#it doesnt even have to be fanfic

[arcanefeelings]

god i terribly want to write something like the tragedy of sacrificing a loved one to save the world in a very judas betraying jesus way and so horribly magnified so you can feel every crack and crevice that deepened in my heart when I came across this.

just. tragic love.

[little-miss-fandom-freak]

The fact the barely anyone has jumped of the Creature Commandos train is insane

I need fanfics yall

AO3 DOESNT EVEN HAVE THEM; THE SHOW ISNT EVEN LISTED ON THEIR FANDOM LIST

I don't care if it's a writing that would dissappint a 3rd grader JUST GIVE ME FICS

[nenoname]

stan twins the canon cptsd brothers i will always think about all your unaddressed issues that would make perfect plot fuel for your spinoff

and also the whole 'stan getting that poem by bill via a website which contrasts with bill getting one from the axolotl via a website' foreshadowing thing

like idk i would love something like su future but like more optimistic, aka not an accumulated breakdown that has to be mostly resolved off screen at the end :/// but something thats being kinda addressed throughout? (although would love to see one of them turn into a monster thats always fun lol)

stan having severe issues from his dad and those years of being homeless that we keep on getting more info on but never really getting confronted on (the drifter catalogue and tijuana incident...), him being completely alone for like twenty years when running the shack before soos comes along to the point that 1998 is noted as his low point, and him not really learning about bill+what he did to ford until ages after he killed him if he ever did get the full context

while i think amnesia and everyone seeing him as a hero actually helped with stan's 'i'm a worse version of my brother' thing its still a lingering issue too and we now got him being insecure over his own hands

ford being immediately thrown from 'being tortured by bill' to 'being stuck in the multiverse and being chased by bounty hunters constantly', him fully expecting himself to die when destroying bill, and him only now being safe for the first time in 30 years ....relatively safe, he's still in constant danger because of course he is

idk in the end the series wants them to be happy and they deserve it, its why i wasn't too worried about the book being like 'ooh bill is back!! and the book is haunting ford' thing cos i knew they'll be ok

[httpiastri]

is it too early to ask for a fic abt imola's sprint race and how upset and angry paul was after the race ...

idk if this is what u wanted but i just felt like writing this. hope u like it <3 (still very much not over what happened)

four podiums in four rounds.

a consistent result like that should make any f2 driver satisfied.

should.

consistency is key, as you've seen so often in formula racing, but how can you tell that to someone who was just closer than ever to getting his maiden win in formula two?

to say that paul was a wreck after the race is an understatement. he refused to talk to you or any of his staff members – he even refused to talk to ralf, which was more worrisome than everything else. though, it didn't take you long to realize that he just needed to cool off on his own, just get some time to breathe in peace. so when he went back to your shared hotel room, you decided to stay at the track a little to watch the f1 qualifying, just so paul could have his much-needed alone time.

when you finally step into your hotel room hours later, after having gotten stuck in several tailbacks on your way back from the track, paul isn't resting on the bed like you thought he would be. he doesn't answer when you call out his name either, which really gets your heartbeat going.

you find him in the bathroom when you peek into it, his body submerged in the bathtub filled to the brim with foam and seemingly steaming water. you're not sure if he's even heard you come in because he doesn't move a single muscle nor open his eyes. he slowly looks up at you when you say his name again, though, eyes holding so much pain that the knot in your stomach grows even tighter. you have to do something, anything, to break him out of this cycle.

"can i join?"

it takes a second for him to react, but then he nods, and you step into the room. you slip out of the cute summery dress you've worn all day, removing all of your last clothing items aswell as your jewelry before moving towards him. the bathtub is tiny, nowhere near than ones you've shared before in luxury hotel rooms around the world. there's barely any space left for you to slip in, but you make it work.

the second your back meets his chest, his strong arms wrap around you and a content sigh leaves his mouth. neither of you care about the water flowing past the edge as you shuffle into his embrace; a wet floor is a problem for later. the bath soap he's used smells lovely, a mix of vanilla and rose meeting your nose and making you forget about how the water is burning your skin already. paul doesn't say anything, although he rests the side of his head against yours, warm breaths tickling the skin of your neck.

you take the opportunity to speak when you're met with it. you can't just let it go on like this all night. "do you... want to talk about it?" you ask, voice low as if not to scare him. as if the mere thought of the race is enough to scare him.

he lets out a hum. "no."

you pause for a few moments, considering the idea of just letting go of the topic. you decide that you can't. "can i talk about it, then?"

"i can't stop you, can i?"

you lift one of his hands from your waist, letting your pointer finger trace along his own fingers. they're pruney and soft, revealing how long he must've been in the bath already, while the calluses along the upper part of his palm from endless hours of racing and weightlifting stay hardened. you slot your fingers in between his, wrapping your other hand around the back of his hand too.

"no matter if you like to hear it or not," you begin. "you did well. that was an amazing race."

"but-"

a dismissive sound bubbles from your throat to cut him off. "no buts. it could've just as well gone your way today." you shift in his hold and turn your head so that you can look into his pretty blue eyes, and he already looks much calmer than before. "it's okay to fall apart, but we're building you up stronger for tomorrow. okay?"

his breath rises with his deep breath, and he soon nods. you lean in to press a kiss to his cheek, and then you can't help but to give him another one. and another. and one to the tip of his nose, one to his forehead, one to that spot right by his temple that he loves so much.

finally he smiles, and he looks almost relieved to do it; like it's been ages since he had something to be happy about. he even lets out a small laugh when you keep up with your pecks, and he has to place a hand on your cheek to halt your actions.

he guides you forward, slotting your lips against his, before letting his hand glide to the back of your neck to keep you close.

hopefully you've actually gotten through to him. in the world of f2, every setback feels like tall mountain you have to climb; losing a race lead is like reaching the summit only to slip right back down again. it sounds like an impossible task, and if it were up to you, you would tell him to save himself the heartbreak and get an easier job. but racing is what he loves.

and together, you make it work.

no matter if it's about fitting into a small bath or coming back better the next day.

[aloonaram]

I desperately need fics of post s2 jayvik or even an au with s2 jayce and s1 viktor where we explore the change in dynamic after jayce suffers his own leg injury in the anomaly. Im sure people have already seen all the parallels and analyses of jayce and viktor’s injuries, but it’s just a concept really special to me,,,,there’s nothing more beautiful than connecting with someone experiencing a similar struggle—it’s just so much stronger because of your ability to truly empathize with the other. And obviously that’s ignoring allll of jayvik’s history. I just think there’s so much potential there to expand on the possibilities of their relationship.

[ceruleanblueshells]

The urge to write a scorbus fic with time travelling trauma, ansty slow burn, reverent pining and intense family dynamics just because the line, " Albus Potter was not born angry. But he was taught anger, and taught well " and "Scorpius Malfoy did not slam doors. His rage was a silent thing that festered " was sent to me in a fever dream.

[fruitalike]

OBVIOUSLY || Trans Elliott x Male Reader

RATING: Explicit, 18+ obviously

PARING: TRANS Elliott x Male Reader

TAGS: TRANS ELLIOTT, as always, you're married, 2nd person, oral/p.i.v. sex, multiple orgasms/positions, pwp, maybe mirror sex, spit as lube/spit kink a little bit..., HHHHAFU (House Husbands Have Heart Aprons Fanfic Universe)

WORDS: 3476

SUMMARY:

“How much longer?” You ask, and Elliott whips his head back around to face you, face even redder still. “How much longer for what?” He’s flustered again; but it’s different now than it was when you’d first come home. You watch him chew his lip nervously, but he stops when he notices you’re staring. “Until the food gets out of the oven,” you say, your eyes still on his lips until you see them quiver, then you look up into his eyes instead, tilting your head just enough, “obviously.”

READ ON AO3

OR...

(genital words: cock/head/tip, chest/nipples, lips/cunt/walls/g-spot)

You arrive home at your expected time, but your husband greets you as you walk up the front steps regardless. He opens the door as you make it onto the porch. “It’s not done,” he says, he’s flustered—you’re not sure if it’s because he’s embarrassed or because he’s been rushing, maybe both. “I… I just need, like, fi- ten minutes. Ten minutes and you can come in. It won’t be done but you can come in.”

You can tell by the look on his face that you should probably hold in the chuckle you feel in your throat. Elliott is a bit of a mess, more comfortable clothes replace his usual formal attire, his hair is all over his face, and his eyebrows are a bit furrowed, and he’s red in the face. Any desire you have to laugh is solely based on how cute he looks; but you refrain anyways. “I’ll just wait out here. You let me know when you’re ready for me to come in, okay?”

Elliott breathes a sigh of relief. “I swear it won’t take long,” he says, though even he doesn’t seem convinced, “it’s just- I lost track of time, and… y’know. It’ll be fine.” You go to reassure him, but he just repeats himself, “It’ll be fine,” he whips around and slinks back into the house. Though you’re sure that you can hear him repeat it to himself again as he closes the door.

Once you’re sure he’s too far inside the house to hear you, you do finally chuckle to yourself. He’s just too sweet. Taking a seat on the swinging bench on the front porch, you resign yourself to waiting indefinitely for whatever Elliott had planned. It seemed like he was cooking something, judging by the heart apron he wore, and the various foodstuffs all over it. You rub your eyes as the fall breeze relaxes you. You could use a nice, home cooked meal.

You’re awoken from your near slumber as Elliott opens the front door again. He smiles at you and beckons you inside. It takes you a second to gather yourself enough to follow him in, but once you do, it’s obvious he’s cooking something. “Don’t look too hard at the oven.”

“How about I just go take a shower?” Again, he seems relieved by your offer. Elliott kisses you as you head for the bathroom.

Given the state of the kitchen, you figure you can take your time in the shower. You try not to spend too much time thinking about what Elliott’s cooking for you. Of course, you do wonder. But you try to put it out of your mind. The water is almost viciously hot, but that’s what it takes to soothe you at this point. Your skin grows tender as you scrub all of the farm’s grime down the drain. It doesn’t bother you, though. Better to actually feel clean. You make sure to put on plenty of lotion afterwards, anyways.

You lose track of time in the shower, but years on the farm have made you painfully efficient regardless—it’s barely been half an hour by the time you’ve finished. You still head for the kitchen once you’ve dried off and put clean clothes on. Evidently, half an hour was all that Elliott needed to get the kitchen back under control. He was too considerate to run any water while you were showering, but all of the dirty dishes are stacked neatly in the sink. The counter tops are wiped clean of any of the detritus that had accumulated there as he cooked. More importantly, he seemed much calmer: he’s no longer flushed, or as disheveled (you hesitate to even refer to him that way—Elliott was always far too formal to find himself truly disheveled, well, unless… you know) as he had been before. He comes to your side the moment you enter the kitchen. He wraps his arms around your neck and kisses your cheek multiple times. “No peaking,” he says, playfully turning you away from the kitchen with his hold on you.

“I wasn’t even looking!” There’s just enough playful exasperation in your tone that Elliott laughs a little; even as you can’t help but try to smell what’s cooking in the air. Only now do you notice that he’s opened the windows—clearly trying to keep the aroma from what ever it is he’s cooking from building up in the room, what a tease.

He releases you from his grasp and you sit at the island in the kitchen. Your eyes naturally follow him as he walks in front of you, standing between the counter you rest at and the oven, shielding whatever he was cooking from your prying eyes. “Can I get you something to drink?” He asks, trying to make his appearance in front of you seem a little more natural, as wiping down the already clean counter tops didn’t quite justify it.

“Sure,” you say. You’re not particularly thirsty. You just like watching Elliott squirm, nervously wiping his hands on his heart adorned apron as he prepares a glass of hot apple cider for you. A pot of it was already on the stove, surely another one of his tricks to distract from whatever he has in the oven.

He brings it to you, coming around the side of the kitchen island, mug in hand. Elliott sits up on the counter as you drink your cider, ever the distraction. You were wrong before—you definitely needed this cider. The warmth soothes you more than a shower ever could. Perhaps your husband knows you a little too well. He reaches for your hand and you intertwine your fingers. You pull on his hand and he scoots across the counter so that he’s in front of you. He carefully spreads his legs so that sitting in front of you is easier for him. You’re sure that that’s all there is to it.

Both of Elliott’s distractingly long legs dangle to either side of you. You gingerly place your mug between his legs, looking up at him. The warmth from the cup radiates between his legs, you can tell by how red his face continues to get as your mug rests between his thighs.

Finding yourself parched, you reach for your cider again with your free hand. Of course your other hand is still delicately intertwined with your husbands. You choose to ignore the embarrassed glances that Elliott shoots your way. His face reddens still as you continue to sip your delicious drink so thoughtfully prepared for you by your loving husband, who shifts restlessly on the counter as you make a show of ignoring him.

There’s a twitching in the front of his pants, and Elliott squeezes his thighs together, seizing the opportunity to do so while you still have your mug in hand. He carefully places his feet between your thighs, his own legs pressed together in a slight embarrassment. It’s obvious that his feet don’t really have anywhere else to go (as long as keeping them off of the counter was a priority), but you can’t help but see it as yet another distraction.

You finally release Elliott’s hand to place it on his left foot where it meets his ankle—acknowledging his distraction as he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. He turns away from you, to look at the oven, of course. You trace your fingers up and down the back of his ankle, smirking to yourself as you feel him get chills. “How much longer?” You ask, and Elliott whips his head back around to face you, face even redder still.

“How much longer for what?” He’s flustered again; but it’s different now than it was when you’d first come home. You watch him chew his lip nervously, but he stops when he notices you’re staring.

“Until the food gets out of the oven,” you say, your eyes still on his lips until you see them quiver, then you look up into his eyes instead, tilting your head just enough, “obviously.” His breath hitches on your slightly snarky tone. He turns away from your gaze and wets his lips trying to find something to say; he’s already so caught up in you.

“Not long.” Is all he can manage. You’ve finished your drink, so you set your mug on the counter top. The light clatter startles Elliott. “Really?” You ask, calling him on his bluff. You’re tracing your thumb up and down the top of his foot as you speak; the rest of your fingers still, now.

He squirms. “I’m… not giving specifics,” he hesitates, “obviously.” Elliott seems proud that he’s turned your snark back on you but all you do is smirk; and move your hand up to his calf. “Is there time for anything?”

“… Like what?” He asks, as if he hadn’t just squeezed his thighs together. You move your hand further up his calf. “You know.”

“Maybe… it’d have to be quick.”

“Can you be quick?” He huffs but spreads his legs just enough to slide down into your lap, you kiss him immediately; he reciprocates desperately. “Yes.” He says quietly after you’d pulled away. You can tell by the way he’s trembling he’s telling the truth. He’s always so excitable.

You can only kiss him so long before you begin to really question the integrity of the bar stool you’re sitting on; the metal creaking with every sudden movement. You stand and usher Elliott back up onto the counter top. He pulls you to him and you grind against him. You can feel how eager he is through his sweatpants.

Kissing him again, you’re able to slide his sweats and underwear down with ease. You elect to still leave them on, just in case he needs to quickly slip away to cater to whatever he’s cooking. Of course, you hope that he won’t need to; that he’ll be at your mercy until you’re done with him.

You ease him onto his back and crouch between his legs, too weary of the bar stool to use it. Some of your limited time obviously goes to kissing and delicately nipping at Elliott’s inner thighs, much to his chagrin. He whines as you tease him. “Please,” he begs, your kisses inching closer and closer, teasing out more and more of his desperation, “just… please.”

Your tongue slips between his lips with practiced brevity; tracing right up to where his cock aches for your attention. You kiss around it a little at first, just enough to tease him a little more before you allow yourself to fully give into your carnal desires. Elliott gasps as you finally lick him. His hips try to buck up into your mouth, chasing the friction you expertly provide.

You pin Elliott’s legs to the counter top: leaning forward you rest an arm on the back of each of his thighs; using one hand to hold him by the ankles and keeping his feet in the air; the other rests on his pubic mound, and you use your thumb to pull him taught. His little cock is even more exposed to you now, his tip peeking out of his foreskin. He whimpers as you focus the tip of your tongue on his head.

Soon, even you have grown tired of your merciless teasing. “Behave.” You warn before taking Elliott into your mouth completely. You can feel the muscles in his legs flex—desperately trying to keep himself still. He cries out for you as you suckle his tiny cock, letting your teeth graze his head.

Motion in your periphery causes you to look to your right. You can’t help but notice both your and Elliott’s reflection in the screen of the television in the living room. Obviously, you’re awkwardly half-way crouched between his legs, but Elliott’s the main event. He’s sprawled out on the kitchen island, his lower back flush with the bar top, beloved husband folding him in half. His shoulders make contact with the lower part of the counter and his hair billows all over it. You make a mental note that his head is hanging off the edge of the counter top. Occasionally you can hear his nails scratch against the underside of the bar as you continue to suck him off, but his other hand shamelessly gropes at his own chest through his heart apron. You don’t need to consult his reflection to know that he’s teasing his own nipples, you can feel it in the way his cock twitches in your mouth.

Elliott won’t last much longer like this, so you pick up the pace a little. You swirl your tongue and bob your head a little faster, and make quick work of your beloved husband. He’s crying out for you and cumming on your face within seconds. His thighs tremble as you continue to tease his aching cock, and you can feel your own cock twitch in your pants. You need to be inside on him.

You kiss him a few times before pulling yourself off of him. Standing back up straight makes your back crack, so you take a second to stretch it out. Once you’ve gotten comfortable again you let your hard cock rest against his ass. “You want it?” You ask, and Elliott seems to shift a little, checking the oven, again, undoubtedly.

“Please,” he begs, again, “fuck me.” As much as you’d love to hear it, he doesn’t have to beg you twice. You shove your own pants and underwear down to around your knees and let your cock out. You spit on your cock out of habit, but Elliott hardly needs it. You rub your spit up and down your cock as you watch him quiver; if he hadn’t been wet enough for you after his orgasm, he would be now. He whimpers when you rub your cock up against his. He stops holding onto the counter to reach down and jerk your cock a couple of times, you thrust into his hand. “Put it in… put it in.”

You oblige, angling your cock with Elliott’s cunt, but letting him push your tip in since he was so eager. He hisses at the feeling, and you can’t help but snicker a bit as you slowly thrust in. He always wants more than he can take. But it doesn’t take long for him to get used to you, especially as he continues to masturbate openly—still rubbing his nipples and jerking himself off, too.

He only stops when you thrust into him a little harder, causing him to lurch forward and grab onto the counter top between his legs to stabilize himself. You hold onto him a little firmer and trace your thumbs across his sides. “I’ve got you,” you say, leaning forward a little and spitting on his cock, “you can touch yourself as much as you want.”

Elliott whimpers at your taunting tone, but follows through nonetheless, rubbing his little cock in time with your thrusts. You’re careful with how hard you’re fucking him, not wanting to concuss him as his head continued to hang off the lower counter top. But, you’re still picking up the pace. You only have a little while longer to fuck him until dinner’s ready, after all.

Carefully, you fuck him faster still, Elliott hanging on your every movement. As much as you’d love to, you don’t even have to fuck him particularly hard to have his cunt desperately squeezing you with every thrust. Perhaps you know your husband a little too well. You tighten your grip on his sides when you feel his muscles start to tense, and you position your thrusts towards the angle you know he likes the most.

He doesn’t last much longer. His toes curl and you feel compelled to watch him in the reflection of the television again. He cries out for you as he struggles through his orgasm, jerking himself rapidly even as he tries to control his own movements carefully, still in such a precarious position. You keep a slower, gentle pace to ease him through his orgasm, holding onto him for reassurance; your own end far ahead.

Once he’s come down a bit, you pull out and he sits up on the counter. Elliott kisses you sloppily, wrapping his arms around your neck. All care for any mess on the kitchen counter long gone. He’s leaning into you and running his fingers through your hair; swaying ever so slightly, you imagine it’s from all the blood rushing back down from his head. He pulls away from the kiss and just looks at you, excess desperation in his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. “Is there time for just a little more?”

His fingers stop moving in your hair and just hang there instead. He gives a meek nod. “…Maybe.” He says, as if to hide his own desire.

Once more you usher him, this time down from the counter top. He kisses you again but you pull away, kissing his cheek and then his neck. He moans for you, overstimulated but still desperate for more. You have him by his biceps, so it’s easy for you to turn him around and press his chest to the counter top. He whines softly as you rub your cock up against his cunt.

Elliott’s leaned over the bar part of the kitchen island, his fingers naturally wrapping around the edge of the counter, holding himself still. You gather his hair up in one hand, wrapping it around itself for a better hold. “Just keep an eye on it for me, okay? I’d hate for all your hard work to go to waste.” He only whimpers in response, so you tug on his hair. “Okay?”

“I will, I will, just… please.” He’s looking back at you, moving hips trying to push your cock back inside of him. You oblige, pounding into him rather harshly. Elliott lurches forward and cries out for you in the best way. He squeezes down on you when your balls smack against his cock, you can feel it twitch, too.

You’ll never get used to how sensitive he is inside once you’re in the second round. His walls can’t help but quiver around you with every thrust. He’s in a better position now, so you can thrust into him as hard and as fast as you both would like. Elliott continuously begs you for more, and you can only provide.

His thighs quiver with every thrust, and the island itself seems to creak a little when you really pound into him. You ignore it. You can’t possibly pay any mind to something as unimportant as the structural integrity of your home when your husband is crying out for you like this. You’re ratcheting up the pressure, constantly aiming for and pounding into his g-spot. All Elliott can do is punctuate every thrust with a cry of “please, please, please!”

He’s barely coherent. But you can feel his orgasm drawing closer and closer—the way he’s bearing down on you makes it hard for you to keep a steady pace. Your grip tightens on him again as you feel your orgasm building as well. You pull on his hair again, and you swear you can hear his fingernails scrapping against the underside of the counter top.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” There’s something so special about shredding Elliott’s eloquence with your cock—it makes your toes curl. You keep the same hold on his hair as you feel him tense up all over. “I’m going—fuck! I’m cumming, I’m cumming!”

His cunt squeezes you hard and you feel him gush with his orgasm, coating you and trickling down your bare thighs. You’re not far behind him, careful not to tug on his hair anymore than you already had, lest you begin to rip out his delicate mane. Thrusting as hard and as fast and as deep as you can manage, you release deep into your husband; crying out for him just as he had for you. There’s no discernible rhythm to the last of your thrusts, all that’s left is your desperation.

You pull him up from the counter, your cock still inside of him even as you begin to soften. Your hips still pistoning slightly as you pull his back to your chest; hands roaming him all over to soothe the both of you. His chest heaving still, he reaches for your hand.

You intertwine you fingers again, just as you had before. “Elliott…” you drag out his name dramatically, tracing his jawline with the pointer finger on your free hand, “how much longer do we have to wait for the food?”

Elliott glances at the oven. “Just a little longer,” he says, “obviously.”

[flickeringquip]

(1) You can't help but wonder if you've gotten in over your head.

Pt. 2 of this post, feat. @thedolmainblog's Aiden. DIDN'T FUCK THE TAG UP THIS TIME.

gratuitous smut below the cut.

The blindfold is silky and soft as they slide it over your eyes, smoothing their thumbs across your cheeks as you take a shaky inhale. The darkness is all-encompassing, more so than you could have anticipated, and for a few tenuous moments you struggle not to be overwhelmed. Bound and blinded, this is more control than you've ever willingly given up before, and it's hard to ignore the whispers of fear that tighten in your chest.

"Breathe."

You exhale. Their voice is a welcome balm, giving your poor understimulated yet overwhelmed senses something to focus on beyond your uncertainty.

"Do you remember your safe word?"

"Avery."

"Good girl."

Aiden chuckles at your ensuing flush, and you huff at them, quietly grateful for the moment of playfulness as their hands move from your cheeks to your shoulders, sweeping down your sides just lightly enough to make you squirm a little, ticklish.

"The drug will take effect soon," Their hands settle on your hips, rubbing soft circles into your hips, "It's normal to feel hot, foggy, even a little dizzy, but let me know if you start feeling sick — the antidote is in my pocket. Understand?"

(1) You bob your head in a nod throughout their explanation — and startle when they pinch your hip, though not hard enough to even really sting.

This time.

"I want you to use your words when I tell you something, alright?"

For all that their voice is as pleasant as it always is, there is no questioning the command clear in their words.

"Yes."

"Yes. . ?"

"Yes Aiden, I understand."

"Keep that up, sweet girl," You hear them shift before their lips press against your jaw, smiling against your skin, "And you'll do just fine."

(1) Aiden, you find, is quite easy with the praise — a fact that's flustered you from the first, but is starting to really get to you right now.

Heat builds beneath your skin, your mind turning their approval around and around in your mind, something hot and tight twisting in your middle that has your thighs squeeing closer together.

Above you, Aiden laughs, the sound distinctly pleased as ther hands ghost featherlight atop your thighs.

"I want you to keep these spread nice and wide, pet, can you do that for me?"

"Yes," You'd been nodding before they'd even finished speaking, only just barely recalling what they'd said about using your words, "Ah, I mean, yes Aiden."

Even blind, you can almost feel the approval radiating off of them as they reward you with a proper kiss, leaving you more than a little short of breath by the time they pull away, lips trailing a blazing path down your throat—

"Ah!"

You jerk beneath them as they suck a bruising mark into your pulse, breath catching on a shuddery little noise as you feel them pull away.

The faint rustle of fabric is the only warning you get before silk is sliding around your neck, hyper-aware of every brush of their fingers against your throat. They tie it off in what feels like a bow, your pulse jumping beneath their touch as they admire their handiwork.

"It suits you — green does go so very well with pink."

(1) That they raise a hand to sweep their thumb across your cheek as they said that has you flushing all the rosier, knowing they weren't just talking about your hair.

Bound and blind, you only become more and more sensitive as they take their time with you, each moment just more time for the aphrodisiac to sink it's claws deeper inside of you.

Soon, even their featherlight touches are enough to have you whimpering, heat pulsing between your legs as you felt a familiar coil tighten in your middle. Their lips brush against your breast, fingers teasing along your thighs, so close yet so far from where you burn for more.

And then, after what feels like an eternity of faint, barely there grazes, their fingers swirl over your clit once, twice—

And then their touch is gone, and with it the climax you'd been so close to falling into.

The sudden denial takes you by surprise, a sharp cry tearing free as you struggle to comprehend what just happened. You strain against your bindings, disoriented and confused, still so caught up on the ever-growing blaze of pure need coursing through you.

"None of that now, darling," Aiden's voice only just pierces through the haze of your thoughts, aided by the feel of their palm running up and down your sides, the leather of their glove a balm to your frenzied senses, "Relax."

(1) And, despite the way the aphrodisiac has pure desire licking up your spine, despite how your denied pleasure only makes your need that much sharper, you obey.

You feel adrift in a veritable sea of sensation as you force your body to settle, trembling with the effort of staying still — and yet the thought of disobeying them does not even cross your mind.

How could it, when they felt like your only anchor, their presence all that kept you from drowning?

(That they were simultaneously responsible for your current predicament was ignored, second fiddle to the comfort and praise they provided.)

“Well done, Aster."

(1) You shudder, a sound perilously close to a whine catching in your throat — a sound that sharpens into a gasp as Aiden begins their teasing anew, beginning a cycle of delicious torment.

Your chest is still heaving, struggling to catch your breath against the sharp ache left behind by the denial, when you suddenly feel the bed shift and hear the soft whisper of Aiden's steps as they stroll away from the bed. It's perhaps a bit of a blessing that you're a little too far gone to panic, too distracted by feverish just to get anxious at being left like this.

(It probably helps that you know Blythe would never leave earshot with you in this state.)

It doesn't take them long at all to return, and you hear them drop a handle of things on the bed beside you as they drag a hand over your body, a line of heat following the path of their gloved palm. It lifts just before the dip between your thighs, and it's only when you slump back against the bed that you realize you'd arched up into their touch.

(1) You'd never been denied before — least of all while drugged — and you can't say you were prepared for the ravenous need that clouds your mind.

Even those thoughts scatter like light through a prism when you feel Aiden's hands beneath your thighs, spreading them a little wider as they settle comfortably between them, enjoying the way your legs quiver under their hands.

"How're we doing, pet? Having fun?" The question is coy, teasing as they ran their hands up your inner thighs, delighting in how you jolt as their thumbs brush against your dripping cunt — how even now you have the capacity to fluster as they spread your lips apart, the heat searing across your face rivalled only by the blaze winding tight in your middle, "You certainly look like you're having fun."

You open your mouth to reply — you're good, you remembered, you want to be good — only for your words to get stuck in your throat, replaced by a choked off mewl as they rub sudden, deliberate circles around your clit.

When they stop, you whine.

(1) You can feel them smirking down at you, even if you can't see it.

"What was that, Aster?" Their voice is sly, and you can feel the tips of their hair tickle against your skin as they lean forward towards you, "Were you saying something?"

And though you know a trap when you see one, what else can you do but fall into it?

"I— It's—"

Again you try, and again you fail.

The moment you start to speak, they resume their teasing — from rubbing soft circles around your clit to teasing fingers against your entrance, all of your attempts at speech crumble away the moment they start touching you. All you can think about is the need burning bright in your core, the way each teasing denial makes you that much more desperate for their touch.

The aphrodisiac has narrowed your world down to want and desire — and with every touch, Aiden narrows it further, down to pure, unrivalled need.

"Are you forgetting something, pet?" They click their tongue at you, tutting, something sly in their voice even as they sigh down at you, "And you were doing so well up until now. . ."

And even knowing they're playing with you does little to lessen the effect of their supposed disappointment, a plaintive noise tumbling free of you.

"And here I was, just about to reward you being such a good girl," They coo as you whimper, sweeping a thumb across your cheekbone - the gesture has no right to be as comforting as it is, considering how happily they'd led you into this little trap, "I suppose you'll just have to wait a little longer, hmm?"

(1) And wait you do.

As they roll you onto your stomach and discover a reaction you'll later wish they hadn't, no matter how the smack of their gloved palm against your ass has you mewling into their sheets, the line between pleasure and pain stretched gossamer thin as you fall deeper and deeper into your lust.

As they sink two fingers inside of you in the aftermath of your 'punishment'; There's something about the burn of pain that makes the pleasure all the sweeter, keening as your hips push back their fingers as they fuck you to the edge.

As they introduce you to something they strongly believe you're missing out on, all too eager to give you a practical demonstration as they tease a vibrator against your cunt and make a game of seeing just how quickly they can bring you to the edge, over and over again.

(1) You lose count of the number of times they bring you to the brink and leave you dangling there, time losing its meaning when all you can think about is the relief always hovering just out of reach, your entire world reduced to pleasure, need, and desperation.

Aiden's hands are cool against your face — damp from sweat and tears as you shake and sob through the effects of being denied once more — as they sweep their thumbs across your cheeks, lips brushing just beneath the edge of the blindfold.

It takes you far too long to realize they've removed their gloves.

"You've done so well, pet. So well. Are you ready for your reward?"

Their praise is warm honey down a sore throat, all that kept the sharp edge of need from becoming truly too much to bear — you don't notice the loosening of your blindfold until they're pulling it away, the dim light of their room all the brighter for how long you'd been blinded.

(1) You peer up at them, eyes wet and glassy, and it's fortunate they mean it this time because right now you're struggling to comprehend more than just their tone, nevermind being able to actually reply like they'd so deviously demanded earlier.

Aiden carasses your cheek and you rub against their palm like a trembling, touch-starved kitten.

"Aren't you a sweet little thing?" They croon, rewarding you with a kiss that has you melting beneath them despite the depths of your lust, mind too hazy to be anything but grateful for their affection, "Some pets get bratty and defiant when they're this needy, but not you, hmm? You're wired a little differently, aren't you?"

They drag their lips up to your ear, and you can feel their lips curve into a smile more sin than sincerity.

"If I told you I didn't want you to cum at all tonight, if keeping you all pent-up and desperate is what would please me the most," Their hands slide down your bust, your whole body jolting at the lightest pinch of their fingers, "You'd obey, wouldn't you, Aster? Even with all this need trapped inside of you, just begging to be released, you'd choose pleasing me over yourself."

And even though the thought has a perilous little cry tumbling past your lips, fresh tears blurring your vision at the thought of being made to stay like this even longer—

(1) You nod, because they're right.

You don't even hesitate.

Aiden groans in your ear before they pull back, eyes bright and cheeks flushed as they stare down at you with an undeniable hunger.

"I can't believe Blythe's been hoarding you all to himself all this time," They coo, rewarding you with another breathless kiss, "What a treat you are."

Their hands skate down your body, fingers dipping between your thighs with a single-minded purpose. Tension thrums through you, a bow strung too tightly and fit to snap as you try to brace yourself for another denial with an anxious whimper—

"You can relax, darling."

Aiden sighs the words down at you, sounding downright smitten — a tone at odds with the way they sink their fingers inside of you with a curl that makes your voice crack on a keen. Their fingers fuck into you at a pace that has you straining against your bonds, anxiety striking through you at how quickly your pleasure climbs. You would never be able to hold your own pleasure at bay, not now, not like this — but it didn't feel like they were about to stop, and the idea that you'd fail them this far in has a sob catching on your throat—

So caught up in your aroused anguish, you almost miss Aiden's words.

Almost.

"—Cum, Aster."

(1) And like that, your entire world fractures into white as you obey. You shake and squirm and scream as white-hot relief courses through you, intense enough to have yet more tears spilling down your face as you're finally, finally granted mercy.

It feels like absolution.

It feels like an eternity's past when last your senses begin to trickle back to you, a faint buzz to your senses that makes you wonder if you'd nearly passed out from the intensity. Aiden is there when you open your eyes again, a soothing smile on their face when you finally manage to open your eyes.

"That feels better, doesn't it?" Even the removal of their fingers has you quivering around them, beyond sensitive in the aftermath of such delayed gratification, "Don't worry, I know just one is hardly enough of a reward, what with how good you were for me."

You struggle to place their meaning, glassy eyes watching as they reach past you — your wrists are freed within moments, before Aiden slides out of bed with mild reluctance.

Which is confusing, considering what they'd said. What—?

Your head turned to watch as Aiden settles into the comfy armchair beside the bed, you aren't at all expecting the new hands — hot and rough and familiar — settling on your hips.

Blythe.

Your eyes meet — and you've seen the look currently on his face exactly once before.

Uh oh.

"Don't fret, love."

Black has swallowed much of the gold in his eyes as the full weight of his gaze settles on you — and it's only when the hot grind of his cock against your cunt has your whole body flinching with an overwhelmed mewl that you realize he's naked.

"I'll help you work the rest of that pesky drug out of your system in no time."

Oh God.

(1) When people had said drugs could kill you, you hadn't expect this would be the way you'd go.

[desired-misery]

So I am changing things that happened in RE4R to make more sense/be consistent. Some of them are big changes (like the situation behind the scenes/how the mission is even handed to Leon like that), and some are small.

But one thing that is absolutely being adjusted is how Leon grabs the knife that Ashley tries to stab him with. Because WHAT THE FUCK LEON?!?! ABSOLUTELY THE WORST WAY TO HANDLE THAT!!!!???

[problematicsashawaybright]

I always think about how minus the people close to Anne and parts of the government, the rest of the world thinks that the s3 frogvasion was a hoax or a movie stunt gone wrong. Not only have the trio been through something no one else on earth can comprehend, but if they try to talk about it to even a therapist, they're more likely to be labeled as delusional or in psychosis.

[yarrowleef]

I am actually (tentatively) intrigued by moonpaw's mind ghost. the idea of an entity that can make themselves look identical to you and appear to other cats (sometimes?) and maybe do nefarious things with your face is a fun spooky concept.

I don't know how long my intrigue will last, but it exists for the moment

[sliceofhotsoda]

“Even if we never become pro volleyball players, I think we’ll find what we’re looking for.”

Shoyou leaned sideways into Tobio’s back, laying his head down on his shoulder. He wished he could see his face.

“What’s the point in doing all this if we can’t play volleyball in the end?”

Tobio’s voice seemed to rattle inside of Shoyou. Good question, he thought feebly.

“There’s a point,” Shoyou insisted, firm. But in his head, he said to him, there’s a good chance you’d be all alone in that house right now if we’d never met.

No way would Shoyou let that happen.

They stared at their feet in a shared sad silence. Kageyama glanced down at him at the same time that Shoyou risked a look at Kageyama, then both gazes flitted away.

“There’s a point,” Shoyou repeated. Heaviness sunk inside his gut, profound. “Maybe volleyball isn’t the point at all. Would there even have been a reason to keep playing if we didn’t have the team we have now? I mean, if you were on Seijoh instead of Karasuno and we never learned our special quick, or if you were never there to push me further, maybe volleyball wouldn’t be worth all our attention anymore.”

Shoyou swallowed hard, awaiting Kageyama’s response. He wasn’t even sure why this felt so important, but he had a feeling it had something to do with how much Kageyama meant to him.

Kageyama’s brows furrowed. He seemed deep in thought, his eyes growing wide as if he’d remembered something very necessary.

“Without you, I might have given up volleyball,” Kageyama said, hushed.

[hookedwayfinder]

Fandom Etiquette

Some unspoken rules of fandom communities on Tumblr (aka fandom etiquette) for people new to Tumblr.

If you post AI on your blog, prepare to be blocked by a TON of people. Why? AI shits on artists. The majority of people on Tumblr respect artists. If you share AI art on your blog, a lot of people are going to block you, which is probably not what you want. So don't post AI! (Same goes for reblogging AI shit).

Do not steal art from artists. Reposting art is usually frowned upon and if you wish to do this without people getting mad at you, credit the artist by name and link. For example, "This is drawn by Bob on Instagram - link to instagram here" If the artist if already on Tumblr, just reblog their work, don't repost it!

Do not redraw art from fanartists without their permission first! And if you do get permission, credit the original artist in your post, if not, people will think you are a thief and you will once again get blocked by fandom regulars. (redrawing official art from the fandom you're in is usually ok and a great way to learn. Learn to differentiate official art from fanart.)

Pinterest is the den of thieves. Great for finding a ton of lovely artworks with no way to get back to the original artist. Do not follow their example. That's not what anyone wants Tumblr to be. If you've got 50 fanarts saved on your pc and wish to share them with tumblr while you don't know the original artists? Then don't. That's the answer. Don't share art if you don't know who the artist is. Or learn to reverse image search.

Tagging is a way to communicate with the fandom about what you post on your blog without it afterwards showing up in reblogs. You can tag with character names, fandom names, ship names, and also personal tags such as "my fic" or "my art" - so that people checking your post can verify that it's made by you and not just stolen from someone else. Use tags to clarify if art or fic is yours when you post it.

Posting fanfic recommendations is usually a good way to make friends and earn yourself respect if you're not very creative yourself. Drawing fanarts or making edits for said fanfics will earn you god-status. Answering asks or posting meta or headcanons are other things you can do if you're not very creative otherwise.

Be careful sharing gifs and edits that you did not make yourself, even in-between your essays. Once again, it is technically theft, though I think most people view it as a lighter form of theft than art-theft. Crediting is still usually appreciated. Sadly a lot of photoshoppers accept this type of theft as part of the deal.

No matter which rule you broke in the past, you can always learn to do better. When in doubt, ask around in the fandom what you should do with a specific thing you want to post. Making a mistake does not get you kicked out of the fandom necessarily, so don't sweat it, just do better.

Even if you try to be a perfect fan, you will at some point break a little fandom etiquette here and there. You might reblog an AI art by accident... Share an image that was edited without you realizing it... Use someone else's gif without credit... It's ok. We all make mistakes. As long as you respect the fandom in 99% of your posts, nobody's going to cancel you for that.

This is by no means a conclusive list.

[yelenablshop]

Someone just messaged me asking what I was doing

How do I explain this

[presiding]

high chaos/low chaos/join the chaos in my dishonored 2 rewrite

[sonknuxadow]

it kind of bugs me when people say sonics relationships with shadow and knuckles (whether its in a shipping context or in canon) are exactly the same because like . no..?. theyre not ? i mean yeah theres similarities between shadow and knuckles and theyre both rivals to sonic. but they still have different personalities and different dynamics with sonic even if they can both be described as rivalry. i cant properly explain what the difference is because im tired rn and also bad at words but you know