#i just think people should write more filthy stuff

[briliantlymad]

In this house we love soft fluffy obikin.

But we also absolutely adore unhealthy toxic obikin. Oh they're worst to each other they're the best to each other nobody can compare, they know each other inside out and know where it hurts the most.

Also dead dove obikin. I will never tire of Dead Doves. I love dead doves.

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 9

[prompt: problematic relationships]

male reader x nana

10k words

"Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it?" Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt. "You, me - us?"

And here, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

So, go ahead, cue up the sound of a mental rolodex spinning out while you start to list the very real, very valid, very adult reasons you should never, ever put your hands on her. (1) She's too young for you, (2) you're kind of a community figure, or at least someone who has to appear to be one, and more pertinently (3) she was your student not long enough ago - in your ethics class, the irony of which is not lost on you - and that makes it the kind of dirty, low thing you'd feel guilty for even masturbating to. Let alone actually attempt to live through, no matter how insistent some parts of you might be to the contrary, a point emphasized by the pressure of her finger against the dip just below your sternum.

"These... oh, how should I call them." Nana hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

-

You're a high school teacher, interdisciplinary. Sometimes history, other times philosophy, you've also taught math - and once, egregiously, home economics when the faculty member whose usual duties consisted of teaching the class was out on a very sudden and scandalous maternity leave. But it's your love of literature that finds you in a bookstore near enough to the high school to sell more used copies of intro textbooks than actual novels.

You're paging through a book you'd say you're considering buying - if any of the store staff were to push the question onto you - when she appears at the other end of the fiction aisle.

You catch the look first of her dyed hair, this perfect shade of chocolate, to the edges, the fade-to-brown, cascading over where a more formal shirt would ostensibly have shoulders.

She smiles; it's pretty.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing down and seeing the modest rise of her chest beneath a crisp-collared sleeveless top; all your typical college-age tells but for the red flannel, rolled back down around her waist. Her fingers, long and thin, dangle from where a uniform button-down would taper off around her wrist, thumb rubbing lazily at her forearm. The briefest glimpse of her nails, all done up in acrylic - perhaps the most potent way to show contempt for an old dress-code.

You have, admittedly, also noticed the length (appropriately, the lack thereof) of her pleated skirt and those frilly stockings that ride so far up the creamy curves of her thighs that it has your stomach rolling and tightening when she shuts closed the book in her hands and says -

"Isn't it weird how most of the novels in the romance section are written by women?”

- she speaks with a slow deliberateness, like she'd only ever hoped to find one of her old teachers alone and slightly vulnerable in a used bookstore -

“Like, how do you think a man would even go about writing those kinds of stories?" She grins, because maybe this isn't really a question at all - not one meant for you, certainly. And for one wild moment, the rush of relief (she's not actually talking to you), then panic (she's actually talking to you.) surges through you.

But then the girl pushes another couple books along the shelf and continues.

"Because I'll tell you what, Professor - all this stuff," a flip-flip-flip of her fingertips against a leathery dustjacket, "about just feeling it, not being able to control it. It's all women, always women." Another wave of her hand to set another row of spines a-shuddering. "Do you ever think maybe people will get tired of listening to girls talking about feelings when what they really need to see is what guys would do?"

There are so many reasons you should turn and run. 

So many little flags, flickering wildly in your mind. This is one of your students. Was it this fall? Maybe the last; she had sat front-center. Never slept in, was one of your best by several measures - not simply in regards to the simple repetition of classroom work, but by her insistence on getting in the kind of heated discussion where one might dig their fingers through the innards of your lectures. Not just good - fantastic.

"Nayeon," you end up saying, flat as your suddenly paper-dry mouth can make it - with just the tiniest hint of unease. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

And almost as if she knows that you're trying not to let your eyes dip any lower than the collar of her shirt, her shoulders do that lilting little move (hiking up and away just so), the one that your girls tend to learn a long, long time before your boys ever manage to figure out. She laughs out this pleasant sound, adds: "not that long, sir."

"Well," you're clearing your throat, looking around the bookstore like it might contain a way out, and eventually landing somewhere on her skirt, "you know how fast it all goes."

"Nana, by the way."

“I’m sorry?”

“Nana,” She gently corrects you again with this mischievous slant to her smile, and you start remembering: all the gossip and rumors, how she was being courted by these talent-scouts and labels. A prodigy, or as close to it as anyone from this town could ever get.

Your eyes are starting to sting again when she, this perfect-fit model of your worst impulses, runs her hand through her hair, tugging at the roots a little bit, a silver wristwatch falling slightly down the perfect length of her forearm. It almost hurts not to reach out and steady her. And it definitely shouldn't, but it has you breathing a bit faster. The rationalization: you are a man, and there is a perfectly ordinary part of you that might be aroused by any amount of smooth, inviting skin. That's fine. You're fine.

"Just for the record," Nana starts, still looking like she wants to put a hand forward and hook one long fingernail into the buttons of your shirt. "You were, like, absolutely one of my favorite teachers."

"I guess it's nice to hear I'm not a complete lost cause," you say.

She snorts. "Oh, definitely not." And maybe because, after all of the years you have been teaching these soon-to-be lawyers, politicians, and doctors, you've come to not look down on them for saying the wrong things so much. Though you do envy their absolute ability to say the wrongest of things - just so - just on purpose.

"Are you," you nod at the thick stack of paperback novels that she is still holding, and with which, suddenly, she's bashful and flustered - this perfect shade of pink blossoming through her cheeks. "Actually here to buy those?"

The response: a demure little shrug. A drawl. "We all have our vices, professor."

"I'm not your teacher anymore," and remembering at the last moment, "Nana, you can drop the honorifics, please."

She holds a book out, cover turned toward you, and your mind stalls - even your fingers slip a little where they are resting on the spine of your own paperback purchase. The title is an affront to literacy, and the art on the cover seems to have been produced only with stock photos, gaudy.

"Have you heard of it?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well," she laughs and has the courtesy not to lay it at your expense, "it is so good." Then, without missing a beat, she twists her lips together, and finds the book flush against your chest. "I'm sure it beats reading textbooks and essays about the merits of Locke and Hobbes' life-after-death stuff all day, anyway. An hour if you can spare the time? I'd love to hear your thoughts on it"

And - ah, there it is. The push.

-

There is a zero percent chance that, after any of this, things will end neatly for either of you. 

You still wonder, slightly, how long Nana will keep up the charade before breaking character - because there's no way in hell she doesn't see what she's doing: wrapping you around her pretty fingers, her shiny, manicured nails, twisting every chance you get to reject her into an excuse to linger that little bit longer.

But it's well over an hour spent at the cafe-end of the bookstore, where she orders an iced-coffee and fills you in on the details you don't really need to hear, what she's been up to these last couple semesters - playing twenty questions; questions about other faculty members, the school, if the school newspaper is still anything like it used to be (for the record: no), then coming back to if you've been seeing anyone lately. That last one slips in so naturally you can't stop yourself from taking a slow drag off of the straw in your drink and answering: "not recently."

Because no honest deed goes unpunished, or however the saying goes.

"Hey," her hands splay out over the tabletop, pushing the cold, condensing water of her glass, smudging where a finger drags a line through the pool.

Maybe she knows. How you're already caught, and there's no going back, which is to say you're perfectly free to watch, hungrily, where her throat moves, and then where her lips part.

"I’ve got the perfect thing for that," and for one unhinged, hysterical moment you picture it, Nana: lying back against a counter or maybe in the cushions of a sofa, panties thrown carelessly over her shoulder; heaving out this soft, heady gasp. You: pushing inside of her for the very first time, both of your legs bracing, the heel of her foot pressed into the small of your back - but before you can convince yourself that she can't be talking about that, and just barely before the air gets stuck in the back of your throat and you realize that you might be so thoroughly, tragically fucked -

"Read this." A snap back into the here and now. She is looking at you very pointedly, not naked - but beautiful and perfect as she leans a bit into the table and crosses those lovely, lovely legs of hers, and tilts the copy of that awful, awful filth at you.

"Nana, respectfully, this is drivel," you say, immediately and plainly, listening to Nana laugh out loud as you glean more than you need to know from the info on the inside cover. "They've crossed like five major genre boundaries for a hook-up. Why should anyone bother?"

"Come on." She waves it off with a careless gesture of her hands. "There's plenty of things to like. Maybe you should give it a chance - broaden your horizons, teach. Besides - the sex scenes?" She rolls her shoulders with the same shrug you remember watching so carefully all those times she made her way, out of the hallways and back into that front-and-center-seat she was always occupying whenever the bell rang. "So filthy. I can show you one of my favorites."

"Doesn't really seem like appropriate reading material for -"

"You said it yourself," her voice has a bright, saccharine tone, just on the right side of strained. And between sips of that straw stuck in the purse of her pert, little mouth, she draws that next sentence - the ice cracking, thinning under your feet -

"Not my teacher anymore."

Nana smiles; this brash, cock-sure thing that reminds you, as you try to clear your throat of the nerves making a bed there: you are actually so, so fucking gone on her. So far gone it hurts, when, with a flourish and a bounce and a complete, reckless lack of discretion, she starts paging through the first chapters.

"Who says you can't study these kinds of stories on an academic level? Think about it: sex sells. Whoever ends up writing, it's a whole lot easier and a hell of a lot cheaper than trying to do it all yourself." She looks up, this mischievous twinkle in her eyes, as she angles her fingertips down on the book and opens it - page after page of very obviously poorly-written sex. You look, not even consciously.

But of course, her fingertips drift lower and lower along the pages until it's evident: she doesn't have an exact page in mind, but only a particular passage -

"Here. Let me show you, just one."

"Alright, fine," you start - trying for an effect of exasperation, something to mitigate this god awful throbbing, "whatever - you get one, one sample paragraph and I'll, you know, whatever."

"Yeah, you'll definitely see. Just trust me. Just the one."

She drums her long, gorgeous nails against the table, then eases back with a finger highlighting the text.

You're screening and scanning the words as she tells you about the heroine in the story: a pretty girl who comes down with a bad case of infatuation for her teacher - unrequited, of course. And then, into a passionate affair, of course; all the most raucous, explicit details laid out over the table for everyone else to hear. She says it is about as nonchalantly as though she had been reading you the daily weather forecast and not an elaborate metaphor for - and here, you stop her.

"He cums on her desk?"

"Fucking hot, right?" She nearly snorts and gestures you onward, her eyebrows jumping - go on, go on.

So, you skim along: a heavy rush of nausea (alongside another) pulsing down around your gut at the thought of actually doing such a thing, your ears going hot and your legs crossing on instinct. There's not so much a breath of hesitation as Nana, cool, unfazed, and utterly unaware of the uncomfortable churning of your stomach and the simultaneous thrumming in your cock, takes another deep swig of coffee.

She hums, thoughtful. "Honestly? Kinda wished it happened to me like that. You were a good, good teacher, professor. I wouldn't have minded your hands all over me." You hear her laugh, and the entire universe collapses like the end-days. You are struck down with feverish conviction: this girl is the worst. 

"Anytime you wanted," she adds, so carelessly.

There's a clunking sound, of glass on wood; a half a second where you almost lose control over yourself.

“Nayeon,” you let slip, the old name - a mistake of an invitation she grasps like a weapon. All coming to a glint in her eye that says she knows how you see it, how you can still picture her sitting with her hands folded over the skirt of her uniform, chest rising and falling beneath her cotton shirt. Studious, taking notes, acting every bit the naive sweetheart everyone believed her to be.

You shudder out some pretense of composure and settle back a few inches as she continues to coax a reaction out of you, prodding: "how many girls did you make confess back then, hm? Did it ever do them any good?"

"Dial it back, Nana."

Her expression is all feigned, gentle surprise. "But sir," she looks at you so innocently, "you said I should drop the honorific."

You want to argue that, you also want to tell her off for being such a brat - to demand that, instead, she cut the shit, sit back, and remember who you both are, but when, with a wink and a smirk, she's getting up out of her seat, Nana sets a gentle, reassuring hand on your shoulder as she pushes her chair back beneath the table. You get onto your feet, and when the two of you are stood close together like this - she's really and truly that much smaller than you remember. Waist so tiny you think you could almost, almost wrap two hands all the way around her; skirt rising all too easily when she tosses her weight between her heels.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," you tell her, sternly - the voice of a teacher whose patience is running thin.

But no matter where you look, the consequences are dire and immediate: an abject fascination, a kind of debilitating greed; the absolute fucking loss of ability to look her directly in her eyes. Not like Nana isn't staring right through you. There's no doubt some part of her relishes the feeling.

"Hey, what do I know?" This sweet, demure-like chuckle follows. "It's just porn, right?”

-

Eventually, Nana says to call it a night because the sun's long set into the horizon and the chill starts getting at the both of you.

She tells you while you're packing up your belongings to come by again sometime, her voice teasing as she explains that you should pick out a new novel to read for your benefit.

Which is possibly the ideal outcome, all things considered, if it wasn't for the way she found herself in your hands just a few paces into the parking lot - no one around to catch you, where you're gripping fast onto her wrist and pressing the lines of her body into door of your car, looming and ready to give a piece of your mind.

You know what you ought to say - things like don't bother, you've enjoyed her company, she's fun and sweet, and in a dozen different ways: be a good girl, and go home. You had your fun, didn't you? But she's practically begging, those huge, wide doe eyes that stare straight up into your soul.

"C'mon,” her voice lilts into a deeper, more purposeful register, “you wouldn't turn down a student on her way home, would you?

(This fucking girl.)

She speaks of propriety, like you aren't a man of your own principles - like you aren't reaching down to press a kiss to the swell of her lips like she undoubtedly deserves. To lick into her mouth and pull and kiss and bite until she's trembling, teeth caught in a delicate whimper. Or, that you aren't running your hands down her sides to find the backs of her knees and draw them upward, hooking your hips flush against hers.

She's all too breathless, watching you draw off her lips, fingers fast in your shirt, your hair - holding you close.

Then finally, a true, honest reflection of your heart. Nothing less than sheer and utter capitulation: "let me take you home."

Nana just nods before wrapping her arms around your neck and kissing you again.

-

It's definitely on you for expecting anything different, but Nana fucks like she talks.

Conceited. Brash. A little selfish.

The girl's sitting there on her kitchen counter with one leg hooked over your shoulder. She's stripped herself down to near nothing save for those fuck-off ridiculous panties: slick, shiny with a thick strip of satin between her lips, complete with white lace frills and all; the same ridiculous pattern as the thigh-high stockings clinging tight around the soft-gentle fat of her legs and the lace top of her garter. Her pussy - all tight and pink and soaked - has left this shimmering, shiny mess that's trailing down the insides of her thighs.

Your fingers are in the elastic of her panties, near bruising the curve in her waist where she's rocking, flushed and keening against your grip.

You tell her, "take these off."

"Off?" She repeats it back to you with the same little grin: playing dumb, the smart, charming ass she's been all night.

"I'd tell you what I really want to do to you," you start, pushing your fingers in a little harder, eliciting another pretty moan. "But I'm really, really sure you can fill in the blanks yourself.

"I hope you're not planning on being rough with me," she teases, running her hands all through your hair as she pulls herself against you - and of course, it's her audacity to insist, "no marks." She drops a chaste little kiss along the underside of your jaw. "At least, nothing that might show up on a camera."

Someone with a little less baggage might have done just that. Might have jerked her panties down a couple inches further - ripped the cloth, exposed her even more. You might have followed the waistline further along the perfect round of her ass, found those dips and dimples that, maybe, no one else has ever gotten to explore. You may have grasped at the ends of her hair and gotten your fingers in her pussy without ceremony - driven Nana to the very brink of her climax just before palming two greedy handfuls of that ass - shoving yourself right there between her lips and, lost to shame, put a fucking kid in her.

All the things she must be dying for you to do.

"Something the matter?" She pushes her mouth into yours for a kiss that has all the urgency of a lazy Sunday morning. Your tongue against hers, languid and gentle at first; wet-sloppy, kissing and sucking on her bottom lip. You can feel her smirking when she says, "don't tell me you've forgotten how."

It's a lot, the effort you're putting in not to crumble - to crack at her taunts, snap your restraint, the temptation. You just wanna grab her pretty tits in both hands, shake her, and say: "shut the fuck up." But no - even in your wildest fantasy, you want to hear her first - beg you to make a wreck of her. So you force the words between your lips, dry and cracking:

"Not a fucking chance."

A laugh. "Guess I'm in good hands, then. Have to admit," Nana slides her hands down to hook under your own, bringing them lower. She grinds your fingers in slow circles over that one, aching, perfect little bud - a shock that has her curling tight inward until she's whining, clutching at her waist. "Not the - not the situation I had in mind."

Nana shifts her weight a bit more on one hip, guiding you through rubbing along the entrance to her slit - sloppy with precum, silky and aching - and when you place just the lightest pressure over all that hot skin, she opens her mouth: 

"Ah."

Her eyes, her hair, her fucking mouth - you can’t look away - she’s so gorgeous it hurts.

Even the way she pants; the perfect furrow between her brows. And then, you dip a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. It’s enough to make her whine, all shaky and high.

"Go on then, with how you’d pictured it," you press, already easing your digit in and out; slow, slick pumps that she is growing hotter, needier around. "I'm sure you've touched yourself to it more than a few times. The details and - stuff - must have been vivid."

"You haven't the slightest clue."

A brief kiss. You coax another shy sound from her, drawing a long sigh against her mouth -

"Try me, Nayeon."

"This is a lot closer to the truth than you’d think, professor." This time, no correction, she just smiles wide and tosses her head back, asking, sweetly, as if to absolve you of the responsibility. "Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it? You, me - us?" 

Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt and starts to pull.

On that detail, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

"These... oh, how should I even call them." She hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

"You know," you start. And by this point, her cunt's that much tighter. You've managed two fingers now, but no further, and she's making these desperate, punched-out gasps. Her clit's a swollen pink nub, jutting out from its soft hood. "I really had you pegged all wrong."

"Not - not at all. You can fuck me just fine, trust me - ah. Please, you can fuck me anyway you want."

And here, you grab a little higher on her hips, pinching her on the outside of a thigh, and begin working your fingers fast. You've never cared much for teasing, not really, but something about the way she squirms in your grip, tries to lean up and grasp onto your shoulders with shaking hands, it gets you smiling. It gets you grinning, even, especially the way she makes these pretty noises: a long, desperate little, "ah," at each press and thrust, her breath going high and uneven. 

"Listen, Nana -" She squeals out loud when you push your fingers just a little deeper, a little bit harder. "I'm not going to talk about what a slut you've been today or how badly I want to spread you wide open," you can already tell it's affecting her: the sudden change, the subtle hitch in her breathing, the tremor where her thighs press together. "Tell me about you, about your little ideas. Let me help."

"Wouldn't be fair." Her pussy's getting tighter, urgent with want. And still:

"C'mon now. Humor me a little. There was probably-" you say, sliding down that ridiculous pair of underwear along her ass, tugging them over the curves of her legs - so slow and easy, all while you're not bothering with easing off. Nana moans again; voice pitched. "Lots. Lots and lots of dirty things - and, I'm willing to bet my career that they made you a hot, mess - an awful, soaking fucking wreck. Who could've guessed? You, of all people, with just the right kind of teacher's-pet-appeal, hm?"

And you meant it to be a joke, just some ribbing. But the question has her immediately tensing, looking at you very intently, no trace of shame as she snaps back -

"Your mouth." She rocks forward. "Your fucking mouth."

You shouldn't keep touching her, you shouldn't keep staring, you shouldn't push her flat on her back and shove your face right into her cunt, you should pull away before this goes too far - it shouldn't be your fingers drawing out sopping-wet gasps out of her pussy, nor should you press your tongue to her cunt, your mouth to all that delicate flesh and, at your first taste, shiver.

Nana laughs: shaky, nervous. Then, your fingers sink back into her pussy alongside your tongue, your lips, the way even your hot breath against her aching pussy has her all stunned, breathless - and -

"Please."

- right before she breaks off into a beautiful sound that catches her hard in the chest.

(A sound like you’re all she could ever want in this life, maybe the next; it’s this wordless plea.)

"Hah, I had - ah, had so much - hah - dirt on you, used to masturbate thinking - ah," and there, she arches her spine, forcing a sigh out, "thinking about how you might punish me." She laughs - nearly choking. "How you might break down all your veneer of being a good, moral man and fuck me raw and rough and - ah - fuck. Oh god, fuck."

You twist your fingertips up just so, right against this perfect spot in her, and all the sudden the entire line of her body seizes - stiffens up, the muscles in her thighs twitch as you both moan through the moment, the spasms reverberating in your own ears, loud and unashamed, right against her wet, wet clit. Your fingers are fucking and fucking and fucking away in her cunt, harder and faster and sloppier, every word, every groan, every gasped breath only making it easier to forget. To give in. And with every heavy slap and squelch of your fingertips digging in as deep as her body allows - you're sending her that much closer.

You pull back long enough to bite out: "cum whenever you want, Nana.”

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t, is what she’s trying to say, bracing against how your tongue moves around her clit, and she knows, there’s no use fighting it.

A kiss against her swollen mound and she writhes. “There you go sweetheart, cum for me.”

Nana comes undone. Gradually at first, then vaulting over that edge all at once. She lifts and lowers her hips - pushing your fingers into the smooth, velvety muscles of her cunt; rocking up and up again. It's a torturously slow kind of grinding, and her feet find purchase on either side of you as her toes curl, one heel digging into your shoulder. An assurance; a promise; a lifeline; that she might tremble and shake through it, moaning.

“Fuck,” and, “god,” and, “you’re gonna make me-” slip past her lips alongside all the assured gasped-out cries for relief - the orgasm sweeping through her, tearing her apart.

Back pitching, shoulders narrowing, face twisting, cinching tighter and tighter -

Until she collapses.

Until it’s over.

As she lays there, chest heaving, arm draped carelessly across her forehead and half over a kitchen cutting board - her thighs splayed open, fucked and spent - she's so, so beautiful.

And it’s in that sort of fucked-up-noodly-state where she just slides right into your arms - those long, slender legs wrapping tight around your middle. "Here's the deal," you say, grabbing hold of her hips and steadying her, as best as either of you can.

"Hm." This lazy, sated look, the way her tongue's dragged out - slow and slick - across the top of her teeth and bottom of her lips. "Go ahead, sir. I'm listening."

The lip service - that coy little appeal to authority that maybe you’re actually plenty fond of - it makes you stop for the barest of moments. This girl, she's unreal. How hard could you ever be asked to resist her?

She lifts a brow. "Professor."

So you continue:

"I'm going to get out of these clothes, and we are going to see what happens after that - if you have a preference for the bed or the sofa, now's your chance to pipe up. Or else -"

"Or else-" She repeats, shifting her weight around again. You can feel how she adjusts her heels to hang higher up your ribs, rocking her weight against your abdomen, against your cock - and the instinctual twitch that runs through your spine is turgid and rough. Like a shot. If it had a smell, it'd probably remind you of gasoline.

And then, maybe just to rile you up even more: "the dining room table makes a good impression of a teacher's desk, no?"

You slide your hand along the backs of her thighs until you have a good, tight, high hold on them and pick her up, leaving the panties, the stockings, all of it down where they can gather dust or whatever - she giggles, and tightens her hold around you like she doesn't need to worry about falling.

"I'd rather fuck you into a mattress to be perfectly candid."

Nana throws back her head and laughs - this real, honest-to-goodness peal of laughter, a hint of playfulness where there was usually just a practiced ease. "Oh. So forward."

(In all likelihood, you're both going to hell, and on the off chance you meet down there, you figure you'll fuck her then, too.

You've read the myths, the Greek tragedies, the ones that have these gods descending from the heavens on human women, for pleasure and nothing but, you've read those stories and plenty more - the details don't matter: it's always a bad, bad end for everybody involved.)

She takes you upstairs. And the two of you fall through the doorway to her bedroom, stumbling all the way.

Her apartment is simple and clean in the way all young adults try to emulate, all white countertops, but with pictures hanging in little, neat rows on the walls and the space void of anything with some sort of character or history.

You know because you're fumbling toward a dresser or desk or bookshelf in an attempt to orient yourselves, bumping and tussling, half-blind, on your path forward and all of a sudden there's a goddamn framed photo in your hand - not of her family, thank god. Though just about every other person in the picture is familiar to you, you remember every single one - but all you're capable of focusing on is Nana, Nayeon: not quite the same. The same glint in her eyes, the way her smile has a timeless kind of quality, the faint dimples in her cheeks. 

And some wicked part of you is all too willing to ignore the whole timeline of events that has led up to you, Nana, like this: you want to pull her hair. You want to shove her around like she doesn't matter - is in any way disposable or replaceable; the most selfish parts of you wishing you could keep her pinned down by her slender neck; pressing a palm, bruising, into her collarbone as you start to work at your belt buckle and slacks with your other hand.

It's hard, getting a grip on yourself as Nana, sliding onto her bed and rolling across the sheets, pulls her stockings down the length of her legs - only stopping herself long enough to meet your eyes. Her throat bobbing.

“Of course,” she says, because your cock is hanging out by that point, straining and a little pent-up. "I fucking knew you would have a perfect cock."

"Flattery or sincerity?"

"Um, let's say both." She shifts around the pillow - that sweet little pout on her lips. Her gaze dropping from your mouth and running all along the length of your torso, lower and lower. Like her hands. And when her eyes flick up to meet yours, just when you're stroking at your cock, base and shaft, teasing yourself, well past the point of pretense, a devious smile spreads wide across her pretty, beautiful face. The implication: you aren't leaving here until you're cumming inside her.

And with a glimmer in her eyes, the sheer audacity, her fingertips ghost the underside of your cock as she draws up toward the head, "you're going to ruin me with this thing. You know that right?"

"A bit dramatic."

Nana moves to rest with the tops of her knees at the edge, her chin resting against the insides of her wrists, elbows propped up - poised, playful, everything she should be as the both of you regard each other a moment longer. "Can you blame me? It's not just that it's huge, I mean - I've barely even gotten a hold of it, and yet... god," she snorts. Her eyelids are heavy, mouth curved, almost a snarl as she drags her bottom lip through the grip of her teeth and sinks down onto the mattress.

"Say something filthy again," and this is a test, this is Nana testing you to see what exactly you'll get away with.

(Hint: it's a whole lot.)

She sighs. The image of indigence, innocence, everything pure and good you couldn't hope for. "Should I suck it or not? Or maybe, I don't know. Would you prefer me to beg for it first, ask if you'll put it in? Like, I think if you ordered me to put it in my mouth, right now, I wouldn't be able to say no."

"Really," the most sarcastic answer.

"Really," she continues. "For instance. If you came over here right now and guided me up and onto your dick and told me, specifically, that you were going to face-fuck me? I couldn't say no. No sir."

You could have her any damn way. You could have her, and you both know it.

"So tempting," you tease, mostly in earnest, "maybe another time, when my self-control isn't quite so lacking."

Nana hums a low, flippant sort of noise - like: whenever you're ready - and just how much trouble it gets you in, the mere suggestion, is what she is banking on.

"Hey," is her invitation, "I won't beg yet. You still want me to put my mouth all over it," and to emphasize, she slips her fingers between the plump pillows of her lips, smiling at how that makes you reach over the nightstand, accidentally pulling open a drawer, possibly reaching for the first aid kit, "or would you rather watch me stuff all these fingers in my wet, little hole."

A sharp inhale: it really would be fun, probably, but you can't take it.

"Nana," this voice, gravelly-ragged and harsh, "if you're planning to make me snap, you are, without question, on the right track."

"Then before that happens," she says, pulling you down into the bedsheets beside her. Your body flush against hers, the beat of her heart loud against your own; this gorgeous, pristine girl, so nakedly giving - this is an honor and a curse all rolled up together, no doubt.

And after a hot, wet kiss: "fuck me like I always thought you would."

(She was made to be like this; it's the only explanation.

Made for wanting. Made for fucking. Made to be loved and made to have her cunt fucked full - ruined by your fingers, your tongue, your cock. This absolutely perfect body, and all the delicious parts of her; this thing of desire, bashful and coy and that deserves all the world and, having none of the grace or courtesy to actually beg, orders, like she always knew she could:

"Like, right fucking now."

Or else.)

Then you're there - her hot mouth, her cunt, your fingers digging in bruising-tight all along the curve of her thighs where they meet her ass, hips, thighs, waist. She's pumping her soft palm and delicate fingers, slick with her spit and yours around the length of you and this isn't going to last long; not that there's any doubt you're going to leave her sore. But still, you drag the head of your cock across the swollen lips of her pussy, down through the plump swell of her clit until it rests where the ridge just begins and every slide, every pressure along every inch of your cock, the thought of being enveloped entirely in all that silky warmth is nearly the end of you.

A whimper, "professor."

You wrap your hands tighter around the smooth, firm muscles in her thighs; dragging your fingers back and forth across the supple skin there - just firm enough to elicit a reaction from the tension in her legs, until you have her flipped over on her stomach. Because if you're going to fuck her properly, it's going to be with her face buried deep into a pillowcase and you perched above her, holding her down against the sheets.

You watch her get her elbows underneath her, laying almost flat. Watch her trace the shape of her own jaw, her nose, her neck - the smooth expanse of her chest - as you straddle her thighs. With her ass pointed right up at you and the heel of her ankle gently grinding into the underside of your leg, you groan, placing both hands just above her ass. And once you're gripping the whole shape of her, you push your cock into her, just an inch, listening to the shift in her breathing.

She shudders, "don't tease - oh, please, sir-"

"Is this what you expected, Nana?" You grab onto her hair. Then again, when she tries to get her hands on herself. Her shoulders are high, tight. You just don't give her a chance; pushing yourself another inch, a couple. The pace, so gradual she starts making these soft, little breathless sounds as you stretch her tight pussy open. A few moments when she stops trying to bury her noises, her gasps - stops trying to angle her hips or squeeze or resist the thick shape of your cock where it is so, so hot and full inside of her - and there you stop. "What is it you had in mind, hm?"

"Ngh - oh."

Her cunt's clamping tight around just the first few inches of you. The tightness, the wet heat is staggering; how it pulls and begs with the words she seems reluctant to spill out.

So - you lift a hand, bringing it back down again onto the pale, rounded flesh of her ass with a smack, a gasp, and this wet sound from the sopping heat of her pussy, all aching and sobbing, "don't, fuck, stick it - fuck, put it - just. Just fucking get on top of me and pin me down - make it hard for me to breathe - do it, just. Like I, fuck, like I always wanted, sir, please-"

And you sink all the way in.

"Fuck." She bites into those consonants, a whole-body motion that pulls at the tension in her spine, the muscles in her legs. But her hips angle right up, and she presses her ass into the hollow of your abdomen and says, "thank you. Thank you. God."

"Don't get lazy on me," you say, grinding the tip of your cock in little circles; pulling it out and angling it down until it's prodding at all the right places to make her arch and shiver.

"Please," she says again, louder this time, almost a moan. "That. Fuck. Yes. It's."

"Yes, yes, I know. Nana, you-"

"Just use me. Whatever you like," she pants; then, once you've pulled yourself out to the tip, slowly filling her again, "use me like a fucktoy, alright. Because - fuck," Nana shivers, pushing her hips into yours. Her shoulders lower, as if by degrees, "please. Use me. Make it rough. Please, professor - use me however you want, I don't care - anything's fine with me - use me, as long and as much as you need, I. Please."

The real difference here, beyond anything else, is that this is no longer the game it was; the very instant she was sprawled across the mattress with a line of drool dripping into the sheets, all her bright, polished glory has vanished, leaving this bare edge of her exposed - the girl who lives solely to be fucked and used by your cock, her cunt leaking, begging for more. Reduced to the basics and nothing else.

"Your fucking cunt, Nana, the goddamn clench - you feel - it's-" (So fucking good, is what you can’t quite say, because she’s tight and wet and her tiny pussy is quivering like mad every time you bathe your cock in its scorching heat. Over and over.) It’s hard to think; you’re truly - truly - fucking her, but you can’t ignore the tautness in her spine either, bent below you. There are probably tears beading down her cheeks, but there's no helping the raw instinct screaming through the core of her being, pleading with you to pull yourself free, before sinking hilt-deep into her again, again, again - to a chorus of sloppy, loud, nasty, fucking whimpers and moans.

Like music. 

It's easy after all, how her pussy gives way to you. How she molds around you - sleeves onto you like a glove - like there was only one cunt in the world you should ever be fucking up and fucking apart. 

"It's incredible. Fuck. Just that perfect."

Nana, as best as she can, trying to stay steady, braced against her hands and knees, is raising her hips.

But it's clear with the way she's slipping all over, slicking the sweat off her palms and rocking her ass back into your thrusts, a cry falling out of her, unbidden, when she speaks and not.

"Please," she pants, through tears probably, this breathy-shivering. A renewed enthusiasm for your grip on her - where, in another place, you'd worry about leaving marks behind - for the feeling of your weight slamming down into her, driving the air from her lungs.

The sheets are a crumpled mess, pillows knocked from the mattress, where the two of you are shaking it apart.

You're pulling her apart, slowly, thrust by thrust into her sopping cunt, and in a promise of how you'll put her back together, you get your mouth on her shoulders, her neck, kisses in her hair, behind her ear - Nana just whimpers, curling her toes and ankles along the backs of your knees, her face against the pillow and gasping, "thank you - thank - thank-"

And when your palm smacks against the generous swell of her ass, again, she keens so perfectly for you.

It's a breathtaking sight, so good, so perfect: her flawless ass pitched high, round and flushed pink. The flutter of her eyelashes and the tears and drool. The outlines of her pale white cheeks sent into ripple after ripple, and then the way you can slide one hand forward between her shoulder blades and slip it into her hair, nails raking her scalp, grabbing a handful of hair in your fist and tilting her face - to the side, enough for her cheek against the pillow and the way her hips try to press against yours; try to chase the pleasure; this brash, gorgeous, slim-waisted, well-curved, exquisite young woman - like everything.

"Please," is all she says as you fit your chest up tight to her back and mouth at her neck - lick all along the sweat. "Please."

You can't take it anymore, can't keep watching this masterpiece, can't stand the molten heat wrapped around your cock every time the drag in and out of her pussy pulls sets every nerve on fire. Right in her ear: "I'm cumming, Nana, I'm cumming inside this tight, little pussy."

A short gasp, "yeah."

"Yeah. Inside, Nana. Cum inside, you -" You twist your fingers against her scalp and find purchase, an excuse - a means to yank her head around and lean into her, teeth against skin, that familiar coiling in your gut and the burning sensation that flows right alongside every slap and smack of her hips on your skin.

"Fuck me." You watch her bite down, swallow a sound, try to say: "fuck your load so deep inside me it’ll be all I think about for weeks, let me feel it, all that hot, all that sticky, fucking cum"

And you drag your hips, these final, punishing drags through her drenched cunt. Her fingers are white knuckled and fisting the sheets, until the very second you've pressed every ounce of your own body's worth into her own, when you're collapsing her spine and pushing her face into the bedspread, this wave rushes through your ears like the buzz and hum of insects and waves and things out of sync - the high, the peak -

And then:

Sobering, subjugating silence.

In fact, you're shuddering; You're cumming, spilling pools of thick cum deep inside of her. It's all in that warm, filthy sensation, a heady, hazy, desperate thrill when her own cunt seizes in its climax around you, trembling, throbbing, quivering, clenching; drawing everything out and taking your cock deeper - even while the whole of her is thrashing and bucking, all of this messy with her pleasure and her voice caught up, writhing and breathless.

"God-" is the last thing out of her mouth before you can kiss it quiet, tug on her lower lip and open her up like a present - messy and breathy, crying out, you're making this mess inside, this beautiful fucking mess - as the whisper you feel against your lips:

"Inside me, like that."

As you groan, deep and hot, "filthy fucking cumslut-"

Right on the verge, riding out every twitch of your cock and each flex of your hands at the skin around her ass, her waist, back and shoulder blades; even after you've caught your breath, you keep pumping more and more inside of her, you don't stop, won't, and even when you manage it, pulling out the head of your cock - you can feel every slick detail - just the slit and rim, resting the throbbing head of your cock at her swollen little mound, feeling the length of her fucked-out pussy spasm at the emptiness and trying to grasp around nothing - empty, tight and aching, sopping.

There's her hips, just this, right there; the line, the silhouette. Her thin waist and the curvy swell of her ass, jutting out straight - the cream-colored flesh dusted pink. The lithe, soft line of her stomach and the insides of her thighs a little farther along, sweaty and inviting.

She's so pliant in your grip, even though she's trying her best to curl herself backward - to angle your spent cock back into the ready, welcoming warmth of her slick, wet pussy - and once the afterglow has begun to wear away, that same greed and yearning takes its rightful place. A glimmer in her eyes. The unmistakable need and drive.

"One more," she says, wiggling her hips back into your stomach. "For me."

(The truth: you can't refuse her, not as she bites her lip and twists, all that soft hair splayed across her face, stuck to her tear-damp skin.

One more, because you both still want it. One more, because in the dim glow and evening air of her bedroom, everything that happens now matters just as much as anything that happened before.

One more, because you need her again.)

-

When she wakes in the dark, you figure her bed will be empty.

Nana will realize that you're gone. Of course you’ll be - it was never going to go differently; the sex had to end at some point. After all, if you stayed, eventually she'd start saying something you'd find a fault in or your skin would be so sensitive she couldn't stand not running a finger up your spine and maybe kissing your hip.

The reasons to go always outnumbered the reasons to stay.

The world would catch up and someone would find out and that's the sort of gossip that might leave both of your careers in shambles. Or else, you'd do something you couldn't come back from, the moment the heat of the sex left your body and her cunt, god, her perfect little cunt was spent - slackening - and the moments-after-haze, her legs locked up and her arms a bit sore, would clear up. Then you'd look at her, or else the shame would win out - the guilt and you'd call it quits. She won’t blame you. She can't.

-

But then again,

Her heart won't fall completely to pieces, because:

You've stayed. And it isn't an easy position, even if she is easy.

Here she is, though: sleeping on her side with her wrists crossed in front of her face - peaceful and quiet, probably tired enough to sleep without dreams. The dark has long since settled across her bedroom, save the pinpricks of stars in the sky out her window and a sliver of moonlight. You can see her, or you could reach out and run your hands all along her calves and thighs, but you don't.

Nana's shoulders slump forward in the faintest of sighs, and there it is - the slow, gentle swell and fall of her chest.

-

Here's how you got here:

In this scandal-in-waiting of a relationship. Here's the stupidest possible path, where a bright-eyed student with a crush fucks her older professor just once, and somehow you both find yourselves coming back for more, like maybe your very, very bodies belong together - a maddening compulsion.

Even once you've managed to work through the idea of your cum all inside of her, a seedy, twisted corner of your mind murmurs how it makes the most sense. To stick your cock inside of her again.

Where she can show you the way it can look; the mess and the texture of the slick, white spill - dribbling out of her pussy in the afterglow, onto her palm, and down the crevice in her ass and lower.

It's the phone calls probably - and not just the phone sex - late-night talking, conversation and every once in awhile, the kind of hot, hard fucking that gets you in trouble, but also a reason to be with each other again. Not just the quick fucks but the nice ones - the days, the late nights and mornings and what have you: all the casual intimacy of it. All the sweet nothings exchanged.

The after-sex cuddling, with her straddling your lap;

The sensation of her thighs sliding into place around the tops of your legs, her arms tucked around your neck;

The kisses you don't take and kisses you'd be okay with, all the promises made to love you as many times as necessary, however necessary, wherever.

That's all here too.

Again:

She is young. But, who the fuck are you to say? Who the hell can tell you she doesn't deserve the least rotten, least painful, most promising love she can find in this particularly fucked-up world?

Who else is going to keep the both of you safe and hidden?

And who else, despite everything, seems to like having a secret that they're sure only you know; every glance or accidental touch with her eyes brimming, alive, and the whole of her bent like a bow-string - all held back and wound-up tight.

To the point her spine will shiver and shake; you know how it can be.

-

"Are you actually going to buy those?" Nana asks one day, dangling on her toes, chin rested comfortably in the sweep of your shoulder.

When she crowds the swell of her hip and her breasts and her entire body into your back and snakes her arms around your shoulders, you think there's nothing else in the world you need.

"You called them drivel," she adds, almost pouting - which is a look you're slowly trying to inoculate yourself against because the moment it comes up, you have a knee-jerk reaction to drop anything and everything and carry her off someplace else. To have a place where she could, could, could -

"Hah," you roll your eyes, not taking the bait. There's a shelf-full of campy, smutty romance novels in the dollar bin. "It is. The story was less than complicated, but I couldn't figure out what the hell two or three characters' plotlines had to do with one another, and sometimes you just want a little guilty pleasure, you know?"

"Ooh. So," Nana smiles, the devious sort. "I guess there is some honesty in you after all."

"Come on, this one at least has an original story," and it is a shameless attempt, "plus-"

"I know, I know. Fine. And if it is so terribly bad, well, I suppose I can use your chest as a pillow to take a nap," she says, before throwing this particular glance over her shoulder.

The cashier doesn't need to ask if the two of you want your copies of 'Wild West of the Heart' or whatever-the-fuck this one is titled, scanned separately.

All of that, those paperback-cover love stories and TV drama plots, these are the sorts of things you do just for Nana; as the two of you wait in long lines, get carried along, get bumped and pushed, like every other ordinary-person thing you've done for her ever since.

("Honestly, this isn't my kind of thing either," you tell her in the aisle of a grocery store once. The fluorescent lighting only accentuates the blush high on her cheeks. "don't make me fuss over something like this."

"Have a little sympathy," she insists, nudging the handle of the shopping cart against the inside of your shins. "A girl like me isn't good for much else.")

It's not romance, really, that's such a fucked up way to go about describing any of it, but then there's Nana, bouncing on her heels and prattling on, this girl in the spring of her life who is full to the brim and bursting with the most chaotic and eclectic sorts of thoughts and passions -

So, what.

"Really," she adds - another side, another angle on an issue the two of you had an hour ago while cooking breakfast. "Just, think about it. Would you honestly put all this effort into somebody who doesn't make you laugh at least as much as they irritate you? Because like, you would never tolerate some self-obsessed jerk long enough to eat their burnt, terrible pancakes every day of the week."

"Fine. Maybe." You sit across the table. "You're right."

Nana blinks and this look of wonder crosses her face as she grins. A moment of triumph for her and that was more than the honest truth. It's still strange, admitting defeat in any argument here or there, or that the two of you make an actual decent couple - together. The kinds of things that come naturally to other people.

"Any more caveats to all of this, professor?"

"You’re gonna end up bent over that counter again if you keep pushing it, kid."

The both of you break out laughing and then you finish your coffee, or she stabs the last few pieces of cantaloupe on her plate, or you kiss her neck, and just -

Everything.

[tojiscumdumpster]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။ toji fushiguro x his favorite customer (revision)

✧ summary toji has a little soft spot for his favorite customer that he can't get enough of.

✧ content warnings reader is a black woman who uses she/her pronouns. chubby!reader and inexperienced!reader. rich girl in her midtwenties, very needy! usage of profanity, standing missionary, oral - m!receiving, doggy style, mixture of praise and degradation kink, breeding kink, unprotected, creampie and squirting, terms of endearment ─ pretty girl, princess, baby, baby girl, etc. softdom!toji with rough, passionate, and filthy intercourse. told in first POV ─ toji's. i got reader calling toji TJ, and i think that’s so cute pls.

✧ author's note happy birthday to my baby daddy toji fushiguro! we've been going strong now for years. just a little something something to celebrate him. this fic has been in the drafts since December. talk about black people time, old sksk. also, if you already seen the original of this fic on tumblr, it's mine lol. this is just a revision, so don't go around saying i copied someone! my writing has changed so i wanted to redo this and add some adjustments. i hope y'all enjoy. support me by reblogging, liking, and commenting your thoughts. ♡ AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS AND/OR MINORS - DO NOT INTERACT.

 

 When it comes to women I fuck, I treat them the same because at the end of the day, they pay me good money to stuff their pussy with cock. 

 Don’t really care if they're married either. I usually get the old, desperate broads that aren’t getting any attention from their husbands at home, so it’s my job to make them feel good for the night. 

 I don’t do favorites. 

 I damn sure don’t give discounts. 

 And I definitely don’t get attached. But the moment I met Y/N that all changed. 

 My favorite customer. 

 Never did I expect a younger woman to pay me to get fucked, especially when she looks that good. 

 I’m almost positive she has a line filled with fuckers that’s desperately wanting to know what this tight, wet pussy feels like, yet here I am, living their fantasy. 

 I fucked Y/N once. 

 Then, twice. 

 Then, again.

 And again.

 And again…

 If I didn’t know any better, I’m fucking obsessed with her. Can’t even say it’s just for the money she’s paying me. Probably the best pussy I ever had.

 No. 

 It is. 

 So fucking warm, and she takes dick well, too. I usually give only an hour or two to my customers, but for Y/N? I reserved the whole night to relish her pussy. 

 The perfect fuck to end my day. 

 Those soft, sweet-sounding moans that slipped through her full brown and pink lips, having my previous cum shot staining them had me running wild. 

 But it seems like I’m not the only one who’s sex drunk. 

 Cock is all on Y/N’s mind right now. Whimpering and crying how big I am and thanking me for giving her dick. Tears pricks those chestnut-colored hues and I’m in fucking awe. She’s so damn pretty. 

 “You know how gorgeous you look taking cock like this? Being a good fucking slut for me, princess?” I ask, being met with a nod and her moaning in response. 

 Y/N’s pussy talks to me. Wet noises spreading throughout the room while I have my arms hooked under the fold of her knees, fucking her recklessly to push past any intrusion. 

 She’s jumping with me every thrust I make, causing her tits to bounce obnoxiously. I take one of her nipples into my mouth and suck on them like it’s my last dying breath, hearing that sweet whimper. 

 I belong in Y/N’s pussy, and she belongs to me, too, the way she’s gripping my cock and milking me. All of her cream and wetness drips between us and down my balls, and it feels fucking amazing. Every time I experience her velvet walls, I find myself becoming more animalistic, hungry and territorial over someone who should only be seen as a client. 

 But fuck, something in me says I would go batshit crazy if I ever found out she had other motherfuckers experiencing this. 

 Knowing how she looks when sweat coats her beautiful brown skin. How it feels to stretch her out and make her adjust to you. Just thinking about it makes me pound into her deeper and more aggressively. 

 “Toji, baby, yes. This feels so good,” she purrs. “Like that. Keep fucking me like that.”

 I hum. “Yeah? This is what you wanted, right? Paid me to please this good pussy?”

 By all means, Y/N isn’t a virgin, but she told me she doesn’t have much experience and I can tell by how tight she is. 

 Our sounds of pleasure resonate in the air, and I call her my good girl, praising how perfect her pussy is, to be met with her squeezing me and watery brown eyes. 

 “Toji… Toji… Yes. God, yes.”

 “Keep using your words, pretty girl. Tell me how much you love my dick in your pussy,” I ordered softly.

 “I love it so much. It’s so big, baby,” she tells me, slurring her words because of her lips still being on mine. “You’re going to make me cum.”

 I clicked my tongue, shaking my head. “Not yet. Come taste yourself.”

 Without hesitation, Y/N slides down to her knees and starts sucking my dick. I hiss at her swallowing me and the warmth of her mouth. She doesn’t take her time when sucking me off, immediately circling her head and throating me. 

 “Hot fucking mouth made to suck dick, huh, pretty girl?” I firmly grabbed her chin so she could look at me. “Eyes up, sweetheart. Open up your throat for me like a good girl.” 

 Y/N hollows her cheeks and bobs her head fervently on my dick, tightening her lips around me. 

 She sucks dick so fucking good, better than any other woman I’ve been with. And I just know I’m bound to bust quickly if she keeps doing this shit. 

 My hand finds the back of Y/N’s head to grip and I buck my hips deeper into her mouth, ensuring I hit the back of her throat everytime. I’m a fucking mad man when I begin fucking the gorgeous face, especially when she’s looking up at me with those big brown eyes. 

 A spoiled brat, prim and shy, who’s spending daddy’s money to get fucked and folded by an old bastard like me. Think I fucking developed a kink for this type because of Y/N.

 I pumped into her mouth more aggressively until she began choking and gagging on my cock. Drool and precum coating her mouth in the process. 

 Any type of control Y/N tries to take, I push past it because I want to use that pretty little mouth of hers how I want. She needs to get her money’s worth when fucking with me. 

 “Going to fuck my cum deep down that throat of yours, and you’re going to swallow it. Got that?” She nods and I softly tap the side of her face. “That’s it. Keep those lips tight around me.” 

 “Toji, pl—please,” she slurs, causing me to chuckle. 

 “Hm, look at you. Trying so hard to talk to me while sucking my dick. It’s cute.” I slow down my quick thrusts, but replace them with more fervent ones, pushing me and her head down until my cock outlines her throat. 

 My balls grow heavy and obnoxiously slaps Y/N’s chin, a clear indication I’m about to fucking cum. 

 Grunting, whining, gasping like a little bitch for air because head like this has a fucker like me sounding like a broken mess. 

 Blood rushes to my groin and I start getting sloppy, feeling my muscles tightening and ache burning between my thighs. I’m close, so fucking close to filling her mouth with my release, then I can finish fucking that fat pussy. 

 Everything about this damn woman is perfect. Her pussy. How she sucks cock. That fucking chubby and curvy body of hers. A pretty face with loaded cash.

 Yeah, she’s definitely mine after tonight. And I’m talking about anything lovey dovey. Meaning if I catch her being a slut like this to anyone else, I’d kill that fucker. 

 No hesitation. I-

 “Y/N, fuck!” I grunt while cumming in her mouth. This load is fucking heavy, but she’s trying her best to swallow every drop. 

 I groan at the sight of Y/N touching her tits and palming her pussy, knowing how much she’s turned on, too. It’s like the vibrations of her moans pulls more cum out my fucking dick.

 A mess I made on her face, but the joyful lust I see in her eyes tells me she doesn’t give a damn. 

 Good, because I’m not finished with her. 

 “All fours on the bed. Now,” I demanded. “Still gotta fill up your pussy.”

 Perfection is what I think when I see Y/N from behind, arched back, ass in the air and pussy dripping, ready for me to fuck. 

 I force an arch in her back and plunge my cock in her tight little pussy with one deep stroke. Y/N gasps in the air and I take the opportunity to pull her up by the throat and start pounding her cunt. 

 Why the fuck is she so goddamn wet? She takes cock well, bud shit, I abruptly slip out each and every thrust. 

 “Keep me inside that pussy, baby girl. Stop fucking letting go,” I gritted in her ear. She reaches behind her to hold my dick and push back into me with a tighter grip. “Hm, just like that. So fucking good to me, aren’t you?”

 “I need more dick, TJ. Fuck me harder, baby. I can take you,” she moans. 

 Begging for cock she’s already paying for… Shit, I get a kick out of how pathetically sexy she sounds. 

 I repeatedly slammed into her wet cunt, thrust after thrust, pussy creaming even further than before. If it’s one thing I can listen to for the rest of my life, it’s how Y/N sounds when she’s being fucked. 

 My name drips perfectly from her lips.

 Our skin smacking fills the air in the room along my hand striking her ass until I guarantee it’ll bruise in the morning. 

 “Look at this fat ass moving when I pound into this pussy. Fucking beautiful,” I growled.

 “Toji, please. I… I don’t care how much… I’ll pay more. Just keep fucking me like this.”

 I chuckle. “Atta girl.”

 I see why motherfuckers catch feelings when fucking pussy. I almost feel tempted to tell Y/N that I love her while fucking her. She has pussy that’ll make a fucker crazy… Possessive… Jealous.

 I applied more pressure to Y/N’s throat and pulled her against my chest. “You know who this pussy belongs to. Right, princess?”

 “God, yes, Toji. You… it belongs to you.” Her voice comes off as a faint cry and I know she’s on the verge of cumming. Especially with how her pussy is pulsating around me. 

 “Mhm, that’s right. Dreamed of my fucking dick pounding this tight little cunt, now I have you mindfucked. Huh?” I pinch her nipples with my free hand and increase my thrusts. “You’re about to come for me. Aren’t you, Y/N? I know you are. I can feel it. You should see the mess your slutty pussy is making between us.”

 “Fuck, I didn’t mean to, baby. It’s just… you feel good. So fucking good,” she whimpers, bouncing her ass back into me to meet with my thrusts. 

 “Maybe I should have you clean it with your mouth. Hm?”

 I release Y/N’s throat to shove her face into the bed and deepen her arch more than before. My single hand returns to her hips to grip, pulling her round ass back on my cock to kiss her center. 

 Can’t get over how wet—how tight and warm this fucking pussy is. The harder I fuck her, the louder her pussy gets and I grunt, curse underneath my breath at hearing the sound of her muffled moans. 

 I don’t give a fuck if one of us catches feelings after this. Actually, I want her to. I want Y/N to be dick hungry only for me. 

 I want her pussy to smell like I’m the only fucker that’s been running through her. I’m even fucking tempted to breed this pussy just so she’s mine.

 Why the fuck would I want to have sex with any other women after knowing what Y/N feels like? 

 “You take cock like a fucking pro. Look at you gripping me. Look at how this pussy is mine.”

 She spreads her ass cheeks to feel every inch of my dick. “Fuck me, Toji. Harder. Fuck me harder, I’m about to cum.”

 “Shit, me too, sweetheart. Such a perfect fuck toy. Going to fill you all the way up,” I rasped. “Fuck me back. Keep taking this dick.”

 My thrusts are sloppy. I throw my head back and swear into the air and moan her name. My balls grow heavier and heavier until I fucking but and empty my cum inside her pussy. 

 And she’s right there with me, crying my name and thanking me for giving her toe-curling orgasm. 

 Fucking enjoy hearing my pretty girl thank me for giving her cock. She just looks so damn pretty when she cums, too. 

 Dark brown skin sweating. The sight of her ruined makeup with mascara running down her cheeks. Moans sounding like a broken record. 

 Yeah, she’s a perfect fuck. 

 My favorite customer. 

© 2024 tojiscumdumpster Do NOT copy, translate, plagiarize, repost (sharing links is okay) anywhere. I only upload on tumblr and you will find some of my work in ao3.

[atleastpleasetelephone]

I have another request!! So I stumbled across these photos a few weeks ago..

And needless to say, it’s made me a little feral to put it simply. For the request, I was thinking that him and reader are at an after party for his friends wedding, which is actually what’s going on in the photo, and he’s showing off the gun and whatnot and reader finds it reallyyy attractive. Things take a turn and well….yeah. Also, I would love if there was spice. Like.. a LOT 🌚. Like borderline depravity…

Anyways, thank you! I absolutely love your writing and I know this will be amazing💗

A/N: Thanks so much for this request! Sidenote: I am going to write the other one but this is much more immediately in my wheelhouse so I'm starting here.

I am not ashamed to say that this man gave me a gun kink, so any excuse to write something filthy with firearms. Thanks to @polksaladava for helping me come up with exactly which filthy thing, and also thanks to my partner for finding out what kind of gun this is and being my gun guru generally lol.

Big man with a gun

Pairing: Hot sexy 1970 Elvis x reader

Word count: 2K

TWs: Gun kink. Also Elvis waving the gun about indoors like a madman, little hint of him being dominant, reader calls him daddy, praise kink, dry humping, smut. Usual stuff.

***

“What d’ya think of the Drilling?” Elvis is holding the gun up, seemingly aiming at the ceiling. 

“Careful, E,” Sonny warns, concerned about the plasterwork. “Y’don’t wanna blow another hole in the ceiling.”

Elvis chuckles, racking the gun and looking through the sight at one of the fancy decorations where the wall meets the ceiling. 

“E!” Sonny exclaims, instinctively tucking Judy behind him. 

Elvis just keeps chuckling, saying something about improving the wedding decorations and aiming at a balloon now instead. Sonny tries telling him again but he just responds that it’s his house and if he wants to blow holes in it he will. Your heart is racing. There have been stories about him firing guns indoors to get people’s attention, but you always thought they were just that, stories. And anyway, when the guys had regaled you with them, they’d always said it was a gun Elvis got out of his boot, or a holster. There’s no way this gun could fit under his arm or in his shoe. You don’t know a lot about guns, but you think it must be able to do more damage than something small enough to fit in his boot. You try to swallow. Your throat has gone a little dry. 

“C’mon, E,” Sonny tries for the millionth time as people actively start trying to find places to hide in case he really does start shooting. 

There’s a moment of complete silence, and then Elvis lets out a full-on belly laugh, dropping the gun from his shoulder and making it safe. 

“Y’didn’t think I’d really start shootin’, did ya? Not at yer wedding reception.”

Sonny isn’t sure what he thought, not really, but he slaps Elvis on the back, telling him of course he knew he was joking. The other man grins, enjoying the effect of waving the firearm around, and then turns towards you, holding it in both hands like it’s a display piece. 

“Whaddya think, baby?” He asks. 

You’re the designated photographer for the reception, for some reason, so you grin and snap a few pictures. 

“It’s um… nice?” You try. You’re not exactly sure how you should describe it. Cool? Dangerous? Well-made?

“Think it’s a little more ‘an nice, baby,” he tells you, obviously a little disappointed by your response. “It’s a shotgun an’ a rifle in one. See?” He comes closer and flicks a finger over the triggers. “Two triggers. One for this bit,” his hand glides over the top two barrels, “and one for this,” sliding his palm against the underneath of the rifle part. 

You look down, suddenly fascinated by the way he’s caressing the gun and the way his rings glitter as his hands move. 

“What’s this bit?” You ask, gingerly poking a black sort of tube on the top of the shotgun part. 

“Telescopic sight. Lets ya see what yer shootin’ at.”

You nod silently, feeling your heart start to race again. “W-what’s it for?” 

“Shootin’, baby,” he replies, letting out another roaring laugh that makes everyone else in the room turn around for a moment. 

You blush and look down. “I know that,” you whisper, embarrassed. “But why’s it got so many… barrels?”

“Good fer huntin’,” he replies, gently manoeuvring you to the couch so the two of you can sit down. “Shootin’ rabbits an’ deer with the same gun.”

You try not to let your face fall at the idea of shooting cute little animals, but you’re not sure you succeed. “Oh I see,” you mumble. 

He lets out another short laugh and then the next thing you know one end of the gun is in your lap. 

“Pretty, ain’t she?” He continues, his fingers running over the decorative metalwork at the end of the stock. 

His shoulder is pressed up against you and you can feel the heat radiating off him as he takes your hand and rubs your fingers where his have just been. 

“Feel the craftsmanship on this.” He continues to guide your hand over the contours of the gun, down the hard smooth stock and then along the barrels as they lay on his lap. 

You realise you can hear your own breathing and you quickly close your mouth. Apparently it had just opened of its own accord midway through this guided tour of the gun. You have to get yourself under control. Looking quickly around the room, you try to see if anyone has noticed… what exactly? Elvis talking to you about a firearm? Making you touch it like it’s… well. Something other than an inanimate object. Your head is spinning and it takes you a while to realise you’ve just been absent-mindedly running your fingers back and forth over the smooth wood of the stock without any help from him whatsoever. You look up to see him grinning back at you. 

“Ya like her, baby?” He asks.

“Y-yeah. Good… craftsmanship,” you squeak out, face bright red. 

He lets out a low chuckle and then puts his lips to your ear. “Ya wanna take her to bed?”

Your eyes go wide and you make a sort of strange noise somewhere in your throat. Do you want to what now? You feel his breath on your ear, as he questions you again, “hm?” his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you against him. Your brain still isn’t really functioning but the warmth that’s spreading between your legs is suggesting you want to do what he’s asking. You finally manage a little whining noise and he pulls back to look at your face. 

“That a yes?”

Biting your lip as you find yourself nodding, you finally let out a strangled “yes”, making him smile. 

“Alright then. Haveta wait until this is over, mind.”

***

The next few hours are torture. It’s Sonny’s wedding reception after all, so it’s not as if Elvis can throw everyone out of his house on a whim. So you suffer through more speeches and more cake and more tedious conversations. Every so often Elvis comes over and whispers something naughty in your ear and touches you in a way that makes you ache, and more than once you find yourself standing next to the cabinet he’s put the gun on top of, stroking it. You feel like you’re going to go insane, the slickness between your legs is getting so bad you’re worried it’s going to leak through your panties onto your dress, so towards the end you even stop sitting down, just in case. You think about running off to the bathroom to solve your little problem but the combination of fear of what Elvis would do to you if he found out and excitement of what might happen later with the gun stops you. By the time the last guest leaves you actually feel a little dizzy. 

“Can we go now?” You ask, pressing yourself up against him. 

Chuckling again, he wraps an arm around you. “Eager lil thing, ain’tcha?”

You whine. You’re pretty sure this can’t be classed as being eager. You’ve been waiting for hours. “Please?”

“Well since ya begged…” he gives you a quick kiss and then lets you go, striding over to the gun and picking it up before moving to the stairs. “C’mon, baby.” He holds out his hand and you take it, trotting after him as he takes the stairs two at a time. 

Even though you watch him removing the cartridges from the gun and he makes a point of showing you that it’s completely empty and safe, it still looks dangerous in the middle of the bed. Hard and unyielding, dark in colour and purpose, in the middle of a warm soft place for sleeping and lovemaking. You swallow hard and squeeze your thighs together. You must be dripping by now. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he runs his fingers down your cheek. “Why don’tcha straddle her, baby?”

Even though you’re pretty far gone at this point, his words still shock you and all you can do is whine again. He smiles gently, leaning in to kiss you as his hand moves to your jaw. 

“Feel how smooth she is,” he continues, pulling away from the kiss, his hand encouraging yours onto the stock again. “Bet that’d feel good, honey.”

His other hand sneaks between your legs, giving a low whistle as he feels just how sodden your panties are. He starts to rub you there and you let out a moan, finally getting some contact on your aching pussy. 

“C’mon honey. I know ya wanta.”

He rubs you a little more and then removes his hand, leaving you panting and desperate and then you’re in the middle of the bed, one leg on either side of the stock, sitting down on the gun and trying to rub yourself against it. 

“Mmmmm. It doesn’t… I need…” you start to mumble, almost incoherently. The gun sinks down into the bed as soon as you put any pressure on it and you can’t get yourself off. Luckily Elvis figures it out quickly and helps you put a pillow underneath it, holding you carefully so you don’t lose your balance. 

Groaning, you start to move your hips back and forth, rubbing your clothed pussy against the smooth wood. Your eyes roll back in your head as the friction builds, one hand gripping the pillow as you explore your body with the other. You’re so lost in pleasure you don’t notice Elvis starting to touch himself, so turned on watching you like this that he can’t help himself. 

“Good girl,” he breathes, hand sliding up and down his dick. 

You can only whimper in response, grinding against the stock, smearing your arousal all over it as your panties slip to the side and there’s no barrier left between you and the gun. Somewhere in the back of your mind you can’t believe you’re doing this, can’t quite understand how you ended up in this position, you don’t even like guns… 

“Is my good girl gonna cum f’me?” His voice cuts through your thoughts and you realise that yes, you are going to, and really soon. 

“Yes, Daddy,” you pant. 

“Mmmm,” is all he can manage in response, still lost in watching you so out of control. 

Both of your hands pull at the pillow, forcing it to stay where you want it as you teeter on the edge of your orgasm, a buzz of incredible pleasure surrounding you before the bubble bursts and you’re there, screaming out his name. 

You hear him grunt and open your eyes just in time to see him cum all over himself, still staring at you and the gun, mouth hanging open loosely. He looks so beautiful like that, wanton with his lips red and his eyes wild. You can’t believe you turned him on so much. 

His eyes shift to meet yours and you both look at one another for a moment and then you start to giggle. And he starts to giggle. And then you’re both belly laughing as you crawl towards him and into his arms. Right now it seems absolutely absurd how desperate you were to rub yourself all over this goddamn gun and how desperate he was to watch you. He presses his nose against your cheek, body still shaking from laughter. 

“D-didn’t know ya l-liked guns s’much, honey.” His voice wobbles with the effort of trying to stay serious.

“I don’t!” You giggle back, turning your head and kissing him on the mouth. 

He kisses you back and you can feel him smiling against your lips. Your giggles gradually subside as you burrow into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. Contentment washes over you. 

“Why’d ya do it then?” He mumbles in your ear. 

“You wanted me to,” you reply, moving so that you can look up at him through your lashes. “And you looked pretty damn sexy with that gun.”

“Honey! Ya kiss yer mama with that mouth?!” He teases.

“Yeah but right now I’d much rather kiss you,” you reply, tugging his head down so his lips meet yours again. 

Losing yourself again in the smell of him, the way he tastes, the feeling of him holding you like he never wants to let you go, you don’t think you’ve ever felt so good. 

Maybe you do like guns, after all. Or maybe you just like that one gun in particular…

***

Taglist:

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed:

@arg-xoxo @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @blursedblegh @returntopresley @eapep @everythingelvispresley @i-r-i-n-a-a @sissylittlefeather @arrolyn1114 @jhoneybees @polksaladava @lookingforrainbows @jkdaddy01 @epthedream69 @lustnhim @elvisslut @pomtherine @that-hotdog @ladelinee @angschrof @fairybloodsucker @deltafalax @makethemorning @elviswhore69 @ilovequeen978 @wildhorseinkansas @pocketfulofpresley @dkayfixates @iloveelvisss @kxnnxy @presleyhearted @lvrdollep @nebulamorada @iloveelvis2 @18lkpeters @elvisbdoll

[jellicatty]

❝ JUST A STRANGER , MAKING LOVE ₊˚ ❞

It felt wrong to accept someone else's lust other than your husband. Five years have passed, yet you still feel sick when mingling with other people. Although your mind acted on its needs, your heart yearned for connection— for Nanami Kento.

╰┈➤ contains : nanami x female reader. takes place five years after his death. sex (but not with him). focuses more on reader. MASSIVE guilt. grief / loss. yearning. empty sex. betrayal. mentions of God. angst no comfort (never). nsfw.

╰┈➤ note : this was so fun to write ! totally enjoyed this and might make more stuff like this ! i might also rewrite this in the future since its a bit messy.

╰┈➤ tags : @lacyohlacyyy mwa

"Are you cumming, baby?"

You weren't betraying him since he was long gone.

God knows you weren't.

Yet, sharing laughter, touches, and pleasure with another man feels treacherous. And unfortunately, a woman's body can only go so far before succumbing to its needs.

"C-cant hear you, love. You want more?" He questioned, deepening his thrusts. You winced at his ridiculous attempt to turn you on, yet applauded at his courage for bedding a grief-stricken woman like you.

The man above you held your body closer to his, carried away by his desires to claim a broken woman— you. Gentle kisses were placed on your heaving chest as his thrusts steadily sped up.

The man above you was simply a stranger. Though going on dates and cuddling merrily under your heavy blankets— he was still a stranger. A stranger to your body, mind, love. A stranger to your soul you happily shared with your Kento. He was a stranger compared to him.

Imagination was the only thing helping you go further. Because, after all those lackluster meets, this man only showed his inability to make a woman finish. But you figured that it would just be the same with every other man because they aren't your sweet husband.

Nanami was different, you thought.

And so, wanting a release, you thought of him. Instead of the stranger above you, was Nanami. It was Nanami exploring your body tonight, caressing your curves, and whispering such filthy confessions.

His grip around your neck tightened, then his hand traveled to your clit. He quickly rubbed his thumb against your nub, desperate to see you crumble beneath his touch.

"God, you feel so good." He breathed out, exclaiming his satisfaction with how your pussy gripped his sex. Grunts erupted from him, but noise was not heard from you, too focused on your world— a world where Nanami is the stranger above you.

However, you should have known that no imagination can replace the feeling of sex with your late husband. And for so many useless nights of trying to fulfill your desires, you now only realized that making love with Nanami was something that could never be replaced.

Making love with Nanami was incomparable to this unfortunate encounter with the stranger. The taste was different too. With Nanami, it felt special. His kiss was indescribable, but familiar, rooted from the years of silent 'i love yous', selfless decisions, and countless of shared memories

You felt like a whore for even thinking that an uneventful, and distasteful evening would amount to what Nanami made with you.

"Open your heart to me."

A complete, and utter fool of a stranger. Such idiocy coming from his blinded mind; loving a woman's soul that died with her husband. His idiot self blinding him so much that he couldn't recognize your hurtful tears— looking at them as something that came from pleasure.

"Please, I love you." And he confessed so with a tone so alike with Kento's that you almost said it back.

I wasn't betraying him, not now or ever.

Please, God. Tell me I have not betrayed my beloved.

You weeped and bit your tongue, cursing at your own idiocy slipping. As his hips carelessly pounded into yours, you begged God to take this guilt you felt far away from you; to store it somewhere else because your heart can no longer be a storage for something so disastrous.

May God forgive you, because you could never, ever, forgive yourself. Never, when you opened yourself to his advances. Never, when you agreed for one night fun that turned into many. Never, when you now lay on your bed, moaning and weeping as you imagined him.

Never, when you betray Nanami like this.

© jellicatty | no plagiarising please (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

[constantly0lost]

Okay I haven't written in literal months, but i was inspired by the little blurb about otter harvey at the bottom of @sashiavi 's goat Harvey post, so enjoy a ramble. Alot of my sleep tired brain escaped into this, sorry for how sloppy this is, i just wanted to vocalize my thoughts or my head would have exploded. I would carry 19 of Harvey's children if asked, peace.

CW: bit of a breeding kink, i reimagined/softened the mannerisms of otters during sex cause MAN, male otters SUCK, other otter things (harveys hydrophobic hair), lactation kink, me being a simp for this man, UHHh, shitty writing :)

Otter Harvey who gives you special things that made him think of you. From rocks to acorns to mushrooms to flowers to leave and so on, and being so blushy when he gives them to you, because its just acorns but it means so much to him. And he swoons when he finds out you kept them all.

Otter Harvey who holds your hand while y'all sleep, even though you're as close as two people can physically be without fusing together. He knows logically that you can't go anywhere, and even if you did, you'd be right back in his arms, but it feels so nice to have his hand on yours.

Otter harvey who eats sea urchins in secret, not because of someone finding out he eats them, but because he has to yank one out of Vincents mouth after he saw Harvey eating them, and he didn't want to cause anyone any extra undue stress.

Otter Harvey who has to take showers with slightly more intense temperatures so that he can actually wash his hair, otherwise it rolls right off of his hair. The only time he won't is when you take a shower with him, because he doesn't want you to be uncomfortable because of him, and even then, after you get out he'll change the temperature so he can actually get clean.

Otter Harvey who, if you end up having kids, is the best fucking dad. He teaches them literally anything and everything, and sits at the table responding to their toddler gibberish with full blown sentences. He takes them to school, plays anything they want, and is a total pushover sap for them, no matter what happens. (He is also 110% a girl dad)

Otter Harvey who bites higher up on you than he probably should, but he can't help it when you make him feel such mind numbing pleasure. So now you have hickeys on your cheeks, lovebites around your nose and mouth, along with all the marks he leaves along your body.

Otter Harvey who has such a rampant breeding kink that on "bad" days, he'd fuck you over and over until he's so drained he's lightheaded and overwhelmed, and he feels guilty for fucking you like that, even though he's still inside of your puffy cunt.

Otter Harvey who can't help but moan and whimper as he fucks into you, digging his nails into your hips as your pussy seems to suck him deeper, your walls clenching around him in a downright mean way as he bites and sucks anywhere he can get his mouth to.

Otter Harvey who often and loudly verbalizes how he wants to stuff you full right as he's about to cum, drilling the head of his cock harder into your spongy walls.

Otter Harvey who, when he gets jealous, will hold you down by your neck, or might even just hold you down by your hair, as he drills into you, harder than he normally would dare. His mouth turns downright filthy, spewing the nastiest words you'll ever hear in your life, as he hefts your leg over his shoulder.

Otter Harvey who can, will, and has spent hours buried with his face between your legs, looking up at you with those pretty eyes in search of your approval. He wants you to pull on his hair to guide him, wants you to pull until his scalp burns.

Otter Harvey who whines so damn pretty when you ride him, his cock kicking on your hand as he eyes roll back, his nails digging into your thighs. He mumbles whispered gibberish, which could almost be pleas, but are too garbled to fully make out.

Otter Harvey who will suck on your tits until you produce a few beads of milk, which he gratefully laps up and swallows like it's heaven on earth. Of course afterwards he gets anxious, wanting to make sure it's not galactorrhea, and wanting to make sure you're healthy.

Otter Harvey who would bend over backwards to make sure your happy, who would wait on your hand and foot so that you feel properly appreciated. He loves you, and knowing you love him back is all he needs.

FUCKING OTTER HARVEY IM GONNA RIDE HIM IN MY DREAMS TONIGHT AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

[takumi-sumino]

I've seen a couple of people do stuff like this, so I'm gonna take a stab at it. My thoughts on every character so far! (Long post, so the opinions are all under the cut)

Darumi

She feels like an audience insert of sorts, with her immediate mention of death games and her outfit looking like something a stereotypical "2020 danganronpa cosplayer" would wear.

She's a bit unhinged from what we've so far, but she also seems like she'll be a lot of fun to watch on screen, and isn't that what's most important?

Definite and overwhelming red herring for something, however. Unsure for what yet, but she screams red herring to me.

Also, the fanart of her has been spectacular. Keep it up, lads.

Eito

I'm sure we've all seen *the scene*, so there's that. If that's not out of context somehow and consensual, then- yay? Good for the yaoi fans.

I immediately liked him when I first saw his design, he just *looks* nice. I'd let him hold my drink at a party. I've read somewhere that he becomes Takumi's closest friend, and I dearly hope that that's true, because that means we get lots of Eito content.

I'm also unbelievably excited for that one ending where he inevitably goes off the deep end and does something absolutely horrific. There has to be one. Manifesting it. I love watching my favourite characters commit atrocities.

Gaku

Can I just say how different he specifically looks in his two different outfits? I didn't even recognise him when his sprite of him in the uniform was revealed. His casual outfit is so silly, and his uniform looks the most like he's about to beat my ass. The gattling gun also helps, probably.

That aside, I don't feel that strongly about him. He's probably a nice enough guy, nothing else to say about him.

Hiruko

She's actually drop dead gorgeous. One of the best casual outfits.

Moving on, I think she's the one who's the leader of the squadron? She seems to have experience with facing the enemies, and she's still alive, so I admire the heck out of her for it. She also has an axe that is bigger than her; you can have all the gattling guns or scythes or floating knives in the world, but nothing bests a good old-fashioned ginormous axe.

Ima

Goofy face, what's he looking at me like that for?

This guy has a bit of a reputation, I know, but I'm choosing to have faith.

A sister complex is not inherently sexual or romantic (although it often is) and I find complicated and toxic family relationships in media quite interesting.

I am, however, almost entirely leaning on Uchikoshi here. Clover and Snake's sibling relationship was extremely well written, and I'm hoping that even if he does feel romantically inclined towards his sister, it's just as well written. I'm choosing hope.

Also, his weapon is phenomenal. I might need to make a weapons tierlist at some point.

Kako

She's a cutiepie, and I haven't missed the fact that she and her brother have angel/devil symbolism with their weapons.

Apparently, the two of them are a bit younger than many of the other students, so that should be interesting- Takumi I know is 17/18. Apparently, they're still in Junior High, so 14/15? I wonder if there'll be any split because of the age groups?

I want nothing but the best for her and I hope she gets it. And doesn't die too many times.

Karua

Likely the one this story revolves around, and one of the more mysterious characters.

I'm curious about her, but I don't really feel anything that strong about her. I am fairly certain that Takumi will tear apart reality itself for her, so she'll probably be a pretty nice character. And hopefully, NOT a twist villain.

Kurara

Absolutely wild to have a masked character in a game that Uchikoshi is writing, I'm sure that has never happened before.

She's filthy rich and has a tomato for a head, I- really don't know what to say about her. Her weapon is hilarious to me, "rich girl above all rich girls" and has a shovel for a weapon. I respect the grind, at least.

I'm sure in true Zero Escape fashion, we'll unmask her in one timeline and use that information in another.

Kyoshika

I genuinely have nothing to say about her- I learned she existed a couple days ago? Had never noticed her before, honestly.

She has a cool outfit in any case.

I just remembered there's a 10 image max on the app, so I'll continue this in a reblog

[olderthannetfic]

I find the recent "proshippers who express their dislike for certain AUs/ships/characters are just as bad as antis and aren't really proshippers" discussion to be...interesting? Here's my two cents:

I reject the dichotomy, tbh. I think we, without even realizing it, get a bit too hung up on the "ship" part of it and not hung up enough on the "pro" part of it. We all know that antis don't just send death threats and rape threats and other horrendous stuff just due to ships. They do the same over characters, kinks, tropes, etc. Even if you don't ship Reylo, you're seen as just as bad as the filthy Reylos if you're pro Bendemption.

HOWEVER...I really do not think we should liken "omg they ship wincest how cringe" or even "oh ew wincest is gross, shippers dni" to sending actual hate, threats, etc to wincest shippers. Personally, I am no more or less offended by "I hate Jarley shippers so much, their taste is awful!" than I am by "I hate high school AU writers so much, their taste is awful!" Sure, an anti trashtalking Jarley or other #toxique pairings definitely has more connotations and implications than a proshipper trashtalking ~vanilla~ AUs, but the actual WORDS aren't really all that different, yk?

I think, unless you're actually harassing someone -- and i do mean harassing, not sending a one-off troll anon -- and i do mean someone, not just a vague DNI banner in your card or a general post here and there about how Incest Is Bad, then you can express whatever opinions you want so long as you stay out of the tag and don't say your opinion directly as a reaction to someone telling you about their work. (eg "I just started my MCU/Sherlock crossover fanfic!" "Omg what? That's so cringe! Write a Serbian pigeon movie AU instead")

I'm one of the people who identifies as an ex-anti, but i think i was more of the whole "i'm not, but i believe in their beliefs." I was always against harassment and threats and I often unfollowed/blocked people who DID do that shit or who made callout posts or whatever. If we were close enough, I'd tell the person off, knowing they'd probably be more willing to listen to a friend or mutual who has their beliefs than a stranger on the other end of the spectrum. Really, the worst I ever did was reblog those stupid posts about fiction impacting reality (the infamous Jaws post comes to mind in particular) or about how incest/age gap/etc is Bad and Wrong. Definitely not super cool, but it was by no means bullying or harassment.

If I were to go out of my way and express my hate for a certain series or character or ship or trope in the tag, in the comments, to someone's face, I'd be a pretty terrible person! But if I just post on my blog about how something isn't for me, that's not harassing anyone.

Even today I think I still have a "not, but believe in their beliefs" stance about proshipping. Maybe I wore myself out of it when I was in my anti phase, but at this point I don't really have much desire to discuss it, outside of this ask i guess lol and occasionally some comments on the ao3 subreddit. I don't even reblog those uwu here's how the world works posts that are like "REMINDER that ao3 is an ARCHIVE :) it was created for PROBLEMATIC CONTENT :)" "ALL SHIPS ARE GOOD SHIPS" "fiction is not reality!" types of posts that are not explicitly about proshipping but also are clearly about proshipping. Not even because I disagree, but because at this point in time it feels very similar to reblogging "HEY :) please DONT feed the animals at the zoo :)" "Reminder that you need to TURN YOUR PHONE ON before you can start using it :)" or other like...incredibly basic infos about life lol. It's basically the ship discourse equiv of those early 2012 posts that are like "REBLOG IF YOU SUPPORT GAY MARRIAGE <3" Like, yes, but...I don't need to do bare-bones virtue signalling on my blog for you to figure that out LOL

Im getting off topic and i don't really know what the original point i'm trying to make here is, just like...I get that it always sucks to see someone bashing your taste, even if it's just casual or humorous. but I think if someone is just making a post about how much they dislike certain things, that doesn't mean they're not a pro-shipper. It's only when you start actually being rude to people that I might question your actual "anti-harassment" values. I don't have many dark tastes myself, but I also am not a huge fan of the flowershop/school/job/modern AUs. Me saying "rape fics aren't for me" or "coffee shop fics aren't for me" hold the same exact weight and they say nothing about my views on fiction and what should and shouldn't be read or written; i'm neither a puritan who hates Bad Things nor a pretentious asshat who hates Silly Things. I will support the beloved mutuals'/friends' dark fiction from afar...I will do the exact same thing with their lighthearted fiction. i try not to keep ANY negative opinions on my blog, even if it's just an innocent post about how i dont enjoy a certain thing. but the vocal-minority idea that no one is allowed to say anything negative ever or they're not actually anti harassment is uh. Fascinating for sure!

--

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

prev post inspired by reading brandon taylor's filthy animals, which is, like, fine i guess, which is kind of simultaneously not surprising bc i've never read a collection of allegedly well observed stories focused on the minutiae of human interaction that i actually liked and also disappointing because i like his writing in his newsletter so much lol. (and to be fair i also really liked his story "prophets" which is not in the collection.) and actually for the most part the dialogue feels more or less human which stood out to me because of how much i fuckin hated severance (novel, not currently buzzy apple TV show i have also complained about lmao). but then you get an exchange like this:

"I do like him," Sophie said after a moment, and it startled Charles.

"How? You don't know him. I don't know him."

"There's something good and wounded about him. Like you."

and it just instantly pings my bullshit-dar. i'm like, she would not fucking say that, where "she" is "any human ever to live, ever." and for whatever reason when it comes to this kind of thing (literary short stories invested in the minutiae of human interaction) my instinct is then to be like, well i guess i am a dummy. i guess i am being stupid and unfair to read this and be like, girl what? and maybe i am, i don't know. maybe when on the next page charles says "So I cleaned it, swept the glass, you know? And it was the weirdest thing. I don't think I've ever seen a person more exposed." i am also being stupid to be like, you've never seen a what? what? who talks like this? i don't know. a lot of people love this writing, according to goodreads, which as we all know is an unfiltered and objective accounting of human opinion. maybe lots of people talk like this and i just happen not to know any of them. or maybe, again, i'm totally missing the point of literary fiction and there's some kind of reason i'm just not sophisticated enough to understand for why you would write texts as naturalistically as "u there?" and also have this emotionally repressed dancer say "i don't think i've ever seen a person more exposed" like that is a normal, not weird thing to say, a thing that would just come out of your mouth naturally. like obviously i am not so stupid as to believe literary dialogue ever actually is "naturalistic" or should be... but perhaps i am barking up the wrong tree if i want it to convincing? if i want my disbelief to be suspended?

(tw in the next paragraph for suicide & ED stuff discussed in the book)

the thing that compelled me to post mid-book comes from a story later on that also concerns these characters (sophie, charles, and lionel, who is the "him" they have met the previous night and that charles has slept with and sophie is... befriending? ish?) lionel is the POV character in the first story, and i liked that one actually partly because it's about a guy trying to have a normal time at a campus party at the school where he is proctoring while on leave of absence which he has been taking since his suicide attempt last year. none of these exact biographical particulars apply to me but the general vibe has some overlap with my college years for sure lol and so i was like, well true. anyway. so in a later story we're back with lionel and sophie is like, are you with someone, and he said no, god no, and she asks why not, and he............. rolls up his sleeve to show his suicide attempt scars? and she asks what happened and he tells her, and then he gives this little monologue essentially describing what it's like to be depressed which is fine and they talk about that and his recent self-hospitalization, and then she's like... ok i'm actually going to type this one out too:

"My parents died. And then my sister, a few years ago, died. Overdose. And sometimes, I think, Fuck. Enough. Or sometimes, it's like, Why not make it a full set?"

"Yeah," he said.

"I used to purge. Everybody thinks it's about being skinny and being light for ballet. They think it's to look a certain way. But I think most of us purge because of the control. Like, there's a moment when you go from feeling full and awful to feeling clean and clear and bright. There's just a moment, right before you get it all out, before you're burning up and convulsing, when you feel something go ping and you know it'll be all right. Thats what it's about. That little ping of clarity. Anyway, I used to purge. When I lived with my grandma. All the other girls in ballet did, too. It's not special or anything, but I did. And then I got these awful ulcers. And I couldn't dance because I had no energy and my vision started to get weird? I felt like my body was betraying me."

Lionel sat up then. Sophie's thumb traced his knuckles.

"Then my sister died, and I thought, I can keep doing this or I can try to fucking live. Really live. Dance is awful, don't get me wrong--if your foot is too big or your shoulder doesn't bend a certain way. There are fewer than zero jobs. And everyone is on coke or a serial rapist. But when I'm dancing, sometimes, I feel that little ping. I know where I am in the world. I can feel myself. And, like, yeah, my technique is not classical. Come on. I learned to dance in Arkansas. But as long as I can dance, I'll be okay. I don't need ABT. Or Royal Ballet or anything. I just want to dance for as long as I can."

"It's your something," Lionel said.

"Everybody deserves a something, right?"

Lionel nodded, and Sophie blotted the corners of her eyes with a sleeve.

and i........ uh.............. fucking hated this lol??? i fucking hated this entire scene. like it really activated my "oh fuck OFF" instinct." and i hated it in a way that felt unusual and unexpected because i think of my problem with literary fiction, when i have a problem with literary fiction, is that it is too, like, withholding or afraid of emotion or afraid of seeming sentimental or whatever, but this..... is....... fucking sentimental. this feels really actually quite fucking cheap to me? i DON'T UNDERSTAND why this collection of short stories is giving me an EATING DISORDERS 101 POST FROM HEALTHLINE.COM???? like i... ok. not everyone in the world has spent as many hours of their lives reading about eating disorders as i have "lol." but this literally feels like Very Special Episode dialogue. including the part where the connection between these two people feels too easy. which, again, up this point i was like, well this is just a mode of developing relationships i don't understand because of my intellectual deficiencies... but now i'm like, actually maybe it's just bullshit, because this degrassi ass monologue is bullshit. the scars thing, also bullshit - bullshit in a specific way i found irritating because, lmao, back when i was drafting a certain wildly self-indulgent fanfiction of mine, there was a period of time in which i entertained the concept of a character dropping the same kind of reveal with the same scar-revealing gesture, and then i opted not to do that, because i was like, "on reflection, this feels like a bullshit." like this feels stupid! it feels actually stupid! hollow and melodramatic and unearned! not, like, not to my taste or too sophisticated for me to get or too subtle for me (an idiot) to be into... and actually not even just "not that good." like this is actively bad, to me. maudlin! distasteful! cliché! cheap!!!

anyway. idk. i guess i was just startled by this because it seemed so obviously self-indulgent and unserious that i was really unprepared to find it in a book by, like, a serious author, that people take seriously. i want there to be a lesson here but i'm not sure that there is one except maybe that i gotta get more comfortable with embracing being a hater even if i'm worried it will make me look dumb. but, like, having a character say out loud, in dialogue, "i know everybody thinks it's about being skinny, but it's actually about control," in a book published in 2021? flowers for spring... groundbreaking....

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hi, hope you're having a good day/afternoon/evening. Do you write stuff about Hellboy? If yes, could you plesase do gn!verytall!reader x Nuada, where he takes a dislike on them, but somehow catches feelings, but he can't and will not accept that and reader don't know why they're locked in their dungeons and just wait for their death. Nuada has a goal: eliminate all humans. However, he doesn't know if he should include reader. If you're not into Hellboy, forget I asked anything. I like your prompts by the way.

What’s up with me and liking these kinds of characters…I guess we’ll never know. 🦦

It probably wasn’t your smartest move in separating from the group to pursue a lead in finding prince Nuada on your own because whatever delusion you were riding on at the time that made you think that you stood a chance at besting him. A man who’s movements were as fast, swift and as fluid as a cold breeze.

It might as well be considered a death sentence to fight Nuada on your own. Something you should’ve taken into consideration for as soon after your brief one sided fight, which had Nuada dominating for most of it. But instead of delivering the killing blow with his lance, Nuada had decided to take you as a prisoner and had you flung into one of his dungeons until you friends come to retrieve you or for death to greet you first; So while you waited for either outcome, you began trying to find creative ways as to entertain yourself.

Meanwhile Nuada was finding himself to be at odds with himself over his resolve but mostly over you, a pathetic, greedy, hollow human being. No better then the others in his eyes and yet Nuada found his feelings of resentment, anger and anguish he held towards the human race, having dwindled the moment your eyes met his as he held his lance closely to your throat. Nuada knew that he could’ve finished you off like he had done to countless others but why were you the one to make him falter, to question his resolve, his purpose and cast an ember of warmth within his heart?

What made you so special in comparison to the others, whom he had so easily had snuffed the lives from? Why was it that throughout your fight did he not take full advantage of your openings, your weaknesses then and there? Nuada was given so many golden opportunities to rid himself of yet another filthy human, but something deep down inside was telling him to not bring you any more harm than he already had. Naturally Nuada assumed it was some magical trickery that you possessed in order to mess with his mind, however it was documented that you had no such gifted ability like Liz; You were just an ordinary human like any other who thought they couldn’t do no wrong, while simultaneously standing by and doing nothing to bring about change in the nature of your people.

This only proved to piss and confuse Nuada even more. You were rotting in his dungeons and yet you still manage to haunt his mind like a ghost. Hell he could visualise you so vividly and so real within his own head, making sure to get every feature of yours right, that he could almost reach out and actually touch you and be able to feel the warmth of your skin against his fingertips, feeling your muscles move beneath his touch, followed by your sharp inhale at the unsuspecting contact from him.

You distracted Nuada from what he felt was most important, form what he set out to do and he wasn’t one to leave any unfinished business, not when he was close to achieving his ultimate goal in eradicating all mankind, so much so that he could practically taste it on his tongue. However there was a slight problem with that, for if he were to eradicate all humans, that would naturally include you in that; The one human who had made a home within his unwilling heart and he didn’t know what to make of it because once again he was heavily conflicted, for his heart had grown to find some semblance of enjoyment within your company, much to his dismay.

‘How could I have allowed myself to become so weak!’ Nuada hissed to himself as his once relaxed hands became fists within a blink of an eye. ‘My head and heart have both betrayed me with their conjoined weakness towards that..human.’ He adds bitterly, adamant in even uttering the word human. It felt both vile and wrong to Nuada in naming those who’s inherent greed and corruption had put him in his current position; He felt as though he was doing a disservice to his own people for feeling any kind of way towards the enemy, and yet his heart couldn’t help but become more and more intrigued by you.

Had things played out a little differently just what would your relationship with him be? His heart would wonder aloud.

They’re a human, you fool! There will never be a relationship between them and us, for we’d only end with a knife within our backs. Nuada’s mind would reply, not wanting to ever show an ounce of weakness towards the enemy, not when he was so fucking close to finishing it.

It was within your human nature to be cruel, to lack empathy, kindness and compassion and yet Nuada felt an uncertainty in whether or not he wanted you dead with the rest of humanity. Would it be considered hypocrisy if he were to keep you alive while everyone else is dead? Maybe but he would deal with the consequences of his actions for a later date.

For now he had to confront you about how you’ve made him feel recently.

[senka-mesecine]

Hello!! I have no idea if you are at all interested in writing preferences or a list of headcanons but would you maybe be willing to write some for kinks the platoon characters might have? Thx!

-

Platoon Characters; Kinks.

-

― To make it simple and concise, how about kinks that are absolutely more or less fundamental to the character in question because I think Chris Taylor loves happy embarrassed girls. What's that you may ask? Oh, you know. Women smiling coyly / shyly at the camera, looking happy and "embarrassed."  to be caught, supposedly unawares in a situation that could seem very vaguely compromising or suggestive. Up hikes the skirt. Maybe a garter was accidentally ripped. By accident, so they say. Oops. The type of stuff you'd see, ironically and extremely fittingly, on the inside of a soldier's locker coming from flirty pin-up models that dazzlingly wink at you from their inviting centerfold. It's both the most innocent and simultaneously filthy fetish imaginable, depending, of course, of the context it's placed in. Almost boyish, but not quite --- in fact, it sits right there on the edge of something cheeky and something possibly darker which is the best way to describe Taylor himself. He could lean towards something very sweetly vanilla or something pretty raunchy. Almost risqué, but not quite. Not just yet. All it takes is one step for it to all turn either-or with him. One step towards happy and enthusiastic consent and another step away from it and into the realms of voyeurism and wholly blurred lines.

― Man, King just loves pussy. Can we count that as a character-making kink? Because that's it for him, just about. Loves fucking it, loves seeing it, loves thinking about it, loves playing with it, loves eating it, loves his face ridden by it, goddamn loves smelling it too, just for it's own sake. Loves them all shapes and sizes and just about everything surrounding them. What else is there to say? That's what it boils down to for him. He doesn't need elaborate kinks or fetishes when it's all right there for him, the essence of it all. And everything else, man? It's a distraction from what truly matters in this game. People get so bogged up in complex desires and labelling them in precise order they get distracted from the real prize right in front of their faces (or sometimes on their faces). He can get oddly philosophical about it, believe you me, which almost makes me think he has a thing for cunnilingus and body worship (where he's the giving party) but never once is it referred to as such. The body worship part, that is. The cunnilingus bit on the other hand? Yeah, it's announced loud and clear and constantly to the degree almost everyone very well knows and can guess what King likes, but that don't bother him one bit because he wants everyone to know because he's proud of it.

― Even though he might claim the exact opposite, I think O'Neill loves it when someone bites, scratches, slaps, pushes him around a bit, tells him what to do, takes control, gives him orders galore and is overall mean to him; and you could very well say this is a professional deformation brought on by the army and him brown-nosing and keeping the company and the side of some pretty mean people by choice, but whatever the case, it bled into his sexual habits and turned into what you can only call a fetish, through and through. Again, he is very likely of trying to (haplessly?) present the exact opposite image; how he's here putting these people in their place and how he's so very good at it, how he does as a man should do, and man, the broads worship him for it, but it's far from the truth as it can be. He melts into a stuttering pile of putty in the hands of whoever gets even vaguely dominant around him to the degree it goes beyond the bedroom and pretty much turns into a lifestyle. He becomes a partner entirely eager to please and the king of all biases where his significant other is concerned. They can do no wrong in his eyes.

― Elias is a selfless giver. He's a giver to the point where your kinks become his kinks just based off of the fact how much he's willing to please and make you feel good and what's better, it is truly his pleasure to do so because he loves you and there's no two ways around it. Not a bit of strain, begrudging, irony or ill will towards the whole thing. You like it? He adapts to it. Draws out some very tenderly put limits if he thinks you're in over your head, but for the most part, he's extremely flexible. He adapts and never even brings up what he likes because it so happens what you like he likes as well. Might almost be worrying and have you thinking that he's here depriving himself of something or somehow suppressing his own personal wants but all you could be met with is a blissed out, serene smile as he explains that this is what he wants. You're what he wants, not some list of to-do of requirements. He has no desire that you're not involved or that doesn't revolve around you in now that you're with him. If we had to classify stuff in technical terms, he's probably the most submissive dominant out there. Or the most dominant submissive ever. Works either ways.

― Thinking nobody's gonna be surprised by this one but Rhah loves having sex while high with you. That's the it kink for him. Loves it if only he's high. Loves it if only you're high. Loves it when you're both high as kites. But, if there's Marijuana or any other hallucinogenic substance or varying intensities involved? Yeah, he's all game. He's fairly gentle, vanilla and a generally kind and considerate lover other than that and very much prefers it that way. It's lovemaking for him. Not sex. It's all deliberate preparation, smooth touches, long bits of foreplay, staying in bed all day for various rounds, equal opportunity giving and taking, lazy, lingering kisses and being genuinely in the moment. Pure intimacy. Heightened senses. The accompaniment of some sort of lulling tune. Candles lit and blinds on, baby. The setting bordering on being sensually ritualistic. You could even say Rhah's something of a die-hard romantic in his heart of hearts because it all is oddly romantic and there's no two ways around it. If he could cover the mattress full of rose petals and light some incense, he very well would. He's a greater talker during sex too, if need be. Fantastic at dirty talk too and can very well go on a long, narrative ramble that is as hot as the deed itself. Man can get you off with words alone.

― Wolfe has a (severe) praise kink. Being on the receiving end of it, that is. Again, another bit of wartime environmental conditioning turned fetish and seeing as how he wasn't the most respected or even obeyed platoon leader there is and someone praising him and telling him something's well done, that he's doing good, giving him that bit of reverence, acknowledgment, nod of approval...well, it just leaves him with his mouth agape because it's a novelty he's positively starved for in every regard, on a pathological level, possibly. In fact, he's so starved for it he might just try his hand at dominance if this desire is frequently sated seeing as how him having the upper hand? Having an important task to do and someone thinking he's performing it well? Someone actually coming to him for guidance? Letting him lead!? Liking him as he leads!? Him being in charge for once and him being in charge being respected? It's a rare and elusive high of power he might just get used to. Christ, just put the palm of your hand on his cheek and say something in the vein of 'Lieutenant, you've done so well.' and the man's gonna go discombobulate on the spot.

― Bunny's into all things gross. Grossout everything. Spitting. Blood. Fluids. Scratches. Wounds. Gosh, everything that can prove to be hideously fascinating is a thing for him, mainly because it's new, taboo, he can get away with it and it verges on shades of morbid and yeah, by extension, it's prohibited and hot. He's like a sick kid vivisecting a frog to see what's inside and doing it with the utmost glee. Well, yeah. That's him. His fetishes can range anywhere from playing with your saliva as foreplay to asking if he can bite you (playfully, we'd hope) purely so he'd see what it tastes like and all the way down to knifeplay, drawing blood, fisting, fucking you with the barrel of a rifle, placing a gun against your head mid-sex, scarring his name into your flesh somewhere as a keepsake or dripping hot candlewax over your skin because it's fun and curious. Thing is, he needs a limit and if he isn't given one one way or another, he might thread into some very dark places indeed because he enjoys everything he probably shouldn't. Notwithstanding that he's a fiendish imp. That's why he liked or likes being in the war too, in his own words, because he can do whatever he wishes without little to no consequences, the way he'd see it. And what's the point of sex if it can't be like war is?

― Thinking the likes of Junior and Crawford are generally just too young and green to have any concrete kinks developed to the point their kinks are just...girls, you know? Girls being girls. Girls. Crawford likes a biking tan line and rubbing down your skin with cream to avoid a suntan and my god when he was a teenager, Junior drew a girl in a cat suit and he hasn't gotten over it since, in fact, a drawing of a woman in a cat suit is right next to his bunk bed even as he's serving his time in The 'Nam. So, yeah, that's the extent of their kinks, pretty much. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but their likes match their overall age and experience and it shows.

― Last but not least, I'm gonna be blunt and say Barnes has thought about killing you. Flat out. What it would be like, hunting you, catching you, overpowering you, his hands around your neck, putting you in a headlock, squeezing your delicate windpipe, the sheer size difference of his fingers contrasted with your throat, the sensation of your rushing pulse under his touch, the warmth, the way your pretty face would contort, eyes desperately darting around and landing on him never taking his own eyes off of you, tears streaming down your face, legs kicking up helplessly, body pressed against body, him smelling your very last breath, being the master of life and death in that and every other regard. Having that ultimate bit of control and power over you. The inability of you getting away because he's stronger and always will be and that's just reality. Might as well accept it because there's no escaping it. It's like a live picture playing out in front of him and he alone decides where it goes next. It's this oddly intimate act only he can propagate and one which he'd allow you to have with nobody else but him. And then? And then he lets you go because he can. It's almost matrimonial in ways. He's an Erotophonophiliac to the core. It is erotic to him and it's a fixation that takes up most of his thoughts as well as something he holds back on actually acting on by about a thread. The ponderings aren't intrusive. Barnes goes there deliberately in his mind, conjuring up images of it. Might be there seemingly stoically zoned up with a cigarette hanging off of his mouth and that's exactly what he's fantasizing about in that very moment. The fact your neck's sure pretty, but that it needs something around it. Your mouth's even prettier, but what if he covered it with the palm of his hand so you can't scream?

[glittercake]

think i found another ai fic... one chapter was 26% ai another 21% one chapter was "probably human written" but still... and it's written on anon...

i appreciate you so much samantha and all the work and effort and time you put into your amazing writing, you're amazing💖💖💖

I learned recently that some folks use chatgpt or the likes to edit their fics. This is a terrible idea but I do think that it might contribute to some of the results we're seeing. It's both difficult and inaccurate to confirm ai generation when the ai detection result isn't paired with other factors like frequently posting high word counts, or dull monotone writing, or absolutely perfect grammar etc. So people should definitely stop using chatgpt for spell checks.

Something else that might trigger a positive ai result is the use of tools like Grammarly and so on, which I've mentioned before that I have been using for years for spag. But they recently (?) introduced a generative ai element that rewrites content for you or that generates a new sentence on the spot. This does however result in a positive ai detection because well, the ai did it.

Do we stop using these types of tools now? I don't think that's necessary and there are probably minimal checkers left that have no integrated ai at all. Most spag checkers including Word, use some kind of non-genative ai to alert you to errors in a more evolved way than before. (Google Docs' spag checker just got stupider as it "evolved" btw. What an absolute dumpster fire.)

BUT be careful how you use it, don't let it reconstruct your work, don't let it automagically write or fix a sentence for you, and don't rely on it to produce flawless content, there is no such thing. Use your brain, ask for a beta reader to assist you, research the things you don't know. Teach yourself to write better. Use the tool for its initial purpose--to check your spelling and grammar. The ai features can usually be switched off in settings. That being said, basic spag checks using these tools shouldn't equate ai generation but it will probably depend on the tool used to detect it.

I want to add that we definitely should not check every fic we're interested in reading for ai. I think that will make the fandom experience terrible and unenjoyable for everyone. Read it in good faith but keep an eye out for stuff like posting large amounts of words on a schedule that is not humanly possible, the writing style, the tone, other use of ai by the person etc. We've been reading fanfic for years, we know when something is off. Block if you suspect it's ai generated.

People who use ai to 'write' fics have no place in fandom spaces.

It's going to become increasingly difficult to detect these things though, since there is also a feature to "humanize" the ai slop 🤢 and I don't know what the way forward is but I do know it's not running every fic through an ai detector. They're not entirely accurate either. The only reason I resorted to an ai detector with that person I initially caught out, was because the tag was clogged with their constant posting and I knew there was no fucking way they were posting that much naturally. The detector just confirmed what I suspected anyway.

I read a fic recently by an Anon author and I thought I was so good and sexy. I really hope it's not the same person you're talking about. I'm not going back to check because my kudo and comment are already on there. I also doubt an ai can write such filthy, steaming smut 😂

And thank you, Anon, for your kind words. Truly appreciate it. 💕

[agapi-kalyptei]

Pillowfort helped me realized you're all insane & the Algorithm of Tumblr

Clickbait title, I love my mutuals etc. But honestly, there's food for self-reflection. A lot of it.

"OK clearly you're huffing something, there's no algo--" yeah ok. Your dashboard is sorted chronologically, and you can turn off most recommended posts. Yes, we don't disagree there. There's no shadowbanning, if I follow people they don't disappear from my feed. But.

I mentioned this many times, but I have to repeat it because it's more important than it sounds. If someone is posting extremely unhinged stuff, while claiming to have Identity™, it's more likely they're a paid government and/or troll account than their supposed identity. Example:

pole_in_1939.tumblr.com: wow germans are all terrible people. i hope they all die german_civilian reblogged: wow that's so unhinged. i used to think polish people are normal but this shows their culture is really messed up

A natural part of Manufacturing Consent is also manufacturing dissent. Why do you think I, growing up around 1990s, having literally zero Jewish people living anywhere near me, could pick up a book of jokes and 1/4 of them had Jewish characters? They weren't always the butt of the jokes, but generally portrayed as uptight, unable to apologize, occasionally greedy or at least very cost-conscious. Fifty years after the war. The jokes stayed in the culture. How many of them stayed unchanged for 50 years? How many of them were newer? How many of them were made who never interacted with Jewish people?

Culture is self-replicating, self-perpetuating and slowly evolving.

Tumblr culture is self-replicating, self-perpetuating and slowly evolving.

The culture becomes the algorithm. The singular memes become meme templates, running jokes. Some of them become meta-memes. While I grew up with "A priest, an atheist and a rabbi walk into a bar", here we're growing up with "bold of you to assume" and "but watch out" and "kungpowpenis".

But it's more insidious. The culture isn't just joke templates. The way people reblog and add their opinions, the way people leave passive aggressive tags, the way people are taught to disagree and call people unhinged. The culture is formed and mutated and evolved by kids with unresolved trauma, by nazis posting as trans people, by regular transphobes, by a few normies who accidentally stay here for a while, by incels and femcels and 692nd Cyberspace Operations Squadron and individual internet vigilantes or smaller hate groups. It's all in the melting pot.

If you're absorbing the culture here - and you are, there's no way around it - you're absorbing the regular fellow AuDHD folks as well as trolls and MLM scammers and Vostochnyy Voyenny Okrug Tsentr Kiberzashchity and just randos who stubbed their toes and decided to take it out on you. Some of the arguments were written by chatgpt. Some of the posts were written in 2014 by a twelve year old who should have had an account yet.

Tumblr is a culture of not growing up.

Some of the best features of Tumblr - the longevity of memes, reformatting them, recontextualizing them, apollo's dodgeball, hindsight of revisiting something after 10 years, or vice versa, evergreens that are relevant every couple of days like spiders georg, are also the worst features. To be funny, you should repeat the same joke again and again, just slightly differently. Maybe this time it will amuse enough people to get a few hundred thousand eyeballs on it and reinforce the cycle and get more people to write the same derivative jokes.

And this is nothing against repeating jokes as such, but it becomes so entrenched in the Tumblr culture that we become conservative - our jokes are the best jokes, we are better than people on twitter/reddit/etc, we're not like the filthy plebs on facebook, we don't like the twitter immigrants. We literally became conservative in our own way.

Reblog chains are a fascinating and wonderful thing. Sometimes you get these very insightful clarifications. Sometimes you get to see a dangerous idea in the original post explained or clarified or debunked. Sometimes it's fantastic improv comedy. Very often a good joke is made better.

But the same knife you cut vegetables with is the knife you can throw at random strangers in anger. No wonder so many people are avoiding expressing themselves through anything else but reblogs, there's army of trolls or fools or hateful people or people with no reading comprehension that are ready to reblog and show their superiority. People elevated disagreeing into a sport.

I'm too tired to finish this post properly, but Tumblr shutting down might be the best thing that's happened to you. Yes we will miss the jokes and the camaraderie. But you're 10 years older now and you're different and you've changed a lot more than an average tumblr post(er). A new environment might help you grow and thrive.

[cravingpepsimax]

you completely misunderstood what I was saying. you are clearly being very hateful towards a certain type of fan-work. no where did I say you can’t be critical of art. but being a proshipper is all about accepting any form of fan-work and art, yet you hate on a certain form of characterization. and not everyone wants criticism on what they make and you should respect that. I too have characterizations I do not like but you don’t see me making multiple posts dunking on it. because I have respect.

Cracks knuckles. That's right. You're getting grammatically correct Max for this, because I'm going to write a bunch of paragraphs and I want them to be readable.

This may sound weird, but I like arguing with people. Not the screaming, crying kind where you say you hate the other person and shut down, but the more level-headed, debate kind. I hold strong opinions on many subjects, and I appreciate those opinions being held to scrutiny. Debate is a necessity – even if people don’t like it.

Unfortunately, conflict aversion means a lot of people don’t like to debate. They don’t want their opinions held to scrutiny. This means a lot of people fall for their own fallacies – including you. Your argument is fundamentally flawed, and it’s not because you’re trying to trick someone. It’s because you lack the self-awareness to know that you’re projecting other people onto me. Your reliance on language fallacies and refusal to take fanworks seriously as an artform point to you making up a version of me that doesn’t actually exist.

Your argument relies on language fallacies. “Very hateful”, while technically describing my posts, carries emotional baggage that is entirely disproportionate to what I’m actually doing. When people are “very hateful”, they are, in some way, actively trying to hurt someone. On the internet, where one cannot punch someone else in the face, this typically is associated with harassment.

I’m not harassing anyone. I do not send my critiques to people who post this kind of content. I do not name creators, nor do I name works. There is nothing harmful about what I am posting – calling it “very hateful” is an exaggeration.

Of course, if I pressed you on this, I doubt you’d accuse me of harassment, because you know that’s an indefensible position. That’s why you use the term “very hateful”. It invokes the imagery and emotions, without needing any of the icky stuff like “proof”.  You can’t accuse me of anything specific, because your position is entirely based on your own personal feelings of offense.

This is hardly the only time you’ve done this, though. You also said “not everyone wants criticism on what they make and [I] should respect that”. This is true, and I do respect that. That’s why I write these posts on my own blog, not under works that feature these tropes. That’s also why I don’t mention specific works or creators. However, you have conflated “not wanting direct criticism about one’s own work” with “not wanting criticism of a trope that appears in multiple works, including one’s own/works one enjoys”. The former is valid, the latter is not.

Before you take advantage of another linguistic ambiguity, no, I am not saying you have to read my posts if you don’t like them, and I’m not going to inflict them onto specific people that don’t want to hear them – that’s why I’ve tagged them, so people can filter them out. But you can’t tell me that I should stop making posts on my own blog just because they hurt your feelings.

“Proshipper” is the king of all poorly-defined fandom terms. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read “proship(ping/per/s) doesn’t mean(/aren’t) x, it means(/they’re) y!”. The truth is that language is descriptive, not prescriptive. If enough people use a word to mean something, that something becomes another definition of a word. Under some definitions of proshipper, I’m a disgusting filthy proshitter, and, under others, I’m a horrible cruel anti who loves harassing people and thinks fiction is literally the exact same thing as reality.

You are using this to your own advantage. By combining your own ambiguity of language with the ambiguous definition of “proshipper”, you can make the word mean anything you want.

You define “proshipper” as “someone that accepts any form of fanwork and art”. This is evoking one of the more common definitions of the term – while simultaneously ignoring the actual intricacies of said definitions.

Proshippers that “accept any form of fanwork and art” do not argue that “problematic” fiction is above criticism. They do not argue that you cannot dislike certain “problematic” works or tropes. Their argument is that fiction is not a good indicator of morality, nor does one's taste in fiction justify harassment. That is what “acceptance” means in this context. “Acceptance” does not mean you like everything ever made, and it doesn’t mean that one shouldn’t critique art. You cannot respect an artform without critique.

No, you do not respect fanworks. Saying that “fandom is for fun not whatever [I’ve] been posting about” isn’t respectful in the slightest. I’d argue it’s downright offensive. I doubt you’d care about what I’m saying if I was criticizing original, "serious" fiction – you know, real art. Whether or not you admit it, you view fanworks as mindless slop meant to be consumed, not something to actually think or care about. To you, I’m someone analyzing the textures and flavors of a Lay’s potato chip – pretentious, overreacting, and being a total buzzkill, man.

I believe in good faith. While I stand by everything I’ve accused you of doing, I don’t think you’re necessarily doing it on purpose. Proship versus anti discourse has gone on for decades, which means a lot of people feel very strongly about the topic. This naturally leads to black-and-white thinking – and black-and-white thinking explains many of the problems your argument has.

You aren’t using the term “very hateful” to secretly accuse me of being a harasser. You’re using it because I’ve reminded you of harassers, despite me not actually having done anything wrong. You’ve conflated criticism about a specific work and criticism about a trope because the latter reminds you of the former. Your reductive definition of an already ambiguous term isn’t you plotting to No True Scotsman me into defeat – in fact, I bet if you gave me your blog, I could find direct evidence that you don’t actually believe in your proposed definition. Your definition exists solely to justify your own feeling of offense. Your oxymoronic belief that “fanworks are art” and “fanworks are just made for fun, don’t criticize them” isn’t because you secretly think fanworks aren’t art, it’s because you don’t like criticism because it hurts your feelings.

I have hurt your feelings. A person that hurts a proshipper’s feelings – especially when discussing how controversial topics are depicted – is clearly an anti, because that’s what antis do.

You may not be accusing me of being an anti. You may not even consciously think I am. But your subconscious has made a series of false connections, and has assigned me the role of “anti”.

You are arguing with a Max that does not exist.

[krysmcscience]

Intro post I will prolly edit later, lol

Figured I needed to make a pinned post at some point for people checking out my page.

Here's my ko-fi - And yes, I do commissions. The prices are based on the time and effort it takes me. If you want something cheap and fast, I offer '$2 per minute' sketches. I can do more with that time than you might think. (Granted, I also worry way less about pesky things like anatomy and outfit details.)

Here's my Ao3 - My stuff is dark and unpleasant, because my life has been dark and unpleasant, and thus what I write is not meant for either children or people who think censoring dark and unpleasant things helps anyone. :) My stuff is also Pretty Dang Queer.

Here's my original art tag - I tend to stick to just a few hyperfixations, and rotate between them, sometimes with overlap. Current hyperfixation is Breach, and a bit of Heavenshine. On hold is The Spirit Marauder, Starlight Killer, and Bleached Canvas, among other stories that I may or may not have posted about. Sometimes I forget to tag character and story names and such, though, because I am bad at tagging.

Here's my fanart tag - Again, I tend to stick to just a few hyperfixations, and rotate between them, sometimes with overlap. Current hyperfixation is Gravity Falls (specifically Billford). I may sometimes still draw for Cult of the Lamb, Among Us, Pokemon, Zelda, Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and Tokyo Mew Mew, among other things, but most of my older stuff doesn't have the fanart tag (because again - I am bad at tagging). I no longer draw for Homestuck, though I may still reblog posts about it that I find funny, and while I don't think I ever posted art for it here, anyway, my InuYasha hyperfixation died the moment my comfort character was turned into a pedophile. It is liable to never recover. u_u

Here's my art reblog tag - I very rarely reblog other folks' art. Not because I don't like it, but because if I reblogged every bit of art that I liked, I would probably overwhelm all my followers' dashboards. 8|; If you want to see all the stuff I like, anyway, my likes are public.

Here's my everything else tag - I'll usually stick this onto my ramblings, or on reblogs of stuff that isn't other folks' art.

Quick n' dirty deets about me: Filthy socialist (meaning ACAB, fuck MAGA, terfs can GTFO, from the river to the sea, and so on). Also, gendervoid aro-ace aegosexual with rampant AuDHD.

FAQ:

NO, I do not do drawing or writing requests. I do not have the time or energy. I may do random gifts for other artists or writers if I get the inspiration for it, but that's at my own discretion.

NO, I will not mark any of my posts as mature. I do not post smut art, I make clear what my writings contain in both the writings and posts themselves, and the internet is not a safe space for children. If you're a minor, best to steer clear of my page, and if you choose not to - because goodness knows I would have done the same at that age - then heed the provided warnings and proceed with caution. I am no one's parent or babysitter, and no one on the internet should expect me to be.

NO, I will not turn on anonymous messages. The moment my InuYasha comfort character was turned into a pedophile and I spoke out about it, I was harassed en masse by the grossest part of the fandom. If you want to be an asshole at me, you can do it with the full knowledge that I'll be outing you for your assholery the second you do. :)

YES, you can message me, provided you've been following me for more than a week. I don't always know what to say, though, so if I don't reply, that's on me and not you. (It tends to take me a while to reply to things, anyway. I am consistently tired and overwhelmed, plus a massive introvert.)

YES, you can draw or write stuff based off of what I've drawn or written! Of course you can!! Please do!!! Just share it with me first!!!!! OuO

YES, you can spam me with likes and reblogs, I do not mind at all. I don't even care how old the post is, so go nuts, my dude - like and reblog to your heart's content.

Krys is pronounced the same as "Chris", not "cries". If we start chatting and get to the point where we start talking over mics and you call me "Cries", I can promise that I while I WILL roll with it, I will also NEVER let you live it down, so if it's easier for you, just call me Terri. It's pronounced like normal, but short for Terrible.

I know it says 'she/them' in my bio, but gender is a nebulous void for me, so I don't actually care what pronouns you use for me.

As of June 17, 2024, I am 36. And yes, I feel fucking old.

Don't bother me with pro/anti-shipping garbage. I do not care about shipping wars. I cannot possibly care about shipping wars, not when half of my own ships are toxic garbage. What I do care about is whether or not a toxic garbage ship is framed correctly, especially when it's aimed at a young and impressionable audience. (LOOKING HARD AT YOU, YASHAHIME.)

If you know me from DA, NO YOU DO NOT. I just went through all my old posts on there, and good GRAVY was I fucking annoying. I should show all that shit to my mom and be like, 'Are you SURE I didn't have ADHD growing up??? Cuz it sure READS like I had ADHD growing up!!!'

I don't know what else to add here at the moment, so I'ma go back to recovering from weeks worth of working on comic stuff now. <:]

[lemonsrosesandlavender]

2024 Reflections

Thanks for the tag, @redroomroaving . I was literally reading Lia’s version of this at that exact moment, thinking that I might pinch the format without a tag - and then lo and behold, you pop up in my notifications ;) I'll tag the usual suspects, @forget-me-maybe @dutifullylazybread and @darkurgetrash <3

What's been your biggest learning point this past year?

I've learnt a lot of things about writing.

I can push through a writers' block. Sprints are the answer, and I may go in several wrong directions until I get through, but I will get there. And when it starts flowing again, it will ALL be worth it.

No amount of sprints can make me exceed a certain writing speed, or stop editing as I go completely. I've practised, and I've got better at just writing [synonym for hot] or whatever in brackets when I can't pin down the exact word I'm after - but writing stuff I'm really annoyed by will throw me off my rhythm and I just have to exorcise the issue. 500-600 "good" words in an hour is a pretty decent top speed, and I'm happy with what I'm writing, so I've learnt to accept the slower pace I work at than some people I know in fandom!

Relatedly, I'll never have time to write everything I'd like to, and I have to accept that and prioritise accordingly. Early in the year, I happily offered to take SFW prompts, did a few, and realised that although I liked what I'd written, my heart was not truly in it and therefore it wasn't sustainable. NSFW ones I find more easy to do; it's a fun and filthy way of giving back to my followers, which is one of the main reasons I like doing it. (And also there's been some DELICIOUS ideas that I wouldn't have come up with on my own!). But I've let myself be more judicious about it, picking ones that really inspire me to write whole ficlets/fics for, and trying not to stress about the pile.

I also found a process for my own fic ideas that I love and desperately want to write, but don't think I have time for: I make notes, discuss eagerly with @krawwan ... and then leave it to sit. The germs of the story are safely written down, and the idea will either grow roots or disappear. If it grows, I'll probably open my computer at some point and find I have one of those top-speed writing sessions, and win-win, it's a WIP now. If not, that's alright! There's always a chance it'll sprout in the future, but for now it's clearly not captivating enough to spend time on.

How has your writing developed this past year?

I've got better at layering subplots. I think, anyway. I've got better at outlining, that's for damned sure! I've also had fun trying out small tweaks to style/voice.

Finally, I've tackled heavier subjects. That isn't to say all writing should - but I feel like whilst Sharp Teeth and its follow ups took a pretty light touch, Planar Tears has given me the space to explore. Depression, guilt, grief and racism/oppression (via Rolan's story) all come up at various times, and we're going to run face-first into Lorroakan all too soon.

(That's not to say a light touch isn't good too; fantasy adventure stories tend to err on the light side as a genre, and I'm writing in a world full of conniving hags and tentacle-waving baddies. I don't think Sharp Teeth would have benefited from anything more "difficult"; sometimes you don't need to dwell on a theme in detail for it to be evident, and I've been a bit worried that some of Planar Tear's more intense discussions have been too heavy in tone. But that's all part of developing as a writer, or so I keep telling myself; you have to experiment to find out).

Bad writing habits?

Writing too late at night.

Convincing myself that THIS is the time I've really gone and lost my writing skills for good when I've got writers' block.

Yapping every three sentences about my writing when I should just be writing.

Mmmm... I wouldn't say it's "bad" per se, but sometimes I realise that either I make an interesting decision, that requires time and thought and research, or I make a simple, easy one, and get something finished. (It's hard to point to exact examples, because I often forget them afterwards, but it's definitely a feeling I've had several times). I think many writers find themselves trying to nail their own personal equilibrium between "good" and "finished", and sometimes I think I let the lure of the posting button summon me a little early.

Favorite thing you wrote?

Every time I say Planar Tears, lol. But honestly, I'm proud of everything I've got up on AO3; I've re-read and enjoyed them all.

Biggest win?

More than having written a lot (and of consistent quality)? Finding a (small in the scale of the BG3 fandom) audience who enjoy my writing. I love seeing returning commenters and kudos-ers across my different works and Rolan pairings. On the occasion I've got comments like "I was supposed to go to bed and then I got THIS EMAIL", I've felt both very happy and very lucky. It's one thing for someone to stumble over my fics and enjoy it enough to kudos it once; it's another for them to like it so much they sign up for emails and chew through all the stuff I've written. That's amazing and inspiring and wonderful.

(It's also very motivating in terms of knowing that if I post, someone's probably going to crack it open pretty soon and take a good look!)

Goals for the new year?

Be a little more balanced about writing. Balance is not a thing I am good at; I'm an obsessive person, an all-or-nothing person, forever burning the candle at both ends. My real life job is also a lot of mental work, and between that and writing I went hard this year. The job is a non-negotiable, and very important to me - so whilst I've got through this year, I've got to be more sensible. (Don't worry, my job is fine - but taking care of myself fell by the wayside a bit)

OOOOOOOOOONNNNNNN THE OTHER HAND, it is so easy to feel guilty about writing fanfiction for a hobby, especially smut. It's easy to put down every cold to some karmic punishment for having stayed up too late writing the perfect orgasm - when plenty of people are cutting into their sleep with more regular hobbies like Netflix or early morning runs or whatever. Naturally, I think I suck more than all of these people.

So I'd like to pry apart the twisted braids of "genuinely having so much creative energy that I want to expend on stuff I love", "needing to post constantly because I love being productive to a pathological degree", "cleaning out the vestiges of shame and general societal opinion about my hobby" and "literally just go the fuck to bed please". We'll see how well I do!

(Oh yes, and finish Planar Tears!)

Your favorite words of the year, aka the words you check each chapter for, making sure you didn't repeat them 788 times?

Rolan has an allotted amount of scowling, and Catrin only SO many lip twitches, that they're allowed to do in each installment of Planar Tears. Calm it down, kids.

I also love a filthy smut noise, and have to do the moaned/groaned/gasped/whimpered comb-through to check I haven't repeated them in close succession. Rolan will do all four basically every time though, I've got no shame about that.

What are you excited for in the new year?

Finishing WIPs! I've got three oneshots 50-70% drafted, and I know they'll be so satisfying to finish. I'd like to clear the decks before I crack open my NEXT bunch of short fic ideas.

Returning to give Fae Bindings and In Service of Magic new chapters. I love these fics, and I'm very grateful for the readers who care about them despite the updates being on the slow side. (I do think it's less urgent in very smut-oriented fics, because although I care too much about the plot of both of them, you don't need to be following it particularly closely to get horny about it... is my attempt to reassure myself anyway lmao).

Life stuff. I'm going on a short holiday soon to meet a beloved tumblr friend, and that's very exciting. My work is also going to be a big focus of this year, and I'm feeling very positive about what I might be able to accomplish.

In short - exciting things <3