#in this as in most things 3 year olds are CORRECT

[soracities]

thinking of Kafka's so called failed drawing of a horse and my theory regarding the classic "its impossible to draw a horse" dilemma is not that you can't draw a horse but that hardly anyone can truly draw a Horse because even when you have it down anatomically you've still missed the Essence of Horse, the horseness of the Horse, if you will, and this is EVERYTHING

you can draw a cat or a pigeon and absolutely capture the catness and the pigeonness of a cat and a pigeon but the horseness of a horse is so phenomenally antithetical to any and all visual representation it will never sit right ever. got the proportions perfectly rendered? faithfully captured the sheen on the coat? delineated all the sinews and muscles of this insane beast in motion? great. still not a Horse though!!!

truly i think 3 year olds are sometimes the only people who see the horse for what it is bc accurate depictions of horsenessness have nothing to do w anatomy and EVERYTHING to do w expressing the Vibe of being near these ridiculous animals. like the entire history of art flounders before the horse bc no amount of breaking them into circles and boxes will help you whatsoever these creatures are made up ENTIRELY of an utterly INCOMPREHENSIBLE marriage between mad staggering bulk and fluid motion like lets be real a static image will NOT cut it no matter how perfect we think the flank-to-belly ratio is.

im sorry but the cult of Realism has warped our minds Kafka nailed it this is precisely what a horse IS precisely !!

i rest my case

[fingertipsmp3]

I’m never beating the “grew up in Innsmouth” allegations forreal

[starlightomatic]

Someone sent me an ask about how to avoid antisemitism when talking about what's happening in Palestine, but Tumblr ate it. This is a really important question, because we don't want to fight one oppression while enabling another; we don't want to accidentally foment the conditions that lead to antisemitic violence, and we also don't want to shy away from speaking about Gaza for fear that we're doing so.

Here are my thoughts.

There are a lot of unconscious antisemitic beliefs that people hold, that they may not be consciously aware of. They may have learned these from parents, peers, or society at large. Like any bigotry, a huge part of not being harmful in bigoted ways comes down to learning what unconscious bigotry looks like within you and learning how it is expressed.

Antisemitism is very old, and there are a lot of tropes and beliefs that have developed through the years. Many of these are alive and well, though they may be subtle enough that people don't realize they're carrying them. However, they show up in the way that people speak, especially about Israel and Palestine. Here are some:

1. Jews are overwhelmingly wealthy

2. Jews control the world

3. Jews control a given country (eg the US)

4. Jews are not oppressed

5. Jews are some of the most privileged people in society; more than non-Jewish white people. Jews are white people but even more so.

6. Jews are whiny and complain about their nonexistent oppression too much

7. Jews are sneaky, deceptive, and untrustworthy. They don't speak sincerely or plainly; they have an ulterior motive and are trying to get one over on you.

8. Jews are greedy

9. Jews are really powerful

10. Jews undermine and destabilize movements and countries. (This one connects to 3, 7, and 8).

11. Jews are inherently guilty; a good Jew needs to apologize for being Jewish

12. Jews are bloodthirsty and desire violence against non-Jews

13. A Jew is from somewhere else, and does not belong in the place that they are.

14. Jews sap resources from the country they are in and funnel them into their own communities/interests. They are a vampire-like parasite on the societies they live in.

How do these get expressed in the movement? Here are some examples (these are paraphrases and combinations of various things I've seen):

Example A:

"American Jews are complaining about oppression while living in their NYC apartments and taking Ubers. It's ridiculous, so much privilege and entitlement." This one's got 1, 4, 5, 6, and 7.

1: Assumes wealth. Plenty of us can't afford NYC apartments or Ubers!

4, 5, and 6: self-explanatory.

7: Belief that on some level, fear of antisemitism can't really be sincere; we must be talking about it for some other purpose, eg to distract from "real" issues.

Example B:

"The US is funding this genocide because of the influence of Israel and Israel's interests, and the Jewish lobbyists." Employs 3 and 9.

3: The US is doing this because of its own interests; if anything, the US wants to be able to use Israel as a pawn.

9: Imagines Jewish lobbyists as powerful enough to drive US policy. Also forgets how dramatically the US dwarfs Israel in size, money, and power; imagines it's the other way around.

Example C:

"These Israeli first responders are lying about finding mutilated and sexually abused bodies after October 7th. This Israeli girl who was held hostage is lying about having talked to fellow hostages who were sexually assaulted. This Israeli first responder is lying about children having been killed on October 7th."

This is 4, 6, and mainly 7.

7 because it assumes that these people are telling these lies for some nefarious purpose: to garner false sympathy, or worse, to manufacture support for genocide. It cannot be because they are actually telling the truth.

Example D:

"It's suspect if someone talks too much about antisemitism. Or if they correct my misinformation. They are probably a crypto-Zionist. In fact, all of these Jewish tumblr bloggers are crypto-Zionists."

(The first part of this I haven't heard said; but rather it's the unspoken attitude I'm frequently presented with.)

This one has 4, 5, 6, 7 and 10. Mostly 7 and 10.

Beliefs that our goal is to derail pro-Palestine organizing by sewing Zionist beliefs in the movement. That we would be capable of such (9). That it's impossible that we're sincere and we're concerned both about what's happening in Gaza and the everpresent, intangible potent threat of imminent antisemitic violence.

Example E:

"What everpresent threat of imminent antisemitic violence? You're either delusional, too privileged to understand how oppressed you aren't, or lying to some sinister purpose."

The first two (delusional and too privileged) often comes from other Jews, who, yes, can be antisemitic too.

This one has: 4, 5, 6, 7, and 9.

Example F:

"As a Jew I know I am responsible for what's happening in Gaza, and I need to call in my people who deny our privilege and who think they're unsafe."

1, 4, 5, 6, 11. Shades of 10.

Example G:

"Israel is invading Gaza for oil."

8. Also this isn't true.

Example H:

"No Israeli is a civilian. All settlers are guilty, and need to leave."

Technically, it is possible for someone to hold this belief consistently for all settlers worldwide due to stringent decolonial beliefs. However, it frequently is applied only to Israelis. In such an iteration, I think it contains 10, 11, 12, and 13.

Which leads to my next point: Double standards. If something doesn't invoke a particular trope, but views Jewish or Israeli actions more harshly than we'd view the equivalent in any other place or people, to me that's suspect.

For example, relating to the above, if we believe that Truth and Reconciliation is the answer in the US and Canada, but in Israel the answer would be forced displacement of the Jewish population, that would be antisemitic.

Also, if we're able to hold nuance around the idea of refugees to the US and Canada, and understand that they're simultaneously taking part in colonialism while also arriving under duress because they need a place to live, we can extend the same nuance to the idea of Jewish refugees (Holocaust survivors, SWANA Jews, Ethiopian Jews, etc) who have come to Israel.

And, going back to example A, is there any other marginalized group we would say is not actually oppressed because members of it live in NYC and take Ubers? No? Then, it's antisemitic when you say it about Jews.

I also think misinformation about Jewish history and identity is antisemitic. For example, lines of thought that deny our ancestral, historical, cultural, and liturgical connections to the land of Israel/Palestine. One false belief I see a lot is Khazar Theory, popularized by the quack Shlomo Sand. This states that Ashkenazi Jews do not have ancestral origins in what's now Israel/Palestine, but rather descend from a mass conversion of Turkic peoples in the Kingdom of Kazaria. It is not, in fact, true.

Something else along these lines is back-defining origins and land-connection through current events. For example, a white gentile ex-friend of mine shared a post stating that because the IDF, as well as settler extremists, destroy Palestinian olive trees (an egregious act, in my opinion, as well as against Jewish law), this means we are not native to the land. While I understand the term native is complex and this might have been an attempt to denote our positionality as colonizer in a colonizer-indigenous dynamic, the framing of the post led me to believe that, actually, the post was using these actions to prove that we do not actually originate from the land.

Destroying Palestinian olive trees is an act of great violence against the land, against the Palestinian people, and against our own history, culture, and religious traditions. However, it does not change the historical fact of our origins or ancestry, nor the fact the our religious traditions are deeply intertwined with the seasons, climate, and agriculture of Israel-Palestine, even when that puts them out of sync with the seasons and climate of wherever we live in Diaspora.

I hope this is helpful. This is a really hard time for so many of us, and I know it can feel like derailing to focus on antisemitism right now, and to focus on the potential of future violence when the people of Gaza are experiencing actual extreme levels of violence right now. But if we truly believe that none of us are free until all of us are free, then fighting antisemitism has to be part of our collective liberation. We cannot and should not fight genocide by engaging in oppression. Speaking up for Gaza and Palestine does not have to mean fomenting conditions that put Jews in danger of bigotry and violence. The world we're building is one where seeing your trees destroyed, or your family killed, or your home receding into the distance as you are forced to leave is but a distant memory. For Palestinians, and for Jews, and for everybody on this Earth.

[grantairezee]

I mentioned this in my rambling tag essay but then i thought it might be worth mentioning in the actual post.

In my experience, in the lastest versions of MS Word, the grammar checker is virtually non-functional. It now consistently tells me to change things I know to be correct, to the extent that I had to just turn it off. For example, it no longer reliably understands subject-verb agreement/pluralisation rules. It was always for shit when it came to punctuation (it had a vendetta against commas), but there was a time when it did alright with conjugation and other grammar principles. In my experience, this is no longer the case.

writer survey question time:

inspired by seeing screencaps where the software is offering (terrible) style advice because I haven't used a software that has a grammar checker for my stories in like a decade

if you use multiple applications, pick the one you use most often.

[artdcnaldson]

Tie Break || Art Donaldson x Reader ; Patrick Zweig x Reader

this can be read as a sequel to changeover or as a standalone :) enjoy <3

Rating: E (18+)

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings: SMUT (p in v smut x2, f!recieving oral, handjob, creampie, cum eating), angst with a happy ending, infidelity, toxic relationships, everyone in this is kind of a horrible person, language obviously

Summary: It’s summer in Atlanta, 2011. For the second time in your life, you’re the clear second choice. When the opportunity arises, you find a temporary distraction in Art Donaldson.

A/N: FINALLY here it is! The 2011 Atlanta fic. They’re back, they’re older, they’re even more toxic. Let me know if you’re interested in a part 3!

It was hot, even though the sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon. It was a cloying, oppressive heat that made the stupid, business-casual top you wore stick to your skin. 

The article you were working on was halfway written, something you could knock out in the next hour if you really tried. Your drink was watered down from the heat, weak when it hit your tongue. A frown turned your lips, but you really shouldn’t have been drinking anyway.

"Working late?”

The voice was so familiar that you could’ve recognized it anywhere, any time. Art Donaldson was one of the most recognizable men in the country, but to you, he seemed so different. The boyishness was still there, but it lay beneath a new level of confidence.

You took a sip of your drink, trying to appear nonchalant, like it hadn’t been four years since you last spoke. “I’m on deadline. I’m writing a feature on Anna Mueller heading into the US Open next month.”

Without asking, he sat down across from you at the small bistro table. He was so close you could smell the minty gum he had been chewing. It nearly made you smile. Old habits die hard.

“So you write about tennis?” He asked, meeting your gaze. 

“I write about athletes,” you corrected. “I was going to be here anyway, and since Anna is heading for a Grand Slam, I thought it would be easy enough. Grab a couple of interviews, watch a few matches.”

He nodded, leaning back in the chair, trying his best to be causal in a situation that definitely wasn’t. You sipped again at your drink, peering at him over the edge of the glass. 

“You have a match tomorrow,” you said, as though he needed reminding. “Shouldn’t you be listening to shitty pop punk to get yourself psyched right now?”

A smile spread across his lips, and he looked so much like the guy you knew from college that it made your chest tug uncomfortably. Same hair, the same smile, the same crinkle at the edges of his eyes when he was amused by something. You couldn’t help but smile along with him, like the past four years were nothing. “I don’t do that anymore,” he said with a laugh. “Do you want another drink?”

You looked down at your glass, mostly water and thin ice cubes. “Rum and coke?” You asked, giving him a tiny smile. He nodded and disappeared towards the bar.

It felt strange, sitting there in the quiet, your article the furthest thing from your mind. Four years. It felt like yesterday and an eternity ago that you’d last spoken with him. He was a familiar stranger, nearly unknowable. 

Your cursor blinked a few more times before you shut your laptop and slid it back inside your beat-up work bag. 

“Running off?” He asked, catching you in the act of packing your things. You shook your head and accepted the fresh drink with a smile. “You said you were going to be in Atlanta anyway,” he said as he sat, spreading out, making himself comfortable in the shitty bar seating. “When you were talking about writing about Anna.”

You nodded. “Mhmm, I did,” you replied, chewing the inside of your lip nervously. His gaze was intense, falling just on the other side of casual. You felt tiny under that gaze, like you were guilty of a crime you didn’t know you’d committed. 

“And you’re here for Patrick?” The words were nonchalant, but you could hear the accusation beneath them, the history of the two of them just in one sentence. It turned something in your stomach, the possessiveness in his voice. You could hear it, even four years out.

The new drink was strong, but it was the perfect way to hide the distaste in your expression. The burn of liquor into your chest grounded you back in reality instead of the easy allure of nostalgia. “Yeah,” you said after a beat. “I try my best to go to all of his matches.”

Art narrowed his eyes, just slightly. There was still an element of exaggerated friendliness, the casual smile on his lips, the open body language. All of it masking the lingering resentment and hurt that was buried beneath mountains of nostalgia. Deep enough that neither of you had realized it was still there until you found yourselves face to face. There was an unspoken question, one that he didn’t want to ask, one that you didn’t want to answer. 

How long?

You took another drink. 

“Where is Patrick?” He asked, glancing around like he might materialize out of thin air.

“He went out for a smoke, or to walk around and clear his head, or something,” you said with a shrug. “I’m not his keeper. Where’s Tashi?”

His jaw clenched and he looked away— a sore spot. A scab you wanted to pick at until it bled, dig your nails in. Maybe that was your eighteen-year-old self talking. 

“You never used to let her get too far away from you,” you noted, mirth dripping from each syllable. “Bet you came down here looking for her. Your leash must’ve been just a little too loose this time and she slipped it.”

You took a long drink, nails tapping against the glass as you considered your words. Tashi wasn’t the type of woman who let a man hold her back. If you were trying to be more accurate, rather than just piss him off, you might’ve fixed the analogy. Art was the sad little puppy following her around. She tied his leash to a lamp post for a fucking break.

“Do you remember the day Tashi got injured?” He asked, changing the subject suddenly. 

You blinked slowly, appraising him. But his expression gave nothing away. “I do.”

A wry smile spread across his lips, and he met your gaze with a coldness that you didn’t recognize. Mean in the way injured animals like to snap at the nearest hand. “It was Patrick in your room that night, wasn’t it?”

Your brows furrowed, face falling at his words. “What?”

He made a face, something akin to skepticism, but crueler. It made your stomach turn. 

“You were fucking someone in your room,” he said plainly. “And I’ve always had a suspicion that it was Patrick. Was it?”

That didn’t do much to clear up your confusion. “You were there?”

He laughed, mirthless, and nodded. “I was, uh, sitting by the door like an asshole. I came to apologize, to beg for you back, but instead, I spent the night listening to my girlfriend getting fucked on the other side of the door.”

Annoyance flickered in your gaze. He knew of a wound of your own, and he relished in picking at it the way you’d relished in digging your fingers into his. “I wasn’t your girlfriend, Art.”

“Right, you weren’t. But you’re Patrick’s girlfriend now, is that it?”

Heat burned in your cheeks. Your relationship with Patrick was… tempestuous to say the least. Most of the time he was your boyfriend, but others he was just a friend that you could count on for a good fuck, sometimes not even a friend. At the moment, he was the former, but that could always change.

It wasn’t easy, being with someone whose emotions ran on an equally short fuse. You’d sound too much like his parents, or he’d devalue your work, or Patrick would forget to take out the trash in your apartment and you’d snap, or you’d mispronounce a word one too many times and it would drive him crazy. Insignificant things could feel big with him, because of him. For better or worse. 

“At the moment, yes.”

“At the moment.” He echoed, laughing like he was in on some joke you were painfully unaware of.

”That’s amusing to you?” You asked, raising a brow. 

He shrugged, picking at his jeans. “Your choice of words is interesting.” He lets that hang in the air before he meets your gaze again. “Do you think Patrick would’ve even noticed you if it hadn’t been for me?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Does it matter?” You asked. “You realize that we’ve been together going on four years now, right? Broken up, dating, fucking, whatever. You realize that there may be more important things in our life than you?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. I think you know that whatever you have, it’s built on the fact that you were a warm body when he needed it. Just like you were for me.”

That arrogant expression, like he actually fucking knew anything about you anymore was the last straw. You stood suddenly, grabbing your bag. You weren’t Art Donaldson’s little lapdog anymore— you didn’t have to sit there and take all the shit he doled out. 

“Goodnight, Art. Thanks for the drink.”

It was funny, how your weaknesses were still so exposed. Art’s was Tashi, and it probably always would be. His desire to be seen, to impress, painted upon every lovely feature. And yours, raw and bleeding and obvious— the unbearable, visceral need to be wanted.

You made it to the elevator before you felt his presence behind you. Wordless, but so close it was suffocating. You jabbed the up button over and over in frustration, knowing it wouldn’t speed anything up. 

Art stepped into the elevator with you, so close you could feel the body heat radiating off of him. He always burned hot, like a human furnace. 

It was silent as the lift lurched upwards. You pressed against the back corner, watching the number of the floor increase one by one. 

“Patrick is with Tashi,” Art said without looking at you, just as the elevator opened on the floor of your room. You froze, swallowing hard. “I saw them in the hotel bar, then they left together. What do you think they’re doing right now?”

You shook your head dumbly, pulse thrumming in your throat. “Go fuck yourself, Art,” you said weakly, because what else was there to say? You stepped into the hallway— lit with dim yellow light so you couldn’t see where the wallpaper peeled and the carpet was stained.

“If you need somewhere to wait them out, and you will, I’m in room 13 on the seventh floor.” The elevator doors closed, and you were alone. 

The hallway was winding, and you felt a bad sort of anticipation of what you might find, like a sick feeling in your gut. You stood in front of the room, 306, and froze.

The door to your room was closed, no light shone from beneath the door, but you could hear them. Muffled, but clear enough. A pretty voice and breathy moans. Patrick’s laugh, the thud of something falling off the dresser.

Your room key was in your purse— you could’ve gotten it out and stopped it, but what good would that have done? You’d still spend the night humiliated, facing opposite walls as Patrick, lying in the same sheets he’d just fucked her in. 

You dropped the bag by the door and took a slow, shaky breath to calm yourself down. 

Tashi Duncan. She had lingered on the edges of your relationship with Patrick too. She was Patrick’s first choice, just as she’d been Art’s. You’d never blamed them for that, you knew where you stood, and you chose them anyway. 

It was easy to choose them when you thought that the threat was nonexistent— when distance made you feel safe. You could hear her and him, but it felt like mere static in your brain.

You knew how Art felt, back at Stanford. Sulking outside the door, unable and unwilling to stop what was happening on the other side. 

You were in the elevator before you realized you’d walked away. Shitty soft rock played over the speakers, and a poster on the wall advertised a continental breakfast. Your stomach turned uncomfortably. 

You knocked on the door— room thirteen, an unlucky number. Maybe it didn’t bode well. As you waited for the door to open, your nails tapped a staccato rhythm against your thigh.

Art opened the door like he’d been expecting someone else. Maybe he had half-expected you to interrupt and send Tashi back upstairs, but no. He got you standing at his door with fiery eyes and an expectant expression. 

Second choice, second choice, second choice.

Art kissed you for the first time in four years, and you let him. Not because you wanted to hurt Patrick or Tashi, but because you knew it would hurt you. His tongue pressed between the seam of your lips like he belonged there, licking into your mouth like he wanted to reclaim every part of you that Patrick had touched. You pushed him with a firm hand on his chest and he stumbled backward into the room. Despite everything, he smiled. 

His hotel room was nearly identical to yours and Patrick’s. But you didn’t have time to really take in the details when he had his tongue in your mouth, kissing you hungrily.

That afternoon, you kissed Patrick after he lost his match. You wondered if Art could still taste him on your tongue then, if he wanted to drown out the taste of him. 

It was different than you were used to. Four years with Patrick meant that you’d grown accustomed to certain ways that he did things— the intensity behind each kiss, each touch. His emotions— good, bad, in between— were never masked, never repressed. 

When Patrick kissed you, when he touched you, when he fucked you— both of you were laid completely bare. 

Art was different. When he kissed you it was through a certain level of performance, like he’d learned how from a searing romance film. In college, you’d believed that he kissed you like that because deep down, he did love you. Even at that moment, years out from your relationship with him, it muddled your brain.

Your sensible work heels had long since been kicked off by the door. Art’s fingers undid the button and zip of your jeans deftly, with a confidence that had only doubled since Freshman year. They wound up in a heap against the hotel dresser. 

In his haste to remove your (also sensible, and very business casual) button-down, he popped about half of the buttons off completely. 

“Sorry,” he said. The grin on his lips made you wonder if sorry was really how he felt. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Stop talking.” You pulled off your bra and lost it somewhere across the room in your haste. Art was pulling off his clothes— his hoodie and the shirt beneath. His jeans and shoes toed off and left to be dealt with later. 

He kissed you again, guiding you exactly where he needed. Your knees hit the back of the mattress and he eased you down without moving his lips from yours. When your head hit the sheets, you smelled perfume so sweet that it was nearly intoxicating. You turned your head, breathing deeply. Tashi. In this same bed, in this same spot. It made something stir inside you— right in your chest. A hint of wrongness, a hint of hurt. 

Art pulled back, moving his lips along your jaw, down to the junction of your throat. 

“Stop thinking,” he murmured against your skin, kissing down to your tits. “I don’t want you thinking about Patrick. Not when you’re with me.”

The words were mumbled against soft, supple skin. His eyes were intent as they looked up at you, the demand of momentary fidelity in his eyes. You wanted to slap that expression off of his face, or run your thumb along his cheek and hold his face in your hands. 

How was it fair that he asked you that when he’d lingered like a ghost on the edges of whatever it was that you and Patrick had? How was it fair for him to look at you like that?

He took a nipple into his mouth and you gasped as his teeth grazed against the sensitive skin. Soft kisses before he suckled softly. “Okay,” you gasped, lying through your teeth. “I’m only thinking of you.”

His hair was still long, kept the same way he wore it in school. Your fingers tangled in his hair like muscle memory, scratching against his scalp as he kissed along your skin with wet lips, treating your other breast with the same, hungry attention.

“Still so fucking hot,” he mumbled against your skin. “Should’ve— fuck— should’ve kept you. What do you want, huh? Tell me.”

Your mind swam with possibilities, but you didn’t even know where to begin. Your mind was stuck on his previous words. Should’ve kept you. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?  “I don’t know,” you replied, completely honest. “Whatever you want.”

He accepted that easily— it was so similar to how you’d been for him in college. You gasped as he kissed down your sternum, then your stomach. His lips found the waistband of your panties and he grinned, tugging at the lace with his teeth, letting it snap back against your hip. 

He peeled your panties down slowly, letting his hands trail down the expanse of your legs. The possessiveness of the touch sent a thrill up your spine. His lips grazed along your skin, from your ankle, up your calf, then your knee. Your legs spread instinctively, welcoming him right back where he knew he belonged. His pretty lips trailed wet kisses up your thighs, stopping just where you wanted him. 

You expected him to rush. He’d seen Patrick and Tashi leave, which meant they’d finish before you two, more likely than not. There was every reason in the world to make things quick— to fuck you and make you leave. 

Instead, he took his time with you. Soft, teasing kisses peppered on the supple skin of your thighs before he nuzzled into your cunt. The first delve of his tongue was slow and exploratory, tasting the arousal that had pooled at your core. 

”God, you still taste so fucking sweet.”

Another thing you’d nearly forgotten about Art— in all things, he was methodical.

He started with kitten licks at your clit— light brushes with his tongue that made you whimper needily for more. His tongue circled you there, and he relished in the way your fingers tugged on his hair at the sensation. 

Then he wrapped his lips around the sensitive bud, sucking with more pressure until a strangled moan squeezed past your lips. Your thighs tensed on either side of his head, holding him there as he alternated between slow, soothing licks and firm suction.

It was frustrating, how wet you were. Art had brought out the worst in you, turned you into something that left you feeling genuinely embarrassed. And still, you were slick, dripping down to the sheets. A mess of arousal and Art’s spit. 

When he eased a finger into your cunt, it slid in like your body was made to fit whatever he could give you. At that point, you very well could have been. What were you, if not an object orbiting in the atmosphere of his life?

He looked up at you, seeming so fucking intent on making it feel good for you as he crooked his finger. It rubbed against the soft, spongy spot within you and you cried out, eyes rolling back. 

“That’s it, huh?” He cooed as he pressed a second finger inside of you. Your arm was slung over your face. You couldn’t let yourself keep looking at him when he was looking at you the same way he had in college. The same fucking expression that got your head all mixed up in the first place. 

He pressed a soft kiss to your clit and you whimpered. “I know it feels good, baby, just relax.”

His fingers thrust within you with a slow, deep pressure as he continued to make out with your clit. It was always so good with him— you’d nearly forgotten how easy it was for him to bring you to the edge. 

When you came, it wasn’t like what you had grown used to with Patrick— sudden and overwhelming, like it had been ripped from some secret place within you. It was intense, but slow to build, seeming to last forever as Art’s fingers and tongue worked you through it. Your breath was shaky as he pulled back, pretty mouth wet with your arousal.

“Do you want to stop?” He asked, looking up at you expectantly. 

You should’ve stopped— rationally, you knew that it was best to turn back and quit before you fucked up the situation beyond repair. 

But it was Art. He could’ve had anyone else, but he wanted you. Maybe not forever, or even longer than that night. But for then. 

You shook your head softly. “No. Do you think we should stop?”

His fingers moved between your thighs, circling your clit. “We definitely should. You’re with Patrick.”

You sighed, eyes fluttering as he caressed you with featherlight touches. “Don’t fucking talk about him,” you said, but your words came out with no bite. How could they, when he was playing with your body like a favorite toy?

“No?” He asked. He was wearing a smug sort of expression. “You don’t want me to talk about your boyfriend, huh? Too personal?”

You moaned as he applied more pressure at the apex of your thighs, making your cunt clench and ache to be filled. 

“Does Patrick know how much you’ve missed me?” He asked. Your breath caught in your throat, and he just smiled. “I bet he does. I think he knows that if he just drops my name in a conversation, your pussy gets wet.”

You moaned softly at his words, chest heaving with soft pants. You weren’t even sure if it was true, but it felt like it could’ve been then. He leaned down, his words spoken close to your ear.

“I can go slow. Make it last for you.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, making you shiver. 

You nodded eagerly, turning your head to capture his lips with yours. The kiss was slow, like you had all the time in the world. His tongue against yours, the weight of his body on top of you, the feel of him hard, pressing against your thigh. 

He sat back to strip off his boxers, and you relished in the sight of him laid bare before you. You’d nearly forgotten how pretty he was— big and flushed nearly red with need. It made your heart hammer with nerves; your excitement and shame and need rolled into one messy, electrifying tangle. 

His hair flopped into his eyes as he held himself over you, just like you remembered. You reached up, brushing it out of his eyes with a tender hand. His lips brushed against the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse thrummed in your veins. 

“Tell me you’ve missed me.”

Heat flooded your entire body, as you repeated the words. “I missed you, Art.” You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his cock, and guiding it towards your entrance. He moaned and bucked instinctively into your hand.

”Tell me you want me to fuck you, no one else.” You could hear the implications in his words. Tell me you want me, not Patrick. 

“I want you to fuck me.”

Art pressed himself inside of you, sinking into the welcoming warmth of your cunt. You wrapped your legs around his waist, squeezing him closer, deeper, until his balls pressed firm against you and there was nothing else to give.

He thrust shallowly, rocking against a spot deep within you, one that made your eyes flutter with each brush against it.

“You’re so tight still,” he moaned, lips moving against your throat. “Pussy’s made just for me.”

He touched you like he hadn’t forgotten how you felt or what you needed. Spoke to you like you were one of his possessions.

You lost yourself in it— the sweet, filthy words spoken against your skin, and the rhythm of his body moving against yours. His lips captured yours with a hungry insistence, like he could convey four years' worth of unspoken words with a few brushes of his tongue against yours. 

When he pulled back, lips spit slick and looking so pretty, you thought maybe there was a sort of understanding between the two of you.

His head fell back as he sped up his thrusts, chasing his release. There wasn’t time to stretch it out, to spend as much time as you could with each other’s bodies. 

“Need you to cum,” he said, sliding a hand between your thighs to rub your still-sensitive clit. Your cunt was squeezing him tight, body aching for it, for him, brought to the edge simply because he’d asked for it. “C’mon— you get so tight when you cum, need to feel it again.”

It was like your body was hardwired to give him exactly what he wanted. You came with broken moans of his name and legs squeezing him closer, deeper. Your chest heaved with shaking breaths and punched out whimpers as he kept fucking into you.

He was practically crushing you with his weight, pinning you down, groaning into the junction of your shoulder. 

“Gonna make me cum, baby,” his words vibrated against skin tacky with a thin sheen of sweat.

”Want you to.” Your arms slung around his back, holding him close to you. “I’ve got an IUD, so you can— you can cum.”

His lips met yours as he came, with a pretty moan into your open mouth and slow, messy kisses that made you want to just melt into him and stay that way forever. 

Spent, he rolled over and turned on a lamp at the bedside. The alarm clock announced the time in a dim red glow— five past one.

You lay there, damp between your thighs from the mixture of your releases, unsure of what to do. It was cold beneath the hotel AC. He was peering over at you, wearing an expression you were scared to dissect.

When his hand touched your arm, you nearly flinched. Your breath caught in your throat as he ran his thumb along your skin, so sweetly that you felt that same discomfort tug at your chest. 

“C’mere,” he said, an offer. His arm was splayed over the pillows, giving you the perfect spot to lie down and press yourself against his side. To pretend like you belonged there.

But you didn’t belong there. You belonged four floors down with Patrick. That’s where you had belonged for four years. The reality of what you’d done had set in quickly, and you knew you needed to get out of Art’s room. 

”Art,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I have to go.”

He nodded and sat up against the headboard. You watched him grab his boxers and pull them back on, a strange smile on his face. He must’ve sensed your confusion, even without you saying. 

“It’s funny how things change,” he said. “Here I am, asking you to stay for once.”

You didn’t say anything as you picked up your clothes from around the room, redressing as you recovered each piece from its hiding spot around the room. Your shirt was unsalvageable, so you grabbed Art’s. He had plenty of brand sponsors that would jump to replace it, and Patrick wouldn’t recognize it.

“I loved you, I think,” he said suddenly. “Back in college.”

You froze, arms crossed over your chest as you looked at him. “Art—“

“No, I did. I loved you, I just did it all wrong.”

“Art, just stop,” you said firmly. Embarrassment hit you all at once— the guilt of what you’d done, and the shame over who you’d done it with. Your eyes stung as you looked at him. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

His lips twitched, dipping into a frown, then back into as close to a neutral expression as he could manage. “I just thought you should know. It’s only fair.”

You laughed mirthlessly. “Fair? Jesus Christ, you really haven’t changed, Art.” 

His expression fell completely. It looked like it had back in the hotel bar— icy. “I haven’t changed? What’s that supposed to mean?”

You sighed as you looked at him. “It means that if this were Stanford, that would’ve made me crawl right back into bed, lay by your side, and daydream about what it could mean for us. If one day I might be Mrs. Art Donaldson. It means that you say these sweet things to me every time you can feel me slipping away, but they mean absolutely nothing. We’re not nineteen anymore, Art. I’m not leaving Patrick to be your plaything again.”

His jaw tensed, and he looked down at the bed briefly while he picked at loose threads on the sheets. “You think that’s what I want?”

You frowned. “I think you want what Patrick has.”

He scoffed. “Patrick doesn’t even want what he has,” he said, relishing in the wounded look on your face. “If he did, he wouldn’t be fucking my fiancée right now.”

Fiancée. You felt stupid for not knowing it, but you swallowed down your hurt and met his gaze. “I guess we’re both going to have to be content with being the second choice.” You slipped on your shoes and went for the door. “Good luck with your match tomorrow, Art. I sincerely hope that I never have to see you again.”

The hallway felt colder when you stepped outside of the room and shut the door firmly behind you. A very big part of you wanted to go back, to knock and apologize and grovel like you might have when you were a freshman.

Maybe you hadn’t grown up that much after all. 

The elevator was playing Billy Joel. You leaned against the side of the elevator, relishing in the cold against your sticky skin. When the doors opened on your floor and you stepped out, you blinked in surprise. 

Tashi stood in front of you for the first time since college, looking just as stunning as you remembered, probably more so. Her hair was pulled up, slightly damp at the ends. Her eyes flicked down to your shirt, Art’s shirt, you swallowed as an understanding passed between the two of you— wordless, because what was there to say at that point?

”You left your laptop in the hallway,” she said, skipping formalities. “I took it inside so it wouldn’t get stolen.”

“Okay,” you said, chewing on your lip. She stood there like she expected something more. You felt her surveying you, and froze as she reached forward and rubbed at your bottom lip.

“He could’ve at least cleaned you up a bit,” she said. Her fingers delicately fixed your hair, tucking it back into place. She wiped a smudge of lipstick from the side of your mouth. Once there was nothing left to fix, she looked at you one last time and nodded. “You should be fine now.”

Before you could process that, she stepped into the elevator, and you were left alone in the hallway. When you made it to the room, the door was cracked open, so you let yourself in.

Patrick was on the balcony smoking a cigarette, a towel slung low around his waist. The bed was a fucking wreck, not that he seemed to mind. 

When the door clicked shut, he stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking and joined you back in the room. 

“Are we going to talk about it?” He asked. His jaw tensed as he looked at you, like he was ready if you were going to start a fight.

“I just want to go to bed, Patrick,” you said, annoyed by how wobbly and pathetic you sounded. 

He stepped forward and kissed your forehead. “Okay. We’ll go to bed.”

You kicked off your clothes, but left on Art’s hoodie. Patrick didn’t ask where it came from, or what happened to what you were wearing earlier. You knew he already knew, that he could tell the moment you walked in. He dropped the towel onto a heap on the floor, climbed into the bed, and held out his arms for you.

A stronger person would’ve told him to fuck off, but you weren’t a stronger person. You nestled into his side and felt the hot sting of tears in your eyes. 

He rubbed your back soothingly and kissed your forehead. The sheets smelled like Tashi, he smelled like hotel soap, and you smelled like Art’s cologne. 

“Do you want room service in the morning?” He asked softly.

“Patrick—“

“I’m serious. We can have breakfast in bed, do some tourist-y shit, maybe we’ll go watch a couple of matches, then come back and—“

“Are we supposed to just forget what happened?” You interrupted.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.” He kissed your forehead, tender, sweet. “I’ll tell you everything if that’s what you want.”

You met his gaze. “Do you… do you want to know? About Art?”

He went quiet as he played with the ends of your hair. “Did it make you feel any better?” He finally asked. 

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Then it didn’t.”

He kissed the crown of your head. “No?”

You shook your head, sighing softly as his kisses trailed down, over your nose, to the sides of your mouth. “No. It was a mistake.”

”Tell me about it,” he said, murmuring against your jaw. “Tell me how he touched you.”

You shivered, tilting your head to give him more access. Your nails scratched softly against his scalp as he sucked bruises onto your throat. 

“He was desperate,” you said, heart hammering as you began recounting it to Patrick— your boyfriend. There was no world in which he should’ve wanted to hear about it… and yet. He moaned against your throat, encouraging you, wanting to know more. “Kissed me like he wanted to taste you in my mouth, like he wanted to overpower you.”

Patrick moved his lips to yours, kissing you with a sloppy brush of his tongue against yours. “Like that?”

You shook your head and leaned in, deepening the kiss with slow laps of your tongue into his mouth. He moaned softly, matching your pace in a way that was rare, but made butterflies dance around in your stomach. He pulled you on top of him— hands roaming from the backs of your thighs to squeeze your ass as he deepened the kiss. It was just as slow and sweet as before, but you could sense the need and hunger behind it.

You pulled back, just enough to remove your lips from his. Both of your breaths came in needy pants. You weren’t sure why you were enjoying this, but you were, so you kept going. “He took off my clothes, and laid me down on the bed.”

Patrick moaned, chasing your lips. You sat back and just looked at him— lying there with still-damp curls, his pupils blown with lust. His cock was hard, resting against his stomach, precum beading at the tip.

You pulled off Art’s hoodie and tossed it across the room, relishing in the way Patrick’s eyes raked over every bit of exposed skin like it was the first time he’d seen it. “He ate me out, made me cum on his fingers first, then again while he was inside of me,” Patrick’s breath caught, just for a moment. Desire, or jealousy, or both flickered across his gaze. “He fucked me like he wanted me to fall in love with him again.”

Patrick’s chest was heaving as you moved a hand between your bodies, grasping his cock in your hand, stroking slowly. “Is that how you fucked Tashi? Like you wanted her to pick you instead of her fiancé?” He moaned as your thumb ran over his slit, smearing the precum that had begun to dribble out. 

“No,” He groaned. You nodded encouragingly, squeezing him tighter in your fist. “Fuck. I fucked her like I wanted her to know she made a mistake. Made her cum until she tapped out”

You ran a thumb over his bottom lip, tugging slightly. “With this pretty mouth, huh?” He nodded, wordlessly. “And with this?” You gave a slow stroke of his dick, making him buck up into your fist. Another nod. 

“Show me.”

Patrick’s brows furrowed in disbelief. “Show you?”

You nodded and continued stroking him. “I told you about Art, so I want you to show me how you fucked Tashi.”

You recognized the fucking insanity of what you were asking, but you didn’t care. It was a strange form of closure— closing the circle, or whatever. 

“Fuck, okay. Lay back,” he said, patting your thigh. You slid off his lap and settled atop the sheets, watching him expectantly. 

His fingers hooked in the waistband of your panties, and he slid them down slowly. “Fuck.” Your cheeks flooded with heat as he held the sodden fabric up, wet and sticky with Art’s cum. He groaned and hooked your thighs over his shoulders. “That’s… god, that’s really fucking hot, baby.”

Oh. The mix of embarrassment and desire was something new— burning hot in the pit of your stomach as Patrick licked at your pussy, tasting the evidence of your arousal mingling with Art’s release. He moaned against you, holding you so tightly that his fingers dimpled your thighs. 

His tongue lapped at your entrance, pushing into your cunt as deep as he could manage, then back to licking at your clit. It was messy— a combination of spit and cum and your juices.

“Fuck!” You cried out, tugging his hair as he sealed his lips around your clit. He moaned loudly against you, encouraging you to do it again, the fucking masochist. 

He redoubled his efforts, pulling you closer, moaning against your cunt. It was like he wanted to devour you, to lick up every bit of Art that was left inside of you. You wanted him to try— you wanted him to replace every part of Art that was left in your body and soul.

“Patrick,” you gasped. He murmured an mhmm against your pussy. Eyes closed, right at home between your thighs, lost in the taste of you. “Need you inside.”

He planted one, two sloppy kisses to your clit before he pulled back, his lips shiny with your arousal. He wiped the mess away with the back of his hand, smirking down at you. “You need me, huh?”

You nodded, chest heaving with each panting breath. Patrick sat down at the headboard and patted his thigh. “Prove it.”

You sat up, crawling up the bed until you were straddling his lap. “You made her do all the work?” 

He laughed, running his hands up your thighs to squeeze your ass, tug you closer. “I didn’t make her do anything.” Patrick had a hand wrapped around his cock, and you moaned softly as he guided it between your thighs to notch at your entrance. 

You sank down slowly, forehead pressed against his as you took inch after inch. “Fuck,” you breathed. You leaned forward, brushing your lips against his as you gave a slow roll of your hips. “Fuck. You’re so deep, Pat. Feels so good.”

His head fell back against the headboard as you began to ride him in earnest. “Fuck, just like that,” he groaned, still wearing that fucking smirk, even balls deep inside of you. “That’s it, baby, take what you need.”

And you did. The way he was looking at him was proof enough, he was eating up every fucking second of you fucking yourself on him, using him like a toy. 

Your noises were near-pornographic— Right there, fuck, you’re so big baby, so fucking deep.

The poor soul next door slammed on the wall, begging for you to just shut the fuck up. Patrick silenced you with a hungry kiss— a mess of tongues and spit. His fingers moved on your clit, pulling you towards the edge with desperate need. 

“Close,” you gasped. 

He nodded, moving his fingers faster. “I know you are. I’ve got you.” 

You collapsed on top of him as you came— hips canting weakly as he worked you through it. He thrust up into your tight walls, groaning at the feeling of your cunt spasming around his cock. 

“Fuck, you feel so perfect,” he groaned, burying his face into the junction of your throat. “Gonna cum— fuck—“

You moaned softly at the feeling of him spilling inside of you— the soft pulse of him, the warmth of his cum flooding your cunt. You stayed on his lap, kissing his freckled nose, his eyelids, his mouth. 

When you finally moved off of him, you whimpered at that loss of fullness, and of the slick mess seeping out between your thighs. If you were smart, you would’ve gone and cleaned up, but there was nothing more you wanted than to lay there in Patrick’s arms and fall asleep. 

Whatever. You’d leave housekeeping a very generous tip. He sighed contentedly as you lay there— like you were made to fit against him perfectly.  A warm hand rubbed comforting circles on your back, and you felt so at home, even in an Atlanta hotel. 

“I love you, you know that?” He asked.

You looked up and nodded. “I know. I love you too.”

You found yourself staring up over at Patrick with a stupid, persistent smile on your face. He turned to watch you watching him, wearing a matching grin on his face. It was hard to tell who started laughing first— you or Patrick. At the absurdity of it all, at yourselves. 

“God, we’re so messed up,” you said, with another laugh.

He nodded. “Really messed up, but whatever. Apparently your brain isn’t even fully developed until you’re 25.”

“Great, so we have one more year until we’re normal, rational adults.” He laughed, holding you against his chest. 

He reached over and kissed your forehead. You were so sticky and gross that you really needed a shower, but, again— it was a tomorrow problem.

It fell quiet, and you could feel yourself slipping into comfortable drowsiness when Patrick finally spoke up. “Are we going to be okay?”

You blinked slowly. With your hand resting on his chest, you could feel his heart thudding just beneath your palm.

When you were twenty, you met Patrick’s parents. Crowded into his childhood bed with your head resting against his chest, his heart pounded as he apologized for the intense grilling you’d received that night at dinner. It was the first time you ever felt like his bravado had been shaken, like you were seeing through to the core of him. 

You always knew you would be the one to say you loved him first— it was just the way things went. “I don’t care if they like me,” you had assured him. “I love you.” His heart beat harder, faster. He didn’t say it back until two days later, when he was fucking you in that very same bed— forehead to yours, skin sticky with sweat. “I love you,” breathed into your mouth like air. 

When you were twenty-two, you moved into an apartment in Manhattan and Patrick followed like a housecat— no rent, no job, just company and a mouth to feed. The tour wasn’t going well, and you were working for a shitty, clickbait news site that hardly covered the cost of your place. 

Things were good, mostly. Comfortable, domestic. Patrick tried to be a good boyfriend, you tried to be a good girlfriend. Both of you were trying to figure out what that meant for the other as best as you could. Patrick would bring you flowers from the corner store and take you out for drinks and dancing on weekends. You’d drive out on holidays to visit his family and wind up leaving early to go back to the comforts and peace of your apartment. 

When you could, you’d follow him out to tournaments. If he won, he’d take you out with the prize money. If he lost, you’d take him back to the hotel to cheer him up.

On rough days, one of you would come home to the apartment and pick a fight over laundry, or a dish left in the sink, or even what he’d left on TV, and the other would give it back tenfold. Your neighbors would beat on their walls in annoyance as you yelled at each other, until one of you slammed a door and sulked in another room for a few hours, or you had make-up sex that gave the neighbors another reason to bang on their walls. 

The breakups were infrequent but severe. You’d kick Patrick out, he’d live out of his car, or in a motel, or fuck off to some tennis tournament that you’d previously promised to go to. One of you always broke first, returning to the other with promises of love, and to do better.

You did love each other, really. And things usually got better. It was just easy to live with your feelings dialed up to a ten where Patrick was involved: bigger good moments, worse bad ones. 

Your career had vastly improved. Patrick had moved up in the rankings, only slightly, but it was something. You could afford a bigger apartment in a nicer area, maybe get a dog. And you didn’t just want those things alone, you wanted them with him. 

You pressed a kiss to the center of his chest and nodded. “We’ll be fine,” you assured. It felt like the truth.

He nodded, looking down at you. His freckles were so much more pronounced after tournament after tournament in the blazing sun. “Yeah, probably.”

The next morning, you both got the continental breakfast you’d seen in the elevator while housekeeping dealt with the aftermath of the previous night. You did tourist-y shit— went to a museum, found a nice spot for lunch.

At the end of the day, you sat in the oppressive Atlanta heat with Patrick and watched Art Donaldson win his tennis match. You and Patrick left early, fucked in the backseat of his car, and decided to head home early. 

As you started the drive back, you held his hand over the center console and listened to a shitty mix CD with songs he’d ripped off of LimeWire. You gave him shit when Kelly Clarkson followed Lil Wayne, but you both sang along to every fucking word. 

You were right. You and Patrick would probably be fine.

[nuemanfilms]

“NOT EVEN FOR A WEEK?” || S.W.

— Keep it in your pants for atleast a week, please?

Summary; Dean and his teasing about Sam and Bimbo!reader’s constant sex drive proves itself to be right. Win for the older Winchester.

Warnings; size kink, bimbo!reader, WILD sex drive, unprotected, some plot, sweet & dirty talk (it’s sammy?? so maybe a little teasing too), rough sex, riding (kinda), sam manhandling reader, creampie, piv + more!

A/N; hopefully we can get by this election, here’s a distraction <3

xoxo, roro

sdt; @sadisticsammyw

You and Sam had sex probably more often than you should’ve.

Dean teased you both relentlessly for it, it was hilarious to the elder Winchester on how you both couldn’t keep it in your pants for atleast a week. Sam was practically whipped and you were feeding into it.

The dynamic between the two of you was also pretty funny considering how Sam always corrected Dean on the dumbest things, but when it came to you, he would address your wrong answer in the most soft spoken way.

You were both so in love with each other, it was also disgusting.

Dean went out with some blonde chick after the case he and your boyfriend worked. Sam didn’t hesitate in getting a ride over to your shared place. He knew you were waiting for him. You always did.

It was around 9PM, Sam fumbled with his keys to unlock the front door before you opened it yourself.

He took in his old Stanford shirt clad with pink panties underneath that dressed your skin. Dean really was right, you both really couldn’t keep it in your pants.

His lips mouthed at the exposed skin of your shoulder as he sat you down on his length. He wanted to be gentle, despite his natural instinct of taking you how he wanted, he knew you had to adjust.

After you gave him the nod, he was fucking you like he hadn’t seen you in years despite it being a few days.

His hands gripped your hips so roughly to the point of bruising as he slammed you up and down on his cock, listening to your mewls and cries at his established pace. Your fingernails digged in his skin as he forced you to take it. his lips moved from your shoulder to graze your earlobe as he whispered endless sweet words into your ear. Cooing to you on how you could take it, how you always did.

He groaned at the slurred words leaving your lips, “‘S good, huh, baby? You like when I come home to you like this? Fucking this sweet little pussy ‘til you can’t take it? Huh, Sweetheart?” His words were so syrupy and delicious despite the lewd actions. His own fingernails digging into your waist to manhandle and control how you bounced up and down his shaft.

“oh fuck! god- god, yes… Feels so good, Sammy- mmm… fuck!” He let out another deep groan at that, resisting the urge to just cum inside your pretty little cunt right there and then.

You were so small compared to him, everyone was shorter than Sam in general. The man was at a good height of 6’4, and not to mention that he was insanely muscular. When he first laid eyes on you in those jeans, the pretty pink tank top to go with it… he knew he had to have you despite his brother’s obvious attempts to get with you. When he finally had the chance to ask you out, he was surprised at how quickly you accepted.

Fuck, he loved how you stretched around him. Your cunt accommodating to fit his size… it always felt like the first time each time you both made love.

“Good- Good girl, Baby… shiiiit- Can feel you squeezing me, Honey.” He gritted out, he could feel his balls tighten, and by the way you were squeezing him- He knew you were close too.

“‘M gonna cum- Can I cum, Sammy? P-Please- Baby…” you sounded so vulnerable, sounded so pretty even in the state you were in. Your neck was littered with marks and hickies starting to form from his assault on your supple skin. Your eyes were watery as well. How could Sam deny you when you looked at him like that?

“God, yeah, Honey… go on, let go. Let me feel this pussy squeezin’… I’ll fill you up- Don’t worry, Sweetheart.” He grunted, his hips started to form a rough grind up against you. Your own hips struggled to meet his due to the stimulation, so his hands guided you.

Your cry had him spilling inside of you within seconds, his index and middle finger rubbing at your clit to help calm you down.

He looked at you, your mascara smudged, the faint stain of your lipstick on your lips, and he couldn’t have been even more proud of himself. He loved ruining you like this, he loved seeing his girl all spent because of him.

“Did s’good for me, Honey… Gonna get you cleaned up, hmm?

[luckykiwiii101]

“I Look Forward To Never Seeing You Again.”

XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL

XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL

P.S. Most important post ever! Lots of content, has to be read thoroughly and carefully to ensure full understanding!!! No skimming allowed here!!

ィ⠀TABLE OF CONTENTS⠀࿐

1. UNDERSTANDING THE LAW

2. IDENTIFYING ALL STRUGGLES/FEARS

3. GETTING RID OF ALL STRUGGLES/FEARS

4. HAVING A CLEAR DESIRE

5. ASSUMING & FEELING

6. PERSISTENCE

Hey Upper East Siders.

Now that halloween is over, it’s not long till the spooky chill of October turns into the icy chill of November. Hot cup of chocolate in one hand, and your dream life in the other.

Once upon a December ago, the only thing you held in both hands was incompetence and procrastination. Notice how I didn’t mention failure? Well that’s because, you can’t fail with a correct procedure. And the only thing that should be falling next season, is snow, not you.

And to the old state? Oh how we never look forward to seeing her again. Because after reading this post, you will break free from all your limitations and fulfill your every desire.

Are you ready to say goodbye to the old state? For good this time, that is. Because you’re not going another year without your dream life, not on my watch. And not on your watch either.

ィ⠀UNDERSTANDING THE LAW⠀࿐

As we all know, understanding the law of assumption is the most important thing ever. There are two very, and I mean VERY important concepts of the law that you need to understand. Here they are -> CREATION IS FINISHED!!!

-> Read this post by Edward Art and read it thoroughly!

-> CLICK HERE TO READ

-> KEY QUOTES: “Creation is finished.”

“In order for us to desire, there must be fulfilment of that desire.” -> This means you cannot have a desire, without a version of you that already has it existing. So whatever you are desiring right now, there is a version of you that has it. What I mean by “there’s a version of you that already has it”, means that there is a version of you that has it in the 4D. Your inner self has it. You just have to become aware of that version ( BECOME that version in imagination and fully identify with that version).

“These are versions of YOURSELF. THEY ARE YOURS.” -> Without this understanding, people think that they cannot achieve their desires because it’s “too far away” and out of reach. How can something be out of reach when you already have it when creation is finished? There is nothing external when it comes to the law of assumption. Everything is within you. Your dream life comes from you. There is no magical force outside of you that gives you what you want. Is your awareness far away from you? Is your awareness out of reach? No, and neither are your desires, because they are you. Change what you are aware of.

Now onto the MOST important understanding!

-> INNER SELF IS YOUR REAL SELF!!!

-> Read this post by Edward Art and read it thoroughly!!!

-> CLICK HERE TO READ

KEY QUOTES: “IDENTIFY yourself FULLY with the INNER MAN.” -> When you do not fully identify yourself with the inner self, you start to identify with the outer self. And the outer self holds nothing but doubt, fear and struggle. But when you fully identify with your inner self, I promise you, those doubts, fears and struggles no longer exist.

“The outer man sees nothing but limitations.” -> You know that when you start to feel fear & doubt, that you are identifying with the outer man. Limitations don’t exist within your inner self. You need to understand that your inner self = consciousness. When you are changing what you are aware of, you are changing what you are conscious of. Your consciousness has NO limitations, because you are God/Creator of your reality. All your limitations come from the outer self, and when you no longer identify with your outer self, all those limitations no longer exist, and you will no longer feel them. And that is a promise.

NOTE: Your inner self is truly your real self. Because the outer self reflects the inner self. The one within is who creates! The 4D reality is the real reality because the 3D cannot exist without it!!! The 3D is FULLY dependent on the 4D! Not the other way around. To understand this concept further, CLICK HERE

ィ⠀IDENTIFYING ALL STRUGGLES/FEARS⠀࿐

✩ Being and Having becomes difficult when you have underlying doubts, fears and struggles. You may be stopping yourself from fully identifying with the Inner self without even realising.

✩ Right now, and yes I mean right now, open up your notes app, or get a paper and pen, and ask yourself :

“What do I struggle with when manifesting?”

“What are my fears and doubts when manifesting?”

✩ Really take the time to think about what you struggle with and write down your answers. Be completely honest with yourself, no sugarcoating.

ィ⠀GETTING RID OF ALL STRUGGLES/FEARS⠀࿐

-> Now that you’ve identified all your struggles & fears, I want you to think about where those doubts, fears etc are coming from.

-> I promise you one thing, there is only one simple answer to this question. The answer is “Identification with the OUTER self.”

-> ALL and I mean it, ALL of your doubts & fears come from the outer self. The one who is currently experiencing the 3D. No matter what your doubts and fears are, they come from the outer self. Remember the previous quote, “The outer man sees nothing but limitations.”

-> ALL your struggles will disappear when you identify with the Inner self. Your inner self is limitless and it’s all you need to manifest your dream life.

-> You do not need to do subconscious training and meditations etc to get rid of your struggles and fears and doubts, all you need is yourself. Nothing external will help you. You NEED to understand that the ONLY way to get rid of your struggles is to STOP identifying with the 3D (your outer world & self), and to FULLY identify with the 4D (your inner world & self).

-> NOTE: Unidentifying with the 3D doesn’t mean to ignore the 3D. You are still experiencing the 3D in your day to day life, you simply cannot ignore it. All you can do is just not identify with it. How do you do this? When you experience the 3D, you do not assume that your 3D self is the real you, because your inner self is the real you! You view the 3D as nothing but an illusion based on past assumptions.

-> Now you may be thinking, “So how do I identify with the inner self.” We will come to that later in this post. I will take you through creating and maintaining assumptions and fully identifying with your Inner self and completely un-identifying with the outer self.

ィ⠀HAVING A CLEAR DESIRE⠀࿐

✩ It’s important to know what you want to manifest. That’s what we call desire. It all starts with desire. Make sure you know what you want to give to your inner self. Know who you want to become.

✩ You also need to know how you are going to go about giving your inner self this desire and fully identifying with it.

✩ Right now, make a list of what you are going to manifest (give to your inner self). Know what you truly, deeply want and promise to stick to it.

ィ⠀ASSUMING & FEELING⠀࿐

✩ Now this is the part where people get confused. If you don’t know already, FEELING is the secret. FEELING is what manifests. Your 3D conforms when the feeling (having your desires) is natural to you.

-> CLICK HERE to read my post about feeling and what the “feeling” is. This is a slightly simplified version of Edward Art’s post. If you want further understanding (which you need), to read Edward’s post CLICK HERE

-> Now that you know what the feeling is, you need to know how to practise it. How to use your senses to imagine and accept. Luckily for you, here is the perfect explanation of how you should be imagining. -> CLICK HERE

-> SUMMARY of what your imagining “process” should look like :

-> STEP 1: Remembering that your only goal is to become who you want to be in IMAGINATION only!!

-> STEP 2: Give yourself whatever you want in imagination through the use of any methods that you prefer. Experience having it in imagination with the knowledge that the inner self in the real self. You cannot deny being when you experienced it.

✩ NOTE: -> Make sure that you know which methods fulfill you. If affirming does not feel natural to you, then choose another method of imagining etc visualising may feel more natural to you. Keep in mind that if you are someone who visualises but has to look at a picture to visualise properly, do not rely on anything external like a picture. Because you do not always have access to a picture of what you want to experience in imagination. Yes, you can visualise when looking at pictures, videos etc, but when you do not have access to those pics and vids, make sure that you use other senses rather than trying to visualise something you want and failing then feeling unfulfilled because the vision didn’t turn out how you wanted it to sue to intrusive thoughts etc. In other words, do what truly fulfills you! It doesn’t matter what method you use as long as you allow the feeling of the wish fulfilled and focus completely on that feeling.

✩ NOTE 2: When visualising, start by feeling fulfilled through deciding etc or any other method, then start to visualise with the feeling because that feeling generates scenes, vaunts, affs FOR you and it is SO much more natural.

-> STEP 3: Allowing the feeling of the wish fulfilled when you are experiencing having your desires in imagination. Fully focusing on the FEELING having your desires as your inner self in imagination gives you! You know for a fact that you aren’t waiting for anything and that you have your desires without a doubt in imagination.

-> STEP 4: FULLY identifying with your INNER self and completely disregarding your 3D self. This is what true persistence is. Continuing to identify with your inner self regardless of what feelings and thoughts the outer self tries to impose on you.

ィ⠀PERSISTENCE⠀࿐

✩ Now for the final part. Persistence. Without persistence, you aren’t being who you want to be.

PERSISTING = Completely identifying with the inner self regardless of what feelings and thoughts the outer self tries to impose on you.

-> When you are persisting you have to fully become and maintain your identification with the inner self and the inner self only.

-> Read this post by Edward Art on identifying with the inner self -> CLICK HERE

-> You have to completely immerse yourself in the inner self because that is the real you! This is what true persistence is because identifying with the inner self means to no longer doubt, fear or struggle.

-> Now for the last part of persisting, you have to stay CONSISTENT!!!

ィ⠀COMMIT TO CHANGING SELF⠀࿐

You have to completely commit to your new story. No half arsing it. The inner you (4D) is your new dwelling state. NO more dwelling in the 3D.

STEP ONE: Decide what you want

STEP TWO: Imagine & Feel -> When dwelling in the feeling of the wish fulfilled, when you are done imagining, tell yourself “I know for a fact that I have my desires right now in imagination and that the inner me is the real me.” -> If you do not believe this with 100% certainty, you cannot move on with whatever you are doing. GO BACK TO IMAGINATION AND CORRECT THAT FEELING SO THAT YOU FEEL WITH 100% CERTAINTY THAT YOU HAVE WHATEVER YOU WANT IN IMAGINATION BECAUSE THE INNER YOU HAS IT!!! YOU DO NOT VIEW IT AS A DESIRE BECAUSE YOU ARE 100% FULFILLED!!!

-> Read my post on how to imagine correctly (CLICK HERE)

-> Read Edward Art’s post on imagining for an example (CLICK HERE!)

STEP THREE: Persist! If you do not imagine and feel with 100% certainty that you have your “desires” in imagination, then you cannot consider yourself to be persisting. You can’t just half be in the state. You have to fully be in the state of the wish fulfilled. And the only way to do that is by fully identifying with your inner self.

-> You are not focusing on the confirmation of the 3D. That worry comes from the outer self. KEEP GOING BACK TO IMAGINATION NO MATTER WHAT!!!

-> You are going to do this EVERY.SINGLE.TIME your “desires” come to mind. No excuses. There is nothing to change but self. Imagine whatever you want and identify with it.

Wondering what to “do” when experiencing 3D circumstances?

-> You are NOT supposed to be “ignoring” the 3D. How can you ignore something that is right in-front of you. You have to view the 3D as nothing but an illusion based on past assumptions!!! This is how you unidentify with the 3D! It has nothing to do with you because it is nothing but an ILLUSION based on PAST assumptions!!!

-> If you “fall” out of the state, it’s okay don’t curse at yourself. Just go back to imagination and feeling. Also if you find yourself naturally thinking from your old assumptions, just go back to imagination and feeling. Nothing can “ruin” or “stop” your manifestations because you already have it!!!

-> No matter what, keep going back to imagination and feeling! No matter what you feel, go back to imagination and feeling! No matter how difficult the 3D is, go back to imagination and feeling! The 3D has nothing to do with you once you stop identifying with it!

-> If 3D circumstances get too much for you, go back to imagination. The answer to everything is, just simply go back to imagination. Seek proof in imagination. It is your safe place. Make it your safe place by evicting the outer world from your inner world. Create a beautiful world for yourself in there. You always have access to imagination. You always have access to the feeling.

-> There are no excuses to not persist, especially after reading this post!

P.S. Make sure you’ve read every post i’ve linked throughout this post! They are extremely important!!

-> People with the success stories are the ones who have fully identified with the inner self. -> @loasuccessarchive

-> Read my favourite success story quotes (CLICK HERE)

You have no excuses. Go give yourself your dream life. December’s coming. And Santa’s not going to drop your dream life down your chimney. Give yourself a holly jolly Christmas, and a dream life to feel thankful for on thanksgiving. You know you love me. XOXO

- gossip girl

[sexlapis]

# SALT AND PEPPER (but mostly salt)

ᝰ.ᐟ nanami x gn!reader

mini fic, fluff, suggestive, aging, reader and nanami are married, reader is a silver fox!

⤷ nanami was prepared for a lot of things when it came to getting older. what he wasn’t prepared for, was how hot his spouse would get…

a/n: thinking about how much i love grey/white/silver hair on a woman or man……..sorry….

masterlists

*

with growing up, getting old and becoming more seasoned, there came many life changes.

health scares, career adjustments, new found gratitude for the most simplest of things and for some reason, a sudden influx of more bills when you get a raise…and you are always due for an eye appointment.

but one thing that has changed is…you.

more specifically, how sexier you’ve become.

now, don’t nanami wrong, he has always found you sexy, beautiful, cute, attractive, pretty, all of the words underneath the sun.

a few years earlier is when he realised it.

the new, grey hairs peaking at your temples.

they were thin and hardly noticeable to an outsider. but nanami noticed everything about you.

he mentioned it one morning.

“do you know your greys are coming in?”

“ugh, i know.” you touch you temples, feeling where they are, like grey hairs felt different somehow. “you can’t really see them now, but i’ll have to dye them in, like, four years or something.”

“…or you could just…let them grow out…?”

you snort. “yeah, right. why don’t i bleach my eyebrows next?”

you leave it at that, and so does nanami and the discussion of your hair is put to an end.

until a few years later.

as of now, the hair of your head is a light grey colour, with slivers of silver and white that beamed, especially highlighted when you are underneath the sun.

your face has changed too.

crows feet now wrinkled the corners of your eyes, smile lines framed your lips, the dips of your jowls now replaced your streamlined jaw and darker, freckled spots were sprinkled over your cheeks and nose.

and, my gosh, did it drive nanami crazy.

the way the experience of life now appeared on your face, you body, your hands and your hair made him more attracted to you. more than he even thought he could be.

and that says a lot.

“your hair.” he starts. you both sit at the breakfast table, a newspaper in nanami’s hand and a cup in yours. “your hair is nice.”

“really?” you ask, surprised and slightly incredulous. you reach your hand up and ruffle your hair. “you know, i was thinking of dyeing it back-“”

“don’t dye it…please. never dye it.”

“oh? nanami…” you smirk at him. “do you think i’m a … fox?”

“you’re the sexiest fox i’ve ever seen, sweetheart.”

“it sounds kinda weird when you say it like that, but i’ll take it!”

nanami chuckles and shakes his head. he stares at you for a moment before speaking. “come here.” he pats his lap.

you place your cup down, strolling to where he sits and plopping yourself onto his lap.

his hands wrap around your hips and yours his neck.

“you’re growing up so wonderfully, baby.” he kisses your jaw. “being old suits you.”

you giggle. “you too, kenny.”

you don’t think he believes you based on the shake of his head, but you know that you’re correct and that’s all that matters.

after a few minutes of peaceful silence, you decide to break it.

“…so,” you sigh, resting you cheek on nanami’s shoulder, “you know how you like my new sexy silver fox hair?”

“yes?” nanami responds, grinning.

“how about we grow you a beard, nanami kento?”

“…”

a/n: short n sweet <3

[wrioluvr]

subby vampire x dom male reader pt 2 pt 1

thank u guys for liking kliff!! he's so baby. felt kinda mean and thought about a scenario where reader is like, a regular monster fucker and poor kliff finds out he hooked up with another vampire and gets super jealous teehee... but this is wholesome tho.

content: reader is kind of a player, blowjob (reader receiving), reader loves tormenting the poor old man, more plot-focused than pure smut

★ ; 🦇🍷. . ♱

after visiting kliff at his crumbling manor a few more times, you decided that you were getting tired of making the trip out into the woods everytime, and invited him over to your house instead, an invitation he eagerly accepted. though he kept a calm composure, inwardly, his thoughts were running wild - he would finally be able to bask in a whole home full of your scent.... maybe even steal a few small trinkets he could toy with whenever he felt lonely... or... or even get a feel of your bed, where he fantasised about waking up next to you and spending the rest of his days as your faithful househusband. oh, how delightful.

"thank you ever so much for allowing me to enter your abode. i am most honoured." thanking you profusely, he elegantly sat down on your sofa, only to immediately scrunch up his face in discomfort. you stared at him, puzzled. "what's wrong? you don't like my home?"

"no, no... it's not that... it's just that... this scent is so familiar. in an unnverving way..." he mumbled, talking to himself. suddenly, a look of recognition, mixed with horror, dawned on his face. "correct me if i'm wrong, but... there's not a chance you've had another vampire over.... is there?"

"oh! i forgot you vampires have a heightened sense of smell. yeah, i hooked up with another vampire like, 3 weeks ago." you said nonchantly, like it was the most insignificant thing ever. kliff merely gaped at you, aghast at your casualness. "so... so... i'm not your first vampire relationship?" he asked meekly, almost like he was afraid of the answer.

"well, yes. i dated, hmm...." you start to list them on your fingers. "two vampires, one werewolf, one merman... oh, right, and one evil ass fairy. he was mean."

poor kliff looked like he was about to collapse, his hand clutching his chest dramatically. thankfully he was sitting down, otherwise he would have fallen over. "where on earth do you even find these creatures?"

"i get around."

"and you never thought to mention this?!"

"i mean, i didn't really think it was important..."

kliff sighed, suddenly feeling a little insecure at his complete lack of romantic experience in contrast to your many flings. "may i at least see what your past vampire suitors looked like?" he didn't want to admit it, but he was suddenly feeling very clingy, even more than usual. he had to be better than all your exes! so that you wouldn't leave him like you left them!

"sure. here you go." you pull out your phone and show him a picture, only for kliff to gasp loudly and clutch his chest even tighter. what a drama queen.

"HIM."

"you know him??"

"that little whore was going around sleeping with every man and woman in town a hundred years ago! i cannot BELIEVE he is still so promiscuous in this day and age. he even seduced you..."

"woah! language, kliff!"

kliff stops mid-ramble and clears his throat in embarassment. "my apologies. this is most uncouth of me. i do not know why i am getting so frustrated over this. the two of you are not seeing each other anymore, correct?"

"yes. you're the only one i'm seeing right now."

"and, if i may be so bold to inquire,,,, how was he like as a lover?"

"he was kinda annoying." kilff let a smirk escape his lips upon hearing this. "i knew it-" "the head was good though."

"what- what does 'head' mean?"

"he sucked my dick." you say bluntly.

"oh, good heavens."

"don't be a prude! wait... kliff, are you jealous of him?"

"i most certainly am not."

"at your big age? please be serious." you tease, amused at how possessive he suddenly got.

"do NOT make fun of me. i said i'm not." the pout adorning his face said otherwise.

kliff barely noticed it, but slowly he inched closer and closer to you, eyes scanning your neck as he frantically searched for bite marks.

"did he bite you anywhere? did it hurt? you must know, i would never even consider drinking from you, right?" he took your hand, eyes searching desperately for validation, any form of praise that indicated you thought he was the better vampire.

you rolled your eyes. "jeez, kliff. i didn't take you for the possessive type. don't worry, none of my previous vampire lovers have drunk from me."

that did little to reassure him, since he was on the same page. "then... then... i must be better at this 'head' thing!" he declares, face full of misplaced determination. you almost double over laughing.

"it's not a competition! my god, you're so unserious."

"it does not matter to me! i must be better than that lustful shame of a vampire at every aspect. especially since we are of the same species."

"okay, okay. calm down. i'll let you try."

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

"just let me know you can't breathe or whatever. i'll guide you through your first time, yeah?" kliff nods, a blush extremely prominent on his undead features as he knelt between your thighs. he quite enjoyed this... submissive position.

"also- watch the fangs." the authoritative, yet gentle tone of your voice sent shivers down his spine.

he himself could be considered a monster, but he paled in comparison to the monster that sprung out of your pants once he clumsily undid the zipper. kliff gasped, a look of pure lust and nervousness written all over his expression as your slightly erect cock hovered over his face.

"so... basically... you just put it inside your mouth, then start sucking it. easy enough, right? come on, don't tell me you've never heard of a blowjob in your entire existence."

"of course i have..... i admit, i own quite a bit of... erotic fiction." he mumbles, eyes still on your cock, cheeks growing redder by the second. "but, goodness, it's so different seeing a real phallus up close. especially one of your size."

"phallus??? just say cock."

"mhm...." he hesitates, unsure where to even begin. flustered, he looks up imploringly, silently begging for you to guide him.

you chuckle at his frozen state, completely at a loss on what to do. "so needy. i'll help you."

tenderly, you run a hand through his soft hair, applying just a little bit of power to tug his head forward, guiding him to your tip. obediently, he opened his mouth, taking the shaft inside. it was warm, his rough tongue grazing over your tip, causing you to grip his hair a little tighter. kliff let out a masochistic moan in response. slowly, he ventured further down your length, but unable to reach the base without gagging. he looked up at you with apologetic eyes, but you squeezed his shoulder to let him know he was doing well. "good job, kliff. you're a natural." spurred on by your praise, kliff found a lewd rhythm, mouth bobbing up and down in a continuous passionate attempt to make you feel good.

your small grunts of pleasure kept him going. panting, you ask, "you sure you've never done this before, kliff? you're so good." he frantically shakes his head, mouth still full of cock, as if the idea that he engaged in such intimate acts with anyone but you was horrifying. he was loyal like that. it was intoxicating, the head only vampires could provide - fangs lightly grazing your cock's sensitive areas, the slight thrill unmatched. merman head was sloppy, werewolf head was rough, but vampire head was a little dangerous. you liked that.

soon enough, you were about to cum. you warned him, patting his shoulder twice, he vigorously nodded, giving you permission to cum inside his mouth. he'd only ever been used to having blood in his mouth, so having your cum inside instead was a new experience. but he liked it. maybe a little too much, as he swallowed it so enthusiastically. you gazed upon him affectionately, finding his virgin excitement over such lewd matters endearing.

"how was i?" the breathless question hung in the air, a reminder of the atmosphere thick with your intertwined tension.

cupping his face with one hand, the other stroking his hair soothingly, you muttered the words he most wanted to hear. "you were better than him."

kliff jumps into your arms, nuzzling his face into your shoulder. "thank you. you're the absolute best." he's so content to spend the rest of his days with you. treat him with care, yeah?

>ᵥᵥ< 💘

tags: @4eaever @szapizzapanda @flyingsquids @vampmasc

omg i'm so happy with this one, one of my fav writings i've ever done so far. i felt like i characterised kliff and captured their dynamic quite well here hehehe

[eddiessluttywaist]

as if

AGELESS/BLANK/UNDER 18 BLOGS ARE NOT WELCOME TO INTERACT. PLEASE RESPECT MY RULES AND BOUNDARIES.

summary: eddie taunts reader daily, but… she kinda likes it? just never does anything about it. not until she has to tutor him, anyway.

pairing: bully!mean!perv!eddie munson x perv!fem reader

word count: 7,901 words

content/warnings: swearing, some angst at the beginning kinda, mention of death (barb), SMUT MDNI (y/n is 18), bully!eddie, mean!eddie, perv!eddie, bully kink (?), dominating, arguing, breeding kink, hate sex, brief masturbation mentions, mocking, teasing, anxiety kinda, spitting, invasion of privacy (eddie goes through her things), eddie’s a dirty lil pantie stealer and sniffer, y/n is a c*m sl*t, bulge kink(?), dacryphilia, groping, choking, daddy kink if you squint real hard, mentions of virginity (y/n is not a virgin), pet names (doll face, princess), degradation (use of slut). i think that’s all pls tell me if i miss anything!

a/n: i have to say tbh i don’t see eddie ever being a bully so this is technically like an au!eddie?…but also… uhhhh very hot. makes my brain wiggle with heat waves so here we are. hope you like it! <3

part two - part three

*

As if.

It’s a simple statement, really, and you meant no harm when you said it. It was just something to be said… that didn’t mean he didn’t hear it though.

That also didn’t mean it didn’t tick him off.

You were surprisingly pretty to be in the geek group, but in the cruel and tyrannical world of high school girls..? Alas, no amount of lip gloss or cute skirts could free you of the fact that you were smart. Not only smart, but a geek. A nerd—who was shy around most—and you got along with nearly all of the teachers because of how well-behaved and intelligent you were. And, on occasion—although you always tried your best to not come off this way—a bit of a know-it-all.

That was the final nail in your coffin, really. Correcting Carol Perkins in American History in front of everyone back in your freshman year. (Her sophomore year and already irritable about having to take a freshman course 2 years in a row). You meant well, but she had it out for you ever since. The tyrant, as it was, made it entirely impossible for you to make your way up the food chain.

So in your sophomore year of high school, back in Autumn of ‘83, you were among the peasants just like him—even as a senior (for the first time). He took a quiet interest in you. You were cute and soft-spoken. You were a sophomore, though, and the fact that you were 15 at the time made the 17 year old scrunch up his nose whenever he remembered. He could still look, though, right? There was no harm in that…

Nancy and Barb took notice of it all pretty quickly. The way that the senior would scan over your outfits everyday. The way that he might’ve smirked a little if you had to bend over to pick something up, simply staring at your behind rather than coming over to get your things for you. The pair would exchange glances that you were adorably unaware of, over his attention that you were also so endearingly oblivious to. One day, they finally burst over it in the hallway, and he overheard.

“I think a senior likes you.” Nancy teased, gripping her Geometry textbook to her chest.

“What?” You had let out a slight laugh, digging through you locker. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh my god, seriously?” Barb interjected. “Aren’t you supposed to be smart? Observant?”

You were all wide-eyed over that, pouty lips opening and then closing as you struggled to find your words before finally landing on a frustrated huff and a simple “Shut up.”

“He stares at you all the time.” Nancy pushed with a teasing smile.

“Like you can talk.” You teased, slamming your locker shut before resting your back against it. “Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington is totally all over you.” You smirked at the way her face instantly heated up.

“I- He- It’s not like that.” She insisted, completely flustered. And while Barb agreed with you, she wasn’t interested in letting you direct the conversation elsewhere.

“Besides he’s just a Junior. The guy who likes you is a Senior.” Nancy tacked on.

“Like there’s really that big of a difference?” You raised a brow.

“There is.” Barb scoffs.

“Well then if it’s such a huge deal… can’t you just tell me who it is?”

“You seriously don’t know?” Barb questioned and the ginger-brunette pair tilted their heads while they looked at you with a sort of exasperated disbelief. You just gave them that wide eyed look again and shrugged your shoulders.

Barb broke first with a scoff and a bright smile. “Eddie Munson. He stares at you all the time.”

Eddie Munson. He wasn’t popular by any means, but he was still a Senior. He was still attractive to you, and could still make an underclassmen blush if he gave them any attention simply because he was older and a little dangerous. He just didn’t show any interest in any of the other younger students, just a little curiosity towards you.

“Eddie Munson?” You had laughed a little, which made him furrow his brows as he listened in just around the corner of the hall at his own locker. You were being dismissive out of nerves, not out of any sort of malicious intent, but that’s not how he took your tone. After all, he was a cynical man.

“As if.”

*

After that he was a bit bitter towards you. Then he was a little mean. And then he was just plain cruel. He was an asshole. He was a bully.

Since his interest being pointed out to you, you occasionally glanced over at him to see if he really was staring. But he either acted like you didn’t exist, or whenever his gaze did meet yours the corners of his lips turned down and his brow frowned with disgust before looking elsewhere.

When Barb went missing, you and Nancy were temporarily joined at the hip in your efforts to figure out what happened. Then one day Nancy went cold on you. Started making excuses and hardly speaking to you otherwise. You didn’t understand, finding yourself completely alone as you scattered “Missing Person” posters all over Hawkins.

You had no idea what happened with Barb at the time and still had no clue what happened with your friendship with Nance to this very day. Maybe the loss was too much. Maybe Nancy couldn’t handle the reminder of your perfect trio. She was always closer to Barb than you. Maybe Barb missing and then turning up dead made it too difficult for her to face you. Maybe she was all caught up in two guys being completely obsessed with her, which admittedly made you a little jealous.

Soon enough you seemed to be completely off one another’s radars. It made high school even lonelier for you. You eventually found some new friends in other corners of the “Smart Kids” lunch table, but it was never like it was with Nancy and Barb.

So by the time he started getting a little mean, there wasn’t really anyone to protect you. Your new friends were skittish around the metalhead. Nance and Barb would’ve stood up for you once, but that support system was obliterated back in ‘83.

So when he shoved past you in the halls later in your sophomore year, no one gave it any thought. When he was pulling your hair in your Junior year then acting all innocent when you turned around to confront him, still no one cared. Now in your Senior year—and him in his third—whenever you thought he couldn’t be worse, he proved you wrong and did so with a devilish grin.

He pulled your hair. He tripped you. He stood behind you in line at lunch and would flip up the back of your skirt. He smacked your books out of your hands. He openly mocked you while leaning back in his chair at lunch with that smug look on his face. He mimicked your contributions in class under his breath, knowing you’d hear him and trip over your words. He snuck filthy messages into your locker that made your face burn with embarrassment and disgust—disgust for him and for the way his perverted words made your thighs press together. He would speed up whenever you were walking or biking home just to scare the shit out of you. He would take any opportunity to shove you or throw things at you or press his body up against yours in a derisive and vulgar manner—especially in gym class. He would “playfully” hump you from behind and nearly knock you over whenever you bent over and there was no teacher paying attention. Or spank you. Or pinch your ass.

He was horrible. Disgusting. Obnoxious. Crude. Vile. He made you go home with tears in your eyes most days, but the worst part was how much you liked the attention. You hated yourself for it. You wished you were running to the nearest adult to tell them every last thing he did to you. You wished you were standing up to him and calling him a disgusting pig in front of everyone which surely would’ve pulled out some “Ooo”s and maybe even some of the Seniors that hated him would’ve joined in. Maybe even had your back, even if it was temporary.

But you didn’t because by now when he pulled your hair, you had to refrain from whimpering or moaning. When he tripped you, you thought of the things he could do to you now you were already on your hands and knees. When he flipped up your skirt you always gasped and shoved him away, secretly hoping he’d do it again—even starting to wear only your cutest pairs of panties to school. When he smacked your books out of your hands, you actually liked that it was him causing you to bend over or get on your knees to collect your things again. When he decided to mock you from over at his spot at lunch, you got butterflies from the way he said your name and the way his dimples sunk into his cheeks. When he mimicked you in class, you tripped over your words because his voice and tangible presence got you all flustered and hot. When you got to your locker, you secretly hoped to see the torn off corner of some notebook page flutter onto the floor with the most obscene words. When he sped up to scare you, you thought about screaming something so bold at him that he would screech to a halt and reverse before telling you to get in his van, now.

You liked when he threw things at you like balled up paper to your cheek in class or a basketball to your side in gym. You liked when he shoved you or pressed against you because in his attempts to intimidate you with his touch and his proximity, it made your knees weak. You liked how he pinched your ass or gave it a little smack when you bent over and your teacher wasn’t looking. And you loved when he would thrust up against you whenever you were bent over and there was no teacher around at all, because his bulge pressed up against you (even while he was laughing devilishly) made you ache.

He was so utterly horrible to you, and yet when you found yourself grinding on your hand at night on top of your pink, white and yellow quilt—you were thinking about him and how mean he was. You were thinking about how mean he would be as he fucked you. Taunting you and teasing you and mocking you. You spasmed around your fingers and choked down your cries at the thought of him bullying your cunt.

It was all a fantasy, though. He never interacted with you longer than a few seconds, and was always with him in control. If you walked up to him and told him you wanted him to fuck you like the bully he was, he probably would’ve died laughing right before your eyes and told everyone he knew about your embarrassing lust for the guy who made your life a living hell. But now you were being cornered into spending time with him, and being faced with a real-life scenario where you were together made your palms sweat.

“I know he’s a difficult young man, but if you tutor him I’ll figure something out with the principal. Some sort of extra credit maybe.”

“There’s no one else that could tutor him?�� You choked out, nerves on edge. Ms. O’Donnell gave you a sympathetic smile and shook her head.

“All busy.”

Busy, my ass you wanted to huff out. They were probably all avoiding him like the plague. O’Donnell was desperate to get his grade up and get him out of the damn school, which you didn’t blame her for, but god… why you?

“Okay…” You relented, a sad twitch for a smile when she sighed in relief and thanked you incessantly.

“I’ve already spoken to him about needing a tutor, I’ll let him know the good news, okay?”

You nodded with a meek “okay,” and tried to go on with the rest of your day as if you weren’t wracked with fear, excitement, concern over your excitement. You were on edge all day, and nearly jumped out of you seat when you were called to the office over the speakers about 5 minutes to the end of your last class. You swallowed anxiously, collecting your things and trying to ignore the “ooo”s over you being summoned to the principal’s office—assuming you were in trouble.

You trudged towards your destination, pausing when you spotted him slack in one of the chairs by the front desk that he frequented more than anyone else. You considered running in the opposite direction and making up some lie to Ms. O’Donnell the next day, but then Mrs. White beamed at you after happening to glance away from her clunky typewriter.

“Miss Y/L/N! Come on in, dear.” She spoke cheerfully in a way that went through you sideways. Eddie’s eyes shot up to you, smirking around the fingernail he was chewing at and clearly considering spitting it at you if Mrs. White hadn’t been paying attention. You toyed with the ends of your sleeves anxiously, listening to Mrs. White discuss the details Ms. O’Donnell had ready. What topics to go over (which was just about everything). How many times per week she wanted you to tutor him (at least once/week). The only thing left out was when and where.

“Oh that’s up to you two, hon.” She chirped. “Just compare your schedules.”

“It’s not in school? With a teacher around?” You questioned anxiously, but she was oblivious to your worries.

“Nope, no need for supervision. We like to give the tutors space from the teachers while they work with others, we find that the students that need help take to that better.”

“Sure do.” Eddie spoke up, and you nearly flinched at how close he sounded. You glanced over and he must’ve just gotten out of the hard plastic chair cause he was slightly leaned back to give his body a stretch causing his chest to puff out a little, his hands moving to rest by his hips as he tugged his jeans up.

“What? Scared of me ‘r somethin’?” He whispered playfully, a hand moving up to rest over his heart as he feigned offense before his act melted away to show his usual smirk. He winked at you, and you swallowed nervously as you looked back at Mrs. White again who was blissfully unaware of his malevolence.

“So here you go… those worksheets and… a time sheet.” The woman grinned as she placed the last paper on top before sliding everything over. “You just have to add the dates that you study together, and you both have to sign each time. Ms. O’Donnell said writing a quick synopsis of what you went over would be nice too, but not necessary. The most important thing is seeing a difference in Mr. Munson’s grades.”

“Sounds good to me, Pam.” Eddie smiled at Mrs. White whose sunny demeanor sunk into a more serious expression while you put the papers away neatly in one of your folders.

“What have we talked about, Mr. Munson? Use my first name again and you’ll find your butt in detention this Saturday for such disrespect. Again.”

He puts his hands up as if apologizing for his actions, but he was still grinning ear to ear. Mrs. White eyed him with a tight lipped scowl, then looked at you.

“Good luck.”

You were gonna need it.

*

The ride to your house in his rusty van was surprisingly quiet beyond his music. You were on edge which he enjoyed like always, but he was clearly saving the torment for when he was inside your home. You wished your parents were home, even if they were tucked away in another room, but they were both gone for the weekend to attend your Aunt’s wedding. Not that you’d let him know that.

“We’ll be studying in the dining room. And no funny business. My dad’s in his office and he doesn’t like being disturbed while he’s working.” You lied seamlessly, making your way over to the dining table, Eddie lazily sauntering along.

“Oo does daddy have a temper?” He teased in a whisper. “Gonna come out and spank you if you bother him too much?”

He gave you a mocking pout and your face scrunched up with irritation.

“Just sit so we can get this over with.”

“I’m sorry are you under the false impression that you’re in charge here, doll face?” He questioned, keeping his anger mostly disguised by his inquisitive tone.

“Well, I’m the tutor so-“ You scoff out, avoiding looking at him as you pulled all of your study materials from your bag.

“Yeah and that means something to me because…?” He drew out his last word as he spun on his heels and casually walked away.

“I- what-“ You sputtered. “What are you doing?”

“You know it’s awfully rude to have a guest and not give them a tour of the place.” He spoke casually, grabbing the ends of picture frames hanging on the walls to get a better look at them before letting them drop back again. You were hot on his heels, fixing every frame he left crooked. He paused at a picture of you from camp in a bikini with some of the friends you made that summer, smug and sucking at his teeth a little as he eyed the image of you.

“Real cute…still got it?” He looked over at you, his hair shifting over his shoulder as he eyed you. “Wanna model it for me? Make all this worth my while?”

Your cheeks were starting to turn pink.

“We have to study.”

“Eh.” He shrugs, and looks over to spot the staircase behind him. He slunk around the corner and made his way up the carpeted steps.

“Hey- hey! You’re not allowed up there!” You shout after him, rushing to follow after him. He was already on the second floor when he turned and shushed you.

“Don’t wanna make daddy angry, right? He’s hard at work if I’m remembering correctly.” He whispered with a joking concern for your father’s focus who wasn’t even here, and you worried he knew that. He continued on along the hallway and you stayed behind him, wishing there was something you could do to get him to stop. He opened doors along the way, inspecting the interior with a mild curiosity. The upstairs bathroom. Your parent’s room. The spare bedroom. Then-

“Ah, here we are.” Your bedroom at the end of the hall.

“Please get out of my room.” You pleaded, but he continued on his quest. He looked at the makeup on your vanity, toppling some of the products over like a careless cat before moving on. He toyed with any photos in your room, sniffed at the perfume bottles on your dresser.

“Eddie-“ You started, clenching your jaw as he found the perfume you wore the most often and sprayed some of it on the crotch of his jeans. Then he just kept a hold on it as he waltzed around your room, spraying it several times just to waste your favorite product.

“That’s rude.” You spoke up, your lips pouting slightly. He snickered at your comment, how you sounded like a wronged child.

“Aw well if you need to touch up your perfume at all, you know where to get it.” He grinned, pointing to his groin before continuing to go through your things. The concept was strange but still made you clench simply from the thought of having to rub at his bulge to get something you wanted. He didn’t waste that much of your fragrance, but the idea was still burning in your mind.

He muttered disapproving comments at the posters on your walls and the cassettes he rummaged through until he got bored. You were nervous about interfering even as he invaded your privacy, until he was opening your top drawer to go through your panties and bras.

“Hey! That’s too far!” You gasp, rushing over to slam the drawer closed again. He shoved you back and opened it again.

“Quit being so fucking uptight.”

“Quit going through things that don’t belong to you!” You talked back which was still surprising him every time you did, but certainly didn’t let it show.

“Yeah well quit pissing me off before I put you in your fucking place.” He seethes, giving you an angry warning look that felt like fire all over you. You wanted to cry, to tell him to stop being so mean to you, but it would be useless. You’d just end up feeling pathetic as he laughed over your misery. You just had to stand there and watch as he kept going through your underwear drawer.

“Ooh, cute. I don’t think I’ve seen these yet.” He clicked his tongue and blew out an impressed breath as he held up a black lacy number. “‘d love to leave some stains on these for you, doll face.”

“You’re disgusting.” You blurt out, but the thought of his cum spurting onto your new pair of panties made you feel warm. He smirked at your frustration, tucking the underwear into his pocket.

“Those are new!”

He shrugs, shoving the drawer closed again with enough careless force to knock over a picture frame perched on top. He doesn’t seem to care until he’s spinning around with his finger pointed at you and that wicked look on his face.

“You know what, though? You bring up a great point.” He tugs the lace from his pocket and holds it up to his nose before letting out a disappointed sigh. “Now that’s a problem. Still smell like whatever cutesy store you got ‘em from.”

You have a moment of hope that he’s trying to be nice and provide an opportunity to give them back to you, even if he’s going about it in a dirty way. But that doesn’t last long, even when he’s tossing them back to you.

“Why don’t you put ‘m on for me, huh? Then when you give ‘em to me on my way out I’ll have proof of how fucking wet I get you.” He spoke so smoothly as he got closer to you, that it almost blanketed the filth of his words as something soft or even sweet.

“As if.” You scoff out in a huff, and there’s a fury to his gaze that you don’t understand.

“Yeah… as if.” He murmurs darkly, getting closer to you. You swallow nervously and take a step back. “Cause fuck me, right? I’m just some good-for-nothing asshole who you wouldn’t give the time of day. Not a priss like you.”

“I-I’m not a-“

“Oh dad!” He’s suddenly shouting at the top of his lungs in a sing-song manner, his body whipped around to face your doorway, and your eyes go wide.

“Stop-“

“Hey! I just wanna meet Mr. Y/L/N! Spending time with your lovely daughter!” He spoke with a passionate respect that you knew was coming from a hateful place. He had gone to your doorframe and was listening for any kind of response. A verbal acknowledgement. The sound of steps or creaking floorboards to tell him there was actually going to be someone to confront him.

His grin became devious as he went to the steps again. “Hello?” He calls, dragging out that last vowel.

“Will you quit it!” You hiss, tears prickling at your eyes now at the thought of him realizing you were all alone. Just you and him. And that you had lied to him.

He was turning around, sure now that the only people in this house were you and him. His dimples were pushing into his cheeks again as he sucked at his teeth, approaching you at the doorway to your bedroom like a cocky killer. The kind that you saw in horror movies that knew they had their prey cornered and could have some fun with it.

Out of nerves and a need to keep a barrier between the two of you, you took a quick step back and went to slam your door shut so you could lock it, but he got there in time to stop in with an outstretched arm. He pushed it open so harshly that you were sure there would be a dent in your wall where the doorknob was forced into it.

God, you couldn’t stand the way he looked right now. So proud. So smug. That shit-eating grin that told you he knew he was winning. That fury from before still lingering. He noticed the gloss to your eyes and tuts as a mocking pout reaches his lips.

“Upset about somethin’, doll? Someone got you all worked up?”

You huff out your nose, your lips screwed into a frown and your eyes still stinging with unshed tears.

“You’re so… so… mean! I hate you!” You shout, and without even realizing it you had stomped your foot at your last statement. It makes him pause, his expression unreadable for a moment as he considers everything until it all lands on amusement. He crosses his arms over his chest, grin wild and his hair flowing with him as he tilts his head with intrigue.

“Did you just stomp your foot at me, princess?” He teases, and your face feels so hot you wonder if he can see the flush of pink even through your foundation. He can. You refuse to answer him, fighting back the urge to fully cry in front of him. He’s getting closer though until he’s brushing up against you and looking down at you. God, he’s so warm.

“Aw… such a sensitive girl. Look at you.” He murmurs as he continues backing you two up until you’re pressed against the wall, one of those posters he disapproved of crinkling against your hair. He’s making fun of you like always but there’s a softness around the edges of his words. Blurred by a desire to do just about anything to you. He reaches his hand up to drag the pad of his thumb over your pouty lower lip before bringing his hand down to grasp you by your chin.

“Bet your pussy’s just as responsive as the rest of ya, huh?” He whispers as he makes you look up at him. Your nostrils flare momentarily and you keep looking up at him but you still won’t speak and you still won’t let those tears fall.

“I bet your cunt is just as weepy. All hot and wet when I’m fucking you into shape.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to refrain from whimpering or letting your lips part for a soft sigh. Anything that would confirm how badly you want him to figure out just how right he is. But then his anger flares back up as he’s gripping your jaw now, squeezing just enough to make it uncomfortable.

“Speak when you’re spoken to.” He demands in a low voice with a sort of growl to it that makes your knees weak. You part your lips as you consider answering him like you’re told, and he raises his brows while waiting. Then, in a brazen defiance, you spit in his face instead.

He’s so solid it’s almost like he doesn’t care. Not a flinch or a crack in his demeanor. Then he’s moving his hand from your jaw to your throat and gripping onto it enough that you gasp.

“I’ve been spat on my whole fucking life, you think that’s gonna make a difference here, princess? Think that’s gonna make me respect you? Think you’re brave?”

Your hands reach up to rest over his on your neck, a mewl vibrating from the back of your throat. He leans in closer to your face, your lips parting wider as he tightens his grip.

“It just makes me think you’re stupid.” He finishes before spitting directly into your open mouth. He’s releasing you from his grip right after, wiping your saliva from his cheek while you catch your breath. A soft moan escapes you before you can keep it at bay and his inflated ego is tangible. He’s eyeing you with a sort of amazed intrigue that pulls him back to you, his arms lifting to place his hands on the wall on either side of your head.

“You like it, don’t you?” He laughs and you shake your head furiously, but he isn’t buying it. “You could’ve gotten my ass suspended—hell, even expelled—ages ago. And yet…?”

“I just felt bad that you’re such a fucking idiot.“

“Dirty girl.” He hisses inward through his teeth as if burned by your words, but you were just egging him on.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” He wondered in a soft tone, hand back to your jaw as you stayed quiet. “Will you kiss daddy with that mouth?” He added with a lazy grin, exuding dominance and arrogance.

You became a little slack jawed at the implication, and he was on you. Hand still on your jaw, he pressed his lips to yours. You feigned protest at first with a few kicks and smacks, but then he had your wrists pinned against the wall and you sunk into the kiss. He kept you pinned for a few moments, until he was sure you were relaxed. He dropped his hands down to completely engulf your waist in his arms, and keep you pressed against him. The kiss was filthy with anger-fueled lust and slips of moans on your end and grunts from his.

“I hate you.” You whispered in between kisses, his hands moving to grip your ass now.

“Yeah you do.” He chuckled proudly against your lips before beginning to trail his lips down your jaw to your neck. Your eyes fluttered closed, hands settled on his muscular back as he sucked and bit at your neck, messy hair tickling you. More sounds slipped from you with no attempt to hold them back, a teary whimper hanging on your lips after he bit down on your neck hard enough to pull a yelp from you.

“Gonna mark you all up…” He muttered against your skin, making your head swirl.

“Gonna have you walking into school and have everyone know who you belong to.” He pulled back now, breathless and his full lips all pink with attention. His eyes were dark with lust, and it all made you whimper. The sound made him laugh in disbelief.

“Yeah? Such a slut. Bet you can’t wait to walk in with my hickeys all over you. Might even fuck you in the back of my van beforehand. Make you go to class full of my cum.”

You almost can’t believe him or yourself as you nod your head dumbly with a desperate pout. He groans at the sight and pulls you to him again, his lips back on yours as his hands reach down to hook under your thighs and lift you up. You’re quick to wrap your legs around his waist, a soft cry escaping when he starts grinding against you. He’s so hard and feels so pressed into his jeans, you’re both afraid and alight at the thought of just how big he probably is.

Eddie made his way over towards your bed until his legs made contact with your bed frame. He pulled away from the kiss to drop you on the bed carelessly. You lifted your torso up by digging your elbows back into your mattress, legs bent up at the knee and parted for him while you watched him undo his belt. He noticed you staring, and his gaze traveled along your form. Your knit sweater. Your pleated skirt.

“Take that shit off.” He said with a slight jut of his chin in the direction of your top, hands paused at the waist of his jeans and boxers. You hesitated at first, mostly at his hesitation to pull down his bottoms, but also out of nerves that your body wouldn’t be good enough. He made fun of you for just about everything. Surely he would tease you for that too.

“Did I fucking stutter?” His voice rose just a touch, his expression showing his impatience. At that your eyes went a bit wide again, and you lifted your sweater over your head and then the t-shirt you had on underneath. His hand was under his undone jeans, palming himself through his boxers as he looked over your naked torso.

“Bra too.” He murmured, and your nerves subsided from the way he looked at you. It was all hunger and lust and some impatience, but that was common. But no mockery. He wasn’t gearing up to make fun of your body cause he’s been waiting to see it. It was even better than he imagined, and he stopped a groan in his throat when you unclasped your bra and put it off to the side.

“Fuck…” He sighed out, squeezing his hard cock in his fist. You arched your back, which he initially enjoyed, until he realized your hand was moving to unzip the back of your skirt.

“Hey.” His harsh tone broke through, his free hand slapping your thigh. “Did I say take the skirt off?”

Your lips parted, and he jerked his head forward with a wide, frustrated gaze. It was as if he was saying “Hello? Earth to Y/N?”

He rolled his eyes as you shook your head no, and moved your hands away. He muttered under his breath and settled himself between your legs before deciding you weren’t close enough. His hands grasped your thighs to pull you closer, a surprised giggle bubbling in your chest from the action. He didn’t acknowledge it because he was trying to not let it show that it made him want to smirk. Just like when you get all teary-eyed. Or stomp your feet. Or finally get enough nerve to talk back. Even getting a giggle out of you made him smug, despite the fact that he had only ever seemed to enjoy making you miserable.

Eddie flips your skirt up onto your stomach, licking his lips at the sight of the light blue cotton panties he had already seen in the lunch line today. He finally tugged his jeans and boxers down below his balls, and started pumping his dick in his hand. Your nerves lit up at the sight of it—thick and with a bit of a curve to it. You wanted to see more of him, but the likelihood of that was slim to none. He enjoyed the control he had in this relationship, and that meant he liked having you almost completely naked in front of him while he was practically still dressed. He smirked as pre-cum beaded up on his tip and let it drip onto the fabric of your underwear. He dipped down to drag his tip along your covered slit to make a mess of your panties with his pre-cum. You inhaled sharply at the feeling, biting the inside of your lip whenever he nudged your clit.

“I like these panties…” You complained, knowing how much better it would be for him to ruin a pair of underwear you love.

“Aw…” He tutted, leaning over you as he mimicked the pout on your lips. “Don’t tell me that cause then I might have to cum all over them. ‘N I thought you wanted it inside.”

You mewled again, nodding your head which he mimicked too. The little shake of your head, the sound you made.

“Such a whiny, needy girl.” He said as if he cared. He hooked a finger under your panties and tugged at them, fighting the fabric over your legs one handed before holding them up to his nose. His eyes were trained on the sight of your sopping pussy as he breathed in, his cock twitching in his fist. He cursed under his breath, only pulling the fisted cloth away to stuff into his back pocket. His now free hand moved forward to drag his fingers through your slit, proud to feel how soaked and puffy you were already.

“You a virgin, doll?” He purred, tilting his head with a sickeningly sweet grin, the curled corners of his lips devilish. It was saccharine and mean. He figured you’d say yes because no one at school seemed to want you, but then you shook your head.

You lost your virginity at that summer camp you were at in the picture he was ogling earlier. It was awkward and felt strange, and you didn’t have much experience beyond that, but you weren’t a virgin. You thought he’d like you better this way anyways, already ready for him to fuck, but it ticked him off.

“No?” He asked, pushing two thick fingers into your cunt and making you gasp. The pressure on that sweet spot right at your entrance was buzzing with pleasure, but it still ached a little. “Guess you’re the little slut I always thought you were, hm?”

He was pushing his fingers in deep and curling them up into that spongy spot that made you whine and your thighs tremble.

“Who is he?” Eddie urged, his expression back to the irritation you were familiar with. You weren’t answering, all of your focus on his thick fingers and the rings that adorned them pinching the edge of your entrance.

“Who. Is. He?” He repeated, moving his face a bit closer to yours in bursts with every word, his head tilting to the left then to the right then back to the left to punctuate his words. He was slowing it down for you like you were dumb, and his fingers stopped moving—all of this making you huff.

“No one-“ You whine hopelessly, and he was starting to pull his hand away but you shot yours out to grip his wrist and keep his fingers deep between your legs. “No one, no one important.” You continued. “It was at summer camp, he’s not even from here. Please-“ you nearly sobbed, and it was enough to make the man groan as he leaned over you.

“Oh… please what, doll face?” He murmured, hand that had just been wrapped around his dick sinking the mattress down beside your head.

“Please- please don’t stop.” You whimper softly and he smiles sweetly down at you while pulling his hand away anyways. It was just for a second, enough to make you want to cry, but then he was plunging them back into your fluttering hole again. He added a third finger, barely giving you even enough time to enjoy the first two, the stretch making your lips part a little.

“God, you’re desperate.” He snorted, his hand angling a bit differently to let his thumb catch your clit. He watched with pride as your head tilted back and your back arched. Your thighs kept twitching and your walls were clamping down around his fingers more and more—he could tell you were close.

“Eddie…” You drawled, breath catching as your body braced itself for the mind-altering pleasure of your orgasm, but just as you approached the top—he pulled his hand away. You let out a distressed cry that made him laugh. He cooed at you, his hand that had been pumping his cock moving to rest on your cheek. Knowing where it had been made it even better, made it filthier. It made you wonder how many times he had just touched his dick before touching you.

“That’s for letting some random loser fuck you.” He whispered after leaning down so close that his nose was occasionally brushing against yours.

“‘m sorry…” You whine, tears of pleasure and pain having already slid down from your eyes and back towards your ears—leaving your hair damp and cold.

“You’re sorry, what?” He urged, nudging his tip against your folds.

“I’m sorry I let someone else take my virginity.” You were a blubbering mess, teary-eyed and needy.

“You’re gonna make up for it, though, right?” He purred, his tip already pressing into you and you nodded enthusiastically with a cry, your hips twitching forward.

“That’s my girl.”

Your lips parted, your lower lip quivering when he pushed into you until his hips were flush with your ass. You let out a sort of choked whimper and he groaned.

“Fuck you’re tight…” He sighed with content, sliding back before sinking back in until his tip was kissing your cervix. “Not even a virgin and I’m still gonna have to work to split this cunt open, huh?”

He was grinning again over that, over the grip your walls had on him from such a foreign stretch. It ached in the best way possible except for the occasional thrust that pinched and made you yelp out a small “ow.”

“S-so big… you’re so big…” You babble, your mind fuzzy. Your pupils were all blown out and you watched him fuck into you like it was the best dream you ever had. You eventually tilt your head back, letting out a happy hum as your hips push outward to feel him as deeply and as harshly as possible. He mimicked the sounds you made and the expressions you made from his thick cock hitting all the right places and stretching you enough that you knew you were going to be sore. All day tomorrow you were going to get brief pangs of aching that would remind you of how full you were of Eddie. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. He was all you could focus on, and you didn’t even realize you had been whimpering his name over and over under your breath until he made fun of you for it.

“Fuck you.” You huffed defensively, only for his amusement to bolster.

“Ha!” He cackled right in your face as you looked up at him with glossy eyes, pink cheeks and pouty lips. “Already are, sweetheart.”

Soon enough your sounds annoyed him though, especially the more demanding they got. Harder. Faster. Slower. More. Please. So he flipped you over onto your stomach and had his hand on your head to press your cheek into the mattress as he mounted you again—all with a casual “God, just shut up.”

At this new angle he was driving into you with a force that reverberated throughout your whole body every time he slammed into your cervix or that gushy part of you. You felt dizzy and breathless, every stroke of his cock against your ridged walls shooting off sparks. After being so close just from his hand to now, you were steadily approaching an orgasm again—just praying he’d let you keep it this time. He must’ve noticed because his free hand was reaching down to rub your clit. Your eyelids fluttered, a sob being muffled by the comforter you were biting down on. The sound of skin smacking, the tired springs of your bed squeaking, Eddie’s panting and grunting, the chain of his wallet clinking every now and then, the wet and pornographic sound of his cock plunging in and out of your pussy—it all seemed so loud for a second and then felt muffled the next as you came undone around him. You moaned out his name, whimpering cries on the tail end. You could feel your walls fluttering around him, clamping down and then blossoming back open then clamping down again in a mind-swirling rhythm.

“That’s a good girl…” He purred in a way that might’ve been too sweet from him if it wasn’t laced with a condescending tone. “Gonna cum in you, ‘kay?”

“Uh-huh-“ You moan, body aching as he picks up the pace again, fingers tangled in your hair with a painful grip. You can’t see him, but his head is tilted back completely blissed out as he fucks into you. You felt amazing, even better than he imagined which was pretty damn astonishing considering the pedestal he already had your pussy on in his imagination. He was so close, and a brief thought of getting you pregnant nearly sent him over the edge. He was mean. So fucking mean. That was the most devious thing he could do. Fill you up and make you all round with his kid.

“Shit-“ He pants out. “Gonna fill you up, babe.”

“Please-“ You beg, pulling an incredulous chuckle from him.

“Such a good girl… always take everything I give her.” He breathes out, leaning down to trap your body between him and your bed, his hand moving your hair away from your face. “Takes everything I give her at school, and she’s gonna take everything I give her in her bed, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, please-“ You sob, gasping out with the next few sharp thrusts against you until there was this warm feeling blooming inside you as he groaned against your back. He gave a few more thrusts after cumming inside, letting out happy puffs of air. You remembered how content that guy was when he unloaded into his condom inside you in camp. That blissful look on his face before he pecked your lips then lied next to you. Eddie didn’t bother with a condom, didn’t press a little peck to your lips and he wasn’t so quick to pull out either. When you squirmed a little he shifted so he was pushed up deeper into you, pulling a gasp from you which made him smirk against your skin.

Eventually he leaned up to bite your shoulder and then he slid out of you. You were still a little out of it, purring out a whiny hum as you nuzzled your quilt. Your legs were still spread and slightly bent up while you laid there on your stomach, and as he adjusted his softening dick back into his boxers he saw his cum slowly started to seep out of you and onto your comforter. Ever the gentleman, once his pants were zipped back up and his belt was buckled he landed his palm on your ass cheek and turned you over as you huffed over the action.

“See you Monday.”

“But we… we have to…” You fought to find your words through the haze. Study. You had to study.

“Bye, doll face!” He called out as he made his way downstairs.

You pouted a little, wanting to beg him to come back and stay with you. Maybe even go another round, but you were so spent that you just laid there.

When you got your energy back enough to force you to get up, you went to pee and clean yourself up before heading downstairs. Unsure of what to do with yourself, you made your way over to your backpack and you spotted the writing on the time sheet. A smile tugged at your lips. Instead of the date he wrote his phone number, and for the synopsis of today’s tutoring session he wrote “sex ed” with a winky face, and then signed where he was supposed to.

God, you were so fucked. And you were going to need a new time sheet.

[starry-bi-sky]

Danyal Al Ghul: Incorrect Quotes and Miscellaneous Thoughts

Incorrect quotes-style snippets specifically for my danyal al ghul au here (which i really need to come up with a unique au name for atp). Because I thought it'd be funny. And also some miscellaneous headcanons thrown into the mix. Some context for the au: - Danyal is 5 years older than Damian (so 10 and 15) - Danny faked his death when he was 10. Talia knows and helped him with it. - Jazz, Sam, and Tucker do not know he's an ex-assassin.

-------- Snippet 1

Danny, dryly tapping his temple: I have, as the Americans say, irreparable psychological damage, right here.

Jazz, an older sibling first and foremost: well, it's good that you're self-aware.

-------- Snippet 2

Danny, aged 10, in the American foster planning to just age out of the system: *emanating Bad Vibes. Pure, Little Orphan Tom Riddle Energy*

Jazz, aged 12, coming in to adopt a new sibling with her parents: Him. This is my brother now :)

Danny: ...what

--------

Lilo and Stitch is Danny's favorite Disney movie. He watched it when he was 11 with Jazz when she was attempting to connect with him, and by this point Danny was becoming receptive to her efforts. They had a movie marathon in the living room one night.

Safe to say? It resonated with his little 11 year old heart strongly, and he related very strongly with both Nani and Stitch. He got unexpectedly emotional and hid in his room for the rest of the night. Jazz felt really bad, but it had the intended (but kinda unexpected) effect of him trying to be nicer to her afterwards.

-------- Snippet 3

Dash, aged 12, causing trouble again and getting intercepted by Danny: *scaling up a desk* AHHHHH! GET YOUR LITTLE FREAK, FOLEY!

Tucker: Hey! Danny is not a freak!

Dash: GET HIM TO BACK OFF

Tucker, was the kid Dash was messing with: ....whats in it for me

-------- Snippet 4

Danny, saying some questionably immoral shit: What. Why are you looking at me like that.

Tucker: Bro. I mean this as kindly as possible; what the fuck?

Sam: yeah, I'm with Tuck on this one.

-------- Snippet 5

Danny, ranting about Vlad: if it weren't for the laws of this land, I would have slaughtered him

Sam, painting his nails black: I'm pretty sure you'd slaughter him regardless of the laws of the land -- and quit moving, you're gonna mess me up.

Tucker: we've literally seen you debate yourself about this, Dan

Danny: ...you are correct, but it is the principle of things.

-------- Snippet 6

Vlad: I have experience my child, and the money and power attained through using those powers for personal gain, you say. I could train you, teach you everything I know! And all you have to do is renounce that idiot adoptive father of yours.

Danny, was already contemplating committing a Violence: ....

Danny, internally: I'm going to stab him *turns into Phantom*

--------

Funny contrast I realized between Danyal and Vlad that iirc I haven't pointed out yet is that imo, Danyal doesn't rely on his powers nearly half as much as canon Danny does. He falls back instinctually on his League training, and thus sometimes forgets to use his powers in battle. This was prevalent especially early on when he was still getting used to the whole 'halfa' thing.

He incorporates them more often after a year, but still for the most part relies on his own physical hand-to-hand combat. He trusts those skills much more than he does his powers. I'm not sure where he is on a technical level compared to canon, but just to stay safe I'll say he's similar in power skill as canon Danny. Perhaps a little more finessed than him because his League training would probably have him trying to figure out his powers as soon as possible.

But in summary? Danny is strong in hand-to-hand combat, weak in powerset.

Meanwhile Vlad is the opposite. I can't recall if he even knows hand-to-hand in canon, but it makes total sense to me that Vlad Masters wouldn't because he's so confident in his monetary influence and ghost abilities that he sees no need for it.

And he's kinda got some merit behind it. He's very powerful and has 20 years of experience to experiment and fine tune his powers. He's got bite to follow up his bark. He's perfected long-range combat and his ability to phase through walls makes it impossible to corner him, but if you can manage it, then one good hit could probably knock him on his ass.

So in summary, Vlad is strong in powerset, weak in hand-to-hand combat.

And it casts a good contrast between the two of them in that regard. Danny, as a fellow halfa, can follow Vlad when he phases through walls and is fast enough to land a hit on him. His league training as an assassin, albeit rusty, is still deep ingrained enough in him that he can hold up as a rather veritable threat against Vlad without needing his powers.

But Vlad can force Danny to use his powers more often through use of his own. The duplication is the first thing to come to mind: Danny's fast enough to dispel them on his own without powers, and smart enough that he could figure out who the real one is if given a few minute. But that's not always efficient enough.

Good foils for each other that way. Also Vlad's Plasmius design mimics Ra's juuust enough that he looks like Ra's knockoff loser second cousin no one talks about, which only fuels Danny's hatred.

-------- Snippet 7

Danny, ranting about Vlad for the first time: --and it's only made worse by the fact that the little ingrate resembles a cheap knock-off of my grandfather!--

Sam, choking on her water: he what--

Tucker, doing a spittake: HE DOES?

[natspats]

“it was love at every sight.”

(quote: della hicks-wilson)

thank you ⁉️anon for the inspo for this story! ☺️

thank you for reading and enjoy! xx 💋

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆

schlatt groaned.

he didn’t understand why they had to bring this random chick onto the podcast. why couldn’t they have someone on that they BOTH knew?

ted had known her for about a year and a half, and they were best friends. but schlatt would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit jealous of their relationship.

ted had always been close with schlatt, but when the name “y/n” started being thrown around, he felt a pang of jealousy.

he didn’t even know what she looked like, he didn’t bother to look her up on any social media. he didn’t care much for this “y/n” girl.

ted caught onto this attitude of course and had been on his ass about being nice to her. “fake it till you make it!”, is what he had kept telling him. and-

“i’m not fake, i’m the real deal!” is what schlatt dramatically scoffed in response.

however, he decided it wouldn’t look very good on him if he was being rude to a girl in front of thousands of people.

so, he shoved his protests deep down inside, put on his regular persona, and decided to just get the episode over with.

as schlatt sat in the booth of their studio, ted was hurrying around, making the final arrangements to begin the session, when he suddenly stopped in front of schlatt.

“she’ll be here soon, are you ready?” ted arched a brow and stuck his crossed arms in front of his chest.

“do we haveeee tooooo?” schlatt sunk into his seat like a 3 year old in protest over not getting a toy at the store.

“yes schlatt we do, it’s too late to back out.”

“BUT I TRIED TO BACK OUT AND YOU WOULDN’T LET ME!” schlatt cried whilst kicking his feet.

“i owe her, and it’ll be good publicity to have an up and coming on the pod.” ted drops his arms.

“what do you have against her anyways? you haven’t met her, no?”

schlatt would never admit to being jealous. thus, he contemplated the correct response.

“uh- well- i don’t know her. and uh- you know her so well, so i think it’ll be awkward.” schlatt mumbled.

“it won’t! i promise. she’s very easy to get on with.” ted smiles with a pat on his shoulder.

“and who knows, maybe you might like her!”

“yeah right.”

bzzz bzzz

ted jumps and picks his phone up from off the table, swiftly checking it.

“she’s here! be right back.” he walks to the exit before turning around and pointing a finger at the mutton chopped man.

“best behavior young man!”

schlatt puts his arms up in surrender. “relaxxxx. you have nothing to worry about.”

ted swings the door open and mumbles as he walks out, “you better be right about that.”

best behavior? best behavior??

yeah right.

he was going to have EXCELLENT behavior.

he was going to prove ted wrong.

schlatt absentmindedly scrolled through his phone until he heard voices approaching the door. and once the door opened, his eyes shot up.

“here we go.” he thought to himself as he sat up from his toddler-esque slump.

the door clicked open, and in walked ted with-

oh.

oh.

suddenly the whole world around schlatt stopped.

he felt his throat get tight.

his heart began to race.

his palms got all sweaty.

did he look ok?

everything around him got all fuzzy, and she was the only clear thing to him.

she.

who was she?

“earth to schlatt?” ted waved his hands in front of schlatts face.

suddenly he was taken out of his trance.

“yeah-sorry, what?”

ted looked at him with a look mixed with suspicion and confusion.

“this is y/n!” ted presents her to him.

y/n reaches her hand out for him to shake.

“hi, it’s so nice to finally meet you! ted has told me lots much about you.” she beamed at him. schlatt takes her hand and shakes it.

among all of the scattered, racing thoughts in his head, one of the only thoughts that were clear to him was that her hands were soft.

a beat of silence passed before schlatt realized he needed to respond. he looked into her eyes and the faintest, but most genuine smile appeared on his face.

“it’s nice to finally meet you too.”

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

about 45 minutes into the podcast, things were going great- at least in ted’s standards. he was worried schlatt was going to be a prick to her, but he actually had excellent behavior.

that was mainly because throughout the podcast, schlatt had been talking, but not as much be usually would be. and that’s because he was too busy taking in her all in.

it was like he was in a desert and she was his only water source.

he didn’t understand why he felt this way.

he hadn’t felt this was on any of the zoom calls full of girls on the love or host episodes.

he hadn’t felt this way for anyone, not even minx.

schlatt thought he was ok with not being in love or being in a relationship, but apparently he wasn’t?

not to mention, his behavior was unlike his usual self, so it was very noticeable during the recording.

schlatt was beginning to feel that pang of jealously, however, not of y/n. but of ted, and how close he was with her.

as schlatt sat there in his lovestruck trance, he was once again broken out of it by the sound of a soft voice.

“j?” she raised a bow with a confused smile.

J?

J?!?!??!?!

his heart beat faster at that nickname and his cheeks flushed red. why the fuck was he freaking out? it was literally just his name. but nobody has ever called him J before. and-

“sorry, what’s up?”

ted snorted at this, beginning to catch on to this behavior from his dear friend.

and she just let her brows fall into a worried position, all the while keeping a smile plastered across her face.

“i said,” a light blush spreading across her cheeks, “do you think you would ever go on another love or host episode? i was asked by austin recently to have a go at it.”

his heart stopped for a split second.

for some reason, he couldn’t bare the thought of other guys having a chance with her. but then again, what if he was a contestant? what if he had a chance to win her over? what if-

“hmmmmmmmm. i suppose it depends on who id be competing for.” schlatt leaned back in the booth, manspreading.

“i second that.” she points in schlatt’s direction.

ted grins. (mwahahaha type grin)

“you know,” ted leans towards y/n, “i’m sure if you went on, schlatt would be a contestant.” ted flashes a shit eating grin at schlatt.

schlatt turns red and flashes him a look of “oh my fucking god i’m going to fucking kill your fucking dumbass.”

quickly recovering, schlatt scoffs with a “yeahhh righttt. i barely know this broad!”

“yeah well, im sure you’ll know each other well enough soon.” ted smirks and busts out laughing by himself.

what was he doing??

twitter was going to go feral.

schlatt glances over and accidentally makes eye contact with her. but surprisingly, she holds it.

and in the midst of the ugly laughter from their shared best friend, a big, genuine smile, spreads across their cheeks.

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

after the episode is wrapped up and everyone is getting ready to leave, schlatt is sitting back at the booth on his phone.

he looks up from his phone and immediately feels his heart beat hard again.

y/n had walked up to him.

“so uh- i was thinking.” she looks down at her feet, that are rocking back between her toes and heels, then back up at him.

“i was thinking we could make a good team to gang up on ted. y’know- get revenge for today.” she’s wearing a small smile, one that suggests that she’s nervous.

schlatt nervousness falters at this and pushes up his confidence to try to make her feels better.

“i was actually thinking the same thing.”

“great minds think alike.” she lets out a giggle.

“right right. well then, you’re going to have to give me your number toots so that we can have a constant source of communication. all good teams communicate after all, right?”

and with that, they exchanged numbers, a smile , and she went back to her hotel.

ted locked the studio, and the pair made their way out to schlatt’s corvette.

and finally.

finally, ted got something out of his system he’d been waiting alllllll day to get out.

“told ya you’d like her.”

[drunk-person]

THE GOSSIP - Modern Au

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x cousin!reader

Summary: One of the most talked about gossips among the lower class servants in Kings Landing is the fact (or not) that Aemond Targaryen got involved with his cousin Y/n Targaryen when they were both teenagers. Mainly due to the fact that at the age of 17 she was sent to Old Town overnight. Some employees claim that Aemond was caught between her legs. Some say that, like her father, she had had a horrible fight with her uncle and aunt and was sent away. And other than that none of this happened, she just became interested in the course offered at the Old Town conservatory. But now five years later, Y/n Targaryen is back, and rumors haunt those who favor them.

WARNING: 18+ mdni! Smut, p in v, fingering, Oral Sex, fluff, romance friends to lovers, old money, no description for reader.

Author's note: No accurate update predictions because I need to write, correct, translate and correct again. All this in the middle of a boring adult job. (Adulthood kind of sucks) But I'll do my best to finish it and it won't be a long story. English is not my first language. 💕💕

Pinterest folder

ao3 link

Memes and things

Chapters:

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 (news 12/11)

[v-anrouge]

Verryyy long ranting under this about vil and how this fandom treats him for absolutely no reason pls excuse any mistakes and feel free to correct me with any accidental misinfo i passed <3

Mentions of racism, fatphobia, eating disorders, elitism & ableism and also SPOILERS for Vil's character story (eng only)

Ever since this game started getting super famous in tiktok and twitter it seems that people just love to butcher literally every character in Twst and sometimes it's genuinely baffling how wrong some of the takes are, it really does make me wonder if some people just don't read the story and just skip every character who isn't their fave, and if they really do that, what makes them think they know enough about the rest of the cast to post in the character's main tag the most rancid read on a character, often accompanied by some accusations of literal crimes of bigotry that really should be taken more seriously instead of being terms thrown around.

I'm gonna be talking about Vil specifically but characters like Leona, Jamil, Sebek and a few others have it exceptionally bad as well (especially Leo and Jamil who's haters can even be quite racist)

I've been playing for a very long time (in eng) i remember being there to watch the Heartslabyul final release and the release of Savanaclaw's chapter and through these years ive seen the most horrific takes on Vil's characters, ranging from the accusations of racism (which have been debunked again and again especially by JP players) to accusations of supporting eds, fatphobia, elitism and ableism. The funny thing is that even with a very quick read of any of Vil's story you'll find out there is no support for any of such claims. They like to use the incident with Epel's accent when for years JP players have pointed out how this was strictly an error of localization since they couldn't find a situation similar to the one that is portrayed in the original game to put in eng twst, they went with the one we have where Vil asks Epel to "hide his accent" (he really doesn't he was talking about the way Epel is rude and disrespectful which would definitely end with him being beat up and then expelled bringing a bad fame to Pomefiore and also making Vil look bad for not properly guiding his dorm students) which is a terrible choice but alas it seems people prefer to ignore facts to stick with their claim that Vil is some sort of monster when this man is literally a teen. He's 18 years old and has to constantly look out for his image in and out of school since he grew up in front of the cameras.

Vil's character is all about beauty and self care and self acceptance yet for some people this seems to translate to "starve yourself if you don't want to be a disgusting fat pig" which is very weird to say the least considering all mentions Vil makes about diets he is talking about keeping a balanced diet to nurture your body and even has a voice line pointing out the importance of eating. Vil himself may be coded to have an ED in his overblot and Lab vignette but he has never and would never encourage one, he literally goes out of his way to annoy students to take care of themselves what makes anyone think he'd encourage them anyways? It's such a weird thing to assume of a character.

A lot of people seem to think that Vil is also the "beauty standart" king which doesn't even make sense considering vil is a gnc man, he already doesn't follow beauty standards and would definitely be against it, Vil's vision of beauty for himself may be twisted due to his traumas and troubles yet his vision of beauty for others is always exclusively on the person being their best version, this includes dressing how they want to and feel comfortable in, using whatever makeup they want (or just not using it at all) etc.

The way Vil speaks is often misunderstood as he tends to be strict and can be read as mean (I've already shared my theory on what may have caused this behavior here before so i won't be getting into too many details) but Vil is a famous and respected housewarden because if you actually stop and think about his advice the end result is always an effort to make the person's desires come true. (a good example is how Vil made Epel clean the windows and although Epel was displeased with the hard labor in the end he notices how the task may help with muscle growth and gets happy)

Vil's way of caring for others is often misunderstood and obviously that's understandable, not everybody may get his "rougher" way of handling advice, but also it's a bit weird how people react to it when in game all of the characters seem to be okay with it, Pomefiore has a lot of students and if they considered Vil to be a bad leader he would've been voted out a long time ago, no? And if i remember correctly wasn't it said in game they had very few transfers? (as in characters moving out of Pomefiore and into other dorms) That wouldn't make sense if Vil was really the cruel leader some people make him out to be. The truth is Vil is a nice caring person and his students recognize that which is why he is respected all across the school and not simply on his dorm (because ive seen people say Vil has brainwashed the Pomefiore students into thinking he is a good housewarden 💀)

Vil surely has issues he needs to work through, after all this game is literally about that, dealing with troubled teenagers and their internal struggles and the importance of asking for help (omg friendship is magic...) but Vil is also a teenager, and he is one of the characters that show the most desire to get better, immediately showing regret and apologizing to Yuu and his classmates for the danger he put them in, that is because Vil genuinely does care for them.

Another accusation people make is ableism, i remember seeing many posts saying Vil wouldn't respect disabled people and/or mentally ill people which is 1- extremely fucking rude to say? 2- absolutely wrong. Again just a quick read on Vil's character will tell you everything you need to know about how he'd feel about disabled people, he'd treat them like everyone else, and would adjust his handling accordingly to their needs, i really don't get where this claim comes from but it's quite ironic because a lot of Vil haters tend to be ableist themselves by claiming that Vil is a bad person mentioning traits that are often caused by mental illness and the effect of traumas, failing to analyze how their treatment of a character that displays common mental illness symptoms may affect people in real life who displays the same symptoms, and often being ableist themselves by judging these actions irredeemable and inherently evil/heartless, once again dehumanizing people with mental illness in real life who deal with the same symptoms.

Another common thing is the constant invalidation of Vil's trauma. A lot of people seem to read book 5 with their eyes closed and take away from the story that the reason Vil "got pissy and almost killed a guy" (wording of a terrible post i saw a few days ago<333) is because he's a "spoiled brat who couldn't handle getting the paper he wanted in a movie boo hoo" which is kind of funny with how terribly wrong it is, i really don't know what your thought process has to be to get his backstory this wrong but sure, let's start; The start of Vil's problems with being cast as a villain starts from when he was very very young, he was just a child when after being cast as a villain for a movie he was almost beat up by a group of boys for being an "evil guy" and by his reaction it wouldn't be impossible that this wasn't his first time dealing with that kind of thing. Vil also tells jack (who scared away the group) that he had trained so he would be able to deal with them on his own which again, could be a hint that this wasn't that uncommon in his life. In Vil's overblot dialogue is all we really need to know to debunk this claim.

What Vil wanted wasn't just to be a hero in a movie, he wanted to be seen, to be heard and cherished, he wanted to be more than a pretty prop they could put on the front to get attention only to be taken out of stage when he was no longer necessary in the next scene, do you get it? He wanted to be able to see his hard work pay off, to see his efforts of years being rewarded, to for once not be exchangeable for someone more favorable. Vil wanted to feel like all his pain was worth it in the end because finally he could shine in the stage, being himself instead of just another persona to attract people. In his overblot it's shown clearer than ever that Vil does not have a stable view of his own image unlike what he has trained himself to show, even calling himself ugly and begging them to not look at him. I don't think Vil is used to be being vulnerable, which would explain why he was so freaked out when the overblot happened, and why he cried when his beauty (the one thing about himself that was always recognized by others and therefore the thing he'd always been the most desperate to nurture) was taken away by aging in book 6 (note; the fact Vil sacrificed it for his classmates also just debunks the people saying he only cares for himself, if he did he wouldn't be who he is.)

I said i wouldn't give my thoughts again but i will, just briefly, i believe an easy explanation to Vil's behavior (the tough love he gives and his strictness) might be because of the industries he grew up in, we can't know for sure how similar twst's version of the movie and modeling industry is when compared to the real life one but considering the way Vil is, my guess it's that it's pretty similar, especially in the regard of their treatment towards children, in Vil's overblot he hears two staff members talking about how he'd never be able to pull off a relatable role because he is too perfect, and sure those may not look like insults, but to Vil who's only dream his entire life was to be seen in good light, those words stuck to him so deeply they'd come back to him during his overblot. (note; i have not seen a jp translation of the overblot scenes so i don't know if they also suffered from localization issues, if anyone has a link to one i could see id really like to see what the staff said to Vil)

The general point of Vil's overblot was how his efforts and hard work were always overlooked and ignored in favor of someone else, this happens with quite a lot of characters and happens as well with another overblot (Leona, who happens to be quite similar to Vil in many ways) and although i don't expect anyone to read it and think of analysing it more deeply even with a shallow vision of his overblot it's still incredibly insensitive to call it a "non-problem" especially considering the fact this is Vil's ENTIRE life, he's been working hard and failing for years again and again and that does get to you. I remember when i posted my first rant on Vil quite a lot of people who reported to be skilled at something (say for example music or dancing) as a child that any failures absolutely destroyed you inside, and that people who haven't passed through the same tend to call them dramatic and say they're overreacting to situations that can be classified as trauma depending on how much it mentally impacted said child. (and in Vil's case it's clear it had a massive one, after all he wouldn't have overblotted if he didn't have issues that had been bottled up until they finally exploded)

Mentioning Leona again, he and Vil share the same sentiment of anguish for being discarded and having their hard work be thrown away, the difference in them is the way they reacted to it, while Leona ended up not seeing any value in attempting to do anything because he assumes the outcome is always going to be the same, Vil overworks himself and forces himself to do things he might hate clinging to the hope that this time it'll work out.

Since we're talking about trauma ill already answer some things that may or may not come with this post (because in my first one i got this response a lot) "Vil's a fictional character it doesn't matter" and sure if you think like that cool, personally, when im talking about a fictional character that tackles real life traumas and issues, i talk about it as if referring to a real person because the character has been written with one (or multiple) in mind.

Twst may have issues but the character writing is undeniably about real life traumas and experiences, and the characters are quite accurate and good representation of the issues they tackle, so when you invalidate them, you are by result invalidating real life issues. Of course this won't stop anyone and i know that a few people will probably scoff at this and brush it off as being too sensitive but personally if you wouldn't dare invalidate say for example Riddle's traumas because you know it's a representation of mommy issues, which is a very real problem, to not go against your own morals you should also respect the issues of all the other characters, even if you personally think some are more "serious" than the other.

[marlsswrites]

June 25th <3

Horoscope - @jegulus-microfic - words: 1400

“Where are you two off to?” Barty spoke as he ran up behind Regulus and Pandora in the tall, stone walls of Hogwarts.

“Divination.” Pandora replies distractedly, much more interested in braiding a small piece of blonde hair in front of her forehead, causing her to go slightly cross eyed.

“We have charms don’t we?” Barty looked around the halls, confused, before looking at Regulus for an answer.

Regulus ran a hand through his hair and looked towards Barty. “Me and Dora got moved up, we’re in seventh year Divination.”

“Oh! Okay.” Barty replied, instantly zoning out of the conversation when he saw a rather grumpy looking Evan walking past. “Nerds.” He snorted and tan towards Evan. “Evie!”

“Are we sure they aren’t dating?” Regulus huffed out with a smirk. “I called Evan ‘Evie’ once as a joke and he fucking hexed me.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Pandora matched his smirk with a grin. “Enough of them, let’s go embarrass some dumb seventh years with my seer privileges.” She winked.

Regulus rolled his eyes and brushed a loose curl away from his face. “Are we actually nerds, though?”

“You are, I’m just good at divination and shit at everything else.” She tapped her head to prove a point as they walked into the classroom, surprisingly, being some of the last ones there.

Regulus felt multiple pairs of eyes attach to him as he walked into the room, trying to avoid eye contact, he quickly stepped past the teacher to get to a table in the back.

“Not so fast!” The professor spoke as she stepped in front of a rather embarrassed looking Regulus, and an excited looking Pandora. “Everyone, these are some of our new sixth year students, the smartest of their year!”

He quite literally wanted to smash his head into a wall. “Thank you.” He muttered as he sat down at an empty table, Pandora next to him as she tied her platinum blonde hair in a bun with a multicoloured scrunchie, Regulus is pretty sure she sewed that one herself.

A few moments later, just as the professor started to speak, a flustered James Potter ran into the classroom. He apologised swiftly to the scowling professor and made a beeline for Regulus’ table as soon as he spotted him.

“Hi Reggie.” He whispered, Regulus would correct him like he does most people, but he quite likes it to be honest, especially when it’s James whispering in his ear.

“Potter.” How he managed to get that out with a smooth voice was a mystery.

“What did I miss?” James asked in a hushed tone.

Pandora turns to them, eyeing them suspiciously before shrugging and leaning over, propping her head on her hand. “Professor Wells told us that her horoscope predicts that Regulus has a secret.” She spoke in a hushed, overdramatic voice.

“Old nutter.” The Slytherin boy muttered.

“Do you now Reggie?” James asked with a dramatic gasp.

“Shut up and listen.” Regulus hissed.

Regulus saw a suspicious grin start to appear on the Potter boys lips as he spoke. “Ma-“ He stomped on James’ foot, receiving a yelp as James decided to finally pay attention to the class.

His brother and Lupin weren’t even at class today, not sure why, the Lupin kid seems to always be in the hospital wing for one thing or another and Regulus knew for a fact the he and Sirius were attached at the hip. Regulus wasn’t sure about Pettigrew, probably doesn’t take the class.

-

“What is that?” Regulus held the cup close to his face, trying to decipher what shapes the tea leaves made up. He held it to the side, hoping Pandora could tell.

Pandora hummed, a puzzled look appearing on her face. She grabbed her book, flicking through until she could find the recognisable shapes.

“That one…” She pointed at the first shape in the cup. “It’s a stag I think?” She flicked the page and looked at the next shape. “This book is not helpful at all!” She groaned and slammed the book on the table.

Now, James peered over his shoulder to take a look at the cup. “It is a stag!” He beamed and looked at Regulus, who rolled his eyes, yet again, and looked back at the cup. “That one there looks like a heart.” The brunette pointed his finger to the cup.

And he was right, anyone could tell that it was a love heart. But would Regulus admit that? No way.

“No it doesn’t.” He scoffed.

“Yes it does.” Pandora and James chimed in at the same time.

Regulus pointed at James, ignoring it when the Gryffindor licked his lips and grinned that stupid, gorgeous smile of his. “This- this is none of your business.” He turned to point at Pandora. “And no it does not.

“Yes is does!” She sang, in a slightly too loud voice, causing multiple people in the classroom to turn and look at them

“No it-“ He sighed. “I’m not winning this am I?”

Pandora’s grin widened. “Nope.”

-

Regulus left the class before Pandora as she spoke with the Professor about crystals, he didn’t even pretend to understand that nonsense, it’s a mystery how he ended up in higher Divination.

He turned to corner into an empty looking hallway, their class had finished early so not many students crowded the halls yet, which was nice.

Sitting down in a small alcove, he folded in on himself, tucking his legs to his chest and letting his head fall back onto the wall with a soft thud.

He heard footsteps nearby, but he passed it off as a student or teacher passing by. His gaze was glued on the roof, he traced the patterns in the stone with his eyes.

Only moments later, he felt a hand ruffle his hair, a hand he would recognise the feel of from anywhere.

“James.” He sighed with a laugh, the corner of his mouth tipping up into a smile.

Watching carefully, he saw James sit on the other side of the alcove. The older boy lifted Regulus’ legs up ever so softly, go place them on top of his own.

Regulus felt a soft flutter in his stomach as those honey brown eyes locked with his stormy grey ones. James’ tan, golden skin shone in the sunlight. It was perfect the way the sun hit him, just like a spotlight, like he deserved to be in.

But no, Regulus didn’t want to share James’ beauty with the rest of the world, that was his. His to keep, to touch, to cherish, to love.

“There’s no one here right?” James said in a low voice as he leant over to Regulus, their noses practically touching.

“No, but Pandora is very suspicious, you couldn’t be worse at hiding this.”

“It’s not my fault, I need you.” James sulked.

Shaking his head fondly, Regulus leant in to connect their lips, probably too eagerly, but he couldn’t care any less right now when James was smiling again his lips.

“Regulussss.” He sang in a sweet voice, pulling away but only slightly. “A heart and a stag? I’m flattered.” He spoke as he brushed a loose dark hair away from Regulus’ flushed face.

“Those things are fake.” He grumbled under his breath.

“Are they now?” He fake pouted, Regulus hoped it was fake anyway, he hated upsetting James. “So you don’t love me.”

Regulus looked James in the eye, his big wide doe eyes shone with pure adoration and love.

“Fuck off.” He said through a smile, there was no hiding the amount of feelings he had for this boy, he was just wonderful, so loving, so kind, so gorgeous. Regulus was sure James was crafted just for him, so they could love each other so much it hurt.

“You love me.” The Gryffindor teased.

“Sadly I do love you, what was I thinking?”

“That I’m super hot and a good kisser?” James asked with an eyebrow wiggle.

Regulus nodded slowly and pulled James in again, the kiss was deeper, slightly rougher, yet still it was perfect. More than perfect.

James traced Regulus’ bottom lip with his tongue, sending shivers down his spine and having his heartbeat speed up shockingly fast. No matter how many times James does that, Regulus thinks his reaction will always be the same.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Regulus mumbled against his boyfriend’s lips.

[ifbrd]

A little while ago I saw online someone had made a DND character sheet for Ford Pines. In the ability scores area, they had intelligence as the highest (makes sense), and strength as one of the lowest (fair enough)

But then they had wisdom as second highest and dexterity as second lowest, and I gotta say, I think those two need to be flipped

I mean let’s start with dexterity. Now I’m not an expert on DND by any means so apologies if I am misunderstanding dexterity here, but others have pointed out that Ford spent his entire adulthood chasing after and/or running from paranormal creatures. I guess I just feel like he has to have high dexterity for him to have even survived all those years.

Also this

But wisdom being low is where I feel most strongly.

I wouldn’t be the first to point out that Ford, while highly intelligent, completely lacks common sense.

People have noted that the safety measures for turning the portal on and off should have been reverse, that the portal shouldn’t have been that easy to turn on by accident and yet it required at least two people to turn it off.

He keeps an infinity die in a “cheap plastic case”

He gives a 12 year old a cross bow

He gives another 12 year old a mind control tie and tells him to “use it responsibly”

He takes Dipper out on several missions that were probably too dangerous for him, refer to the magnet gun above, where Dipper, if he didn’t do it right, could have fallen to his death, and Ford also took him on the mission to shoot Bill for …some reason???? Leave the 12 year old at home when you go kill god to save the world from the current apocalypse! Why do I even need to say that??? Also “don’t worry I’ve been down here countless times and all the aliens are dead…probably”

As I recall, “Bill proofing the shack” was his first line of defense and “Bill proof our minds” was “the next best thing” …shouldn’t those be reversed??? You gotta leave the shack at some point????

According to journal 3, Ford was the one who encouraged Stan to take the kids on a road trip RIGHT AFTER BILL PROOFING THE SHACK, which completely defeats the purpose of doing that in the first place.

I’ve pointed this out before, “Mabel will be fine! I watched her become pen pals with the pizza delivery man in the 15 seconds he was at the door!” … Ford…that’s creepy has hell, keep that pizza delivery man away from your niece!”

When weirdmageddon started he wrote in his journal????? And drew a lovely little detailed image?????

See that little greenish sticky note at the top? That’s my little note that says “when did you have time to write this?????” Seriously what. “It’s the end of the world…i gotta draw this and write a little entry on it before I save everyone!!!” It’s the drawing that really gets me. Okay write a note in case someone else has to take over but WHY THE DRAWING

And finally, everyone is holding hands at the Cipher Wheel. Stan is essential and is refusing to join unless Ford thanks him for saving him. Ford reluctantly does so. It’s now clear that Stan is willing to put everyone, Dipper and Mabel included, at risk just because he wants a thank you, so Ford decides this is a really good time to CORRECT STAN’S GRAMMAR

Look I say this with love but,

Ford may be the smartest people in the room but he’s also the biggest dumbass in the room. This man has no wisdom.