fucking wanker–”

“Oi!” the Dudley-looking bloke next to Harry exclaims with glee. “Have we got ourselves a Harpies fan in our midst?”

Harry takes a measured, calming breath before answering, still staring up at the match above. “Yep.”

The group lets out a gleeful ooh. Harry knows it’s commonplace to give opposing fans a hard time at away matches, but these blokes haven’t got a clue how close Harry is to losing it. He’s about one more comment away from turning them into Aunt Marge. 

He claps when Ginny easily puts away the penalty shot, extending the Harpies already considerable lead. 

“Very progressive of you,” the blond one jokes. “Are they your girlfriend’s favorite team, or something?”

“Or something,” Harry answers through gritted teeth. 

They all jeer. “She’s got you whipped, eh? I hope the pussy’s worth rooting for a pussy-ass team like–”

“I’d watch my fucking mouth, if I were you,” Harry says, his voice low and dangerous. He realizes, dimly, that he must look far less intimidating than he’d like, with his ridiculous hat and sunglasses and scarf covering much of his face. Oh, well. Looks can be deceiving. He’s just finished up with seven weeks of an intensive dueling refresher course with the Aurors. He reckons he could incapacitate all three of them before they even had a chance to pull their wands. 

“Oooh, would you?” they jeer. “What, do you reckon if you cheer loud enough, Weasley will hear you and come over to thank you after the match?”

“Could she thank me too, you reckon?” the Dudley one adds. 

Harry can hear his own heartbeat angrily pounding in his ears. They’re all disgusting pricks, not worth a moment of his time or his energy, but he’s not stupid, either. He’d been, at first, when Ginny had originally signed with the club, and he’d just started paying more attention to the news about the team and the undermining, sexist undertones in all of it. He’d been shocked to see the nasty objectifying comments, the aspersions at their talent, the insinuation that the team was a feminist gimmick, not to be taken seriously. 

Hermione had humbled him with a sharp, “No,” when he’d asked her if she was surprised by it, too. 

He’s not as naive anymore. He realizes these blokes are watching their own team get shellacked by an all-female side, watching as Ginny plays elite Quidditch with their own eyes, and still they’ve got nothing but bullshit to say. 

Helpfully, Ginny chooses that moment to score yet another goal, her seventh. When Harry claps, they all join in mockingly. 

“Weasleyyyyy,” they call, with mocking, lovesick expressions. “Ditch the Chosen One and choose meee!”

Harry turns to them, and asks in a flat tone. “Is that the reason you’ve been rooting for such a shit team, then? You’re hoping Wickford will come and give you a cuddle after?”

“Oi!” the dark-haired one says. “Hang on–”

“That’s the only reason you’d be a fan of the fucking Falcons, isn’t it? If Wickford will take you home?”

“Nah mate, reckon all poofs are Harpies fans, aren’t you?”

The toenail hex seems woefully tame, all the sudden. “Are all Falcons fans pricks or is it just you lot?”

“Oi, relax mate,” the blond one jeers. “We’re just wondering how it all works. How many times have you got to wear a Harpies kit before they let you pull a leg over?”

“Dunno, how many times have you got to wear that Falcons kit for them to win a match?”

“Is that the new Harpies recruitment strategy?” the Dudley-looking one continues. “They only sign slags to the team, so they can shag together a fanbase?”

Harry pulls his wand so fast that they jump back, startled. “Say that again,” he growls, holding his wand in the man’s face. “Say it.”

“Watch yourself,” the blond one says, holding his hands up and pointing to his mate threateningly. “This one’s about to be an Auror, you’re about a second away from–”

What surely deadly threat Harry is a second away from, he’ll never learn, because just then, with a loud groan from the crowd, the Harpies Seeker pulls out of a spectacular dive with the snitch clasped in her fist, thereby ending the match at an embarrassing score of 260-10. 

“YES!” Harry yells, his wand dropping to his side as his eyes seek out Ginny in the air. 

He can’t remember ever finding a win so satisfying, and Ginny quite so attractive as she streaks across the pitch to hug Gwenog Jones in a midair heap, her red hair streaming behind her in the wind. When she lets go, she scans the section she knows Harry is sitting in. Looking for him, like she always does after a match, only this time she’s looking for an idiot in a shit disguise. 

He turns back to the blokes, fury and disgust with them still radiating in his bloodstream, and a reckless desire that he’ll surely regret later overtakes him. Fuck it, he thinks, and he begins to pull off his scarf. 

“What was it you were saying before?” he goads, pulling their attention back to him before they move with the rushing crowd out of the stands. “One of you arseholes is going to be an Auror?”

“I am, and I’ll curse you into next week, if you like,” the Dudley looking-one taunts. “Maybe then Weasley will give you a pity ride, if that’s what you’re hoping for–”

“Interesting offer, but I’ll pass,” Harry says, as he pulls off his sunglasses. A look of vague recognition sweeps across the blond one’s face, though the others merely look a combination of angry and befuddled. 

Harry replaces his regular specs and looks to the pitch just in time to lock eyes with Ginny - she’s found him in the crowd. 

She’s halfway across the pitch, but Harry can tell by the tilt of her head that she’s wondering why he’s gone and taken off half the disguise they’d laughed so hard about earlier. He waves, and despite their earlier agreement to forgo their usual public post-match celebration, she seems to get the message and begins flying toward him. 

He turns back to the blokes and finally removes his hat, revealing the still famously recognizable scar on his forehead. All three of their expressions transform into varying degrees of horror as they recall every horrible thing they’d said over the last hour, and connect just who they said it to. “What the fuck–” one of them mutters. “What the fucking shit– is that– Harry Potter–”

Harry stares directly at the aspiring Auror, memorizing his stupid features as he reddens. “I–” he stammers.

“I wouldn’t count on the Auror thing,” Harry spits. “If you’ll pardon me, though, I’ve got to congratulate my girlfriend. Maybe thank her later, for giving me so much to cheer for.”

He turns just as Ginny arrives to hover in front of him, windswept and flushed with victory and so ruddy gorgeous he can’t think. “You were so fucking brilliant,” he tells her. 

“I know,” she says with that cheeky grin he loves so much, and then she kisses him so soundly that he quite forgets the pricks openly gaping at them from behind. 

For a moment.

He pulls back from the kiss and turns to find them making a hasty retreat from the scene, but not before he hears the telling sound of a camera pop.

The ensuing stories plastered all over the papers the next day - Harry, pictured in his ridiculous disguise entering the stadium, their victorious kiss in the stands - ensure that Harry’s never able to sneak surreptitiously into the crowd of an away match ever again. 

A trade worth making, though, when Harry gives an exclusive interview detailing every disgusting thing the three men identified in the background of the photograph had said, and when Ginny writes a cutting op-ed for the Prophet highlighting the ways in which the press had created the very narrative those three pricks had parroted. 

Of course, it doesn’t solve the problem overnight, nor did they expect that it would. But, it moves the needle, just a bit. When Ginny reads an excellent article detailing the Harpies’ unique formations without once mentioning Harry or questioning whether they might be more effective by signing male players, she smiles. 

The rejection of Winston Winthrop’s Auror application is just the frosting on the cake.

[leyhunter]

I fought for like 20 years or something close to it fiercely against One Piece and now I am part of the hivemind

[bazpango]

"Ah, do you like me just that little bit more? Are we friends now?"

The Hinterland Doctrine series by @halfpromise will not leave my head.

[housecow]

Where on the spectrum does your breeding kink fall for you, personally? Is it purely a matter of size, as in do you want to be filled with dozens of babies just to grow even bigger, or is it separate from the feedism and is more realistic?

not necessarily separate, but definitely more realistic 🫣 being totally honest, i’m not really into non-realistic stuff at all. for feedism, i don’t enjoy the concept of rapid/instant/magic wg like you see around a lot.

for breeding, the same thing sorta applies… dozens of babies seems silly to me and not at all hot, though fantasizing abt twins is nice.. even if it doesn’t run in my family 😔 with the weight gain aspect, i like the idea of steadily getting bigger. if i want 3 kids—i’d want to be that mom that just can’t ever seem to lose the baby weight. i want whispers about why my husband even bothers knocking me up when i’m 400lbs, is he into that? do i somehow get bigger between pregnancies, too??

anyways. i like the intricacies!! it also just seems more intimate that way??

[thermodynamic-comedian]

the crazy thing is that malevolent really seems like it's gonna be one of those "there's nothing actually special about this guy, he just has very bad luck." stories but no. there IS something special about that guy. there's a REASON this is happening to him. this story could NOT have happened to anyone else the way it did to him. somehow, for some reason, arthur lester is special. and even more absurdly, this specific version of arthur lester is special. that's insane.

so much of the horror genre is all about how these things could happen to anyone, but malevolent wants you to explicitly know that arthur lester is important. arthur lester is the reason this story is happening. arthur lester is different, in some strange way that even he doesn't fully understand.

and that's what makes him the main character, not just the protagonist.

[copia]

THIRTY-ONE DAYS OF GHOST ⛧ DAY ONE

first song you heard — Mary On A Cross

September 1969; Papa Nihil and the beginning of the Ghost Project take to the stage at the Whiskey a Go Go club in Los Angeles, under the watchful eye of Sister Imperator. Fifty-three years later, in Tampa, Florida, Papa Emeritus the Fourth performs Mary On A Cross, unaware that he is singing the story of his parents—and that of himself.

[comfort-character-central]

The selfshipper urge to save various photos of your f/o or comfort character just so they can take up storage on your device so that you can scroll through them and giggle.

[hellomagicalsouls]

✨he looks heavenly✨

i am so excited to see this man in action for season 4. it's going to be full one tarot card, séance readings, all round witch shit. which is what i've wanted since day one.

the fashion, the vibe, the pose. beautiful. its giving klaus season one or the closest we'll get to season one.

and klaus season one will always be famous. the jewellery. the background, yes it dingy and grimy but im obsessed. i have way too many feelings on how good he looks.

i would prefer he had his curls but im willing to overlook it for this absolutely impeccable picture.

i am so excited to see him hopefully use his powers and maybe even enjoy using them. still worried about the damn tower tarot card but this. this is everything ive wanted in klaus.

when i think about klaus, this is damn near perfect to what i think. add curls and it is perfect.

[huntinglove]

I agree, enough is enough! And a reminder that deleting your posts once you realize that the stupid bullshit you've done had consequences, doesn't mean that the things you've done haven't impacted multiple people and their community

Also, very classy of you to call me insane in the same post trying to debunk the "accusations" of your ableism, great job. Leave the mean girl phase back in highschool, it's genuinely making you look embarrassing.

[soraya-snape]

I don't know how many times I have heard a Marauders Stan tell me and other Snape Fans that we only like him because of Alan Rickman. Which is funny because they are the exact same people who only like the Marauders and also death eaters like Regulus because of their hot fancasts. And I don't even have a problem with it because yes Alan Rickman did play a part in me liking Snape and I believe you can like pretty much every fictional character because they are fictional. The difference is that I don't excuse Sev's behaviour because I think he looks good unlike these Marauders Stans.

[sinsandsweetness]

💿 I was thinking maybe Daryl and consensual somnophilia ? If that’s alright?

cw- somnophilia. proceed with caution.

18+ below the cut

You’re so fucking close to him. He can’t help the way his body’s reacting. Sharing a sleeping bag as an attempt to keep warm in the crisp autumn evening. It’s working. Oh boy, is it ever working. He’s warm. Hot even. Burning up at the feeling of your ass pressed to his crotch. And not to mention, he’s rock solid. Trying his absolute hardest not to move his hips against you but goddamn, you’re not making it easy. The way you’re pushing back on him in your sleep…

You are asleep. He knows that. You don’t want him. It’s just your body reacting to his. To the closeness. At least that’s what he tells himself.

What he wouldn’t give to pull your pretty little pyjama pants down and fuck you sideways til the sun comes up.

“Mmhm,”

He freezes at the sound of your moan. Was he rocking too hard? Did he wake you up from the throbbing tent in his pants?

But as he listens closely, he can still hear that soft, adorable snore coming from your nose. At the realization, his shoulders relax and he nuzzles his face into your neck.

He knows he’d be way too scared to touch you like this if you were awake. The way he’s breathing in your scent, with his lips brushing your neck. His arm wrapped around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. Against his painfully hard, swollen erection. The one that’s probably leaking through his flannel pyjama pants if he had the courage to turn around and feel. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even want to know if it’s true. The thought alone makes him cringe. God, he feels pathetic. The only time he can show you what you mean to him is when you aren’t even awake to see it. To feel it. Well… you can feel it. But you’re not aware of it. You’re not even conscious.

The hand around your waist trails lower. Reaching the thin band of your sleep pants, Daryl starts to fidget with the flimsy drawstring. Fighting the temptation to slip his hand underneath and rub you over your panties. Show him how much you really mean to him.

He shouldn’t. He knows better. But for some reason it doesn’t stop him from grinding further into your ass. Squeezing his eyes shut at the feeling, doing everything in his power not to moan right in your ear.

His stomach drops when he feels your hand grab his. The one fidgeting with your drawstrings. His mouth gets all dry and he feels like he’s about to throw up. That is, until you press his hand further down, guiding his touch to your cotton covered cunt.

He’s frozen. Confused. Heart racing so hard he can feel it against the pillow. He can hear his blood pumping through his damn arteries.

You moved. He knows you’re still asleep. He’d put money on it. But you fucking moved his hand in your sleep and now, he doesn’t even know what to do with himself.

His temptations get the best of him and slowly, he starts to rub lazy circles over your clit. Soft, tired mumbles begin to leave your throat. No words, just faint, sleepy sounds. Groans and whimpers. Subconsciously asking for more. Begging for some form of release.

“Fuck,” he breathes out. Continuing to grind into your ass. Slow as his body will let him. He can already feel his orgasm starting to build. Dick throbbing as he uses your cheeks. Chasing the sweet friction of your warmth against his cock.

He can’t help himself. He doesn’t even want to. It’s a miracle you haven’t woken up yet, and it’s giving him this rush of adrenaline that has him wondering what else he can get away with. What else you can manage to sleep through.

That’s when he slips his hands under your waist band. Under your panties too. The pad of his middle finger immediately going to glide up through your drooling slit. Already soaking with arousal.

Shit.

Your warm cunt practically invites him in. He starts pumping to the same rhythm as his thrusts against your ass. You let out a moan at the feeling of his thick digits hitting your sweet spot.

Fuck. He buries himself into your neck as he fingers you. He doesn’t even want to see if he woke you up. You’re not stopping him. So you mustn’t have an issue, on the off chance that you are awake.

You’re still gripping the arm that’s wrapped around you, muscles flexing against your touch as his fingers work their borderline magic below the covers. You feel yourself drifting in and out of that drowsy state between awake and asleep. Feeling the warmth encompass you as your orgasm starts to flow through you. A wave of dreamlike pleasure erupting from your core as the man’s hips from behind you start to stutter. Cumming right there in his pyjama pants. His movements slow to a halt as he’s forced to come to terms with what he’s done. His eyes are still closed. Too scared to look up and see your pretty ones looking back at him. So with his blue eyes closed, he gently removes his hands from your panties, still dripping with your creamy substances.

It’s hitting him. The fact that he just made you come. And he’s starting to feel guilty, the feeling quickly forcing him to come down from his high. Stomach beginning to churn as his heart rate speeds up once again.

Just turn around and go to sleep.

He listens to the voice in his head. Trying his best to turn over without making a sound. Without bothering your limp body laying next to him.

He lifts his fingers to his mouth and he’s convinced he could come again from the taste of you.

Within a few minutes, he starts to doze off, facing the dark, mesh siding of the tent. He feels you rustle beside him in the sleeping bag. Flipping around and snaking an arm around his own waist. Quickly settling your body against his back. Cuddling up like his puzzle piece and tucking your chin on his shoulder.

You press a sweet kiss right below his ear and mumble a quiet, “g’night, D.”, into his skin.

And to avoid the humiliation that rapidly shoots up his core and burns like a fire across his whole face, he decides that it’s probably his turn to pretend to be asleep.

[souredfigs]

Of lovers burdened with glory and doomed since the beginning of time

Book mentioned: The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller/Song used: Achilles come down by Gang of Youths/Jujutsu Kasien 0 manga/Jujutsu Kaisen light Novel 1/Jujutsu kaisen manga chapters 78 and 236 by creator Gege Akutami/Jujutsu Kaisen season 2 , director Shōta Goshozono

[stopthatfool]

thinking about twink maverick and wondering how people think he’s a twink. genuinely. I look at these images and see, while yes a short man, a man who is also muscular and probably weighs a ton in pure muscle

If he’s a twink then everyone in that movie is a twink. and i dont think that’s correct.

According to wikipedia, this is what they say twinks are:

So let’s break this down.

1. Late teens to twenties

Sure. Maverick is in his twenties. But only looking at age would technically make me a twink so whatever. Let’s move on.

2. Slim to average physique

Maverick does not have an average physique. That man is built. He is in peak physical condition. He doesnt just sometimes work out, he is actively working out. Look at his arms! His trapezius! Those muscles are clearly developed and strong! In certain uniforms, his waist appears smaller, but that’s what the flight suit does to all silhouettes. Maverick is built like a brick, yes with hips, but he’s not little. He’s short of course, but he’s not small. He’s not lithe, he is muscular, he is BUILT! Look at the left bottom picture. Look at how rectangular. Look at how NOT lithe he is. Look at how not skinny he is. Like come on now.

3. Youthful/feminine appearance

While he is extremely youthful looking as Tom Cruise always appears, i disagree that tom cruise/maverick in Top Gun looks feminine. But that’s not to say that tom cruise has never appeared feminine or twink-like in any way. Legend (1985) is an example of his twink and feminine abilities. But for maverick i would argue that he looks very masculine. Boyish, which some argue is another visual feature for twinks, but not feminine (in my humble opinion).

4. Little to no body hair

To think that maverick has no body hair is just maverick unibrow erasure and i wont stand for it. But seriously. While tom cruise was waxed and oiled up for top gun, this is also happy trail erasure. I will now provide proof.

One of them is from mission impossible but um idc. It’s proof that Maverick HAS body hair, both around his chest and in … lower areas… but Maverick is not hairless enough to be a twink, especially because he doesnt fall into the other necessary categories to excuse/ignore his body hair.

5. (Kind of a half point because not all definitions and understandings of the word twink align with this) but it seems a lot of modern connotations of the word twink are parallel to exclusively bottoming

See here the most popular definition of the word twink on urban dictionary. I dont think that Maverick exclusively bottoms. Maverick FUCKS too. Like it’s not just Ice doing the fucking. Like Mav fucks. He fucks, guys you dont understand he fucks.

Therefore, Maverick, in my opinion, is not a twink. He is Maverick. The end.