#finally have a good reason to use them >:)

[markrosewater]

I want to speak out against the whole push towards DEI. I feel that ever since you made the push to make identity the forefront of a character it has hurt the stories you tell. Captain Sisay's race was never the focus of her character and she was a complete badass! And I fear if you did it over again Gerrard would be trans, black and disabled just because. It also cheapens the stories of world devastation when characters worry more about their gender than Bolas destroying everything.

The reason I started this blog is so we can have frank conversations about things, so please let’s talk about this.

Imagine if every time you turned on the TV or watched a movie, no one looked like you. For some of us, that’s never happened. We see ourselves constantly, so it’s hard to truly understand what not seeing yourself represented in media is like.

I do have a personal window to this experience. While I am white and male, there’s an area where I am the minority - my religion. Jews are just under two and a half percent of the US population. I have had many experiences where I’ve been in situations where everything is geared towards a group I do not belong to, and zero consideration is given that not everyone at that event is part of the majority.

You just feel invisible and like an outsider. It’s not a great feeling. And I just experience it a tiny portion of time, only things that are geared specifically towards something religious. Most minorities have this feeling all the time, whenever they’re outside their personal community.

Now imagine, after years of not seeing yourself ever, you finally see someone that looks like you, but nothing about the character rings remotely true. They don’t sound like you, they don’t act like you, the facts about their day-to-day life are just wrong. It’s clear whoever wrote the character didn’t truly understand the lived experience of the character, so the character feels fake.

You bring up Sisay. Michael Ryan and I didn’t technically create Sisay (she played a small role in the Mirage story), but we did do a lot to flesh out her character as the creators of the Weatherlight Saga. We turned her from a minor character into a major one.

And while I’m proud, in general, of our work on the Weatherlight Saga, I don’t think we did justice to Sisay as a character. Neither Michael nor I have any knowledge of what it’s like to be a black woman. Nor did we ever talk to someone who did.

And if you’re someone like us that has no knowledge of that experience, you probably didn’t notice. But that doesn’t mean it’s a good thing.

Imagine if we made a movie about your life, and we just made everything up. We invented people you never knew, we gave you a job you never had, and we had you say things you’d never say. The movie might even be a good movie, but your response would be, but that’s not my life - that’s not me.

Now imagine we put the movie out, and people that never met you assumed that was what you were like. When people met you for the first time, they assumed things, because, you know, they’d seen the movie.

That’s what misrepresenting people does. It not only makes them feel not seen, it falsely represents them, spreading lies, often stereotypes, making people believe things about them that aren’t true.

Our move towards diversity is just us trying to better reflect the world and the people in it. We’re trying to do to everyone else what a certain portion of people get every day without ever having to think about it.

But why are we “making it the forefront of their character”? We’re not. We’re making it a part of their character. But in a world where you’re not used to ever seeing it, it feels louder than it is. Things that are a natural part of the world that you’re used to feel like the background of the story because you understand the context to it.

If a man kisses his wife before going off to a battle, that’s not a big deal. It’s just a thing a husband might do to his wife when he leaves. It’s not the forefront of his character. It’s just part of his life. But you’ve seen it hundreds of times, so it feels normal.

When someone does something that isn’t your lived experience it pulls focus. It seems like a big deal, but only because it’s new to you. It’s just as mundane a thing to that character as the man kissing his wife is to him.

Even the turn “pushing” implies that it’s unnaturally here, that we’re forcing something that naturally shouldn’t be. But why? That thing exists naturally in the real world, and it doesn’t make the real world any less. Maybe you’re less aware of it, but is making you aware of how others live their life “pushing” something on you?

How you live your life is represented constantly, everywhere. Why isn’t over-representing your experience at the expense of everyone else’s “pushing” it? Why is media only being the experience of those in power the “proper way”?

Having more depth and variety doesn’t lessen stories. It makes them deeper, more rich, more nuanced. In short, it makes them better stories. In my former life, I was a professional writer. I took a lot of writing classes. One of the truism of writing is “speaking truth leads to better stories”.

There’s another famous quote: “When you’re accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression.” You’re used to being over-represented, so being a little less over-represented feels like something has been taken from you. But really it hasn’t. Having a better sense of the rest of the world comes with a lot of benefits.

I’ll use food as an example. Let’s say all you were ever exposed to was the food of your heritage. Yeah, that food is really good, but sometimes isn’t it nice to eat foods of other nationalities? Isn’t your life better that you have a choice? Isn’t your exposure and access to the food of other nationalities a positive in your life?

Exposure to variety is a positive. It allows you to learn about things you didn’t know, experience things things you’ve never experienced, and get a better sense of understanding of your friends and neighbors.

Our actions are not to harm anyone, and if you think that’s what we’re doing, please take a minute to actually absorb what I’m saying. You’ve spent your whole life metaphorically eating one type of food, and we’re just trying to show you how much you’ve missed out on.

And while this might not impact you directly, we’re making a whole bunch of people felt seen. We’re bringing joy. Think of it this way. We make a lot of cards. Not every card is for you. But if it makes someone else happy, if they get to include it in a deck, and it makes Magic better for them, how is it harming you that we include it? You have so many cards that you can play.

To this poster or people that share their viewpoint, the narrative that a gain for someone else is an attack on you is just not true. As I just pointed out above, you play a game all about personal choice, about players getting to choose how they play and enjoy the game. Why should life be any different than Magic?

Thanks for reading.

[trashytracktales]

okay I know how everything is always about reader but I need you to write something about giving lando the pleasure he deserves.. like a nasty bj. I’ve seen so many edits of him with the song “dangerous woman” and it screeeeaaams smut. hope you’re seeing this vision and I love your work, i’d be so happy if you could bring it to life bc you’re my fav blog on here <3

Wanna bet? | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── A bit shorter than usual, but I haven’t posted anything in almost 2 weeks, and this request was the perfect excuse. Thank you so much for your support!! Hope you like it 🤍🎀

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✧₊⁺ summary ──── After a particular tiring day at work, Lando comes back home to his girlfriend, happy to fall asleep next to her. Unfortunately, he has a habit of not thinking before he speaks so, next thing she knows, she’s determined to prove him wrong. As many times as possible.

✧₊⁺ pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

✧₊⁺ rating ──── explicit

✧₊⁺ category ──── F/M

✧₊⁺ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, established relationship, descriptive language, oral sex ─ (m)receiving, somnophilia (consensual, implied), teasing and a bit of edging, swearing, mild dominance.

✧₊⁺ word count ──── 2.9k

✧₊⁺ date ──── Feb. 10, 2025

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THEY DIDN’T TEXT much throughout the day, because she knows how busy he’s been at work lately. Instead, she follows the same routine she recently fell into: she wakes up next to him, they have a quick breakfast together, then watches the door Lando rushes out every morning for a good half hour, contemplating. After that, she occupies the rest of the day with her own work, or curled up with a book on the couch, waiting for the same damn door to open.

The moment she hears the familiar jingle of keys, she looks up with the same excitement as yesterday, and the day before, and the day before…

Lando steps inside, looking exhausted. His curls are a mess from the cap he’s been wearing all day, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, and there are faint shadows beneath his eyes, evidence of a long day at the MTC.

He barely manages a tired smile when he sees her, “Hey, pretty,” says Lando, dropping his bag by the door before trudging towards her.

She gets up, arms already outstretched in anticipation. He’s almost melting into her embrace, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her scent in. For some reason, his deep sigh gives away more than words ever could, and she catches it instantly.

“Rough day?” the girl asks, rubbing soothing circles into his back. His muscles are tensed, yet soft under her palm.

Lando groans in response, tightening his hold on her. “You have no idea,” he exhales, relieved that he’s finally home.

“Oh, baby. I think I do,” she teases, pulling back to look at him, “You smell like grease and exhaustion.”

He chuckles, eyes twinkling despite his fatigue. “That bad?”

She scrunches her nose dramatically, “Mhm. Go shower, stinky. I’ll wait for you in bed.”

Lando doesn’t argue. He presses a quick kiss to her temple before shuffling toward the bathroom, stripping his hoodie off along the way. She watches him disappear behind the door, then heads to the bedroom, where she starts fluffing his pillows and making sure his side of the bed is just the way he likes it: neat sheets, a warm blanket, and her, not-so-patiently waiting for him on her side.

By the time Lando steps out of the shower, towel slung low around his hips, he looks slightly more alive. His damp curls cling to his forehead, and he’s rubbing a hand through them as he walks toward the bed.

“You’re an angel, you know that?” he asks with a wide smile on his face, noticing her efforts to make his night a bit easier.

Lando grabs the towel from around his waist, using it to dry his curls, completely unbothered by his own nakedness. She follows his big frame as he crosses the room, mesmerized, while the muscles in his back shift with each movement; in moments like this, she percieves Lando as a man that’s so effortlessly graceful. There’s something almost god-like about him, she thinks, like a sculpture carved by the hands of an artist obsessed with perfection: the sharp lines of his shoulders, the defined curve of his spine and, most distracting of all, the firm shape of his ass.

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as he reaches for a fresh pair of boxers, blissfully unaware of the effect he has on her, pulling them up over his hips in one smooth motion.

Then, he simply slips beneath the blanket with a sigh. “Got the weekend for ourselves, but at what cost?” he chuckles, “I’m so tired, I swear I could sleep through an earthquake,” Lando yawns, stretching out before shooting her a lazy grin. “You could even blow me in the morning, I won’t be moved, baby! Dead asleep for the next couple of days.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes.

Wanna bet?

“Oh, nice,” she ends up saying, trying her best not to sound offended.

“Just saying,” he smiles mischievously, already halfway to dreamland.

The girl shakes her head, humming at his words, but doesn’t contradict him. Instead, she shifts closer once he flips on his stomach, and starts running her nails lightly up and down his back, the way she knows he loves. At that, Lando’s body relaxes almost immediately, a soft sigh of contentment slipping past his lips.

Patiently, she starts drawing lazy patterns over his skin, listening intently as his breathing slows. And suddenly, seeing him falling asleep while she gently scratches his back, she realizes that all the waiting during the day is worth it, as long as Lando will always return to their bed at the end of it.

With a small smile on her face, she watches as his long fingers loosen their grip around the pillow, and the crease between his eyebrows fades.

And, despite his earlier comment, she makes a tiny mental note to prove him wrong in the morning.

THE FIRST THING she notices when she wakes up is how hot she is.

Lando’s entire weight presses against her body, his arm draped over her waist, and his face buried in the crook of her neck. He always sleeps like this, clinging to her even in unconsciousness, as if he can’t stand the thought of being deprived of her touch for one second. His breath is steady against the skin of her neck, while his curls are tickling her shoulder.

She sighs softly, shifting just enough to glance at the clock on the nightstand — it’s almost noon, and as much as she wants to stay like this and let Lando sleep in, cocooned in his arms, her bladder has other plans. So, carefully, she attempts to get out of his embrace, prying his arm from around her waist inch by inch.

Lando grumbles in protest, fingers flexing against her hip, but he doesn’t wake up that easily.

When she finally manages to slip out of bed, she tiptoes toward the bathroom, casting one last glance at him over her shoulder: still dead asleep, sprawled out now, his curls a mess against the pillow. That’s when she remembers his words from the night before, and her lips curl into a knowing smirk.

After she returns, she finds Lando on his back, the sheets tangled between his legs, one arm resting above his head to block the only ray of light that, ironically, landed on his face. She crosses the bedroom to pull the curtains all the way, and the room immediately floods in a semi-dark filter.

Then silently, she slides back into bed, her hands ghosting over his skin as she untangles the sheets. He looks painfully beautiful in the morning, the warmth radiating from his body seeping into her fingertips. She takes her time, letting her touch linger as she traces absentminded patterns over his stomach.

Lando shifts slightly, but his breathing remains even, somehow encouraging her hand to move lower.

The fabric of his boxers is soft beneath her fingers, but what catches her attention is the heat beneath it, and the hardening shape of his cock as she palms him gently. At that, a slow exhale leaves Lando’s lips, his hips tilting just slightly, but he gets sucked back into his sleep like it never happened.

She continues her cautious movements, fingertips pressing more firmly, drawing lazy strokes through the fabric. His body is responding instinctively, his cock hardening beneath her touch with each passing second. The faintest hitch in his breath makes something curl low in her stomach, and her pulse quickens as she slips her hand beneath the waistband, feeling the smooth, hot skin against her palm.

Lando stirs, a muted noise escaping through his lips, but his body is still heavy next to her.

She bites her lip to stop a whimper coming out, watching him closely as she runs her thumb along the tip, feeling the slick warmth there. A shiver rolls through him, Lando’s hips shifting again, just a little bit, as if seeking more of her touch.

Without even realizing, her mouth goes dry, her own breath unsteady now. Her cheeks burn as she looks at him, laid out beneath her. He’s thick and heavy in her hand, the heat of him searing against her palm. She strokes him slowly, teasingly, scanning the way his body reacts even without full consciousness.

The memory of his taste lingers on her tongue before she’s even taken him in — warm, heady, Lando. The anticipation is making her head spin as she pumps him once, twice, three times, feeling the way he throbs while wrapped around her hand.

With one goal in mind, she leans in, letting her lips brush against his hip, just barely, teasing herself as much as him. And then, with intent, she replaces her hand with her mouth — inviting and wet and ready to take him in without hesitation. Her lips are parting around his length, and the first thing that strikes her is the way he pulses against her tongue, the skin velvet-smooth over the rigid firmness beneath. The faint taste of salt lingers, a mix of him and the remnants of her teasing, making her stomach tighten with want.

She moves meticulously at first, savoring the weight of him, and the stretch of her lips as she takes him deeper. Then, without meaning to, a soft moan escapes her, vibrating around him; the sound surprises her, but not as much as the way Lando reacts at the sensation, a deep, unconscious whine slipping from his parted lips. It makes her smirk against his skin, but she doesn’t rush the process. This is about proving a point, about making him regret the words he so carelessly tossed at her the night before.

Her tongue moves with purpose now, swirling over the sensitive skin as she works him up with rhythmic strokes of her hand. She can’t take him all the way in her mouth, but that doesn’t mean she won’t try to ruin him in every other way.

When he throbs against her tongue again, that’s her sign to start sucking, her lips sealing around his cock as her tongue swirls over the sensitive ridge beneath his tip. The slick sounds that follow, a mix of her spit and his pre-cum, are animated by her breath that’s both shallow and eager.

She pulls him out with a wet pop, licking around the head, teasing the slit before dragging her tongue from base to tip, savoring every inch of him. Then she takes him in again, deeper this time, her pace steady, determined to draw out every last reaction from him.

And luckily, a soft sound escapes Lando’s lips — a barely-there whimper, the kind that makes her thighs press together instinctively. He stirs, his hand moving as if to find her, but when his fingers meet the empty pillow on her side instead of her warm body, he shifts, confused. His lashes flutter, brows furrowing just as he blinks himself into consciousness.

Then it hits him.

The wet heat of her mouth.

The torturous rhythm of her tongue.

The way her fingers work in tandem, stroking him with just enough pressure to have his breath catching in his throat.

She should stop now that she managed to wake him up. Nothing would be more satisfying then hearing him begging for release, first thing in the morning. But then, Lando inhales sharply, and exhales deeply with a throaty sound, as his head falls back against his pillow. Seeing what she does to him is better then hear him beg at the moment, so she continues with her movements, as dedicated as ever.

“Fuck,” Lando’s voice is hoarse, sleep-rough and so wrecked already.

She peeks up at him, making sure he’s watching when she takes him deeper, then she makes sure to keep eye contact as she presses her tongue insistently against the sensitive slit at his tip.

Lando’s reaction is instant: a sharp moan, hips twitching involuntarily while his hand finds her hair. His fingers tighten, not pushing, just holding, desperately needing to anchor himself to reality since she’s pulling him under so effortlessly.

“Shit, baby,” he breathes, eyes dark and hooded as he looks down at her.

She smirks with his cock in her mouth, the curve of her lips sinful as she bats her lashes, feigning innocence. Lando lets out a strangled laugh, but it quickly dissolves into another moan when she presses her tongue more firmly against his swollen tip, sucking just a little harder.

He is panting now, his grip in her hair tightening just as his hips lift slightly, torn between wanting to let her have her way and the desperate urge to fuck her mouth.

“You’re—fuck, you’re divine,” he praises, “So fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth.”

She hums as his thighs twitch beneath her, his chest rising and falling in shaky breaths. She can feel how close he is, his muscles tensing, his grip on her hair turning almost desperate. But just when he’s teetering on the edge, she pulls away with yet another obscene little pop.

Lando whines, his head snapping to glare at her, but she only grins, sliding up to lie beside him. Her hand never stops, though, her fingers still wrapped around his cock, stroking at an infuriatingly agonizing pace.

“Still think you’d sleep through it?” she teases, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Lando groans, hips shifting restlessly beneath her touch. “You’re evil.”

She chuckles, pressing a kiss to his jaw as her hand picks up speed. “And?”

“I love it.”

A couple more strokes, a slight twist of her wrist, and Lando comes with a shuddering moan, his release spilling hot all over his lower stomach. His entire body tenses beneath her before melting back into the mattress, so sweetly spent. He’s beautiful like this — flushed and panting, his curls falling against his forehead.

Lando lets out another shaky breath, chest still heaving, before cracking an exhausted, blissed-out smile. “I never questioned your ability to blow me, you know. I talk trash when I’m tied, but this is the first time I’m glad I did.”

She smiles, leaning in to kiss him, the gesture so natural. By the time she pulls away, he looks utterly wrecked.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says against his lips, smug and entirely pleased with herself.

Lando huffs out a breathless laugh, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. She tries to move, but before she can so much as shift, Lando’s arms tighten around her. With effortless strength, he pulls her back into his embrace, rolling her until she’s straddling his waist.

“Not so fast,” he says, his voice still thick with sleep, lips brushing against her jaw.

The sudden change in positions makes her gasp, her thighs pressing instinctively around him. His hands settle at her waist, warm and firm, holding her like she belongs nowhere else but on top of him. She can feel him beneath her, so warm and solid, the remnants of his pleasure sticky against the soft fabric of her panties.

The realization makes heat raising up her neck and cheeks.

Lando notices, and his half-lidded gaze flickers up to meet hers, dark amusement glinting in his tired yet satisfied eyes. “Yeah?” he hums, tilting his head back against the pillow. He guides her hips just slightly, his grip lazy but intentional, watching the way she shivers at the sensation. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

She doesn’t answer, but the way she bites her lower lip gives it away.

One of his hands slides beneath her shirt, fingers tracing the soft skin of her thigh before hooking around the edge of her panties. He tugs them aside so easily, and the moment the cool air meets her sensitive skin, she lets out a sharp breath.

“Well,” Lando’s voice is barely louder than a sleepy mumble now, raspy and dripping with satisfaction. “Let’s see what can I do for you, baby.”

His fingers tease over her clit, featherlight at first, enough to make her body jolt at the sensitivity. Then, with slow precision, he brings his hand to his stomach and gathers the remnants of his release on his fingertips, using it to spread it over her as he traces slow, torturous circles against her entrance. The sensation makes her body melt, a soft whimper slipping past her lips as her hips rock instinctively into his touch.

Lando groans at the reaction, his own breath stuttering slightly. “So eager, aren’t you?” he asks, letting his fingers slip further, dipping between her folds, feeling just how ready she already is to take whatever he has to offer.

The girl gasps, nails digging into his shoulders as her body clenches around nothing when he pulls his finger out, craving much more. Lando grins lazily beneath her, rubbing agonizing circles over her most sensitive spot before pressing two fingers inside this time, the stretch both delicious and teasing.

She shudders, her thighs twitching as she tries to close them, but he doesn’t let her. Lando’s free hand grips her hip, keeping her open just enough for him to keep teasing.

“Bet I can make you come just from this, hm? What do you say?”

He’s not even trying, and she knows he can do it. He’s done it before, and they both remember exactly how wrecked she was when he did. So, she doesn’t hate the thought and, as she tilts her head slightly, her lips are curling into a smug little smirk.

“Bet?” she asks, knowing she’ll win, no matter the outcome.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[zomboivex]

Getting personal for a moment. But I feel it’s important to share, anyways.

When I was married, everyone in my life gaslit me to believe I was terrible with managing my money. Any personal expensive was noted as frivolous and wasteful. Bought some fabric for my hobby of dress-making with money I earned from a bonus?

That could have been used for the water bill next month!

Had a $1000 bonus? No. That’s for the house mortgage that he didn’t let my name exist on even though I paid for majority of the renovations because he was content letting the kitchen sit in disarray with thick dust in the air. Causing me to have severe allergy attacks every day.

Called off sick?

How could you? We have bills to pay!!!!

Go through extreme harassment at work?

No. You’re making it up. It’s an excuse to take a day off and relax.

Ignore the fact that he called off regularly because he had headaches while I was shamed into going to work despite having the flu.

Set up a joint account where only I contributed to put money in for bills to pay. Because he would pay from his account. Then he’d constantly drain the joint account for ‘bills’ and then spend his money on who even knows. We had 2 maxed out credit cards in his name.

But this was so normal to me. Because I grew up like this. I grew up with my ‘support system’ telling me this is normal. Telling me that I am the problem.

And I believed it.

I believed that everything that was wrong was me.

I didn’t know he was $7,000 in debt until our divorce where he was demanding I pay it off.

I never did find out what he used that money on. I suspect it was on his gaming addiction and my alleged ‘best friend’ he was sleeping with.

When I finally got out of that relationship, I was in financial ruin. I had nothing in my name. At 30.

I lost everything. (Except for the car that I begged for him to let me take and 3 of my 4 cats).

I lost the house I lived in for years. It was all in his name. There was nothing I could do about it. Because we were ‘only married for 3 years’ despite being together for 10.

I had no furniture to take with me. Save for a couch. That I couldn’t actually take because I had no place to go. I was couch surfing or sleeping in my car at this time.

I lost my dream job because my ‘friend’ worked there as well. And while they were beyond accommodating to my situation, I could no longer mentally handle being there nor could I handle the hour drive once I did find a place to live.

$1000 down on a new apartment.

Car broke down a month later. $1000 down on a new car.

Said car was stolen twice. Can’t even begin to tell you how much money that leeched out of my savings.

$23,000 (with health insurance) for surgery due to appendicitis.

All in a year after divorce.

It was defeating. It was so fucking hard.

In a span of a year I went through multiple life crises events. I can feel how it physically changed my ability to process information. In a way, I’ve become ‘dumber’ because of it. I can’t hold onto information. I have a hard time reading and staying focused.

Only reason I was able to even financially get through all of that was because I had some money saved from a lawsuit at the job that was harassing me that I wound up winning after the divorce. That and I finally caved in and got a credit card (my credit score was good) and a couple of personal loans.

I’m still paying it all off. It has been so fucking hard.

And I’ve been going through waves of hating myself for being so naive to feeling terrible for what I’ve been through because I didn’t see anything wrong with what I experienced as it was happening. And I’m finally coming to my own form of peace with this. But it was hard.

I had been with him for 10 years.

I don’t love easily. But I did love him. Even if I showed it in odd ways. I wouldn’t have married him, otherwise.

And then when everyone around me said I was the problem, I believed them.

Even now, I have an incredibly hard time understanding when I am truly in the wrong with a situation or if my reaction to things are justified.

I didn’t realize I was being put through mental and financial abuse by so many people around me.

I wish I could hug me from a few years ago and let them know they are so strong for going through all of this. But that they shouldn’t have had to be so strong for so long.

I wish I could hug every woman on the planet that has been through anything where they had to ‘be strong’ to survive while thinking it’s normal.

Baby, it’s not normal. You deserve so much more in this world.

You deserve your own freedom and a support system that values you and lets you know when you’re going through actual bullshit instead of painting you as the villain.

To all the women out there who go through these things; I love you. I see you.

maybe i’m a joyless bitch but i actually do NOT think it’s funny to see women being like “the house is just in my husbands name” or “my husband makes all the money” or “i don’t even know who our mortgage is with” or “the only bank account/credit card is his and i get an allowance” like i do NOT find that cute or romantic and i am begging these women to Stand Up. you should at least be named on the deed to your house and the title to your car and the bank accounts even if you don’t pay for them/earn all the money. you can’t stop existing in the eyes of the law and the credit unions simply because you have a husband. if you’re raising his children and washing his socks half of everything he’s got is yours and it needs to be yours LEGALLY BY NAME. "he takes such good care of me :)" girl you are a PRISONER!! that’s all

[steddieas-shegoes]

not to me

for @steddielovemonth inspired by the quote “I’ll take care of you” “it’s rotten work” “not to me. Not if it’s you”

rated t | 947 words | cw: injury recovery | tags: pre-relationship, post-Vecna, friends to lovers, getting together, first kiss, disabled Eddie Munson

👨🏻‍🦽‍➡️👨🏻‍🦽‍➡️👨🏻‍🦽‍➡️👨🏻‍🦽‍➡️👨🏻‍🦽‍➡️👨🏻‍🦽‍➡️👨🏻‍🦽‍➡️👨🏻‍🦽‍➡️👨🏻‍🦽‍➡️👨🏻‍🦽‍➡️👨🏻‍🦽‍➡️

“Fuck!” Eddie yells as he throws his hands up in frustration.

He’s been trying to stand on his own for days now, and the furthest he’s gotten is pulling himself most of the way up. His legs shake. He falls back down.

Repeat again until he finally isn’t even strong enough to get himself upright.

Wayne’s always home, but he doesn’t watch. At least he doesn’t let Eddie know if he is. But he’s home in case Eddie ends up hurting himself or falling onto something other than his bed or the couch.

Steve’s come by a few times, offering to be a steady body to hold onto. He doesn’t accept the offer. Usually, he jokes that Wayne’s the only man he’s ever trusted and distracts him with something else.

“Alright, Ed?” Wayne calls to him from the kitchen.

“Fine!” Eddie calls back because he doesn’t want Wayne to come into his room and see him splayed out in his bed while his walker is still unused by his bed. He glares at the wheelchair in the corner of the room.

The doctors said he’d be in it for a long time, maybe months, but he’s determined to prove them wrong. They also said he wouldn’t play guitar again, but he was already able to play most of the chords.

He hears a car pull up outside and he just knows it’s Steve. Of course he would come over now.

The car door opens and closes.

The front door opens and closes.

Wayne greets him like he’s an old pal and he kind of is. It’s a little weird how close they’ve become since Eddie woke up, but whatever.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door before it opens.

Closes.

Steve looks nice. Not dressed up, necessarily, but he’s wearing his good jeans and a new polo. His hair is done a little less carefree, more like he actually went through the phases of blow drying it, putting product in it, and then showing up here to drive Eddie and his unrequited crush crazy.

He smells nice, too.

“Is that a new cologne?”

“It’s not new, I just only wear it for dates.”

Eddie’s heart sinks. It shouldn’t.

Not only is Eddie a man, but he’s also weird. And, at this current time, he’s pretty much bedbound or being pushed around in a wheelchair.

Steve’s a good guy, but he isn’t gonna waste the good cologne on visiting Eddie.

“Oh. Where you taking her? Movies? Dinner?” Eddie sits up so he doesn’t have to look up at Steve. His mind starts to wander to other reasons Steve might be above him, but luckily, Steve answers before he gets carried away.

“I’m taking you to my place,” Steve replies simply.

“I thought you were going on a date?”

“I am. I’m taking you to my house.”

“No offense, but I’d rather not sit alone at your house while you’re on a date,” Eddie snorts. “Is this because Wayne’s leaving in the morning for a weekend trip? I swear I’ll be fine on my own. Dustin’s coming by tomorrow anyway.”

“Eddie.” Steve takes both of his hands. “I’m taking you to my house for a date. You and me. On a date. I’m making dinner for us and I thought you could help me make a character sheet.”

Eddie must’ve fallen and hit his head. He must’ve blacked out. Wayne will be so pissed that his independence has landed him in the hospital again.

“You’re saying words to me. I hear them.”

Steve groans. He lets go of Eddie’s hands and cups his face instead.

“Wayne said this would be difficult.” He rubs his thumb against Eddie’s cheek, smirking. “You’re awake. You’re alive. I’m really here in front of you. I’m asking you to come to my house so I can charm you and maybe kiss you at the end of our date. And then you can stay at mine, but there’s no expectations. I have the guest room made up for you.”

“This is crazy. You realize this is crazy?” Eddie squeaks. “You’re not even gay!”

“I’m a little gay,” Steve laughs. “And I really like you.”

“But-“ Eddie turns to his wheelchair. He’s definitely gonna need it to get outside and then back inside Steve’s house. And then he’ll probably need help getting upstairs to the guest room, or Steve’s room if he’s lucky. “You’ll have to help me. For a long time maybe. The doctors might have been right on this. I can’t even stand, let alone walk. And I’m miserable about it. What you walked in on was my 28th attempt at getting up to use my walker today and I’m no closer than I was on day one, attempt one. It’ll be a lot of fucking work, taking care of me.”

“Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

Eddie’s speechless for quite possibly the first time in his life.

“Can I kiss you?”

Eddie nods once. Steve beams at him, like he’s given him the best gift he’s ever received.

He gets lightheaded almost immediately. Steve’s lips are gentle against his, full of so much tenderness and love. It’s almost more than he can handle.

Eddie chases his lips as Steve pulls away.

“Don’t stop,” Eddie whines.

“I’m gonna take you home. We’re gonna have a date. And then we’re gonna kiss again. Let me treat you right, though,” Steve says and winks.

“You stop that. I can’t handle your winking.”

Steve laughs, kisses him again. He leans back and claps his hands together.

“Alright, let’s get you in the chair so we can get home. Dinner’s gonna take about an hour to make.”

[notjustjavierpena]

Applied Physics

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Long awaited smutty piece with a planned sequel. I hope you enjoy, ya filthy animal 💅🎀💖

Summary: It’s the 60s, you’re three weeks behind on a deadline, and your professor, Doctor Reed Richards, makes you face the consequences. 

Pairing: Reed Richards x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: College student/teacher relationship, science talk, Reed has powers, dub con, spanking, dom/sub dynamics, implied dacryphilia, dirty talking, sub drop, aftercare, stern Reed 🥵

Word count: 5.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62948440/chapters/161199763

Applied Physics

Dr. Reed N. Richards always wears a tweed jacket with elbow patches that show off his broad shoulders and give him an irresistible swagger. He teaches physics at your college part-time - when he is not out saving the world - and he is equally terrifying as he is warm, a combination of traits that you have learned can actually coexist but only after meeting him. 

You have been wanting him since he walked into the classroom that morning many months ago, carrying a black leather binder seemingly filled with little to nothing since everything appears to be stored in his brain. 

He has standards, you find, and traditional ways of doing things that somehow emphasize his love for the delicacy of science. For instance, he only grades papers with a fountain pen and therefore expects every assignment to be handwritten instead of done on a typewriter which is tedious and difficult for those who don’t possess a steady hand. The scary part of him comes out when he says he simply won’t grade the papers that aren’t turned in as he wants them to be. The warm part shows itself when he later makes a self-deprecating joke about knocking over whiskey during his grading. 

The idea of the paper smelling like his cologne or even, if you are lucky, has a stain of his favorite liquor, makes you hand in each assignment whilst the ink is still drying on the paper. Perhaps you will be the first one to receive notes and feedback from him if you turn in your work before its deadline.

You imagine him hunched over a desk, pen barely able to fit in his rough hand. He wears something casual, maybe even has taken off that jacket, scratching his beard and sipping his drink whilst smiling to himself as he reads words that come from your mind. Your mind makes him smile to himself, makes him single you out from the rest of your class because you are special and he knows this. It’s the image you imagine the first time you come whilst thinking about him, shower head between your thighs and legs against the tiled wall in the shared bathroom at the boarding house you reside in. 

When you do finally get your first essay back from him, you read all the comments in the margins during your lunch. You lick a drop of juice from an apple away from your lower lip as your eyes skim over a scribbled good or well done, trying to find an excuse to read more into the way he looks at you when you talk during class. You made him laugh once, that must mean something, right? He clearly has your sense of humor, the same ways of applying theory and reasoning. 

You know that it is hardly rational what you are doing, projecting all these things onto him when, in reality, you only know of him what you have seen during his lectures and office hours. Yet you have found yourself noticing the way he smiles faintly when you correct one of your fellow students during group work, and it has spurred you on to become even more insufferable to your classmates only to get his attention. His approval too, if you are lucky. 

Yet despite all this, here you are with an assignment running three weeks late, your procrastination having reached its limits and your excuses to your professor wearing thin. It’s a challenging state to be in when you’re so used to ranking your popularity with Dr. Richards higher than everyone else on this course. Sure, his attention is nice when it is rooted in praise but you don’t know if the kind that will follow this lecture, the deadline you’d agreed upon for your paper being yesterday, is the kind that will satisfy something in you like the small smiles have. 

You keep bouncing your leg beneath your desk as you wait for Dr. Richards to enter the lecture hall with that cool aura about him and let the fast-paced lecture begin. If anyone sees you, they will recognize it as an itching to suck up to him once more but in reality, it is the first time you’ve been in the room with a nervous tic. 

“Good afternoon, everyone,” he greets as he finally arrives and you find yourself jolting with nerves at the fact that he is finally here and inevitable doom is just around the corner. It doesn’t make it better that his brown eyes sweep over the crowd in a hurry until he spots you, his gaze full of concentration until he gains eye contact with you for less than a second. You sit up straighter at the way he measures you and the subconscious movement of your leg stills completely. Frustratingly, the man keeps talking as if nothing happened. 

After several attempts to regain your composure, you realize that you have completely missed his introduction to today’s lecture and while trying to ignore the thrill that is simmering beneath your anxiety, you scramble to start taking notes. It’s not to show him that you can go back to being his favorite student but rather a necessity to keep yourself from being three weeks further behind.

You power through the lecture even with your fuzzy mind, scribbling things down and making sure to appreciate the privilege it is to be taught by one of the greatest minds to ever live. This is even if he, multiple times, falls into the usual pattern of diving headfirst into multi-layered explanations of different phenomena and concepts, droning on as if none of you and the rest of your classmates exist to him anymore. 

You pretend to keep up when he does this but even you must admit that he loses you. However, you know for a fact that it is not out of disinterest that you stop listening but rather your mind focusing on something else when his words become too difficult to follow. Instead, you end up mapping out the length of his gorgeous neck, the beauty spot where his collar ends. It is enough to leave your mouth dry, but not enough to drag your mind off the scolding you’ll get soon.

When the lecture comes to an end, you have psyched yourself enough to stupidly get up and try to follow the rest of the students out. They trickle out hurriedly though and you find yourself at the back of the school of people heading for the door. 

“Hold it right there,” Reed’s voice travels through the room and hits you right in the back, making you falter in your step. Your last name rolls off his tongue with the same kind of confidence and composure that you’d tried to conjure up just an hour ago. 

“Sir, I was just—“ you rest your hand on the doorknob to signal that you are leaving but you know already that you have lost the fight to exit the room. 

You hear it before you see it; the faint and strange rustling of fabric as something wooshes closer. Suddenly, your teacher’s stretched-out arm moves past you like you have seen it do on television and then his hand attached to said arm splays flat on the door. He closes it with a soft click while you hold your breath. 

Slowly, it retracts back to normal and you follow it with your eyes by glancing over your shoulder. Time stands still for a moment at the sight because while Reed Richards has stretched his body multiple times in the past, without much thought behind it and much to his students' shock, he never puts anyone in the position to experience it firsthand. 

“Sir, I—“

“Come here,” he says quietly. 

You grab the strap of your bag tightly and make your way to the desk where he sits. You decide to beat him to his reprimand, talking even if your voice shakes at his disapproving stare, “I’m sorry I missed this week’s deadline.”

“This week? Try the last three,” he calmly corrects you, “You have done your research on force, impact, and energy transfer in non-elastic collisions, have you not?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you’ve still not turned anything in? Why?”

“I've been overwhelmed with coursework and–” You trail off when he raises a brow. He is still sitting down but even so, you feel like you are shrinking underneath his authority. You find it hard to believe that anything out your mouth right now will be taken seriously when you have let him down three times already but you try to reassure him anyway, “It won’t happen again, I promise,”

“No, it won’t,” he agrees as he pushes himself to stand. He drags the chair away from the table as if he thinks it is in his way, “You’re brighter than most, so I don’t believe I need to remind you what happens if you keep slacking.”

“No, sir, I’m aware.”

“I mean, we’ve already moved way past force dynamics and energy exchange on this year’s curriculum, so you’re wasting my time,” he goes on with an annoyed sigh that tells you he has better things to do, “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“I don’t know, sir,” you stare at the flooring.

“Come closer,” he orders calmly. He lets his gaze flick down to your hand clutching your bag of books, “Take out your book on core concepts.”

You follow his eyes and pull out the right book before gently letting the strap of your bag slide off your shoulder until the bag hits the floor with a soft thud. Something tells you that you’re not leaving anytime soon.

“Place it on the desk and find the pages on Newton’s Laws,” he continues and your heart slams against your ribs at the thought of an impromptu pop quiz instead of a handed-in paper. Yes, you know these pages but in the presence of him, you’re not so sure. 

Behind you, Reed has shrugged off his jacket while you were flipping through the book. He folds it neatly and hangs it over the back of the chair he was displeased with a moment ago, making sure not to crease the fabric. Then he reaches for the sleeves of the white shirt that he is wearing and rolls them up to his elbows, revealing the slightly visible veins of his forearms. Your head swims and you subtly press your thighs together, images of what you’d like him to do to you flooding your mind.

“Bend over,” he says suddenly, murmuring it almost as if he knows he shouldn’t have said it. 

Your eyes widen and you glance in the door’s direction. There are so many people on the outside of this room right now but the chances of someone walking in are slim since lectures are rarely started at this hour of the afternoon, “I don’t understand?”

“You don’t have to understand anything. I want you to put your palms on either side of the book and bend over,” he elaborates and clearly notices your hesitation, the direction of your eyes. His arm stretches out in front of you again, snaking its way past the rows of chairs until it reaches the door once more. He locks it, the soft click of it mixing with your unsteady breathing, and then he pulls down the curtain in the window at the top. 

When the arm smoothly retracts once more, you naturally think it will stop at his side but instead, you feel his palm on the back of your neck. His other hand joins to lay on the small of your back and then he pushes down gently to maneuver you into the position that he wants. 

You exhale shakily as you place your hands on the desk, feeling the smooth wood underneath your fingertips as a way to ground yourself in a moment so electric. Your body is way ahead of you, reacting to the anticipation of his next move by making a dull ache settle right between your legs. Your clit throbs, your walls flutter. 

“Your paper was supposed to use Newton’s Laws as a foundation, let me make sure you know them properly,” Reed says simply while removing his hand from your lower back. His other hand, the one on the back of your neck, slips down your spine to take the previous one’s spot, leaving fire in its wake, “Recite them.”

You swallow thickly, “Newton’s First Law states that a body at rest—”

Smack. 

A loud gasp leaves you at the surprise of Reed’s free hand coming down on your backside, heat spreading out underneath the fabric of your skirt where it has struck you. Your head whips around to stare at him in disbelief at what he has just done, your mouth hanging open in shock.

“Eyes on the book,” he commands sternly, curling his fingers slightly into the hem of your shirt, “Go on. Newton’s First Law.”

You count three whole breaths before you will yourself to face forward again, looking down at the text in front of you and trying to regain your ability to read. You swallow the lump in your throat, the letters jumbled on the page, “Uhh…”

“Concentrate,” he adds and gives you another blow, one that makes you jolt forward on the desk and send the book almost over the edge. You frantically reach for it, noticing the way your heart leaps into your throat when you consider what would have happened if it had fallen off. 

You drag the book back down and try to act cool but your voice tells on you as you start to read out loud, “A-a body at rest stays at rest, and a body in motion stays in motion—”

He spanks you again and elicits another gasp but you seem to have expected it since you don’t go flying forward. This is even if his palm leaves behind a much more painful sting this time and makes your toes curl in your shoes. 

“Until…” He sounds impatient. 

You act immediately like a dog who is learning about action and consequences, “Until acted upon by an external force.”

“Good girl,” he praises and you don’t know why the softness of his voice makes you tear up. His broad palm traces over the spot that is warming up already and you make a show out of sighing with content. 

However, the soothing touch is short-lived and you start struggling just slightly as Reed’s hand descends until he can grab the hem of your pencil skirt and roughly tug it up. He settles it just above the plumpness of your ass, swatting you to make you focus and stop squirming. 

“I’m not going to fuck you so stop moving around,” he scolds and surprises you with yet another smack. It feels different now that each slap is skin-on-skin contact, sounds different too as the noise echoes through the empty lecture hall. You whine in slight disappointment, even if you have inappropriately imagined his cock in you during circumstances so different so many times. 

“Second Law,” he murmurs, occupied briefly by the bruise forming on your cheek and scraping his nails across it. 

“W-what?” You let out a whimper, your thighs pressing together to soothe your pulsing clit. In theory, you know what he has said but it just isn’t registering since your mind is occupied by you knowing exactly what you will be doing back home if he won’t touch you. In fact, a thrill goes through you at the thought of another blow to recall in your bed with your hand stuffed into your underwear.

“Newton’s Second Law,” he repeats with a smaller swat following. You suck in a breath to calm yourself. 

“Newton’s Second Law states that the net force on an object is equal to its mass times its acceleration,” you say somewhat confidently, a sense of calm settling over you as you finally feel like you are getting a handle on the situation. 

“Apply it to the situation you’re in right now,” he tests you. You feel your face grow hot and hesitation seizes you for a second. It takes a moment too long for him and a much sharper smack lands right on the jiggliest part of your ass, the sharpness of the pain making you moan for the first time and the noise of the blow bouncing off the walls. You almost even swear in your professor’s presence, and you would have if it weren’t for the way tears in your eyes take off the edge.

“You’ll get one more if you don’t open your mouth soon,” he adds. You’re just about to speak, about to follow orders, when he takes a step closer and presses his cock into your hip. You freeze at the size of him, a sound that can only be described as pathetic leaving you. Reed huffs out a chuckle and smacks you once more albeit slightly less maliciously.

“Y–you’re applying a force to me. Your hand is the mass and the acceleration is essentially the swing of your arm. The shorter the time and the greater the velocity of the impact, the bigger the force I feel,” you try not to hiccup through the whole explanation but the words take a longer time to come to you and your backside is hypersensitive, warm, and sore. Your pulse rings in your ears too, and you swear you can almost taste the adrenaline in your mouth from how it is coursing through your body. It might just be salt from your tears though which you realize will simply give you an excuse as to why you stayed behind after class. If you really try, you might be able to conjure up an act of a student who got some terrible feedback.

“Still with me?” You hear him ask, feel him soothe your burning flesh. You wonder if his palm is imprinted on your cheek.

“Yes, sir,” you mumble with a sniffle, your palms sticking to the desk from how clammy they have become. 

“Speak up,” he corrects you and his palm leaves you long enough for you to start anticipating another strike. No hands on your body makes it harder to abstain from feeling his hard cock resting against your hip, the heaviness of it making you even wetter and oh God, aching to be filled.

“Yes, sir,” you enunciate without coming off as bratty. The next strike doesn’t come and relief washes over you, allowing you to relish in the cool air brushing your tingling and bruised skin.

“Last but not least. Newton’s Third Law?” 

“F-for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction,” you say and rest your forehead on the book that has absorbed a few teardrops, He doesn't give you praise or a soothing touch. It bewilders you, makes you question if your scatterbrained state has accidentally made you say something that is wrong. You go quiet except for your rapid breathing as you go over your answer in your head but nothing comes to mi–

The sudden smack instantly makes you realize where you went wrong, landing across the exact spot that’s already stinging and causing you to hiss and whine through your teeth. Quickly, you scramble to relate Newton to what Reed is doing to you, “If… if you strike me, my body exerts a force back on your hand.”

“Mhm, good,” he hums while your head swims, “And I bet you’re feeling that force right now.”

“It hurts,” you whimper feebly and turn your head to the side. Yes, it’s the truth but your body can’t tell if it’s supposed to register this as pain or pleasure, the sensations overlapping intensely.

“That’s part of the lesson,” Reed’s hand returns in a gentle touch, his large palm settling carefully over the same spot he has just mercilessly spanked, “Why does it hurt?”

You wish he’d move his hand down between your legs and make you come when he realizes how soaked-through your panties are, “B-because when you spank me your hand transfers kinetic energy into my skin. The force and the friction cause heat to build. The tissues and blood vessels react, and it—”

“Gives you that glow. Precisely,” he finishes your sentence and curls his hand around your hip firmly. He sounds enthralled by his work, “And I respond with arousal, meaning it makes me so goddamn hard. Now, hold still. These last three are for the three missed deadlines.”

You know he means business when his finger slips underneath the waistband of your panties. He pulls them down just enough to settle them underneath the globes of your ass without exposing your needy cunt, the elastic of them digging slightly into sore skin. His other hand lifts and you brace yourself even if you know that any human can suffer through even uncontrollable pain if they know there’s an end to it. 

The first of three strikes lands right on the curve of your backside, harder than any of the several ones before it and making your entire body seize up. He isn’t playing around this time, your skin immediately blooming with newfound heat and fiery pain. It makes you moan out loud and squeeze your eyes shut until fireworks go off behind your eyelids.

“Count,” he says calmly. 

“O-one,” you manage to say in a voice that makes it sound like an apology instead. 

The second one makes it feel like there’s a clap of thunder going through your bones. You jolt forward on the desk enough to finally send the damn book flying off the edge to the floor. Reed tightens his grip on your hip to steady you, dragging you back to him again as if to remind you that despite everything he’s got you. 

“Two,” you say shakily, “I’m sorry, Professor Richards.”

He rubs the spot to soothe your burning flesh and by now, a part of you wants to crawl into his lap and be held. He coos softly at you and gently squeezes the roundness of your ass, making you bite down on your bottom lip and exhale a needy whine through your nose. 

“No need to bring me apologies,” he tells you, “We’ll see if you’ve learned your lesson. Last one.”

He lets you wait for the final smack, but when his hand lands on your skin, a sharp cry rips from your throat. Tears start flowing freely from your eyes now - even if you’re still not fully crying as emotions have not caught up with you yet - but it’s not solely from the pain, but also from the swirl of adrenaline and arousal that tightens below your belly button. You wonder if you should reach up to wipe your eyes but you can’t make yourself let go of the desk underneath you, clutching it in an iron grip because of how wobbly your legs are.

“Three,” you hiccup as Reed loosens his grip on you. You feel the ache of your behind with every heartbeat and want to sob now that it is over. You’re hyper-aware of what is happening in your body which is the adrenaline starting to crash, and the emotions, coming in like a wave, are just about to overwhelm you when—

“Sit up on the desk for me,” Reed says gently. 

“But the book,” you glance toward the textbook that you sent flying not long ago. It is a silly thing to cling onto but there’s an emotional wavering in your voice as you say it which Reed seems to catch onto. 

“Leave it,” he murmurs, an order but not like the previous ones, “Sit. I need to make sure you’re alright.”

The task seems impossible. You barely manage to push yourself fully upright, your shaking legs nearly not able to hold you up, and when you turn around to lift yourself onto the desk, you feel the edge dig into your sore behind in a way that forces a hiss out of you. A tear that you have no control over rolls slowly down your cheek.

“Easy,” Reed is beside you, catching onto your motive when you get ready to jump up onto the surface in a hurry due to his earlier lack of patience. He has previously had a hovering hand nearby but now, he grabs a hold of you to still you, “Do it carefully.”

When you’re finally perched on the desk, you’re not sure if the calming cool sensation of the wood beneath your thighs outweighs the pressure against your smarting skin. What you are sure of though is the storm of emotions inside your chest, a raging one made up of an overwhelming mix of new pain, embarrassment, and vulnerability, all of which makes your heart feel too big for your rib cage. 

“I’m okay,” you lie but you hear yourself and know it isn’t very convincing. He gives you a raised eyebrow. 

“Seems like you’re experiencing what is known as a drop. Come on, deep breaths,” he guides you gently when he spots the way your bottom lip wobbles, “If you have to cry, let it out. No one’s going to see you.”

From his words, you realize that your breathing has become unsteady and hitched in very little time. Your shoulders shake and your chest has a ball of unleashed feelings in it that nearly makes you feel sick. It unravels when the tears that you hoped would subside resurface at the permission to let them flow. You feel them brimming at the corners of your eyes. 

“I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing,” you say shakily when they finally spill over even if the tension in your torso slowly ebbs away as you let go. 

“You’re alright. Just breathe for me,” he says softly. He brings his hands to your thighs and rubs them in an attempt to soothe and ground you, “Slow and steady in through the nose and out the mouth. Right now, you don’t have to do anything but calm down, and then I can take a look at you.”

The room around you seems distant as you try to breathe more steadily but you’re lightheaded, feeling almost as if you’re wrapped in a woolen, fuzzy blanket that blocks everything out besides him. You aren’t sure if it is the adrenaline crash anymore or the way that your whole body is so tightly wound for pleasure that won’t come but you crave his touch, crave him taking care of you.

“You’re okay,” he says over and over, drowning out the static in your ears, “No more crying, sweet angel. I’d rather not see you leave here like this.”

The nickname makes you snap out of it. Angel? Did he just call you an angel? Your tears go on hold when you continuously blink up at him from your seat on the desk, pawing at his chest without knowing what to do with all your longing. He makes you feel all the things you have felt since you met him all at once now, a dizzying flurry of thoughts and feelings. 

“That’s better,” he smiles genuinely for the first time and you melt right then and there. He looks so damn handsome when he does it that you go ridiculously doe-eyed at the sight. 

“Thank you,” you mumble while playing with the buttons on his white shirt. The butterflies in your belly have nearly made the pulsing ache of your backside disappear. 

“Stand up,” he says and removes your hands from his chest which you probably make a much bigger deal out of than him, “I need to take a look at you.” 

You stand on wobbly legs. Slowly and carefully, he skims his fingers over the inflamed skin and notes out loud that it is warm. It’s not a soothing caress for the sake of tenderness, but rather a deliberate check-in to take note of how much damage he’s done. He works methodically, like a man who daily works with scientific research and experiments, going over each part of you while humming at his discoveries. 

“Right. Cool compress when you get home for the swelling, ten-fifteen minutes on and off. Frozen peas will do,” he instructs in the exact same tone as when he gives out science homework, “The skin is still intact but you’ll be sore if you don’t treat yourself with a little kindness. Lotion if it is too much to bear and loose clothing. Not a pencil skirt like this one, we clear?” 

You nod with the hint of a pout.

“And,” he adds and grabs lightly at your chin, his tone suddenly playful, “Try not to miss any more deadlines.”

It’s a joke, you realize, something to lighten the atmosphere in the lecture hall and you barely register it from the way his fingers hold your head in place. Despite your watery eyes and racing heartbeat, you huff out a little laugh.

“There we go,” he coos at the sound of your chuckle, “Not so gloomy anymore.”

With gentle hands, he reaches just below your hips to pull your underwear up over the curve of your ass again, careful not to let the waistband tug at the sensitive skin. He does the same with your skirt, tugging the hem down over your thighs until you look decent once more. 

Your lips part slightly as your eyes slide up to look at his face, feeling dumbstruck by his brown intelligent eyes and his aquiline nose straight out of the statues from Ancient Rome. You admire the column of his neck, the mentioned beauty mark just above his collar, and the dip that you want to kiss. 

After a moment, you realize that you have gone quiet and when you look back at his eyes, you are dizzyingly meeting his suddenly intense gaze. It is as if he has calculated that you are back with him, lingering with desire albeit still a little shaken by your tears. His eyes are burning into yours and you can feel the restraint behind them. It is as if you can sense the electricity in the air, the warmth that prickles in your cheeks, and the heat that radiates from him. 

Without a word, he reaches to tuck your shirt into your skirt until it hugs your figure tightly, a fashion choice different from how you had arrived in his classroom earlier. The dominance of styling your clothes as he prefers it makes you press your thighs together, the dull ache returning between your legs. 

“I’ve noticed, seen it all. That’s why I did it,” he says cryptically as he stuffs your shirt down at the back, fingertips brushing the dip of your spine until heat racks up it. 

“Noticed what?” You ask foolishly but had you stopped to think, you would have figured it out already. 

“All the energy you’ve put into getting me to notice you and getting my undivided attention. Congratulations, you’ve finally got it,” he clarifies and lets both his hands rest on the small of your back for the briefest of moments. When he lets go of you, you follow his touch by leaning in to close the distance with a kiss. 

He places a hand on your chest, holding you back just when you are pressing the ghost of a kiss to his lips. He has given you so much by now. Why not this? A ball of frustration settles in your chest and comes out as a little whine of impatience, “Why can’t we?”

He doesn’t pull away, simply speaks less than an inch from your face so you can feel his breath on your mouth, “Because you need to learn restraint, sweet angel. I can’t have you missing your deadlines three weeks in a row - or at all really - due to some little crush.”

You want to defend yourself, say that it has nothing to do with him but deep down, you know it would be a lie straight to his face. So instead, you swallow thickly, “I want you. I’ve wanted you since I saw you.”

“And you will have me,” he kisses you so softly that you want to sink to your knees, “Just not until I say so, and certainly not before you’ve been a good girl and turned in that paper.”

“Sir,” you try one last time.

“I’ll teach you to be patient, to have restraint,” he tells you and makes you realize your attempt was to no avail, “Whether you like it or not.”

You give in, buzzing with the need for more, “I can turn my paper in on Monday. Would that suffice?” 

“I’ll hold you to that, but no late nights and last-minute scrambling. If I find you’ve rushed through it…” he lets the sentence drift off, letting your imagination figure out the consequence, “And it best be your best work yet.”

“Yes, sir,” you reluctantly pull back when nothing seems to work, “Whatever you want.”

“Hand it to me during office hours before class,” he instructs to which you nod.

“But what now?” You ask with a tiny impatient noise, letting him know just how much you’ve got against his reluctance to touch you. 

His hand flexes by his side, “Now you go home. You lock your door and you touch that pretty thing between your thighs just how you like it most. I want you to come for me until you’re hoarse. Three times for three weeks but no more than that, not until we see each other again.”

It is Wednesday and you won’t see him until Monday. How on Earth are you going to survive on only three orgasms after this? Your mind races with protests but you don’t get to voice your concern about the limit he has set because he has already stepped back to pick up his jacket from his desk chair. 

You decide to circle the table to pick up your book and stuff it into your bag. Behind you, Reed’s eyes are definitely on you as you lean forward with a hand on the desk. He is fixing the cuffs of his sleeves and putting on his tweed jacket, trying to come off as if letting you have a private moment to compose yourself.

“Monday,” he reminds you when you stand upright again. His arm stretches out between the rows of chairs and tables once more so he can unlock the door for you. 

“Yes, sir,” you answer obediently. 

You swing your bag over your shoulder and then you leave.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[meanbossart]

So I've noticed you've been getting a lot of asks along the lines of "how do I make good porn like you?" and I just thought to add in my two cents, and if you agree with what I'm saying perhaps you could publish this and it might help others, if not feel free to just ignore xD

So first of all the fact that you're also a horror/gore artist adds to your skill, there's a lot of overlap between erotisim and horror in artwork because it involves being extremly familiar with anatomy and how the body moves, and in art, like a lot of things, you needs to know how something works before you know how to break it.

People also really don't appreciate how difficult horror is as a genre, it's not enough to draw someone covered in blood holding a knife, it's mood and lighting and expression, and these are also transferable skills to erotica as so much of what sells an image as erotic is everything happening around the people involved. Colour choices, the lines around the eyes, how you depict the shine of their sweat and saliva, all these little things are part of the greater whole.

Finally, I think when it comes to improving your craft when it comes to depicting erotica is that you have to make peace with the fact that the physical act of sex is wierd and gross when you look at it objectivly. You're in wierd, undignified positions, there's a lot of mucus involved, you're sweaty and red-faced, and if you're looking at it without your brain swimming in sexy hormones it's just kinda rediculous. I think once you get over that hump of "no, I have to try and make this as pretty and aesetic as possible" and reach "okay, sex is wierd and ugly IRL" you're able to start creating things that feel more real and seemingly paradoxically become able to create things that people find arousing, because it reads as 'true' to them.

Your art is beautiful and erotic because I can believe that these guys are sticky, covered in sweat and working hard to bring each other pleasure.

Like, IDK that's how I ended up being a fairly decent erotica author, you let go of the dreamy hollywood version of sex and embrace something a bit dirtier and closer to life. If you draw enough silly 'O' faces you'll eventually find one you like!

Anyway, I hope someone finds this helpful. Also the picture of Astarion with Cazador's skull is my new favourite, the way he's pushing his thumb into the eye as the head burns in the sunlight and the blood drips down is just... so powerful, I wanna print it out and stick it in my BG3 scrap folder xD

A really useful breakdown of what makes compelling erotica and/or effective pornography!

Not a disagreement perse, but I just want to clarify to anyone reading this that being familiar with horror and gory art isn't a necessary step in this process - it just so happens to have a lot of skill-overlap, like eyesofthrone said, making the transition from one to the other easier.

Thank you for doing this write-up, and I'm extremely flattered if you or anyone reading this finds my saucy art especially compelling for any of these reasons!

[yougotoldk]

The thing that has me absolutely furious about the fires in El Bolsón and other surrounding areas, besides the loss, is the people who, for whatever reason (speculations are running wild on the possible reasons as can be expected), insist on making the situation worse:

-> A man was caught in the forest with a bottle full of some sort of combustible liquid:

"The man was carrying a bottle of combustible liquid. According to the report, his intention “was to start a fire, but he was intercepted by a man and a woman, who observed him acting suspiciously, alone and far from the areas of the fire.”

The man left the area with those who found him, in the same van. On the way, "they noticed that he had dropped a plastic bottle with a blue-green liquid, so they reported what had happened." Moments later, police officers arrived at the sector known as Wharton where they proceeded to arrest him."

And he was not the only one, according to the news, others were seen acting suspiciously in the forest but the police was unable to catch them so they could be properly investigated.

-> Then, a video was shared of some unknown group of people riding horses right across the airstrip while the hydrant plane was maneuvering:

-> It was already proven that one of the fires was premeditated, and started with Molotov cocktails:

"Meanwhile, it was proven that the arson attack on the Amancay Ranch in mid-January was premeditated. The document was drawn up after the expert reports carried out at the Amancay cattle farm, located on Provincial Route 71, a few kilometers from the town. An investigator of fires and explosives together with the Scientific Police of Chubut examined the site and confirmed that it was intentionally started by using accelerants in glass containers – Molotov cocktails – to achieve “greater expansion and propagation of the fire”.

The news site speculates that it was Mapuches, others say that it was rich landowners wanting to expand or whatever else.

It certainly doesn't help any that it's usually windy during the summer months in the south, and they have had days with winds with speeds between 40 and 60 km/h (24-37 mph) and gusts that can exceed 95 km/h (59 mph).

I was there just last year, on my vacation, and I can't understand how someone would intentionally start a fire here or actively hinder the efforts to put them out.

Look at this place:

My shitty phone camera doesn't do the place justice, it's absolutely breathtaking.

And yet now:

In mildly good news, it rained today, and the people from there were so happy that it finally rained that they started celebrating :

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by C5N (@c5n)

it's insane how the patagonian fires are more devastating than the ones in california and nobody gives a shit

[arc-misadventures]

Son-in-law Bonding

Jaune: So... Red Hood...?

Red Hood: Athena is just fine, Love.

Jaune: So, Athena... Why... Why did you invite me out here?

Athena: Why? Well, because I wanted to test your blade.

Jaune: My blade? You were testing my potential as a Huntsmen?

Athena: Yeah. Pyrrha is a hell of a Huntress-in-training, she'll probably become more famous than myself when she become a full blown, Huntress.

Athena: I've had lots of people both after myself, and my daughter, trying to use our fame, or the power of our family supposedly has. I've started filtering out all the trash to keep their slimy little hands off of myself, and my daughter.

Jaune: Oh, thank you.

Athena: 'THank you?' For what?

Jaune: For looking after, Pyrrha such as you did.

Athena: Oh... Well, I just love my family... After losing my sister, and her husband, Pyrrha is all that I have left... So I'm going to do whatever I can to protect her.

Jaune: I understand, if someone hurt my family... Well as the saying goes: 'Demons run when a good man goes to war.'

Athena: I have certainly made my fair shar of demons run. IT's quite fun watching them run! Several of the poor bastards pissed themselves when I went after them~!

Jaune: Pfft! Now that must have been a sight to see.

Athena: Yeah after I threw one out of my house... from the second story window. They finally back off. Mostly. None of those bastards are worth me, or my daughter.

Jaune: And, what about me; Am I worth anything?

Athena: ...

Athena: When my daughter first mentioned you, I thought you were another sweet talker trying to steal my girl away from me. But, you never even knew who she was when you two first met. And, even after you got to know her you just treated her as your friend. And, when you started dating you were more concerned about her well being instead of your own. I always hopped she would find a friend like you, even more so now since she found a lover like you. You're worth your weight in gold, Jaune. I am honoured, and proud to have my daughter date a man such as yourself.

Jaune: O-Oh... Thank you... That means a lot to hear. Thank you, Athena.

Athena: My pleasure love.

Jaune: But, how am I as a Huntsman?

Athena: Well, Pyrrha told me how you cheated your way into, Beacon Academy.

Jaune: Ahh yeah... that happened...

Athena: Pretty ballsy of you kid. I admire that! You are still a bit green, but I can see you become one hell of a, Huntsman one day!

Jaune: Oh, thank you, Athena! That mean's a lot to hear from my childhood hero

Athena: I'll happily give you some training if your interested?

Jaune: I would love that!

Athena: Alright! Now it's time for some fun!

Jaune: F-Fun?

Athena: Yeah, you think me testing your skills as a Huntsman-in-training was the only reason why I asked you out here?

Jaune: Well... Yeah?

Athena: Well you're wrong! I asked you out here, because I wanted to test you out. Only this time without, Pyrrha around.

Jaune: Another training bout?

Athena: Something like that...

'Click.'

Jaune: Uhh... what are you...?!

'Boing~!'

Jaune: ...?!

Athena: Alright, Jaune ready for me to test out your 'blade~?'

Jaune: ...

Jaune: Aura don't fail me now.

Athena: Haha~!

Athena: Bring it on, Love~!

///

Here's another one, @lar-mx

Question: I'm callings this pairing of, Red Hood, and Jaune: Yellowhood. Does that sound good?

Link to Art

[isaadore]

MEMORIES JACK HUGHES

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ pairing jack hughes x reader

SUMMARY three months after your breakup, a late-night call leads you back to jack’s doorstep. old wounds reopen when he finally asks the question he never did before: why? the love is still there, but so is the pain. when you walk away for the last time, he doesn’t stop you. some memories refuse to fade, and jack will always be the one you can never forget. inspired by “memories” by conan gray. word count 1.1k

warning heavy angst, unresolved feelings, longing, mentions of alcohol, no happy ending, cussing

note i felt mean today

JH86 MASTERLIST MAIN MASTERLIST

THE LAST THING you expected was for him to answer.

Not because he didn’t have every right to ignore your call. He did. But because it was late, and three months had passed without a word between you. And yet, before you could second-guess yourself, before you could even consider hanging up, his voice crackled through the speaker.

“…Hello?”

It was quiet, hesitant, as if he didn’t believe it was really you.

Your breath caught.

You should have said something. Told him this was a mistake, that you didn’t mean to dial his number, that you hadn’t had one too many glasses of wine and ended up outside his apartment building, staring up at the window you used to call home.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you exhaled softly, barely above a whisper.

“Hey, Jack.”

Silence.

And then, a sharp breath.

“Where are you?”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening around your phone. The truth sat heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs, but saying it out loud felt like stepping onto a ledge you couldn’t come back from.

Still, you forced yourself to answer.

“I’m outside.”

The line went dead.

Your stomach twisted. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe he wouldn’t even let you up. You should have left before you made this worse, before you made a fool of yourself for the guy who had every reason to hate you.

But then, before you could turn away, the lobby buzzer rang.

You stared at it, heart pounding.

He had just let you in.

And you didn’t know if that made this better or so much worse.

The apartment looked the same.

It shouldn’t have. You expected something to be different, maybe new furniture or at the very least, the absence of all the little things you left behind. But they were still there. The blanket you always curled up in, still thrown over the couch. The candle you bought last fall burned halfway. The framed photo of the two of you that used to sit in the hallway, gone, but its outline lingered against the wall.

Jack stood across the room, hands shoved in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

“You look good.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Jack scoffed, shaking his head. “Don’t.”

You bit your lip, nodding. “Okay.”

More silence.

He exhaled sharply. “Why are you here?”

It was a fair question. One you didn’t know how to answer.

“I don’t know.”

Jack laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Right.”

You swallowed hard, shifting on your feet. “I just…” You trailed off, glancing around the apartment again. “I thought I’d be okay.”

Jack’s eyes darkened. “And you’re not?”

Your throat tightened.

You wanted to lie. Tell him you were fine, that you’d moved on, that this wasn’t some pathetic attempt to hold on to something that was already gone.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Because standing there, with him looking at you like you still meant something, like you still held a place in his life even after everything…

You realized you didn’t know how to live in a world where he was just a memory.

You exhaled shakily. “No. I’m not.”

Jack ran a hand through his hair, letting out a rough breath. “Then why the hell did you leave?”

Your heart clenched.

He had never asked before.

Not that night, when you packed your things with shaking hands. Not when you left your key on the counter, or when you walked out of this apartment, knowing you’d never be able to come back.

But now, when it was too late, he wanted to know.

You blinked back tears. “You know why.”

Jack shook his head, stepping closer. “No, I don’t.” His voice was raw, strained. “I know you were unhappy, but you never gave me a chance to fix it. You just—” He exhaled sharply. “You just walked away.”

Your chest tightened. “Because it wasn’t something you could fix, Jack.”

His jaw clenched. “That’s bullshit.”

You shook your head. “No, it’s not.” Your voice wavered, but you pressed on. “You loved me, Jack. I know that. But I was never going to be your priority.”

He flinched. “That’s not—”

“Yes, it is.” You swallowed hard, blinking back tears. “I spent so much time convincing myself that it was okay, that I could handle being second, that I could live with you being out late and missing dates and the fact that you never let me in, not really.” Your voice broke. “But I couldn’t. And I hated myself for it.”

Jack stared at you, breathing heavily. “I never meant to make you feel like that.”

“I know.”

“But I—” He swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know you were that unhappy.”

You looked away. “That’s the problem, Jack. You didn’t even notice.”

The words landed like a blow, knocking the air from his lungs.

Jack’s breathing was uneven now, his eyes shining in the dim light. “So, what?” His voice was hoarse. “You just gave up on us?”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t give up.” You blinked back tears. “I just—I got tired of fighting for something that only ever felt one-sided.”

Jack inhaled sharply, like you just confirmed his worst fear.

“I loved you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You nodded, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I know.”

Jack took another step forward, close enough now that you could see the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he was allowed to.

“You’re still the only thing I think about,” he confessed. “Every fucking day.”

A choked breath escaped you. “Jack—”

“Do you miss me?” His voice was quiet, but the desperation was unmistakable.

Your heart shattered. “Every day.”

Jack exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief second before looking at you again, and for the first time, you saw it: the cracks in his foundation, the pressure of everything he had been carrying since the night you left.

“I don’t know how to let you go,” he admitted.

And God, you wished he didn’t say that.

Because neither did you.

But you had to.

You stepped back, blinking rapidly. “You already did.”

Jack’s face crumpled, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t fight.

And that was how you knew it was really over.

You took another step back, then another. Jack watched you go, his expression unreadable, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

But this time, when you walked out the door, he didn’t follow.

When you finally stepped onto the street, the cold air biting at your skin, you realized something:

You would spend the rest of your life trying to forget Jack.

But he would always be the one memory you could never erase.

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ JH86 MASTERLIST ✷ MAIN MASTERLIST

[shappoxs]

You guys just can't acknowledge the actual reasons people dislike TimBer and exaggerate or cherry-pick specific obviously stupid arguments.

I'll start by saying, ship what you want. There's nothing inherently immoral about TimBer. I make jokes, but I'm definitely not "Anti-Timber," but it gets to a point where you guys are just going-

Most TimBer "haters" are not these caricatures you guys like to paint us as. There are genuine reasons to dislike the ship.

1. It's genuinely bad for both characters. Queer men are allowed to have flaws, too! Yet they've stripped both Tim and Bernard of all of them and brushed any past mistakes under the rug.

Tim and Bernard were not good friends before 2020, and instead of giving them an interesting character arc, the writers just retconned all that and are trying to convince us they were besties.

2. Having Tim and Stephsplit up off-panel is already a disservice to a decades old relationship and Steph as a character. Especially because almost immediately her next appearance is as an accessory to TimBer, to tell the audience, "Actually, you should like them because she would want you to." When that's bullshit!

I'm not saying she should be jealous, but she has every right to be upset at Tim. The fact they did the exact same thing to Ariana, another one of Tim's exes who he hurt, turning her into a one-dimensional TimBer fangirl, feels very misogynistic.

They don't have to be jealous, but don't minimise them, and allow them to have reasonable reactions.

3. The way TimBer was handled feels more biphobic than the average fan reaction. This may be a personal interpretation, but so many moments feels like they're trying to belittle Tim's past relationships with women because he's with a man now. Which pisses me off. TimBer's chemistry comes from us being told about it, but I'm supposed to believe it was more meaningful than what he had with Steph?

I want to see my bisexual characters BE bisexual in ways that aren't stereotypical, but there are ways they could've done that without throwing Steph into a trash bin. As a TimKon shipper, I would be just as pissed if this same scenario played out with Kon instead of Bernard.

Honestly, I don't even want TimKon OR TimSteph if that's how the writers treat these characters. Let them bastardise Tim and Bernard just leave Kon and Steph out of this 😭

4. Most of the "he should cheat" takes are jokes or coming from people who haven't actually read the comics/comic where he actually cheats. Tim only cheated once iirc, but there is still valid criticism to be made about how flawless he's written now that he's with a man.

TimSteph's greatest strength is that we get to see them be a real teenage couple, they both make mistakes but it's watching them grow from them that matters most.

5. I'm fine with platonic TimSteph, but they clearly don't actually value their friendship. I'm also bisexual and grew up a Tim Drake fan, I am the last person who'd want his bisexuality to be erased, but I'd rather them actually do it justice than shrug my shoulders and slurp up any slop they feed us because it's gay.

Finally, I'm sorry if any of this came off as mean. I always try to be respectful even when I'm making jokes or disagreeing with someone, but I'm not perfect. Know that this is a critique of the ship and certain writing choices, not people who just innocently like TimBer.

The mental gymnastics people do to hate timber should be studied under a microscope.

The fuck you mean he is bad bisexual rep because he is dating a man… and how does that makes him gay???? Have you ever talked to a bisexual person???

“Oh it makes less of his past relationships” how?? How?!? Is he not allowed to be infatuated with his current partner? Should he continue pining after his past relationships even tho he is dating someone else???

[angstywaifu]

Black Dahlia - 34. About Damn Time

Summary: I think the banner and title speak for itself.

A/N: I’m yet again lost for words. ANOTHER BONUS POST?!? Though you guys couldn’t have timed this better, because some of you definitely need it after the last one.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Pet Names. Oral (M receiving). Fingering. Unprotected Sex (P in V).

Garrick Tavis x OC (Dahlia Aetos)

Black Dahlia Masterlist | Masterlist | Support Me

I gasp as Garrick pushes me back against the door, shutting it with a loud bang that doesn’t deter either of us as he pins me against it. His lips find my neck as he kisses and nips at the sensitive skin, my fingers tightening on his shoulder and hair.

Gods it felt like my body was on fire. Felt like Garrick was everywhere. Which considering his build, he pretty much was. Especially with my legs wrapped around his waist, his large body pressing against mine. My body arching off the door into his as he nips at the sensitive skin below my ear, my hips grinding against his.

His body rumbles as he growls at the movement, his hands gripping my ass with a strength that I know will leave marks tomorrow. “Gods, you keep that up and I’ll be done before I get inside you.” He groans against my neck.

With his head buried in my neck he can’t see the smirk that I don’t hold back just before I grind my hips on his again. His hands tightening to a death grip on my thighs as I gasp out from the pain. My lips barely part before his are back on mine, the kiss is carnal and raw, as if Garrick has fully let his control slip.

I gasp into the kiss as Garrick reaches between us, pushing the skirt apart at the seem before pulling my underwear aside as he plunges two of his fingers inside me.

I tug on his hair harder than I intend to, his groan rumbling through his body. His fingers pump in and out, stretching me as he curls his fingers inside. My head rolls back against the door as I break the kiss, gasps and moans falling from my lips.

“Come on little flower, fall apart.” He whispers huskily as he starts to rub my clit with his thumb.

I make the mistake of looking down at him into his blown out eyes. I can barely see the hazel colouring around the edges. But I can see how far gone he is. How much he’s enjoying this. How much he wants this.

The feeling inside me builds rapidly as he increases the pace and pressure of his fingers. The fleeting thought of how many other girls before me is the reason he’s so good enters my mind. And as if he can sense it, he grasps the back of my head and pulls me down to him as his lips claim mine. With a final curl of his fingers I come undone around his fingers as I cling on him.

“That’s it.” He minutes against my lips as mine part in a silent cry as I tremble in his arms. “Good girl.”

He chuckles as I tighten around his fingers at his words. And I know it won’t be the last time I hear him use those words on me. I whimper as he removes his fingers from me, pulling me tightly against him as he walks us back towards his bed. Which I note is far larger than mine. Either due to being a second year, or how big he is. Either way, we wouldn’t have fit in my tiny bed. I’d have to pretty much climb him like a tree to sleep.

Garrick places my feet on the ground, spinning me around as he is fingers make quick work of the corseted top. The material falls away with in seconds, and I can’t deny I’m impressed by the speed. His hands are quick to grasps my breast, kneading them in his hands as he pulls my back flush against his chest. I now note the leather from his flight jacket is missing. When the hell did he remove that?

I spin around, grabbing the bottom of his shirt which Garrick rips from my hands as he pulls it over his head. My hands fall to his flight pants, undoing the buttons as quickly as I can, but it’s hard when I keep fumbling with them. God dammit. Finally I get them undone, looking up at Garrick who looks like it’s taking all his willpower to hold back. His hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. I smirk up at him as I start to push down his pants, pulling his underwear down as I kneel on the ground in front of him. Now the multiple fingers he used earlier made sense. So much sense. I feel Garrick reach for me, obviously hesitant to let me do what I’d planned due to his size. It was definitely…. intimidating.

I reach up and wrap my fingers around his thick length, Garrick moaning at my touch as I stroke my thumb over the tip of his length. I look up watching as Garrick squeeze his eyes shut, watching his control slip, watching him loose himself to pleasure. Garrick’s hips buck into my hand as I swirl my tongue around his tip, a groan that vibrates through him into me makes me desire flare. I want him. All of him. And here he was at my mercy. I wrap my mouth fully around him, his fingers tangling in my hair, clearly torn between pulling me off him or letting go. Every bob of my head has him gasping and trembling.

”Fuck me.” He moans out, tugging at my hair again.

I remove my mouth from him but continue using my hands. “Pretty sure I already am.” I tease.

I yelp as he grasps my arms, pulling me off him and back to my feet. “Were only getting started little flower.”

His mouth claims mine again as he kicks off his boots and pants, his hands making fast work of zipper holding the skirt in place, dragging it from my body with my underwear. Without breaking the kiss, he picks me up by my thighs, walking us over to his bed before throwing me down on my back and kneeling between my spread legs. Gods, I could almost swear I had died and gone to Malek with the sight before me. I’d always found Garrick attractive. But having him kneel between my legs… Gods, that was a sight I never wanted to forget. Looking at me like a starved man, like I am the only thing he’s ever going to want or need.

He grips my hips, dragging me down the bed to him, the tip of his cock rubbing against my entrance. I gasp at the feeling, my hips bucking up to meet his, earning me one of his smirks that I’ve grown to love. I cry out, grasping the sheets below me in my hands as he pushes inside, gasping at the fit and the stretch.

”Oh gods,” I cry out, Garrick chuckling above me as I adjust to him.

Once full sheathed and rolls his hips against mine, a sinful moan escaping my lips is all it takes for him to roll his hips against mine again and again. His hands grasping the back of my thighs as he pushes my legs against my chest. Gods, I was not going to last long, and I can tell with the groan the rumbles through Garrick he won’t either.

I'm a whimpering and moaning mess as Garrick continues to rock his hips back and forth. Each thrust hitting the perfect spot. The coil inside my tightening and threatening to unravel at any moment. His hands move to my hips, raising them up as he rests me against his thighs. I get a moment of rest as he stops, grasping my legs as he pulls them from his chest to rest them against his chest, his shoulders resting against the back of my knees. "Hold on tight little flower." He warns, before he slams his hips against mine. "Fuck!" I cry out, the new position and angle causing Garrick to reach a whole new spot. My hands fisting the sheets tightly as I struggle to keep a grasp on reality. His pace is brutal and relentless, struggling to keep my eyes open as they roll into the back of my head from the intense feeling. It's not long before the coil unravels. I cry out as I tumble over the edge, Garrick mumbling profanities as I clamp around him, my whole body trembling beneath him. His hips slam harder into mine as he leans into my, my knees touching my chest. After a few more thrust he cries out as his body shudders above me before falling forward and bracing himself with a hand next to my head. He slowly opens his eyes and looks at me, both of us breathing heavily, trying to catch our breath. He rolls to the side, grabbing my arm and leg, pulling me with him as he cradles me against his side. His fingers skimming up and down my side as I rest my head against his chest.

”That was….” I start, not sure what to say next.

”Well over due.” He teases, muttering a quiet ‘ow’ as I smack his chest lightly. “I’m not wrong.”

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see my face. I couldn’t deny he was wrong. There had always been this tension between us. A tension I was not willing to test till he was prepared to fully give himself to me. And with the way he stood up to my father had more than proven that.

”Thank you.” I say softly, as I run my fingers over the defined muscle of his stomach.

”For what?” He asks, shifting his head to look down at me.

I angle my head to look up at him. “For not giving up on my stubborn ass.”

@imtoanonymousforyou @simplyme-fornow @omalmal @lalaluch @wolfbc97 @leptitlu @fullmoon-94 @the-fandom-ness @fan-of-many-bands @awkardnerd @heeseungthel0ml @acourtofsmutandstarlight @fairchild06 @freyagallileaevans @pit-and-the-pen @hannraumari @elliot-rain @thestarseternaal @stupid-and-contagious01 @hyperfixation-train-station @lxnvmvrzx @thebreadisthetruevillian @red0202 @fangirling-galore @craftytrashprincess @taliyahvermillion @xadenswhore @fenixyrie @lagrandeourse @hellodarling1357 @iambored24601 

[rachetmath]

Nora's Plan B

Hey Nora.

Nora: Sup Em, whicha want?

Emerald: Say if Ren doesn’t work out would you date Jaune?

Nora: Yes.

Emerald: What?

Ruby: What?

Weiss: What?

Nora: What? Is that a big deal?

Emerald: Explain.

Nora: I mean I call Jaune a fearless leader for a reason.

Weiss: But Cardin-

Nora: Let’s break it down. Jaune let Cardin get away with what he did was because of his transcripts however that’s also because Jaune was used to situations like because no one has ever helped him with that. Think about it, how many friends Jaune had before Beacon?

Ruby: Hm.

Nora: Plus the moment Cardin threatened Pyrrha his attitude took a whole 180. Shoot after the Ursa he was ready to fight Cardin again.

Ruby and Weiss: Yeah, she’s not wrong.

Nora: Next, Cinder would have to watch Jaune’s progression in order to set up a good team for us to fight. Didn’t she?

Emerald: Yeah.

Nora: And Jaune stood up for Pyrrha when everybody was laying pressure on her. That’s something.

RWE: True.

Ruby: But Nora sometimes Jaune-

Nora: Hold on, yeah, Jaune has his hissy fits but then again, don’t we all grieve differently. Plus Ruby, Qrow waited until we were attacked by Salem’s forces to explain everything. Instead, he could have just told us from the start. He was doing unnecessary things. So yeah Jaune has every right to be mad. I say Qrow should have counted his blessings that Jaune was willing to help him at all if you weren’t around. Or Jaune kills him by his own hands.

Ruby: Oh.

Weiss: But then he- Oscar-

Nora: With Oscar, Jaune admitted he overreacted with him. But, again, understandble. We grieve at our own pace. And I mean seriously Ozpin hadyears to stop Salem and he hasn’t done it. Ozpin might as well be just as bad as Salem.  Also if you have not noticed back in Argus the moment he pushed Oscar to the wall none of us were ready. Remember how  Yang looked?

RW: 

Nora: That was fear. I will say that takes points away for being attractive but it also shows he has a breaking point. Which for most people needs to be avoided cause someone could end up dead. But again Jaune proves he has control of his emotions by letting Oscar go.

Yang: Yeah she’s not wrong. 

Ruby: Yang how-

Yang: Stay on topic. Look I’m cool with Ren and you know I- I understood why he was upset but the moment he realized his tone with Jaune-

Yang: He knew. He knew he f**** up but then Jaune’s response- Oh my god.

Yang: He maintained his composure. His behavior proves he learned from Argus with Oscar. He still was willing to talk with him.

Yang: If that’s not maturity then I don’t know what is. Just saying. 

Ruby: But Jaune in the Ever After was-

Yang: Okay let’s compare. Ren was upset about Atlas and Mantle. Instead of being upset about it and following orders, what else has he done to fix anything? Nothing. And when he finally expressed himself it was after Oscar got kidnapped. And we were stranded in the middle of miles in snow with no food or transportation. Meanwhile, leaving those thousands of people to die.

Me: But didn’t you start it?

Yang: Doesn’t matter.

Me: Yes it-

Yang: Shut up. And in the Ever After Ruby…. …. We were there for a day and we made Little homeless. Robbed the knights. Almost died playing a game of chess with a spoiled brat. Fought our inner demons. And destroyed a city market with people in it to save ourselves from Neo. In one day mind you we did all of that.

Ruby: Holy-

Yang: Now with Jaune he wasn’t dismissing our problem but we were contemplating at the wrong time. 

Yang: Mainly because a storm came.

Yang: He then brought us to his home.

Yang: And let's recall he was waiting for us. Something he didn’t have to do. At all.  And what did we do? Judge the man for taking care of a bunch of children who want to die.

Yang: Then we brought Neo to him.

Yang: And Ruby -

Ruby: No further comments.

Yang: And Ratchet.

Me: *sigh* Okay. Fine. If you have seen my list of Jaune ships or seen any of my post on Ren and Nora., my outlook on them is not good. But after thinking about the reason I hate Nora, I steadily realized, ‘man, what I am saying, she’s better than Sakura.” She doesn’t physically or mentally abuse Jaune like Sakura does to Naruto. And unlike the other besides Pyrrha she’s consistent with Jaune. So I'll admit I was petty with her in volume seven and eight. I can see Nora’s Arc happening.

Nora: Thank you. Anyways Emerald I would date Jaune as my plan B. Especially if Ren and I don’t recover from Atlas.

Emerald: Well damn. Too bad you got competition.

Nora: *laugh*

RWE: *shocked*

Nora: Let them come. But remember, team JNPR. And team JNRO. And team RNJR.

Weiss: What is that- oh my god.

Nora: That’s right. I’m number two. I’m the second. I’m always beside Jaune. Not Pyrrha. Not Ren. Me. He’s the leader. But the queen of the motherf***ing castle. Bye ladies. *leaves*

Yang: Damn.

Weiss: Oh no, I better act fast.

Ruby: I need Ren to clean up his mess quickly.

Emerald: She most definitely

[billiesbabygirleilish]

can you write something where billie and reader arent our to the public yet but some fans have catched on and a lot of them harass and bully reader online bc they are jealous so reader gets overwhelmed and billie gets angry at the fans and calls them out ? ty if u do this ily

Virtual Vengeance

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘😈⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘😈⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The hum of Billie’s studio equipment usually filled you with a sense of calm and excitement. Being in the music room, watching her create, was one of your favorite places to be. But today, the low thrum felt like a building pressure, a constant reminder of the anxiety bubbling inside you.

Billie was humming softly, coaxing a melody out of her keyboard. You sat curled on the worn velvet couch, scrolling through your phone. Or, trying to. The screen was a blur of ugly colors and uglier words.

It had started subtly, a few odd comments on your Instagram. Vague, almost dismissible. Then, people started piecing things together– glimpses of you on Billie’s stories (a hand holding hers in the background, the back of your head in a mirror reflection), the way she seemed to light up whenever your name was mentioned in interviews. The more they saw, the angrier some of them got.

"What do you think about slowing down the tempo here?" Billie asked, tilting her head towards you, her blue eyes sparkling.

You forced a smile, trying to push down the knot in your stomach. "Sounds great, babe."

She didn't miss the lack of enthusiasm. Billie always saw right through you. She cut the music and swiveled in her chair, her brow furrowed. "What's wrong? You good?"

You sighed, finally putting your phone down, feeling guilty for letting it distract you. "Just… some stuff online."

"Stuff like what?"

You hesitated, not wanting to burden her. Billie was fiercely protective, and you knew where this conversation could lead. "Just some silly fans. They're being… weird."

"Weird how?" Her voice was low, a warning rumble that made your heart ache.

You chewed on your lip, then caved. You knew she wouldn't let it go. "They're saying things… about us."

Billie's expression hardened. "About us? What things?"

You took a deep breath and decided to just lay it all out. "They think we're, you know… together. And some of them… they don't like it."

You watched as her jaw tightened, her eyes blazing. "What are they saying?"

You hated this. You hated telling her. You hated that they were the reason you were having this conversation. But Billie deserved to know.

"Just… jealous stuff. Calling me names. Saying I’m riding on your coattails. That I'm ugly. That I'm not good enough for you." You rattled off a few of the insults, the names stinging even as you repeated them. "They're calling me 'Billie's Bottom Bitch' and making memes of me looking stupid. Someone photoshopped my face onto a pug, Billie! A pug!"

You knew it sounded ridiculous, but the sheer volume of negativity had been relentless. It felt like a constant barrage, chipping away at your confidence and making you question everything.

Billie was silent for a long moment, her gaze dark and intense. You could practically see the gears turning in her head. You could see her frustration, her anger.

"Show me," she finally said, her voice barely a whisper.

You reluctantly picked up your phone and opened Instagram. The comments section of your latest post was a toxic wasteland.

@billie_eyelashlover69: "Ugh, who is THIS?? Get out of here and leave Billie alone! You're so basic." @avocado_bae: "Billie could do SO much better. This girl probably can't even play the ukulele." @finneasfanatic: "She's just using Billie for clout. Watch, she'll drop an album in a month. Barf." @badguyismydaddy: "She's so ugly! Look at her nose! Ew! Billie deserves someone hot, like me!" @puglife4eva: "OMG ur the pug LOLOL #billiesbottombitch" @ilovebillieforeverandever"STOP PARADING AROUND WITH BILLIE WHEN YOU HAVEN’T EVEN BEEN CONFIRMED AS HER PARTNER!! YOU’RE SO THIRSTY" @haterofhaters "Ugh! Can't you all find something better to do with your time? You’re all so rude. Like leave her alone" @billieismymuse "BILLIE WOULD NEVER. YOURE LYING"

Billie scrolled through the comments, her face getting darker and darker with each passing second. When she reached the pug photoshop, she let out a low growl.

"This is… this is insane," she said, handing your phone back to you like it was a hot potato. "They're seriously harassing you?"

You nodded, tears stinging your eyes. "It's been going on for weeks. I try to ignore it, but it's hard."

"I'm so sorry," Billie said, reaching out to take your hand. Her touch was warm and grounding. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I didn't want to bother you. You're so busy with the album, and… I thought it would just blow over."

"This isn't a bother! You're not a bother," she said fiercely, squeezing your hand. "This is important. And I'm gonna do something about it."

You knew that look in her eyes. It was the look she got when she was about to unleash the full force of Billie Eilish’s wrath.

"Billie, please, don't do anything drastic," you pleaded. "It will only make it worse."

"No, it won't. They need to be called out. They need to know that this isn't okay." She stood up, pacing the room. "I'm not gonna let them get away with this."

The next morning, Billie posted a story on Instagram. It was a simple black screen with white text, but the message was anything but simple.

The response was immediate. Some fans, the true fans, flooded her comments with messages of support, condemning the online bullies and sending love to you. Others, the toxic ones, doubled down, accusing you of manipulating Billie and trying to ruin her career.

@trubillieber: "YES BILLIE!!! You tell them! We love you and YOU deserve to be treated with respect!" @billieismymuse: "WOW billie your taking her side??? She’s ruined you! You’re turning soft" @no1billiefan: "Some of us are just voicing our opinions, Billie. Can't you handle criticism?" @avacadobilliefan: "OMG Billie is the queen! These haters need to back off!" @love4billie: "WE LOVE YOU BOTH. Ignore the haters! They're just jealous." @billie_is_my_gf_4ever:"SHE’S A GOLD DIGGER! She's probably just using you for your money and fame! Wake up, Billie!!!"

Despite the continued negativity from some corners, something shifted. The sheer force of Billie’s condemnation seemed to silence some of the more vocal bullies. The support from her true fans outweighed the hate.

In the days that followed, things slowly started to improve. The comments on your posts became less frequent, less vitriolic. You still saw the occasional jab, but it didn't sting as much, not when you knew that Billie had your back.

One evening, you and Billie were back in the studio. She was working on a new track, a song about finding your voice and standing up for yourself. You were sitting on the couch, no phone in sight this time, watching her work.

Billie stopped playing, turning to look at you. "You okay?"

You smiled, a genuine smile that reached your eyes. "Yeah. I'm good."

"Really?"

"Really," you confirmed. "You know, you’re a pretty good girlfriend."

Billie grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I try." She paused, then added, "And just so you know, if those pug-photoshop people ever come back, I'm gonna write a diss track about them."

You laughed, the sound echoing in the studio, filling the room with a lightness you hadn’t felt in weeks. You knew that the internet could be a dark and ugly place, but you also knew that you weren't alone in facing it. You had Billie, and that was all that mattered.

[jack-of-heartstrings]

I've always wanted to believe that "Falling in love was... complicated" because she had feelings for both of them, or even that she was initially in love with Emilie and only fell for Gabriel more recently. That one way or another, they'd had an arrangement for a long time where Nathalie was "secondary" to the "main couple", but back then that suited her just fine, and then when Emilie was gone it just felt right to keep the dynamic and appearances they'd had. It would certainly help reconcile how Gabriel could be so deeply soft with Nathalie in earlier seasons and have her continue wearing Emilie's ring all through season 5 and yet be so disgustedly offended when Adrien suggested there was anything between them.

But regardless of whether Nathalie's feelings for Emilie were romantic, that of dear close friends, or even that of a knight devoted in service to a lady, it's clear they were very close. When she's on her own deathbed, Emilie's videos become her constant comfort. And even back in season 3 at the height of GabeNath, in Stormy Weather 2, Nathalie states her mourning for Emilie before her growing admiration for Gabriel.

She's devoted at this point probably a good ~20 years of her life to this family; it's doubtful they found the Miraculous immediately, after all. She knows how much Adrien loved his mother, but she also, regardless of what way, deeply loved his mother, and did everything she could to try to save her, up to and including trying to help rewrite reality or time for months before finally accepting her death. This is someone she adored and is still grieving herself, and someone she defined herself by serving. To her, Emilie was inherently better than her, and her light was sacred. How could Nathalie ever replace it? Nathalie, who failed to save her, who failed to bring her back, who failed even to prevent Gabriel from following her? Nathalie, who gave so much of herself, who used the Peacock without hesitation knowing full well that doing so even once would immediately sentence her to an early death and then continued to accelerate its effects and was still never enough?

And Adrien probably wouldn't see it that way even if he knew all that, but he doesn't.

He doesn't know that Gabriel's death wasn't a sudden decision to make a heroic sacrifice, but the consequence of his own drastic actions for over a year. He doesn't know Nathalie was Mayura, or anything about the villains being motivated by his own mother. He doesn't know the illness that nearly killed her, that Ladybug told him Gabriel sacrificed himself to cure, was a direct result of having been trying to save Emilie. He doesn't know what Nathalie's relationship with either of his parents might have been like behind closed doors, or that she spent so long trying to rein Gabriel back from such madness, or that she helped find the Peacock that yes brought Adrien into the world but also made Emilie sick in the first place, or anything about her having so many reasons to blame herself for both his parents being gone.

All he sees is the woman who's always been part of the family, always been kind to him, cared for him when Emilie couldn't and Gabriel wouldn't, being unreasonably hard on herself and insisting that all she's done for him could never be good enough. And you've gotta wonder if there's a part of him that's worried she doesn't want to see him as family. Some part that would never want to think that way about Nathalie, but can't help but wonder if the problem is him.

And Nathalie, for all her love for him, can't see through her own grief enough to recognize just how deeply her self-blame is hurting him.

um i wanted to write something profound about this writing and then i saw both their faces again and lost all coherency AARRRRRGH :((

[hotchnersangel]

OUR PAST, PRESENT AND FOREVER

Aaron Hotchner

cw: fem!reader, wedding, crying, emotional hotch.

a/n- this one is super cute, surprise at the end but you can pretend it isn’t there if you don’t like it.

Meeting Aaron Hotchner for the very first time was like breathing fresh country air after being stuck in the city for your whole life. Though your life was arguably more chaotic after knowing him, you never doubted any part of your relationship, neither the good or the bad. You had disagreements but Aaron has never shouted at you and he never will, nor have you at him. Around each other maybe you have, but never to each other. Maybe that’s because of his understanding of your past but also due to the immense respect and love he will always have for you. He never wants to be the reason you cry. Yet, today he was the exact reason you were crying.

Your wedding day, a day you have been dreaming about since you were a little girl. You always wanted the traditional wedding dress, the big but intimate ceremony, the hundreds of thousands of flowers, the awkward and laughable dancing. You wanted and dreamt about it all.

When you met Aaron, you knew you wanted these dreams by his side. You wanted them to turn from your dreams to your shared memories, which is exactly what the day had been.

The ceremony had been indescribable, the feeling of walking down the aisle and Rossi handing you to your soon- to-be husband was overwhelming in the best way. Though, the moment those doors opened, Aaron took one glance at you and your emotions flood from your eyes and you didn’t bother wiping them, just let them fall. His smile was like no one but you had ever witnessed. Full of utter love and affection. Your vows illicited more tears from you, but Aaron was yet to cry. Close, very close he had come, but he had not shown a droplet until you stand up during the after party.

Everyone was sat round their tables and you go to make your speech following the maid of honour and groomsmen’s talks.

“If I could have your attention for a moment,” you say, everyone now looking over you, whose hand was still entwined with Aaron. “Since before Aaron and I were together, I made something hoping this day would one day come and I could finally be able to show him.” You start with a bright smile, looking down at him softly as everyone waits in anticipation.

“So here it is, the day we officially become one, this is my present to you honey.” You smile and wipe your eyes from the falling tears. “This is The Story of The Hotchner’s”

You look at Aaron who watches you place the scrapbook in front of him and he gets teary eyed, his lip wobbling as he looks up at you. He knew he chose the right one. His thoughtful, breathtaking, ethereal piece of art. His wife. The love of his life.

He stands up and pulls you into him, holding you in the tightest embrace you thought you were going to be squished. “Baby, oh my god.” He says, looking deeply into your eyes.

“I haven’t even gone through it yet.” You grin, kissing his cheek and wiping a stray tear from his eye before continuing through the book.

‘To my beloved husband, let’s us never forget our past, our present or our forever.’ Was inscribed into the first page, you’re sat down now, watching as Aaron flips to the first page.

It showed an image of you awkwardly standing behind Hotch from around three months into working at the bau, pointing at his back which was firmly behind you as you pulled a funny face to the camera. It was taken by Penelope, you remember it so vividly, she had been the one to take a lot of these photos, along with JJ. Stuck closely on that page is another image of the same few months where he was staring at you with a straight face but you were grinning at him.

Aaron looked up at you and raises an eyebrow. “Did I always look so miserable around you?” He chuckles softly.

“You did, but I knew you never disliked me. No matter how hard you tried to conceal it, I always knew.” You grin back at him and he kisses your nose. “Now carry on.”

The next page brought a photo of Aaron slightly smirking at something you said but trying to conceal it behind his mug, it was a perfect candid photo. The next was an image of you two conversing on the first press conference with the two of you. Professional and hot.

The memories continued as you slowly see a change in the dynamic of your relationship, at first it’s like you’re both there but just simply there, then you see how Aaron opens up to you slowly and starts to lose his cold front with you. Over time it’s obvious that the distance between the two of you disappears and your smiles grow ten times larger. Then, it gets to recent photos and you stop him before he can flip the page again.

“There is so much space to add more photos of our journey together but I thought today was the perfect day to share this with you.” You grin at him, fully beaming as tears kiss your cheeks. As you look at Aaron, he pulls you to sit on his lap and he looks directly at you. You notice that tears were streaming out of his glassy eyes with very little shame. You laugh at the sight and it makes the emotions bubble more in your chest and he pulls you closer to him by your waist, hugging you so tightly. He kisses your head.

“I’m so beyond in love with you. Thank you. Thank you for having the most thoughtful, generous, beautiful soul both inside and out.” He says letting tears stream down as he doesn’t bother wiping them. Not even considering hiding or getting rid of the evidence of his complete and utter devotion and appreciation of you.

“There’s one more page.” You whisper to him and he looks back at the book, you both flip the page together and it reveals a photo of a baby scan. He freezes from under you and looks at the photo, bringing the book closer to him and looking back to you. Switching his gaze between the photo and you like a tennis rally.

“Is this…”

You nod and laugh, tears falling from your eyes as he pulls you into the biggest hug ever, his hand at the back of your head as it against his chest.

“Our family.”

[dostoyevsky-official]

The Courts Can’t Stop the Trump-Musk Coup

Many of Trump’s orders are illegal, and unconstitutional, and brazenly so. Most good-faith lawyers can see that, but “good faith” does not describe the current state of the federal judiciary. Trump and MAGA have captured and corrupted the courts: They have seeded the lower courts with federal judges more loyal to Trump and his white-supremacist movement than they are to the law. They have stacked the Supreme Court with justices hostile to civil rights and equality. This doesn’t mean that cases brought by the ACLU, AFL-CIO, or Democratic state attorneys general are destined to fail. Their cases are righteous (and, legally speaking, right) and must be brought. Some might even succeed.

But the courts will not “save” us. They will not be the backstop protecting us from the Trump-Musk takeover, and any person who tells you otherwise, especially if that person is an elected Democrat in Congress, is selling you an excuse for inaction and complacency. Trump and Musk are barbarians at the gate; calling in the lawyers to tell them they’re trespassing isn’t going to halt their advance. Courts are not known for their harm prevention—they’re best used when trying to hold someone accountable for the harm they already caused.

The most obvious reason for this is that the courts move slowly. They are designed to move slowly. [...] If we’re very lucky, in a year or two we’ll get final rulings on whether Trump is allowed to do the bad things he started doing two weeks ago.

[...] The quickest tools the courts have at their disposal is the “temporary restraining order” (aka “TRO”) and the “nationwide injunction.” You’ve likely heard these terms before. These are temporary orders issued by a court that purportedly prevent the implementation of new laws or policies pending a full trial (or hearing) and ruling on the “merits” of a legal challenge. Often, these temporary orders themselves are appealed all the way to the Supreme Court (which potentially delays the timeliness of these emergency actions), with the administration trying to lift the temporary stops so it can implement its policies while the courts sort out whether the policy is legal.

[...] In theory, these orders should be effective stopgaps. The problem is that the court has no enforcement mechanism. It has no army, no police force, no power to impose its will. Instead, the executive—in this case the president—is supposed to enforce the court’s orders. But what if Trump doesn’t? There is little reason to believe that Trump will enforce an adverse court ruling against himself. There is no reason to believe he’ll enforce one against Musk. He’s clearly not interested in enforcing the court order (and, you know, the entire piece of legislation passed by Congress and signed by his predecessor) against TikTok.

[...] Consider the constitutional crisis unfolding right now. Musk has reportedly seized access to the private information of every US taxpayer, and the payroll information of every government employee. He has no right to this information but… he has it. Who’s going to undo that damage? A court order released Thursday afternoon purportedly limited Musk’s access to Treasury files to two “special employees” with “read-only” access to the data. Musk has reportedly agreed to follow those rules. Who is going to make sure he does? Who is going to lead the crack team of forensic digital investigators to make sure that Musk is in compliance with this or any future court order? My guess is “no one.” Musk currently has a stranglehold on the government, and enforcement of his limitations is going to run on the “trust me, bro” system.

[...]There are any number of Trump orders that this Supreme Court is going to rubber-stamp, all while promoting the conservatives’ “unitary executive theory” that grants the president powers more commonly associated with those of a king. As we’ve already seen with the court’s decision to grant Trump immunity from criminal prosecution for official acts, Roberts and his co-conspirators have pre-decided that the best way to handle Trump is to ride it out, generally give him what he wants, and accrue as much power for themselves as possible. Power that they’ll be happy to redeploy once he’s gone and they are again dealing with an executive who will faithfully enforce their orders, like literally any sad-sack Democrat who ever manages to win election again.

I’m not saying that the courts do not matter. As I said, some good decisions will squeak through. [...] But the courts will not save us. Even a friendly court is not designed to save democracy from a democratically elected president, and most courts are not our friends to begin with.