#it means you can come up with whatever you want to make it fit with your fanfic

[pythonmoth]

cw: anxiety. post-traumatic stress disorder (torture). reader is traumatized. reader is a bit unreliable. military inaccuracies. hurt/comfort (I guess?).

simon riley x f!reader. implied simon riley x soap. implied simon riley x f!reader x soap.

First | Last | Next

Being home is incredibly boring, especially if you can't move much.

Your brother's been taking care of you, making sure you're eating, that you let your injuries breathe, and soon enough, the cuts on your feet allow you to move around on your own. It takes a whole month for your brother to leave you alone for longer than a few hours. It's a good thing, really, because if you want to spend hours just laying in your bed and crying in silence as you stare at the ceiling, you can. He would only come whenever you needed a ride, anyway.

Despite being able to move around and now even managing to use your sensitive fingers, you dread the idea of going outside. You have to wear sandals and loose pants, because your toes cannot, by any means, be touched by any kind of fabric yet, or else you're grimacing in pain. Feeling defenseless hasn't been a thing ever since you became part of the team. Not even your skills could take down Simon, but you could put up a fight with them all, easily; never won, but you were confident with anyone else on the street.

No doubt you could still beat them up, your skills are still there, but the idea of someone somehow restricting your movements felt like torture all over again. The idea of anyone getting a hold of you makes you want to throw up. Your mind and body betray you, making you remember those awful moments, and you don't realize you're pulling a face.

"You're spacing out".

You look up at the therapist, giving her a little nod as an apology, getting comfortable on the seat. Restless, you can't help but look around for a moment again. The office is incredibly white, clean, filled with mirrors for whatever fucked up reason, and the only thing that isn't grey or white is one of the cushions on the couch on the other side of the room. It's deep purple. It looks awful.

Seemingly realizing you won't be of much help with the question she just asked you, she gives you a smile. "How are your nails? I can see you're using your hands a lot more".

"They're healing" you reply, looking down at your fingers instead of focusing on the cushion. "I can use my hands pretty normally now, but I can't use the stove for long".

"Because of the heat". An affirmation. You've already mention it before, and you're not surprised she remembers that. Probably read it on her notes.

"It hurts, yeah".

"And how are your feet?" she asks, looking down at the way you absentmindedly drag your hands on your pants from your thighs to your calves in slow movements. You only realize what you're doing because you can hear the way her pen drags across the paper, distracting you.

"Well... I can only wear sandals. Doctor said I should be okay to move around with real shoes in three months".

"And what do you think?"

"He's the doctor. I want to believe he knows what he's doing, so I can't really question it. I do hope it heals sooner, though".

The therapist writes down on her notebook. With an uncomfortable feeling, you desperately want to know what she's writing, your eyes drifting to the movement of the pen, but you can't make out a single letter.

"So you trust the doctor, right?" she questions, moving one of her erasers to the other side of her desk. Your eyes are fixed entirely on it, on the little thud the eraser makes when she sets it down.

"He knows best, that's for sure. If he's there, must be a reason" you answer, tilting your head as she keeps moving her things around, making them fit somewhere else on her desk. The pencil goes to the left, then to the right, the eraser from top to bottom of the notebook, as if she's as antsy as you are.

"Do you apply that thought somewhere else? Like... at work? Or if you need help at a store and find an employee, maybe?"

The therapist's eyes are on you all the time, your hands, your anxious feet; your little habits coming to light with a single look. The way you bite the inside of your lower lip, the little double blink you make when she moves something in her desk yet again, even if you don't say anything.

"Of course. If they know their way around, it's only right that I ask for help, and trust that" you answer, frowning. You don't think that question is relevant at all, but she keeps writing, and writing.

"I see. Thank you. Now, you mentioned you've been texting G- Simon. Can you tell me how it makes you feel?"

You go silent for a moment, your fingertips dragging across your arm, so softly you can barely feel it. "It's better now".

During the first three months of being home, Simon would text you nearly every single day. He didn't expect a text back and you knew that, because you told him you wouldn't promise to be responsive. Simon would send you pictures of their plain meals, of Gaz sleeping on your bed, Johnny posing next to Price with their thumbs up, or terrible selfies of himself. Always without a mask.

Tuesday

11:27

"Price scolded Johnny because he had crumbs on his uniform. It was hilarious"

Saturday

03:26

"Just got back. Everyone ok"

Even Johnny would text you from time to time. It was mostly memes, awful stickers or ridiculous, random photos of Gaz mid talking, his face weird, or Price smacking Simon's head, or the entire team posing for a picture, Gaz' arm hovering to the side as if to hug your shoulders. You didn't even need to wonder why Gaz hadn't texted you; that man hated technology with a passion.

Still, you never texted back.

You didn't really pay attention to the texts, or the little voice notes, or the selfies. You didn't feel like reading them properly, always leaving them on seen or just grunting to yourself whenever you heard their distinctive tone. Why you didn't change it in the past few months, you don't know. Maybe that's a question for your therapist.

But then, the texts stop.

Monday

16:49

"Tough job"

"We leave at midnight"

23:42

"Text you when we're back"

Only, Simon doesn't text back. For days. For weeks.

You can't pretend you're not worried. It's impossible, really. You're half-tempted to call him, but you can't, you don't know how it will feel to hear his voice again. He said he'd text you and he hasn't, so he isn't back yet, and you don't want to feel vulnerable by opening up. Yet.

You go through Simon's chat, actually paying attention to whatever he sent you. You realize he sometimes sent you long texts, apologizing, accepting what he did, and even a few voice notes that you didn't notice before. They made your heart race as you listened.

"I hurt you, and I'm sorry. I love you, and you don't have to forgive me"

"Garrick told me to tell you that if you aren't eating he'll go and— shut the hell up, Johnny, I'm talking!"

"Tell her we'll go visit her by the end of the month".

That's Price's voice, you realize.

Feeling incredibly choked up, you check Johnny's chat next. You're expecting to find nothing but memes, as you've seen in passing, but when you see he sent you long, long texts, you finally let yourself cry properly.

He's been apologizing since the day you left, too afraid to face you but his texts are so poorly written you know he was in a rush, or crying, or both. His voice notes, however... they just make you break.

"I'm so sorry. I can't undo what we did. You don't owe me anything, I just... really hope you can at least tolerate me. If not, please know I'll always care for you. I love you. Goodnight".

Something inside of your chest eases, maybe moved to the point of forgiveness, even if just a moment. Your therapist has been helping you unveil whatever you missed during that day— during the torture. It's been a tough process, and she insisted you visited twice a week instead of once, but it helped. You could now understand.

Still, understanding the situation only makes your worry grow.

"Text you when we're back"

For two long weeks, there's nothing, from nobody. Only silence and fear. For the first time since you left, you're scared for them. Scared you'll have to open the door one day and it'll be Price, or maybe not even him, telling you the team is dead.

On the second week, your therapist says you can give them a call, or text them if it's more comfortable. When you say you can't, she advices you to write them letters.

"Tell them whatever you wish to say. If you're angry, write it. If you're worried, write it. There's no good or bad feelings, and it's only right to feel them. Write them for yourself, and then you can choose to give them to your team, or not".

And you did.

A whole notebook of messy writing, some tears staining the paper, and your hate slowly turned to understanding. Real understanding. Not forgiveness, not yet, but it's progress.

By the third week with no news, you just can't handle it anymore. You press call without a second thought and your heart squeezes painfully in your chest when it rings, and rings, and rings.

Hopeless, you lay in your bed, your mind working overtime as you stare at the ceiling.

A muffled dinging sound startles you awake, shifting on the bed to find your phone because that's Simon's tone. Adjusting your vision, you realize it fell from your hands to the ground when you fell asleep. You dive for it, grimacing when your sensitive fingertips brush against the carpet, but to see his name there is enough for you to endure it.

Thursday

01:22

"Safe. Couldn't text you earlier"

01:22

"You called me. Are you hurt?"

01:22

"Safe. Call me"

"Now"

His name pops up not even a moment later, his ringtone filling your ears. When you pick up, he's barely breathing, and you wonder if you're about to be told bad news.

Simon explains they were on a very tough mission, and that that was why he couldn't text you, or communicate with you at all. You could hear him shift, move around. Restless.

They got caught in enemy territory, surviving the best they could for two weeks, Simon tells you. Johnny was shot in the leg and Gaz was the one who helped him out, since Simon was too busy dragging Price, who was bleeding out because someone decided it would be fun to put a bullet through his left shoulder.

"I wasn't any better. Dr. Wilson called me a dick, and then made me lay down because I was shaking. Ridiculous" he grunts, his voice hushed on the other side of the line. "Got shot on my side, I just didn't feel it, but I was better than the other two".

He doesn't seem to expect you to speak, huffing and shuffling. You can tell he's in the clinic room, the echo incredibly familiar by now.

Of course, he doesn't tell you that the reason why he didn't text you the whole past week, is because he's been asleep, drugged out of his mind because of the pain.

"Everyone's okay. No risk. Garrick's the only one who didn't get hurt. I think—"

"I was worried, Simon. I'm glad everyone is okay".

There's silence for a long moment. Simon takes a deep breath from the other side of the phone, sighing deeply. You could hear the smile in his tone. "I wouldn't let myself get killed, luv. I'm sorry I couldn't text you before. We're safe now".

You two spend the rest of the night on the call, with you mostly staying in silence and listening. You can't believe how scared you've been for all of them, for Simon. You know it's gonna be hard to fully forgive them, if at all, but you can't help the way your body relaxes as you hear him breathing against your ear. You can't help the way your arms curl around the pillow, seeking his warmth. As before.

The call goes on for long hours. When your soft hums as he speaks stop coming to his end, Simon goes quiet, realizing you've fallen asleep. He sighs and shifts to look at the ceiling, holding the phone against his ear. Focusing on your soft breathing, he let's himself fall asleep, the gunshot wound completely unimportant if he gets to listen to you sleeping again.

He just wishes you were there.

im so sick y'all, my head hurts, but I obviously couldn't resist! also, you guys like Marina? her new song is so good! mowgli's road's vibes.

the therapist's room I'm describing in the story is actually my therapist's old room. I hated it so BAD. the mirrors were a terrible decision. also, if you can't relate to this type of therapy, that's fine. it's just my experience.

again, styling is fully intentional. can y'all tell how our reader is feeling?~

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @dorothy-rainbird-deactivated202 @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @kukavittu @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34

(we're so many now, wow! thank you all ♡)

[acynicalsweetheart]

innocent! reader’s first time with dad curly ? :3 (losing virginity to him, but a very innocent reader ^_^)

hai anon u said very so i did VERY. hopefully didn’t go overboard. umm quite shitty tbh and i decided to rewrite in the middle of everything.. originally was in curly’s perspective but i said fuck that. sleep deprived at 7 in the morning so mistakes or typos may occur yah. wow 1.1k words should turn into a fic but whatever…

content warning: 18+, dead dove do not eat, daddy-daughter incest, like very gross ddlg, daddy kink, breeding kink, creampie, sex, innocence, virginity loss, tummy bulge

“Think you can take another? For daddy?” Curly speaks into your thigh, stroking his lips against the inner part of it and leaving a few kisses as he plunges in and out of you.

“Mmm…” you moan into your bitten lip, humping on three of his meaty fingers and getting them all sticky. 

Dad’s stretched you out enough but nothing feels enough. You need more. So much more that you don’t think you’d be satisfied eating him whole. 

Curling his fingers up to meet your spongy spot, you practically start levitating. 

“Oh,” you throw your head back with a whine, not being able to help the way your legs clamp shut around his hand—nearly his head, “oh, daddy… Something’s coming,” and that something starts in your toes, like butterflies beneath your skin making their way up your legs. Kind of tickles. 

“Shh, it’s okay, honey.” Curly whispers, keeps your legs spread with ease and continues to feed your tingles. “Don’t worry, dad’s right here. Cum for me, baby.”

His voice is all you need to explode, every nerve in your body on fire as dad gives you that familiar feeling you love so much. You squeeze his fingers so hard they might fall off, moaning breathlessly. Dripping down his forearm. 

“That’s my sweet girl.” Curly lets you ride it out, gently sliding his fingers out once you’ve come down from your high. 

Takes you a minute to notice them at your lips, dad looking at you like he wants you to lick them clean. So you do. 

Oddly sweet for a bodily fluid. 

You’re shaking like dad’s back massager, head empty like Uncle Jimmy’s wallet. That’s mean. Dad would give you a lecture if he could read your mind right now. 

Either way, you’re still throbbing between your legs. 

“More…” you mumble half-asleep for a second, getting up to rest on your elbows the other ‘cause you’ve gotten a sudden energy boost. “More, daddy, want more, pleaaseee!”

“Awh, baby,” Curly strokes your cheek with his non-sticky hand, tracing the outline of your jaw with his thumb. Makes you think of dad’s thumb where it belongs—your clitty. “Daddy’s gonna give you more.”

“Yay!”

“Just stay still, baby.” Dad pulls away and you try to not pout. 

Which is very easy when he takes off his underwear, finally letting his dick spring free—Uncle Jimmy taught you that word—It’s barbarically huge. It would be like trying to fit a coke can in a coin slot. 

“Okay.” You watch when he positions himself between your legs, free hand caressing your thigh again. 

“Tell me if it hurts, okay? Or if you need me to stop, or if you—mmmph!” You cut dad off by smacking your lips against his, kissing him like it’s the last time. Also ‘cause you couldn’t resist. “Baby,” Curly chuckles, petting your head, “I’m serious.”

“Me too, daddy.” 

“It’s okay, daddy’s gonna be gentle. Nice and slow, yeah?” He gives himself a few up-and-down strokes, a drop of stickiness running down his length. 

“Yeah…” Your eyes are glued to the reddish tip, holding a staring contest with it as Curly lines his coke can up with your coin slot. 

It doesn’t fit.

He keeps trying, getting a quarter inside before you involuntarily push him out again. Feels so different from his fingers. Harder. Like a rock. 

“Ow.” 

Dad’s face immediately falls, his spacey eyes with stars and galaxies in them staring into yours. Retreating, he cups your face in his hands, “sweetheart—“

“Daddy, nooo,” you whine—a little embarrassed you just gave him the wrong idea, “don’t stop!”

“…Alright, honey.” Curly keeps your face in one of his hands while he keeps trying to fit inside you with the other. 

After a struggle and a string of curses under his breath, you feel him sliding inside. Inch by inch. You keep it together ‘cause you don’t want him to stop again.

“Goodness,” dad exclaims and you giggle ‘cause he sounds old. Fondly, he smiles at you. Tries, anyway. He gasps only a second later, curls dampening and sticking to his forehead in real time, “you’re so tight, baby.”

“Tight is good.” You repeat what you once heard Uncle Jimmy tell Curly—struggling to understand why and how it’s good when it kind of hurts. 

“That’s right.” He kisses the tip of your nose, trailing his lips down to your neck to make you squirm. And suck him in deeper. “Gonna start moving, okay?” 

You nod your head, starting to feel withdrawal symptoms from your high that only dad can give you. 

Dad takes a moment and you wonder if he’s praying. He reaches out to hold your hand before he finally starts moving—sinking deeper inside till you feel him bump against what you suppose is the end of the line, and moving out again. 

Noises spill out of you before you can stop them, holding on to Curly’s hand for dear life. “Dad…”

He meets your lips with his, continuing with his agonisingly slow pace that has you seeing stars. You’re moaning into each other’s mouths, swallowing all noises. You would’ve found it funny if you weren’t too busy trying to not explode already. 

A sticky string connects you to dad once he pulls away, carefully moving back to see your entire body. “Taking me so well, look at that,” Curly nods to your tummy, a visible bump moving in tandem with his hips. 

“Daddy’s inside me,” you curiously slide your hand down to feel it, looking up at dad’s flushed face. He’s pretty like a rose. Kind of aged. Pink cheeks. Red ears. 

Cute.

“Mhm, baby,” he pants like a dog, a shiny layer of sweat coating his chest and tummy, “daddy’s so deep inside you.”

“Wow.” You wrap your legs around Curly, intertwining your fingers like lovers. The way he keeps hitting your sweet spot is making you see stars. “Daddy, it’s coming again.”

“Fuck,” dad actually moans, his thumb moving to circle your clitty just the way he knows you like it, “let it, baby.”

“I love you, daddy,” you mewl, mouth open and squeezing his hand even harder as the tingles build up in your body again. 

“I love you more,” dad presses his clammy forehead to yours, staring right into your eyes and panting right into your mouth, “so much more, fuck—“ 

Is all it takes for you to explode, body tensing up as you cream on dad’s dick with a loud squeal. 

Curly’s hips stutter against yours, thumb leaving your clitty and moving to white-knuckle the sheet next to your head. The sound of skin slapping echoes and it’s dad’s turn to grip your hand for dear life. “Oh, baby.” 

“Daddy,” you eye him like a Renaissance painting in a museum, helping by moving your hips too, “come for me.” 

You think it’s what dad tells you all the time.

He buries his face into your neck, muffling his noises and tensing up. You grab onto Curly’s bicep to brace yourself, holding on when his dick kicks inside you—shooting warm bursts of you-have-no-idea deep in your tummy. 

[facewithoutheart]

FYI Buck is absolutely not a fan of Bear. It’s not … he doesn’t do anything to Bear he just … glares at it sometimes when Eddie’s not looking. Makes a point to distract Eddie whenever his attention is on Bear. Gets a sinking feeling in his stomach when he catches Eddie kissing the stain on its forehead. Which happens. A lot.

“It’s weird Eddie keeps bringing Bear to work, right?” Buck asks Hen, who immediately storms into Bobby’s office and takes leave, “Until one of those two morons figures it out.”

Bobby’s not expecting her back anytime soon.

Finally, Eddie has had enough (Buck is nowhere near as subtle as he thinks he is; Eddie literally caught Buck tipping Bear over from where Eddie had him perched in his locker, grinning when Bear’s fluffy white head hits the metal). He grabs Bear out of Buck’s reach and holds Bear to his chest. “What is your deal?”

“W-what? I don’t have a deal. What are you talking about?” Buck’s full on stink-glaring the stupid bear.

“Are you kidding me?” Eddie groans. “Thank god Bear can’t play basketball; I don’t think my ankle can take another sprain.”

Finally, Buck’s eyes flick upward. “Huh?”

“You’re jealous of my damn stuffie, Buck.”

He scoffs. “I’m not jealous.”

“Oh yeah? Then what’s with that?” Eddie jerks his chin at the red bear with a Mexican flag on it, sitting with his tiny little head poking out from Buck’s duffel. “You mean to tell me Chris went to Pennsylvania and brought back your childhood toy, too?”

“Huh?” Buck frowns.

“Chris found Bear in my old bedroom back in El Paso and brought him. Said he looked lonely there, and then, he said,” Eddie flushes, “he asked me to bring Bear to work, because he said I looked lonely, too. That’s it, okay? The whole story. Can you please get over yourself and whatever it is you’re doing with Bear 2.0 over there?”

Bear’s head flops over to one side, his gaze up at Buck tilted like he’s also asking, “What’s your problem?”

My problem is a damn stuffed bear, Buck thinks.

It’s possible he’s being a little ridiculous. “Oso,” he says.

“Oso?”

“That’s my bear’s name.”

Eddie nods. “Okay. Nice to meet you, Oso,” he says to the bear. He hopes that settles things.

It gets weirder.

Eddie starts finding Oso next to Bear in his locker when they come back from calls. One time he catches Buck putting Oso’s arm around Bear.

Eddie doesn’t say anything.

Hen does, eventually, come back. Buck catches her glaring at where he’s got Oso cradling Bear’s head in his tiny furry lap. Okay, yeah, it’s possible he’s gotten a little into this. Eddie still hasn’t said anything but sometimes he looks at how Oso and Bear are cuddling with this glint in his eyes.

Eventually, Hen throws a fit when Buck gives Oso a tiny little mustache.

“Oh my god,” she turns to Buck, “Eddie wants to gently kiss you on your birthmark,” then, Eddie, “and Buck wants to gently hold you whenever you feel lonely. You two are in love. In love!” she shouts.

She turns to Chim. “I don’t care if I lose the bet at this point; I’m going to lose my sanity if these two don’t fuck it out, missionary style while staring into each other’s eyes whispering how much they love one another. I’m a lesbian and what they are doing with those damn bears has been so much gayer than anything I’ve ever witnessed.”

Chim’s nodding. “Oh, yeah. No, I was giving myself one more shift before I locked all four of them in a supply closet and stated playing Careless Whisper on my phone. Slipping condoms under the door until one of them sends back a wrapper.”

“Gross,” Hen says.

Chim winces. “Not as gross as what I’m looking at, now.”

When she turns, she sees Buck lifting Oso’s right paw, making it gently caress the side of Bear’s face. Their black plastic noses make a tiny clicking sound as Eddie and Buck make their bears kiss.

Hen’s gonna request a transfer.

What if Eddie got a beanie baby for Christmas one year and it’s dumb because stuffed animals are for girls and Eddie’s the Man of the House but secretly he likes his little white bear with the heart on his chest. He cuts the tag off it and his mom yells at him because they’re supposed to be worth a lot of money someday but secretly Eddie’s glad he did it. If the bear isn’t worth anything but the joy he brings to Eddie then maybe he’ll get to keep it. He does, eventually, forget about the bear. Or, he puts him on a shelf when he enters high school because high school boys don’t sleep with toys and maybe there’s some nights he sees the bear on his shelf and he thinks it might be nice to hold him but he doesn’t.

The first time Shannon comes into his bedroom she immediately sees the bear. “Who’s this little guy?” she teases and Eddie gets irrationally angry seeing it in her hands. “My stupid sisters leaving their stupid toys in my room,” he says, grabbing it out of her hands and throwing it in his bedside trash can. He waits until she’s left to fish him out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” which is dumb, so dumb, that he’s apologizing to a doll, that he’s crying.

Eddie wants to bring the bear with him to Afghanistan but he doesn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to the bear, no matter what little comfort it might bring to Eddie.

When his mom gives Christopher a stuffed bear after his birth, Eddie stares at the way Chris hugs it to his chest and wonders what would ever make him tear the toy from Chris’s hands.

Chris finds the stuffed bear when he moves to El Paso. It’s weird, how he wants it to sit on his nightstand, but not as weird as the tight look his abuela gets when she sees it. “Where did you find that?” Chris shrugs. “Behind some books in the closet.” Chris becomes fascinated with the bear. He looks it up online. Valentino. There’s a little red stain over one eye, maybe someone spilled something on it. He sends a picture to Buck. “He kind of reminds me of you.” “Yeah, Superman! He does! How are you doing?????” Chris doesn’t reply.

When Chris is packing up his items to move back to LA, he doesn’t think about it when he throws the bear into his suitcase. He puts it on a shelf when he gets back home. Nothing else has changed about his room; his dad kept it exactly the way he left it, so the bear sticks out. “Where’d you get that?” His dad asks when he sees the bear, his hands are flinching into fists by his side. Chris’s breath picks up. “You can’t be mad at me for taking him. You obviously didn’t want him; you left him behind!” “I’m not mad,” Chris’s dad lies. “Yes, you are. You are!” “Okay! I’m a little mad!” “Why?!”

“Because he was mine!”

Eddie takes a breath. He looks at his son. He loves him so, so, so much. “Because he was mine,” Eddie says, “but I wasn’t … I never felt like I was allowed to have him.” This time, Chris’s question comes out softer, more earnest, “Why?”

It’s not easy to put into words all the ways the world has shaped Eddie into a form he barely recognizes, but he tries. For his son, he’ll always try. At the end, Chris walks over with the bear. He places it in his dad’s hands. “I think you need this more than I do.”

Eddie laughs and thumbs over where his sister spilled cherry koolaid on him the one time he let her play with Bear.

“He kind of looks like Buck, doesn’t he?”

Eddie holds Bear to his chest. He squeezes tightly.

“Yeah. He does.”

[spiderlot]

I have a stupid season 2 misty imitating nat idea but I would lowkey get canceled..

Anyways here’s the idea!!

So the R! is Nat’s basically controversially young lover right? Met her in the rehab at the start and just made her better in a sense, was with her for everything. Instead of being at a Motel it’s this apartment and it’s all nice and the shit of season 1-2 goes down. Lottie’s group abducts Nat on a whim, and R finds them blah blah blah.

Nat gets killed just as she was finally better.

Everything goes as cannon. The funeral, R! attends but just in the background and avoids all that shit.

Then Misty goes through the box and gets the strap. Going through the imitation process of mourning, she ends up on R!’s doorstep, acting like Nat, looking like Nat, in a fit of loss, they sleep together.

It spirals, Misty continues to cheat on Walter and acting as Nat. Then the other YJs intervene or something idk.

Hope this isn’t shitty!!

you and misty always had tension... she was weirdly obsessive and jealous of nat and you. thinking about you and her kinda working together to try to find where nat is..

you don't even talk to the girls at the funeral. they don't come up to try and talk either. you leave immediately after her mom's speech, heading to that bar that nat told you she used to frequent in her younger years. you tell yourself you're finally gonna go through all of nat's shit and take it home with you tomorrow but the hangover is so nasty.. misty beats you to it.

you're sick and annoyed at whoever the hell is knocking on your door. you swear you can feel your head throb just as hard as they pound on it.

"i'm coming..." you mumble quietly, mentally preparing yourself to speak to another person that wasn't a bartender in days. you stop in front of the door as you spot the missing chunk from when lottie's cult broke in to kidnap nat. your stomach drops and your mouth waters. maybe you don't need to answer the door.

"i know you're home!" your stomach drops even more when you hear misty quigley's voice from outside. you find yourself opening the door immediately, whatever angry bullshit you were about to spew at her gone from your head in an instant when you spot it.

nat's jacket. on misty.

"it took you long enough." her voice is abnormally deep, and you feel a sense of familiarity in the way misty carries herself.

you don't know why you step aside to let her in, but you do. you swear you see a flash of nat's dark hair on her as she walks past. misty looks around at the apartment, walking around like she owns the place as she plops on the couch and awkwardly manspreads.

the walk over to the couch feels like an eternity. it almost feels like you're walking in place and misty's miles away. suddenly you're next to her and analyzing the smudged eyeliner on her face. nat's eyes flash in your mind and you grip the couch cushion.

"i was gonna go get her things." you say blankly, eyeing the half-empty bottle of nat's whiskey on the coffee table.

"oh, i already got a few things for you." her normal voice is back as she speaks, misty doing that classic misty move as she adjusts her glasses and sits up. "i mean, uh," she clears her throat and leans back, arm slung over the couch. "if you're ready for it."

the way she phrases it makes you look at her questionably, but you nod nonetheless. you want her jacket the most. you're a little uncomfortable at the fact that she's wearing nat's jacket. it should be you. you were nat's girlfriend. not misty. but at the same time, you find comfort in it. comfort in how you're not the only one mourning nat like this.

you eye the jacket again and suddenly get a huge whiff of nat's musk. fuck. it still smells like her. it's like she's in the room with you, and as you look at misty, you can't really tell who's who as you jump on her lap and stuff your face in the collar of the jacket. you inhale the scent and your body melts, relaxing into misty's body. as you sink down further, you feel something hard in between her legs. cautiously, you lean back up and look into misty's eyes.

before she can even explain herself, you grab her curly blonde hair and bring her in for a messy kiss.

-

i know she tries to be rough like how she imagined nat would've been (🤨🏳️‍🌈) but you both wrestle for dominance until you hold her down and ride her, moaning out nat's name. then you let her just take care of you :( you dont rly mention her trying to act like nat but she slowly starts being more Misty instead of imitating nat when she comes over to fuck.

[headfullof-ideas]

Soft follow-up to my Monumential post. We don’t know much about Lemuria and the Monumentials themselves, aside from the fact that Lemuria sank six thousand years prior to the show, and the Monumentials have been around for at least a little longer than that. Long enough that Lemuria already had more than one device to control them, and effectively enough that it seemed to be a somewhat militant thing. At least that’s what the intention was when the Benthos line tried to usurp Doreus.

But that’s all we know. There’s not much information about how long the Monumentials had been around, or what Lemuria was like in regard to the rest of the world. Which means it’s a whole entire sandbox for us six fans to play with. I’ve already talked about how I also like to imply that the Monumentials aren’t from this world, but I also like to play with Lemuria’s origins, the Nekton and Benthos’s families connection to one another, and all sorts of other stuff. Each AU I have tends to have slightly different origins or functions when it comes to Lemuria and the Monumentials lore, but I’ve built an entire background for the Monumentials and how they’re linked to Lemuria’s history.

I’m writing this because I’ve been revising and editing my Subnautica/The Deep story, and all the above is pretty important to the story itself, aside from a few tweaks to make it fit with the games lore

[ravewulf]

I was thinking about the fact Tyler Hoechlin was told that Derek had only ever slept with Kate right before he was about to film the scene where Derek and Jennifer sleep together for the first time.

Where did we get this info? It's also incorrect because Derek did have sex after Kate and before Jennifer.

Eli was 15 in 2026, meaning he was born sometime before Fall 2011 (start of the school year). Wind the clock back another 9 months and Derek had to have had sex with someone in 2010 before season 1 (season 1 started in January 2011).

(I have a headcanon that he also got into New York's gay club and/or kink scene since Jeff mentioned Derek going to Splash Bar, but that's a headcanon and apocrypha respectively, not canon)

That's enormously important information that he needed to know for his performance and not letting him know earlier than that was incredibly disrespectful.

If Hoechlin was told this (and I do not know if he was), you're correct on the first part but way off base on the second. Acting is a job, they tell him what he needs to know when he needs to know it. That is not a sign of disrespect.

In this case, they needed him to act as if it was the first time since Kate (even though it wasn't) because Jennifer was using the power of the virgin sacrifices to magically influence him. They may not have come out and said it like that because that knowledge would also have an impact on his performance, potentially making it less genuine if he knew Derek was being manipulated.

(He also said he knew the thumb hole shirt was totally wrong for Derek, but at that point he was so tired of fighting TPTB for character consistency that he just gave up in that instance.)

Source for this? And how is the thumb hole sweater wrong for Derek? I love Hoechlin, but the writers have the final say as far as what is "right" for a character (though we can always disagree with them, and I have on other decisions they've made). Derek has a soft side and we see more of that during 3B (getting candy and scaring kids on Halloween, etc).

On the other hand, Derek was possessed by the Nogitsune's fly at the time and it's a different outfit than he was wearing when the fly crawled into his wound back at the loft, so it could be chalked up to that if you don't think it fits Derek's character.

After Kate and Jennifer a part of Derek must have expected Braeden to try and kill him too, and when she didn't I can see him imprinting on her like a baby bird. His parents had a good marriage, and that was something he always wanted and expected he would have too. That is one of the reasons Kate was able to con him. It wasn't just sex and teen hormones for him.

Correct about what Derek expected, to some degree, as he's had pretty shitty luck there, but he absolutely did not "imprint" on Braeden.

The part about Derek's parents is completely made up. There's absolutely nothing about that in the show. If Hoechlin has a headcanon about it, then that's cool but it isn't any more or less valid than a headcanon you or I could come up with. Canon is strictly what happens in the show, nothing else.

Whatever his parent's marriage was like, it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. Talia did some pretty fucked up things to Derek (manipulating his memories), Peter (manipulating his memories, ignoring his warning about the Argents, taking Malia from him), and Corinne (forcing her to carry Malia to term/making her lose her powers). Derek's dad isn't mentioned and we don't see him, so he may not have been in the picture at all. Peter is the one who helped raise/train Derek, for better or worse.

Kate was able to get to Derek because it happened not long after he had to mercy-kill Paige, which left him in an extremely vulnerable state. (The Paige incident was in Derek's Sophomore year, according to Peter, which puts Derek at 15 in Fall 2004. He'd turn 16 in November, then the Hale Fire happened in January 2005).

Braeden on the other hand, thought they were just friends with benefits. She did not want a serious relationship, and broke up with him when she found out he did.

Derek knew from the start that it was only a casual relationship. He saw her looking him up and down as a sex object back when she rescued him and Peter in 3B.

Most importantly, Braeden didn't break up with Derek, it's the other way around. Derek implicitly broke up with her in the season 4 finale when he rejected her guns. That final kiss they shared was a kiss goodbye, ending their relationship before they headed off on a rescue mission he didn't expect to survive.

He broke it off partly because she didn't understand him as a person. While he was losing his werewolf abilities, she made assumptions that it was about power/what he can do in a fight. He tried to correct her that it's not about power, it's about being a werewolf in addition to being able to protect people. The enhanced senses and every other part of it, not just what can be used as a weapon. It's who he is and a critical part of his identity. Some more reading on this here

It was still a good relationship for Derek, proving that not everyone he gets involved with has to betray him and/or die, and helped him overcome what Kate did to him so he could stand over Kate, proud and unashamed, later that episode. It's also something that may have helped with his evolution into the full wolf form.

As for Cora, Derek and Peter took her back to South America as Beacon Hills wasn't safe. (but the real reason is Adelaide Kane left to play Mary, Queen of Scots, in Reign)

I was thinking about the fact Tyler Hoechlin was told that Derek had only ever slept with Kate right before he was about to film the scene where Derek and Jennifer sleep together for the first time. That's enormously important information that he needed to know for his performance, and not letting him know earlier than that was incredibly disrespectful. (He also said he knew the thumb hole shirt was totally wrong for Derek, but at that point he was so tired of fighting TPTB for character consistency that he just gave up in that instance.)

After Kate and Jennifer a part of Derek must have expected Braeden to try and kill him too, and when she didn't I can see him imprinting on her like a baby bird. His parents had a good marriage, and that was something he always wanted and expected he would have too. That is one of the reasons Kate was able to con him. It wasn't just sex and teen hormones for him.

Braeden on the other hand, thought they were just friends with benefits. She did not want a serious relationship, and broke up with him when she found out he did.

Leaving Derek alone again.

(Are we ever given a reason for Cora going away? What if she found out about Kate and Derek, and blamed him for what happened? Even though it wasn't his fault, and he was the victim.)

By the time Derek and Stiles become a couple, they bicker as usual, but angry, yelling, fights are actually rare. The first time Stiles slams out of their place to cool off, Derek thinks it's over, that Stiles has left him because that's what always happens to him. He doesn't deserve Stiles anyway. It was only a matter of time until Stiles realized that.

When Stiles comes back hours later, he finds Derek curled up in the corner in the dark. He's stunned when Derek quietly says he'll pack up his stuff tomorrow. Stiles can have the house.

They talk, and after Stiles reassures Derek that this is it for him, he's not going anywhere, they eventually lay down some mutually agreed to ground rules. (Derek leaves when he's upset too, but he always says he's going for a run, and that he'll be back. He normally does it when he's feeling emotionally overwhelmed and scared rather than angry though.) The next time Stiles storms off, he pauses at the door to add, "I love you. I'll be back." Sometimes he even shouts it, but he always says it.

Luckily they know each other well enough by the time they get together that those instances really are unusual though, and they talk things out. Sometimes snarkily, but they talk, even when it's hard.

It takes time, but Derek eventually believes deep down that he's not alone anymore. :)

[nochepsicodelica]

♡ ʕ˶´• ᴥ •`˶ʔ ♡

"Toji, do you love me?" You ask, as if he isn't curled up with you, his head resting on your shoulder so that he can see the stupid videos that pop up on your feed.

"Why would you even ask me that?" He mutters, tilting his head up to look at you.

"You're taking forever to respond. Oh... my heart," you say, your voice forcefully strained while clutching your chest as if you're pained.

"Don't start--"

"It's crumblingggg," you cry out, dramatically. "Oh god, it hurts so much, Toji! How could you? Is this how it feels to have love taken away? I should go outside and tie myself to a pole and see if there are any takers. Maybe, someone will actually want me and give me a warm, safe, and loving home." You give him a hopeful smile. "Yeah... that sounds nice and peaceful."

"Uh-huh, sure. Too bad you're not going anywhere. You get me and our warm, safe, and loving home." You huff, childishly, at that, to which Toji grins. "You know I love your dramatic ass. You keep asking if we can get a dog, but you're basically like if a husky turned human."

You gasp at that, playfully offended, and stare at him in disbelief. "I'll be waiting for your apology," you say, putting your hood on and turning your back to him.

"Baby, come on," he pleads, chuckling. "Come on. You're not mad at me."

"I am. I'm furious," you say, monotonously. "You shouldn't even look at me right now. I'm ferocious," you add, trying not to laugh at your own word choice.

"Yeah? You're a scary thing, right now, 'cause I made you mad?"

"Mhm," you hum, in response, and continue to scroll and watch videos without him.

"Hmm..." He leans over and snatches your phone out of your hands, tossing it towards the end of the bed. You feel helpless as he smoothly pulls your hood off, flips you onto your back, and straddles you. Your arms are pinned beside your head, by his enormous paws. You've been somewhat manhandled into surrender and all you can do is laugh as you look up at him.

"This is your ferociousness?" Toji asks, with a dumb grin on his face when you simply nod and press your lips together, to do a horrible job of stifling your amusement. "I'm so strong and brave, huh?" Again, you nod, unable to contain the giggles that spill out. "What if I... I don't know..." he murmurs, leaning down, closer to you. "Just gave you a little..."

The distance between your lips is closed off by Toji's lips pressing against yours—a slow, savored kiss, that makes your hands go limp beside you. He is utterly disarming, even against your faux grumpiness.

He hums something low against your lips when your laughter begins to bubble up once again. "Mm... You were never mad at me, were you?" Toji asks.

"And if I was?" You say, a gleam of mischief in your eyes and a sly smirk on your face.

"I'll kiss you, again. Is that really what you want?" He says, as if it's a threat.

"You know it. Kiss me, sugar lips," you say, amusedly.

"Why are you like this?" He mutters, rolling off of you and positioning himself beside you on the bed.

"Fine, gravel lips. Rock salt lips, sandpaper lips—is that what you want me to call you instead?" You ask, turning over to face him.

He slings an arm over your waist and pulls you in close. The scent of his body wash smells warmer as it mingles with his body heat. It's relaxing, fitting for the lazy day you've both indulged in. "You don't mean it," he responds, smugly. "I was sugar lips before you decided you wanted to hurt my feelings."

"Whatever," you mutter, rolling your eyes.

"Love you, sassy baby," he says, teasingly. "Don't ever doubt it. Now, where were you going with that question?"

"Well, it was going to be built up to me asking you if you have a Valentine, but then you crapped all over it. Now, it's not cute and it stinks. My plan reeks of failure."

"There's my dramatic girl," Toji utters under his breath, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Why don't you try again?" He says, smiling with amusement. "I'll even play along, alright?"

You sigh, as if it's going to take forever to pick up from where you left off, but nonetheless prepare to retry.

"Okay, fine," you start off, a soft sigh leaving your lips. "You love me, Toji?" You ask once more, already trying not to laugh at the focus he holds on you, like he's answering a survey.

"You know I do," he responds.

"Okay. Are you busy on the fourteenth of February?"

"Not that I know of."

"Are you interested in doing something that day?"

"Yeah, you, but go on," he says, smoothly.

"Toji," you chide, with a giggle. "Be serious."

"Fine, fine. Uh, yeah. I am," he answers. "Gotta treat my baby real nice, don't I?" He says, with a smirk.

You press your lips together, and compose yourself before asking the next question. "Do you have a Valentine?"

He tilts his head and deadpans, as if you're playing some sort of joke on him. "Ma."

"Just answer the question, Toji," you whisper, like you're breaking out of the questionnaire you made for him. "Do you have a Valentine?" You repeat, in your normal voice.

"Yeah, I got a Valentine," Toji says, his eyes trailing down your face, to your lips and back up to meet your eyes, again. His hand slides under your sweater and grabs ahold of your bare waist. He loves the layer of goosebumps that rises on your skin when he touches you. You're just so reactive to him. "She's basically an actress with how dramatic she is. It cracks me up, 'cause it's like talking to one of those screaming huskies she's always showing me on her phone." He grins, ready for you to go off, again. "Look at her, look at her. She's about to do it, right now," he says, lowly, his eyes glued to your squinted ones.

"Hmph. If you want me gone, just say so. Here I am, trying to ask you out on a date for Valentine's Day. Trying to show you all my love and affection and... and ugh—you don't care about my effort. You don't care about how romantic I am. So, you know what you're getting instead of wined and dined?"

"What's that, mama?" Toji asks, attempting to stay serious through your little dramatic fit.

"A big pile of nothing. No chocolates, not even a rose. And then at night, i'm gonna make a pillow wall between us, so you can't touch me. I had a gooood surprise for you, too, but you won't get it, until... uhh... I haven't decided, but it won't be on Valentine's Day," you assure.

"Baby," Toji coos, smirking at the light grumpiness in your features.

"No," you grumble, with a huff.

"Pretty baby. My pretty, pretty Valentine," he murmurs, the corners of his lips curling when he sees your facade crumbling. "Oh," he utters, with a soft, barely audible gasp. "Look at that little smile. It's getting bigger... and bigger... and-"

"Stop!" You cry out, through a laugh. Toji takes that as an invitation to pull you in even closer. To see your sunshine-like smile up close and hear more of those uncontrollable giggles as he tries to kiss you.

"Don't turn away from my sugar lips. Kiss 'em," he instructs, reaching for your jaw. With ease, he makes you face him again, soft laughter still spilling past your lips. "Be nice," he says, his voice a low purr. "You're my good girl, right? You'll let me kiss you?"

You sigh, defeated, and stop resisting his affection. "Yeah," you mumble, a confirmation for both statements.

"You're an angel," he murmurs, before connecting your lips once again. You feel his thumb stroking your side, causing your heart to race and goosebumps to surface on your skin all over again. They spread even more when his hand travels towards your back, his fingertips running up and down your spine.

His kisses are soft and slow, yet, still manage to bring heat to your cheeks. You know that if breathing wasn't necessary, he would spend hours on just kissing you, nonstop. Kissing until your lips feel raw and miserably bruised—tender to the touch. Until just the act of him leaning in for a mere peck, has you putting your hands up to his chest to stop him before he gets to your lips, again.

With a soft, final smack of your brushing lips, Toji breaks the kiss. "Say," he drawls, a sly smirk forming on his lips, "do you have a Valentine, sweetness?"

You hum, like you're thinking thoroughly about the question. "No, unfortunately," you respond, wiping the smirk off his face in an instant.

"Baby, you have to answer the question honestly," he whispers, mimicking the way you did before. You crack a grin and nod, compliantly. "So... you got a Valentine, doll?" He repeats, in his normal voice.

"No, I haven't been asked," you respond.

Toji scoffs. "Really?"

"Yeah, you said to answer honestly. I asked you to be my Valentine, but you haven't asked me."

"You asked if I have a Valentine," he corrects. "See, you're not being entirely honest with me," he says, shaking his head and clicking his tongue in disbelief.

"Will you be my Valentine, Toji?" You ask, trying incredibly hard to stay serious, though your lips are quivering, giving away the laughter you're suppressing.

"Yeah, i'll be your Valentine, pretty. Will you be my Valentine?" He asks, in return.

"Yes, i'll be your Valentine," you answer.

"Great. And those plans you made for Valentine's Day... are we still on for that?"

You laugh. He looks like he's genuinely hoping you were joking about shutting it all down.

"Of course we are, baby. The plans were never cancelled. I didn't think you actually believed me."

"You're cold for that, ma. Ice cold," Toji grumbles, earning a chime of your laughter. His hand comes out from under your sweater and travels lower and lower until he's able to grab the back of your thigh and lift your leg over his hip. "Let me warm you up."

[satori-runa]

—Come and love me

Summary: Mr.Crawling has different ways to love you.

Tags: Smut, Praise Kink, Cockwarming, Body Worship, Mutual Mastubation, Female reader, fluff, Spoilers for ENDING 04

Words: 1,8k

MDNI, ADULT CONTENT UNDER CUT

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Mr. Crawling is someone who craves the comfort of human touch, but he’s always considerate of your boundaries. No matter how much he yearns for affection, he puts your comfort first, often suppressing his own desires to ensure you’re at ease.

Still, he can’t help but get a bit whiny when you return after a long day outside. On the days when you ask him to stay home, he becomes lonely and restless, waiting impatiently for you. He often lies on your bed with his head nestled on your pillow, inhaling your scent to soothe himself until he hears your footsteps approaching the front door.

The moment you step inside and praise him for being well-behaved, he lights up completely. Mr. Crawling has a serious praise kink, and it’s evident. Mr. Crawling is practically addicted to your praise; it’s like his own personal drug. The second you open your mouth and let a sweet, honeyed word slip out, he’s already trembling with delight. He reacts instantly, a visible shiver of pleasure rolling through his body, mouth going wide as he drinks in every syllable. It’s not just about the words themselves but the way you say them—soft and genuine, like you really mean it. It makes him feel so loved, so needed.

He can’t hide how badly he wants it, how desperate he is for your approval. Even the smallest bit of praise, like a simple "Good boy," can have him biting his lip, his breath hitching as if you’ve touched him in the most intimate way. The effect is almost comical; his face flushes, and he looks like he’s on cloud nine, squirming slightly like he can’t quite contain himself. He craves it so deeply that he actively seeks it out, doing whatever he can to earn your compliments. Of course he deserves a treat for his good behavior.

The treat he prefers most is one he chose himself. Nothing satisfies him more than when you settle into his lap and cockwarm him, taking him by surprise as you sink down onto his length. The sudden feeling of you enveloping him never fails to draw out a choked gasp, his hips twitching up instinctively as he tries to control himself. He loves this position more than anything—the closeness, the intimacy of it. He holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his arms wrapped tightly around you, clinging as if you might slip away if he lets go. He’s reluctant to release you unless you explicitly ask him to; he’d keep you there forever if he could.

He savors the way your body fits perfectly against his, the softness of your skin against his cooler touch. He buries his face into your neck, breathing in your scent, his lips grazing your pulse as he shudders at the feeling of your warmth surrounding his cock.

He tries so hard to stay still, knowing you need this quiet moment of comfort, but it’s almost impossible for him. His hips shift ever so slightly, his cock throbbing inside you, and he can’t help the tiny, desperate movements he makes, even if they’re unintentional.

He can’t keep his hands to himself either. His fingers are restless, wandering across your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you. He takes moments to worship you, pressing his lips to your collarbone, your shoulders, any spot he can reach. His kisses are soft but hungry, lips parting as he drags his tongue over your skin, tasting the salt of your sweat. He lets out a needy, broken moan as his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, feeling them harden under his touch. He’s inexperienced, a little clumsy with his movements, but the eagerness behind it is undeniable. He’s trying so hard to make you feel good, his breath coming out in hot, ragged pants as he watches your reactions intently.

It’s not always sexual, at least not in the way he intends. Sometimes he just wants to feel you, to savor the heat of your body pressed against his, to revel in the way your warmth spreads through him. He loves the sensation of your skin against his own, the soft give of your flesh under his fingertips. But he can’t help himself; even when he’s just trying to hold you, he ends up teasing you without realizing it. His hips roll up slightly, and he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your chest. He’s so sensitive, so easily overwhelmed by the feeling of you wrapped around him, that every little movement you make drives him wild.

He’s not practiced or skilled, and it shows in the way he fumbles, his touches uncoordinated but full of raw desire. He pinches your nipples a little too hard, a whimper escaping his lips when he realizes it, but instead of pulling back, he leans in closer, mouthing at the swell of your breast like he’s making up for it. His hands grip your waist, fingers digging into your hips as he struggles to keep himself from thrusting up into you. It’s like he can’t decide if he wants to savor the moment or chase after more, and it leaves him caught in this desperate, needy place that only you can pull him out of.

When it comes to mutual masturbation, it’s a different kind of intimacy, one that he’s hesitant about at first but quickly grows to crave. He hates touching himself when he’s alone, but with you, it’s different. You’re right there with him, your hand entwined with his, guiding him through the motions. He watches you, excited and breathless, his own hand trembling as he mirrors your movements. There’s something incredibly intimate about the way you both touch yourselves together, a shared vulnerability that makes his heart race.

He loves it when you talk to him through it, whispering sweet nothings, telling him how good he looks, how well he’s doing. It makes the experience bearable—no, more than that—it makes it beautiful. He’s not embarrassed when he’s with you: he’s not self-conscious or insecure. He’s just caught up in the moment, in the way your bodies move together, the way your breath hitches and syncs up with his.

When your hand finds his, coaxing him to stroke himself while you do the same, he whimpers softly, his fingers twitching against your palm. It’s overwhelming for him, the sensation of his own touch combined with the sight of you doing the same. He can’t stop himself from moaning, a needy, broken sound that escapes his lips as he watches you, completely captivated by the sight. "Me like you." You might whisper, and it takes everything in him to comply, the combination of your voice and your gaze making his whole body tremble.

You can tell how much he loves it by the way he leans into you, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as he touches himself with your guidance, whimpering in between. He’s panting, mouth open, like he’s too lost in the pleasure to look at anything else. The moment you reach out and wrap your hand around his, helping him stroke himself, he lets out a desperate moan, his entire body shivering as he clutches onto you. He’s a mess, but he’s your mess, completely undone by the shared pleasure and the feeling of your touch.

Mr. Crawling can be so eager when it comes to pleasuring you in return, that it borders on frantic. He doesn’t always take his time—sometimes, when he’s overwhelmed with excitement and craving you desperately, all of his usual patience flies out the window. He’ll drop between your legs, pulling you closer with a roughness that’s uncharacteristic for him, but it’s not out of aggression: it’s pure, unfiltered need. His hands are trembling as they grip your thighs, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. He’s already panting, like he can’t believe you’re letting him do this, and it makes him that much more impatient.

He dives in without hesitation, his mouth pressing against you hungrily, almost clumsily, as if he can’t bear to wait a second longer. His tongue flicks out, sloppy and uncoordinated at first, but it’s the urgency behind it that makes it so intoxicating. He’s lapping at you like a man starved, the sounds he makes—soft whimpers and desperate groans—filling the room. He’s inexperienced, but there’s something endearing about the way he tries so hard, so eager to please you even if he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing. He’s guided more by instinct than skill, following your reactions like they’re the only thing that matters.

He keeps glancing up at you, his face excited and yet almost pleading, as if he’s searching for reassurance that he’s doing it right. When he sees your pleasure written across your face, it only spurs him on. He loses himself in it, licking at you with a feverish intensity that makes it clear just how badly he needs this. He doesn’t bother with precision: he’s messy, licking you with broad, hurried strokes, his lips sucking at your clit with a desperate fervor. He moans into you, the vibrations sending little shocks of pleasure through your body, and you can tell he’s getting off on this as much as you are.

His grip on your thighs is almost bruising, like he’s afraid you might pull away. He’s whimpering into you, his tongue moving erratically, like he’s trying everything at once, too caught up in his own excitement to settle into any kind of rhythm. It’s overwhelming for him—the taste of you, the feel of your skin under his hands, the sounds you make when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. He’s panting between licks, his mouth never straying far from you, desperate to keep going even when he’s gasping for breath.

He’s a little too rough at times, sucking at your clit with a bit too much pressure, but the enthusiasm in his actions makes it hard to fault him for it. He’s learning from your reactions, his own inexperience showing through in the way he fumbles a bit, but it only adds to the intensity of the moment. When you tug on his hair, moaning out his name, he practically whines, grinding his face into you with renewed fervor. He’s almost overwhelmed by his own need, licking and sucking like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize every part of you with his mouth.

If you try to guide him, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging gently to slow him down, he lets out a frustrated, needy sound, shaking his head as if to tell you he doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to pace himself. He’s too lost in the moment, too eager to please, to care about taking his time. He’s devouring you like he’s afraid this is his only chance, like he’s desperate to prove how much he wants you, how much he loves being here, between your legs, giving you everything he can.

.

[cagenewman]

Intimacy between them had always come so easily, felt natural. From the first time until the last time, he had always felt at ease with her, had never hesitated to show her what he liked, to let her guide him through what she wanted in return. The last thing that Cage wanted was for that to be altered in any way, for either of them to feel like sex was something that they needed to think about only in terms of numbers and figures and dates on a calendar. "I don't want to have sex with you because we have to meet a deadline or … well, because we have to, period, I want to have sex with you because I love you," and that was the bottom line. Cage's gaze dropped from her face to her body, dragging low for a moment before he flicked his gaze back up to her face and let out a half laugh, because he had liked it, too. More than he had wanted to let on; it wasn't that he was restrained with her, it wasn't that he held back, she wouldn't want him to, but it had been something tense and something passionate, and he knew that they had both enjoyed themselves, but it didn't mean that he wanted to think of their child being created in a fit of anger, in a moment of uncertainty, even if it wouldn't have changed the love that he held for them. "We can have hot, rough sex any time you want, just … maybe without the broken lamp and knife play." That last part was a joke -- even if he had used the knife to take her dress off. He didn't have to be angry with her to give her what she wanted. "Logically, I know that. It's something that happens, but in the moment, finding that out, it's all I could think about, you know? That I did this, I put too much stress on you, on the situation, that's why I want to make sure when we do this, when we try, we don't stress out about it." Trying for a baby should be fun -- of course there were going to be moments of disappointment and worry, that was a part of life, too, but he wanted to enjoy the process, wanted to look back on this time in their life with fondness and warmth. "I think I was less upset with the fact that you were pregnant and more upset with the fact that I wasn't there for you," he admitted quietly, shrugging one shoulder, "and it just…" he lifted his free hand and snapped, "I knew I had to be, for you and our baby." And once that feeling had settled into his chest, it hadn't gone away, not when he made her those muffins, not when he started thinking about changing their office into a nursery, and not when they were told that there wouldn't be a baby. Everything had changed the day that she had put that test on his desk, and it had only solidified when it changed again in that doctor's office. "Alright," he laughed, nodding his head, "I'll do the heavy labor, you gals write up the score cards. She's an incredibly harsh critic, black cats have the most ridiculous attitude, you know that?" But he wouldn't have changed her for anything.

Swaying with the shove, Cage let out a louder, more jovial laugh, swinging back around to wrap his arm around her, pulling her into his side. "Doesn't matter, I'll be there," he said with certainty, nodding his head. Whether she was going to be sick every morning, or spend her days longing for the sweetest, most sugary foods that she could get her hands on, Cage would get her anything that she needed. Do whatever she wanted. There was a certain level of excitement to his voice as he looked down at her again. "You'll have a bump," which, duh, of course she would. But for some reason, it just hit him that she wouldn't be his ex-girlfriend that he ducked down the grocery aisle to avoid when he saw her pregnant years ago in their small town. It wouldn't just be a photograph in an album, something she pointed out to him on lazy, rainy afternoons. But Cordelia would have a bump, a belly, she would be growing their son or daughter in there as she baked brownies for Cienna's class, or helped Rosalyn pick flowers from the garden. But he couldn't think about that, couldn't let himself get that distracted -- the boys. They had to talk to the boys first, that was where he put his thoughts. "Shawn had Cienna, and Colton's been amazing with Archie, whenever he's around him," he pointed out with a nod. Sure, he might have teased Lucie about dirty diapers and messy burps whenever he spent time with his cousin, but he still was so gentle and careful with him as a newborn that Cage didn't worry about that. "It'll be… a lot to take on, adding a baby to a family with four kids, but I think we can do it. I just -- I need you to remind me sometimes that I can do it. I don't doubt that you can do it," he let out a soft laugh, "but unless you want my whole head to go gray…" he wasn't quite ready for that experience just yet. But they didn't need to worry about how much money a baby was going to cost when they were shopping. Ironically. That would come later. Until then, jewelry. "Mhm," he agreed with a nod, temporarily distracted by the smell of her hair as it brushed against his nose, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and then looking at the pieces in the case. Raising a brow as Cordelia said that she wanted something pre-1940s, Cage was impressed, though he kept that to himself as he watched the exchange, talking when prompted, mostly letting his wife and the attendant speak as he stepped to the side to examine a few pieces himself. Each ring that Cordelia tried on, he had some sort of comment for, a thumbs up or a thumbs down, interested, but wanting it to be her decision until he saw the look on her face, the way that she picked up her hand just enough to catch the light, turning it so that the diamonds shone. He didn't need to ask Cordelia if she wanted it, didn't bother to put it to a question as he reached into his back pocket to pull out his wallet, holding the card out with a low laugh. Cage knew his wife by now, far too well. "She'll take it."

There was almost a relief in Cage's eyes when she said she wasn't going to make this into some kind of thing they planned every single bit of. Maybe if they hadn't conceived in six months to a year they would consider talking to a fertility doctor and tracking at least ovulation but there was no need to go that way until they had to. They had the knowledge to know that Cordelia could get pregnant, it was just more about being the right time and hoping that it actually stuck around. Everything he said made sense, "No I get it, I don't want sex to become a business transaction, something we're strictly doing to get me pregnant. Kind of takes the fun out of it and I don't think we need to do that when we have a pretty great sex life as it is." Which was true, why ruin a good thing? Giving a roll of her eyes, "I didn't mind the bruises on my thighs and hips, I liked it." Looking at him a grin tugging at her lips, "I mean it, I enjoyed it, more than I wanted to admit because I was angry, but angry sex, kinda hot. Maybe a lot hot." she pointed out, because it kind of was, "And it's not some sadistic karma that caused all of this, it was the fact that my body wasn't ready to be pregnant. Maybe stress played a factor into it but no one knows the exact reasons, it wasn't like I fell, it wasn't like I got hurt or did anything crazy it just wasn't the right time. There's nothing wrong with how our first would have been conceived but I get wishing you had been more excited and I won't pretend that I wished you had been happier but I also understand that you weren't there yet." It was hard that for him to realize what he wanted he had to lose that very thing and then have to live with it as much as she did, only experience a different type of guilt feeling. Though neither one of them were guilty of anything. They had done their best with what they had been given, and now moving forward all they could do was try and hope for the best and that it wouldn't become a stressor to them personally or their marriage. Honestly, Cordelia was just happy that Cage was opening up about how he was feeling and everything that had been on his mind. Maybe getting away from Merrock for their anniversary had been the best thing, a place to openly talk away from everything, memories and just get it all out on the table and now look where they were? Communication was at least far better right now, not that she didn't expect there to be hiccups at times. "I can promise you that you will not catch me attempting to pick up hay bales prior to getting pregnant either." After losing the pregnancy so early she wasn't going to risk doing anything too crazy in case she got pregnant, and like what happened didn't know and cause any potential issues, but she also knew she'd go about a lot of her normal every day life like she had before. "Think that sounds fair, Twix and I will give you scores on how good you are at moving the bales, I'll get her her own little score board too." she offered a grin pulling to her lips, "But remember she may love you but she's a harsh critic."

Reaching out she shoved him gently, "Oh shut up, I could have cravings without being pregnant." Which was very true, Cordelia loved food and there was always a chance something could pop up in her mind that she would want, and it didn't mean she was pregnant. "Just buckle in, that's all I'm saying, because who knows I could have wicked cravings, or I could be horribly sick and threaten you to keep all food far, far away from me." Might sound a lot like her saying keep it out of the house and dramatics being her favorite form of emotions she might come up with some kind of crazy thought of get rid of it all, but she wouldn't actually mean it. They had four kids to keep fed, two of which were growing teenage boys that she was convinced were actually trying to eat them out of house and home. "No I agree, I was worried about telling them." When she had been expecting, the way her gut would drop remembering they had to break the news in a way that was kind of like, well here this is, without even having a conversation that they had or hadn't been considering this. Talk about the worst proof of non-safe sex to say it just happened to two teenage boys. "Know that that is where we're at that we can give this new little one, when he or she is ready to you know.... happen, the love and time they deserve. Deep down I think Colton and Shawn would love to have a baby sibling, I know Colton got to be around Rosalyn once she was almost a year old but think he would have enjoyed her as a baby baby, and like you said, Shawn loved having Cienna." she pointed out, maybe it wouldn't go so bad if they pointed out the fact that it was because of the four of them and how much love they proved in their family that gave them the ability to know one last child would be given that same amount of love, respect, and care needed. As she saddled up towards the few cases of jewelry it didn't take long to feel Cage behind, press up against her slightly, hands on her hips. "You know I've always loved the idea of a vintage piece, something that had history even if we don't know the history." Of course her ring was technically going to eventually fall into that category given it had been his mother's diamond. A woman approached them with a soft 'hello' and how could she help them. "Oh we're just looking, we're here on vacation for our anniversary and I kind of wanted to take a peek at a few things special maybe." The woman was kind and generous, asking them how long they had been married, them taking turns to explain the finer parts of their relationship from high school to reuniting, maybe leaving out their difficultly at first reconnecting and the whole soup debacle. "I was hoping to look at some bands maybe? For my left hand. Something antique, maybe pre-1940's if you have anything?" The woman nodding happily before returning with two trays of rings. "Oh!" Cordelia's eyes sparkling seeing all the pretty rings in front of her, definitely obvious that they were dated given the looks of some of them. Trying on a bunch the woman took the time again to explain each ring, the period it was from, Cordelia holding her hand up for Cage to see, knowing he was mostly there to oh and ah, before she picked up a particular ring, this one slipping onto her finger with ease. The woman explained it was from the 1920's, with miners cute diamonds, 7 to be exactly, and Cordelia knew it, the second it fit on her finger and held it up, the seven stones sparkling in the light, she had fallen in love.

[seventh-district]

tag limit my beloathed... continuing my analysis of my potentially Sun x Moon coded ships here ↓

[theogonize]

so, nerdy loser college boy choso *sighs* *opens legs*

a/n: just so you know, this man is gonna make you do all the hard work for a piece of that loser boy dick 😮‍💨 so... um so at some point around 2000 words in i realised this is way more than a hc post :3 eat it up if you will!

nerdy!choso who borderline has no friends except his gaming buddies who doesnt meet irl like ever. he doesnt like going to classes, especially this one. he doesnt need it but it's a requirement for all first years. and boy is glad it is when he sees you come in.

nerdy!choso who only listens to discussions when you're talking. suddenly he needs to put down his headphones and nod at every word you're saying. his eyes follow every gesture of your hand, every sway of your ass, every single time you fix your hair.

nerdy!choso who is starting to get a bit enamored with you, your style, your way of speaking. he loses track of time gawking at you in class from the last benches as you prettily do all the work in the class. he hates how beautifully your hair falls on your face, how nicely your clothes fit you despite being pretty modest for college. he hates how he can see the silhouette of your tits when you turn to the side. but he's too much of a gentleman to keep looking.

nerdy!choso who ends a game early when he remembers you, lying and saying that he had promised someone to meet them somewhere. the place is his bathroom and the person was you. god, you really shouldn't wear those tight jeans to class y'know? how will he continue to be a gentleman if you do?

nerdy!choso who despises groupwork but prays to dear god this class has some reason to pair you two together. he's getting so desperate to talk to you knowing damn well he too pussy to do it on his own. and the lord answers his prayers, the teacher assigns groups of three for a presentation. it's you, him and some slacking trust fund baby.

nerdy!choso who is about to combust and have a full blown panic attack when he sees you approach him after class with that smile on your face that would make the angels swoon. you're going on about distributing the work equally and what not while he is trying his fucking hardest to not accidently make eye contact with you and piss his pants : (

nerdy!choso who now has your name, your number and your email and he feels like the happiest man on earth. his hands are literally shaking as he responds to your request to call. he's overthinking every word he types.

choso: yeah i can do wednesday. choso: i'll be okay with whatever day you want.

nerdy!choso who hops on video call and short circuits with a view of you in an oversized band tee and a brief view of your room. why did you have to be this pretty? why did you have to video call him when you couldve done the work on text? why did you have to put your hair up like that? why oh why did you have you say "choso? hey, you there?" so seductively to bring him back to the present?

nerdy!choso who gets like no work done in a 30 minute call which felt like three hours. he knew he would hardly be paying attention so decided to record the call with your consent, saying he'd need the notes you were typing out on screen only to play it back and stroke his dick to you for what might've have been the twentieth time this week. his strokes only getting faster as you say his name in that voice he imagines sounds way better moaning and screaming it instead.

nerdy!choso who, after the presentation, is on greeting terms with you when he sees you studying in the library. he sits as far away from you as he can while still being able to see you. occupying the coziest corner of the library to stare at you study right when you come up to him.

"can i join you, choso? i'm all alone and your space seems comfy" you say with a smile, "of course, i dont mean to disturb you, is saw you were on your own too, so..."

uh oh, uh oh, uh oh. god no. please no. please dont say yes. please dont be staring at her like some dumb idiot (too late) please.

"uh... yeah sure why not?" he awkwardly says as he makes room for you to keep your things. he was such an idiot for thinking he could say no to your pretty face in the first place.

nerdy!choso who is absolutely drunk on your scent. it feels way better than any alcohol he's ever had. he feels like an animal in heat when he smells your sugary perfume mixed with the styrofoam-y air conditioned smell of the library. you're gonna kill him, yknow? how is he supposed to respond to this? what is one to do when their stupid college crush sits next to them? he gives you a half smile before furiously typing away on reddit, the only place with answers for losers like him.

nerdy!choso whose hands. oh his hands. (can be i a big whore for a second?) his long hands that feel like they're the size of your face. his kempt, beautiful and trimmed nails. his lengthy fingers that seem to yearn for something more to foddle with than just the keyboard or controller. he typed as such an insane pace it made your pussy ache. he was going so fast, jesus. those hands were meant to do more than just ask "how to talk to girls" on reddit.

nerdy!choso who (on the advice of reddit) asks if you would want him to order something for you. you tell you had a frappuccino not too long ago and that it was quite sweet and filling. and he hates himself for thinking that he could give you something much sweeter and filling than that like a horny fourteen year old.

nerdy!choso who is now determined to not come off as a creep so he does his work with the focus of four adderalls. he is typing as fast as his heartbeat, not realising he got two classes worth of work done in just an hour. he looks over at you, blissfully unaware of the absolute war in his mind.

nerdy!choso who feels as though if he doesn't muster up the courage to ask you out right then and there, he'll probably be the biggest loser on the planet. (as if he wasn't already)

nerdy! pathetic! choso who stutters a million times and barely gets the job done then too. his eyes are scanning your entire being (trying his best to not gawk at your tits) for any sign of discomfort.

"so- uhh so ummm... wo-would you, like, uh... like to do this again? sometime?... i got a.. a lot of work done today, so.."

oh heavens, the sheer nervousness in his tone makes you want to pull his pants down and show him how to really get work done.

you agree with a smile, even suggesting a better, more ambient (more romantic) cafe to study in. choso's heart is about to burst and flood the fucking library with his blood the way it is beating at an alarming rate.

"umm yeah uh 5 sounds... awesome... i hope it isn't a-a bother to you?" "no way, choso. i loved today," you offer him a smile as you gather your things, "i really like your hair, by the way" "i like your hair too, y-y-you smell very nice", he gulps.

fuck. why did he say that? what? you smell nice? who says that? is he like ten? you can't help but giggle at the sheer embarassment on his face.

he feels as though he's gonna melt into a puddle and turn to stone and throw up all at the same time.

nerdy!choso who is the most stupidly hot guy you've ever met, you think as you go giggling back to your dorm. mental note: pick a skimpy outfit for 5pm ;)

[genericpuff]

Tbh at this point you should just make your own webcomic app/website because it would probably be 100 times better than whatever going on with webtoon right now.

hahaha it wouldn't tho, sorry 💀

Here's the fundamental issue with webcomic platforms that a lot of people just don't realize (and why they're so difficult to run successfully):

Storage costs are incredibly expensive, it's why so many sites have limitations on file sizes / page sizes / etc. because all of those images and site info have to be stored somewhere, which costs $$$.

Maintenance costs are expensive and get more so as you grow, you need people who are capable of fixing bugs ASAP and managing the servers and site itself

Financially speaking, webcomics are in a state of high supply, low demand. Loads of artists are willing to create their passion projects, but getting people to read them and pay for them is a whole other issue. Demand is high in the general sense that once people get attached to a webtoon they'll demand more, but many people aren't actually willing to go looking for new stuff to read and depend more on what sites feed them (and what they already like). There are a lot of comics to go around and thus a lot of competition with a limited audience of people willing to actually pay for them.

Trying to build a new platform from the ground up is incredibly difficult and a majority of sites fail within their first year. Not only do you have to convince artists to take a chance on your platform, you have to convince readers to come. Readers won't come if there isn't work on the platform to read, but artists won't come if they don't think the site will be worth it due to low traffic numbers. This is why the artists with large followings who are willing to take chances on the smaller sites are crucial, but that's only if you can convince them to use the site in favor of (or alongside) whatever platform they're using already where the majority of their audience lies. For many creators it's just not worth the time, energy, or risk.

Even if you find short-term success, in the long-term there are always going to be profit margins to maintain. The more users you pull in, the more storage is used by incoming artists, the more you have to spend on storage and server maintenance costs, and that means either taking the risk at crowdfunding (ex. ComicFury) or having to resort to outsider investments (ex. Tapas). Look at SmackJeeves, it used to be a titan in the independent webcomic hosting community, until it folded over to a buyout by NHN and then was pretty much immediately shuttered due to NHN basically turning it into a manwha scanlation site and driving away its entire userbase. And if you don't get bought out and try your hand at crowdfunding, you may just wind up living on a lifeline that could cut out at any moment, like what happened to Inkblazers (fun fact, the death of Inkblazers was what kicked off the cultural shift in Tapas around 2015-16 when all of IB's users migrated over and brought their work with them which was more aimed towards the BL and romancee drama community, rather than the comedy / gag-a-day culture that Tapas had made itself known for... now you deadass can't tell Tapas apart from a lot of scanlation sites because it got bought out by Kakao and kept putting all of its eggs into the isekai/romance drama basket.)

Right now the mindset in which artists and readers are operating is that they're trying way, way too hard to find a "one size fits all" site. Readers want a place where they can find all their favorite webtoons without much effort, artists wants a place where they can post to an audience of thousands, and both sides want a community that will feel tight-knit. But the reality is that you can't really have all three of those things, not on one site. Something always winds up having to be sacrificed - if a site grows big enough, it'll have to start seeking more funding while also cutting costs which will result in features becoming paywall'd, intrusive ads, creators losing their freedom, and/or outsider support which often results in the platform losing its core identity and alienating its tight-knit community.

If I had to describe what I'm talking about in a "pick one" graphic, it would look something like this:

(*note: this is mostly based on my own observations from using all of these sites at some point or another, they're not necessarily entirely accurate to the statistical performance of each site, I can only glean so much from experience and traffic trackers LMAO that said I did ask some comic pals for input and they were very helpful in helping me adjust it with their own takes <3).

The homogenization of the Internet has really whipped people into submission for the "big sites" that offer "everything", but that's never been the Internet, it relies on being multi-faceted and offering different spaces for different purposes. And we're seeing that ideology falter through the enshittification of sites like Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, etc. where users are at odds with the platforms because the platforms are gutting features in an attempt to satisfy shareholders whom without the platforms would not exist. Like, most of us aren't paying money to use social media sites / comic platform sites, so where else are they gonna make the necessary funds to keep these sites running? Selling ad space and locking features behind paywalls.

And this is especially true for a lot of budding sites that don't have the audience to support them via crowdfunding but also don't have the leverage to ask for investments - so unless they get really REALLY lucky in EITHER of those departments, they're gonna be operating at a loss, and even once they do achieve either of those things there are gonna be issues in the site's longevity, whether it be dying from lack of growing crowdfunding support or dying from shareholder meddling.

So what can we do?

We can learn how to take our independence back. We don't have to stop using these big platforms altogether as they do have things to offer in their own way, particularly their large audience sizes and dipping into other demographics that might not be reachable from certain sites - but we gotta learn that no single site is going to satisfy every wish we have and we have to be willing to learn the skills necessary to running our own spaces again. Pick up HTML/CSS, get to know other people who know HTML/CSS if you can't grasp it (it's me, I can't grasp it LOL), be willing to take a chance on those "smaller sites" and don't write them off entirely as spaces that can be beneficial to you just because they don't have large numbers or because they don't offer rewards programs. And if you have a really polished piece of work in your hands, look into agencies and publishing houses that specialize in indie comics / graphic novels, don't settle for the first Originals contract that gets sent your way.

For the last decade corporations have been convincing us that our worth is tied to the eyes we can bring to them. Instead of serving ourselves, we've begun serving the big guys, insisting that it has to be worth something eventually and that it'll "payoff" simply by the virtue of gambler's fallacy. Ask yourself what site is right for you and your work rather than asking yourself if your work is good enough for them. Most of us are broke trying to make it work on these sites anyways, may as well be broke and fulfilled by posting in places that actually suit us and our work if we can. Don't define your success by what sites like Webtoons are enforcing - that definition only benefits them, not you.

[captainjonnitkessler]

The other reason I'm generally annoyed with the "Abolish X" crowd who actually DO mean "abolish X" and not a watered-down version is that ime they very rarely have fully thought out the implications of what they're demanding and then get angry when other people ask about it.

"Family abolition means completely removing legal ties for family units and allowing all children the choice of where they live" okay. So if I see a three-year-old throwing a fit because she doesn't want to leave the park, and I go over and tell her if she comes home with me she can stay as long as she likes and then we'll get McDonald's on the way home, that three-year-old should have the ability to make that decision? The parent or guardian has no legal recourse to stop me from taking her? Cause if the answer's no, that's not abolition, that's reform baby!

"I'm done talking about what we'll do with rapists and murderers after we abolish prisons, it's all anybody ever wants to talk about!" Well yeah man! 98% of people just interpreted your words as "we're going to let murderers roam around killing people at will"! You need to explain very clearly what plans you have that will stop them that aren't incarceration or you're not going to make any headway! And if your answer involves any form of "well of course SOME people can't be allowed total freedom" - that's not abolition, that's reform baby!

I'm not even gonna touch the number of people who think we should abolish the police and replace them with what are essentially roaming squads of vigilantes dispensing "community justice", whatever the fuck that means.

Like these aren't "gotcha" questions, they're legitimate problems you're going to have to contend with. And if you wave away all these questions with "you're just making up ridiculous scenarios" and "we'll think of something to fix that once we destroy the current system", then yeah actually, I DO think you care more about sounding radical than about making any kind of change.

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

If He Could

Jason is an unreliable narrator ~1k words

Jason's no good for you. He's too brash, too rough, too easily pulled away to defend the streets of Gotham. He's a liability in your life, a dark stain in the otherwise perfect fabric of your reality. He's all the worst of shadowed alleys and tortured corners of decaying apartments.

He's quick to pull a weapon, even quicker to throw a punch. He doesn't quite remember how to make his smile look natural, how to stand without his shoulders tense and ready to dodge whatever comes his way. He's not normal. Not someone you should be happy to see.

But you are– everytime he drags his weary body to your window– you're happy. You smile, welcome him inside like he has a place there.

And he doesn't know what to do with it. Doesn't know how he should react to your bright eyes and soft touches and fond words. It's not like he can offer the same back or return the favors you so freely give. He wants to– at least he thinks he does– he just gets stuck when it comes to what to do with you.

He knows he shouldn't tense up at your reassuring pats to his arms– but he freezes, shocked to stillness each time your hands don't bring a wave of hurt to his skin. He knows he shouldn't be so quiet when you ramble about your day, but he can't find the words to describe just how much he does care about every mundane fact you share with him.

And oh, does he care. Too much even. Cares in a way that scares him off the grid for days at a time, only to sheepishly find his way back to your fire escape with a tub of melting ice cream or cooling coffee and a half-baked excuse on his tongue.

He adores you. He won't admit it to anyone, not even to himself most of the time. But he does. It's you who he wants to come back to when his feet ache and his eyes strain to make out words and figures. It's you who makes him feel not so heavy when the sun starts to rise over the tired, crumbling buildings he knows better than his own skin.

He has a portion of his heart and mind set aside just for you. But Jason can't tell you that. The more he relents to you (because he can never say no when you ask), the more he threatens to ruin you. He's a slow rot, a plague that sets into the very marrow of your bones.

But you don't see it. He doesn't want you to, but you should. You should understand that by carving out a place for him besides you, you are going to destroy yourself from the inside out.

There is no happy ending when all he can offer is fleeting comforts and one word answers. He doesn't deserve your patience, your endless willingness to understand and wait for him to figure himself out.

It's not fair to you– to either of you. But he always ends up back in your living room, always ends up with his hands curling into fists as you graciously take whatever food or trinket he's brought to try and win your continued affections.

He secretly believes he must be the most selfish person in the world when he leans into your warm hugs, when he passes out on your couch after your semi-regular movie nights. (He tries not to linger on what it means when he sleeps better on your old, worn furniture than his own bed)

It's cruel of him to lead you on like this. It's cruel of him to set himself up for heartbreak. You'll learn that he's not worth your time soon enough. But, for now, he can't help but bask in the way you offer to stitch the tears in his clothes, the way you so excitedly ask him to try every new recipe you've made.

If he knew how, he'd ask if you were really okay with who he is, what he does, how he acts. Your eagerness to make him feel like he does fit into any place in your life makes him wonder if it's all just a mask. If you're just waiting for him to be at his worst to reveal that it's all a lie– that he's truly and devastatingly unwanted.

Those words still haven't come from either of your lips– don't come– even when he messes up and brings you the wrong flavor of ice cream. (It's not that he forget what you liked– it's just that the store was out and he was bleeding too heavily through his suit to stop at anywhere else)

The words don't even come when he doesn't tell you why he disappeared for over a month this time. (Someone got too close to his identity– to you. He had to track down everyone involved before he could even think of resting or seeing you again)

Jason wants to have the right words, wants to do the right thing, and make you laugh and watch your eyes light up because of something he did. He wants to hug you back in a way that makes you feel safe and needed and wanted above all else. He wants to. He just doesn't deserve to give you that, even if he knew how to do it.

You're just too good. Everything Jason isn't. He feels like he's dragging you down with him when you offer to keep emergency weapons for him hidden in your apartment. He's definitely staining everything you are with his greedy hands when you start keeping extra first aid kits in your closet.

But for the life of him, he can't stop. Can't stop his familiar trek to your windowsill. Can't stop craving the hugs you offer, the conversations you share.

He wants this forever. He wants to keep this– you– whatever this is, in between his fingers and never let go. (He could if you'd just let him) You would.

And when you clean out a drawer in your dresser for him to keep clothes in, when you stock your cupboards with all his preferred foods, fill your shelves with his favorite books, and play the songs he loves to hum along to, he selfishly lets himself believe you might want this forever too. You do.

[sarahroutldge]

inked.

a/n: hey y'all! this is my first fic on this account. just a fun little jj one shot - lmk what you think!! (gif not mine - credits to the creator)

pairing: jj maybank x reader

summary: you and jj have been dating secretly for half a year, and a small question about a mysterious new tattoo leads to his friends finding out about the two of you.

word count: 2.8k

warnings: fluff/humor, marijuana use, implied sexual content, I think that's it

JJ’s not the greatest at dates, and he’s aware of that. But when it comes to you, he’s decided to step up his game, and that’s why he took the initiative to take you to Charleston for your birthday. While he currently can’t afford to spring for an elaborate dinner at a pricey restaurant, he’s trying to make tonight something special. Usually, you’re the one who has to pick up the slack when it comes to romance—though you’re not great at it either—but he figured that since it’s your birthday, all the planning should be his responsibility.

And so far it’s been great.

Walking hand-in-hand down the cobblestone streets of Charleston, you can feel how much freer JJ is when he can take you out somewhere people won’t recognize you. It’s been hard keeping such a big part of his life a secret from his friends for so long, but he doesn’t want to push it too far. You’re what he calls ‘kook-like,’ since you’re from Figure Eight but you went to the local public school instead. And while you never really interacted back in high school, JJ doesn’t want to have to explain to his friends everything about your relationship. It’s private, and though he knows he’ll confide in the Pogues at some point, he’s just not there yet. And thankfully, it doesn’t seem to bother you.

It’s been silent for a while, but not uncomfortable. You just enjoyed a delicious meal that JJ had to fight with you to pay the bill over, and you feel calm. Peaceful. Outside of the Outer Banks, there are no kooks and no pogues, just the two of you. 

Choosing to break the silence, you voice your inner thoughts. “It’s nice to not have to worry about running into people we know, you know?”

JJ nods. “Yeah, it’s nice to know that I can kiss you without being afraid of being punched by Topper,” he teases.

You chuckle at his comment before pulling him to a stop. “You said you’d never bring it up!”

“Hey, he’s your ex-boyfriend,” JJ retorts, pointing at your chest.

“Hardly. We dated for two weeks when I was fourteen. And it’s still my greatest shame.”

“I thought I was your greatest shame.”

You roll your eyes, knowing he’s joking. “Never.” As he leans in to kiss you, you can swear that you’ve never felt lighter. You’re a bit tipsy from the drinks at dinner and JJ has a sparkle in his eyes that’ll never stop making you smile. 

His lips press to yours, and you swear you know what the romantic comedies mean when they talk about fireworks. It’s nothing too heated—you’re standing on a sidewalk and you’re not that crazy—but it’s special and passionate. Your lips are a perfect fit for one another, and if you don’t pull away soon you know you’ll get swept up in it.

Knowing JJ has other plans for the two of you, you break away from the kiss and wrap your arms around his shoulders. “Alright, so what’s next on the agenda, Jayj?”

And that’s when you spot it—the signature twinkle in his eye that only shines when he has something a little bit crazy planned.

“Oh no…” you protest in preparation for whatever’s about to come out of his mouth.

“Okay, it’s just a crazy idea I had and it’s totally up to you. We don’t have to do it, but I think it would be fun.”

“What?” you ask. He unwraps your hands from his shoulders before grasping one of them in his own again, and starts to guide you down the street. “JJ, where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see.” He winks, and at that point you decide to just let him lead you wherever. You know he’d never put you in danger, and he’s safely gotten you out of your comfort zone many times before, so you’re sure that it can’t be too bad. Right?

As the two of you walk down the street hand-in-hand, your mind wanders. You’ve accepted your fate, but where could JJ possibly be taking you? And before your mind settles on a single answer, he pulls you to a stop in front of a little brick-walled building. ‘Inks Tattoo Parlor,’ the sign reads.

“Okay, I know it might be a crazy JJ idea,” he starts.

“I’m glad you’re self-aware,” you retort.

He rolls his eyes. “Just hear me out. I know we haven’t been dating for long and maybe I had too many drinks at dinner but I know you’re it for me. We’re young and I know we haven’t talked about marriage and I know we’re nowhere near there yet—”

“JJ, just breathe,” you say to comfort him, squeezing his hand in reassurance.

“Well, basically, I love you. Like a lot. Like more than I ever thought I could, and I think I want a tattoo of your initials on my ass.”

And then you give him the weirdest expression he’s ever seen. He can’t tell if he’s scared you off or turned you on or maybe both. But slowly, a smile makes its way onto your face.

“Okay, well, number one: this is definitely a crazy JJ idea,” you start. “But crazy JJ ideas are part of why I fell in love with you, and it’s your ass—you can do whatever you want with it. Frankly, I’m honored.”

He smashes his lips to yours and you kiss him back, chuckling against his lips. “Oh, babe, by the way, this ass belongs to you, too.” You playfully swat his chest, and his smile only grows.

You don’t know if the drinks from dinner are finally getting to you or you’re just on a high from spending so much quality time with your boyfriend, but as you and JJ wait for him to get tattooed, your mind starts to wonder if maybe you should get one as well. 

After the tattoo artist finishes up with his previous client, you get up from where you were waiting next to JJ and look at the intricate designs on the wall. “Hey, Jayj?”

“What’s up?” he asks, looking up from his phone.

“What do you think of this font?”

JJ squints before deciding he might as well come over to get a better look. Standing behind you, he rests his head on your shoulder and examines what you’ve been pointing to. 

“It’s alright, but not my thing,” he responds, as he wraps his arms around your waist. “Plus I think I’m just gonna stick with something simple. No twirly shit.”

You chuckle at his description of the font. “I didn’t mean for your tattoo, Jayj. I meant for me.” And that catches him off guard. 

Unraveling his arms from around your waist, he moves to stand in front of you. “You’re getting a tattoo?” he questions. 

A bit annoyed at his disbelief, you roll your eyes. “Why is that such a big deal?” 

Racking his head for an answer that won’t make him sound like a dick, the best he comes out with is “well, it’s just not very… you.” 

“Maybe that’s the point.” 

JJ lifts his hands in defeat. “Hey, it’s your body. Your body, your choice, and all that, or whatever.” You chuckle at his wording. “What would you even get?” 

“JJ, duh.”

His eyes widen. “You’re not serious.”

“Why not?”

He stares at you for a minute, looking deep into your eyes, trying to see if you’re joking with him, but he can’t seem to find any nervousness. “Well damn. Where are you gonna get it? And don’t say your ass because that would just be copying me.”

You roll your eyes. “No, I was thinking on my hip, right above my bikini line, you know? And it wouldn't be big or anything, just two J’s. No extra swirls or details or whatever.”

JJ puts his hand to his chin as if he needs to think it over, before stepping as close to you as possible and whispering in your ear, “that’s kinda hot, honestly.” He punctuates his comment with a kiss on the inside of your neck, and before you can do anything more you hear a clearing of breath from the tattoo artist.

“You’re up next.” 

The two of you break apart from one another as if you’re fifteen and you’ve just been caught making out by the lockers during class time. JJ winks at you before laying down on the cot. “Alright, man, tat my ass up.” 

Two weeks later…

“Kie!”

“Wake up!”

“Get up, Kie!”

“You’ve gotta see this!”

“Alright, I’m up!” Kiara relents, rolling her eyes as she wakes up from a heavenly nap in the hammock on the employees-only floor of the tackle and bait shop. “This better be an emergency.”

Sarah, John B., Pope, and Cleo squint a bit at her casual threat. “Okay, so it’s not exactly an emergency,” John B. clarifies. But before Kiara can object again, he explains, “JJ has an ass tat!”

“What?” Kiara asks, still a bit dizzy from her nap.

“JJ has a tattoo on his ass,” Pope clarifies proudly, and Cleo rolls her eyes in response.

“I know what an ass tat is, thank you very much,” Kiara bites back. “And why do we care that JJ has one? And also, how do you know that he has one?”

“Okay, well, you know how sometimes JJ doesn’t wear underwear?” John B. asks.

“Gross, but yes, I think we’re all unfortunately aware after the regrettable cliff diving incident last July.” Everyone shudders in horror at the memory. 

“We care because it’s not something JJ-y,” Sarah explains. “He has a tattoo of someone’s initials!”

“And it’s not like JJ to, you know, ink anything remotely sentimental on himself. To be honest, I was surprised he didn’t get a joint tattooed on his ass first,” Pope elaborates.

“Well, what are the initials?”

“Y/I. And I can’t think of anyone with those initials.” John B. answers.

Now invested in the mystery of JJ’s ass tat, Kiara concentrates, trying to think of who she might know with those initials. Coming up with nothing, she asks, “Are we sure it’s not just something stupid?”

“Come on, Kie. It’s JJ. If there’s anything we’re sure about, it’s that there was a high level of stupidity involved in this decision,” Pope answers.

“Fair point,” Kiara concedes. “How did you even see the tattoo?”

“John B. walked in on him sleeping butt naked,” Sarah confesses. He shoots her a look, and she smirks. “I’m just glad you didn’t find it cuter than mine.” John B. rolls his eyes in response, and Sarah chuckles.

“Never,” he says, before kissing her on the lips.

“Gross!” Pope interjects.

Elsewhere on the island, you and JJ are enjoying a day at your favorite secluded part of the beach. The waves never get especially big here so you’re not crowded by surfers, but it’s a nice area to get away from it all and simply relax with one another. 

You’re lounging on a towel, letting your back tan, as you engross yourself in your current book. Right next to you, JJ sits shirtless on his towel as he does whatever on his phone. It’s been relatively quiet for a while until you sense your boyfriend starting to stir.

You glance over at JJ only to see him typing incessantly on his phone. 

“Babe?” 

“Yo,” he says in acknowledgment, but without looking up from his screen.

You roll your eyes and move over onto his towel, making yourself comfortable behind his bare, sun-tanned back. Looking over his shoulder, you try to make out what he could possibly be doing.

Wrapping your hands around his stomach, you feel his abs tense under your fingers. “What’s going on?”

“I think our cover might be blown,” he answers, placing his hand above his phone so you can see the messages in the blaring sun. 

John B.: Please tell me she’s not a kook.

Sarah: Hey 🙁

Cleo: We want to meet her!

Pope: How did you convince her to go out with you? Is she being held against her will?

Kie: I stfg JJ if you don’t just tell us her name.

Sarah: We’re at the usual surf spot on the beach, bring her over!

Pope: You have to come now because I need proof that a real human woman agreed to go out with you. Also if she doesn’t exist then JB owes me fifty bucks.

“Your friends are funny,” you say into his ear, and he smiles wide.

“So, what do you say? Do you want to meet them? I know we’ve kept this thing a secret but I guess it’s pointless now.” 

“I’d love to meet them,” you respond, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before standing up and packing your book, towel, and your cover-up into your bag. 

Once you’re all packed, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his chest. “Thanks for doing this, babe.” He lightly presses his lips to yours.

“Don’t thank me, I can’t wait to meet your friends and hear all the embarrassing stories you haven’t told me. And of course I’ll have to share some of my own in return.” You return his kiss, and for a few seconds the two of you just stand there, kissing under the hot sun. His tongue makes its way into your mouth, and you tug on his messy blonde strands in response. He moans into the kiss, but before it can get too heated, you pull away. “As much as I love this, if we don’t stop, I don’t think we’ll make it in time to meet your friends.”

“Who cares about them?” he jokes, before pressing his lips to you again. And then, in signature JJ fashion, he grabs your bag in one hand and tosses you over his shoulder.

You shriek in response. “JJ put me down!”

“You’re the one who wanted to hurry. I’m just making sure you don’t get distracted.” As he walks you to his truck, you giggle at being held upside down, swatting his butt playfully. 

Meeting his friends goes great, and you easily fall into a rhythm with Sarah, Kiara, and Cleo. John B.’s extra welcoming since your existence means that Pope now owes him fifty bucks, and by late afternoon you’re all relaxing around a bonfire. Gathered in a circle around the flames, you swap embarrassing JJ stories and enjoy just getting to know the Pogues. You pass around a joint, and a comfortable silence grows among the group, interspersed with a few chill conversations. Lounging in between JJ’s legs, his hands begin to wander before settling comfortably on your hips. 

He plays with the hem of your cover-up, pulling it up and down ever so slightly. Sarah sits next to you, tugged under John B.’s arm. She glances around the group before she notices a bit of ink along your bikini line. “Ooh, that’s such a cute spot for a tattoo, what is it?” she asks.

You feel your face warm and JJ shoves his head into your back, chuckling at the situation.

The rest of the group looks confused at JJ’s reaction, and now everyone’s attention is on the both of you. Realizing there’s no way out of this, you meet JJ’s fingers at your hip and ever-so-slightly move the string on your bikini bottom so that Sarah can make out what it says.

She squints. “Oh my god! You have JJ tattooed on you!” 

Everybody else’s eyes go wide and they all look at you in shock. 

“Really?” Pope asks, questioning your judgment, and Cleo slaps him in response. 

“Leave her alone, it’s cute.” 

You smile at Cleo in thanks, and JJ looks at Pope. “Pope, it’s like the hottest thing ever, I swear. The sex was great already, but now–” 

You cover JJ’s mouth with your hand in embarrassment, as John B. smirks in amusement. It’s silent for a second before JJ decides to lick your hand and you immediately pull away. “Ew!” you shout, and your boyfriend howls in amusement.

Standing up from between JJ’s legs, you wipe your wet hand on your cover-up, before tugging it off. “Anyways, I’m going to go for a final swim before the sun goes down completely. Anyone want to join?” 

“I just want to finish my beer, but I’ll join you in a minute,” Sarah answers, and you smile. Cleo and Kiara nod in agreement, and you make your way into the water. But before you can reach the ocean, JJ runs up to you and lifts you off the ground. You yelp at his antics, and again he lays you over his shoulder. He turns around to wave at the group as they laugh at the two of you.

The rest of the Pogues look on as JJ drops you into the water. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but they might be perfect for each other,” Pope confesses.

Everyone nods in agreement. “They’re adorable,” Sarah adds. “Absolutely adorable.” 

so... please let me know what you think! I don't currently have a taglist, but if you'd like to be tagged in my next jj fic, please send me an ask :)))

[wordstome]

how c.ai works and why it's unethical

Okay, since the AI discourse is happening again, I want to make this very clear, because a few weeks ago I had to explain to a (well meaning) person in the community how AI works. I'm going to be addressing people who are maybe younger or aren't familiar with the latest type of "AI", not people who purposely devalue the work of creatives and/or are shills.

The name "Artificial Intelligence" is a bit misleading when it comes to things like AI chatbots. When you think of AI, you think of a robot, and you might think that by making a chatbot you're simply programming a robot to talk about something you want them to talk about, and it's similar to an rp partner. But with current technology, that's not how AI works. For a breakdown on how AI is programmed, CGP grey made a great video about this several years ago (he updated the title and thumbnail recently)

I HIGHLY HIGHLY recommend you watch this because CGP Grey is good at explaining, but the tl;dr for this post is this: bots are made with a metric shit-ton of data. In C.AI's case, the data is writing. Stolen writing, usually scraped fanfiction.

How do we know chatbots are stealing from fanfiction writers? It knows what omegaverse is [SOURCE] (it's a Wired article, put it in incognito mode if it won't let you read it), and when a Reddit user asked a chatbot to write a story about "Steve", it automatically wrote about characters named "Bucky" and "Tony" [SOURCE].

I also said this in the tags of a previous reblog, but when you're talking to C.AI bots, it's also taking your writing and using it in its algorithm: which seems fine until you realize 1. They're using your work uncredited 2. It's not staying private, they're using your work to make their service better, a service they're trying to make money off of.

"But Bucca," you might say. "Human writers work like that too. We read books and other fanfictions and that's how we come up with material for roleplay or fanfiction."

Well, what's the difference between plagiarism and original writing? The answer is that plagiarism is taking what someone else has made and simply editing it or mixing it up to look original. You didn't do any thinking yourself. C.AI doesn't "think" because it's not a brain, it takes all the fanfiction it was taught on, mixes it up with whatever topic you've given it, and generates a response like in old-timey mysteries where somebody cuts a bunch of letters out of magazines and pastes them together to write a letter.

(And might I remind you, people can't monetize their fanfiction the way C.AI is trying to monetize itself. Authors are very lax about fanfiction nowadays: we've come a long way since the Anne Rice days of terror. But this issue is cropping back up again with BookTok complaining that they can't pay someone else for bound copies of fanfiction. Don't do that either.)

Bottom line, here are the problems with using things like C.AI:

It is using material it doesn't have permission to use and doesn't credit anybody. Not only is it ethically wrong, but AI is already beginning to contend with copyright issues.

C.AI sucks at its job anyway. It's not good at basic story structure like building tension, and can't even remember things you've told it. I've also seen many instances of bots saying triggering or disgusting things that deeply upset the user. You don't get that with properly trigger tagged fanworks.

Your work and your time put into the app can be taken away from you at any moment and used to make money for someone else. I can't tell you how many times I've seen people who use AI panic about accidentally deleting a bot that they spent hours conversing with. Your time and effort is so much more stable and well-preserved if you wrote a fanfiction or roleplayed with someone and saved the chatlogs. The company that owns and runs C.AI can not only use whatever you've written as they see fit, they can take your shit away on a whim, either on purpose or by accident due to the nature of the Internet.

DON'T USE C.AI, OR AT THE VERY BARE MINIMUM DO NOT DO THE AI'S WORK FOR IT BY STEALING OTHER PEOPLES' WORK TO PUT INTO IT. Writing fanfiction is a communal labor of love. We share it with each other for free for the love of the original work and ideas we share. Not only can AI not replicate this, but it shouldn't.

(also, this goes without saying, but this entire post also applies to ai art)