#cooperate needs you to find the difference between this picture and this picture

[timothyslucy]

4am and they're all i can think about rn.

[ngalu]

Your honor, it's the same face.

why does he always make this face with nancy

[yeyinde]

victory lap

“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day-old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch.  “an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—” “Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. His hackles raise on instinct, everything inside of him hissing to back away. “Got something else in mind.” Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture— And all his for the night. or: John strikes a deal with young Simon Riley. his cooperation on a team they're putting together in exchange for a night with you. naturally, it goes awry.

18+ SMUT. implied noncon, dubcon. under-negotiated kink. bondage. overstimulation. size difference. size kink. messy, sweaty gross sex. rough sex. unsafe sex. mean Simon. smitten Simon. bullydom!Simon. spit kink. degradation and humiliation. young!Simon (pre-mw2019-2022 when he was still a Seargent; 25-28ish). manipulation. attempts at taming a stray dog that goes as well as you'd expect.

It's John who takes his muzzle off.

Dangles the key on his finger when he kicks open the door, letting his Lieutenant glimpse what lay behind it. Giving a gruff, like what you see? when his eyes finally adjust to the low light flooding in.

It takes him half a second. Enough time to commit the scene in front of him to memory.

It's you, of course.

good dogs get rewards, don't they, Simon?

Waiting for him. Pretty as a picture in sleek silk chiffon ribboned in intricate shibari around your chest, stomach, and thighs. Legs spread on the table; ankles tied down to the sides in nude jute rope. Hands clasped together, fingers laced; wrists tied above your head. The blindfold wrapped around your head is a pale pink ribbon, thicker than the silk on your body. Wrapped twice over your eyes, and tied in a pretty bow behind your head, he imagines.

In the split of your thighs, he finds you already slick. Wet. It drips down onto the table, puddling beneath your ass. The spread of your pussy, glistening in the flushed light; the small, pink vibrator taped to your clit makes his cock twitch. 

"All for me?" He rasps, eyes fixed on your cunt. On how pretty it looks. How inviting. A soft, ripe peach offered in the heat of summer, and he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you. Her. "'ow sweet o'you."

And Price, he thinks, eyes slanting sideways as he glances at the man sliding into his chair. It stands to reason that this whole thing, you on a silver platter for a starving wolf, wouldn't have happened if he hadn't seen the look on Simon's face when you first met him. The hunger.

Simon's not stupid, of course. He knew you were off limits the moment Price put his paw on your nape, squeezing once. Owned, claimed. The intention, the message, clear. Mine.

Don't touch.

And the way you lit up, stammering out something about how good it was to meet him, told him everything he needed to know how your willingness to be shackled to his Captain.

But even so—

He couldn't take his eyes off of you.

(and in his intense cataloguing of everything you did, he couldn't help but notice how you kept touching your neck when Price was dragged away for a conversation leaving you all alone in a room rankled down his spine. almost as if you were reaching up to fix a collar—)

The memory alone makes him shudder.

"All yours, Simon," Price drawls from his perch on the throne. Between two fingers, a cigar sits, unlit. Ghost huffs.

The words are a vicious bite to the want pooling low in his belly. "That so?”

The room seems to shake when he steps inside. Floor creaking ominously under his weight. It makes your mouth drop, heavy breaths spilling out between dull teeth. Chest rising and sinking shallowly with a wild sort of nervousness that flits across the expanse of your cheeks, in the tremble of your lower lip. 

Despite your unease, your legs stay open. Held aloft by the rope, he knows, but also—

A testament to how trained you are. 

He prefers his pets wild. Unpolished. Vicious little things that he gets to bring to heel with a sharp bark and rough hand glued to the back of their skulls, pushing their head into the dirt, to the floor, where it belongs. 

Fine china broken at his feet. 

But you—

Manicured. Groomed to perfection. Save for the harsh breaths and the shake in your joints—both an indication of just how new you are at this. A novice. One slowly being crushed under the leather boot of a man who reeks of smoke and whiskey. 

But knowing his captain and the furious need for control, he imagines you're better than some of the seasoned ones he'd come across in his lifetime. No room for errors.

And certainly no forgiveness for them, either. 

His cock twitches again—a heavy, aching weight against his thigh—and he reaches down to cup the thickness of it, crushing the flesh in his palm to stave off the need burning in his loins. The urgency to sink inside of your pretty little cunt rewiring the part of him that likes to mess his pets up first. Ruin them before he takes them. Fucking them to the point of unconsciousness—and sometimes, beyond it. 

But you—

You've been a phantom taste in the back of his throat for months now. A tease between his teeth. Sinking his jowls into you is the only thing on his mind. 

And when you're offered up so enticingly—

Well. 

Price can't blame him much for how badly he's going to ruin you. 

He reaches out, fingers pressing cruelly into the slim, thumb-sized vibrator Price has locked against your clit. A mindless, incessant torture, he's sure. Pushing you over the edge on a constant, unrelenting loop. 

“Messy girl,” he rasps, the starchy fabric of the mask glueing to his balmy skin. 

The reprimand makes you flinch in shame, but the flutter of your cunt belies the contrition that drapes over your brow in a shallow mimicry of sorrow. He can see why Price latched onto you so quickly, and doesn't bother fighting the stab of envy that brims in his chest. 

“Didn't your old man ever teach you any manners?” He mocks, dry and derisively. Quietly amused by the soft mewl you let out, one that only just eclipses the snort from Price. “Daddy's been slackin’, ‘asn’t he? Let his little girl turn into a messy fuckin’ slag.” 

You try to close your legs to no avail, the rope keeping you spread. In part, he thinks, from shame—blistering, burning, and vibrant when it streaks across your face—but mostly from the slick gush that leaks out of your drenched pussy at his foul words. Trying to hide it from him. To keep him from knowing just how much the brassy roll of his ugly words makes your empty little cunt ache. 

“Look’it you.” He rumbles, enjoying the shiver in your joints. The way your head rolls to the side, nose pressed tight to the skin of your arm. “Messy pussy just achin’ to be fucked.”

He adds more pressure until you choke. The scream lodged in your throat. Your toes curl. He hears the soft pop of your joints when you arch your back like a cat in heat yowling for attending. 

“Want it bad, don't you?” He taunts. “Daddy must’a spoiled you too much—” another scoff from Price. The creak of leather. The clink of ice against glass. “Didn't teach you any manners—”

He wants you to beg. Wants to hear the peal of your voice—rough and ragged and begging him to sink inside you; fuck your little cunt until you can't walk anymore—but that's not what he's here for. Not why Price dragged him up to the room. Gave you to him. 

And with the silk gag in your mouth, he knows he won't get it, anyway. Tied in a pretty bow behind your head. Wet with your spit already. 

Simon's fingers slide down, dragging over the folds of your cunt. You're wet. Soaked. Drenched in a way he's never seen before; folds glistening. Thighs wet. Sticky. He licks his lips. Tastes the brine of his sweat. He wants to eat your pussy. Spread you wide on his tongue and make you beg Price to let Simon make you cum. 

The thought roots in his head. Burrowing deep. He can already hear your sweet voice pleading with his captain—please, please let him make me cum—but he pushes it down when Price makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. 

He knows why he's here. 

And wonders, then, when he steps back and drops his hands to the button on his trousers, how many times you've been punished like this. The thought is a sour smoulder in the back of his head. An ugly, foul thing unfurled over the soot-stained walls of his skull. 

(he'll ask later. get the names of every man Price let see you like this, and pluck the memory of you right from their skull—)

“So needy,” he drawls, dragging his cock out of his slacks as they fall low on his thighs. “Even after this pussy’s been spoiled so much?”

It makes you keen, and the noise is a searing knife to his guts. He groans with it—low and rough, the noise scraping over the flesh of his throat until it hurts. 

“Gonna have to punish you, ain't I? Needy fuckin' thing—” so he says, but his cock is just as sticky as your thighs, weeping a steady stream of pre-cum that pools in the tangle of hair at the base, dusting over his heavy, fat balls. 

He shuffles closer, and reaches out to your knee, slipping his fingers behind your shin. The squeal of naked flesh against the metal tabletop shouldn't make him throb but it does. Cruel man, he thinks, and drinks in the way you wince. 

He presses his cock against your slit, mouth dropping in a harsh pant when he takes in the hideous sight it makes. Your pussy is covered up by his girth. The tip of his cock bobbing over your belly button, dripping pre-cum into the divot. 

Simon pulls his hips back, letting his cock glide over your silken flesh. The wet squelch it makes when he thrusts forward, cockhead tapping on your belly, has him grunting like an animal. It's obscene, this. The way he can't even see your folds over the wide spread of his cock. Pussy tucked neatly under him. 

He can't even begin to imagine how you'll take the full length of him inside of you when his cock nudges past your belly button when he lets his balls rest on your molten slit. Poor thing. 

He doesn't know if Price stretched you before this. Got you ready for him. But the man makes no move to intervene when Simon pulls back until his head slips down your seam, bracketed between your plush, swollen folds, tight against your entrance. All he has to do is—

Push

And the tip of his cock slips in. 

You make another noise at the sting, and he thinks you might be crying but his eyes are riveted to the spot where you open for him. Pussy so small, so tiny, compared to his cock in a way that's sickening. Garish. But your little cunt drools on him. Rim fluttering like a heartbeat on his glands, pulling him deeper. Enticing him to sink inside. All the way. Until he can feel the hitch of your breath on his cock. 

He leans back to get a better view, the motion forcing another inch inside of you. The noise is slick. Giving as your silken flesh parts around him, eagerly taking him in. But as wet as you are, as pliant, the stretch is unbearable. It chokes the air from his lungs when you tighten up around him—

“Fuckin' hell—” he snaps, his upper lip curling up beneath the mask. Your cunt makes him angry. Suddenly, viciously. The fury drips down his spine, pools at the base of his cock. His hand slips out from between your thighs, roughly grabbing your waist. Holding on tight as he jerks his hips harshly against you. 

You feel good. Perfect. Wrapped snugly around him. A hot, wet embrace. And he huffs at the bitterness that clots in his lungs; the surge of pleasure so blisteringly intense, it nearly makes him gag. Makes him sick. 

Price has this every night. 

The thought alone is a poison. It needles in deep, lashing at him with foul, rabid teeth. Cruelly, he pushes deeper, sinking his cock in another inch, another, another—mindless in this pursuit to tear you apart well before you're ready for it. 

He wants it to burn. To ache. Wants to be the worst fuck you've ever had; cock too big for you to take, but he feeds it to you in full. Gives you all of it. Every inch. Until your stomach churns with every press of his cockhead against your cervix, his glands sliding over that spot inside that makes your knee jerk and your eyes roll. 

Wants you to remember him as a beast. To think of his cock and feel nauseous. 

To sink deep inside of you—brutal and savage—until you can still feel him in your pussy for days. Each step causing a sharp pang in your lower belly. 

It's awful, he knows. Terrible. But he forces himself into you anyway, feeling your flesh split around him. A blunt, unyielding pressure until his balls tap against your ass, pussy spasming around the fat length he punishes you with. He's sure he's deeper inside of you than anything—any man, cheap silicon—has ever dreamed of being. Kissing places in you that nothing has ever touched. Feels it in the nervous flit of your muscles pulsing around him—this foreign thing bludgeoning into uncharted territory, stretching you wide. Almost virginal all over again. It makes him groan. 

Your pleasure is a muted ripple down his spine. The vibrator forcing you into enjoying the sharp sting of your rim pulled taut around the plug of his cock, skin blanching from the strain. He wants to stay just like this—grinding his hips into the backs of your spread thighs, cockhead chiselling into the molten seal of your womb with every gyration until the line between pleasure and pain begins to blur. Until you gag from how badly having your walls battered burns, hurts, but the bloom of pleasure deep inside your groin keeps you in place. Makes you arch your back, wanting more. 

Desperate for it. 

But this isn't what Price wants, is it? 

No—

He voices his impatience with a muffled grunt. Get on with it, Simon is pinched out between the silver of space between his teeth, the butt of a burning cigar keeping his jaw unhinged. The heady, sour-sweet stench of smouldering tobacco, nicotine, staining the words. 

You clench at the sound of Price's voice, pretty pussy drawing all tight around him. Perfectly trained. Sweet thing, he thinks, pulling out of you slowly. Just a few inches. Feeling your skin glue his; the glide of your walls over his shaft sickeningly good, nauseatingly so. He holds it for a moment, staring down at you through the eye holes of his mask, breathing heavily. Sweat drenches his skin. Tacky, hot. The starchy fabric clings to his flesh, peeling away each time he moves his head. 

The exertion of fucking his cock into you shows through the muted pulse of his joints, muscles aching from the strain of pushing forward. 

(Holding himself back.)

You blink at him blearily, eyes misted with tears. A smaller puddle sits on the table near your temples. 

Up close, he can see the full detail of the intricate shibari binding you tight. The sleek pink ribbon weaving over your chest, your breast, stomach—hishi karada, Price said. At the base of your neck is more silk in a mockery of a collar. And he wonders if you miss it, then. The solid weight of leather on your skin. If your hands weren't tied up, he imagines they'd be there. Holding firm. 

Just like the night he first met you. 

The silk rope, the loss of your collar—

“Your dad's a cruel man, ain't he?” He mocks, sliding his fingers over the delicate trim of silk bound tight under your heaving breasts, peppering across your nipple, down the slope. Resting at the base of your throat. The thin slip of fabric is not enough to give you what you need. The pressure, the friction. The sense of being owned. “Didn't even give his little girl a collar.” 

More of that tantalising shame rake over your expression. Tears dribble out in hot drops, spilling down the side of your face. 

He hums, slips this fragility into his back pocket. “Want me to give it to you, little girl?” 

He spits the words out like they're wrong. Awful. Takes in your flinch, the downward twist to your lips, and shoves that, too, into his pocket. 

Simon has no intention of waiting for an answer, for permission—he reels back, hand still splayed wide over your sternum, and pulls his cock out more until only the flare of his glands peaks out. He's soaked—glistening with your slick. So wet that it drips out of your plugged hole, gliding down the cleft of your ass. 

He wonders if you always get like this—

Bites that thought clean through with an angry groan, and pries his fingers out from the back of your knee, dragging them to the end of his mask. Rucking it up over his skin, bunched against the bridge of his nose. 

If the mess of his mouth, chin, the crooked, angular slope of his nose horrifies you at all, you don't let it show. Content to quietly sob on the table, eyes flickering between the thick plug of his cock between your thighs and the Price. 

He hates you, he thinks. And then he spits on your pretty pussy, right over your taut rim. Watches the foamy mess bubble, drip down to the skin behind his mushroomed head. When it pools there, he pulls back until the widened flare of his glands slips free. You whine—a noise of bright hot disgust, humiliation—and he lets it burrow under his skin, trickle down his spine. Then he pushes forward, popping the head back inside of you. 

The spit—his spit, too. 

And he does it again. The same thing. Pulling out, spitting. Feeding it to her. Letting it rub against the slick, wet (wetter now) walls of her cunt. 

Price doesn't say anything about this claim. Schoolboy possession—childish and immature when you're used to fine leather gripping tight around the slope of your neck.

Still. 

He pulls on your proverbial braids until it burns. 

The hum of the vibrator takes some of the sting away when he shoves inside of you again, cockhead bullying into your cervix with an unmatched cruelty. Leaking slick, steady, over your seal. Drooling, thick and viscous, against your walls. Staining you. 

Ruining you.

Each breath is punched out when he bottoms out. Forced from your lungs. Winded. He knows it hurts almost as much as the thick bludgeon of his cock pressing deep, but as he scrapes and claws at the rot concealing over his humanity, morality, he finds nothing inside of him left to care. 

He stops looking. Stops searching. 

Simon fucks into you with vigor instead, laughing mockingly at the lewd, sinful squelch of your cunt. “Think that's the sound of all my spit, birdie? Or is your sloppy little cunt always this fuckin’ messy?”

Each piston makes his pelvis slap into the vibrator; he can feel it through the tangle of coarse hair spooled above his cock. Buzzing incessantly against his skin. The spike of sharp pressure has you yowling beneath him, hips twisting, turning, trying to flee from the brutal onslaught. Pleasure and pain balancing on a knife's edge. 

He holds you there. Dangles you above the precipice just because he can—

A lazy flick of his waist. The savage grind of his hips. The softened bulge of his lower belly tapping against the plastic toy—

And it breaks you. This careless, effortless attention he pays to you has you tightening up around him like a knot, a vice; cunt squeezing, squeezing, before you shatter. Wave against a cliff; you spasm on his cock in a series of shallow, tight throbs pulsing along to the rapid fire of your heartbeat. 

His eyes are locked on your face. Pretty, lachrymal. Tears bleed down your temples, soaking into your hairline. Puddling underneath. 

His own little sea of your miserable pleasure. 

Eyes rolled into the back of your head. Toes curling. Hips jerking, twisting. Trying to run from the ugly, awful way he makes you cum. Makes you gorge yourself on pleasure. Force-feeding you pain with each sloppy, brutal thrust into your sopping, messy cunt—swollen, bruised; battered. And his—

—ice clinks against glass. A clicking swallow follows. The hollow thud of glass on wood. Scraping over the veneer as it's pushed back into place. Tobacco is chewed up by flames, popping and sizzling; smoldering with each inhale as the playwright watches the show he weaved together unfold—

—his. 

The silk around your neck comes loose with each thrash of your head rolling from side to side, shaking with quick, successive no, no, no’s that go unheeded, ignored. Every animalistic rut of his hips makes you change your mind, anyway. Turning those devastating no’s to yeses so eager, your teeth clack with every thrust. 

As it slips, sliding down the sweat-slicked column of your arched throat, he finds a stripe of red. A scab. Right at the knot where your collar would sit. A pretty gem in the middle. Your name, or maybe something that would amuse Price more than the perceived idea of your autonomy—bitch in glinting gold. His name and number etched into the back. 

if found, return to John Price. 

A foldhold, perhaps. Tailor-made for his boot. 

He hunts, Simon knows. Walked in reeking of leather and smoke when they first met and casually mentioned how good he was at Big Game hunting. A threat, then—however thinly veiled and erring on the side of mordant humour it was. But he wonders if Price personally made the collar you mourned the night he swung you into Simon's path. 

Your neck was bare, then. Blemishless. 

A collar too small. Tightened too much. Punishment, he supposes, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction roll down from his nape to the bottom of his spine where it pools in his groin—hot, molten oil—as he wonders just how much convincing it took you to agree to this. To spread your pretty legs for the ugly brute Price dangled you in front of. Who watched you all night from the corner of the room, chest heaving and eyes wide, wild, and furious. Reeking of rot. Want. To let him rut you like an animal while Price watches from the corner of the room—

A bead of sweat follows the phantom trail. 

“Fuck, birdie,” he's rasping, voice uttered wrecked. Mangled in his throat. “So fuckin’ tight f’me, ain't you? Must want me to cum inside this pretty cunt—”

You shiver. Knee jerking. There's a real sense of panic in your eyes when they dart over to Price, silently nursing another glass of scotch. He follows your gaze, catches Price glaring at him with his chin dipped low to his chest, peering out through his lashes. Brow furrowed. A flat line. 

Simon doesn't stop thrusting. Keeps a steady pace despite the anger brimming inside of him as the pleasure grows. Festers. 

Then—

Barely discernible: a nod. 

Shadows fall over his cheeks. He brings the glass back to his mouth with a surly mm between the mouthful. An irrevocable fuckin' get on with it. 

And Simon does.

The look he gives you pure predatory hunger. Victory in the potent stench of charred bones. He lifts his chin, stares down at you—all spread out like a gift to a god—and surges forward with a rabid hunger brimming in his guts. Unquenchable. Horrific. 

—wants you to eat you alive. Consume you whole. Leave nothing for Price to pick at, to mourn over,

settles instead for ruining your pussy. For fucking you raw. Cumming deep inside of your quivering cunt even when he knows you don't want that. Are silently begging Price to reconsider. To get this ugly fucking mutt off of you—

It churns his guts. Makes him viciously excited over the image that brims in the back of his head, tears raining down your cheeks as you bring a shaky hand to your aching, swollen cunt, feeling the thick, viscous glob of his cum leaking out.

Or before that, when you have to lay there and take it. Feeling his cock throbbing, pulsing as it spits cum inside of you. When he pulls out, and a milky trail follows, dribbling down between your cheeks. At his mercy the whole time, too, because Price won't get up right away to untie you. You'll have to lay there in his filth, feeling it ooze out of you—

He wants it. Badly. Feels it scorching his hindbrain, burning him up from the inside out. 

Later, he thinks, he'll fuck you with more finesse. Make you cum on his fingers—stuff them inside of your sore, aching cunt to the last knuckle; give you three of them to squeeze around, to cling to, and watch the ink on his bruised, scabbed skin disappear inside of you over and over again, pulling them out all slick, pearlescent with a mix of his cum and yours. On his tongue, too. Keep you in this pretty frogtie, unable to push him off—or pull him closer. Forced to take it. To let him lap at your pussy until he quenches this uneasy hunger festering inside of his stomach, growing bolder, greedier at the sight of you splayed out like this, exhausted already even though he's only just begun. 

Fuck you again, too, just because he can. 

all yours for a night, Price had said, sealing your fate with a sharp, decisive nod. 

He plans on making the most of the twelve hours until sunrise that he has. 

This, then, the appetizer—

It curls over his shoulders, tar-stained fingers digging into the tight coil of his muscles, easing the tension in increments. Soothing out the fear that still clings to him of missing out. Still, very much, that hungry little mutt on the side of the street, peering into the bakery at the family's milling about, smiling happily. Content to ignore the brat in rags glaring at them from an alcove with bruises on his chin, and a black split on his lip. Diving for scraps because the alternative is going to bed with an empty stomach in a house that reeks of flat beer and stale piss. 

There's nothing to miss out on here, it reasons, when he has you all night. All his. 

“Beg me,” he huffs, sniffing through the balmy, damp mask when it slips down his crooked nose. “Beg me not to cum inside you.”

All you can do is make a small, keening oomph behind the loose gag, words muffled by wet silk. His head rolls back, eyes narrowing down at you in mocking delight—catlike, leonine, in the dwindling glimmer of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains. 

“C’mon,” he taunts, rolls his hips into you just to hear the loud, wet squelch of your pussy taking the full, fat length of his cock. Lets the noise box through his ears in a vicious, heavy punch. “Or I'll cum inside you—”

He's already there. Edging toward the precipice. 

Simon grabs the tops of your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table until your ass lifts. It opens you up wider for him, knees notched wide, nearly level with your ears. The new position lets him push in deeper, fucking you in full now. Balls slapping against your ass with every brutal stroke. 

He leans down, knee lifting to the table as he climbs on before dropping the full heft of his weight onto you. Forearm braced above your head, the other catching the column of your bare, scratched neck in the wide spread of his palm. 

The size difference before was intoxicating. A rush that pooled in the back of his head before rocketing down to his spine, filling his cock, but this—your knees bracketing around his waist, spread so wide they're forced down flat to the table below in a split that lets his cock sink in deeper, head tucked against his collarbone, swallowed whole beneath him, is his undoing. 

Arched over you like a beast, he grunts. Ruts into your sopping cunt and feels the whines that spill from your throat at the rough way he batters into you. 

The softness of his lower belly grazes the vibrator humming on your clit. The pressure makes your eyes widen, and roll into the back of your head. Neck trapped in his hold as you thrash beneath him, sobbing in earnest. In dismay. 

He's sure it hurts. The pleasure careening into overstimulation—the kind that burns, bellows too much, no more. He huffs out a derisive snort, and eats your misery from your parted lips, dipping his head down to catch the seam of your mouth in a mockery of a kiss. The silk wrapped around your head, tucked neatly into the corners of your mouth, keeps it from being anything more than a messy smear of his scarred, torn lips and your muffled gasps. The band prevents him from really tasting you, and he makes do with curling his tongue over your teeth, catching the drool running down your chin. 

It's gross. Messy. He slurps you up, and hums in pleasure when he tastes the brine of your tears. 

“Gonna cum,” he grunts into the silk before catching it between his crooked teeth, nibbling on the wet hem, sucking on your spit soaked into the fabric. 

Your pussy spasms around him. Eager, he thinks—pulsing like a heartbeat and starving for it. It blooms under his skin, burning hot like a fever. His tongue slips under your gag. Eyes glued to yours, listed in quiet, merciless delight when you grimace as he slides it along yours, nearly gagging you on it. 

It's almost sweet. A pastiche of loving making—as close to the real thing as he's ever come. The thought is a bludgeon to his head, making his ears ring—

And he runs from it. Rears back from the sloppy kiss, eyes creasing, brow furrowing, as you stare up at him with wet, glossy eyes, rheumy with tears. Silently pleading for something he can't discern. He feels that trail of anger coiling in his guts again, sitting low in his belly as his hips stutter to a slow, softer roll. 

His finger lifts, settles on the corner of your unhinged jaw, holding your head steady. There are lines, he thinks. Walls, divides. Protective armour—

And some shouldn't be crossed. 

Simon spits on your gag. Squeezes the huff of disgust from your throat when he feels your chest expand with it. Bullies himself closer, smothering you under his weight. Owned, then. Claimed. 

You can't close your mouth around the gag, or fingers digging into the muscle of your jaw. He keeps you like that, degraded. Dehumanised. A vessel for him to use as he likes—

Nothing more, nothing less. 

Sinks into your bruised cunt again, hips slapping meanly into yours in a way he knows must ache. Sets a choppy, deep pace; humps your pussy and grinds the weeping, swollen head of his cock into your battered cervix. Loses himself in the messy, plugging rolls of his hips; the wet, tight slide of your skin—flushed and clenching around the thick of himself he feeds to you, over and over again. Mindless in the pursuit to ruin you further. Stain you with his cum—

The problem is:

You feel like heaven. Pussy wrapped tight around him. Silken walls hugging his aching cock until it feels like he's melting into the hot, wet squeeze of it. So good it hums inside his head like a purr, rattles his thoughts around until the ugly, bitter anger is turned inside out. Flipped. 

He thinks about lines again as his sticky, wet balls glue to the slick skin of your ass, peeling off in a way that has pleasure peppering along his spine, spooling in his lower back. He did that, caused it. Made you so fucking wet that his knees slide in the messy spill of it leaking all over the table. The loud squelch of him slamming into your cunt echoes in the room—shrill and bone-melting. Ego-feeding. Enough to gorge his pride on it until its belly threatens to burst at the seams. Overfull. 

Simon grunts. His face is soaked. The damp fabric of his mask is too drenched to even mop it up, sticking to his skin as sweat rains down from his shorn hairline, misting over his eyes. His upper lip. The dip of his chin. He's more water than man. Liquid. Melting into you. 

The heat is unbearable. “Gonna cum in this pussy,” he snarls, and it sounds like a threat. Is one. He's going to burst inside of you, molten and thick. Been a while, he thinks, and feels his balls draw up. Tightening in a promise as he fucks himself into a syrupy stupor above you. 

The inside of his ears are wet, and he thinks it might be his fucking brain leaking out—

The tight coil of his body snaps before he does, giving out in a heavy groan. He catches himself before he crushes you beneath him, still mindlessly thrusting into your cunt, cock pulsing, throbbing. Growing thicker, thicker, as he heaves into your temple, breathing in the pine scent of your skin. Loam, sea. Sweat. You smell like Price beneath it all—leather and smoke; scotch and wood—and his lips curl into a vicious snarl, teeth bared at the man in the corner, silent observer to this blasphemous confessional where he spills his guts inside of you, and you eat them up like they're made of gold dust. 

It rushes him. A kick to his soft stomach, a boot crushing his ribs. The force of it hurts when it hits, surging up from the base of his spine, too fast for him to brace for. Tensing, coiling. The pressure knocks the air from his lungs, makes his hips stutter. Joints whining, twinging with pain. 

He moans low and brassy, mangled deep in the rot of his chest, and cums deep inside of you. Sloppy, mindlessly rutting into the spread bracket of your thighs as pleasure burns across the back of his neck, his spine. His hips roll, shaking. Melting as he spills, spits thick globs of cum out, cockhead bullied tight against your plug. 

All you can do is heave beneath him, whining at the molten spend he pours into you. Poor fuckin’ thing—

His lips are sticky, slick with sweat. He rubs them against the tacky skin of your temple, your cheekbone, babbling nonsense out on a purr—

Breedin’ this tight little pussy right in front of your old man, birdie. Got ‘im watchin’ his little girl take my thick fuckin’ load inside o’her. Fuckin’ hell—

—things that leak out between the cracks in the armour. The thick veneer. Made worse, his personal hell, when he feels your hips bump into his, taking his cock deeper inside as you squirm under the heavy weight of him. With your thigh flexing, squeezing his hip, it almost feels like you want more. All of him. For him to crawl deep inside of you, cocooned in the bracket of your ribs—

“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he rasps, words slurring. Eliding into mush. Nonsense he'll come to crush between his teeth later when he buries himself back inside of you over and over again, feeding blood to this vicious seedling inside of him. 

Through the pounding in his head, your gasping little hitches in his ear, the undeniable silence from Price weighs on him even as the aftershocks of his release mute the noise in his head. A dense, hazy fog clouding over all thoughts. 

It doesn't feel angry. Jealous. If anything it reeks of victory—

He grasps through the blanket, the murk, with lazy hands until he finds what he's looking for, and—

Oh. 

Right. 

(“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. 

He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch. 

“an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—”

“Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. “Got something else in mind—”)

Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture—

He stares down at you now. The base of his cock is soaked with your slick, flesh throbbing, pulsing, as he cums inside of you. 

It's this—you, crying over the feeling of him spilling so deeply inside of you while your old man watches from the sidelines, unable to do anything but sit there as Simon fills his baby girl up—that he wanted. Wants. Needs, he thinks, more than the stale, humid air he breathes. A place of his own. Home. Even if it's made of paper mache, carved inside of someone else, someone who already has a collar. A brand—

But that's the point, isn't it?

A sick feeling curls over his shoulders as he thumbs the slim vibrator off of your clit, staring down at the swollen nub at the apex of your mound. Sore and sensitive and flushed bright. Bruised like an apple. Abused for hours. Poor thing, he thinks, even as he rubs the flat of his finger over it. 

His cum seeps out around the softening plug of his cock. But it's still thicker than anything you'd ever taken before, he's sure. Sick with the deep sense of satisfaction that rolls over him at the thought. 

It's worth it, then, even as the dawning realisation trickles over him like hot oil—

“What d’you like, Simon?”

A pretty bird in pale pink chiffon. Too good for the likes of him. Afraid of him, too. Cowerin’. Cryin’ somethin’ awful when he sinks his ugly, fat prick into them—

Price hummed. Curled his index finger over the top of his cigar, tapped the thick wrap twice with the tip of it, and then brought it to his lips. A flash of teeth beneath his beard—nicotine-stained; crooked in the low light—before they sunk into the butt. 

There was something measured in his stare. Predatory. 

Victorious. 

And—

He gets it. You were a dangling lure in the deep, dark of the abyssal layer. A glimmer of light in thick murk. Iridescent. Dazzling. He was always meant to sink his teeth into you, wasn't he? Always meant to take a bite—

hook. line—

—sinker. 

Or—

It would be if the fish Price caught wasn't a leviathan. 

—in the scorching trail the oil leaves behind, something bestial, primordial, inside of his cocks its head in consideration. he can make a feast from this, it says; and so, he does—

“Need my help, Price?” Simon drawls, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at him, quietly amused, and John feels the pulse between his temples starting up again the same way it had all those years back when he bumped into the man with you on his arm. 

He grunts. “Sendin’ you to Mexico.”

“Tha’ so? I might be busy.”

He sucks in a deep breath, reaches for his cigar. The itch claws behind his eyes, in his gums. There's a headache, too. One he knows won't be soothed over with the numbing bliss of nicotine or a shot of scotch. Not when he'll have to slink home afterwards, this massive behemoth nipping at his heel, and deal with the aftermath of what happens whenever he sets Simon loose on you:

an icepack pressed tight against your aching cunt, a glare fixed on your face as he dotes on you after you made him clean up the absolute mess Simon left behind with his fingers and tongue—

“never again,” you'll hiss, wincing with each pull of his knuckles on your sore, bruised walls. “I mean it—”

(you always say that but the look in your eye whenever he pulls out the silk—the new assortment that Simon bought for you himself—tells him otherwise—)

He presses the heel of his palm into the crease between his eye and bone, rubbing until he sees phosphenes spark behind his eyelids. 

“She'll be in silk,” he grouses, sucking his teeth in irritation. “And you'll be on fuckin’ plane to Mexico the next morning, Riley. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” he draws lazily with a half-hearted shrug, but Price can see the mutt inside of him panting with glee. He pretends to huff. Then: “I want her in white this time.”

The fuckin' prick.

—Price’s gamble of using you to lure the big, bad dog in works. but maybe a little too well. because now his sergeant expects one every time he's sent on a mission. and they send him out a lot. 

—he now has a key to his captain's house. lets himself in whenever he wants. finds you exactly how he asked for it. usually tied up in silk, crying, and struggling to get away when he stalks inside the room. on your knees, begging him so sweetly not to fuck your throat too hard. you have work tomorrow. or fighting him off as best as you can until he pins you down, works his cock inside of you. 

—in full view of the cameras, of course. non-negotiable. Price gets to see everything his brutish sergeant does to his pretty bird. everything. 

—Simon is the one who keeps you company when Price is sent off to work with the CIA. keeps you stuffed full of his cock in the bed you share with Price, his little girl sobbing into the pillow that reeks of smoke and leather and sex as Simon forces every inch of his stupid fat cock inside you

[tanadrin]

Can you explain in what what you think eugenics doesn't work? Does this basically boil down to skepticism about the accuracy of GWAS studies? My understanding is that academic consensus is "G probably exists, disentangling direct genetic inheritance vs genetic cultural inheritance is complicated but possible, we can identify a number of alleles which we're reasonably confident are directly causally involved in having a higher G factor"

when it comes to intelligence, its heritability, and its variation at the population level, my understanding of the science is:

highly adaptive traits don't, in fact, vary much at the genetic level between populations of a species because they are strongly selected for. in an environment where a trait is being strongly selected for, a population that failed to express that trait strongly will be rapidly outcompeted.

intelligence is probably the quintessential such trait for humans. we have sacrificed a great deal of other kinds of specialization in favor of our big brains. we spend an enormous amount of calories supporting those brains. tool use, the ability to plan for the future, the ability to navigate complex social situations and hierarchies in order to secure status, the ability to model the minds of others for the purposes of cooperation and deception means that we should expect intelligence to be strongly selected for for as long as our lineage has been social and tool-using, which is at least the last three million years or so.

so, at least as a matter of a priori assumptions, we should expect human populations not to vary greatly in their genetic predisposition to intelligence. it may nonetheless, but we'd need pretty strong evidence. i think i read this argument on PZ Myers' blog a million years ago, so credit where that's due.

complicating the picture is that we just don't have good evidence for how IQ does vary across populations, even before we get into the question of "how much of this variation is genetic and how much of it is not." the cross-national data on which a lot of IQ arguments have been based is really bad. and that would be assuming IQ tests are in fact good at capturing a notion of IQ that is independent of cultural context, which historically they're pretty bad at

this screed by nassim nicholas taleb (not a diss; AFAICT the guy only writes in screeds) makes a number of arguments, but one argument I find persuasive is that IQ is really only predictive of achievement in the sense that it does usefully discriminate between people with obvious intellectual disabilities and those without--but you do not actually need an IQ test for that sort of thing, any more than you need to use a height chart to figure out who is missing both their legs. in that sense, sure, IQ is predictive of a lot of things. but once you remove this group, the much-vaunted correlations between IQ and stuff like wealth just straight-up vanishes

heritability studies are a useful tool, but a tool which must be wielded carefully; they were developed for studying traits which were relatively easy to isolate in very specific populations, like a crop under study at an agricultural research site, and are more precarious when applied to, e.g., human populations

my understanding based on jonathan kaplan articles like this one is that twin studies are not actually that good at distinguishing heritable factors from environmental ones--they have serious limitations compared to heritability studies where you actually can rigorously control for environmental effects, like you can with plants or livestock.

as this post also points out, heritability studies also only examine heritability within groups, and are not really suited to examining large-scale population differences, *especially* in the realm of intelligence where there is a huge raft of confounding factors, and a lack of a really robust measurement tool.

(if we are worried about intelligence at the population level, it seems to me there are interventions we know are going to be effective and do not rely on deeply dubious scientific speculation, e.g., around nutrition and healthcare and serious wealth inequality and ofc education; and if what people actually want is to raise the average intelligence of the population rather than justify discrimination against minorities, then they might focus on those much more empirically grounded interventions. even if population differences in IQ are real and significant and point to big differences in intelligence, we know those things are worth a fair few IQ points. but most people who are or historically have been the biggest advocates for eugenics are, in my estimation, mostly interested in justifying discrimination.)

i think the claims/application of eugenics extend well beyond just intelligence, ftr. eugenics as an ideology is complex and historically pretty interesting, and many eugenicists have made much broader claims than just "population-level differences in intelligence exist due to genetic factors, and we should try to influence them with policy," but that is a useful point for them to fall back onto when pressed on those other claims. but i don't think even that claim is at all well-supported.

[maxverstappsthighs]

cooperate needs you to find the difference between this picture and this picture…

…they’re the same picture.

[something-something-sonnschein]

The Angel with the Serpent by Evelyn de Morgan, early 1870s

[dimmadoome]

I am nothing if not a details oriented person. I like to suss them out. I like to see the whole picture so I can paint one myself and of course, I've been looking at the picture of Cooper Howard.

Here are a few things I've noticed. As I've stated before, Cooper is wearing the same outfit as he was in the begging of the show. That blue, white and yellow cowboy outfit. His signature outfit. That's still there, hidden underneath the dirt and the grime and the old, ratty coat, leather vest and bandolier. You can see it in the details of the shirt and the silhouette of the hat. That has been discussed so I'm glossing over that.

Another thing I've noticed is his voice. Specifically his accent. The Ghoul and Cooper Howard have a different accent. Cooper is subdued. He's a regular man with a regular voice. Sure there is a bit if a drawl to it, but not the way The Ghoul has one. Anyone from the south knows what a real southern accent is and what a fake one is. The Ghoul uses a fake one. A larger than life one. That old Hollywood John Wayne fakeass accent. Sure his voice is more fried and that could thicken up an accent some, but that doesn't mean his accent would get more pronounced like THAT.

He's acting the part of The Ghoul. Probably to protect himself in this hellscape that he has been living in for centuries. Its clear that The Ghoul is not who he really is. Its a persona to be slapped over his real one to keep him safe so he can get to his family. I can't wait to see the next season when Lucy and her gung ho, be a good person attitude starts to rub at him more and peel back his layers to press into the soft underbelly underneath. Wether or not he wants to acknowledge it, (which he does. He knoes it already, said it already.) She's his mirror into who he truly is. He might corrupt her to keep her safe (evidenced by the fact that when he cut off her finger, she was given a rotten one in its stead) but she will be the one to pull him back from the brink of losing himself. (It was HER finger he sewed onto himself after all. Her pristine, beautiful smoothskin finger.)

I could also say the arc between Cooper's prewar self becoming disenchanted with vault tec/being betrayed by his wife juxtaposed by Lucy's arc of finding her dad/learning how he betrayed her mom and the world is also a pretty serious mirror as well.

I just.... I've got a lot of feels about Cooper and the symbolism that went into him, plus how he and Lucy are pretty clearly mirrors of eachother. I love it all and I'm gonna need more of this injected right into my brain hole. I need to lick the walls of that studio because HOLY SHIT this show has so much love and care put into everything it does.

[yuri-is-online]

I've got a theory question for tdb (bear with me, I've blazed through story so remembering the beginning is a little difficult)

So at the beginning, the anomaly we met was actively texting us right? Said something about how they've "been waiting to see us" or somethin like that

Which we know anomalies can be sentient (especially if we run with the theory with towa). And I dunno, I wanna loop in the time loop theory somewhere here. If we go with the idea of mc being the girl in the tower and her jumping before a loop maybe, then what (or who) is the anomaly we met?

I've been going through the tdb tag to see if you've mentioned it yet and no one has asked, so I figured I would bc I like bouncing theories... I need to hop on tdb reddit

SO I lurk in the discord server some people on the reddit put together and it was pointed out there that shortly after that happened the dev's other game had a Rapunzel themed event 💀💀💀 so that's what the line about the girl in the tower was likely referencing since it makes sense someone like Taiga would "not be into that shit (i.e. not his game) at all." THAT BEING SAID I am so glad you brought up the anomaly in the beginning because there's some stuff about it I find interesting.

I went and took some screenshots from the summoning and the person who commented under that little theory was right in that the person who is falling does land in the woods, so it could be that whoever jumps off of the tower at the end of the loop does end up in the woods somewhere. It might mean nothing, but I'll hold onto this thought just in case.

Dorms rarely cooperate on missions, so Taiga and Haku being on one together is odd. Taiga also does not seem to have lines referencing Haku, but he seems to have given up on trying to escape the timeloop and wants "the others" to join him in his nihilism. I think this sort of goes with his being a gambler who says there is "no trick to winning you just have keep playing" but still desperately looking to the MC for "something I could do different" or a reason. He wants to have hope again but he isn't able to.

I personally think these "others" he talks about are probably Tohma and Romeo, Tohma because he seems to be one of the more active ones working to isolate the traitor and Romeo because that's his best friend. Oh and while I am on the subject of the traitor, someone brought up to me a crack theory about Luca being the traitor and I have seen some votes for Towa too. While I obviously think that it is almost certain to be Haku, I think there is a potential for a faction split between people who agree with whatever Haku's take on the ghoul's situation is and people who agree with Tohma. Luca is a very good candidate for someone who I could see being manipulated into siding with the "evil" side if he thought it meant it was the only way to protect his brother. Towa will go wherever Haru does, and I can't really see Haru siding with Haku if it involves hurting the anomalous creatures in any way. That and Haku seems very convinced that he's in whatever he's in alone.

But to finally answer your question/talk about what's been bugging me: the anomaly who curses the MC takes her into something that reminds me of a cursed domain from JJK and turns the scenery all red. And like you said they text her! Like it's been stalking her for a long time. I hope we get to learn about how Haku's flute works in the Hotarubi chapter because I want to know how and why he was able to take MC out of the anomaly's domain and return her to the train car. That almost made me think he could control it in some way... I'll have to level his affection enough to see what his pfp is in his texts because it it is remotely similar to the one the anomaly uses I will have a stroke.

As for what the anomaly is... it's profile picture is a spider lily and it uses the name "Mina" when talking to MC. It's head has roses, spider lilies and what I think are supposed to be poppies growing on its head. Apparently there is a Chinese legend about spider lilies and I keep seeing the same text copy and pasted everywhere about it, but I feel comfortable sharing what I found since I was able to find it on Wuhan University's English website: (x)

I imagine when we meet whatever monster cursed MC it will be a bit different than whatever is going on here, but MC is talking about how "if she knew it would end like this she never would have fallen for them in the first place." Sure she's just talking about how her favorite band just broke up, but maybe that feeling drew the spirit towards her since it is attracted to/preys on lost loves.

If I am allowed to cope a whole bunch here, I think it would make for solid timeloop building if MC's feelings weren't about the band at all, but about her lost love who jumped off the building at the start of the game. Since the loop has restarted she doesn't remember him, so she thinks her feelings are and directs them towards the band she used to love, but the strength of her disappointment comes from somewhere else.

Thank you very much for your question, it made me think a whole lot!

[intheorangebedroom]

Can we just pretend that this is Frankie whispering I love you to you?

I hope you are feeling better. I miss harrassing you with asks 🧡

@deadmantis my LOVE, I always feel good when you’re in my notifs. This one has kept me awake and drove me crazy, but anything for you. They’re so stubborn, and when they don't want to cooperate... Anyway. I'm not entirely satisfied, but I don't want to keep you waiting any longer. I did my very best for you, I always do, I love you so, so much 🧡 Happy Frankie Friday to you 🧡

Summary: Three words. It's not that complicated.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Gabrielle Tourneur (OFC)/French fem!Reader.

Rating: explicit but no filth, just my gothic heart 🔞

Word count: 1.5k

[series masterlist]

Drabble: To Bring You My Love

He enjoys driving home to you nearly as much as he loves staying home with you. 

Tonight’s no different, and when Mick Fleetwood’s voice comes up on the truck’s stereo, Francisco Morales smiles to himself in the bright city night. 

He kept his promise. He fixed it. Fixed everything. Or close enough, anyway. 

Friday evenings are spent at the bar again, the same dim yellow lights, the same moist, yeasty cheap beer smell. The same table.

And Tom’s chair, loudly empty. 

Most likely thanks to Will, if he had to guess, and probably on your account more than his. But even Ironhead’s unwavering loyalty can only abide that many faults before his hard, cold rationalism takes over and prompts him to take action. 

If Tom’s absence is a consequence Frankie hadn’t anticipated, it’s one he doesn’t regret. He’s heard the man has moved down to Florida, but he doesn’t really care. The further away from you, the better. 

Pope doesn’t seem entirely dissatisfied with this new order of things, either. 

As for Benny, well Benny just follows suit, like he always does. 

The air is still a bit chill between him and Frankie, but they’re getting there, step by step. Frankie’s resentment receding along with his friend’s heartbreak, one drink at a time. 

It’s been only two years, and overall, there’s a refreshing, easy balance to their group. 

And yet, however meaningful, Tom’s departure is not the most important change.

On Friday nights, like tonight, he’s driving back to you. Whether he’ll find you already sleeping or parking your small Ford after an evening out, you’re here. For real. For good. 

He’s nearly home when his phone lights up on the empty passenger seat. His gaze rapidly flickers between the road and the screen, that glares in celadon green in the cabin’s relative darkness. It’s weather alert, forecasting heavy rainfall tomorrow, he’ll have to fight the urge to drive you to the bookstore himself. Maybe he can get away with picking you up at the end of your day? Maybe you’ll let him. You can be stubborn.

He should change that impersonal default lock screen. Put a picture of you, like Santi suggested. Santi, who proudly exhibits Yovanna’s gorgeous smile and luminous beauty to just about anyone who might look at his phone’s screen. 

Well, Frankie tried. Turns out he can’t. Not that he doesn’t have any pictures of you in his camera roll. At this point, he has hundreds. And you’re dressed in most of them. 

But putting you on display simply feels inappropriate. For years, you’d been his secret. A ghost, a memory. A feeling akin to a curse. He had kept your name silent, protecting the possibility of your existence and the reality of what had happened in the orange bedroom. 

Distracted, he re-emerges from his recurring thoughts to find himself at the front door. He considers retracing his steps to check if he locked the tuck before getting into the house, but he can’t bring himself to care. He needs to see you. The living-room’s dark but the bedroom lights are on; he takes off his jacket and gets rid of his boots before walking briskly down the carpeted corridor. 

He finds you sitting in bed, the warm glow from the bedside table casting soft orange hues on your soft face. You’re leaning over a thick book, wearing your favourite t-shirt of his, a shapeless grey cotton tee with red letters that spell “Buenos Aires” across the chest. A gift from Izzy, when he was still in the military. 

He pauses briefly on the threshold; a broad smile dimples his cheeks. 

Your eyes are still lowered on the page when you greet him in a light, happy tone. 

“Hey, gorgeous!”

“Hey, querida.”

Your head shoots up at the unusual term of endearment. He steps quickly into the room and turns his back to you to hide his embarrassment, wincing as he undoes his watch and places it on the dresser across from the bed. 

“How was the evening? How’re the guys?” you ask, and he can feel your eyes boring into his back. 

“Good. All good. Will asked me to tell you Sunday works for him. Apparently you’re supposed to know what that means,” he adds, pulling his plaid shirt above his head. 

“Oh, neat!” you exclaim, lying your book face down on the table, wiggling your feet excitedly under the sheet. “The Guggenheim has an exhibition about early 19th century Parisian painters,” you explain. 

He smiles to himself again, and proceeds to take off his belt. The heavy buckle produces a metallic thud when it hits the wooden top of the dresser.

Behind his back, your voice comes in suddenly very thin. 

“You don’t mind, do you? I never asked.”

He turns, frowning, “Mind what?”

“Me. Being friends with Will. You’re not… jealous or anything, right?”

He’s about to laugh it off, a quip on the tip of his tongue, but something stops him. Something striking, unsettling in its past familiarity and its recent scarcity. It’s in the earnestness of your tone, the sudden solemnity of your gaze.

“What if I am?” he asks instead, pivoting to face you. “What would you do? Would you stop hanging with him?”

“If you asked me, yes, I would.”

“Jesus, Gabrielle, no,” he sighs, and the sting in his chest is equal part anger and regret. The consistent stab that tears at him whenever you unwillingly reveal what you put yourself through.

He crosses the bedroom in two strides to come sit by your side on the edge of the bed.

“I’d never even consider asking you something like that, baby. Why would I–”

He trails off at your hardening face. 

You’ve straightened up in his t-shirt, and his eyes dart to your legs; with two fingers, he pinches the white sheet covering them to pull it down, revealing your underwear, and a purple mark in the shape of a pear that his mouth drew on your inner thigh this morning. 

He looks at it when he says, “You’re a free woman. And I know you’re mine.”

The contradiction settles like placid water in the amber light between your two bodies, inexplicably logical, perfectly natural. 

And the words come up in his chest, from his gut, an ancient rising tide. 

“I love you, Gabrielle.”

They ring out around you in the quiet bedroom, incongruous, not unpleasant. Warm, intimate, orange.

He loves you. Of course, he does. You know he does, you’ve always known. You’ve always loved him too. 

You’ve loved him young and carefree when it was easy and it was just the two of you. You’ve loved him to safety through countless godless nights. You’ve loved him back to you, you’ve loved him sinful and hurt, you’ve loved him without shame.

Yet, your breathing stops, your eyes widen. You remain silent. 

He lets out a disheartened chuckle, before the crease in his brow deepens and his whiskered jaw gives that telling tick that you dread. You follow his dark gaze, it’s strained on the mark on your thigh, and he swallows thickly, licking his lips and you can’t feel your legs.

“Please,” he murmurs, so low, nearly silent, and it’s right there, bright and burning against your ribcage, but it won’t come out, your mouth is too dry and your lips won’t open. 

He doesn’t lift up his eyes, instead his hand goes to your hip. He gives it a little squeeze, and you register the sensation, it travels up your body in slow ripples.

He pulls you in, sits you in his lap in a straddle, his hands roaming over your sides under his t-shirt. You let him seek the contact of your skin, how many times have the two of you sat like that? On the bed, on the floor, on the couch. In the truck or under a tent...

His denim feels too rough under your soft flesh. You recoil from the heat of his palms when he cups your face, but he catches you, firm and strong and he will never let go. 

His eyes are alight with unshed tears, or perhaps it is yours, because your vision blurs when they finally meet.  

“I need to hear you say it back. Please.”

In that tiled bathroom with the yellow light, all those years ago, you had nearly said it. To tame the wild look in his dark eyes when he had realised and briefly got scared. So early but not too soon, and the words had felt far too small in comparison to the feeling itself. You had chosen to soothe him with your touch. 

You’d been the hopeful one, then, trustful and fearless.  

Today, he is guiding you. With a light pressure of his thumb on your lower lip, the sharp edge of his nose brushing along your temple, his hand at the base of your neck grounding you, so you won’t go missing again. 

“It’s ok, baby,” he says, and you feel his words more than you hear them with the white noise filling your brain, “I know you do. Just say it. I got you.”

You close your eyes, inhale his scent. You take his hand.

“Je t’aime.”

****

[kafka-ohdear]

cooperate needs you to find the difference between this picture and this picture

[practically-an-x-man]

Souriya "Spider" Prakash-Cooper

(picrew is @potato-lord-but-not's Persona Creator, moodboard by @negative-speedforce, faceclaim is Mamoudou Athie (not pictured))

Full Name: Souriya Prakash-Cooper Pronouns: he/him (cisgender omnisexual man)

Nicknames: Spider (usual nickname), bandar (from his mom, slang term meaning "monkey" or a mischievous child) Pet Names: ??? (how do you have pet names when nobody's allowed to speak?)

Relevant Tags: #oc spider, #souriya prakash-cooper

Birthday: June 20th, 1994 Age in Chapter One: 25 (about to be 26)

Universe/Fandom: A Quiet Place, specifically Day One

Physical Traits: 6'1", with the build of a speed climber (athletic, wiry but with muscle in his shoulders, quads, and especially forearms). He has particularly large hands and a long wingspan, traits that aided his success in climbing. Of Lao, Indian, and Black American descent, he has an oval-shaped face with heavily-lidded black eyes, a wide flat nose, thick but expressive eyebrows, and a crooked smile with moderately full lips. His hair is naturally a very dark brown and between a 3B and 3C hair type, though he frequently dyes it a bright cardinal-red. It is styled as an undercut, with the top reaching down to his shoulders, though he ties it into a bun or a tight braid when he climbs. He has earlobe piercings in both ears, along with an industrial in his right ear and a septum ring in his nose.

Character Traits: Highly observant and detail-oriented, good at pattern recognition, but also a confident social butterfly who thrives around others. He's charismatic and funny, if a little eccentric, and has no problem making himself look the fool for the sake of a laugh (or for his job). He's a problem-solver by nature and good at thinking outside-the-box, though tends to struggle when said problems fall outside his skill set.

Relationships: - Family: Adhira Nanette Prakash (mother), Darius Cooper (father), Devi and Manichan "Minnie" Prakash-Cooper (sisters) - Friends: A thriving network of friends within the film business pre-apocalypse, roommates Newt and Ginger, climbing buddies "Ghost" (Jaxon), "Dart" (Sophie), and "Sparky" (DJ); post-apocalypse finds allies in Sam, Eric, Marcus (OC), and Amina (OC) - Romantic Partner: Unsure (probably Eric but I haven't sorted out the details yet-)

Additional Information: - Was born in Seattle, but moved to Los Angeles as an adult to pursue a career in foley effects - At the time of AQP:DO, he was in New York for a television project - Also was a semiprofessional speed climber, and very briefly held a world record for a 15-meter prepared climb - Regularly carries around a handheld tape recorder, and uses it to record any interesting sounds he comes across - He also tries not to tape over sounds he's already recorded (unless he absolutely has to), and has whole crates of tapes collected and labelled in his home - He understands sound extremely well and is capable of moving near-silently when he tries - a combination of his impressive body control from climbing and his innate knowledge of sound from his foley career - Has recorded the sound of the Death Angels' echolocation-clicks and uses the sound to temporarily distract them when he needs a quick escape - ^ as a whole, he chooses to imitate the creatures' noises and movements rather than attempting to remain completely silent, which is a terrifying but often effective strategy - He is a sensation-seeker and often tries to experience as many different events as he can (demolition derbies, skydiving, rage rooms, live sports and concerts, etc.) - both to collect interesting sounds and simply to enjoy the experience - His nickname, Spider, was originally given to him at his climbing gym (for his long limbs and fast, eclectic climbing style), but he later began using it in his personal life as well - ^ However, he always had himself professionally credited by his full, given name, as a credit to his parents and a refusal to Anglicanize himself for film credits - First gained his interest in foley from Bollywood films and sci-fi/horror movies, since the sound design was intriguing to him

[mcrololo]

What kind of friendship dynamics do you enjoy between your ocs?

There are so many answers to this question because when it comes to OCs and rp it's like.. you can do so many different things. So I guess my answer boils down to "as long as it's fun and interesting I'll enjoy it".

But to get more specific:

Taylor and Tiffany's sibling-like relationship. @shikariix and I never fully explored what their friendship was like before the Marchetti's adopted Taylor, but Taylor easily slipping into the annoyed little sister role while Tiff plays the patronizing older one is one of the funniest things TO ME. Taylor "I'd sell you to satan for a corn chip" Marchetti holding hands with Taylor "I'll kill anyone who tries to lay a finger on you" Marchetti (and she was gonna try in canon).

But then you have the "not friends not enemies but a secret third thing" that @peanutdream's Cooper and Cecille got going on where they always inevitably run into each other and they throw insults and punches but at the same time they help each other out of a tree or they invite the other to their birthday party. I pictured Clementine and Cole in very much the same way,,

And then you have the very soft best friends; "you can't talk about them so do you want to sing about your feelings instead?"; "I walk into my room and you're sobbing uncontrollably on my bed and I have no idea why but I'm fighting for my life to find my open pack of tissues in my bag for you and now I'm curling up to you until you've calmed down"; "no warning no context but if you need me to pretend that I'm your boyfriend so some dick will finally leave you alone, I will". @wooksbazooks' Terry and Beca (Team Berry) are everything to me

BUT THEN the ultimate tier of that ladder is Sandy and Oliver. Doomed queerplatonic relationship; "I am very much gay but you're my exception"; "would you raise a child together if I asked?"; they die a thousand deaths over and over but it will always be them, the other, the actual love of their life. Not to toot my own horn but I am still not over them and I never will

But wait! There is more! Are they friends? Enemies? Lovers? Worse? All of the above!! @shikariix ' Lillian and my Linnéa are the very definition of "I'd find you in every lifetime (to strangle you/to hold and help you/etc.) They've been through so much that they can't picture their lives without the other.... they, too, are toxic yuri

I'm also very much enjoying Chrysanthi's journey. The fun in roleplaying is that you get surprised by dynamics all the time; and for my dear 38yo chef this includes a wholesome friendship with an 18yo. I picture Chrys learning the latest slang & memes from this character, sometimes using it right and sometimes deliberately misusing it. They're the funniest duo on the rp currently to me

[slashingdisneypasta]

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!! Omg I'm so happy you like them!!! I glad I got your OC's right too ^^

Ok ok. Remember, other than Poppy, these are mainly me spitballing ideas until I find a design that works best. With that out if the way, let's get to it in alphabetical order ^^

Ben Cottontail/Ben Cooper

This is the second one I feel most assured in design. I want him to look as plain as your typical perfect school boy looks. Basically, you can tell that he values too much in the wrong things just by looking at him. I was trying to go for a strawberry blonde look, though I doubt I succeeded 😅

Henry Foxworth/Henry Worthington

Henry on the streets VS Henry being blackmailed into marriage by you-know-who. He is meant to have a more dirty, cheating Flynn Rider look. Or, as you perfectly put it, a fusion between Nick Wilde and Prince Hans. I want his hair to stick up anime style like your drawing of him showed, but this app didn't have that option XD

Moony Wolf/Marcus Wheeler

Moony's design I'm having the most trouble with. Both as a toon and a human (as a toon, I want him to look scary while also keeping the 30's-40's cartoon style. As a human, how can I humanize Moony if I don't even have his toon design fully developed? 😅). I do know I want him to be African American at least, though. And I want his eyes to be a reddish brown to best replicate his red eyes as a wolf. I tried to make him look roughed up while simultaneously make him look like he's actively taking care of himself. I still have a lot to figure out about Moony's design.

Poppy O'Hare/Sophie O'Brian

You already know what Pops looks like, but I still wanted to include her... Not to mention the blood effect did make me think of how, as friends with gangsters, she had to have witnessed at least one murder...

Shiny Weasel/Miriam Hill

I was originally going to make her Augurn, but then I realized she started to look too much like Jessica Rabbit. So bright brown hair it is XD she is also supposed to have freckles... But I forgot XD (she does wear foundation at work, though. So we'll say that this is her club look). I'm thinking about making her African American as well, or mixed race.

Terry Ratt T./Terry R. Jordan

Terry's was simultaneously fun and frustrating to do. I needed to make him look as ratty as possible XD I think this one is my favorite most of all.

Now, the most important question... Would Rena smash or pass? I'm kidding I'm kidding XDD (unless... 👀)

MOONY, my wolfy husband,

IS EVEN H O T T E R

THEN I THOUGHT.

ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?? 'roughed up while simultaneously make him look like he's actively taking care of himself'- I'm looking at him through this excellent lense, as well, and ohhhh boy ❤💕❤💕❤💕

I love how Ben has such an angel face XD And HENRY OH MY LORD- you wnat me to throw away my morals dont you?? You want me to throw off the Hunt?? Call Greasy and Bugs off the search for him dead or alive??? I refuse!! No! XD But he is hot 😅XD Oh my lord.

Poppy, of course ^^ She's so pretty ^^ And now that we have the guys looks, I'm having a lot of fun picturing that sweet lady with them!! Her and Moony are p a r t i c u l a r l y cute! XD

SHINY IS B E A U T I F U L !!! I love her hair and eye make up! Its not what I was expecting at all but its different and unique and so Her!! Kinda like a beautiful and colourful, dangerous bird or plant-- which is SO SHINY!

And... I just love how ratty Terry is XDD Love him definitely XD

~

Omg is that a real question??? THE ANSWER IS YES. RENA WOULD SMASH THEM ALL. So would Ryan (Well- Moony, Poppy, Terry and Shiny (though she and her drama are on thin ice- he already has Kingston and his drama's to put up with) at least. Platonically XD If they needed it and simply asked.).

[best-titan-7274]

Loved your drabbles so far! :) maybe bt picking up cooper like a hamburger and carrying him around (it's a separation anxiety thing) and him being so used to it he just keeps doing what he was doing before while being held. Or doing the good o'l fastball special when other pilots are around. Knowing pilots, getting yeeted by your titan will be a sport in no time lol

Hope you find these useful :)

On the topic of fan songs "man and machine" by miracle of sound is one I know of

Oh man I love Miracle of Sound, the Bioshock and Fury Road songs especially are 10/10

Jack’s well on his way to the training grounds when something swoops him up from behind. Normally, most people would panic about something like that, because it doesn’t happen too often.

But Jack is forever bonded with a giant robot who doesn’t like being alone, so he’s used to BT scooping him up at random moments. BT says it’s only when he sees something of concern in the environment, but Jack’s not too convinced. He’s pretty sure that sometimes BT just likes to have something to hold.

Like people who have cats, right? Sometimes you gotta just pick them up to keep them out of trouble. BT thinks that Jack gets into a lot of trouble, too, but Jack strongly disagrees with that. The water balloon incident, and jumping off the roof without asking if BT was here first, and talking back to his commanding officer at the suggestion of leaving his Titan behind, and driving the way he does, and cold-cocking Davis, they were all calculated decisions.

Maybe not calculated well, but calculated all the same. Just because BT’s better at numbers doesn’t mean he’s going to understand human calculations.

Of course, that’s because BT insists that there is no way to understand humans because they’re so illogical, but Jack’s been making headway. He got BT to understand the appeal of video games, even. Or maybe BT just wanted to get out of the illogical conversation and go back to… whatever he does in the hangar, when they don’t have a fight to run to.

“Hey, BT,” he says, aiming for a casual tone. “You wanna put me down, buddy?”

“No, Pilot Cooper.”

“Then can I embark?”

“There is no need. You are perfectly safe where you are.”

He’s also got his legs dangling in the air like he’s a misbehaving small animal of some kind, and he’s pretty sure it’s only so long before there’s a picture circulating around the Pilots’ social networks. He’d like to maintain whatever dignity he can.

“If you drop me, won’t you step on me?” he asks.

“Correct. However, the likelihood of you falling is so slim as to negate any concern.”

Robots and their numbers.

“What if I get slippery or something?”

“Humans do not produce mucus in such quantities.”

“C’mon, BT, throw me a bone, here.”

“I would never throw anything at you. You could be injured.”

Right. The whole protocol about not firing in a Pilot’s direction without targeting systems. Honestly, Jack would have appreciated a blind strafe while he used his jump kit to get into the air, but it was hard to think of any strategies while being shot at. He’s pretty squishy compared to BT.

“You throw me at things, though,” Jack points out. “What’s the difference?”

“Your trajectory is much easier to compute. I am familiar with your shape and mass. An object I have never seen before is a much bigger risk.”

“Aw, you’re looking out for me. That’s so sweet.”

“Protocol 3 requires it.”

BT does have a way of ruining nice moments with his logic. Jack’s not annoyed with him, though. He rarely is.

“Can you throw me at something near the training grounds instead of carrying me the whole way?” It’s a bit of a last-ditch effort, but it beats dangling like a ferret for the rest of the walk. Getting fastballed is a lot of fun, too, and an adrenaline rush just like piloting a Titan.

“This is acceptable,” BT says. He moves his hands together a little bit at a time, giving Jack plenty of room to move to crouch in one of BT’s hands instead of being held between them.

Good thing he’s got his jump kit, because otherwise, BT would never consider this.

“Ready when you are, BT.”

“Calculating. Recalculating. Finalising. Complete.”

And that’s all the warning Jack gets before he’s launched into the air at a bajillion miles an hour. Not the formal, scientific unit, but nothing about this is formal.

“Good job, BT,” he yells from the rooftop, giving a double thumbs up even though BT probably can’t see it at this distance. He’s lucky he had his helmet with him, too, or the wind burn would have been unbelievable.

“Did something just throw Cooper?” he hears below him, and peers over the edge of the roof. He’s three or four times higher than he’d ever go without his jump kit, and he’s kind of surprised anyone can tell who he is from the ground level.

Still, he steps off the edge, letting the stomach-flipping gravity of freefall wash over him for a few too-short seconds before he has to engage the jump kit to avoid splattering on the ground.

“What’s up?” he asks, tucking his helmet under his arm like he does stuff like that every day. Not nearly, but every mission… that’s a closer mark.

“How’d you get up there?” Martinez demands, clearly already trying to figure out a way to get launched herself.

Jack grins, knowing that he’s about to introduce an absolutely bone-breaking form of entertainment to the other knuckleheaded adrenaline junkies that he shares the base with. This can only end in disaster, but he’ll be sure to bring some nice get-well-soon balloons to medbay.

“So when I need to get somewhere fast,” he begins, “BT gives me a hand.”

“Incorrect,” BT says. “I have never given you any of my extremities.”

“Thank you for clarifying,” Jack says, like he always does, even when the clarification is annoying. “And for everyone else!” He grins and claps his hands together. “Let me introduce you to the fastball.”

[angrywhispers7]

Horoscope for Tuesday, December 24, 2024

Aries (March 21-April 19) - An average day

You feel pulled between feeling friendly and outgoing on the one hand, and yet attracted to the desire to be alone on the other hand. At different times, we all have these contradictions. Therefore, be careful about the promises you make or whatever you agree to. Be realistic.

Taurus (April 20-May 20) - An average day

Your desire to travel and explore the world and reach out for exciting adventure is tempered by obligations to a friend, or a group. Or possibly, someone older is critical of you or holding you back in some way? You can handle this dance because you are the financial wizard of the zodiac.

Gemini (May 21 - June 20) - A positive day

You feel playful, upbeat and energetic. However, parents, authority figures and older family members have requirements that you have to meet, and it seems whatever they are, these requirements might clip your wings a bit. Look for a happy compromise. Enjoy what you can, and meet the expectations of others.

Cancer (June 21 - July 22) - An average day

Be cooperative with partners and close friends today. And be patient with others because you need more sleep right now, and if you’re not getting extra sleep, you could be cranky or moody.

Leo (July 23 - Aug 22) - An average day

Playful opportunities and invitations from friends, groups and organizations might come your way; however, financial restrictions and obligations could limit your chance to enjoy these social outings. This could be a disappointment. Fortunately, your focus on work and relations with partners is excellent.

Virgo (Aug 23 - Sept 22) - An average day

Today it’s tough balancing your need for play, fun diversions and entertaining adventures with your obligations to others. You are caught in the classic scenario of: “what the large print giveth, the small print taketh away.” Good luck.

Libra (Sept 23 - Oct 22) - An average day

You might have to delay travel plans and chances to explore exciting opportunities because of work or health obligations. Or perhaps, limitations based on health issues or taking care of a pet. This is one of those days where you can’t have it all.

Scorpio (Oct 23 - Nov 21) - An average day

This could be a good day to explore getting a mortgage or financial backing or a loan because you can benefit from the wealth and resources of others right now. Gifts and goodies might come your way. However, restrictions, perhaps with your kids, might cloud the picture with obligations you can’t ignore.

Sagittarius (Nov 22 - Dec 21) - An average day

Today you want the freedom to do your own thing, especially to relate to those who are close to you, as well as members of the general public. Nevertheless, responsibilities related to home and family will restrict your actions and choices. Cope with this as best you can given these restrictive parameters.

Capricorn (Dec 22 - Jan 19) - An average day

Even though issues related to your job and your health are promising at the moment, in another part of the forest, job changes, residential moves and difficulty in dealing with relatives and neighbors could create some problems. You will have to make choices.

Aquarius (Jan 20 - Feb 18) - An average day

Financial limitations might restrict you today in your social options, especially when it comes to fun diversions with friends, exploring the arts and the entertainment world, sports events and fun activities with children. Find ways to have fun that cost less. Don’t increase your debt.

Pisces (Feb 19 - March 20) - An average day

Family gatherings and interactions with relatives and people at home will be positive and friendly today. Nevertheless, your laid-back, easygoing style could be at odds with someone who is taking control and over planning things. You knew this would happen. Do what you can to keep the peace.

[jhsharman]

ferocious fems, the chaperone

Dexter Taylor may have something here, the young ones prone to skipping any even unreasoned argument and just physically pounding at each other.

Okay. So. Football, of all things, in 1949. But. The reason? They need to raise money for what they really care about, a beauty pageant! Okay, fingering that fine line between sexism and misogyny.

1975. A girls' baseball team. Is that particularly crazy from this vantage point? Yes, the first blushing of Title 9 did have some women with zero interest before scholarship opportunities pulled them in -- anecdotally I know a couple woman who never picked up a stick before and for that matter ever again but now were indeed in the early 1970s woman's hockey players -- and a women's athletic culture developed from here after being squelched for quite some time. But. We are a year off from Amanda Whurlitzer as the star pitcher of The Bad News Bears. Betty Cooper herself is a good baseball player over the past two decades when the story calls for it, and not good when the story calls for that. Actually, from whence comes everyone joining a baseball team for its own sake off of the comically exaggerated amount of ignorance we will see?

The mainline Archie version has some teen boys horny to see these "dolls in action". Not a plot point that is going to be adapted to Little Archie, though I do have to wonder about Little Mr. Weatherbee here -- probably just how I assign the line in the original. Semi-cutely, Little Archie sneaks us some zap action from Little Sabrina. The one thing with this era of Little Archie is where we see a good reason a reader would view much of the material as stuck in the 1950s, the Little Sabrina slot comes in new.

I have no clue what size crowd my high school's Powder Puff game drew. The only reason I know there was at least one was that I was in the same room while some of the planning took place, hearing them deciding on where to limit it to as short a time as they could get away with because -- really no one was there to see some great competition. Today you can probably scour old yearbooks to find pictures from these events to see if you can embarrass a politician making hay over a Drag Queen Story Hour.

The abstractions of money get lost in the Little Archie version, dollars traded in for sodas. Conflict of interest anyways -- what athletic association allows the umpire / referee from one of the same schools? Jughead is corruptible -- 1957's "Buck Chuck!" Is this same gag.

The line on "The deuce / to heck with the ball" gets a different meaning with the Little Archie variant, an extension of their ignorance on the game as opposed to the desire to just kick the living snot out of the other girls for perceived personal gain.

The "playing rough", I should note, was run of the mill baseball playing -- ball hit toward you, tagging you out. But. Either way, melee time. And after this they beat the living snot out of Reggie. The End.