#how is this a real thing i'm living through

[dwarf-vader-of-middle-earth]

Just 2 years ago I visited a Pet Smart with my mother. The cashier was a cool dude with these gauges in his ears, and tattoos all over, a real rugged punk type like myself!

But as we approached, my mother outright asked him if it was hard to get a job with all of that. She asked if it's impractical to have gauges and tattoos because what if people think poorly of him?

Completely unprompted. She just suddenly began drilling him.

The cashier, gods be with him, brushed it off and took it like a fucking champ, expressing his love for how he appeared and I can't blame him!! He looked badass as hell!! Yet my mother kept pressing and causing obvious discomfort to not just him and myself but others in line as well, as if somehow her berating questions would get him to change. But that man defended himself relentlessly but kindly and with an upbeat attitude!

My mother literally didn't stop trying to push her point until I ushered her out of the store.

Once, as a little kid, I saw a cashier at the art store with blue hair, and seeing that blue is my favorite color, I wanted to compliment her!!

Before we even got in line, my mother pulled me aside and told me, word for word, "Do not say anything about her hair."

I ignored her, of course, and a few seconds after we arrived at the register, I told the woman I liked her hair a lot!

And my mother just exhaustedly sighed and held her head in utter dismay, IMMEDIATELY reprimanding me verbally for having said anything!!! That cashier told my mother it was fine and she was so happy to hear somebody say something nice about her hair!!

While I was walking with my mother through our neighborhood as a kid, we'd passed by a boy shooting hoops or something, but he was making every shot and well, so I said aloud as we passed, "Wow, that boy is REALLY good!"

And my mother SCOLDED me!! She harshly said, word for word, "Magnus, you DON'T do that!" And she was VERY relentless and angry in how she said it.

I was so confused. I still am.

My grandparents were the exact same. I encountered many situations like this when with them growing up. My aunts did the same, reprimenading me for giving a compliment. But all of them found it completely ok to berate a stranger for any reason at all, prompted or unprompted.

I tried asking my mother why I couldn't say something nice, and she couldn't give a valid explanation no matter how much I asked. All my mother did was continuously insist I don't do that (complimenting a stranger), and that it's rude to say anything of the sort.

Why is it so abhorrent to say someone is good at something? Why is it horrible if I tell someone their appearance is cool? If their talents are great? Why is it acceptable to berate somebody and call them out for any minor reason completely unprompted, but it's not acceptable to voice unprompted kindness and support with genuine desire to share love???

Why is rudeness acceptable but kindness isn't????

Now, I'm autistic, and I don't even pretend to understand social norms. But I do know how kindness can literally save lives, and how it genuinely just makes shit better for everyone no matter if they're having a good day or bad, when they are given a genuine compliment. So I was never sure if this is just some double standard or if it's something deeper, either or obviously being ingrained over many generations, but I say fuck it.

I compliment strangers constantly these days. I tell folks their tattoos are awesome, that I love their earrings, their outfits are so cool and well put together, their hair looks perfect! I compliment folks on their talents, and I'm genuine and heartfelt about it, meaning every word I say with sincerity!!

Strangers have given me hugs! People have broken down crying and hugged me for my I kindness!!! So many people have told me word for word, "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me!" And I'm not kidding.

I find every possible reason to compliment somebody, to voice kindness, especially for things such as piercings and hair dye and talents and the sort, especially those that many would disapprove of.

The way I see it is that if nobody ever hears support, then how will they know they're being supported at all? And if all anyone voices is disdain and berating, then how does anyone feel loved and supported??

So yeah. I don't get the whole belief of compliments = rude, and berating = fine. I don't think I'll ever know why this is normalized here.

But I'm damn tired of this because it's the precursor to allowing folks to walk all over you. If you can't voice a kind compliment to another without being shut down, then you're never going to be able to vocalize support of someone in need when they're being berated harshly and given shit left and right.

weird as fuck living in a culture where it's considered more impolite to speak up and defend yourself against someone treating you unfairly than it is for someone to be rude to you in the first place

[patricia-taxxon]

i think the maus thing comes from their view on what people expect victims to act like, they brush off works like maus as only "a holocaust memorial book" and flat out ignore the raw mommy issues segments because it doesn't fall flat with their perfect victim stereotype, if they acknowledge the raw human part of these stories then it falls into what they deem "problematic" and can't ennact empathy anymore, but i when they find someone who they already threw into the problematic horrible person meat grinder then they give themselves the permission to act outraged and think it's morally correct to harass you. because these stories to them aren't representative of real people's lives but more like items to consume and chew up and spit into segments of "nice victim who does nothing wrong and we should only look at them with pity and no other emotion" and "horrible person who does problematic things" (sorry if this sounds incoherent my thoughts are jumbled and im not that great at English)

Thanks for the thoughts, I'm feeling much if the same things. Nevermind how much Maus is built around dismantling the perfect victim empathy through suffering paradigm

[bigbigtruck]

hey this isn't a question, i just started reading Shot and Chaser and i wanted to tell you a) how great is and b) how much i appreciate seeing someone write honestly and compassionately about uncomfortable, personal things like being queer in texas, having a mental health crisis in STEM grad school, strained family relationships, trying to make a living through art, COVID's effect on all of the above, etc. i feel Seen in a really big way and i love how your characters feel like real people i have met before. also, your expressions and panelling are phenomenal!

Thank you so, so much.

Working on S&C has been a long, lonely, and difficult process, and webcomics are so hard to get seen if you're not famous on Webtoon, so it means SO MUCH to hear that my story connects with you <3.

I'm happy to say I'm in the homestretch on it (about 60 pages left), and my workflow has recently changed to making batches of pages at a time, to focus more on overall narrative cohesion than page-by-page updates, plus reworking previous pages for continuity, so things have slowed way down on the webcomic side. I hope to have good news to share soon.

Thank you again. S&C means so much to me and I'm treasuring every second I can grab to work on it.

[secret-diary-of-an-fa]

Yeah, the whole "ask the autistic kid a pointed question to get a funny answer with which to demean them" thing was a real motif for me too, back when I was growing up. Actually, I think it's part of a wider trend with bullies. They're not clever, but they possess the low, animal cunning of rat, or maybe a ferret. They'll find the thing that seems trivial to the authority figures in your life but which matters SO SO MUCH to you, and that's what they'll use to get at you. I do think being the kid on the receiving end of that has one thing to be said for it: it gives you a really good sense of what humans are. I went through a lot of bullying - most of it baiting me to see how long it would take me to blow my top and go beserk, but quite a bit of physical abuse, too. I don't consider myself traumatised as per the original post, but I think I have a very fucking clear idea of what the human animal is when you peel off its mask of civility and sophistication. When people see you as a victim- as someone who can't defend themselves- they get very comfortable showing you who they really are. And more often than not, who they really are is a mean-spirited scumbag with the IQ of pond-slime. The good news? They're mean-spirited scumbags with the IQ of pond-slime, so sooner or later your life is going to be much richer, more interesting and more fulfilling than theirs, just because you're capable of joys and sorrows and passions that their invertebrate minds could never aspire to. Consider this the inspirational part of the blog post: you will love more fully than they will. You will live with less compromise. You will not be defined, as they are, by the miserable cycle of work, consumption and recouperation that capitalism has made of human existence, because you will have a developed and complex inner life denied to those insensitive blocks who seek to torment you. And, because you have seen what humans are really like, you will have an easier time identifying the people who aren't like that. One day, you will find your tribe in a way that they cannot, and belive me: you are mighty with your tribe. Yes, while you're going through bullying, it feels like they're predators and you're prey, but here's the thing: being predators is all they have. It's the only thing in their pointless, empty little lives and if they ever experience happiness, it's only because they're too dumb to realise how miserable they ought to be.

Now for the less inspirational bit. Yes, things do get better, but you've still got to get through the bullshit first. My advice? I don't have any, but I know what worked for me: violence. I think a lot of the reason I'm not wholly traumatised by my childhood and why I'm so much less bitter than I might otherwise be is that I defended myself in the most literal and primal sense at the time. That counts for more than we're willing to admit to in this neutred fucking age. Not every time (I was smart enough, even then, to realise that getting a reputation as a violent person could be a serious problem), but often enough that I can look back fondly on those rare, wonderful occasions when I just stopped taking it and lamped a cunt with the nearest blunt object instead. I can look myself in the eye (well, if there's a mirror handy, anyway) and say "I gave as good as I got and acquitted myself well". Doesn't do jack-shit in the short-term, because bullies are usually too fucking dumb to fear physical reprisal, but years later it helps keep the wolf from the door. I know that violence can backfire. I know that it can get folk institutionalised and that I was, in some ways, very lucky to grow up with a family who understood its uses and value on some level. I know that it can lead to escalation. But I also know that I've never regretted throwing a punch at someone who earned it and do regretted quite a few missed opportunities to throw one.

So yeah. Take that or leave it.

the thing that always gets me ESPECIALLY about autistic representation in media is that we are universally portrayed as happy-go-lucky, whimsical children, completely oblivious to the fact that the world constantly judges and scorns and HATES us.

We notice. I noticed. The reason I am as messed up as I am today is because i spent 20 LONG years in an environment where every day i was subjected to that. To noticing.

what an absolutely neurotypical view of us. Coddling themselves, getting to act like the way they treat us is fine because we don't understand that our peers dont respect us. Why would we? We're so subhuman to them, it's like asking if your cat notices you playfully insulting it.

Every autistic person I've ever met is on some level bitter and angry and TRAUMATIZED at their upbringing. Of having to go through school as the laughing stock, as the weirdo with no friends who no one wants to talk to, as the animal in the corner you can make do cheap tricks so they can experience some Simulacra of what genuine human connection is.

Now tell me, does it sound like I didn't notice?

[movingmusically]

Hi love, I hope your day is going well! I really enjoy your work, and I wanted to request something based on the Vanity Fair interview with Austin making the paper roses. It could be a one shot, either he makes them for the reader or maybe they could have a competition or something since Austin's mentioned that he can be quite competitive. Thank you so much if you get to write this 😊

Author’s Note:

@saturnsdaughtr thank you for always taking the time to comment on my fics—I just wanted to say, I really appreciate it. Your comments genuinely make my day whenever I see them. That goes for anyone else who takes the time to comment, too—it really does mean a lot. Hope this one hits the mark!

Word Count: 5.6k

Masterlist

Paper Roses

The studio lights cast a soft glow over the intimate set, bouncing off black leather booths and scattered red napkins. There was something cinematic about it—like an old Hollywood film, polished yet intimate. You stood just off-camera, leaning against the back wall, watching Austin settle into the plush black booth.

He looked unfairly good. Tousled blonde curls, sharp cheekbones, that high shine black coat slipping off his shoulders just enough to tease the white tank underneath, layered necklaces resting against his collarbone. His sleeves pushed up just enough to expose his forearms, the glint of his gold bracelet catching under the lights as he flexed his fingers, smoothing out the napkin in front of him. You were supposed to be focusing on the interview, but how could you when he looked like that?

“And then you can just, you hide it—” he tucked the half-formed rose behind his back, then glanced at someone off-camera. You. “Come here.”

Your heart skipped at the way his voice dipped, warm and teasing. He gestured again, smirking now. “Come here, I’m talking to you.”

The crew laughed, and you shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest as if that would stop the way your stomach flipped.

Austin’s smirk lingered, eyes locked on yours for a beat too long before he turned back to the camera. But the amusement in his voice when he started over? That was just for you. "Alright," he exhaled, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeve. "Tonight, I'm gonna show you how to make a napkin rose."

The way he said it, smooth as velvet, sent a flutter through your chest. You bit the inside of your cheek, suppressing a grin.

As he began folding the napkin, you noticed the slight tremor in his fingers—subtle, but there. He was nervous. That was the thing about Austin; no matter how much confidence he radiated on the outside, there were always these little tells if you knew where to look. The slight swallow before he spoke, the way he ran his tongue along his bottom lip before pressing them together. You always noticed.

He smoothed the napkin over his palm, fingers deftly folding and twisting. “My sister was in high school when I was in elementary school,” he said, glancing up at the camera with a small, nostalgic smile. “And there was this guy, Chaggo—Brazilian, coolest kid at her school. He taught me how to do this.”

You’d heard bits of the story before, but never like this. His voice was soft, laced with admiration, like that little boy still lived somewhere inside him, awestruck by the cool older kid.

He twisted the napkin again, knuckles flexing, veins shifting beneath the surface of his skin. His hands were mesmerising—the precision, the careful way he manipulated the delicate material. You couldn’t stop staring.

“See, it’s good for when you’re out and don’t have real roses on hand,” he continued, a small smile tugging at his lips as he shaped the petals. “If you like a girl—or a guy—you can just, y’know… whip one of these out.”

Your breath caught.

You weren’t sure if he even realised it, but he was smirking. The type that made your stomach dip, the type that usually meant trouble.

He worked the napkin with surprising ease, fingers deft and careful as he wrapped and twisted the delicate folds. You should have been paying attention to what he was saying, but it was impossible not to get distracted by the way he moved. How gentle his hands were, the way he pinched and smoothed the edges with precision, poking at the napkin to create the illusion of petals.

He continued talking, something about how he’d used the trick in Elvis, but you barely processed it. Your attention had narrowed to the steady, practiced movement of his fingers—the precision, the ease, the way he handled something so fragile with such effortless control.

Austin twisted the napkin between his fingers, slowly bending the outer edge back to make it look more realistic.

“Try to be delicate with it,” he murmured, head tilting slightly as he bent the napkin between his fingers. "Cause you don't wanna rip it."

You exhaled sharply. He had no idea how hot that was, did he? His big, careful hands, the way his fingers traced the creases. He murmured, almost absently, “Sometimes you gotta get in there…” as he adjusted the centre of the rose—

Christ. He had to know.

The smirk. The flicker of amusement in his eyes. The way he lingered just a second too long—like he wanted you to notice.

Oh yeah. He definitely knew.

His lips twitched as he pinched the stem between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it one last time before holding it up with a small, satisfied smile.

“Yeah…” he said, examining his handiwork. “And that's how you make a rose out of a napkin.”

And then—like he could feel the heat of your gaze—he looked up. Right at you.

You rolled your eyes, but your face felt warm.

Hours later, Austin was back in his usual post-long-day attire—grey sweatpants slung low, a worn-out band tee, barefoot as he padded into the living room. He ran a hand through his curls, tousling them even more before flopping onto the couch with a sigh.

You dropped onto the cushions beside him, tucking your legs underneath yourself as you glanced at the coffee table, where the restaurant napkins from dinner were still sitting in a small pile. You nudged one with your finger, unable to shake the memory of his fingers folding and twisting the delicate paper.

“Think you could teach me how to do it?” you asked, nudging him with your foot.

Austin glanced over, one brow lifting in amusement. “The napkin rose?”

“Yeah.” You reached for one of the napkins and held it up. “It was cute.”

He smirked. “You were checking me out the whole time, weren’t you?”

“I was watching the interview,” you corrected.

Austin just smirked. “Mmm. Sure.”

But the truth was, yeah, you had been. And judging by the way he was looking at you now—one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, amusement dancing in his eyes—he knew it, too.

Still, he sat up and took a napkin from your hands, scooting closer until his thigh was pressed against yours. “Alright,” he murmured, voice dipping just slightly as he smoothed the napkin out over his knee. “First, fold over one end like this, and then you just start wrapping.”

Austin leaned in, watching as you tried to mirror his movements. You folded one end over, twisting the fabric between your fingers.

“You’re holding it too tight,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes. “Am I?”

“Mmhm.” He leaned in closer, one hand bracing on the couch beside you. “You gotta be delicate with it.”

The heat from his body seeped into your side as he leaned in, hands brushing over yours.

“See?” His voice was quieter now, rougher. “Loosen your grip a little. Let the fabric move with you.”

Your breath hitched.

It was just a napkin. Just paper and soft touches and—

God, he smelled good.

Focus.

You followed his lead, allowing him to guide your fingers. His hands were so much bigger than yours, rougher in some places, but his touch was impossibly gentle.

“Now twist,” he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek.

You swallowed hard, trying to mimic the way his fingers moved, but yours felt clumsy compared to his. “Like this?”

Austin glanced at your attempt, biting his lip. “Not quite.”

“What? What’s wrong with it?”

He huffed out a small laugh. “It kinda looks like a… wilted tulip.”

You gasped. “Oh, you’re a jerk.”

He was full-on grinning now, all mischief and teasing. “I’m just saying—”

“Alright, let’s make it a competition,” you interrupted, grabbing another napkin. “Best rose wins.”

Austin’s smile widened, his competitive streak flaring instantly. “Oh, you’re on, baby.”

For the next ten minutes, the room was filled with intense focus—at least on your part. Austin, of course, looked completely at ease, working quickly while you struggled with each fold. He’d occasionally glance over at your progress, lips twitching, but said nothing.

Finally, you both held up your finished roses. Yours was… well, it wasn’t the worst thing you’d ever made, but next to his? It looked pitiful.

Austin tilted his head, feigning deep consideration before finally speaking. "Mmm... not bad." His smirk gave him away.

You gasped. "Oh, you ass—best out of three."

His lips curled. “Oh, you really wanna lose, huh?”

And just like that, it was on.

Folding. Twisting. Talking shit between laughs. Austin got progressively more competitive, and you were desperate to beat him at least once.

But of course, the man was insufferably good at it.

He smoothed down the petals of his latest masterpiece, setting it beside his growing collection. “How many does that make now?”

“Too many,” you grumbled, glaring at your latest attempt—still lopsided, still amateur.

Austin reached out, plucking it from your hands. He turned it over, pretending to admire it. “It’s got… character.”

You groaned. “Shut up.”

He chuckled, then without hesitation, he reached out, gently tucking his perfect napkin rose behind your ear. His fingers lingered, knuckles brushing your cheek, his gaze softening as he looked at you.

“There,” he murmured, voice low. “Perfect.”

Your breath caught.

Something about the way he was looking at you—the way his eyes flicked between yours and your lips, the way his thumb traced the edge of your jaw—made the playful atmosphere shift into something heavier.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you breathed.

His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face up just enough. His breath was warm, the space between you thick with something electric. His gaze flicked down—just for a second—before finding yours again. "You wanna go for best out of five?" he murmured.

You scoffed, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Oh, piss off.”

Austin grinned, shameless.

You exhaled a small laugh, reaching up to touch the napkin rose. “Besides, I think you’ve already won.”

His smirk faded into something softer. “Yeah,” he murmured.

And then, he kissed you.

There was no hesitation, no slow build—just heat, immediate and consuming. His hand slid into your hair, fingers tangling at the nape of your neck as he pulled you in, tilting his head to deepen the kiss before you could even catch your breath.

You barely had a second to process it before his other hand was on your hip, gripping, pulling, pressing you closer. The space between you disappeared in an instant, his body warm, solid, all heat and intent.

His goatee tickled against your skin, the rough scrape of it igniting something unexpected. It wasn’t the first time he’d kissed you since he started growing it out, but you still weren’t used to it.

You inhaled sharply at the sensation, fingers tightening in his t-shirt as you let yourself sink further into the kiss.

Austin must’ve noticed, because his lips curled against yours in a knowing smirk before he angled his head, dragging the coarse hairs deliberately over your jaw.

You shivered.

You inhaled sharply, fingers fisting into his t-shirt. “Austin.”

That should have been a warning. It wasn’t.

Austin exhaled a quiet laugh, warm and teasing. “Still getting used to this?” he murmured against your throat, lips brushing over the spot where your pulse jumped.

Your stomach flipped.

He felt different like this. Looked different, too.

The softer, cleaner lines of his face had been replaced with something rougher, sharper. The scruff along his jaw made him look older, a little more dangerous—all in a way you liked too much.

And then there were the tattoos.

They weren’t real, but they might as well have been. The ink peeked out from under the sleeves of his worn-out t-shirt, bold against his sun-kissed skin.

The scruff, the tattoos, the newness of how he felt under you—yeah, you were getting used to it.

And you liked it.

His thumb traced your jaw, tilting your face up, and you knew he could see it all over you. The way you were already falling apart for him, the way you’d spent all day watching him, fingers twisting, pressing, folding delicate paper into shape—

And now those hands were on you.

Austin hummed, slow and satisfied, his voice dropping low. “I saw you staring earlier.”

You swallowed. “You were showing off.”

He smirked. “Maybe.” His hand slid down your side, slow and lazy. “Did it work?”

You didn’t answer. Not verbally, anyway.

Instead, you shifted, pushing him back against the couch as you climbed onto his lap, legs bracketing his thighs.

Austin stilled for half a second—just long enough for his fingers to flex against your waist—before his hands tightened, pulling you flush against him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, breath rough.

That one syllable sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

His grip tightened, knuckles pressing into your skin like he was trying to keep himself in check, but you weren’t interested in restraint.

You kissed him again, sinking into it, rolling your hips just slightly—just enough to test, to tease, to see how far you could push him.

Austin groaned, low and desperate, and that was it.

His hands moved—one sliding up your back, the other gripping your hip, guiding your movements, pressing you down against him.

The friction sent a spark of pleasure curling through you, sharp and sudden, and you gasped into his mouth.

Austin swallowed the sound, chasing it with another kiss, hungrier now, rougher, his teeth scraping along your bottom lip.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough as his lips moved to your throat, his goatee burning hot against your skin. “Think I like this look, too.”

And from the way he was dragging you closer, gripping, rolling his hips up to meet yours—he didn’t just like it.

He was losing himself in it.

Austin kissed you like nothing outside of this—outside of you—existed. His goatee scraped along your skin with every tilt of his head, leaving behind a burn that only made you want more. His fingers flexed at your waist, gripping harder, pressing you further into his lap until you could feel every inch of him beneath you.

And God, he felt so good.

He was all lean muscle and warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palms. His t-shirt was thin, old, soft in the way only well-worn fabric could be, and you could feel the heat of his skin through it, could feel the way his muscles tensed when your hands wandered.

With a slow roll of your hips, you dragged your hands down his arms, over the sinewy muscle of his forearms, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips. Then, before he could react, you caught one of his hands, bringing it to your lips.

Austin stilled.

His eyes locked onto yours, heavy-lidded, burning with something dark and wanting. You held his gaze as you parted your lips, taking two of his fingers into your mouth, sucking lightly at first before hollowing your cheeks, running your tongue along the length of them.

“Jesus.” His breath punched out of him, his head falling back against the couch for half a second before he snapped his gaze back to you. His pupils were blown, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths.

You bit down gently at the tip of his fingers before pulling back, letting them slide out of your mouth with a slow, deliberate drag. Austin let out a quiet, broken sound, his free hand tightening on your hip like he was trying to ground himself.

“Yeah?” you teased, voice saccharine, knowing exactly what you were doing.

Austin’s jaw flexed, his breath shuddering as his fingers—wet from your mouth—slid down your throat, pressing lightly against your pulse before trailing lower. He watched the way your breath hitched, the way your body arched into him, and his smirk turned downright sinful.

Austin's fingers trailed lower, skimming over the curve of your breast before dipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His touch was slow, teasing, deliberately unhurried as his palm flattened against your stomach, warm and firm.

Your breath hitched when he gripped the fabric and started lifting. You let him pull it off, tossing it somewhere behind the couch. The second it was gone, Austin’s hands were back on you, palms skimming up your sides, his thumbs grazing the underside of your breasts.

His gaze flicked over you, heavy, burning, lingering as his hands mapped every inch of newly exposed skin. "Fuck," he muttered, almost to himself. "You're so damn pretty."

Your stomach flipped at the reverence in his voice, but before you could respond, his mouth was on you again, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, across your collarbone, lower still. Every brush of his lips was chased by the rough scrape of his goatee, sending shivers dancing over your skin.

Then, his hands were moving again, sliding down your back, across your ribs, down to your hips—before one slipped lower.

Your breath hitched.

The fabric of your shorts was thin—too thin to stop the way you felt the heat of his fingers as they pressed against you, the way he cupped you, testing, teasing.

"Austin—" Your voice wavered, anticipation curling hot and tight in your stomach.

"Shhh." His other hand slid up your back, grounding you as he tilted his head, scraping his teeth along the curve of your jaw. "Let me feel you, baby."

And then—his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts.

Your gasp melted into a moan the second he touched you properly. His fingers moved slow, deliberate, parting you, spreading you open before sliding through the slick heat he found there.

"Christ," Austin groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he felt exactly how ready you were for him. "You been like this all day?"

You didn't answer, couldn't—not when he pressed his fingers in deeper, curling just right, stroking slow and purposeful.

"You have, haven’t you?" His voice was thick with smug satisfaction, his breath warm against your skin. "Spent all day watching me, thinking about this."

You whined, hips shifting into his hand, chasing the sensation, and he chuckled, low and dark.

"Yeah," he muttered, nipping lightly at your pulse. "Bet you wanted it bad, didn't you?"

You couldn't think, couldn't do anything but melt into him as his fingers worked you open, his palm dragging against your clit with every slow, devastating movement. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breath ragged, nails biting into his shoulders.

Austin groaned at the sharp press of your nails, his pace stuttering for half a second before he pushed in deeper, rougher. "Fuck, baby," he rasped. "Wish you could see yourself."

You whimpered, hips rolling into his touch, and that was it—he was done for.

"Here," he murmured, fingers slowing just enough to withdraw, slipping from your body with a wet drag. "Open up for me."

You barely had a second to react before he was pressing his fingers against your lips, waiting.

Your stomach flipped. Your heart nearly stopped.

Slowly, deliberately, you parted your lips, letting him slide them into your mouth.

Austin groaned, deep and husky, as you closed your lips around them, your tongue flicking over the taste of yourself on his skin.

"Fuck." His head tipped back against the couch, his grip on your waist tightening. "You're gonna kill me."

You sucked lightly, slow and teasing, dragging your tongue along the length of his fingers before pulling back with a soft pop.

Austin exhaled hard through his nose, his eyes nearly black as they flicked back to you. "Stand up."

You blinked, still catching your breath. "What?"

"Stand up," he repeated, hands gripping your hips as he helped guide you off his lap.

The second your feet hit the floor, Austin hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, dragging them down your legs in one slow, fluid motion.

He stayed seated, but his gaze was burning into you as he took you in—naked, breathless, trembling.

Then, without a word, he shifted lower on the couch, stretching out, his broad shoulders sinking into the cushions.

And then he looked up at you.

"Come here, sweetheart," he rasped, hands gripping your thighs. "Sit."

Heat flooded your body, pooling low in your stomach at the sheer command in his voice.

You swallowed hard, stepping forward, placing your hands on the back of the couch to steady yourself as you swung one leg over his shoulders.

Austin hummed in satisfaction as you hovered above him, his hands smoothing over the outside of your thighs before gripping firmly.

"All the way," he murmured, voice thick. "I want to feel all of you."

You let him pull you down onto his mouth, and the second his tongue touched you, the world shattered.

Austin groaned the second you sank onto him, the sound vibrating through you, hot and hungry. His hands flexed against your thighs, fingers digging in, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

The first stroke of his tongue was slow—deliberate, tasting you, savouring you. Then, his grip tightened, and he pulled you closer, tilting his head, pressing deeper.

A choked moan slipped from your lips, your fingers curling into the couch cushions to keep yourself steady. The heat of his mouth, the rough scratch of his goatee against the sensitive skin of your thighs—it was overwhelming, intoxicating.

Austin hummed against you, his tongue flicking over your clit before he sucked it between his lips, and your whole body jerked.

“Jesus—Austin—”

He groaned at the way you said his name, one of his hands trailing up your side, settling at your ribs before sliding higher, palming your breast. His fingers flexed, teasing, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger as his mouth worked you over.

Your head tipped back, breath shuddering as he devoured you, every stroke of his tongue sending sparks shooting through your body. The burn of his goatee was relentless, scraping against your inner thighs with every move, adding a delicious, stinging contrast to the slick heat of his mouth.

Your legs started to shake, the pleasure building too quickly, too sharp, and Austin felt it.

His grip on your hip tightened. Your thighs clenched around his head, and he groaned like he fucking loved it.

Your hands scrambled for purchase, nails biting into the couch, hips rolling, chasing, desperate for more.

Austin exhaled a sharp breath through his nose, then—without warning—he pulled back just enough to suck two fingers into his mouth, wetting them before pressing them against you, sliding them in, filling you.

A ragged moan tore from your throat, your back arching as he curled his fingers, finding exactly what he was looking for.

“There,” he muttered, voice rough as his mouth found you again, tongue moving in time with his fingers, stroking, teasing, coaxing you closer.

It was too much.

Too good.

The rough scratch of his beard, the firm press of his fingers, the obscene sounds of his mouth on you—it was all too much.

Your legs trembled, the coil in your stomach tightening, ready to snap.

Austin felt it, knew it, and he went harder. He moaned against you again, deep and raw, and it sent you over the edge.

Your whole body clenched, pleasure washing over you in a dizzying, breathless wave. Your thighs squeezed around his head, your hips stuttering as the pleasure ripped through you, raw and unstoppable.

Austin groaned as you came, drinking in every last tremor, his tongue never stopping, his fingers never slowing, pushing you through it, dragging it out, making sure you felt everything.

Your body sagged, trembling, spent, and finally—finally—he slowed.

Austin pressed one last, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then another, before gently guiding you off his face, helping you settle onto his lap. His hands smoothed over your thighs, up your sides, grounding you, steadying you.

Your chest was still heaving, your whole body still shaking, and he fucking smirked, proud and satisfied.

His goatee was glistening, his lips red and swollen, his eyes dark and hooded as he looked up at you.

Austin smirked, still dazed, still catching his breath, and then—without breaking eye contact—he sucked his fingers into his mouth, groaning quietly at the taste of you.

Your stomach flipped.

The heat in his gaze didn’t waver as he pulled his fingers free with a slow, deliberate pop. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Thought you’d like this beard.”

Your thighs ached, sensitive from the rough burn of it, but God, you did.

And now it was his turn.

You moved before he could, pressing him back against the couch. Austin exhaled sharply, his jaw flexing, but he didn’t argue. He just let you push him back, his head tipping over the armrest as you slid down, fingers trailing down his stomach, dipping beneath the hem of his t-shirt. You felt the heat of his skin, the way his muscles tensed under your touch. You pushed the fabric higher, and he helped you, yanking it over his head before tossing it aside.

Fuck, he was beautiful.

Lean and golden, stomach flexing with every shaky breath, scattered freckles and moles peppering his skin. You traced them with your lips, your tongue, making your way lower, feeling his body tighten with anticipation beneath you.

Your fingers teased at the waistband of his sweatpants, and his breath hitched. His cock was already straining against the fabric, the outline thick and heavy, and just the sight of it had heat sparking between your legs all over again.

Tugging his sweatpants lower, you freed him, and your breath caught. He was thick, flushed dark with heat, precum already beading at the tip. A sharp, involuntary twitch made it jerk against his stomach, and your mouth watered.

Austin let out a sharp breath, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, his stomach flexing when your fingers wrapped around him, slow and deliberate. He was hard, so fucking hard, thick and warm in your palm as you stroked once, twice, just to feel him twitch in your grip. His fingers curled into the couch, his throat bobbing on a swallow as he exhaled through his nose, his control already slipping.

"Shit," he muttered, voice rough as his head dropped back.

You hummed, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the tip, licking the precum from his slit just to taste him. He groaned, hips jerking slightly off the couch, but you pressed him back down with a firm hand, taking your time as you dragged your tongue down the underside of his length, letting him feel every inch of it.

"Fuck," Austin exhaled, his breath shaky. His free hand lifted, fingers threading through your hair, cradling your skull.

You let spit pool in your mouth, letting it drip over the head of him before taking him deeper, your lips stretching around his cock as you hollowed your cheeks. The wet sound of it filled the room, obscene, slick, and Austin let out a sharp, shuddering groan, his fingers tightening slightly in your hair.

“Jesus,” he choked out, his voice breaking slightly.

His head knocked back against the couch for half a second before he forced himself to watch, his pupils blown wide, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might shatter.

You moaned around him, the vibration making his whole body shudder beneath you. You pulled back slowly, letting your tongue swirl over the tip before taking him deeper again, sucking harder.

His grip on your hair tightened, his other hand fisted into the couch, knuckles white, like he was using every ounce of control not to fuck up into your mouth.

When you relaxed your throat, taking him even deeper, he finally gave in. His fingers flexed against your scalp, his grip shifting, guiding you down further, his hips rolling up into the heat of your mouth in slow, shallow thrusts.

He wasn’t quiet.

Austin let out a sharp, gasping moan, his thighs tensing beneath you. "You're—" he cut off, moaning when you swallowed around him, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, voice rough. "Too good at this."

You pulled off just slightly, meeting his gaze, letting your lips drag over the head of him. "Yeah?"

His eyes burned into yours. "Yeah."

Then, before you could tease him again, he surged forward, gripping your face, pulling you up into a desperate, messy kiss. His lips were insistent, searching, and his hands weren’t still for a second—gripping your hips, sliding down your back, curling into your thighs like he couldn’t get enough.

"C'mere," he murmured against your lips, voice rough, commanding.

He guided you into his lap, his hands steadying you as he rolled his hips up, searching for friction, searching for anything that would let him feel you closer.

Austin reached between you, wrapping his fingers around himself, dragging the flushed, heavy head of his cock through your slick, coating himself in it. His breath hitched, the muscles in his stomach flexing beneath your palms.

And then he pushed in.

Your mouth fell open, a sharp, breathless sound escaping as he stretched you, thick and unrelenting. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t go slow—he just filled you, deep and overwhelming, knocking the breath from your lungs.

Austin groaned, his hands flexing at your waist, his jaw clenching tight as he bottomed out. His grip shifted, sliding up your spine before curling around the back of your neck, tugging you down until your chest was flush against his.

"Fuck, baby," he muttered, his breath hot against your ear, voice low and strained.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you there as he rocked up into you, deep and deliberate, like he wanted to drown in you.

Every slow, devastating thrust had you gasping against his mouth, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your body moulding against his like you were made to fit him. His goatee scraped against your jaw as he tilted his head, lips dragging along your throat, biting down just enough to make you shudder.

"You feel so fucking good," he groaned, voice thick, hands pressing into your back, keeping you close, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Your breath hitched, every inch of your body on fire as he moved beneath you, thrusts deep and unrelenting, dragging pleasure from you with every snap of his hips.

Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging hard, and he groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin as his pace turned rougher, needier. He wasn’t holding back anymore, wasn’t trying to.

Austin’s breath came rough and uneven against your throat, his hands roaming, gripping, pulling—like he needed to feel every part of you, needed to consume you. His hips snapped up to meet yours, the wet, obscene sound of it filling the space between you.

You could barely breathe, barely think—just feel. The stretch of him, the heat of his skin, the way he filled you, deep and perfect, every drag and push against that spot inside you unraveling something hot and unbearable.

Austin felt it, knew it, and he wasn’t about to let up. One of his hands slid between you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, teasing circles that made your whole body seize.

You gasped, hips stuttering, nails biting into his shoulders. “Fuck, Austin—don't stop.”

His teeth grazed your jaw, a moan catching in his throat. And just like that, you shattered.

The pleasure ripped through you so hard it left you gasping, shaking, your whole body tensing as the orgasm crashed over you, raw and consuming. His thrusts turned ragged, desperate. He was trying to hold on, to make it last, but the way you clenched around him—tight, perfect, unraveling him—tore a strangled moan from his throat. 'Fuck—baby—' his voice cracked, his fingers digging hard into your waist. He cursed sharply, and then he was gone, hips stuttering as he spilled deep, heat flooding between you as he groaned into your skin, undone and gasping.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your ragged breaths, the steady thrum of your heartbeats still trying to slow.

Then, Austin exhaled sharply, a breathless laugh escaping as he tipped his head back against the couch, his hands splaying over your back, warm and steady.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, voice hoarse. His lips curved, eyes flicking up to you, exhausted and utterly blissed out. "You tryin’ to kill me, sweetheart?"

You huffed out a laugh, forehead dropping against his. "Pretty sure you started it."

Austin grinned, satisfaction written all over him, and then—slowly, gently—he pulled you down into another kiss. This one was softer, lazy, just lips and warmth and the slow, delicious hum of aftershocks still buzzing through your veins.

He hummed against your lips, fingers tracing light, absentminded patterns against your spine. "We should probably move."

You sighed, letting your body relax against his. “Mmm. Later.”

Austin chuckled, arms tightening around you, perfectly content to stay right where he was. His fingers traced slow, lazy circles against your bare back, soothing, grounding. "Yeah," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Later."

Taglist:

@thefallofthedamned @saturnsdaughtr @bellesdreamyprofile @butlerrizz @myradiaz @chocolatetree222

[techav]

Looking Back

Today, 26 March 2025, is the tenth anniversary of the first time I put power to a Z80 microprocessor in a breadboard and watched it blink some LEDs.

Within a few weeks that Z80 would be completely surrounded by other chips and hundreds of wires to form my first functioning homebrew computer.

Another week and I was already removing a 68000 from a (presumed) dead motherboard, with grand ideas of moving up to the 16-bit era (but absolutely no understanding of what that would entail)

It would be another two years before the first time I put that 68000 in a breadboard and successfully used it to blink an LED.

By the time another year had rolled around that 68000 was living on a soldered breadboard and for the first time on one of my projects, it was running real software — EhBASIC.

Always looking to more challenging projects, while I was building with a 68000, I was already reading through the manual for the 68030 trying to understand how to build with a proper 32-bit microprocessor. Just one more year and I had that 68030 on a wire wrap board, blinking an LED.

The next year I was doing the most ridiculous thing I could think of — free-running a Pentium CPU on a wire wrap breadboard to blink an LED. Because I could.

By the end of the next year that 68030 had moved from its wire wrap board onto a proper printed circuit board — my first ever 4-layer PCB.

The next year saw the towering expansion of the 68030 build, adding new peripherals and functionality.

Another year and I had an all-new 68030 build on a Micro-ATX form-factor motherboard developed in just a couple months ahead of VCF Southwest 2023.

The next year I focused on developing software for my existing 68030 board stack, rather than building something new from scratch. I succeeded in developing a minimal multi-user kernel to run four instances of BASIC simultaneously.

All along in between working on these projects I have done component-level repairs on various computers, developed expansion cards for the Mac SE, built PCs both new and old, burned out hard, developed some smaller homebrew computers, had a lot of false starts, failed projects, and abandoned projects, and completed some massive projects in my day job.

Looking back at everything I've worked on over these past 10 years I am absolutely amazed at how far I have come and what I have been able to accomplish. Much of it I still don't understand how I managed to actually pull it off, and I'm not entirely sure I could duplicate my successes.

Here's to the next ten years

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Rumor, what do you think happened with Sentebale?? You always have good intuition about everything.

So, disclaimer in advance: this is probably going to be rambly because I'm still processing.

I won't lie: My first reaction to the news - without having seen the chairwoman's statement and without having done any additional research - is that whatever the issues, they were related to the board all being in the UK while the chair and the work is all in Africa. I thought (and you can see it one of the comments I made) it was an accountability or a visibility issue. It's hard to provide oversight or give direction when the thing you're evaluating is halfway around the world.

But now having read her statement and done some research? Oh, man.

The first thing for me, right off the bat, is the American adage that "Black people must work twice as hard to go half as far." I don't know if that's true in other places around the world, but that's the deal here in the US and that's the perspective I'm looking through. So knowing that Dr. Chandauka is a Black woman, and that she studied, worked, and lived here in the US and have seen some of her CV, I feel pretty confident saying this woman is ridiculously overqualified for a chairwoman and she absolutely knows her shit.

She knows how boards are supposed to run. She knows how businesses are run. She knows that something is not right. Has she known all along? I don't know. Based on my own experience, I don't think she did. There's a lot you don't know as "just" a board member that when you step into the chair position, it's mind-blowing how much else is going on that you had no idea or awareness of. Dr. Chandauka may have had inklings that there's something else going on so she became Chair to see what's going on or perhaps she had no idea so she became Chair and it was just 🤯😲🤯.

And then the fact that she got the court - the whole real court - to stop the board from firing her? And the Charity Commission, an oversight watchdog, is investigating?

I echo again my comment that I made to Dr. Chandauka's statement: damning and damaging.

So to the anons who've said that The Times's story is preemptive spin by Harry and Prince Seesio, congratulations, take a bow. I think you're right.

Now for what the actual specific allegations are, I'm not sure. But there are a lot of them, and I want to wait and reserve judgment on what's actually going on until there's more information.

But knowing what we know about other charities of Harry's - African Parks, the Royal Foundation, Archewell, Invictus Games - I think it's pretty safe to say that Harry is completely checked out, despite claiming to be involved, which is an abdication of responsibility and accountability on his part as an involved founder and a patron, especially if there is significant, substantial, and widespread wrongdoing on the board's part.

(So quick aside: African Parks had the rape scandal; the Royal Foundation got audited after the Sussexes left over claims about how certain donations were made; Archewell can't file any paperwork on time; Invictus Games is bleeding money faster than a flesh wound.)

And let's not forget Harry's own racism, misogyny, and astounding ostrichism.

That Harry resigned from the charity too hints to me that whatever Dr. Chandauka discovered, Harry's implicated in it too or that Harry is aware that it's going to reflect poorly on him and he might not be able to wave the scandal away with a charm offensive like he did African Parks, which makes me think these are systemic problems like -- purely speculating right now:

are the funds and support Sentebale is distributing actually making it to the people in need?

are there bribes involved, or kickbacks?

has the board been bullying Sentebale staff to carry out certain activities?

are the people receiving the funds and support from the organization using the money correctly?

are the people responsible for distributing funds/services withholding them until other services have been provided?

are the board members using Sentebale as a slush fund for travel in Africa? Is Harry doing that and they're covering it up for him?

are the books/budget unbalanced?

is the board delinquent in their duties to the organization? E.g., are they missing meetings? not fundraising? giving inappropriate advice? have they turned a blind eye to reported abuse?

were board members inappropriate to staff, including Dr. Chandauka? (I think this one is 'yes' based on her statement.)

is the board properly documenting its work and meetings in accordance with appropriate laws? (I'm guessing 'no,' based on her statement.)

Again, all of that is speculation.

So I know this was rambly and it's kind of all over the point, so to wrap it up: TL;DR--

These are serious allegations. A court and the charity commission have both intervened so there absolutely is smoke here.

Dr. Chandauka knows her stuff. She's been chair for almost 2 years and was a board member for a long time before that. Trust.

But also verify - there's a lot being said and a lot being spun, but nothing specific has been explained yet. It does sound like both sides are setting in for a long fight.

More will come to light in the next few days/weeks/months, so I think this is one of those situations we'll need to watch, see what happens, and be mindful of our speculating.

[showeredinstardust]

I am not a big Tumblr poster. Ok? I'm an observer in all aspects. A lurker, if you will. I don't reblog stuff. I barely even like things. I only follow people sometimes.

But recently I've been scrolling through the 'transandrophobia' tag a lot more than I used to. recently I've seen posts that send me into a train of thought that's like. "People really think like this?" And it's more tiring than I realize sometimes. So I'm putting my thoughts into this post.

I've recently watched masculine trans people and queer people of all kinds getting the short end of the stick. I watch people put others down based on their masculinity, and I think- if this is such a big issue when done to femininity, why in the world would you think it's acceptable to flip it around? Feminism has never been about saying that women are better. It's never been about hating men. It's been about uplifting women so that they'll be seen as equals, and breaking both men and women out of patriarchal mindsets. It's about uniting over the fact that no group of people is better than another.

Trans men and enbies and mascs do not have whatever perceived systemic privilege you think they do. Trans people in general will only ever have conditional privilege in specific situations, if that. Society only praises performative masculinity- the kind that fits into their neat little boxes of 'should' and 'shouldn't'. Masculine queer people have never fit into those stupid little boxes. Trans men. Mascs. Butches.

I'm tired of this. Tired of the 'femininity good masculinity bad' talk. You're not children. Grow up and learn some nuance. Trans men are whiny and annoying to you because they've never had the privilege of being anything other than invisible. Constantly erased and brushed off so when they start getting angry you see it as an attack because you haven't cared to see them before. You haven't cared to see them when they were scared. You haven't cared to see them when they were just begging to be seen. You haven't cared to see them as anything other than traitors or thieves or anything because until it's not about you anymore, you don't give a fuck. You only look at them when you're personally slighted by whatever they have to say.

What does it cost to have empathy for other's lived experiences? Nothing. When a group of people is telling you what they've consistently and repeatedly been through, you listen to them. You don't shut them down because of an immutable trait. You don't shut them down because you've never seen it happen. You don't shut them down because they're not your idea of someone who's oppressed. That's not how this works. People are angry for a REASON. Masculine queer people have every right to be angry. we've been pushed aside and had statistics ignored and been told that other people's oppression is more important than ours simply for what? the sin of masculinity?

Now, above all, trans people should be united. Instead of fussing over whatever sort of strawmen and caricatures you have in your head, we should just be listening to each other. we should be able to listen to other's lives and traumas and pains without throwing a fit over words or theories. Having words to describe oppression is important. Being able to label your pain is important. But none of that matters more than what's happening to people in their real lives. the people who are dying. The people who are being raped and silenced and shunned out of public spaces and even their own homes. No words will ever matter more than the people who are actively hurting due to your refusal to even look in their direction.

if you want to talk about this, be my guest. Ask me questions. Tell me I'm wrong. Whatever. I just have a need for this to be known above all else. I don't care what people on the internet think of what I have to say. This site is a fuckin cesspool. so's every other corner of the internet.

Thanks for reading.

[iwrite-sinsandtragedies]

OC x Canon Week 2025 Bonus Day — Wiping Away Tears + Jewels/Chains & ("It was Always you!... Always has been. Always will be.")

AT LAST!!! [insert elmo fire emoji]

The last prompt for @theocxcanonweek is finally done!!!

Game: Our Life: Beginnings & Always Characters: China Schuyler x Baxter Ward

✨ Bonus Drawing Video! ✨

So, the 'jewels and chains' aspect of this prompt is a bit more figurative - as these are both people who have to do a lot of growth and healing from their pasts and, in doing so, find out the true value of themselves to the people who so dearly love them.

I honestly, genuinely, really love the idea of the struggle that is this relationship. I love the idea that, sometimes, things aren't perfect and sometimes it really is just a fight to hold on and keep pushing through the same old problems again and again. Because people don't just magically get better, y'know? Bad habits and hurt feelings don't all just go away once you've decided to start living better. If it were that easy, then the world would be more happy than it is.

No, real relationships take time and patience and work. That's why it's called a commitment. And that commitment is always going to be tested, and a true sign of love is staying even when things get hard. It's saying "If I'm worthy of being loved, then so are you."

I think it's a lesson Baxter is going to have to learn and relearn for quite some time, honestly. Especially with Ai, who has always put her needs last and is now forced to confront them and voice them whenever Baxter, once again, pulls too far away from her. Baxter will have to learn that, for all that Ai is his biggest support - she is also a lot more fragile then she lets on. That no matter how much she loves him or forgives him, she's still hurt, and her healing is still happening.

I just think that the first couple years with these two would be a fairly hard road to travel. A rocky trek rather than a stroll in the park, you could say. They're going to get a few scuffs, there will be rough moments ahead and they may fall sometimes or even stray. However, they've always got each other's back. They'll never move on without the other's hand in theirs - and they'll always come back for each other when they trip along the way.

Because, at the end of the day, loving each other is what they will always choose. Always.

[liryquin]

Alan Mido as your older brother :3

platonic!Alan Mido x gn!reader

summary: a drabble? on your relationship with him as his little sibling.

cw: milddd angst if you squint, reader is not mc/pc, ooc character/s, lapslock, canon divirgence, everyone is sane and nothing bad happens.

word count: ≈ 800

a/n: you know you're real whimsical and based when you write platonic content for an OTOME game. also pleeeease send me asks / prompts for platonic tkdb characters... I'm STARVING

proofread ✔️

๑｡‿♡⁠˖༚⑅ ever since the very first time Alan saw you, he knew that his new goal in life would be to become the best older sibling anyone could ask for – one look at your tiny face, your eyelashes fluttering sleepily, coddled in a thick blanket, was enough for him to be instantly enamored, once and for all.

being constantly present by your side as you grew, he wanted to spend every free minute of his time with you, living for how your eyes would practically sparkle with amusement when your cool older bro would teach you to play cool games that only big kids know.

or whenever someone even as much as tried to pick up on you or make a joke about some aspect of your appearance, he would immediately jump in to protect you! not being afraid of getting a bloody nose and bruises after. because in his perspective, no matter how Independent and capable you claim to be, you still are just a kid, puffing up their chest after solving a tough problem on their quiz.

he used to be very physically affectionate, whether it be hugging you, picking you up, or patting you on the head or your back all the time. you were to expect a pat of approval after you clean your room, eat your breakfast, put out the laundry, and just whenever he felt like it, to be fair. sometimes it got really annoying with how no matter how old you grew he still treated you like a little child! you'd furrow your brows and pout your lips, dodging his hand whenever he reached out to you, and Alan would playfully chase you around the house, giggling. little did you know that you'll grow to miss those times.

since the whole pact-dante-darckwick thing happened, physical contact with him became nonexistent.

being convinced that he's a monster he distanced himself from you, all in the name of protecting you and your wellbeing from his own self. he feared that you might have grown to be disgusted by him, or even worse, be afraid of him – these thoughts would linger somewhere in the back of his head, like a bothersome fly that he can't just swat away.

... but before you know it, whenever there is a chance, you are already standing in front of the ice cream vending machine at the shimbashi station, ready to prove him wrong.

despite how much older you both grew, your relationship remained unchanged at all the main points. walking you through the dorm that he'd become the captain of, he once announced to you, pride swirling inside of him, like water lapping at the borders of the glass at your amazement, (sigh), just like when you were kids – he couldn't really keep up his gruff and cold facade around, being perfectly aware of how Leo won't miss the opportunity to tease him into oblivion about it later, he ranted about the most mundane things that have happened lately.

well, at least as much as Alan Mido can rant, being a man of very (emphasis) few words, he can sound pretty awkward. if you're willing to listen, he'd be happy to tell you all about the missions he went on, with one condition – only the lowest ranking ones and only in family friendly details. he doesn't want to rid his lovely little sibling of sleep with all the gore and filth that he has had to witness, duh! all is worth it for you to look at him with the same admiration as in the past... he might tear up just a bit at the thought. he gets nostalgic really often.

being a darckwick student has steeled his mind and hardened his heart, so he might not be as affectionate and frank, but he still likes spending time with you. whether it's you lounging on his bed with your phone while he gets ready for the day in the morning, sitting around in the garage while he's tinkering the guts of some car – you might not understand a single bit of what he's doing so you're just yapping about something the he half-listens to, or joining him for his evening jog, trailing somewhere beside him, trying to keep up – he appreciates your presence in his daily life. it's so peaceful like this, that he just might get back to his responsible older brother role and find himself (lovingly) nagging you about having three proper meals a day, going to bed on time, moving around more to stay healthy, etcetera etcetera.

even when he's not around to nag you in person, he would still show that he cares by shooting you a text saying only two words – "stay safe". he even learns how to use emojis! specifically to send a little smiley face after as a signoff... ˖⑅~๑‿｡ ⁠.̮⁠ ｡`

[thollandneedy]

Hallo! Can you write something about Peters and readers first make up? Doesn’t have to be anything too nsfw 😽

A/n: BABY I'M SO SORRY I TOOK SO LONG TO RESPOND! I'm a college student and english teacher so my schedule is crazy. Thank u for the request tho! I hope you like it

Warnings: Actually just heavy make out

Don’t forget to share, like, comment and leave your ideas here

Bellah’s Masterlist 🪻

Truth or dare- Peter Parker

Y/n was never the kind of girl who had many friends, mainly because she was completely excluded from social circles at school due to her lack of boldness. Y/n wasn't one for going to parties, drinking until she dropped, and having sex with random boys just to count on her fingers how many people had already passed through her body. Unlike them, Y/n sought real connections with people who cared about her, and the only person she could think of was Peter Parker.

The boy with the brown eyes and messy curls had always been there for her, cheering her up when no one had asked her out on Valentine's Day or even when she had her first break-up in the first year of high school. Third year was about to end, and it wasn't as if she'd never done anything with a boy, but it had never been like it was with Peter.

And it all happened over a game of truth or dare.

“I don't understand how you can be team Conrad.” Y/n says to Peter while watching the show.

“I'm not, but I think he's misunderstood.” Peter retorts, settling down on the sofa in Y/n's living room.

“He was literally an asshole with Belly, and when he had the chance to date her, he just broke it off because he didn't want to get involved in a relationship after his mother died.” The girl pressed the pause button on the remote control, turning to the brunette as she explained her thesis.

“And Jeremiah has always wanted everything that was his brother's. I like him better than Conrad in some ways, but there's no denying that Conrad loved Belly and Jeremiah was just in love.” Peter turned his torso towards the girl who had the light of the television reflected on her skin and her long black silk pyjamas.

“Oh, for God's sake” The girl throws her head back, laughing to herself.

“I can't believe we're discussing 'The summer that I turned pretty', while your parents are at a fancy, expensive dinner, probably filling up on wine to catch up later.” Peter says, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket to check the time.

“Oh, Peter! Shut up, that's disgusting!” Y/n exclaims, covering her ears.

“We should do something fun.” Peter says, tossing his cell phone next to the empty candy bags and approaching his best friend.

“Like what?” The girl asked, approaching him, who gave her a thoughtful look.

“I don't know. What's your idea?” Peter replied, crossing his arms exposed by the 'Star Wars' short-sleeved shirt he was wearing.

“Truth or dare?” Y/n suggested, drawing a laugh from him.

“Just us?” Peter asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“Hey! My puppy's in the living room too, you know?” Y/n points to the other side of the room, where her puppy is camping out on a pink rug, sleeping peacefully.

The room had low lights, while some windows were open so that the cold air could enter the room and the blankets became more and more usable. It was almost a ritual that every Friday, Peter and Y/n would get together to go out after school, it could be any kind of activity, but just the two of them. Not that they didn't have other friends, but unlike anyone else, they both had an energy that no one else could match. It was as if they were the only people who really understood each other, and that made them inseparable. Some people said that friendship between a man and a woman never worked out, but for them, it was never a fact that prevented intimacy.

Peter and Y/n shared everything, even the most intimate things they could tell someone.

“Okay, okay.” Peter raises both hands in an act of surrender. “You start since you had the idea.”

“Truth or dare?” The girl asks, placing both hands between her legs.

“Truth.”

“Why did you stop liking Liz Allen?” Y/n asked, causing the brunette to react with a silent ‘wow’, drawing a laugh from her.

“Um, I kind of understood that we were never going to have anything. After I kissed her the first time, I just had that feeling that she wasn't the right person, you know? And I don't want to bet my cards on something that could go wrong.” Peter replied, staring into the tired eyes of Y/n, who was leaning back against the colorful cushions of the light sofa.

“I want the truth too.” The girl anticipates his words.

Peter thought carefully before asking, allowing his curiosity to go beyond his decency.

“Did you and your ex… you know? You never said anything, so I assumed you'd never done anything, but I don't know? Maybe you didn't want to tell me.” Peter gets lost in the middle of his explanations, causing his friend to put one of her hands over her own mouth to cover her loud laughter.

“Peter, you naughty boy.” Y/n jokes, throwing one of the pillows that was on his back at the boy, who quickly manages to catch the fluffy object. “Shit, sometimes I forget you have superpowers.”

“That's right,” he says, throwing the pillow back at the girl, who smiles and tries to cover herself with the brown blanket.

“Um, no. We didn't get past second base, but I didn't care much about that either. I think it was even better that it didn't happen, because I feel like I would have regretted it.” Y/n replied, looking at his fingers as he said it.

“And why do you think that?” Peter asks, laying his shoulder against the cushions.

“I can't say. I think it's the same thing that happened with Liz. She just… wasn't the right person, you know?” Y/n replied, smiling emotionlessly.

Peter didn't see Y/n as a possible girlfriend, not least because it had never crossed his mind that he might have feelings for her. The brunette told himself that Y/n was the only person he could ever think of breaking his heart with, as she was too valuable to him to have any other feelings for her, which would eventually end their years of friendship. However, something inside him seemed to want to jump out of his chest and propose something.

“I want a dare this time.” Peter announced.

“Wow, Peter Parker being radical.” Y/n jokes. “What do you have in mind for a challenge? Eating cinnamon?”

“Kissing you.” Peter says, causing Y/n's face to lose the smiling expression on his lips, as if his stomach had dropped.

Like Peter, Y/n didn't think of him as a possible romance, even though she occasionally dried him off in the gym when she was doing bench presses. However, there was no kind of romantic involvement that could affect their friendship to the point of breaking up, since the idea of not having each other seemed to be suffocating.

“I think the wine we drank was spoiled.” Y/n comments jokingly. “Seriously, Peter. Do you think that would be a good idea?”

“I think a bad idea would be for us to stay with people who could hurt us. If we did it together, it wouldn't be bad because we already know each other, you know?” Peter explains, standing up.

“So you're proposing that we take each other's virginity?” Y/n frowned, still feeling her heart leap out of her chest.

As much as he wanted to fight the feeling, his brain kept getting lost in a thousand and one thoughts.

“Well, it would be more yours than mine.” Peter commented, looking away, causing an insight to flash through Y/n's mind as he remembered that his best friend was no longer a virgin.

“And then we'll pretend it didn't happen?” Y/n also stood up, taking the brown blanket she had on top of her.

“I'll act however you want me to. I don't want to make you uncomfortable.” Peter says, still unable to decipher whether the questions being asked were a yes or a no.

Y/n bites her lower lip, quickly analyzing all the possible possibilities she can think of. The girl denied it to herself, taking a deep breath and giving up. The screen on her cell phone was only eight in the evening, so she would have time before her parents got home and possibly disrupted something between the two of them.

“Are you sure about this? I don't want it to be something impulsive.” Y/n confesses.

“I would never hurt you.” Peter holds one of her hands, allowing his torso to come closer to hers.

Their eyes meet in a second, as if everything is silent. Parker smiles, expressing a line, and then squeezes the delicate hands of the girl whose heart was about to burst out of her mouth.

“I want you to be able to have a good time, with someone you trust and who won't pretend they don't know you when it's over.” Peter says, drawing a silly laugh from her. “But if you don't want to, that's fine too. We pretend to be drunk and forget about it in the morning.”

Silence hangs in the air once again, and the sound of cars honking are the only sounds that can be heard. Y/n could feel her legs getting weaker and weaker, and her chest heavier as she looked at every detail of Peter. His innocent eyes, his brunette hair that came down in a few messy curls and small expression lines in his eyes from smiling too much. Y/n approaches him, making their airs mingle.

“ Is everything all right?” Y/n asked, almost touching Peter's soft lips.

“Please.” He says almost pleadingly, until their lips meet.

Peter kissed her as if he didn't want her to slip out of his arms, while the girl's delicate fingers found the boy's brunette curls.

It was a strong kiss, with a rush and readiness to do anything.And as much as they had once said that they would never think of each other in a sexual way, it seemed that their bodies didn't think so. It was urgent, suffocating and needy. Y/n ran his nails down the back of his best friend's neck, drawing a gasp from him.Peter responded with kisses that went down to her neck, leaving no marks, but rather wet spaces all over it, causing her hair to stand on end and her eyes to close. “You're so beautiful.” He says between wet kisses.

“And you're very hot.”

The girl's hands go down to the hem of Peter's pajamas, feeling his abdominal muscles and warm skin. Peter smiles to himself as he feels his best friend's cold hands touching him, not guiding her so that she feels comfortable enough to do what she feels like doing.

Peter feels his sweatpants getting tighter and tighter, while Y/n's body seems to be begging to be touched in every way. The girl's hands shyly descend briefly to the hem of the brunette's pants, but quickly return to his abdomen as if she were just playing with him. A dangerous game.

The brunette continues kissing her neck, until one of his hands passes behind the girl's ass, lifting her up and placing her on his lap without taking his lips off her. His hands began to grip her buttocks firmly, pressing them closer and closer to him. Y/n moaned low in response against Peter's ear, giving him permission to return his lips to hers, hungrier and hungrier as she was. Their tongues battled for dominance, making their tastes mingle.

“Peter.” Y/n said softly, holding his head gently.

“Yes, love.” Peter stops immediately.

“Take me to my room.” She asks with reddened lips.

“Whatever you want.”

[cripplecharacters]

Hi hi, I'm writing a fic with a number of mentally and/or physically disabled characters, and have a few questions.

+ One of my characters has autism, and I intend to write from their POV eventually. I am not diagnosed with autism (though many people have told me that it is likely I do) and I'm unsure of how to go about writing them. I have a strange train of thought that I've found most people can't relate to (one thing will make me think of something else that it is only related to in my mind, if that makes since), so I was thinking of basing their train of thought off mine, but I don't know if that would be a good idea. Any tips?

+ I want to write one of my character to have a congenital limb defect in his leg, like my great great grandfather, who had a peg leg. The story is set in a fantasy world, with slightly better technology than the world we live in, however, the character in question lives on an island country with relatively few resources and his family is kind of poor. Should I give him a modern prosthetic, or a peg leg? (For context, another character in this fic is a cyborg with a fully functional cybernetic arm that connects to their nervous system and can be controlled as well as an actual arm.)

+ Would it be ok for me to give a character facial vitiligo that highlights their (fantasy) race? Like, very intricate swirls and spots? It has almost nothing to do with the story or the character's personality, it's simply for the character design.

2/2 I should probably clarify, when I said that vitiligo was just for the character design, I actually meant that disabilities and facial difference aren't as stigmatized in this world, because of all the different peoples who inhabit it. (Snake peoples, goblin-like peoples, sea creature peoples [not mermaids], ect.)

Hello,

so, most of these questions have already been answered on the blog numerous times. Please go look through our resources first next time.

1: If the character is meant to be autistic, then it's a good thing for them to think like an autistic person. It might be different than what allistic readers relate to, but if the character is autistic, they need to have autistic traits. Basing it on yourself in this scenario just makes sense - attempting to make it more relatable/palatable for allistic readers would defeat the purpose.

2: So, most leg amputees who can't afford a prosthesis will simply use crutches. They're cheaper than peg legs and more comfortable to use, especially if it's above the knee. That said, there are very low-cost modern prosthetics that are meant for those kinds of situations. This one apparently cost 87 USD as a whole to produce, there are ones made from recycled plastics, etc. But most amputees in poverty will just use crutches and/or a wheelchair.

2.5: Please, please, please, no magic fantasy sci-fi arms that work like bio limbs. This is the most common topic we cover here and our advice/stance is always the same: research how amputation and prostheses actually work, they shouldn't be "controlled as well as an actual arm". There is a link in our pinned in the FAQ section about this, and more in the navigation section.

3: Please don't do this, this falls under fetishization of vitiligo. Vitiligo is a real condition, not an aesthetic. I strongly recommend you look through @vitiligo-is-not-a-trend and/or our #vitiligo representation tag. I'm not sure what highlighting their fantasy race implies, but design choices like likening the vitiligo to animal patterns isn't great either.

Please check the relevant tags on the blog in the future, as most of these questions have been answered previously.

mod Sasza

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

For the Make (you) write game...if you're up for it! I and so many others love your writing and takes on all this fandom drama b/w these two idiotic blorbos (affectionate). Of course you're worth the follow!!!!!

Anyway... 🧑‍🧒 because Tommy deserves a dad like Bobby in his life!

I'm gonna cry. I'm gonna cry. I love you. I don't know you and I love you.

Okay, so I was considering throwing some more outline stuff in, but I think I might have the beginning of this. I'll assume Bobby and Marcie live in a different apartment, and the kids aren't born yet, but I think Marcie could be pregnant with Jr? Does anyone actually know how old that kid was when he died? Because Brook was born in 2005, and this part takes place in 2002.

He’s sitting in the truck and staring at the apartment building, which is bigger than he'd expected. It looks like it’s stretching up to the sky. His dad is in there. His real dad.

With shaking hands, Tommy unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out, pulling the scrap of paper from his pocket and smoothing it out. He mouths the apartment number to himself three times before tucking it away again. He has to walk up some stairs and go through a few hallways, but soon enough he’s standing at the door to the right apartment.

When he raises his hand to knock, it’s trembling, and he lowers it before stepping back.

“This is stupid,” he whispers, backing away.

Why is he here? Why would anyone care if he was actually their kid or not? His dad—the one who’d raised him—had made it clear during their argument that he sure as hell didn’t. Tommy knows that he’s a disappointment to him for a lot of reasons, and he’s crazy to think he wouldn’t be a disappointment to this dad, too.

Driving from California to Minnesota took him two and a half days, but he can turn around. He can write this off as a post-graduation road trip, even if he didn’t see a fucking thing other than the inside of his truck, a couple gas stations, and any place he could get cheap food.

Tommy turns to leave, and a man is standing in the hallway staring at him.

“Huh,” the man says, shifting his grocery bag to his other hand. “You look like her dad.”

He swallows and nods. “I get that a lot. You know who I am?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “I just found out. What about you?”

“Yeah.” He feels his nose and eyes burn, and there’s a big lump of glass in his throat that he can’t really swallow around. “You’re my real dad.”

He hates that his eyes blur, because he’s not supposed to cry. He’s eighteen, and he’s a man. Men don’t cry.

There’s a rustling sound and then Tommy’s being hugged. No one’s hugged him since his mom died, and he feels something inside him loosen as more tears come.

“Let’s get you some food, and we’ll talk. How’s that sound?”

Tommy sniffles and nods, and he reaches up to wipe his tears as the man scoops up his groceries.

And that’s how he meets Bobby Nash.

[drowsyapple]

hiiiiii i just had the worst day in a while lol 💔

so I'd like to humble request the cutest, fluffiest Caleb thing you could possibly think of 🥹

(I'm gonna do this on anon but we're moots, I'm just too shy and sad rn lol)

AWWWW ANON!! I HOPE YOUR DAY GETS BETTER <3 thank you so much for coming to me for a little pick me up :’) this is the first written work I’m putting out there (other than a headcanon) and it’s ALL FOR YOUUUUU <333 

For anyone else having a bad day, pls enjoy some domestic Caleb fluff :)) 

wc: 913

🍎🍎🍎

The rain pattered against the window in a steady, melancholic rhythm, matching the heavy weight in your chest as you trudged through the door of your shared apartment. Your day had been a relentless parade of frustrations—missed deadlines, a spilled coffee, and a crushing sense of loneliness that clung to you no matter how hard you tried to shake it.  

You kicked off your shoes with a sigh, not even bothering to turn on the entrance light as you shuffled inside. The apartment was dim, the gray afternoon light casting long shadows across the living room. You just wanted to collapse onto the couch and disappear into the cushions, letting the day dissolve into nothingness.  

But then, a warm, familiar scent curled into your senses. Vanilla, apple, and cinnamon. Your nose twitched, and your tired eyes flickered toward the kitchen.  

And there he was.  

Caleb stood by the stove, humming softly to himself as he stirred something in a pot, his broad shoulders relaxed, his movements effortless. The golden glow of the stove light haloed him in soft warmth, making the scene feel almost dreamlike. He hadn’t noticed you yet, too focused on whatever he was making, but the sight of him alone was enough to make your throat tighten.  

You didn’t realize you were crying until a tear slipped free, rolling down your cheek.  

A soft clink of the spoon against the pot. Caleb turned, and his entire expression shifted the moment he saw you. His purple eyes widened, then softened with instant understanding.  

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, abandoning the stove in an instant.  

You barely had time to wipe at your face before his arms were around you, pulling you into his chest. His embrace was warm, solid, safe—like coming home after being lost in a storm. You buried your face against him, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater as the dam finally broke.  

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, voice muffled against him. “I don’t even know why I’m crying—”  

“Shhh,” he soothed, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubbed slow circles between your shoulder blades. “You don’t have to explain. Just let it out, ‘kay? I’ve got you.”  

His voice was so tender, so unwavering, that it only made you cling tighter. He didn’t push, didn’t ask for answers—just held you, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, his presence a silent promise that you weren’t alone.  

When your sobs finally quieted into shaky breaths, Caleb gently tilted your chin up, his thumb brushing away the last of your tears. His eyes searched yours, full of nothing but warmth and concern.  

“Bad day?” he asked softly.  

You nodded, sniffling. “The worst.”  

His lips curved into a small, understanding smile. “Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an expert in bad-day remedies.”  

You huffed a weak laugh. “Oh yeah?”  

“Mhm.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead before guiding you toward the couch. “First step: comfort.”  

Before you could protest, he had already grabbed the softest blanket from the basket nearby, draping it over your shoulders like a cape. Then, with exaggerated care, he fluffed a pillow and placed it in your lap.  

“Second step,” he continued, straightening up, “sustenance.”  

He disappeared into the kitchen for a moment before returning with a steaming mug. The rich, sweet scent of hot chocolate, real hot chocolate he made from scratch, filled the air. You accepted it gratefully, the warmth seeping into your chilled fingers.  

Caleb knelt in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he peered up at you with those endless amethyst eyes. “Third step,” he said, voice dropping into a playful whisper, “distraction.”  

You raised a brow. “What kind of distraction?”  

His grin turned mischievous. “The best kind.”  

Before you could react, his fingers skated up your sides, tickling mercilessly. You shrieked, nearly spilling your drink as you writhed away, laughter bursting out of you despite your earlier gloom.  

“Caleb! Stop—!” you gasped between giggles.  

He relented, but not without pressing a smug kiss to your nose. “There’s that smile,” he murmured, satisfied.  

You swatted at him half-heartedly, but your chest felt lighter already.  

Caleb settled beside you on the couch, pulling you into his side as you sipped your hot chocolate. The rain continued outside, but now it felt cozy rather than oppressive, the sound blending with the quiet hum of the apartment.  

“You know,” he said after a moment, fingers idly playing with your hair, “I was thinking we could order takeout tonight. That new place you like. And maybe put on that terrible rom-com you pretend you don’t love.”  

You tilted your head to look at him. “You’d subject yourself to that?”  

He smirked. “For you? Absolutely.”  

Your heart swelled. This man—this impossibly kind, patient, loving man—had a way of making even the worst days feel bearable.  

You set your mug aside and turned fully toward him, cupping his face in your hands. His expression softened, his eyes flickering between yours.  

“Thank you,” you whispered.  

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Always.”  

And just like that, the world felt right again.  

[lapdogchase]

sorr7y covidposting again its just that thje societal response to covid makes me feel fucking insane

[beastblade69]

well that's fucking awesome. all of the damage russians have done to our electric infrastructure can be repaired in one year minimum. IT'S GONNA TAKE MORE TAHN ONE YEAR TO REPAIR ALL OF THE ELECTRIC STATIONS RUSSIANS HIT WITH THEIR MISSILES. AND WE AIN'T EVEN TALKING ABOUT CIVILIAN OR ANY OTHER INFRASTRUCTURE. ONLY ELECTRIC ONE. MORE THAN ONE YEAR. AND WE ARE STILL NOT STRUGGLING ENOUGH IN ONLINE PEOPLE'S OPINION. FUCK OFF