#if you hate apple white this is not a safe space for you

[toomuchracket]

apples (ross x shy gf!reader fluff)

another promptober fic. very loosely apple-related sickfic. enjoy <3

the sound of metal clattering against more metal shocks you awake from your nap; groggy and grumpy, you weakly attempt to pull yourself out of your sofa blanket cocoon when you hear ross swearing in response to the clatter. after a quick coughing fit, you call to him. “what are you doing in there?”

“oh, fuck,” your husband appears in the doorway between kitchen and living room, handsome face apologetic. he fills the liminal space in your house very nicely, it has to be said, big arms bare, your star baker apron over one of his infinite white band t-shirts, hair wisping out of its usual bun. “sorry for waking you, love.”

“s'ok,” your throat feels like sandpaper. “i have to take more meds now, anyway,” with some difficulty, you swing your feet onto the ground, and ross runs over to help you stand. “thank you, darling.”

you go to take a step, breathing shakily at the effort required. ross frowns, and gently scoops you into his arms; despite your (half-hearted) protests, his face softens into a smile as soon as he's holding you. “i've got you. s'alright.”

“well, if you say so,” out of sheer habit, you press your face into his chest, contentment washing over you as you take in the familiar scent of washing powder and sandalwood aftershave and… cinnamon? “you still haven't answered my question, by the way.”

“hmm?”

“i asked,” you pause to clear your throat. “i asked what you were doing in the kitchen, remember? aside from making a total racket, that is.”

ross hums happily, the sound vibrating through his body and into you. with a soft kiss to your head (which is how you know he really loves you, considering your hair is a sweaty mess), he plops you safely onto the counter, caging you with his body while he reaches for an open cookbook just to your left. “making this.”

“but what is- oh,” looking in the direction of the book, you see eggshells, an open, half-empty bag of flour, and a pile of what you squint to determine is apple peelings. combined with the cinnamon lingering on your husband, and the air, and the general warmth of the room, the realisation hits you before you even so much as glance at the page. “are you making me an apple pie, ross?”

“yeah,” he smiles, cheeks dimpling in the way you love so much; you don't miss the pink tint that appears on them, either. “well, i'm trying to. i know it's your favourite, and i just wanted to do something to perk you up a bit, y'know?”

you're not sure if you've ever loved him more, to be honest. what a darling. mustering all your energy, you give him a hug. “i love you.”

“i love you,” another kiss to your head, and then he pulls back, grimacing. “i don't love that handheld mixer, though. fucking blade kept falling off into the bowl every time i went to use it,” he shakes his head. “got there in the end, though.”

oh, bless him. “babe, i hate to tell you this, but,” you smile sympathetically. “you don't even need that for a shortcrust.”

ross blinks, bewildered. a beat passes before he speaks again, voice as confused as his face. “i don't?”

“no,” you huff out a laugh, tenderly squeezing his hand. “especially not with arms like yours. probably would've been easier just to beat it all by hand.”

“you're taking the piss.”

“i'm really not, baby,” you shrug. “but it's whatever, you know? i'm sure it'll work regardless.”

“fuck,” ross buries his head into the crook of your neck. “i can't believe i fucked it.”

“you haven't.”

“well, i might've,” he rests his forehead on yours. “my bake off dreams might be shattered.”

you laugh, a laugh that both hurts and quickly turns into a cough; ross quickly gets you a bottle of water, and you pat him on the arm in a gesture of thanks as you take a drink and recover. “i do think you and the boys should do the celebrity version, you know, for charity,” the mere thought of it threatens to send you into a fit of the giggles. “then you'd all really be fucked. d'you think george even knows what a crème anglaise is?”

“not a chance. hann might be decent, though.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. i mean, he's got a sourdough starter, so bread week would be alright.”

“s'pose,” you slide the pack of paracetamol from your (ross's) hoodie pocket, taking two tablets with a wince. “what about matty?”

“hmmmmm,” ross's brow furrows. “he used to be quite good at making brownies, to be fair. but i reckon they'd ban him from using his special ingredient on channel 4, wouldn't they? before the watershed, at least.”

“most likely,” you smile, reaching up to tuck a stray bit of hair behind your husband's ear. “but, honestly, i think i'd actually give more to charity if i got to see matty make paul hollywood eat an edible.”

ross cackles, a huge laugh that seems to come from the pit of his stomach; you think it might be your most favourite sound in the world. “you're mental, you know that?” big arms wrap around you, and you sink into them while soft lips and beard hairs brush your head. “but i really do love you.”

“love you so much,” your voice is muffled by his shoulder. “thank you for taking care of me. i hate being sick.”

“i know you do, love. always got me to look after you, though, yeah?” a big hand gently cradles the back of your head. “i made a vow, after all.”

the memory of your wedding day has you smiling into ross's t-shirt. “that was the best day of my life.”

“and mine.”

“fucking cold, though,” you laugh softly. “although, scotland in december is practically tropical compared to how cold i am right now, honestly.”

“d'you want a hot water bottle?”

you shake your head. “i think i'd rather just snuggle with you on the sofa for a bit. and then eat apple pie, of course.”

ross chuckles. “alright,” he lifts you, wrapping your legs around his waist and moving to carry you to the living room. “maybe a shower later, too?”

“are you saying i stink?”

“no! well, maybe a little,” he kisses your cheek. “but you're still the most perfect girl in the world, so…”

“simp,” you tease, as you're carefully dropped onto the sofa - you wriggle into the blankets with all your might, cuddling into ross as soon as he sits down. “will you dry my hair for me after, though?”

“obviously,” he scoffs, hand resting on your thigh; his voice softens as he speaks again, though. “i'll do whatever you want me to, love.”

you smile into him again, the extreme cosiness making you suddenly sleepy. “wake me up when the pie is done?”

“of course,” ross pulls the blanket further onto you. “get some sleep, my girl. i love you.”

“love you too.”

[bullet-prooflove]

Vanished!Series Part Four: Live Ammo - Mike Duarte x Reader (feat: Joe Velasco)

Tagging: @resonmalvo @littleone65 @thesandbeneathmytoes @mydarkestsecretlol @evee87 @wooshwastaken @hearthockey @justreblogginfics @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @rosaliedepp @thatesqcrush @storiesofsvu @whateversomethingbruh @burningpeachpuppy @legit9thlunaticwarrior @kiwiithecrazybird @spooky-pomegranate @telepathay @weiwei0210 @spaghettificationandpretzels @plaidbooks @witches-unruly-heart @magic-multicolored-miracle @cycat4077 @deekaag @cixrosie @upsteadlogic @imaginecrushes @anime-weeb-4-life @hey-dw @alwaysachorusgirl @nu1freakshow

When Mike finds you, you’re clad in a white haz-mat suit with a ventilator strapped over your head. He’s never been so fucking relieved because you’re standing in the midst of a fully operational fentanyl lab and every single person involved in the raid knows just how dangerous that is. When he does the walk through the crime scene, he finds himself standing in a side room with a camp bed and a bin that’s filled with energy drinks and fast-food wrappers. The outside of the door has three different locks on it. It’s very clear you’ve been held prisoner here not because your cover has been blown, but because you’re exceptional at what you do. The evidence of that is stacked up in bricks against the south wall, ready to be packed up and distributed.

“The Niners put pressure on Connolly to pay back the money sooner. It put him into a spin, he needed more product and needed it fast.” You tell Mike when you finally get outside into the fresh air. “He’s been working me eighteen hours a day. Locking me in before starting all over again the next day.”

You’re sitting on the kerb sipping from a bottle of water. It’s the first time you’ve been outside in almost two weeks and it’s nice to feel the breeze on your face. You’ve stripped out of the haz-mat suit and are clad in a white vest and black cycling shorts, your hair is pulled back into messy bun. You would literally kill for a shower.

“Can I… Can I use your phone to call Joe? I just need to see Leah.”

Mike kicks himself because that should have been the first thing he thought of. The problem is he has other concerns. You both left something unresolved during your last phone call, something important and right now it’s all Mike can think about. He slips his phone out of his pocket before handing it to you and stepping away to give you a little privacy.

You’re crying when he returns, and it breaks his heart because he fucking hates seeing you upset. He wraps his arms around you, clasping you close, his palms soothing over your back as you bury your face into his shirt. It’s been two months since you saw your baby girl and he can’t imagine how you must be feeling right now.

“Sorry.” You murmur, drawing away and wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “She’s just got so big since I last saw her. Joe’s going to bring her home when we’re finished up here.”

Mike smiles sadly, his thumb ghosting over the apple of your cheek.

“Mi Vida,” He says, his voice breaking just a little. “You know we need to talk about our other little one.”

You’d discovered you were pregnant again three weeks ago. It had started the same way it had with Leah, exhaustion, constant nausea, tender breasts. You were hoping it was the stress of the op but then you’d missed your period. You couldn’t believe it when that test had come back positive.

“My vasectomy failed.” Mike had told you during your last check in with him. “I checked with my doctor; all this time we’ve thought I was firing blanks, but we’ve been playing with live ammo.”

You both know what this means. There’s a very real possibility that Leah might not be Joe’s daughter and if that’s true…

It would be devastating for all of you.

“I’m scared.” You whisper, your hands smoothing upon the space where your new baby resides, the one that you and Mike made together. “All those fumes and chemicals…”

You had tried to be as safe as possible during your time in captivity, but you were cooking eighteen hours a day. You have no idea what you’d been exposed to during that time, how it might affect your unborn child.

“I know.” Mike says quietly, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “I’m scared too.”

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[overactiveprefrontalcortex]

welcome

hello i'm em. i fangirl over many things and various forms of media. i'm physically unable to like anything a normal amount. i'm american (unfortunately). i'm non-religous but a believer of many things. i love to write but it's undecided if i'll be posting anything here. i have many opinions and share them frequently. i'm always looking for new mutuals so reblog this post and follow me and i'll follow you back. this is not and never will be a safe space for any form of hate against marginalized groups.

if you're a palestinian refugee seeking assistance, please reach out to one of the groups that can verify you and share your information. this blog is not the place to do so. i am not qualified to verify your status. i stand for a free palestine. please visit arab.org to see charities that assist with the fight in gaza and make donations if you can.

media | supernatural, true blood, the 100, the hunger games, criminal minds, one tree hill, avatar, taylor swift, ethel cain, hozier, noah kahan, sleep token, fiona apple, faye webster, metallica, ac/dc, phoebe bridgers, chappell roan, florence + the machine (and more..)

interests | i collect vinyl and cd - mostly taylor swift as i'm a massive swiftie. i love houseplants. i have a large book collection, though i've downsized recently as i haven't been reading often. i love to write poetry.

dni if you are | racist, homophoic, a white supremacist, misogynistic, anti-feminist, nazi, zionist, anti-blm, anti-semitic, islamophobic, maga, pro-life, a christian nationalist, terfs

and proshippers

yes, i am american, and yes, these hateful groups are apart of my everyday life as i live in a red state. i'm supremely uninterested with interacting with them online.

☆

[hollowghostsonfilm]

[Fic] Yours, Yours, Yours [Sugu/Sato - NSFW 18+]

Summary:

Satoru keeps coming back. Not for love. Not for forgiveness. Not even for pleasure. He comes back because with Suguru, he can fall apart without being shattered. With Suguru, he can be touched without being destroyed. The fourth time he returns, there are no sunglasses. No jokes. No armor. Just silence, a collar, and the leash of something neither of them will name. This time, Suguru makes him say it. This time, Satoru breaks. And still, it’s not enough to stay.

Warnings: NSFW / 18+, Explicit Sexual Content, BDSM, Power Play, Dom! Geto, Sub! Gojo, collaring, leash kink, Orgasm Denial, gagging (consensual), Mirror Sex, Crying During Sex, Biting, non-verbal safe words, Unspoken love confessions, Mutual Destruction, intimacy issues, Repressed Emotions, Canon Divergence, Geto defected but Gojo still has sex with him

Previous Part

AO3 Link or Read below:

The fourth time that Satoru comes back, he doesn’t make a joke at the door to Suguru’s bedroom. No sunglasses this time. No smirk. No posturing. Just silence. The kind that hums low in the bones, like the stillness before a storm.

Suguru doesn’t say anything either, just steps aside, lets him in.

He’ll always let him in. Kill order or no.

The door closes behind them with a soft click, sealing the tension into the space like incense smoke. Familiar. Heavy. Dangerous.

Satoru doesn’t move to touch him.

He just stands there, hands at his sides, fingers twitching like they’re not sure what to do if they’re not working through mudras or slipping past defences. His eyes flick up to Suguru once, then drop again.

Suguru watches. He catalogues the details. What is different, what has changed, but what has remained the same.

Satoru looks exhausted. Not just tired. No, he looks frayed. Cheekbones sharper than usual. Hands trembling at rest. Like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will, and that will is starting to rot him from within.

The world does not deserve Gojo Satoru.

Suguru walks across tatami to the bed.

Satoru follows.

The collar is tucked beneath Suguru’s futon, and he kneels down to pick it up before straightening. It’s black leather with a silver buckle. A D-ring at the front. Suguru hasn’t used it before, but he’s kept it here, on the off-chance that he and Satoru ever made it from the reception room to the bedroom.

What a lucky day.

“Strip. On your knees.”

He doesn’t have to look to know that Satoru hesitates. Just for a breath. Before he obeys. Just like that. For all his talk of rebellion, ultimately, Satoru always does.

His jacket hits the floor first, followed by the white shirt he always wears beneath them. Suguru turns to watch the show. Watching how Satoru’s hands shake. Not with fear, Suguru knows that much. But with restraint.

When Satoru sinks to his knees, naked and bowed, Suguru steps forward and crouches in front of him. He hangs the collar in front of Satoru’s face from one finger, right in front of his nose.

“You don’t speak unless I tell you to.”

Satoru swallows. Always a hard rule for him to follow.

Suguru wraps the collar around Satoru’s throat slowly, deliberately. He feels the way Satoru’s pulse jumps under his fingers, feels the tension coil like wire beneath the other man’s skin. He watches as Satoru’s adam’s apple bobs.

He closes it with enough room to fit his fingers beneath and then attaches the piece de resistance. The leash. Suguru stands up, walking around so that he’s at Satoru’s back, watching as Satoru’s shoulder blades draw together. He knows he hates it when he can’t see him, the feeling of vulnerability of having his back to what his brain tells him is an enemy.

Suguru would never attack him in this situation though. There are rules.

He pulls on the leash and Satoru is forced to tilt back, spine straightening. His hands go up to it on instinct, resting against the leather. Suguru tugs again and there it is. That flicker in Satoru’s eyes. Not fear or submission. Relief.

Suguru doesn’t speak for a long moment. He just watches him. Studies every inch of the man kneeling at his feet. The way Satoru’s spine stays straight, even if his head bows; the way his breathing stutters; the way his fingers curl into fists like he’s trying to hold onto something tight enough to draw blood.

Satoru looks up at him through white eyelashes, lips parted, mouth already pink from biting his lip.

He’s still beautiful.

He’s still Suguru’s.

Suguru drags fingers down the name of his neck, along the curve of his shoulder. He hums to himself, and then pulls a koshihimo from his sleeve. He always kept one to tie his sleeves back, and now it’ll do perfectly. He walks around Satoru to face him again.

“Open your mouth.”

Satoru does without hesitation.

Suguru slips the koshihimo between his lips. Soft and wide enough to muffle, but not choke him. He ties it firmly at the back of Satoru’s head, knuckles brushing against the buckle of the collar as he tightens the knot.

Then he leans forward to press a single kiss to Satoru’s forehead.

“There. Now you can’t accidentally break the rules.”

There’s a quiet, muffled sound. Agreement. Submission. Perhaps thanks.

Suguru holds up a single finger. “Green.” He holds up a second finger. “Amber.” He holds up a third finger. “Red.”

Satoru’s eyes are slightly glazed, but he nods, and his right hand uncurls to show a clear single finger.

Suguru smiles, just a little.

Then he takes his time.

He pushes Satoru down onto his back on the futon. He arranges Satoru’s hands up above his head, somewhere he can view them clearly, and presses on them. A clear command to keep them there. Every moment is slow, careful, intentional. Satoru keeps his arms there without even needing to be told, his eyes tracking Suguru’s even move.

Suguru kneels between his thighs, fingers trailing lightly down the inside, stopping just short of his cock. Satoru’s already half-hard, and his cock twitches when he sees Suguru look at it.

Suguru doesn’t touch it.

Not yet.

Instead, he reaches for the leash still clipped around Satoru’s throat and wraps it once around his hand.

“Tonight, you only get what you earn.”

Satoru’s hips buck slightly, a helpless, needy motion. Suguru slaps the inside of his thigh, hard, leaving a pink handprint against the pale skin.

“Still.”

A muffled whimper in response.

Suguru leans forward and cups Satoru’s jaw, tilting his head back so that Satoru has to look him in the eye. Satoru tries not to for half a second, before those beautiful blue eyes lock onto him.

“Good. Now breathe.”

He runs a hand down Satoru’s chest, circling a nipple, then teasing it with a light pinch, not enough to hurt but enough to provoke. Then he moves to the other. Then lower…

Satoru’s breath hitches in anticipation. Those pretty eyelashes flutter. Suguru half-expects him to buck up, but he doesn’t move. Not this time. Suguru finally brushes the pad of his thumb over the leaking tip of Satoru’s cock in one devastating stroke and watches as Satoru breaks just a little.

“You’ll come tonight,” Suguru purrs. “Eventually. But not until your body tells me the truth.”

Satoru’s pupils are blown wide, but the gag swallows any word he might have said in response.

Suguru drags his tongue slowly across his own bottom lip, watching as those eyes track the movement feverishly, then he leans over Satoru’s body. His hair drags over Satoru’s stomach, and he can see the shiver that produces.

“Why do you keep coming back here, Satoru?” he whispers into the other man’s ear.

Suguru doesn’t expect an answer. Not yet. The gag guarantees that there won’t be one anyway. He’s not looking for words. He’s not sure Satoru even knows how to put it into language.

He wants the flinch, the twitch, the jerk of hips when he drags two fingers down the underside of Satoru’s cock and stops just before the head. He wants the frustrated moan caught in that pretty gagged mouth when Suguru leans down and spits on him instead of giving him what he wants.

He watches as Satoru’s eyes flutter, cheeks flushed and burning. His fingers are twitching above his head, but when Suguru glances at them, Satoru dutifully shows him one finger.

He’s not fighting it. Not really.

He’s holding on.

Barely.

“You look good like this,” Suguru murmurs, mouth still close to Satoru’s ear. “Holding yourself back. Quiet.”

A sound escapes the gag, high and choked. Satoru turns his head left, but Suguru grabs his chin and forces him to look to the right instead.

At the mirror that Suguru usually uses to put on his robes, but right now is perfectly placed for Satoru to see himself.

“Look,” Suguru says. “Look at how pretty you are when that mouth stops lying.”

Satoru whimpers. His cock twitches again. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes, lashes damp, and his chest heaves like he’s on the edge of something. Pain or pleasure or confession, Suguru doesn’t know.

A quick glance at Satoru’s hands grants him a Green.

Suguru reaches down and strokes Satoru again, slow and tight and unrelenting. Satoru bucks up into the touch, hips stuttering, gag muffling what sounds like a sob.

Suguru stops immediately, letting go. Satoru’s whole body tenses, trembling in frustration.

“You don’t get to come until your body tells me you’ve earned it.”

Suguru runs a finger over the collar, slow and deliberate.

“Why did you come back here, Gojo?”

The use of Satoru’s last name is intentional. Cold. Distant. Designed to trigger something in Satoru that is beyond the physical. It works almost too well. Satoru’s lower lip trembles, his hips lift again. He wants to answer. He wants to please.

Suguru hums. “Not enough. You want your voice back? You want to beg for me to touch you?”

Satoru nods frantically.

Suguru continues to watch him, wrecked, flushed, crying, and Suguru has barely touched him.

“Earn it.”

Suguru moves down Satoru’s body again, mouth hot, fingers cruel, stroking him just enough, then leaving him there. Hard enough to hurt. Hurt enough to need.

Then he stops.

He does it over and over.

By the third denied orgasm, Satoru is sobbing through the gag, his whole body slick with sweat. His neck is flushed red where the collar rests against his skin.

Suguru sees the moment it happens, the moment he knows he’s got Satoru to that headspace he needs. Then, only then, does he reach out and pull the gag from Satoru’s mouth.

“Now, say it.”

Satoru gasps, broken and breathless.

“Because…” Satoru chokes, his voice scratchy, “because I don’t know where else it’s safe to fall apart-“ He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Suguru strokes him again, painfully slowly in response.

“Again.”

Satoru moans. “Because I want to break. I want you to break me. I want – fuck, I want you to hold me together again after.”

Suguru stills.

That truth hangs between them, hot, wet, and trembling. The truth that, no matter what fucked up things happen, they are still the only ones who can understand the other. The only ones who can fit together this way. So perfectly.

Suguru leans down and kisses him, hard. Tongue deep, stealing Satoru’s breath from his lungs, dominating his mouth until Satoru’s lips are red from being bitten.

“Come for me, Satoru.”

But Satoru doesn’t come. Not straight away. Even after that confession, raw, ragged, scraped out of his throat like a wound, his body trembles on the edge but he holds.

His hips twitch, his breath stutters, his cock strains against the air, still flushed and weeping, but he still doesn’t let go.

Suguru sees it.

That last bastion of stubborn pride. That flicker of control that Satoru still tries to cling to, like not falling apart completely will save him from the fucked up mess of this world. Will save him from this.

From Suguru.

“Still holding on?” Suguru murmurs, lips grazing his cheek. “After all that?”

Satoru’s mouth works around a dry swallow. “I can-“

Suguru slaps him. Not cruelly, not hard enough to truly hurt. No, this was meant to ground. Remind Satoru what coming here means. What is between them. What is agreed.

Satoru gasps, tears sliding from the corners of his eyes and into his hair. His hands clench and Suguru glances up at them, but all he gets in response is a one again. Satoru’s thighs spread apart a little further in response.

Suguru grabs the leash again, tugging on it, and pulling Satoru forward just enough to press their foreheads together.

“I will break you then. It seems so far I’ve only got you halfway.”

Satoru whimpers.

“I’m going to watch you break, Satoru. All the way. And when there’s nothing left, when there’s no walls, no pride, no lies, I’ll hold what’s left of you in my hands and remind you who you belong to.”

It’s the closest thing to ‘I love you’ that Suguru has ever said.

He forces Satoru’s face towards the mirror again.

“You think you’re not there yet? Look at yourself.”

Satoru does. Suguru can see in his eyes that it ruins him. His own reflection, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, chest sheened with sweat. That tight collar around his throat, his legs spread, cock twitching and the leash leading back to Suguru’s hand.

Suguru kisses his shoulder, then his jaw, then his temple.

“You’re beautiful when you like to yourself,” Suguru whispers. “But you’re gorgeous when you break like this.”

Satoru shakes his head, his voice coming out small and cracked. “I can’t.”

Suguru moves so that he’s behind Satoru now, slowly moving the other man where he wants him. He undoes his own robes, knowing that Satoru is watching in the mirror. He reaches between Satoru’s legs and his brows quirk when he finds Satoru already wet and soft.

“You came prepared, did you?” He chuckles, but the thought that Satoru didn’t just come here on a whim, but spent time somewhere, slowly fingering himself open for Suguru’s cock is a thrilling thought.

Suguru holds Satoru open like something precious, lifting his hips just enough to line himself up.

“You can. You can let go with me.”

He stops short of being inside Satoru. The head of his cock nudging against his entrance, and he waits. Satoru gasps like he’s been plunged into cold water.

“Suguru-“

“No,” Suguru says, calmly. “Don’t call my name if you’re not going to say it.”

He reaches around to grab the leash again, a sharp pull that causes Satoru to arch back, his body trembling in anticipation.

“Tell me what you want.”

Satoru shakes his head, eyes wild in the mirror.

“I told you – I told you –“

“You’ve told me some things. Now tell me what you want.”

Satoru moans, shaking his head even harder. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Suguru jerks the leash again and Satoru jerks with a cry.

“Try.”

Another pause.

The head of Suguru’s cock presses a little harder like a promise. Just enough to breach the outer ring of muscle, but not enough to push inside.

Satoru sobs.

“I-fuck-I want-“ he gasps, frustration curling in his chest like claws. “I want you to break me.”

“You already said that. Don’t bore me.”

“I want-“ Satoru’s voice cracks, lower how. Honest. “I want you to ask me to stay again.”

Suguru stills. He hadn’t expected that. Satoru’s body shudders, his eyes are wet, his lips trembling. He’s looking at himself in the mirror and seeing himself torn down to the wire, heart bear and body open.

Suguru watches as he slumps forward slightly, pressing his cheek into the futon, body finally surrendering.

“Please. Sugu. I want you.”

Suguru exhales so hard it hurts.

“Say that again.”

“I want you.”

“Say your mine.”

Satoru moans like the words cut straight through him. “I’m yours.”

Satoru says it like it’s breaking him. Suguru still doesn’t move, doesn’t push in. He doesn’t even breathe. He stays where he is, cock poised, body pressed close.

Satoru makes a sound, choked and wet, like he’s not sure if he’s being punished.

“Suguru…” he whispers again, but his voice is softer, pleading. Vulnerable in a way Suguru has never heard before.

Suguru rests his hand on Satoru’s hip, not pinning him. Just feeling how much he’s trembling.

“Say it again.”

“I want you. I’m yours.”

“Mean it this time.”

“I-“ Satoru swallows hard. “I meant it before.”

“Then why are you crying?”

Satoru stiffens, like that hit something real in him, then he deflates, shoulders slumping, arms slack, his breath catching low in his lungs.

“Because I don’t want it to be true,” he whispers.

Suguru hums low in his throat, but he’s not angry. He knew this already. That Satoru can’t accept happiness with someone who has done what Suguru has done.

Well, he can’t undo the past, nor will he change his convictions. He will work with what they have, and that will have to be enough.

He leans forward, pressing his chest along Satoru’s back, speaking low and careful.

“You said it, Satoru. You’re mine.”

Satoru nods, a broken, stuttering little movement.

Suguru shifts the leash in his hand. “You think I’d let anyone else see you like this?”

Satoru whines.

“You think I’d let anyone else touch you like this?”

“No-“

“You think I’d let you fall apart in someone else’s arms?”

“No- I don’t want – fuck – no!”

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” Satoru whispers, and this time there’s no hesitation. No resistance. Just ruin.

Suguru ghosts his lips against Satoru’s neck. “Good boy.”

He holds him for along moment, letting Satoru watch them in the mirror like this. Together, but for a moment. Beautiful and surrendered. Thighs shaking. Suguru’s hand ghosts over his side, down his ribs, over the curve of his hip, learning the lines of him.

Suguru leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of Satoru’s ear.

“We do this, then you leave. You come to me, you bed for me to ruin you, then sleep in my bed and leave in the morning. You pretend it didn’t happen.”

Satoru doesn’t answer.

“You don’t get to pretend anymore, Satoru. You see yourself in that mirror. See what you look like when you’re all mine.”

Satoru nods, dazed.

“Yeah, I see it.”

Suguru smiles against his shoulder and finally, finally shifts. Satoru’s whole body is trembling.

And Suguru moves. Spreads Satoru wide and slides in slow. Deep. Relentless. He picks up the leash again, pulling it just tight enough to make the collar pull and Satoru cries out. Not from pain, Suguru suspects, but from relief.

He can see it in the mirror, the way something clicks into place behind Satoru’s eyes. The way his eyes roll back, his mouth falls open, his spine arches and his hands spasm helplessly to stop from reaching.

Satoru is hot and tight and Suguru savours every twitch of his body while inside him.

“That’s it,” Suguru moans low in his throat.

Satoru chokes on a gasp as he tries to breath through the rush of sensation as Suguru begins to move, grinding in deep.

“Keep looking at yourself. Keep watching what you let me do to you.”

Satoru does.

Suguru wonders what he sees. Truth? Power? Love?

Or just himself being fucked open by the only man who he allowed to touch him until he fell apart.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” Satoru sobbed.

“Again.”

“I’m yours – fuck – Suguru – I’m-“

He doesn’t finish the sentence because he’s coming. Hard. Without a single touch to his cock.

Just from being taken, just from watching himself in surrender. From Suguru’s voice, from his cock, from his presence filling every part of him that he tried to keep untouchable. He breaks apart with a cry so full of grief and gratitude that it barely sounds human.

Suguru holds him through it, fucks him through it, doesn’t stop even when Satoru has gone soft, wrecked and sobbing, drool on his chin and tears on his chest.

“Yours. Yours. Yours.”

Suguru doesn’t know if he even knows he’s saying it. It doesn’t matter. He fills Satoru soon after, pulling Satoru’s limp, twitching body against him, biting into his shoulder.

The bite must have brought Satoru back from wherever he’d gone, because he’d stopped babbling.

Suguru holds him through the final grind of his hips, and then he stays in him, pressing a kiss to the bite mark that he’d just left on the pale skin in front of him. He unclipped the leash.

And waited.

It takes a minute before Satoru moves at all. A tremor that is more reflex than choice. A wet inhale, a choked exhale.

Then, “Suguru?”

His voice is ruined. Just a rasp, as if speaking will tear something open again.

Suguru brushes the hair from Satoru’s eyes and cups his cheek gently, guiding that beautiful face away from the mirror to look at him directly.

“I’ve got you.”

Satoru’s eyes flutter, rimmed red, but soft.

“I can’t move,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“I’m a mess.”

Suguru chuckles softly. “You’re beautiful.”

Satoru lets out a huff that’s an attempt at a laugh, but it dissolves half way through. His lower lip wobbles.

“Can I bring my arms down?”

“Not yet.”

Satoru doesn’t fight it. He just closes his eyes, breath trembling.

Suguru presses his forehead to Satoru’s temple, holding him there. Lets the heat settle between them, sex fading to stillness.

Satoru starts to breathe deeper, slower, his shoulders slowly sink.

When he’s sure Satoru is ready, he finally whispers:

“Stay.”

Satoru swallows and Suguru leans forward to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to join me. Just don’t leave in the morning.”

Satoru’s voice is smaller than it’s ever been. Barely audible.

“I can’t.”

Three fingers.

Suguru backs away, pulling out of him and rolling over to get his robe. “You can let your arms down now.”

Satoru does so, rolling his shoulders. He reaches up to remove the collar around his neck as well, discarding it to one side carelessly.

“I can stay for the night though,” Satoru offers, a half way compromise that Suguru doesn’t want to accept but has no choice but to.

Satoru looks up at him, then slowly reaches up his arms with a wince. Asking to be held.

Suguru’s heart feels like it will jump out of his chest. He lies back down again, pulling Satoru into his arms tightly. He was made to be here. Why can’t he see that?

Suguru pulls Satoru against his chest, fingers curling around the hand that snakes across his stomach. Minutes pass, and Suguru thinks that Satoru has fallen asleep until he speaks again.

“Do you hate me?”

The question is small and crooked. Like it was never meant to take up air.

Suguru’s breath stills in his chest. “No.”

Satoru shifts a little. Exhales. “I don’t hate you either. Even though I should.”

Suguru closes his eyes, breathing in deeply. Tomorrow will come, and Satoru will leave, but he’ll be back again.

They belong to each other.

[thecrashlanding]

"The King is coming! The King is coming!"

That was the sentence Denki heard all over the small town as he walked through. He just needed his month of supplies and then he could be back to his little cottage and his life in the woods.

"I heard the king is bringing a dragon!" A teenage boy with a red hat said to a girl with white hair.

"Really? I wanna see a dragon!" 

"I bet he's coming to inspect the school. I can see no other reasons why he would come to our small town." Said the purple-haired man walking with the teens.

"Or maybe he's coming for one of the elementals!" The blond holding his hand chimed in.

"We only have one elemental, Neito." The blond, Neito, looked unhappy for a moment, but then caught sight of Denki and waved a bit. Denki nodded in acknowledgment, and then they were out of sight. Denki knew them. He knew everyone, he just hated admitting that. He had been banished when just a child, only allowed to come into town once a month for supplies. The town allowed him a $100 credit every month for his trip, and that was that. He had been banished because he killed several people when his magic got out of control. He was a lightning elemental, and very dangerous. His magic had even hurt himself, at least at first. There was another elemental, well another family of elementals. Todoroki Shoto was the one everyone talked about though, for his status of Official Town Wizard.

"I heard that the king is looking for his other mate, and it's Todoroki!" Said a lady with pink hair to another with purple. They were standing in the baker's stall, the pink-haired being Ashido, the baker.

"Unlikely. Polybonds are super unstable. And I heard that Todoroki was aro anyway."

"No way Kyoka! Why else would he come but for a mate?"

"Any other reason. And if he were coming for that, why would it be Todoroki?" The pink-haired woman was about to reply, but Denki cleared his throat. Both of the women's heads snapped up, and the one with purple hair rushed behind a small cart next to the stall.

"I will be taking my leave now, Mina. I wish you well." Said the other woman.

"Goodbye, Kyoka. I wish you well." The baker blew a quick kiss before turning to Denki. "What can I help you with, sir?" He held out his credit book and said,

"Two bags of flour, a bar of chocolate, and two cookies, please." It was what he always got. He baked his own bread and the like, but he could not make his own chocolate, a treat that he loved. He didn't have enough space for wheat, so he bought flour here. He still had some at his house, but it was better safe than sorry. Ashido wrote something on the credit slip, bagged his items, and handed them to him, wrapping the cookies in wax and giving them to him by themselves. 

"Thank you, I wish you well," Denki told his former friend.

"I wish you well." She replied, and he left. He munched on a cookie as he walked to the fruit seller. He never needed vegetables, if nothing was in season he had plenty put up, but fruit was something he didn't grow a lot of. The man at the produce stand had green hair and freckles and visibly paled at the sight of Denki. 

"Good day, sir. I would like fifteen apples, please." Applesauce is delicious and keeps cold for over a year. Denki hands over his credit book and the man stutters. He must remember his poor mate, Midoriya Ochako, who was hurt by his magic. She's never been quite the same, the electricity messing up her brain. But in Denki's defense, that manticore would have messed her up much worse. The produce seller rushes through the interaction, shoving the booklet and the apples at him. A muttered wish you well was all he got before being hurried into the street by a man with blue hair.

"I wish he wouldn't come around here, not with what he did to 'Chako." It was said loud enough for him to hear as he walked away. Rude. It's not his fault that some god decided to put a powerful and dangerous force of nature inside a young boy. Not his fault that some lord decided to banish him. Not his fault that the fruit seller's wife got attacked by a manticore near his house and he chose to help her. Not his fault no one ever taught him how to use his powers. Not even his fault that his twenty-something-year-old self lived all alone in the woods and never talked to anyone. 

Last stop, book shop. It was run by Shinsou Hitoshi and his partner, Monoma Neito. They were soulmates, and what a pair they made. He had just seen them, probably on a lunch break, but they were back now. Shinsou was sitting behind a desk reading and Monoma was talking about something. They both fell silent as he walked in. 

"Hey, Denki!" Monoma shouted with a smile. He was the only one who ever acknowledged him with his name. He knew what it was like to have dangerous magic and to be outcasted for it. Shinsou knew this too, but whatever he could do to make himself fit in, he would do. He always treated Denki with kindness though, and Denki suspected Monoma had something to do with that. 

"Hey, Neito. Hey Shinsou." He was on a first-name basis with Monoma, not his partner. "Have anything new?"

"I've got just the thing!" Monoma cheered. "But first..." Denki smiled and handed over the extra cookie he had bought. they had done that since they were just children. When Denki was first banished the adults decided to set him up in an abandoned cottage with a month's supply of food and a calendar for when to come back. Monoma had been playing in the woods when he found Denki, crying and scared. Monoma had fished around in his bag for a moment before pulling out two slightly cracked cookies in a tin. They shared and talked, getting closer and closer. Now every time they saw each other they shared cookies. Monoma was Denki's best friend, and vice versa. "I've got a great new book for you, it's called The Map to Everywhere." He handed Denki the large blue-bound book with a picture of two children on the front. As Denki read the back he could feel a smile grow. 

"I would like this one, please. Here's my credit book." Denki pushed the leather booklet into his friend's hands. 

"No, Denki. You never have to pay for my services. I have plenty of copies anyway." Denki looked over to see Shinsou glaring at him. He gently pointed to Shinsou and Monoma whirled around. 

"Take as many books as you'd like Denki. No charge." Denki realizes that he should just do what Neito says, foiling his plans to piss off Shinsou is never good. 

"Well, I thank you Neito. You always know how to make my day." 

"And you mine Denki. I'll have to skip tea on Ishna, The King is coming to town that day and I would hate to miss him." Neito looked apologetic. "Maybe we can do it on Itsna?" 

"I will see you Itsna then, as I will not be seeing The King. I wish you well." Denki kisses Neito on the cheek.

"Wish you well Denki!" Monoma waved after him. 

Ishna had arrived and Denki was in his cottage as usual. He did not see what all the fuss was about. The King was just a man, and men were usually evil. Denki decided to go outside and work in his garden when he heard trumpets and men crashing through the underbrush. He stood in the doorway, staring in shock as The King and his procession made their way to stand in front of Denki's cottage. He gathered his courage and said,

"Who are you who comes here? You have no right to this place, for it is mine!" He reached to the sky and pulled down a bolt of lightning that hit right in front of the king's cabriolet. A head peaked out of it and suddenly rushed to Denki. 

"Kat! Look at him he's so cute!" The man had spiky red hair, horns, and a tail. He was wearing rich clothes and when Denki peaked he could see a pair of wings. 

"So they were right, The King did bring a dragon." The man laughed, and Denki was suddenly struck by how beautiful he was. His eyes were like magma, and they had a slight glow to them. 

"My name is Kirishima Eijiro!" He said, interrupting Denki's thoughts. "We came here looking for you!" 

"For me? Why? No. No, I don't care. Get off my land! Off! I've worked too long and hard for what I have for you rich aots to just come in here and destroy it all!" 

"Seize him." 

When Denki woke up he was in a lavish room lying on the softest bed he had ever had the pleasure of being on. He almost moaned at the comfort, until he realized that he was chained up. He sat up as much as the bonds allowed, a chain running between his hands and down to his feet which were connected by another heavy chain. 

He wanted to scream. He wanted his mu, Monoma, anybody who could save him. But he was alone, and screaming could let someone know he was awake. Despite his lavish surroundings, he didn't want to know what they would do with him. 

He feigns sleep as the door opens, hoping whoever comes in doesn't notice him being awake. 

"Denki? Are you up?" It was the voice of Kirishima. "Kat he smells like fear, even in his sleep." The voice held so much worry. 

"Don't worry Eiji, he'll get used to it." This voice was unfamiliar, and Denki cracked his eyes open to see who it was, only to squeeze them shut when he saw two pairs of red eyes staring at him.

"Well," said the unfamiliar voice. "Looks like the mouse is awake after all." Denki opened his eyes to see a man with spiky blond hair. 

"Who are you?" Denki mumbled. He was still slightly groggy from sleep, but his fear outweighed the feeling.

"Ha! You don't recognize your own king?" The man threw back his head and laughed while Denki froze in terror. Denki's voice trembled as he spoke.

"How would I recognize you? I've never met you?" Kirishima spoke up from the corner of the room.

"He has a point blasty! How would he recognize you?"

The King scoffed. "Well, he knows me now. I'm Katsuki Bakugou. Your mate."

"Impossible," Denki said. "I have no mate marks." Kirishima looked worried.

"Denki, you do have mate marks. There are two on your back, one's mine and the other is Katsuki's. Did you not know?" Kirishima spoke gently as if he was afraid Denki would freak out.

"No, I didn't know." Denki looked between them. "So you are my mates then?" 

"Yes," Bakugou said. "And you're going to live here. You'll be chained as such for a while until we know we can trust you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand." Denki hund his head. Kirishima hugged him.

"Don't worry mouse! You'll get used to it and be really happy here!"

Denki wanted to go home.

[watsername]

could i please please rant about a fashion aesthetic that personally gives me brain damage? see i actually agree with everything you said about balletcore being about classism with people trying to look rich with no respect for the art itself but i also want to talk about the opposite side of it, COTTAGECORE. I FUCKING HATE IT.

its the exact opposite in this case because people are trying to look poor which they somehow consider as humble???? and these days its so tied with TERF shit that it makes me homicidal. "Oh look how the simple village folk were so effortlesly beautiful, the village women nothing but fairylike waifs dancing through the fields with a handwoven basket full of apples, the absolute pinacle of true femininity and grace ❤️" IF YOU SAW AN ACTUAL VILLAGE WOMAN AT WORK, YOU WOULD PUKE.

theres also that millionaire bitch on tiktok that keeps pushing tradwife shit in her village cosplay kitchen which is a whole nother topic but lets continue onto the actual outfits used for this aesthetic. first, every single color and pattern choice is fucking wrong. i have my great grandmothers clothes, i wear her headscarves, the actual village aesthetic is surprisingly mainly white with bright pop out colors done in culture specific patterns on the hems of the garments. while cottage core is muted brown, muted brown, oh look! muted green! what a fantastic variety of earth tones and creams! why not just wear a fucking potato sack while your at it?! and surprisingly they rarely if ever incorporate headscarves into the easthetic, as if there aren't multiple village cultures that all share the use of headscarves as work and celebratory garments. and none of the aesthetic clothes have patterns outside of just cableknit! its all just cream shirt, cableknit sweater, long skirt. thats it? no scarf? no sash? no embroidery patterns? no apron?! also depending on the region (and the aesthetic is heavily focused on the EU countries often the western side) where the fuck are the furs?! wolf fur hats, fox fur coat/scarf???? welted boots?! its a fucking disgrace

all that i understood from doing research on the aesthetic is that they took western EU village outfits, took every single cultural marker out of them, smashed them together, got a brownish mess like dirty paint water, seperated it into basic color tones, and made shitty clothes which they mass produced and are now selling at an outrageous price so that the rich can badly cosplay as the poor. i have way more hang ups like how cottagecore is often merged with wiccan to make up mystical terfy bullshit which is so fucking disrespectful to the actual pagans but thats outside of fashion so nvm

yeah there’s been a lot of criticism of cottagecore and the audience it markets itself to there’s definitely something weird with the way they treat femininity and the whole connection between cottagecore tradwifeisms and divine femininity which is starting to seep into radfem spaces too like . the way that a soft femininity is being weaponised to promote anticapitalism and feminine separatism but also promoting traditional gender roles and enforcing a borderline biblical femininity as the ‘right way to be a woman’ whilst actively pushing capitalism by buying into aesthetics and specified interior design to portray the illusion of humility . it all feels very not like other girls as well by rejecting and borderline condemning modern femininity esp the treatment of women who enjoy glamour and express sexuality liek its almost puritan . its pretty i like muted greens i love a safe green kicthen but aestheticism always goes beyond the clothes it’s communication and i’m not a fan of what’s being communicated through cottagecore a lot

[dorisbestfriends4ever]

[demo2023 lyrics]

white bull terrier*

and i was two when you got me 

you singled me out behind the rusted wire fence

you never liked living alone

a 30 pound white bull terrier 

with a spot on my face that you kissed 

the day that you got me and took me home 

to where you reside

with the remains of old dogs 

that still sit at the door and wait 

of you to get home

to come home

you hated living alone 

i’m yours now

i hear your recall and i’m there

when you slap your hands

from which you feed me

the ones you bare my body in

but now my teeth can’t grip 

the words to make you hear me

i’ve learned to bite the bullet 

and keep quiet till i’m alone

time alone with you is now time alone with myself

just put me down like a dog 

who wont make it till monday 

and i’m trying to get home

i just want to get home to you

help me decide

if i should try

help me decide 

if i should try

be tall be strong 

white bull terrier

be tall be strong

white bull terrier 

the horse race*

in repetition there is comfort 

and in comfort i’ll repeat the same mistakes 

and when the race is finally over 

they’ll never catch me 

i never made it there 

if we run this race 

would you stand with me 

in the place they left and we can watch them 

move into the space that i was aiming for 

they will cross the finish line 

i am running i am chasing 

they have all moved past me we can watch them 

fall at the finish line 

but i am not complete 

were you watching 

i’m not complete 

in repetition there is comfort 

and in comfort i repeat the same mistakes 

and when the race is finally over 

they’ll never catch me 

i never made it there

(and if i make it i’ll fall at the line, the horse race)

if you keep walking 

over the petals underneath your feet

you will fall through

you will fall through 

no matter hard i try 

i’ve come undone again

i will fall through

i will fall through 

3 plates at this table 

not a single one mine

you will fall through 

you will fall through

bite marks all over this apple 

not a single one mine 

fairfield, conn.*

when it gets quiet that’s when i hear it

hear it the loudest

i should have been there, i should have known

should’ve known better

still haven’t seen you cry haven’t heard you say

never hear you say sorry

hit me as hard as you can

until the boy problems 

leave my voice

hit me as hard as you can

until my breath is gone 

spoken word - she makes me feel better, but for how long will she keep me safe

who’s gonna be there to notice i’ve changed, watch me grow, or stay the same

how was i supposed to know i spoke too much 

it felt like i was right until i got home 

i still can’t talk to my mum i still can’t tell if you leaving was good or bad 

but i promised to keep moving forward, keep growing until i see no one else around me 

i will keep running and i will keep falling 

i watched her as she drew her gun from the holster 

loaded with every vulnerability i’ve told her 

she fires it for the start of the race, i run with no knowledge of the end and i will keep running with no knowledge of the end 

at what point does “no questions asked, at some point i just wasn’t enough” turn into “no questions asked, you tried your best”

i will not find 

my way home 

i will not find 

my way home 

(and i have tried i fell, 

i will keep on running it home)

atsomepointijustwasntenough*

every time i stand by the kitchen 

teach myself how to cry

i forgot the feeling 

wish i understood why

catch the bus every morning 

i’m learning how to fit in

but when i sit there all alone 

they’re always there with me

reminds me of the summer 

the same 3 songs on repeat

if i could take us back to then 

would you tell me the same 

no questions asked 

at some point, i just wasn’t enough 

[ligbi]

Thinking about fandom or maybe adult spaces online. or maybe late stage capitalism?

Before I was on tumblr I was a member of an 18+ forum- tight knit community, and eventually one of the members slipped and revealed he was a minor. The mods were direct that they did not know this and now that they did they would have to ban him otherwise they could be held liable for exposing minors to adult content. They also were clear that he'd be missed and once he turned 18, we'd all enjoy having him back. [said monster girl forum was gone by the time he turned 18]

I had joined an 18+ forum once as a minor for adult content. Downloaded some batch BL manga raws. They were labeled Bondage and nothing else. The content inside was...a lot more than that. Recognizing that I had lied about my age and chose to engage with adult content, I had no one to blame but myself. Yes, the download was very under labeled, but this was maybe 2006 tags were not used often, and maybe I should have looked up what Zettai Reido was before I saw tiger x little boy. But I didn't so, I read up on BDSM to ensure I would not make similar mistakes again. [The site the forums were attached to is surprisingly still around, but the forums are not]

In the last few months, I have learned about a minor who started an 18+ server for a fandom who had not even *verbed* the *media* the server was for. [My understanding is that server immediately died off after this revelation. Understandable]

Yesterday I saw a post on a dark confessions blog which isn't an explicitly 18+ space, but most of the posts clearly are. This one was not and I engaged with it and had a nice (sfw) back and forth with the sender about that topic on a side blog that is 18+. It was only after I noted the sender says they are 16 in their blog title. Do I have more than a smattering of frankly vanilla 18+ posts on that blog? No, but I still want to label that blog 18+ because I am an adult and sometimes want to say adult things on the web. [This is on tumblr, the go nuts show nuts to banning female presenting nipples site]

X cum Twitter still allowing porn is interesting since that seems to be a holdover from when it was a bigger name. I expect Apple to eventually do what it did to tumblr and say 'ban the porn if you want to be available in the apple store' which is actually a wild amount of control for any given company to be able to wield, but between apple's phones and credit card companies we really have let a few major companies control what ostensibly public digital spaces are allowed to share. When that happens, a part of me will feel twitter deserves it because being an unregulated social media site has lead to trending topics being spammed with porn on a site that is clearly trying to be consumer friendly safe for all ages milquetoast dominator of people's attention.

Social media should be 18+ by default and if it does allow 13-17 year olds, moderation is required. Right now, sites try to have it all, and it's bad for everyone but advertisers who still aren't happy. But what corporation is in these days where growth is no longer possible without increasing wages which would cut into profit so everyone will suffer. Some with just suffer on a stagnant pile of gold while everyone else suffers under the crushing weight of capitalism.

Bluesky was a good site for a year and change, but already it's flagging posts about white male privilege as hate speech. I can see it living a half life of twitter.

Tumblr isn't going to make it out of this decade and that's sad. Forums aren't dead but good luck getting people who are used to suckling at algorithms to become active members.

Discords... personally the few fandom specific discords I have joined, introduced myself, and then muted, or they went quiet. I do hear- often- about minors in 18+ discords and predators using those spaces and of course discord will sell you out for a corn chip and keeps trying to turn profit.

Nothing can turn a profit in this day and age because no one can afford even the basics.

This was supposed to be a post on fandom. Can a fandom thrive in the modern day? Older series still have active fandoms, while modern series end and the fandom scatters to the wind for the next hot thing. Adult content is going to be relegated back to hand made zines but no one will be able to afford them. Official art and promotional materials aren't tracked and archived, and now with a.i. misinformation for series can only grow. Remember how many sites used hino ryutaro saturn art as official art back in the early 00s?

If you like work that isn't a multi season adaptation or billion dollar property, its disheartening that after maybe half a year, your fandom will be dead.

'Oh but fandoms are never dead as long as you're in them' I promise you bull shit. Being 50% of a tag, or fuck, 90%? It's lonely and I miss dedicated fansites but knowing that in the age of Google 3.0 no one would be able to find it let alone visit regularly, that effort would feel wasted.

I know we have neocities but the old world has been killed and the new world feels like a shambling lab crafted mutant whose violent and painful death might usher in a brighter tomorrow, but I don't know who or what is going to survive until then.

idk let adults make adult content and have adult spaces and help each other in these shit times, and keep your fandoms alive

[casspurrjoybell-25]

The Healer of Shakkara - Book One

*Warning Adult Content*

Chapter 13 - Hunted - Part 2

"Whether or not we are their intended quarry... they're on our trail, now."

Galen shivered.

He liked animals, including dogs but something about the trained viciousness of a hunting pack had always frightened him.

He hated the thought of what happened to any poor creature the beasts caught and had no desire to experience such a thing himself.

For the first time, he was glad that his companions were so well-armed.

Rea knelt closest to the entrance, her bow resting across her knee, one arrow ready on the string and a cluster stuck in the ground within reach.

Her face was pale and grim but calm.

No one spoke and Galen shivered in the cool, damp air, listening to the clamor of the dogs and hunters drawing near.

Sev laid a hand on his arm as if to reassure him but Galen shrugged him off.

He had no choice but to go along with these people, for now and they had most likely saved his life but he was still their captive, at the end of the day and he wasn't about to like them for it.

Especially Sevhalim, who had taken things from him since the moment they'd met... first his pendant, now his freedom.

Galen wondered what he'd take next.

Tense moments passed and Galen shut his eyes as he heard the dogs splash and yelp further downstream.

Rea shifted position slightly and began to draw her bow but Sev reached over and touched her shoulder and shook his head.

She frowned but relaxed and a minute or so later, the sounds diminished again.

Obi's salts had worked and the dogs were retracing their steps, having lost the scent.

Gradually, the sound of the hunt faded as the dogs and hunters moved on.

Still, another quarter hour passed and the deep stillness of the woods returned before anyone dared to speak or move.

"We'd best stay here until nightfall," Sev said, stretching his limbs as best he could in the limited space.

"I don't want to risk crossing paths with that lot."

Oberik sighed, eying the walls of brambles with a grimace of distaste.

"Not the most comfortable of domiciles," he said.

"But I suppose it will have to do."

"How strong is your salt, Obi?" Iksthanis asked, rubbing his stomach.

"Is it safe to eat?"

"It's not that kind of salt, Iksy."

The larger man rolled his eyes.

"I don't mean 'eat the salt' you dumb-ass. I mean is it safe to eat food? Can the salt mask the scent of it?"

"Oh... It should be... as long we stick to the less fragrant stuff."

Iksy nodded and began to pull cloth-wrapped parcels from his pack.

He passed around halved apples, a few nuts and a small piece of dry bread to each of them.

As Galen received his portion, he realized he was ravenous but forced himself to eat slowly and savor every bite, washing it down with a sip of water.

"Need a refill?" Iksthanis asked, seeing how far Galen tipped his flask but Zenir shook his head.

"Not here. The water doesn't smell right."

Iksthanis sighed and let his hand drop.

"Fine," to Galen, he said... "Last time I ignored Zen's advice I was sick for a week."

Galen cleared his throat and decided to dare a question.

"Are you all... er... 'Hands' or whatever it's called?"

Obi laughed.

He had a broad smile and even, white teeth and his blue eyes sparkled in his tan face.

"Hardly. Only Rea and Sev are 'Hands.'

The rest of us are just hired muscle."

Galen looked to the dark-haired man at his side, whose mercurial eyes were now light as silver.

"There are only a dozen or so Hands at any time," he said.

"We're chosen for service very young and raised by the Order. I was found at about age six, I think and became a Hand at fifteen or near enough."

Galen frowned.

"Found?"

"I was an orphan or so I'm told," Sev said.

"I remember little of my life before the Order but I was on a Yuthi trade barge when another Hand spotted me. And whatever I was to the people on that boat, they were willing enough to give me up. Rea was found a few years later."

"And the others?" Galen glanced at Iksthanis, Obi, and Zenir.

"We're mercenaries... I guess," Obi said, shrugging.

"We work for the Order but only because they pay us. We don't 'serve' it the same way the Hands do."

"Hands take sacred vows of obedience and sacrifice," Rea said, speaking up.

"Our lives and loyalty belong to the Order."

Galen carefully chewed an almond into paste as he absorbed this information.

"What do you get out of it?" he asked.

"We get to live," Rea said.

"Sevhalim forgot to mention one important detail. The Order does not take just any children... it takes dying children. Whatever they do to cure us is what makes us worthy to be Hands and grants us... unique abilities."

Appalled, Galen stopped chewing.

"The Order has the ability to heal children but only uses it on a few dozen?"

Sev shook his head.

"Now it is Rea who has left out the important detail. Those who survive the 'cure' become Hands and those who survive are very few, indeed."

"Even if the Order offered to take every sick child in the empire, most parents would rather hold out hope for a miracle and cling to every precious day than bet against almost certain and immediate death. That's why most Hands are orphans or children no one wanted, anyway."

Saving children who would otherwise die was good, Galen supposed but to do so solely for the purpose of turning them into servants seemed... less so.

He finished his small meal in silence, listening as Iksthanis revealed he was indeed half Naqqiri and had spent his younger days on a 'venturing merchant' ship, which Galen gathered meant he'd been a pirate.

Zenir, he learned, was a displaced noble who had survived an assassination attempt, that left him blind.

He'd been little more than a beggar when Sev first encountered him.

Lastly, Obi told of being a headstrong young soldier, who'd made nearly every mistake in the book and owed his life to Sev, several times over.

What they all seemed to have in common was a love and respect for the pale, dark-haired man.

For Rea, Galen detected only the latter sentiment and she herself shared little beyond the fact she was a Hand.

At last, the shadows in the bramble-haven darkened until Galen could hardly see and Sev gave the order to move.

They retraced their steps back down the stream, moving even more carefully in the gloom, until they left the water.

Pausing only to put on their shoes once more, they made their way through the woods with slow, quiet care, all watching and listening for any sign of pursuit.

But the forest was quiet and after a half hour, Zenir announced he had heard nothing but the usual small creatures, going about their lives beneath the trees.

Still, the others relaxed only a fraction and spoke only when necessary and only in whispers even then. 

Taking not of his observations, Iksthanis leaned close and said...

"It's when you feel safe that they get you."

"Sounds like a stressful way to live," Galen said.

"It's a way to not die," the man replied with a shrug and dropped back to walk at Zenir's side.

It was fully dark by the time they reached the edge of the woods and looked out across the swath of farmland to the low line of hills beyond.

The Wild Green lay on the other side of these... a vast wilderness stretching many leagues to the base of the Gray Mountains, over which lay the lowlands of Sakkara.

Galen shivered as the immensity of the journey before him sank in.

Even if they covered twenty miles a day, it would take nearly three months to reach the capital at Tal P'Nir and from there, they'd still have the journey north to the Jagged Peaks and Jana Val.

The farthest he had been in his whole life was the edge of the Wild Green.

"All right?" Sevhalim's light touch on his arm startled him and he frowned, giving a single nod of his head.

Maybe the man inspired love in his companions but zealots could inspire love, too and Galen wasn't about to trust him with the fact he felt frightened, lost and alone.

'As much as swords and arrows, those were weapons that could be used against him,' he thought.  

[chilihawg]

#CHILIHAWG 𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙸𝙴, 𝙿𝚁𝙸𝚅𝙰𝚃𝙴, 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚅𝚈 𝙷𝙲 𝙿𝙾𝚁𝚃𝚁𝙰𝚈𝙰𝙻 𝙾𝙵 CLASSIC (93') SONIC THE HEDGEHOG 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 SatAM / MANIA 𝙰𝚂 𝚃𝙾𝙻𝙳 𝙱𝚈 ATTITUDE. 𝚎𝚜𝚝. 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟺. black mun.  𝙱𝙸𝙾 𝚃𝙱𝙰. 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙻𝙳𝙱𝚄𝙸𝙻𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝙾𝙲𝙲𝚄𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙼𝚈 𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙸𝚃𝚈. 𝙸'𝙼 𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝙸'𝙼 𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 : free-spirit. / environmentalism. / found family. / growth through empathetic learning. /post-apocalyptic dystopia. / overindulgence. / slapstick humor. / imprisonment. / slavery. / sadism. / animal cruelty. / ancient egypt. / unethical medical experimentation. / psychology [ I.e., freudian id, ego, and superego and carl jung's shadow. ] / darwinism. / dystopia. / child survivors, alongside other sonic-related media influences.

some need to know.

disclaimer: i am NEW to the sonic rpc. i've no clue who are the bad apples and or what's what. so, i ask that folks refrain for giving me grief in my inbox if i'm found interacting with someone that was proven to be problematic [ i.e. racism.]. if the issue was just squabbling between old friends and it fell apart... please, leave me out of it and leave me to my chili dogs. with that said...

001. you are the master curators of your own safe space. do what thou wilt. if you do not like antagonistic dynamics, this is not the muse for you. if you cannot stand the thought of being unable to tone police a thirty-year-old man, i am not the ideal writing partner for you. if generally, low-activity blogs do not suit your preferences, please feel free to block me. i have no personal issues with anyone, so do not inquire about me to a mutual or personally contact me regarding what you may perceive as '"beef". many of us say this until we're blue in the face, but yes, all i care about is writing and creating connections with great writers.

002. as stated above, i exclusively portray classic sonic. his voice claim is jaleel white, as i grew up watching the 1993 and always was in love with the stylistic choice to have him short & pudgy ( this does NOT mean i HATE modern sonic. i'm not interested in discourse over the franchise. ). that I said, his age is verse dependent. please, don't infantilize him. i do not ( nor do i ever. ) strictly portray a muse at their given age in the media, and my sonic's maturity will be explored throughout the course of his history with other muses on this blog.

003. shipping is fine with me. my potential partner(s) and i both reserve the right to drop it, if it fails to work out for any reason. as for nsfw, I don't mind sending in prompts, but i more than likely won't write it on the blog. it'll either be reserved for some nsft blog or on discord. i'm not the most secure in writing that content.

004. i'm open to exchanging discords with people, for quicker replies, but please don't harass me for replies.

005. i feel like i do best with freestyling ( or writing without plot. but, i won't deny someone the opportunity to discuss an interesting plot with me. just to let you know, i'm slow on dm and discord at times.

[monoem]

Hihihi I saw this and wanted to add my own opinion to what Silas is saying, since I felt like some stuff might need a second opinion.

If you think constructive criticism on how to handle a harmless awards thing is, taking it "WAY too seriously", that can say a lot. This isn't meant to be an insult, but if you compare a small community like JWCC/CT to a massive one like K-pop, you're gonna get widely different responses to 'popularity contests'.

You say that it shouldn't be taken too seriously because it's just words and a png, and while that should probably be the case - you don't acknowledge the younger, and smaller creators that might find these awards to be pretty encouraging. This is a fandom around a kids show, and many people forget that kids interact with this. Nothing wrong with keeping yourself in adult circles, but it shouldn't be forgotten how starry-eyed kids can get at the idea of being recognised and not getting that png of a star. (Screw you Mr. Munday I deserved that gold sticker for my maths work)

I think you brushed past the multiple voting section of Sparks criticism too quickly. "Shit happens", sure, of course it does! That excuse can be used for a YouTubers fan base attacking someone, even if they advise against it. But when the option to make it a one vote form was available, it seems like a massive oversight. No hate to Salem on this! I get it, forms like these can be hard to manage, but there should've been some preparation before starting this award.

You can try and have faith in the fandom all you want, I know I do, but you can never be too sure about that stuff. There are people out here shipping a queer woman with a white man, and people denouncing the sapphic couple, I think it's safe to be weary of SOME bad apples.

Now for the main issue that I guess seems to have caused this (?), the topic of rarepairs and just oc x canon. Rarepairs are canon x canon, and aren't oc x canon in my opinion. I don't see my oc x canon ships as rare pairs, and if I did hell I'd be the mayor of rarepairville because I haven't shown anyone them before! /Lh.

Also I think you might've gotten rarepairs and crackships confused. I was aware of all this Elsa x Jack nonsense, and I can tell you those were not at ALL unpopular. That's what makes a rarepair, it needs to be really unpopular. Crackships definitely can fall under the rarepair term, but they are not a good example for this.

We could be here all day debating on our opinions, because really that's all they are! You see them as rarepairs and I don't, that's the joy of freewill in the human race, and we should cherish it. (I use debating, not arguing, because we're just talking things out).

We can all look at this and hopefully move past it, and in the future if another awards happens or something, we can add oc x canon in a separate category!

It may not be serious, but you don't know a person's thoughts about these until you ask them. It's not serious to me, I've been in fandom spaces for almost half my life; but to a new person it could mean the entire world to them - and those are mostly kids. And if it's anything, it's our responsibility as adults to be nice to them. Young kids or older kids, it doesn't matter.

Telling people to "sit back" because they're unhappy isn't good advice. If you take into account what I said about kids being the ones to take this seriously, they aren't thinking about what people are losing in these awards. A shout-out can boost a small creator MASSIVELY. YouTube is a massive example of that being true.

That's my two cents on it, thanks for reading my think piece.

CC/CT Tumblr Awards Final Results

Thank you all for participating in the awards. These awards were created as a way for the fandom to have fun and interact with creators that they may not have seen before, while also giving thanks to all creators in this fandom. Whether you write, draw, edit or create headcanons and memes for all to enjoy you are a vital part of the camp cretaceous/chaos theory fandom and the fandom would be much duller without you. Whether you have received an award or not you are a truly valued member of this community.

The winner of each award will be announced in the reblogs of this post.

[writing-plurals]

Amazing that I found your account! I've been wondering about this thing.

For the past four years I've been working on and off on this book

In the book everyone has some sort of thing that kind of hampers them in the human world, but helps them in their world- kind of like how in Percy Jackson, a lot of demigods have dyslexia and adhd

These hampering things are different for almost everyone and they're often related to a power or ability that you have. A person who has telekinesis may "hear voices" and person who can prophesize things may have an ungodly horrible sleep schedule

One character in particular just blacks out

The idea with her was basically that she has this "side" thar whenever it senses she's in danger, shows up and whoops ass.

This version of her is clearly not her doing the things and then immediately forgetting she'd done them. Her friends make comments about this version of her acting very different, when she isn't in control of her body, she makes comments as to what it feels like. She counts how long she's there for, then, as if nothings happened, she's whipped back into reality

Now with this character, in the beginning, I really didn't want her to be a system. I'm not sure how I convinced myself she wasn't, but now that I've began to understand my own system, understand what's happening, it's pretty obvious she's a system. The only problem is, no matter how much she really hates her mom, she isn't traumatized. Not by her mom or anything else, it's literally a point in the story that all of her childhood was her parents keeping her safe from bad things. There's not really any room for truama

Especially nothing serious enough and that would occur at a young enough age for her to develop did or osdd

Now don't get me wrong, I support systems formed outside of truama, but the last thing I want is for the first book that I've ever written that wasn't a picture book to be a catalyst of a bunch of discourse, I also feel there aren't many clear representatives of did or osdd in the media, and even less that are actually good or accurate

Personally, as someone who identifies with endo system (despite beginning to wonder if undiagnosed osdd is a possibility) I genuinely just think it's only fair that the disordered people are tended to first, then, once I feel they've been represented, I can then chose to represent the non disordered

So my question to you is what you think I should do?

Should I continue with this character not being a system and just this being the magic of that world that causes the weird split

Or should I go back into her backstory and find somewhere to fit the truama needed to make this character representative

(And I just realized this but she's the only character I have really that isn't that representative of anything else the rest of the main cast

Mixed (black and white) + Bisexual + Adhd

Mixed (Asian and white) + FtM + MLM/demisexual + depression

A literal robot + nonbinary + panromantic + has traits similar to autism but I wouldn't call it autistic cause it's a robot

Mixed (black and asian) + agender + schizophrenia

They're all mixed bc they're all mixed with the things I'm mixed with shhh 😔

But like this character

White + heterosexual + Cisgender + literally nothing else interesting about her other than that blackout-different-person thingy

So yeah, theres also that

Hmmm, think of representation like a kinda pie being made for a holiday meal. Just cuz you made a pumpkin pie (endogenic system rep), doesn't mean other ppl can't go out and get what they need for apple or banana cream pie. There's plenty of space for both kinds of stories to exist. The same way just cuz tv has few long running lesbian shows doesn't stop gay ones being made.

Endogenic systems' stories deserve to be told too, and it's okay to wanna tell it with what you have set up. It's not being insensitive to represent one marginalized group over another.

As for other headmates you mentioned, I'm a little too white to help with that, so maybe our followers and other mods can help with that bit!

-Mod Tick Tock

[thebadboyfanclub]

You Are My Home (Geralt x Reader)

This was requested by anon. Enjoy!

The life (y/n) had it was something Geralt often envied, it was a way of living that had nothing to do with him, it was almost like she created her own magical bubble that kept her away from anything harmful, she lived in harmony with everything.

(Y/n) was a farmer's daughter, an only child and her mother passed away when she was young, a few years after she made her first step into adulthood her father also passed, so since she was a little girl her day was filled with taking care of the land and looking after the animals she so much adored. It wasn't the squeezing cow tits and cleaning out the stables that fascinated him, it was the utter bliss you could identify at the twinkle of her eyes, she was in love with her life, the bitterness and greed of the world had graced by her and left her unharmed.

(Y/n) had stumbled across Geralt at the market of the closest town of her home. She sold fruits, milk and vegetables there, still the reason why Geralt noticed wasn't her healthy goods, it was her booming voice as she shouted at a man. 

"If you lay your hands on a child again I will make sure you have no hands to do so!"

As he approached to see what all the fuss was about he saw her. Her hair was nearly pulled back and away from her face, her dress was this beautiful purple color as her hands were on her sides, one breath away from the man's face. Another thing he noticed was the child in question that hid behind her as it clinged on her legs for protection.

"He stole apples from my table"

"You want apples? Here"

She turned and took as many she could hold and started to throw them at the man. He acted out on impulse and stepped in to restrict her, she had a strong fire in her but he would hate to see the obviously taller man harm her.

"That's enough, I think you proved your point"

He said to her as he got in front of her and gently touched her forearms to make her take a few steps back.

"That low life, he almost killed the poor little boy over a few apples"

She muttered as she turned her back on Geralt and kneeled to the kids level. Her hand reached the child's face as she inspected him.

"Are you alright dear? Come with me, I have a bottle of milk for you"

He felt a bit hurt as the girl ignored his presence entirely. As the woman and the child walked over her counter, she instruced the child to sit on the stool as she passed him a bottle of milk. 

The child smiled brightly before chugging the bottle, at that moment of silent Geralt found the courage to speak up.

"I'm Geralt"

"Oh I'm sorry I got completely distracted. I am (y/n), thank you for helping me"

-

After that Geralt felt compelled by her, he would leave her for a short period of time to travel and pick up jobs, yet he always felt the need to come back to her. She was his haven, his safe space to relax, even when compared to him she was this tiny little thing she made him feel protected.

He awoke at the smell of fresh baked goods, he had come to her cottage late at night and exhausted. She only smiled in a sleepy manner and hugged him tight before helping him get into bed with her with no questions or spared words. 

At that time (y/n) walked in the bedroom with a cup in her hand. She was dressed in her white night dress and her hair was down, framing her beautiful face. She sat on his side of the bed as he sat up, the sheets falling from his torso.

"Good morning"

"I believe a good evening is more appropriate. Here, drink this"

She said as she passed the cup to him. (Y/n) loved thyme tea, she always made it for him whenever he came to visit her, the aroma of it made him feel welcomed and now he had linked that smell with her. He remembered how she rambled about how much it helps and nourishes you, he didn't remember what she said exactly but just seeing her so happy and focused on a subject about a simple thing made him smile. 

"Hmmm, what have I done to deserve you?"

He asked before taking a sip of the tea. She giggled at his teasing, he always said that to her, at first she found it funny however she was aware that Geralt thought very low of him, it made her so mad that he didn't see what she was seeing.

"It's the least I could do, you keep us safe"

"It wasn't by choice"

"No one forces you to work Geralt, you go hunting for jobs"

He didn't respond, he was well aware that she had a strong case here. After taking a few sips of the warm liquid he left the cup on the side of his bed before reaching for her hand to caress her soft warm skin. She looked at her hand in his, his skin against hers brought her goosebumps, she tried to hide her smile from him, although Geralt saw it and decided to not comment on it.

"How are things here?"

"Carina gave birth"

"Oh well she was really big last time I saw her"

"She was having a baby cow inside her, I think that's a bit normal"

They had been around enough for her to know what he wanted. She slowly crawled on her side and got under the covers with him, he smiled as he laid back down and rested his head on her breasts while his arms went around her waist bringing her as close as possible. Her fingers went up on his head, slowly caressing his long silver hair she so much adored, for a man that gets covered with monster blood ever so often his hair was soft like silk. 

His warmth made her relax even more as she took a deep inhale and closed her eyes, enjoying his natural scent tingling her nostrils, she never thought a man's smell would bring her such a calm sensation that made her muscles relax completely, the feeling was almost euphoric as she continued to run her fingers through his white mane.

Geralt enjoyed being caressed by her, after years of feeling the touch of a woman only after offering her coins he finally felt he was being cared for, it was something he thought he would never experience. Now here she was making the giant witcher melt in her arms.

"I missed you"

He whispered just enough for her to hear, (y/n) smiled before placing a kiss at the top of his head. Anyone else would laugh at the sight of the big bad witcher snuggling up on a girl and letting her wrap her legs around his torso in order to make him feel protected. She wasn't short but anyone would look small in comparison.

"I missed you too dearest"

Hearing her speak to him in such a delicate and soft way made him feel his stomach twist, in a good way of course. She was what he never knew he missed, she was the warm sun in his gloomy life.

"One day I won't have to leave you"

"One day I will put poison in your tea. Not the deathly kind, maybe paralyze you so you won't be able to leave"

His chest erupted with laughter at her snarky comment, she never phrased her sadness and displeasure when he left her, still he could sense it. It was exactly what he felt so there was a mutual understanding of how much they both hated that departure. He raised his head to look at her as she offered him a warm smile in return

"You are my home"

"Maybe one day my home won't have to slip away from me"

[nanaminshousewife]

i feel i need to defend my actions indulge in this gojo brainrot so here goes…

warnings: not proofread. fem!bodied, gn, black reader. slight femdom? if this is wrong please let me know

a/n: this is highly self indulgent and fuelled by my urge to take care of a vulnerable gojo so nanami please avert your eyes

imagine gojo coming home from a mission. he’s not injured, but god is he exhausted. he’s been running around at the orders of those damned higher ups, exorcising curses and seeing his friends get injured.

when he gets home he just stands in the doorway, unable to move as the weight of his tiredness sets in. you recognise the look on his face: slightly downcast, and if you pulled his mask up and over his brows you’d see the fatigue clearly in his crystal eyes.

he hates being this vulnerable, there’s just something about baring his true self that sets him on edge, raising his hackles and bringing his guard up ten times higher. but with you, it’s different. with you he feels safe. so with that, he lets you take his hand, pale and slightly shaky in the warm yellow light of your kitchen, and lead him into the bedroom.

the way you undress him is tender, a love language of its very own and when you’re done, you caress his face so gently, and he leans into your touch as if its the last chance he’ll ever get to. this kind of gentleness is rare he thinks, so what’s the harm of indulging a little?

he takes the chance to duck in for a kiss, his soft lips moving against your own with a soft hunger that leaves you breathless and wanting more, desire thrumming lowly in your veins. in an instant, your hands are all over him, tracing over his back and chest, your brown skin contrasting against the smooth planes of his abs. and he can’t get enough, uncharacteristic whimpers and groans leaving his lips. he’s desperate and needy after weeks of being away from you, and when your hands wrap around his cock and the fight leaves his body he realises he needs you to take care of him. so when you push him onto the bed, he goes willingly, landing with a soft thump and watching as you undress and join him.

you start kissing at his neck, nipping at the column of his throat as your hand wraps around him once more and begins pumping. the hitch in his breath is positively sinful, and you watch his adams apple bob as you continue littering his neck and chest with hickeys. he looks beautiful like this, white hair mussed and stuck to his forehead, body glistening in a light sheen of sweat. it’s almost angelic, his whimpers and whines and for a second you want to tease him, but the way his moans ring around the room make you merciful. you continue pumping his shaft, running your thumb over his slit and with a jerk of his body he’s cumming in hot, thick spurts.

when he’s done, he relaxes into the mattress, blue eyes hooded and unfocused, balanced on the very edge of sleep. once you’re done cleaning up, he pulls you down to him, arms wrapping around you as he nuzzles his face into the space between your neck and shoulders.

he whispers a “thank you” into your skin, and you giggle through the ticklish feeling of how breaths against you.

“you’re welcome” you tell him, and from the even breaths that linger quietly in the air, you know he’s asleep.

tagging: @gabzlovesu, @misss-chrisss, @dejwrites and @kazuwhora

[mugunghwc]

    let this be the only post about this i will make:

     let people write whatever they want. if you have difficulty distinguishing between fiction & reality, that’s your issue. browse with discretion & choose carefully what type of media you will consume based on what you’re comfortable with. stop making assumptions about people’s personalities or their lives based on what they write & stop relying on others, because what you might find problematic, i might be okay with & vice versa. make your own judgement based on your own experience versus something someone said, because by singling out someone, you’re only drawing negative attention their way, or fully isolating them by spreading a narrative that might even be false. you’re not morally superior just because you don’t write certain subjects. you’re, especially, not morally superior, if you go around spreading hate, wishing death to people over rp ( what happened to rp is a hobby?? ), calling them names, or dropping names / urls.

    i’m tired of the hypocrisy of the rpc community.  i’m tired of the preaching about  ‘ dark themes ‘ being included & that a blog is for adults only, while behaving like this is high school. dark themes include other stuff other than murder & gore, you know? & sure, there will always be the bad apples writing stuff with the intention of fetishizing or romanticizing certain stuff, but they’re not nearly as much as people ought them to be, while the same people accusing others, participate in this romanticizing when writing criminals, demons, etc.

   —the same people, that want to spread ‘ positivity ‘, safe spaces, advocate for mental health & white knight for communities they don’t even belong to & speak on their behalf.

    you’re entitled to who you choose to follow or interact with, & what subjects you’re not comfortable with. that’s fine, but don’t police others & spread this narrative about them when you don’t know what they think or why they write what they write.

[spencerscoven]

— dreams of another

about ; Since that night in the office you wander onto Spencer’s mind at all times, like clockwork.

gif by saramichellesgeller

CONTENT WARNING: unedited, smut, oral sex (male&female receiving), choking, unprotected sex, cheating, angst

a/n: view part 1 here.

The second time it happens, it's only a week that passes before Spencer finds himself on the floor of the humid conference room, his limbs entangled with yours, while the cool air settles on the sheen of sweat coated on his forehead. In the corner of of the room, he watches the navy blouse discarded carelessly on the top of a chair, similar in color to the marks between your breast.

The third time it happens, he tells you it's the last time, with his back facing you and his eyes gazing at entirely nothing.

The fourth and fifth time, Spencer doesn't say anything in the tiny space of your bedroom as he overlooks the buildings surrounding your apartment, then all the way to the concrete foundation down below, studying how insignificant everyone looked. How unknowing they were to the moral wrongdoings happening all around them.

"You live so high up. I live four floors down from here in my own building." You listened as he said those fruitless words.

"What does that mean?" You questioned, lips pursing together while your finger nails caught on the creases of the cream duvet beneath you where he laid only minutes before.

“People like you are meant to fuck people like me.” He mumbles, smirking, the vibrations of his voice upheld by the enclosures of cheap plaster walls.

The only thing left to do was to watch as the muscles of his back contracted, dancing in the lines of the darkness with the patter of his feet coming towards you. You monitored the direction of his hand as it reached for the band of his briefs, the other already latched around your neck.

The sixth time it happens, it’s in the bounds of his own apartment where he presses peppery kisses along the sides of your face, assuring you in confidence that she wouldn’t catch the two of you there. And he reassures you the only way he knows how, his fingers plying at your zipper and kneeling like he would at an alter, guiding the arch of your hips closer.

Two weeks from then was when the phone calls started. You began to understand the pattern, laying awake until the sweet pinnacle of dawn where he’d whisper your name through the receiver, exhaustion tainted in Spencer’s voice when he’d ask, “how was your night?” before he began to speak. You’d listen to Spencer talk about the good and the bad. About his mother, vintage cufflinks, and the bookshelf he wanted. Sometimes about the glasses or earrings in the store had reminded him of you. Often about how pretty you looked latched onto his cock. You wanted him to want to keep you.

You wanted him to want you first, to touch you before you even had to lay a finger on him, to grab the back of your neck and kiss you first. Anything he could do to prove that he wanted this too. Something in your head told you it was wrong to long for such a furtive thing. But you found yourself willing to be second best anyways, head stuck below sub zero while you prioritized the taste of his lips along with everything else that made him, him.

So in the shadows this thing between the two of you remained.

And the team began to realize Spencer now had a thing with being late.

They also began to realize that you didn’t drink nearly enough coffee to warrant all of your disappearances.

JJ malignly embarked on the observation of the two of you during meetings, where you never met Spencer’s eye properly but unconsciously leaned your body towards him with each interaction. And all at once it made sense to her, why he was more drawn to his phone, departing from bed at night in preference of hushed ringtones, his growing fondness to late nights. They had never agreed to a proclamation of love, not even on the days she relaxed on his dingy apartment furniture. JJ figured it was his way of waiting on her to feel the same as he might’ve, when in reality it was Spencer’s way of making sure you still remained in his life.

It was a Tuesday when she let the structure of your sin unravel in the bleak corner of the hallway with Spencer, confessing “i know” and chastening him,

“How many people are you willing to hurt?”

With the unequivocal decision pinned to the front of his brain, Spencer told you he didn’t want to hurt anyone else during the last call the two of you shared at night. The words became lost from your ears as you feigned deafness, thinking about how stupid you were to take him in the only way you could, thinking one-third of him be adequate enough.

So you hung up before he said goodbye, and it was easy to do solely because if love couldnt suffice, hate would have to.

It was odd to overlook the call that came immediately after, your eyes unblinking at the white screen. The weeks after that only came to demonstrate that finding a home within someone was overrated, even if you knew who was behind the blocked numbers that caused your phone to viberate so often it would fall off your nightstand.

Little by little you figured you’d forget and move onto your own devices, exhausted by the ability that you still moved through life, yet experienced none of it without itching for him next to you. You lusted after the idea you’d wake up with the intensity of it all slipped from your mind, forgetting how his arms felt, skin, pulse, the sound of his voice, or the soft ringlets of his hair that continued to grow as you wilted.

A harder idea to get out of your head was if he was okay, followed by if he ever thought of you at the same time you thought of him. Did he know you wouldn’t have minded resigning to another team? Or that you considered doing it, even now?

Spencer spectated your life, the base of his throat becoming caught when he watched you get worse, speak less, become smaller. You’d shrunken within yourself. Months passed, with him having too many inquiries about you to Morgan, who always gave him a disappointing look, but told him about you each time. That you hadn’t been sleeping, internal clock stuck on keeping you up until the crack of dawn, your mind regressing backwards solely because of him. He gave up on leaving those stupid sticky notes in your books that said “call me!” or even the ones that asked if you were okay, asking if you able to stand on your own.

He watched you so long that he began to see you get better, more social as you expanded, becoming a part of the team again. You were different, but you were you again. It was a bitter pill to swallow when he took heed that your life no longer included him, keeping his lips sealed at any revelation that would show he was still devoted.

So it was dull-witted when he found himself outside the door of your apartment, swaying back and fourth because every night since the last call his world had been spinning faster and faster, trapping him inside as a prisoner. For weeks straight Spencer had awoken with the feeling of bile ready to rise out of his throat, your presence always lacking even if you controlled the beat of his heart.

He knocked. And thought about how angelic you looked when you answered, the confused expression not going unnoticed by him as a celebration sounded somewhere in his mind because you looked as if you weren’t expecting anyone else. And Spencer knows he’d collapse right then and there if you had been.

“I’ve been thinking— it’s not like I can really stop it— for months. It’s been around sixty eight days since we last spoke,” He began, taking you in, enstilling trust in his brain to get a photo of you so well that he could have it forevermore if you didn’t want him anymore. If that had ever been the case he’d leave. He’d leave the state if you asked him to.

“Why are you here?” You only had four words to say out loud, the rest buzzing around in your head safely, unauthorized to rise out of your throat.

“We never really said anything about it but I think we both knew how we felt.” Spencer leans closer just in time for his lips to land beside your ears, lighting a match inside your chest that had stayed extinguished for far too long.

“Speaking was never our strong suit, anyway.” You replied, your lips pursed while your arms took on a defensive stance, pushing him back gently.

You were shipwrecked inside, pushing him back again, this time firmly because you knew you couldn’t stop him from coming closer, even if you wanted to. You were at a standstill as his hands brought yours to his shoulders, drawing circles on your hip with the tips of his fingers. He was in your doorway asking if he was yours, not trying to eloquently wrap you around his finger.

Your limbs acted before your mind did, digits moving across his adam’s apple and holding tight, restricting his airflow like he had done to you so many times while he fucked you into the mattress. You gleamed at him with not much in your eyes, trying to remembering when you had tried to cross the thin line between love and hate for him. Spencer’s eyes were soft and adoring, a look which he had a tendency to give you. So you held tighter. And he did nothing, knowing you wouldn’t go far but willing to die in your hands if you truly wanted to.

“I don’t know if you deserve this anymore,” Your lips ghosted over his, reprimanding him that he’d forgotten that this had began in a game of adultery.

“I don’t.” Spencer’s voice came out as if he was parched and you had been refusing him of a drink. Your hands released his neck and instead grabbed at his jaw, allowing his lips to mend together with yours, unable to speak back.

“If I loved you any less, I’d be able to talk about it more.” He pulled away just enough to whisper those words.

“You love me?” You questioned, a bit timid in the way it came out.

“It’s more than that. I adore you. Worship, even.”

You felt yourself moving the both of you into your apartment, swapping the publicity of the hallway for the privacy closely afforded to you. Your bodies only got so far, pushing each other against the wall next to the enterence, Spencer’s hands helping to arch your body into his, hands pressing down the curve of your back.

You enjoyed feeling him subtly grind his hips against you while he let out little whimpers, remembering the way he was so vocal and sensitive, yet dominant when he laid between your legs. You drew in a quick breath as he bit down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw the red liquid that ran through your body, conflicted as to why it only drew you closer, want intensified.

“I missed you so much,” Spencer’s voice ghosted in the crook of your neck, kissing and sucking along your throat and collarbones, pushing the palm of his hand harshly against your damp cotton underwear, drawing a shiver from you. “Are lilacs still favorite flowers?”

His fingers played along your slit, the pads of his thumb pressing on your clit and rotating above the fabric, watching your hips jerk from the subtle pleasure.

“I think you missed me too,” Spencer held you, switching places so you now were encased between him and the wall, knowing that soon enough your knees wouldn’t be able to hold you up. His index and middle finger filled you up in a way only he could, the tips of them curving in his direction as he hit the bumpy ridge inside of you.

You held his shoulder, uncaring that your nails dug into the expensive button up he wore, admiring that he always preferred quality over quantity. Your face contorted in pleasure as his fingers only pumped faster inside of your vagina, only smirking at the sorry attempt of a nod you gave to answer him because he had rendered you speechless.

You felt the climb of your orgasm rise in your stomach, reaching all the way to the rest of your limbs, making them feel as if they were just static attached to your body until his fingers ceased, sensing how you clenched around them desperately. Your mouth opened, protests ready to fall out while he grasped the back of your knees, signaling you to jump so he could carry you to your bedroom.

“Why are you always such a tease?” You groaned, endearingly grabbing the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I can’t just let your greedy pussy swallow my fingers and cum from just that...” he tosses you into your sheets gently, leaning down to take your top off and throwing it somewhere to be rediscovered again.

He watches silently as you lift your hips off the mattress, panties sliding down your calves to your ankles, and finally off. Spencer gazes down at you, your jaw in his two hands, staring up with puppy eyes. He let a line of swears spring from his mouth, wondering why you looked so innocent when your hands were planted on his hips, licking the precum that made a wet patch on the side of his pants.

“Quite unfair that I’m the only one with my clothes off, don’t you think?” Your hands settled on his belt buckle, the jingle of metal filling the room as you undid the button to his slacks as well. Tugging him by the band of his boxers to lay on the bed with you, Spencer caught the cue and laid against the headboard. He trailed his left hand along your thighs, lifting you to straddle him as his right latched onto your breasts, squeezing.

“Please sit,” He said, taking a nipple into his mouth, “On my face.”

You sat in a slightly worried daze, Spencer catching the clue to just move you into the position. You found yourself facing the mirror at the foot of your bed, your ass in his face as he grabbed at your hips, trying to bring you higher and get a taste.

“Are you sure?” You apprehensively twisted your torso to eye him, taking note that the two of you had came across something you’d quite done before.

“Yes, I need you to.” Spencer reached his arm around, gently rubbing your clit, and feeling how your whole body relaxed from above him, as he repeated affirmations against your back.

You watched from the mirror, your ass propped up in his face and lips swollen. You could even see when you began the swivel of your hips into him. He didn’t need to say much else before you arched your back, planting your pussy right above his lips.

“You’re so pretty.” He whispered, before running his tongue flatly against your pussy.

Your hips jerked back and fourth, riding on the surface of his tongue that enveloped your clit, sucking on it harshly until he flatly ran it up. His fingers were back at work, touching the places where his tongue couldn’t reach. You determined that this position was now one of your favorites, your hands that were once placed on the tops of his thighs reaching for the bludge in his boxers.

You tried pulling them just far enough so you could begin to run your hands up and down his cock. Spencer’s tongue only assaulted your clit harder when you leaned down, allowing him a new angle so you could push him into your mouth, collecting the precum that had spilt, humming in delight.

Spencer couldn’t stop the thrusting of his hips upwards, burying himself deeper down your throat, both of your moans viberating off the atoms in your room. Your eyes wandered up as you watched, hypnotized at the reflection of you two. It made you wanna take his dick deeper, taking him to the back of your throat as you felt his cum ripple out.

Your orgasm only took a few more seconds to follow his, your moan muffled from your jaw expanded around his cock. Your hasty breaths harbored his while you saw stars. You were casted out of your stupor when you felt the palm of his hand rub circles into your ass, hand coming down in a smack.

“This fucking pussy has me whipped.” Spencer sighed, pressing a kiss exactly where his hand last struck.

When you positioned yourself back across his abdomen, you kneeled, kissing him. You felt him twitch under you from tasting himself on your tongue, reaching down to line up his cock to enter you.

Spencer stared up at you, his eyes wide as he took in the sight of you slowly descending your pussy on his cock. His hands traced the hickies that dawned on your chest, then to his on his lower stomach, watching how the two of you connected. These were marks of possession— ones that he could finally show off.

You rolled your hips against his, slowly circling them and allowing him to hit the most sensitive parts of you. You felt so much fuller than usual, the feeling taking your breath away. Nobody else could reach those heights that Spencer gave you. Maybe it was also because nobody else could occupy your mind like he could, either.

He pulled you down so the two of you could reunite your lips, wearing away at the callouses that had formed around your heart. His thumb drew slow circles on your clit, pulling your orgasm out so you could cum above him. It took a few more thrusts before he came inside you, continuing to fuck his seed back into you from below for just a while longer. When Spencer’s hips stilled, he kept inside, basking in the embodiment of you that wholly consumed him.

He silently traced the outlines of your features, your eye lids fluttering as he reached to them. His fingernails scratched your scalp im a rythem that lulled you into hazy exhaustion. You feel his stare on your face as it occurs to him that he was doomed from the start. You were a wonder to behold.

“Spencer?”

“Yes?”

“Did you forget all of the things I remember?”

“I don’t think I could even if I tried.”

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