#not tagging it as one of my in-depth rambles because I do not want it to show up for that tag

[mattodore]

birthday boy 🎂

[acheronist]

giving myself a solid B+ grade overall for this month's apprentice tattooing event...... i did more last-minute appointments this time so instead of my scheduled 15, i ended up doing about 18 tattoos in total over three afternoons, and i only started getting clumsy and really mean to myself during the last three appointments on the last day. so that's pretty good i think????

[kostnyan]

Turing off my brain for a minute to bring you this:

Kalim is a big brother first and foremost, so I think he'd be big on spoiling the Leech twins and being their(hesitant) enabler. I love all of those jp posts where they act like spoiled brats around Kalim because they both know he's just going to spoil them rotten and it's getting out of hand. And I don't necessarily mean in the monetary sense either. I just really love the idea of Kalim kinda acting like a big brother around them even though they're older(I believe? I'm not quite sure!) than him. And the boys learning to not only get use to it, but enjoy it deeply as well is also very good.

Like, Floyd is on the cusp of throwing a tantrum while Kalim's at monstro lounge and Kalim just bring him down to his chest and start rubbing his head and soothing him without thinking too much about it. It pisses off Floyd at first but then he just kinda melts a little bit? Kalim realizes a little too late what he's done and he tries to let go and apologize but Floyd just grabs his hand and forces Kalim to keep patting his head until he's satisfied. Jade gets ticked off that he's left out and he just slinks his way over to Kalim and offers him his head to be patted as well. Kalim's hesitant at first because he feels bad for accidently treating the boys like his little siblings, but he realises that the twins enjoy being spoiled.

Both Floyd and Jade have this childish nature to them that I feel like they'd let Kalim feed into. Like yes Kalim, please praise the Leech twins when they do a good job, and give them lap pillows when they complain that they're tired, etc. They become completely "unmanageable" (to Azul) and it's hilarious. Kalim has no idea what he's done, he's just glad he has can act like an older brother to more students. But honestly, I feel like they also mainly do it to bully Azul, because harassing Azul is the Leech twins actually their full time job as his friend. That being said, who would turn down Kalim spoiling them to be honest? I wouldn't. It's a win win honestly.

[dangoulains-devotion]

yuffie has many interesting elements to her but people refuse to move past "i find energetic kids annoying" and it makes me sad

[anarcho-masochist]

I need to finally admit that I only have so much time to write and thus need to decide & commit to writing one particular thing instead of researching everything forever in the hopes that I will one day have time to write All the things. You have no idea how nuanced my internal discussions on the topic have gotten at this point, though. The next post will be a poll on what to write or post about first.

[tails-is-cool]

Friendly reminder that this applies in situations where you have a choice. I think this could reach some people in the wrong way.

If, say, your communication partner constantly makes themself the victim (e.g. "you always blame me," "so it's my fault?", refusing to elaborate on their side of the story just to make things difficult (it can be valid depending on the situation, like if it's an emotional subject, since they also have their boundaries), etc.)

Or: makes you feel bad every time you try to communicate (e.g. yells, stomps, slams doors, talks about how stupid or not understandable you are very loudly where they know you can hear, etc.),

Or: they've had a history of (trying to) hurt people when they attempt to reason with them, you are not obligated to do so.

You are not obligated to do anything that could potentially be harmful to your mental or physical health.

(Unfortunately, dealing with children or teenagers can also result in some of these occurrences. In my personal experience, all of these behaviors came from an adult who really should have known better.)

However, avoiding communication isn't healthy, and communication is important. Both sides need to be addressed, and misunderstandings can happen. The important thing is to try, be respectful, be respected, and just get it over with as efficiently and thoroughly as possible.

Lack of communication can hurt your relationships so, so much. It can build up over the years and eventually fester into something worse. Maybe you might be the one aggressively saying things about someone who doesn't deserve it because of miscommunication. Maybe you will be an abuser. Maybe you won't be. Maybe you will communicate well and learn and get better, and maybe you will have good and healthy relationships.

But that doesn't happen if no one tries. It might as well start with you.

Your "non-confrontational" choices not to communicate hurt the people you don't confront btw. You're not a martyr for keeping everything inside and then running away when other people don't know what's going on with you. You just decided avoiding rejection and sparing your own feelings was easier than being honest and giving them the agency to respond and make their own decisions. You chose to hurt them so they didn't hurt you. You think your feelings are realer and more important than their own care and love for you. You were always just waiting for a sign to run.

"If they cared about me they would have–" did you tell them that? Did you let them know how you feel? How much importance you place on those requirements they don't know they have to meet? This secret criteria and secret signs for your secret feelings? Or are you making them play a game they don't know even exists?

Your choice not to communicate isn't cute. You didn't run because they didn't feel the same for you. You ran so you wouldn't have to risk rejection. You chose to prioritise your own self-protection over their trust in and love for you. At least own that.

[unma]

Uh, mentions of suicide (not attempted, but considered) and suicidal ideation under the cut I guess. And lots of talk about my depression. And a bit of oversharing. Did I say this blog wasn't for venting? Well, I'm unpacking these things as I write them so please be kind with me, okay?

Still thinking about my memory and how it's gone from me being proud of remembering the most specific stuff to barely being able to remember anything past a certain point save for really specific mostly intensely painful (usually mental) periods of my life.

I don't think it's memory issues (or at least the kind where I'm simply incapable of actually recalling things or putting moments into long term memory). I just think that there isn't much for me to remember in my day to day life outside of the internet.

I spend most of my time moping around, looking forward to the day where I'll be free of everything that has plagued me. The optimism younger me had about leaving this life behind and becoming a new me is gone, replaced with a me that has accepted the reality that it would be a long struggle to get to that day that I'm happy. I already had to pull myself out of the pit that was wanting to actively end it all, and now I wallow in despair wondering if it'll happen anyway.

it was only weeks ago (or perhaps months? Time has begun to blur for me since forever ago) that I found out I had friends who were glad I wasn't dead. IRL friends, in specific, as I wasn't too open about my struggles online, for obvious reasons. I mean, I was also gone from this blog for a year or 2 due to related matters, so obviously no one online would know about any of this since I wasn't here.

Back on track, I had a classmate of mine call to see if I was still okay and doing fine. I wouldn't call him that close of a friend—he's the type of person who's an asshole on purpose but friendly enough, so you can tell when he's taking a piss and when he's being genuine, but he doesn't pull it off nearly as well as a much closer friend of mine—but he was one of the few I'd let know that I wanted to die. Even though I'd made it clear ages ago that I wouldn't ever pick up a knife, he was still glad to know I was okay. And upon mentioning that to others who knew about my woes, they all responded that they too were glad that I was doing okay. It felt nice to be cared for.

So it's a shame that the only way I can talk to any of these people is online.

There isn't much for me to look forward to offline. My family's awful, as you can probably tell from today's posts, I hate most of the people I know in church (not to mention that being agnostic and having a horrid experience with the church growing up makes that place a living hell to be in) and there's nowhere for me to go outside. Not to mention it's way too hot. No really, I tried to go for a walk outside today and didn't even make it an intersection before the sun made me turn back. And I'm the one who used to wear hoodies in the blaring sun before I moved. It's way too hot here in the summer.

Every time I try to improve something about myself, be it my posture or not spending all my time in my room, I'm reminded ever so swiftly of why I'm like this now. At some point I resolved to sit in the living room often, but every evening my dad would come home and yell about something that had gone wrong, and because I was the only one nearby I'd be the only one subject to that yelling. And then I remember the reason I never left my room was because child me realized that greeting my mom when she came home from work was never worth it because she would 100% send us to do chores. And she wondered why no one ever greeted her when she came home anymore.

There's a lot of things the internet has done to me that would make me wish I got on here when I was older. But it pales in comparison to how much good it's done for my life. How much it's shaped me into a much better.

And the fact that I'm still alive, I guess.

I think often about how my dad once told me he knew me better than I knew myself. Back then I thought "Do you know your son doesn't want to live anymore?" I still wonder if he'll ever find out. If he'll ever realize that the pressure he and my mom placed on me to get better academically, even as I was one of the best performing students and simultaneously already struggling to keep up with the stress from maintaining those scores. I wonder if they'll ever understand that the hate I feel for them is not childish rage at not getting my way—not a rage that will fade as I grow older and wiser in life—but a deep hatred that will never fade until I'm free of them forever.

I wonder if they'll ever realize that they were horrible parents. Even now they're constantly blindsided by the effects of their own bad parenting. Effects that I, the oldest child, continued to point out to them when they first showed up. Things that I very clearly told them needed to be corrected.

Perhaps the fact that I had to point out that they were failing at being proper parents to my younger sister constantly as I grew up is just another sign of my shitty upbringing. One in which I was forced to learn to be mature at a young age. To be the smart one. Above breaking the rules, above being playful and immature. Perhaps it's no wonder in the end that I simply stopped caring, when fun was something I continually had to fight for, and stress was simply the norm. Even now, as I think back on my past, most of what I remember was the time and effort I spent. How proud I was to pull an all-nighter to finish handwriting my Business Studies notes, as if my rides to school were not already spent frantically catching up on my CRS notes.

My school-assigned advisor once told me that I had to deprioritize writing to spend more time focusing on school-related work. I wonder what he'd think if he found out that writing was perhaps the main reason I decided there was still a point to life. I wonder what my mom would think when she agreed with him.

Oh well, it's not like there's a point in dwelling on that.

Point is, well, there really isn't much for me to look forward to or do, other than eat and sleep. Not to mention that most of the things I can do suck or actively make my mental health worse, which is fun.

As for the point of explaining that? Well, I think the reason I can't remember anything is because there isn't anything to remember, or at least anything good. What's the point of actually remembering things if all there is to remember is enraging conversations and anxious waits for things I dread? Perhaps the reason I don't remember much about my life is simply because I stopped having things to be happy about. Outside of the internet, anyway.

If I have any consolation, it's that I can still vividly remember a lot of my time online, where I had fun and made friends and learned to be myself. And when I put it like that, it feels pointless that I've even slightly worried that I spend too much time online, when there's no reason for me to reduce my time online.

That's all my pondering for now, I guess. Really long post, yeah, but today's event made me think about... a lot of things, I guess.

[volfoss]

i cant even like post about the horrors that are going on currently because im gonna get too mad but oh my god. like i would give her really good credit for writing a character like marius that has 0 self awareness about his insanely disgusting behavior bc like. that CAN work. you can make the reader feel disgust and see things through the eyes of someone who is horrible while not romanticizing the behavior. clearly anne did not get the memo for this one.

[gremlingottoosilly]

I met a guy in the Summer (dilf!Konig x fem!Reader)

Your boyfriend is an asshole. Luckily, his hot dad just returned from deployment. CW and Tags: Cheating, dub-con, size kink, daddy kink, age gap(reader in 20s, Konig is early 40s), Konig is a pervert, slightly obsessive Konig, love(and lust) at first sight, fingering, dom!Konig Word count: 3713 AO3

“Just one more game, babe, don’t be a buzzkill. I don’t want to end at a loss.” You didn’t want to be a buzzkill, of course. You simply wanted to be a good girlfriend, have some domestically cozy date, and for your boyfriend to at least try to put an effort into being with you. It wasn’t much to ask for, really. You hoped so, at least. You didn’t want to be an annoying, nagging girlfriend who only ever waits for another reason to yell at him, but your patience started to run thin. 

You spend the past three hours either listening to his apathetic rambling about the shows he watched – really, you wanted to invest in stuff he liked, but an abnormally large amount of animes he talked about had 1000-year-old girls who looked like they were 10, wearing inappropriate outfits, and you started to raise the alarm. 

You also watched him play – and also listened to his rage quitting and angry voice messages to his team that, honestly, made you slightly anxious. You never liked loud people, people who were so easy to rage about something as silly as some colorful video game with too many characters to look after. 

So, like a good girlfriend would – you wanted to be a good girlfriend, he was such a nice guy before you started dating, and you need something to think about besides the tremendous amount of study work you are doing for college – you decided to go and look for snacks. Maybe bring something for him as well. 

— I’ll find something to eat, alright? 

He didn’t respond at first, so you shook his shoulder. Your boyfriend took off his headphones with annoying look on his face, half-turning to look at you. You gulped, suddenly feeling like a child in front of the principal – not a feeling that you were supposed to feel around your partner, but with him, you somehow constantly felt like you were being judged. 

— Nah, stay here. I don’t want my father to see you. 

— Ah…your father is at home? 

You never heard anyone else being at the house – big house, you must admit, and it’s embarrassing almost how you never thought about his family. He lives with his dad, apparently, and the depth of your relationships can only be judged by the fact you literally didn’t know what his father’s name was. 

— Returned from his fucking deployment. He’d ask too many questions about you. 

— You didn’t tell him about me? 

Ah, now you’re hurt a little bit. You knew it wasn’t anything serious or too committed yet, but you intended to make this work. To try and fix all the problems you can without ending things abruptly. 

— He never asked. Not like he cares too much, but…

An apathetic dad, huh. 

You started to slowly piece together the puzzle that was your boyfriend’s horrible boyfriend skills. Now, you want to meet the man who conceived him and kick him in the nuts for creating such an unlovable human being who somehow captivated your chronically lonely heart. 

— If you don’t want me to come and meet him, I can go home. 

He doesn’t answer because his queue is finally coming to another match – you simply nod, knowing everything you need to. You can grab a little snack for yourself, fuck off to your dorm and rethink your life choices while your roommate is getting pounded by some gruss British bloke with an accent that makes your ears bleed. 

You have dignity, and right now, it has asked you to get some snacks from the kitchen. 

*** Now, the only thing König wanted after returning from deployment was to take as many hot showers as he could, shut his bastard of a son up, and get some delicious food waiting for him in the freezer. He was already home for a few days, but adjusting is always hard when you basically fucking hate living at your own house. Of-fucking-course, his son was watching the house while he was away – and now he can’t even think of a good excuse to set him off to his mother. Too old to do this, and split custody never really worked when not even one part of the relationship wanted to take care of the kid. 

König closes the door of the refrigerator – of course, his son took every good thing that he stashed for himself. With a groan, the colonel fights the urge to finally throw him out of the house – a thing he needed to do a few years ago, just when he celebrated his 18th, but some sentimental part of his heart instead promised to help with finding a place close to the college. No good deed goes unpunished. 

With a groan, he takes a few steps from the fridge – and then he almost stumbles across an angel. 

Scheisse

Now, König never thought of himself as a predator who prefers running after college girls who might as well be his daughters. He never thought of himself as a gut who liked them young – his wife, god forsake her name, was his age when they started dating, and he hardly had any sexual encounters with a person under 25 in the past few years. Well, not like he had any sexual encounters in the past years, but…

The thing is – he never thought he liked girls with wide eyes, pouty faces, and trembling hands who were holding a bag of his cookies that he carefully stashed away from his son. 

You are wearing something cute, a nice skirt and an adorable pink cardigan that looks so cozy and warm and soft, and he fights the urge to grab your skirt and simply lift it, You’re dressed up for a cute coffee date, and König has to double check if he isn’t dreaming and no one has decided to play a prank on him and send him a cute callgirl. 

— Oh! Sorry. It’s yours, isn’t it? 

You give him his cookies back – but not before your fingers fished another salty caramel goodness out of the bag, and you bit it. He looks at your teeth, at your lips, and glimpses of your tongue – god, he is an old, dirty bastard because even his baggy pants aren’t enough to hide his boner. You have no right to look this pretty for a man who hasn’t seen a woman in three months and hasn’t had sex in the past few years. 

You lick the crumbs from your fingers – it’s such a deliberate action that he can’t believe he actually sees it, and it’s not even something from porn he used to like. 

— Ja. You can have it. 

He would give you the code to his bank account if you asked for it. 

— Thank you, sir. I’m…well, I assume if Paul didn’t introduce me to you…I’m his girlfriend. Nice to meet you. 

You lick your lips and take a step back, pressed against the counter. He looks at the sway of your hips, a bit of crumbs on your shirt, and almost brushes it away with his hands. It would be a good excuse to touch your chest – but he can’t be like this, he has to keep his urges under control, or else his son will never forgive him. 

Yeah, like he needs a better reason to throw his useless son from his home. 

— Girlfriend? He never spoke about you. 

You look sad, and he immediately curses under his breath. For a moment, you look too fragile – too real. He can’t handle this look on a woman, especially as pretty and young as you are. You bat your eyelashes, even involuntarily, and he already prepares to give you the keys to his home just so you’d stop with such miserable expressions. He has a spare bedroom. 

He has his bedroom with a bed that would be enough for both of you. 

— Ah. Um. We’re…I guess we’re not at this stage yet. 

— Knowing him, you’ll never be, Schatz. 

You look at him immediately – you’re offended, angry, and sad at the same time. There is a certain stubbornness in your eyes that immediately makes him want to simply scoop you in his arms, lift you, and drag you straight to the altar – and here he thought that his impulses over getting married would be over after his first divorce. 

— What do you mean by this, sir? 

You look uncertain now, he can see this in your eyes – and really, knowing his asshole of a child, he is almost sure that Paul never once got you off, either physically or emotionally. 

Now, König never once considered himself to be a good man. He has killed countless people, overthrown many governments, and made shitty jobs for shitty people way more than saving hostages to help the good guys – and in the romantic field, it’s even worse. Wife, unsatisfied with his controlling tendencies and inability to feel normal love for a human being – and a son who hates him because, in fact, he never once wanted to have a kid. 

He looks at you and sees a pretty young thing, still in college or freshly out of, probably without a stable job and normal social standing – a good girl won’t be with his son if she isn’t stupid or extremely desperate for a relationship. 

The thing is, König is also extremely desperate for another warm body next to his, to feel a woman beside him, to love and obsess over someone – he looks at your pouty lips and shaky hands, at the way you bite the corner of your glossy mouth, and he almost wants to drop you on this very table and fuck you until you’re crying under him. He can’t do just that, of course. It would probably make you extremely uncomfortable and scared, but…well, quite frankly, his son doesn’t deserve you. 

König is. 

— I won’t sugarcoat it, Schatz. My son is a Scheiß Arschloch…fucking asshole, that is. I’m surprised he brought home someone as cute as you. 

You feel embarrassment collecting in your body. Paul’s dad is a…interesting man. 

Tall, broad, very muscular – even his baggy house clothes aren’t really concealing his extremely interesting physique from your eyes. He looks yummy and tasty, and you fight the urge to eye the bulge in his pants because you’re a good girl, you don’t look at your boyfriend’s dad like this. 

König has greying ginger hair, locks already curling slightly at the lack of cutting, and you fight the urge to sit on the counter and get your palm in his scalp, massage his head gently, and pull him closer for a kiss. You feel like a dirty, horrible woman – your boyfriend is in his room, probably enjoying his time on your “date” while you’re lusting over his father. 

Then again, this date already felt like a disaster. This relationship, too. 

— Paul isn’t all that bad, sir. 

“He at least has a nice dick,” you wanted to add but stopped yourself. Paul is tall and somewhat strong – if he weren’t sitting at his computer all day, you would call him even muscular. And he has a nice dick, yes, even though he had no idea how to use it. You liked the idea of laying with him, of spraying your jaw trying to fit all of this in your mouth, but his kinks and his sex skills being directly taken from porn…not really your thing. 

You look at König and wonder if they are similar in all of the places. He is his father, after all. 

König catches your gaze locked on his bulge and smirks. 

God, if he knew his son had such a cute girl, he would ask her to come earlier. He is two weeks off deployment and probably won’t take another long contract for a few months because they just upped his retirement payings, and he can afford to slack off a little bit, only visiting the home base for some training and instructions for rookies. 

He can afford to retire and never worry about money again – but he needs someone to make his days less boring, right? 

You look like a good candidate. 

— I’m sure my son was convincing, but I know him better than anyone. He doesn’t deserve you, Schatz. 

He is shitty at flirting, it’s not his forte – he can flaunt his money, maybe, show you in his wallet and bank account face first. He can just straight up ask you to be his sugar baby and suck his cock instead of doing your studies, but he can’t flirt and manipulate to save his life. Lying isn’t something he is good for, this is why his wife has left. 

— I…not sure we should be having this conversation here. 

You’re a good girl, and it’s infuriating. He knows that having someone in his bed shouldn’t be the end goal for his leave, but he wants you, and by the look on your face, you aren’t opposed to the idea. König doesn’t understand if he likes that you’re so reserved about it or if he wants you to be a bit more slutty – but he captures you in the space between the kitchen counter and presses you with his body. 

— You want to see the bedroom then?

Pushes you so close his knee gets between your legs – it might look involuntary like he didn’t exactly want for it to be placed here, but you aren’t dumb, you know what he wants from you. Like a good fucking girl, you’re too shy to give it to him right about now. God, sometimes he hates being so nice to people around him. 

— Sir, this is very…

He got you caged in his hands, body trapped in his embrace – you jerk your head upwards a little bit, staring at him like a small bird in the hands of a predator. He isn’t a strong man in regard of morals, he doesn’t see anything wrong with fucking his son’s girlfriend – if the girl is up to it. And if she isn’t…well, he better make sure she is. 

— What is it, Schatz? Paul won’t hear us in his headphones.

You know just how wrong it is, and you almost want to escape – his dick grinds on your pelvis through his pants, and you’re horrified to see how big it is. Excited too, of course, he is bigger than your boyfriend ever could be, and you don’t want to be a slut, but, oh well, not like you were in a committed and serious relationship anyway. 

Paul was seeing your friends more than you ever saw them – it’s probably a sign that you should settle for someone older. You did enjoy Lana Del Rey's songs, after all. 

— I don’t want to break his heart. 

— He doesn’t have one. 

You’re lost when he pushes his lips to kiss you over and over again – a surprisingly good kisser, and you give in because it was the first time in forever a kiss made you feel this good. His lips are sending electricity down your spine, you want to moan just from his knee, pushing on the softness of your cunt through that adorable skirt you liked so much – you feel so small like this, so tiny in his hands, you…

God, you feel like a slut, and you like it. 

Soon enough, you answered the kiss, your lips meeting his in a dance that made you feel hot, that made you feel like your boyfriend never could. Never thinking of yourself as someone who can fall so easily into the hands of an older man, now you know that he got you right where he wanted. 

You push your hand on his pants, trying to get the control back – but he stops you, a giant hand enveloping your wrist and pushing you back. With a surprise on your face, König just wants to kiss you all over. God, you’re adorable, and he knows that you deserve way more than being fucked on the rough kitchen counter while your so-called boyfriend is too busy dickriding his friends in some useless online game. 

— Not now, princess. You deserve better than being fucked on the kitchen counter, ja? It can come later. 

“Later” sounds like a promise, and you bite back your moan when he keeps pushing his knee against your cunt, making you throb and clench on nothing. He is such a gentleman, you can’t help but compare him to his son – and his fabulous ability to make you feel dirty after fucking you in the backseat of his car and tossing you to your dorm with your pussy still wet and messy after you didn’t cum. 

You sob, not from sadness, but from pleasure mixed with some weird, unnatural for you emotions – you feel weird, strained here like this, but you hug his neck and whisper something in his ear. Something, dangerously sounding just like “daddy, please” 

König is blushing, and he looks fucking adorable. 

— Daddy, ja? God, you’re dangerous, liebling. Going to get me in trouble with my son later. 

He laughs when he kisses you again, his hand slipping in your panties only to find them completely soaked – he knows you deserve a nice pillow and soft sheets under your body, and he pushes you up so you can hug his waist with your legs. You rely on him like a cute pet, and you’re so perfect in his hands he curses himself for not seeing you before. 

He is going to ruin you for anyone but him. Put so much cum in you, it will make your tummy bulge – make you his precious sugar baby, pay for your dumb college and make you move to his bedroom instead of some shitty dorm you probably share with four other people. 

He can be good for you – but he will ruin you for anyone else, anyone appropriate, every guy your age who clearly doesn’t know how to treat a lady right. 

— So wet for me…such a filthy thing, I didn’t know my son dated a whore. 

— N…not a whore, please…

He kisses you on your forehead, silently apologizing. You feel his crooked, scarred smile, and you push your face up to kiss him – you want to touch him so badly it makes you feel stupid. 

— Sorry, Schatzen. Not a whore, a good girl for her daddy, ja? So nice for me, too fucking young…

— W…we really shouldn’t… — Tshhh, don’t think about it. Thinking will only hurt your pretty dumb head. — I’m not…

— Quiet, little one. Let daddy handle everything.

He kisses you over and over, his fingers playing with your pussy – meaty digits digging in your hole, making you whimper from sudden intrusion. He is big, bigger than anyone else, just two of his fingers are enough to spread you as much as normal cock would, and even though you’re used to taking Paul’s size, you just know that his dad would be much, much bigger. He is going to split you open, and you will love every fucking second. 

It feels so wrong, you still aren’t sure if you want him to touch you like this. 

It feels so right, he is experienced and eager, pushing every button to make you squirm in his grasp. Your orgasm comes embarrassingly quick – maybe because you haven’t gotten off in ages, only miserable masturbation sessions and poor attempts at faking your orgasm made it feel real. Paul never cared enough to actually get you off – but now…

You aren’t ready for him. You squirm in his grasp when the pressure becomes too much, and he soothes you, two fingers still buried in your soaked cunt. You feel so dirty, so wrong right now – you are cumming on the fingers of your boyfriend’s absent father, and you love every second of it. 

Post-orgasm clarity makes you whiny and sobby, and you whimper in his shoulder when he gently lifts you in his hands. God, you’re adorable, and he knows that he just scrambled your brain with that orgasm – it’s good, really, he might just want to keep your pretty head nice and empty for him. Not like you would ever need to think in his presence, the colonel can handle everything in- and out- of bed. 

König holds you close, not allowing you to scramble away no matter how embarrassed you are. You are his precious thing, with a pouty face, and he will do everything in his power to make you squirm on his fingers again and again before he makes you his wife for good. 

So impulsive, maybe this is why his son is such an asshole – taking the worst traits of his father. 

— Don’t cry, Schatzen. You’re okay, it felt good, didn’t it? 

— W…we shouldn’t have. Shit. I���m sorry, it was a m…god, I need to tell Paul. 

— I’ll tell him. 

— No! — I will tell my asshole of a son that you’re my girl now, ja? And then I will take you to the bedroom, so we can fuck. 

— I need to return to my dorm. 

— And then I will dine you properly, okay? Sorry, Liebling, I know I should court you before all of this…but we can afford to go a bit off board, ja? 

He is smiling, so smitten and obsessed over just having you cum on his fingers once – you don’t have the heart to say no. Never did. You’re a good, proper girl, and Paul was never treating you right anyway. You feel dirty, yes, but somehow, it is almost right. 

He peppers your face with kisses, like a dog lapping its tongue all over your skin – you’re so concentrated on the warmth of his strong, seasoned body that you don’t even look in the direction of the doorway to the kitchen. 

Paul, however, looks straight at you, disheartened and shocked. 

— W…what the fuck, dad?! König laughs, kissing you once again – deep, hot, with tongue and loud, sloppy sounds of your mouth pressing into one another. You’re stuck in place, still caged in his arms like a precious little pet you are. 

— She’ll make a good step mom, ja? 

You don’t even register his hands slowly caressing your fingers as if he already tries to check the ring sizes. 

[angelic--kitty]

dilf arlecchino stretching out a virgin reader on her fat cock

dom!dilf arlecchino x sub!fem reader

warnings: smut (minors/ageless blogs dni), wlw content, transfem!arlecchino, virgin!reader, age-gap (arle is in her late 30s, reader is in her early 20s), size kink, fingering, penetration, handjob

a/n: tagging my favorite silly @myfriendscallmebun who i hope enjoys this ♡ this is so long

she first hired you merely as a form of entertainment for her children. someone eager to please who wouldn't require such a large salary. someone who, at least, would never ask someone like her for more than she offered.

it's a surprising decision, on her end, to select a college girl to watch over her precious children. though, you presented yourself so nicely at the interview, and your references and resume did you well.

besides, it might be nice for the children to be around someone closer to their age for a change. they often spent time with arlecchino herself and occasionally her coworkers.

and, you had grown on her.

it's been nearly two months since you started working for her, and a few weeks since you began passing flirtatious remarks to one another.

the thing that finally melted her heart was an evening she worked late. she was already irritated her children would be asleep when she got home, but she felt guilty making you stay hours late at her home.

much to her surprise (and inner delight), when she came home, she found the children tucked into their beds, and you standing so sweetly at the door.

you had slipped her jacket off, hanging it up and tugging her into the kitchen. sure enough, you had saved her a plate of the spaghetti you made, along with a glass of her favorite red wine.

that was the day when she finally asked you to accompany her on a proper date.

and, now, here you are, standing in front of your mirror, fussing with your dress and jewelry. the dress she had bought for you special for tonight. it was black, falling just below your knees- rather classy for someone so young.

20 minutes. in 20 minutes she was picking you up.

nervous as you were, you couldn't believe you were going on a date with her. especially to somewhere so expensive and exclusive.

it was some sort of upscale bar with expensive alcohol and food. somewhere arlecchino claimed to frequent often when she needed alone time.

you almost broke out into laughter when she admitted she hired childe, her younger coworker, for the evening to watch her children.

"oh, i'm not concerned for my childrens' safety. if anything, he should be afraid for his own." was her reply, a small smirk on her lips that you nearly missed.

she lead you into the restaurant with confidence, turning heads, eliciting whispers as she kept her hand on the small of your back while the waiter brought you to your table.

"what do you think so far?" she asked, her wine glass already being filled, no need to speak her order.

"it's...definitely different than what i'm used to. but it's really nice. i like having an excuse to dress up a little." you smile at her and she raises her glass to her lips.

"i want to spoil you for the evening. for not only treating my children so well, but because you are an exceptional woman. i only hope my gestures come off as genuine as i intend." she sips her wine, setting it down to begin rambling to you about the menu.

but you're not quite listening, distracted by her hands, her lips, her eyes. how could someone be so perfect?

she's quite a bit older than you, probably much more experienced. does she truly feel the same way you do? and-

"sweetheart?" she breaks you from your thoughts and you stiffen up.

"i'm sorry- i'm listening!" you squeak, but she sees right through you.

although, she finds it rather cute. she's noticed before, obviously. your wandering eyes, the way you bite your lip when she picks up something heavy like it's nothing, or how your thighs press together when she takes a stern tone.

she simply wants to know the depths of your affection for her. after all, she has similar thoughts of you.

"which dish would you like then?" she asks pointedly, allowing you to hold the menu with shaky hands.

"ah...um..." the words blur together, not registering. "what do you recommend?"

she tilts her head, taking the menu back. "allow me to order for you then."

you like when she takes control. she knows what she wants, and she will have it. you wish it a quality you embodied more, though she fascinates you. it is almost natural to her.

dinner goes rather smoothly, and you get to taste test a few different wines, but not nearly enough to get you even remotely tipsy.

"i much prefer coherent company." her lips quirk up as she says this, and you laugh behind your hand.

she's funny, you admit. her dry humor is one of your favorite things about her.

it's a shame when dinner comes to an end, but you two mutually draw it out as long as you can. you share a dessert, and plenty of good conversation about yourselves. you learn things about her you never would've thought, and likewise for her.

the ride back to your place is just as pleasant, though you feel nervous inside. you want to make a move. you want to ask her to come inside. to stay...

but you couldn't possibly. that would be absurd... right?

regardless, she walks you in, ensuring you get into your place safely. she's a gentleman in how she holds your bags and all the doors at every stop.

the little bit of wine in your system has you feeling bold, stopping her in her tracks before she could put her shoes back on. "wait! why... don't you stay for a little? i could make us some tea. herbal! so you won't...uh... be awake all night."

she merely tilts her head, nodding either way. she listens to your rambling about the tea and the coffee mugs you have, her eyes wandering your walls when she sees familiar art.

"did the children draw these?" she interrupts, taking one off the wall.

it's a rather rudimentary stick-figure drawing, but she can tell who each one represents. this is one of lynette's drawings. she's drawn herself with pretty blue bows, along with her brothers, and, of course, their father.

and you.

there you are, standing on the other side as if you were the mother to complete their family portrait.

"oh- those? yeah, the kids drew them for me... i thought they were really cute, so i kept them." you smile and her heart flutters.

she skims her fingers over the papers, pausing when she sees one from freminet. he's drawn a flower field of green scribbles and rainbow dots, the children playing on a swingset while you and arlecchino watch.

with the words 'mom' and 'dad' written above your heads.

she can hear you nervously talking to fill the silence, and she turns to you. "they really do seem to enjoy having you around." she murmurs. "as do i."

you look up at her, feeling her lean in, gently holding your waist. "am i being too forward?" she asks, breath fanning over the side of your face as you shiver.

"not at all-" you breathe out, trembling as she lifts your chin gently. she can see your anticipation.

"you're not phased by our gap in experience?" she asks. "it's inevitable. i cannot change it, but i do not want you to feel forced."

"i actually like it. i really like it." you blurt, catching her off guard.

"oh?" her voice is low, sultry as she cups your jaw. "is this alright with you, then?"

"please-" and that's all she needs to connect your lips, kissing you so softly at first. her tongue gently prods for entrance, and she can instantly tell you truly are inexperienced.

she pulls away, gently swiping a thumb over your cheek. "is this your first time?"

"you could tell?" you groan, and she nearly melts.

"it is not shameful to wait. i only want you to be sure this is what you want." she explains, stroking your cheek as your eyes flutter shut.

"i want you. please? i want you to take it." you leave it open for interpretation, but she knows exactly what you're referring to.

"if you're certain, then i'd be honored, sweetheart." she says so gently you'd think she was someone else.

you bring her to your room, cringing at the mess. "i know it isn't what you're used to but mmph-!" you whimper when she kisses you, pulling you onto her lap on the bed.

she trails kisses down your neck, watching you tilt your head back instinctively. you pant, overwhelmed so quickly she almost feels guilty.

keyword: almost.

instead, it makes her twitch within the confines of her expensive suit slacks.

her hand tangles into the back of your hair, tugging you firmly so she can nip at your jaw. she takes it slow, easing you into things until you're practically begging her to go further.

your dress slides off slowly, a treat waiting when she sees the pretty matching lingerie set beneath. it's white and lacy, delicate, something she could easily tear right off, and it drives her mad.

"aren't you full of surprises? naughty ones at that." she tuts, squeezing your jaw as you gasp.

she unclips the bra, her gently squeezing your breasts as you moan for her.

she teases your nipples until they go pert, wrapping her tongue around them as you arch up into her.

you're being vulnerable with her; she knows this much. she holds you steady, ensuring you feel safe on her lap before pulling away with a soft 'pop.'

she unbuttons her shirt, tugging it off to match you. she watches your eyes go wide, eager yet embarrassed as she tosses her bra aside with the shirt.

"you're so...pretty." you gasp quietly, eyes wide.

"you can touch me, sweetheart." she pulls your hand to her chest, allowing you to explore. your fingers clumsily rub her nipples and she grunts, guiding them into place.

"does it feel good?" you ask her so hesitantly, and she kisses the top of your head.

"you're doing well." she watches your gaze slide down, eyeing the growing bulge in her pants. she dryly grunts, lifting your chin up. "something catch your eye?"

"i... i'm sorry- i didn't mean to stare-" your words are mumbled, your face hot as your mouth goes dry.

"you're curious. that's alright." she brushes a thumb over your lips, coaxing you to open up.

she slides her thumb over your tongue, gently easing it a little further until you gag, keeping you just like that. your eyes are so wide and pretty, glazed over with untapped lust.

she hums thoughtfully before withdrawing, using the thumb to brush over the front of your panties. you gasp, thighs snapping shut as she pushes them back apart.

she lightly smacks your thigh. "keep them open." she rubs gentle circles on your clothed clit, your body clearly unsure how to react. she can see it doesn't take much to bring you to the edge, and she lightens her touch, able to control her own desires with ease.

her hand comes back to your lips, sliding your wetness over your tongue while her free hand slides your panties to the side.

something you've missed before, but she's filed her nails down on this hand. just for you, though only she knew that.

she gently slides her fingers through your folds, hearing you whimper and squirm on her lap. she tucks your head under her chin while she eases a finger into you, feeling you squeeze so tight around just one digit.

she gives you time to adjust, feeling you clutch her wrist. you're such an angel, aren't you? holding so tightly to her, so cute, all while you fidget right above her confined cock, inevitably making her grow harder.

her second finger slides in slowly, with an intent to stretch you out enough to take her cock more comfortably. she curls them inside of you, hearing you whine loudly into her neck.

"ah- that feels-!" you squeal when she brushes against your g-spot. her finger pads rub into it, and you tremble, thighs clamping down on her hand.

"relax." she reminds you, pumping her fingers in and out, slick sounds filling the air. she stretches you out every so often, spreading her fingers slightly and hearing you whimper so sweetly.

your hand clumsily rests on her bulge and her fingers still as she inhales sharply.

"i... want to- try and make you feel good too..." you whisper, looking up at her.

and who is she to deny such a sweet girl?

she pops open the button, unzipping her pants and freeing her cock, allowing you to see her.

your eyes go comically wide, shocked by the size. "that's... i-"

she can feel your walls fluttering around her fingers and she nearly moans. "it's alright. don't be nervous." she practically reads your mind, soothing your concerns as her free hand unwraps itself from your body, collecting some of the messy slick from your thighs, sliding it over herself.

"you haven't done this before, i presume?" she's met with a shake of your head. she proceeds to guide your hand in wrapping around her cock. she hisses through her teeth. "archons-" she groans lowly, her fingers resuming their gentle in and out motions while she guides you to stroke her cock.

"tighter." she tells you, feeling your hand grip more firmly, her pre-cum oozing over your hand, spreading across her cock. "good girl-" she praises and you clench around her fingers once more.

she says nothing, but she knows exactly how her words affect you. such a sweet little thing you are, curled up on her lap, fingers stuffed inside of you while your hand wraps around her cock.

her hand covers yours still, dwarfing your hand and guiding you into her preferred rhythm. "that's it. you're doing well-" she tips her head back, hips grinding into your hand as she lets go.

she allows you to move your hand on your own, finger-fucking you faster. she knows you're losing focus, too overwhelmed by your own need to cum, though she doesn't mind too much. you're just so sweet with how your moans pick up in volume, your eyes closing as your hips chase her hand.

"go on." she tells you, her voice stern as you release around her digits like such a good girl for her.

she slides her fingers out, admiring the webbed slick coating them, cleaning them in her own mouth as you shyly hide in her chest.

she pulls you away, laying you on the bed. "wait! you didn't get to..."

she shakes her head, pushing her hair back. "hush." she simply says, spreading your thighs, pushing them up to your chest. it exposes you perfectly, allowing you to feel shy, yet unable to cover yourself as she studies your twitchy cunt.

arlecchino uses one hand to guide herself through your slick, sensitive folds, gathering the remnants of your orgasm. she is gentle when she slides into you for the first time, a thumb on your stiff, swollen clit to ease the stretch.

she watches your eyebrows furrow, nose crinkling as she stretches you out. "so big-" you whine, chest arching up against her own.

your moans are melodies to her, feeling you flutter around her was like heaven. she lifts you up to sit on her lap while she leans back, guiding you to slowly take more of her in.

"too much!" you whine, looking down.

"you haven't taken all of me yet." she hushes you, easing you down to swallow her all in your pussy until you're mewling incoherently.

"full-" your head falls back and she grabs your hips, her nails leaving sharp little indents as she guides you to shallowly fuck yourself on her cock.

"such a pretty little thing." she coos, slowly growing more harsh, grinding up into you.

and, oh, you sing for her the rougher she gets. you urge her to grow bolder, now using your body as a toy while you desperately try to match her tempo.

you're inexperienced, but oh, so eager to please, aren't you? what a good girl.

she grabs your ass, fucking you on her cock while you keep a vice grip, your tits bouncing with each thrust. "oh- archons!" you squeal.

arlecchino picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, settling you beneath her instead, fucking into you with boundless energy.

she knows the right spots to fuck, where and how to grind herself into a woman, she knows exactly when to speed up and slow down. yet it seems you don't even know your own body fully.

and the thought of helping you explore with her is enough to have her twitching inside of you.

your incessant mewling and moaning of her name is driving her mad for you. her hand wraps around your throat, earning her breathless gasps as she urges you to cum for her.

"be a good little pet and cum." she orders, slick sounds penetrating the air, the smell of sex coating you both. "cum for me."

she rubs your clit harshly, watching you shake as you do cum, tightening up around her cock, sending her eyes rolling back into her head.

the moment you loosen up, she pulls out, cumming onto your tummy, creating a filthy mess as she moans deeply for you.

"fuck..." she sighs, squeezing her cock to ease the rest of her cum onto your skin.

you pant, looking up at her. your eyes are blown wide, but you look exhausted as you lay limply beneath her.

and, well, you'll soon learn her cock may need time to recover, but her mouth and fingers certainly don't...

[submalevolentgrace]

Hi! I'm very interested in attempting to write a disabled character (not for this blog, I assure, for an book I'm writing) in which the story doesn't fetishize/objectify her prosthetic limb. I'm in many writing circles and have been for a long while, but I've never seen this issue brought to light which I realise is a very important one. I have much to change in my thought process, and thank you for bringing this issue to attention.

I'm curious, and I apologise if this has been asked before, but what sort of design could you see for a functional prosthetic that doesn't go for a plainly aesthetic appearance, or is soully to please others? I do note that you said prosthetics are generally... not that helpful. So is there a way that it could be? Or do you think it would always generally be better to not use a prosthetic, as its mostly for aesthetic purposes, as you said?

I apologise if this ask is too outright or anything, and I don't mean to intrude. Thank you for your time and have a beautiful day!

okay, i want to answer this as in depth as possible, because whenever i talk about having a prosthesis, someone will always tag some variation of "#writing reference" and i do wonder what message they're taking away, and i want to get as much of my experience out as possible to maybe help shape how this is all portrayed in the future. and yeah… this is gonna be one of those rambly smg posts that the expand feature was invented for, so i'll start with the very abridged TL;DR:

if you're writing a character with an upper limb prosthesis; don't. arm amputees are unicorn level rare even compared to leg amputees, and i've never interacted with or even heard of an upper limb amputee that regularly uses a prosthesis, let alone relies on one. fiction has lied to you for the sake of cool aesthetics, don't repeat the cycle. more in depth writing advice including nuance and "but i waaaant to" will follow.

that said, grab your donning parachute and let's get started...

context for everyone involved: i am an upper limb amputee that rants a lot about how prostheses suck, i lost my right hand roughly five years ago at roughly the age of 30 after a very rough decline in health… it was pretty rough. this question is being asked in the context of a previous rant post of mine, and i checked that the ask is about an upper limb prosthesis in particular.

the situation regarding the usefulness of lower limb prostheses is totally different; i am definitely no expert, but by all accounts, prosthetic legs are incredibly useful for many people. getting a good leg can be absolutely life changing and more or less necessary for day to day life for some; mostly because infrastructure and society is just so fucking hostile to wheelchair users. being able to walk - at the cost of pressure sores and rashes and increased residual limb pain - is a preferable option to many people than being unable to fit through a doorway or in a bathroom stall or find out that the key to unlock the only elevator is in the admin office up three flights of stairs (true story).

but upper limb prostheses… see, the thing is, hands are incredibly complex organs that rely on a lot of immediate haptic feedback to work at all. hand dexterity is all about control, you need fine granular movements of the digits yes, but you also need the subtle sensations of pressure and proprioception in order to adjust your movements on the fly. i speak from experience, in the years leading up to the full loss of my hand, i was slowly losing function of it, usually swinging between numbness that made it clumsy at best, or screaming overstimulation from moving it at all resulting in unpredictable spasms… and let me tell you, a half working hand is infuriating to try and deal with. you can never know if you have a good grip on something or if it's slipping because of the wrong amount of pressure, and there's only so many smashed bottles of pickles on the floor before you give up using it all together… so amputation wasn't a great loss there, i had time to adapt.

a prosthetic hand of any kind has all of those issues and more. they're heavy and bulky, the cosmetic faux fingers or gripping claw have crude movement at best, and there's zero feedback (put a pin in this). 100% of the time you're using a prosthetic hand you have to keep your eyes on the grip and visually guesstimate whether or not the thing you're carrying is held tight enough but not too tight, that is if your "heavy duty" prosthesis can even support the weight without the servos disengaging or the wrist attachment socket just busting loose. i dropped a whippersnipper on my foot last week when my socket couldn't take the weight and i think that was the final straw in me desperately trying to prove to myself that there is a single task my prosthesis actually helps with.

this is usually where fully two handed people start talking about bleeding edge DARPA tech, and how we just need to invest more,research more, develop more. better tech, more tech, neural integration, more more more. okay i promise the writing advice is coming! for starters on tech, my experience is already with a mid-to-high end ottobock terminal device: i've got a myoelectric nerve-signal operated proportional control heavy duty greifer; about the only upgrade left for me to get would be a rotating wrist joint if i could coflex. it's not military, it's not "rockclimber that owns a prosthetic company", but it's quality tech. it still fucking sucks. secondly, that high level military tech exists primary for PR purposes so they can say they treat their discarded casualties well, "we can rebuild him, we have the technology" style. every war vet i've read about or heard from that's been gifted that high level tech also abandons it for the same reasons; it's imprecise, there's no feedback (or the haptic interface has to be fully recalibrated every time they put it on), but mostly they're more capable without one.

okay, the transhumanist ableds say (i should know, i used to be one), what if we did more ~research and development~ and got that neural feedback working? then we could have fireproof superhumanly strong robot arms to fix up everyone! here's where i take out that pin we put up before and i tell you that a class of prosthetic arms/hands already exists that has perfect proportional control, fine motor control, and physics perfect pressure feedback piped directly into the patients' existing sensory systems! they're called body-powered prostheses, and they were invented in like the 1600s. you strap a whole bunch of stuff to your arm and shoulders shoulders, and control the operation of the terminal device and elbow through cable tension by flexing your shoulders. they do take a considerable amount of training to operate - though hell i spent 18 months training to use my myo - but based on everything i've read, body-powered prostheses are the best option if you're an upper limb amputee and absolutely need a second hand for some reason.

but they don't look cool and futuristic, and according to my prosthetist, most people give up on using them too. we all give up on our prostheses, no matter the type. my rehab OT was impressed i lasted the 18 months of my training. towards the end, they even asked if the clinic director could drop in to one of my sessions to see my progress; he expressed genuine amazement at me casually using my bulky robot claw to use a brush and dustpan, and made an offhanded (hah) comment about what someone can achieve "if they stick it out to the end", implying it was somewhat of a rarity for me to have done so. several years on, and yesterday i wedged the dustpan between my ankles to sweep up into it, awkward but exponentially less effort than putting my dusty robot arm on. which, by the way, is a whole thing. look up some videos, they're all awful to don. i don't actually know the official technical name of what my clinic calls a "parachute" but it's a bitch to use! have you ever tried to pull back with your arm whilst also pushing it forwards at the same time, and simultaneously lean in to and away from an external force pulling on you? that's how you get a myo socket on.

bare with me, i promise writing advice is coming, and i promise it's more than the tl;dr. but. remember when i said a half working hand is infuriating to deal with? any prosthesis, from fancy myo tech to pirate-era body powered, will only ever be half as good as a working hand, and being juuuust within capability to do something but not quite able to is maddening! but you know what works way better than a half working hand? no hand at all. using whatever residual/vestigial limb you have - whatever "stump" you have, i hate that word - is pretty much always better than trying to use a prosthesis. i can use the inside of my elbow to grip and carry things, i can use the nub of my arm to apply pressure to hold things, open doors, use a computer mouse, turn on taps and lights, if i put a glove over it i can use it to prep for cooking. i have full proprioception and pressure feedback with skin contact, i don't think i've ever dropped and broken anything from my elbow, unlike countless things slipped from my greifer - which, by the way, absolutely will start clenching as tight as it can if i get even slightly too sweaty around the electrodes, which has both broken things i'm holding and also injured me, because surprise surprise but servo operated robot claws have pinch points on them right near the "emergency disengage" lever for some reason!

but i am exponentially more capable without it on than with it. no, i'm not fully independent, i rely on housemates and loved ones to help me out with some tasks that simply just need two handed dexterity, but none of those tasks are things a prosthesis makes me able to do anyway. i used to imagine my prosthesis would be like a bra; a bit awkward and uncomfortable, but i'd wear it throughout the day because it's helpful and take it off in the evening to decompress. in reality it's actually exactly like a bra: an absolute bitch to put on one handed, unbearably uncomfortable because it never sits right, ugly af unless you're a millionaire, and absolutely useless except for the fact that i get gawked at and judged by strangers if i leave the house without it on.

and if you really want to discover how far "no hand is better than a half working hand" goes, brace yourself, and look up the patient's stories (not medical system stories) of people that have had hand transplants. the first man to receive one hated it, he was promised a return to normal function, and what he got was a nightmare worse than being one handed; he wanted it removed again but the doctors refused because it would undermine their grand achievement of the first hand transplant. the doctors and society wanted him to be fixed, they wanted him to be normal, they wanted him to be abled. they failed. they made him less able to do things, denied his autonomy, and left him with someone else's hand slowly rotting on him, prioritising the idea of "scientific progress" and "two hands good" over the physical health, mental health, and ability to function of this man.

he's not alone; every story from the patients' perspective about hand transplants that i've read goes this way, including a woman who was born quad limb different and was promised hands would improve her life, pressured into a double hand transplant, only to find herself after the surgery essentially experiencing disability for the first time ever, because she had lived her whole life getting by just fine with her 'underdeveloped' limbs, but half working hands are worse than useless. you can try to find these stories yourself, but i'm not going looking for sources on any of these cases, because if you look back through enough of my posts you'll get a glimpse of the horrors and abuses that i too was put through by doctors who prioritised trying to "fix" me at any cost, rather than providing me the best quality of life, and in turn traumatised me and left me more broken than any loss of limb on its own could. dear goddess, i promise the writing advice is coming.

so. why do upper limb prostheses exist at all? if they're so terrible and useless, what is their function? i want to borrow something someone else left in the tags of a previous rant here, from someone who i believe works in prosthetics and/or rehab, cleaned up and anonymised at their request:

"upper limb functions are wildly more complex than: 1) bear weight static, and 2) bear weight moving. but every single upper limb amputee i know has a fancy expensive prosthetic just gathering dust in the closet because there is literally nothing it can do like a few years of adjustment and if needed non-dominant hand retraining can't do. the existence of forquarter prosthetics to begin with is just kind of silly and useless and entirely to make OTHER people feel comfortable, especially considering they universally are UNcomfortable for the amputee. i hate the notion that as soon as you get the amputation the prosthetic is The Thing That Will Fix You And Make You Feel Normal again because it universally isn't! but every forequarter person i know had like this ideal of Being Fixed By Magic Prosthetic that they were then obviously wildly disappointed by and had to do yet another grieving process with, versus if the dominant narrative were just one of: yeah. it'll take time, there is no magic fix."

and i think that really nails down what the actual purpose of upper limb prostheses is: they're not for the user, they're for the sake of other people. and not just their comfort when looking at our bodies, although based on the pressure for both amputees and people born limb different to get functionless cosmetic plastic hands, there is a lot of that. but it's not just that.

i fully believe that the reason prosthetic hands exists is to comfort the fears of the two handed. "don't worry", they say, "we can fix you again. you don't have to fear becoming Disabled, you don't have to worry about adapting or your life changing. we can make you Normal™ again."

you would not believe the number of people that have approached me to shower me with pity, to tell me how horrific my life is, how they can't imagine it. people have told me, apropos of nothing, that they'd kill themselves if they lost a hand. indirectly, that my life isn't worth living. unless, of course, i happen to be wearing my cool as fuck looking robot prosthesis! then they tell me how wonderful it is, how lucky i am, how glad they are that we have the technology to fix me. that's what a prosthetic hand says, what all the happy fishing photos on limbs4life posters at the rehab clinic say: don't worry, we can fix you. that's what the bleeding edge DARPA flexi-whatever fully articulated neuro-feedback hands say: don't worry if you get IED'd while hunting civilians for us to drone bomb, if you get hurt, we will fix you, we will fix the fuck out of you, we will motherfucking adam jensen you into a cool as fuck cyborg that your son will idolise; come on boys, don't you wanna enlist just for the chance at being as cool as this? join the bomb squad for a ticket to the upgrade lottery.

and so we arrive at fiction. as much as his dialogue options protest, adam jensen loves his robot arms, they punch through walls, turn into fucking swords! they make him the most special man in the world. what would he do without them? learn to cope? grieve? practice acceptance? take up poetry? just, be disabled? there's no power fantasy for ableds in that.

in fact, can you think of a single fictional character that's an upper limb amputee that's, well, just an amputee? they all have robot arms. not realistic prostheses, not medical devices; robot arms. sleek or bulky, top of the line or broken down self built, steampunk or nanomachines or magitech automail; they're never without them. never just an amputee. never born limb different either! there's always that element of tragedy to overcome, always suffering and misery porn, always focus on the pain and the helplessness without the absolutely vital robot arm that makes them Normal and Whole. the closest amputee example i can think of is furiosa from mad max, who iirc fucking punches max in the face with her residual limb like a motherfucking badass! i can barely lean on mine wrong and she punches a guy! but she still apparently needs a dieselpunk robot hand to drive a truck, something you can do one handed so easily most drivers don't even notice they're doing it! please don't, by the way

and so many disabled fans love to point to robot armed characters as disability representation; the winter soldier, luke skywalker, edward elric, misty knight, that genderswapped furry girl from ratchet and clank, jet cowboybebop, finn the human, and yes, adam jensen…. these are all characters that someone disabled i know has told me they love because they "represent disabled bodies"…. and i know nobody wants to hear this, because i've been screamed at for saying it before, but… they do not. they are not disabled, functionally or within fiction. they are either perfectly able bodied Normal people with chrome paint on an arm, or tortured misery porn we are supposed to pity and feel lucky we're not them. sometimes both!

also you ever notice how it's basically always arms? lower limb amputations are orders of magnitude more common than upper, my prosthetist said i was probably only the 4th or 5th upper limb she'd worked with in her career, with literally hundreds of lower limb fits. but fiction doesn't seem to reflect that, huh? or any other part of the reality of disability. it's always cool as fuck robot arms, never cool as fuck wheelchairs or crutches or dialysis machines or colostomy bags. a fair few "i was blind but now i can see with Robot Eyes and also infrared and xray" around, which again, plays into that "we can fix you and make you cooler" propaganda.

by the way, up above when i was describing body powered arms, if you wondered to yourself why i went with a myoelectric one instead when i clearly believe body powered is better… yeah. i am not immune to propaganda! i too wanted to be cool as fuck. i spent years with deteriorating function in my hand for reasons that are still unknown, was misdiagnosed and medically neglected to the point that removing my hand seemed to be the only option left to offer some relief, and even that was a clusterfuck that left me worse than ever… of course i wanted to believe in the power and prestige of a cool robot arm that fiction promised me.

but fiction promises fantastical lies. and so.

we get to the writing advice portion of the novella that is this post. you asked for advice on how to write a disabled character with an upper limb prosthesis. you've read the tl;dr, you've read everything above i assume, you know i don't want you to do it. the obvious twist is that it's been writing advice all along, me trying to share my perspective on what it's like being an amp with a robot arm and how shitty it is, implying how almost any fully realised and realistic character that's missing an upper limb would give up on a prosthesis at all. you can already tell that every value judgement in me says "don't give her a prosthesis, no matter how functional or cool you make it. don't try to make the tech better to justify it, just let her be one armed, one handed. just let her be disabled, but not helpless. let her show off her elbow or underarm carry strength. let her love interest appreciate how soft and squishy her residual limb is in a moment of tenderness. let her natural disabled body be respected and valued."

but that's a personal value judgement from me, and you are the author of your own work. i know it's trite to say, but you are! even the act of deferring to someone with lived experience in the hope of doing a better job at representation is a value judgement, a good choice in my opinion, but one you needn't necessarily take. maybe you do want to write a character that has a cool as fuck unrealistic robot arm as a power fantasy, or a comfort blanket… i did.

i've been slowly writing my own probably terrible scifi epic for over a decade now, and when my arm was giving me hell back then, i'd take great comfort in this fantasy of my protagonist with her chunky robot arm, the terrible traumatic suffering of her loss, overcoming, the power and ability her advanced prosthesis gives her over others, that she alone has access to, because others are not willing to make the sacrifices required. inspiration porn. awful stuff to me now, but empowering to me then. as i grew and gained direct experience, i slowly reimagined her, rewrote her, ship of theseus'd her into an entirely new character; a reflection of me now, bitter at the whole thing, spiteful that her natural flesh arm evokes fear and distrust, but unwilling to suffer the pain and frustration of her unnatural prosthesis just to make others comfortable and respect her as "whole", however artificial that whole is. and as with the ship of theseus being two ships, once i realised the transformation, i re-added the old protagonist back in whole cloth as a separate character; proud of her robot arm and its power, but in new context, as a foil and antagonist, an in-universe military prosthesis propaganda figure to reflect how i now feel characters like her exist to us, the readers.

i'm not just sharing that as egotistical self promotion, but to highlight that, even if i sit here begging you all up and down not to write characters with robot arms for how bad and unrealistic they are; there's still something genuine and true that their inclusion can say. the great thing about the story that you're writing is that only you can write it, as they say. but i whole heartedly believe that to write to your best, you have to be aware of what you're writing and why. as tempting as it is to feel these characters form naturally in us and therefore we're averse to changing traits about them that feel organic and self evident; as authors we have omnipotent control over the text, every trait and detail is a reflection on us, so we'd sure as hell better understand why we're choosing to write a character with this trait. because anything you write without being aware of intent will take on its own meaning in the space between.

and on that note, if i don't say this, i'm leaving it to be inferred: i definitely don't want to appear to come down on the side of saying "you cannot write an amputee unless you are one", because we are rarer than single young bisexual unicorns! and it would be a tragedy if anyone read through all this and then turned away in fear, deciding to never write an amputee character (with or without robot arm) because they feel they can't do it justice… believe me, no matter what anyone says, some hack writer somewhere is going to keep writing adam jensens and winter soldiers. don't let them be the only voices in fiction! just try to do your best.

so my ultimate advice on the topic of writing a character with a prosthetic limb is to ask yourself one question in two different frameworks, and meditate on what you feel the answer is:

why does she have a prosthesis?

from a doylelist perspective as the kids say, as an author with omnipotent control, why are you choosing to write about this topic? why are you choosing to give this trait to this character? what does it say about how you view ability and disability, what makes a person normal, and what our society values? will you let her be in her natural body? or will you give her a prosthesis, force her to wear it by authorial fiat, or author her a meaningful reason to choose to? if yes, be sure you know; why did you give her a prosthesis?

and from a wastonian perspective, diegetically, inside the story, why does she choose to wear a prosthesis? what does it say about her inner character, and how she interacts with the world? how does she feel about doing it, is she prideful and loves the attention she gets, or does she resent whatever necessitates its use? how do people in this world view ability and disability, what does this society value? and above all, whatever the answer to these questions, whether or not she uses a prosthesis or is badass without one, how does she deal with the eternal freezing cold that every amputee ever feels constantly in their residual limb and why does nobody make a heat pack that fits over a nub without drafty gaps???

i can't outright tell you how to write a good upper limb amputee, but if you at least know why you're writing one and for what purpose, you're on track to write the best character that you can. that's the best advice i can give… other than, like, this whole rambly mess.

and, as a reward for reading this far, please have a very blurry cryptid photo of my cat doing his old man sit:

[royboyfanpage]

Do it. Ramble. I adore when people go in depth in the tags. It’s my absolute favorite thing and I read them all happily 💕💕💕💕💕

Ah fuck lads I've been perceived

Right okay no Roy and Connor's 90s dynamic is one of my favourite things ever (currently writing a brothers fic about that exact period) and it's so underdeveloped but there's SO MUCH potential for it. Both of them have this need to be Ollie's son in a way that neither of them can be. Roy's the most vocal about his feelings especially in the scene you posted, and there are so many instances in other comics where you can see his need to be Ollie's son, or his need for the approval of a dead man. When Roy was a kid, before he ever met Ollie, he used to imagine Ollie was his real dad, and his greatest desire is Ollie offering him his legacy, even if he knew he'd turn it down. And to Roy, Connor's everything Roy wants to be. Ollie IS his "real" dad, and Connor DID get Ollie's legacy after Ollie died, but what's so interesting is that Connor doesn't feel the satisfaction Roy thinks he should. Obviously Roy cuts him off so we don't get to actually hear his thoughts, but it's clear that biology doesn't mean anything to Connor. In his eyes, Roy is Ollie's "real" son, Roy got everything Connor wanted- a father who was actually present in his life. Connor only knew Ollie for a very short while before his death, and most of that Ollie wasn't even aware that Connor was his son. I don't know if you've read the issue where Ollie confronts Connor about not telling him he's his son, I believe it's Green Arrow (1988) #97, but needless to say he did NOT react well. (Which I am blaming Chuck Dixon for more than Ollie himself, but I digress, it's still what happened.) And in the Arsenal #3 Roy points out that Connor's a better martial artist than he is an archer which is SO important to me in relation to this, because unlike Roy Connor didn't grow up around Ollie, he wasn't really trained by Ollie, so his fighting style is different but he's still aiming for that Ollieness because he feels like he needs to in order to continue the legacy of a father he never knew and. Good god. Have I ever mentioned I love these brothers? Okay I'm done now

[steviewashere]

🪱🪱Worm Wednesday!!!!!🪱🪱

I was tagged by the lovely @hotluncheddie! Hello, I'm sorry for the rambling mess this is going to be. But I know I missed this like two weeks ago, so bear with me.

Okay, I'm going to try and be normal here. I have, honestly, so many worms in my brain. They're dancing and stomping and I'm just going fucking nuts with how much is in my brain at the moment. And also I took excedrin this morning for my migraine and that had caffeine in it and it's more caffeine than I would normally have—anyway.

Y'all already know one of my brain worms, the whole omega verse sensitive nips omega Steve thing. Which, I will plug the post here because I don't have the energy (yes, I do, but I don't want to echo myself) to share all the craziness about that in one post.

I'm also thinking about young Steve Harrington, which is kudos to this post and lots of people's tweets over on the twitter. I won't go into it, same reasons as the omega verse thing so just...again, bear with me.

But! But the actual brain worms I'm having currently, in this very moment, also have to do with another post I made on here. I want to go more in-depth with, though. So, some days ago, I came across an Instagram Reel that was a clip from the YouTube video interview between Jon Bernthal and Dungeon Master Deborah Ann Woll.

So, brief brief summary of this video is basically: Jon Bernthal says that he wants to play D&D, Deborah Ann Woll then gives him a scenario of walking through the woods and while he's walking he hears snap of twigs, and then she basically prompts him with "What do you do?" And he responds, now I can't remember exactly what he says, but I believe it had something to do with investigating the source of the snapped twigs.

Anyway, the video is excellent and you all should check it out. She basically explains D&D in a way that would make sense to anybody, in the matters of asking a player or a potential player what they'd do in certain scenarios, then bringing in the "rougher" elements such as the History checks or Perception checks in the game.

And I want to write something along the lines of Steve approaching Eddie about D&D. Maybe he wants to play because Dustin keeps bugging him about it, but he's too nervous to accept. Maybe he just wants to know what it's like. Maybe he even wants to be a substitute player one of these days just in case somebody can't show up. Something, y'know, where he's approaching Eddie. But he's really, really confused about where to even begin. He's got a character sheet, he's looking at the manuals loaned to him or he even bought himself, he's looking at all these stats and all these options and he just doesn't know where to begin.

Also, brief intervene here, I would be basing this off of 5e rules because that's what I play and frequently toy with. So...don't be mad at me if I get something "inaccurate for the time". I, first of all, honestly don't care. And second, I was not alive in like 1977 when the game first came out. And there's nobody in my life who played it then or possibly has played it ever outside of 5e. Moving on.

So, he tries to explain his character sheet to Eddie, obviously getting a bit overwhelmed in the process. But Eddie stops him. Says something like, "Hold on, okay? Let's just take a baby step here. I'm going to give you a scenario and then I want you to tell me what you'd do."

And he lays out that same, or even just something similar, to what Deborah Ann Woll gave. (I'm going to base this off of the video. Very original, I am.) So it's something like:

"Okay, you've got a small dagger attached to your belt, it's concealed within a hilt. And on your back, there's a bow and a quiver—or a pouch—of arrows. You're walking through the woods. It's dark, heavy clouds hanging overhead, moon obstructed, you can barely see your surroundings. There's leaves under your feet, gravel, sticks. But then, before you can step your foot down next, something crunches in the distance on your left. What do you do?"

There's a pause. A long moment where Steve is considering his options.

"It's a far away sound, right?" Steve checks and Eddie nods. There's a little hmph from Steve as he continues to think. "Can I tell how far away it is? Is there a way to distinct the length of it?"

Eddie maybe smirks, eyes already glowing. "Give a perception check." And at Steve's befuddled expression, leaning in and brows furrowed, Eddie continues on. "So, you're going to roll one of those dice that you always see the kids with. The D20, that's the one you'd use right now. 20 is the highest you can get"—

"The best I can get. And 1 is obviously the lowest, so the worst."

"Right! So...let's say you were to pick up a D20 right now and roll it. You get a...a fourteen. And your perception, one of those skills on the top of your paper"—and Eddie would grab Steve's character sheet, to point out the number he already placed there—"this one right here. And on your paper, it looks to be pretty high. A sixteen is what you have. So...I'm going to ask you to add three more to your dice roll."

Steve squints at the paper. He doesn't take long to do the math, muttering a little under his breath. "Okay...I'd have a seventeen for my perception check." And he looks up to Eddie for confirmation, in which he gets. "And if it's possible out of twenty...that means I can probably figure it out well, right?"

Eddie nods with a smug hum. "You're already a natural." He leans back a little from Steve. Eyes away in thought. Goes on, "So, I'll know right away, based on that number you give me that you're extremely perceptive. I tell you...okay, the sound you hear is roughly ten feet away on your left."

"That's really close," Steve murmurs. "I think I'll...I'll ready that bow on my back. Take it off, grab for one of my arrows. Poise it."

"Mmm...And as soon as you get your bow in the right position, you begin to make out what seems like a pair of eyes. From the darkness between the trees, those eyes emerge closer and closer, revealing the large figure of a sixteen foot owlbear. Its feathers are spread wide, splaying defensively. Eyes glowing, it seems, yellow and bright. The body girth of a bear, but the head and mannerisms of an owl. It trills and squawks in your face. What do you do?"

Anyway, it would go from there. Tried to figure out a monster that wasn't an owlbear because that's what was used in the video. But uh...my brain is not being original right now, so that's basically the whole example from the video. But I just adore that video so much, the simple, yet impactful way she taught the basics. And I think it could translate so well to Eddie and Steve messing with D&D together.

Sorry for a long ass post lmao

Tagging (no pressure): @puppy-steve @scoops-aboy86 @ataliagold @marvel-ous-m @pearynice

@wheneverfeasible @rogueddie @sidekick-hero

[general-cyno]

I sort of rambled about this in the tags of a post, but I wanted to make a proper one myself since I find it very fascinating (law backstory flashback you will always be famous). so one of my favorite scenes is this one:

it is a very meaningful moment for these two, a very clear turning point to their dynamic at that time, and it's made even clearer by how law starts referring to rocinante as cora-san afterwards.

now, there are several instances throughout dressrosa arc where the similarities between doflamingo and law are mentioned, with the former going as far as to call them both birds of a feather. and as it's shown in the flashbacks, reading about flevance was enough to trigger doflamingo's traumatizing memories of his and rocinante's childhood, which seems to motivate him to bring law into the family. the way law seeks to lash out at everything then is reminiscent of doflamingo's own worldview and experiences, at least from his pov:

rocinante noticed those similarities as well and though he tried to (questionably) discourage all kids from joining the DQ pirates by scaring them away, law's case in particular prompted him to bring up the topic with sengoku at some point, as seen during sengoku's conversation with law.

sengoku repeats what everyone says about the amber lead disease, that it's incurable, and warns rocinante not to favor law much for it could jeopardize his mission. whether rocinante's agreement here was reluctant or not ig is up to each reader but learning of law's real/full name (his relation to the D clan) reignites his initial worries and some more, considering the historic opposition/threat the D represents wrt celestial dragons and how this could endanger him if doflamingo were to find out.

so there's even bigger reasons for rocinante to not want law to become doflamingo 2.0. though as he later admits amidst his drunken speech, the will of D no longer matters to him when it comes to saving law, as rocinante's journey to cure his disease ends up making him feel genuine sympathy for law beyond that. he's forced to witness first hand how much discrimination and dehumanization law's subjected to time and time again, because of his disease and ties to flevance. before all this, law's mentioned his imminent death more than a few times and does it after too. and during the first disastrous hospital visit, he tells rocinante: see? I'm not even human anymore!

which brings me to this bit of dialogue:

for all of law's similarities and/or parallels to doflamingo, it's worth noting that rocinante experienced the same things his brother did and due to his younger age probably understood even less of what was happening or why they were being targeted in the first place. compared to doflamingo, rocinante also has way less dialogue in their backstory but one he does have is this:

this happens in the part where rocinante, doflamingo and their father are strung up on a wall and shot at with arrows. the villagers all express their anger, grief, the violence and suffering they've gone through because of celestial dragons like the donquixotes. albeit different in nature, along with doflamingo, rocinante experienced a kind of dehumanization as well.

so, again: for all that law might resemble doflamingo the most, I do wonder... how much of himself did rocinante see in law, though subconsciously? a kid who lost his family, subjected to the kind of violence that led him to resign himself to death (seek it, even) and was treated by others as inhuman because of circumstances out of his control? it might've not been what rocinante believed to be his own motivations to help law, likely never actually saw or realized the similarities they shared, but imo it adds some more depth to his kindness and sympathy towards law.

this also marks a stark difference between the donquixote brothers. whereas doflamingo got caught up in a very vicious cycle (which traces back to the existence of celestial dragons as a whole and was further enabled by others like trebol) that he planned to continue with law, rocinante was able to see past law's rage and acknowledge the pain beneath. after all, rocinante knows too what it's like to be hurt by others who've been terribly hurt first and became someone who wasn't exactly keen on returning the sentiment, unlike doflamingo, regardless of whether it was in his nature to be so or if it's something that was nurtured as he grew up. that's not to say rocinante was an endlessly kind saint (he had his own biased views) or that he wasn't capable of violence (he did beat up all those medical staff and burn down hospitals for example), but those incidents weren't caused by a sense of entitlement on his part or such. he didn't blame law for stabbing him or in general for seeking revenge against the world, ultimately chose to protect and save him instead - which, indeed, changed law's life. as law presently insists, he owes cora not just that very life but his heart as well.

lastly - law himself might not disagree with doflamingo insisting they're of the same sort, but law is also the kid who couldn't fathom leaving his dying little sister behind. who softened and lowered his guard after receiving genuine kindness/love/sympathy for the first time in years. who saved a little mink and risked his own neck later on to save a boy who'd just lost his brother in the worst way possible. who didn't even consider putting his crew in danger when he knew (and expected) he might die and his whole revenge plan against doflamingo was rooted in love and grief to begin with, the same upon which the foundation of his crew was built and is a tribute to. last we saw of him, law orders bepo to go back in winner island because can't leave the crew behind, etc etc, so there's that too. how much of it is law's own nature and personality? how much is due to the impact cora had on him? both? would've doflamingo turned out differently or made different choices if his parents had tried harder to school him out of those CD views or if he'd had more positive influences aside from them, instead of the people he ended up surrounded by? would he have become the same kind of person he is rn no matter what? interesting stuff to think about.

[cosmal]

𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 — 𝐒𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤

day five of my christmas drabble advent calendar

summary — sirius is your secret santa.

warnings/tags — fem!reader, she/her

note — i literally know nothing about walkmans im sorry.

Sirius, in a best-friend-only sort of way, spends an entire week looking for your secret santa gift.

Not because he has zero clue about what to get — after the stars had aligned and he pulled your name from Remus’s beanie, his mind has been plagued with ideas about gifts for you.

There’s one gift he’s set on. He has been since you mentioned you wanted it a month ago. It was a quick, but in depth conversation. But he remembered.

He remembers you sitting upside down on his bed, rambling about some special edition walkman that had just been released. How it’s really pretty, it has gold trimming around the edge, it’s battery life is longer, something about the audio that Sirius couldn’t understand, and that you’d never have enough money to buy it.

You hadn’t really rambled, you’d spoken about it like you desperately needed it and Sirius had sat there and taken in every word you’d said like it was gospel. That’s how it usually is. You speak, Sirius listens like the lovesick best friend that he is.

Now, sat in a circle with his friends, Sirius feels like he could throw up. Lily, the lovely friend that she is, has dealt out everyone’s presents and it’s about to be your turn. He hasn’t even looked at the red box in his lap. He would, if he could take his eyes off of you.

After James stops beaming about the gift that Remus had bought him (you all know that you’re not supposed to say who bought what, but half of you can’t keep your mouths shut) it’s your turn to open yours.

Everyone has their eyes on you. He can tell you’re hating it, you keep touching your hot cheeks and you’re rambling some stupid joke about the wrapping job. He thinks it’s well deserved, Sirius wrapped and re-wrapped that present ten times over.

“Godric, Y/N, just rip it!” James groans, ever the impatient one.

“The paper’s too pretty,” you explain, doing your best at keeping it intact.

It is pretty. Sirius had also spent a stupid amount of time picking it out.

Once you finally get it open, and you can actually see the label, Sirius doesn’t think he’s ever seen your face look so bright. You look down at the present, then up at him, back at the present. You get up from your spot and Sirius thinks you might be upset.

You walk towards him, then in his nervous mind, he thinks you might hit him for whatever reason. Instead, you tackle him into the couch. Arms wrapped around his neck, knees pressed into his thighs. Sirius laughs madly.

“Thank you,” you murmur into his hair. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” You sound like you might cry. He would hate that. Or love it. He’s really proud of himself for not fucking up.

Sirius let’s himself bathe in your affection. He selfishly lets his hands rub up and down the length of your back. “It’s okay,” he says, all quiet and entirely too dazed.

You pull back and Sirius misses the heat of your mouth against his neck. The sound of your little excited gasp. You look so happy but also like you’re trying to hold it back. He feels the exact same way but for a completely different reason.

You let yourself climb off of him, apologising if you hurt him in your elated tackle.

“You didn’t,” he smiles. Then, because he’s dizzy off of your happiness, he lets himself say, “I quite liked it actually.” You smile into the back of your hand.

He’s too pleased when you don’t go back to your spot and decide to settle down next to him. The heat of your thigh against his is maddening, the urge to let his hand fall on top of it is worse.

Everyone falls back into chatter, watching Remus unwrap his present next. You can’t keep your eyes off the present in your lap. Sirius can’t keep his eyes off of you.

Once everyone has opened their presents and it’s just the two of you left in the loungeroom, Sirius sits and watches you fiddle with the walkman. After it had taken you ten minutes to actually want to open it up. You’d sat there and read the box over and over, smiling so hard Sirius had to bite his lip.

“Pass me the tape?” you ask, opening the player up. Clicking and pressing buttons.

He hands you the cassette, a well worn one that you’ve listened to more times than your own voice, and you slide it into place, snapping it shut.

You fiddle with the ear buds and hand him the left one with a small smile, “We should share the first song.”

Sirius takes it and places it in his ear. You let your head fall against his shoulder as the first track starts to play. Your head is a grounding weight he needs to feel. He feels like he’s floating.

After the song finishes, he asks, “How’d you know it was me?”

Before the track can change, you reply, “Because no one listens to me like you do.”

It’s half true. He knows your friends listen to everything you say. He also knows that he can recite every minute detail about you if given the chance. He knows you better than he knows himself. He’s more than okay with that.

“Right,” he smiles. He likes knowing that you think that too.

“Thank you, Sirius. Really,” you say. The song is loud in his ear but he has no troubles drowning it out to listen to you.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.”

You turn you head so your mouth his pressed into his shoulder and you kiss him there gently. Over the cotton of his t-shirt.

He thinks it could be the start of something more. If he’s lucky.

[vgtrackbracket]

Video Game Track Bracket Round 4

The Ultimate Show from Super Paper Mario

vs.

The Days When My Mother Was There from Persona 5

Propaganda under the cut. If you want your propaganda reblogged and added to future polls, please tag it as propaganda or otherwise indicate this!

Note: The propaganda contains spoilers for Persona 5.

The Ultimate Show:

HOW COULD I LOSE WITH THE POWER OF LUIGI?? Jokes aside this is a VERY fitting final battle theme for an AMAZING game. Seriously if you haven't played this game do it now!!!!

the best thing in the game and it's not even close. and super paper mario is one of my favorite games ever.

The Days When My Mother Was There:

GUT. PUNCH.

Warning!! Heavy spoilers for Persona 5!!! Mentions of death and suicide! OKAY. I'm going to try to word this as best as I can in my Very Tired state. The reason why this song hits so hard for Persona fans (or, at least people who've played Persona 5) is because The Days When My Mother Was There plays in Futaba's Palace, which was created because of the psychological trauma and repressed memories caused after her mother's death (the government made a false suicide note that blamed her as the reason her mom died). She became a hermit (or in Japanese terms, a Hikikomori) and blamed herself to the point where she believed that the house she lived in (the same house our guardian, Sojiro Sakura, lives and takes care of her in) would be her tomb. Instead of fighting Futaba's Shadow, Futaba's Shadow causes her to awaken to her Persona (I feel it's important to say the Futaba asked for us to steal her heart, and Futaba's Shadow kind of helped us as we went through her Palace), and we fight Futaba's cognition of her mother, which is angry and constantly blames Futaba for her death, even though it wasn't her fault. This ENTIRE Palace hits differently than the other Palaces we'd seen so far, considering the other Palaces had been made by adults who prey on the weak. Futaba blamed herself for something she didn't do so badly she created a Palace. Futaba's Palace is filled with grief, melancholy, and feelings of self-hate and desperation for some sort of end, and The Days When My Mother Was There fits the Palace wonderfully, hitting those same feelings spot on. Persona 5 fans can't help but feel sad every time they hear this song. I have to stop this ramble before I say too much and accidentally spoil the entire game myself but if you want to learn more about Futaba or her Palace I PROMISE there are so many in-depth videos that psychoanalyze her and the other Persona 5 characters but I will leave this video because it explains her character in Japanese Context (which is VERY different when applying context from other places):

This video DOES spoil the game so don't watch if you don't want to be spoiled further.