#not that i don’t try. i make an effort. but it isn’t me. it’s not you. we aren’t the ones that are failing the planet

[not-soap73]

nsfw/smut oneshot drabble, time-skip!

(I could go on and on about him)

nerd!armin who is a pleaser. Wanting nothing but to watch you crumble from the pleasure he gives you. Who studies your body like it’s his most important assignment. Memorizing every gasp, every shiver, every place that makes your breath catch and arch for more. He gets off on your reactions more than anything else. His eyes would be glazed, biting down on his bottom lip as he watches in awe.

He is clinical in how thorough he is. Except there’s nothing detached about the way his hands tremble when he touches you, nothing academic about the desperate way he begs to hear you moan his name just one more time. And when you do? He melts. Absolutely ruins himself on the sound.

nerd!armin who is filthy with his words. Don’t let the soft voice or flushed cheeks fool you—once he’s got you spread out for him, it’s like a switch flips. He leans in close, glasses slipping down his nose, whispering filth in that breathy voice like he’s been rehearsing it in his head all day:

"Look at you.” He murmurs, fingers trailing slow and deliberate. “So wet and messy just from me. From my mouth. My fingers. You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?"

And when you whine, when you try to look away, he gets bolder. Voice low and wrecked as he continues, "You like it when I talk like this, don’t you? When I tell you how badly I want to taste you again, how I dream about having you ride my face until I can’t breathe."

He says it all like it’s just another fact from one of his books, his shaky hands still mapping you out and he’s grinding into the sheets, pre-cum staining through his minecraft boxers, utterly undone by your pleasure.

nerd!armin who is a messy thing for you. Hard in his boxers, lips swollen from kissing you like he’s starved. Hair mussed from your fingers tugging, thighs trembling from the effort of holding himself back. The kind of boy who says “Use me” with a blush on his cheeks and worship in his eyes.

nerd!armin who is not just a pleaser but a worshipper. He doesn’t just want you to feel good, he needs it—like it's his only purpose. Every moan you give him is a reward, every twitch of your body, and every moan from those pretty lips of yours from under his touch is a grade he’s desperate to ace.

“You’re so perfect… so good for me… I could stay between your legs forever.” And he means it. He’s insatiable, overstimulated, and whimpering into the crook of your neck but still begging, “One more? Please, I can take it. I’ll be good. Just one more. I know you want it just as bad as I do…”

nerd!armin who then turns into a whimpering mess when you take control, eyes fluttering as he breathes, “I’m yours. Whatever you want. Just… don’t stop.” Because for Armin, being at your mercy isn’t just a fantasy, it’s his favorite kind of surrender.

He melts under your touch as he lets you take the lead. Pushing him back against the mattress, his hands grip the sheets like he’s holding onto reality, trying to stay grounded as you straddle his hips, hand wrapping around his throbbing cock, pumping him into your hand before lining him up.

His breath catches in his throat once his pink tip slowly eases into your sopping hole, the girth stretching you out. His eyes wide, mouth slack, hands coming out to grab your waist, nails digging as your warmth swallows him inch by inch.

“F-fuck… oh my god…” He whimpers, voice cracking, hips twitching despite himself. His glasses slip further down his nose, fogged and useless now, but he refuses to close his eyes. He needs to watch you, needs to memorize how perfect you look on top of him, moaning out to the feel of his dick inside of you as you fuck the smart out of him.

[suuuupernovaaa]

surprise

summary: despite your mid-level efforts at preventing, you find yourself pregnant with Joel’s child - and you really don’t want to be.

tags: pregnancy, jackson joel, fluff, comfort, established relationship

Based on this request.

MASTERLIST

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck!

The words repeat over and over in your mind, day in and day out. How could you have been so careless? How could you have let this fucking happen?

You’re not an idiot. Not some dumb teenager. You know exactly how babies are made. You know what you and Joel have been doing, damn near constantly, leads to this - and you haven’t been as careful as you could have been.

The two pink little lines haunt you. It’s been four days since you saw them in the bathroom, since they stared at you with their taunting little pink eyes until you vomited, and you’ve avoided Joel since.

Which has been super fucking hard. You don’t live together, even though you’ve discussed making that happen in the near future, but you and Joel have a routine.

He brings you coffee, every morning, to enjoy together on your porch. That is, unless you’ve spent the night together before, and then he doesn’t have to make the long journey Nextdoor to deliver it.

You part ways for your daily duties, whatever they may be, and always meet up again in the late afternoon. You take walks, make dinner together, maybe have a drink at the saloon or watch a movie. Sometimes Joel has more work to do at night. Often you sleep at his house, but you sometimes end up back at your own home, and then it starts again the next day.

You’ve left a note every morning the last four days that you had to head out early, and you’ll see him later.

It’s harder in the evenings to come up with excuses. A headache, sour stomach, spending time with a friend… Joel is too smart to let it go on too long.

But you can’t face him. You feel like a failure. You never really wanted kids, maybe not even before the world ended. Even in the safe town of Jackson Hole, motherhood doesn’t appeal to you. Safety isn’t guaranteed, and it doesn’t feel right to bring a child into a world like this.

But you’ve missed two periods now. You don’t feel right; you’re extra tired, so hungry, and soon, you know you’ll start to show.

You can’t hide it forever.

That evening, day four of avoiding Joel, he pounds on your door at dusk.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

You take your time going to the door, and try to muster a smile when you pull it open.

“Hey there,” you say, and Joel scowls down at you.

“Don’t ’hey there’ me,” he replies in that gruff twang of his, and practically shoves you aside to enter your home.

You know there won’t be any avoiding it now. You can’t lie to Joel.

“You gonna tell me what the hell is going on with you? I don’t like you avoiding me.” He faces you, his hands on his hips like you’re a child he’s scolding. “I don’t buy it that you’re sick. Fess up.”

You rub your forehead with your fingertips and take in a deep breath that comes back out all shaky.

“I’m pregnant.”

Joel’s hands fall from his hips. Clearly, that’s not what he was expecting.

“Pregnant?”

You wince. “Yeah. I guess maybe, two months along or so.”

Joel walks to your worn leather couch and sits down, rubbing his jaw.

“Pregnant.”

You stay where you are, near the door, in case you need to bolt.

“I… am scared. And sick. I’ve been freaking out.”

“All alone?” he asks, his voice sad, and you feel your heart soften - just a little.

You take one step towards him. “I never wanted to be a mom. I don’t think I’ll be good at it. And I didn’t figure you’d want to, uh, do it all over again.”

He stares at you for a long moment and finally, pats the couch next to him.

You hesitate.

“Come on, girl,” he says, like you’re a skittish horse, but it works. You sink into the couch next to him, and he wraps his arms around you.

“I probably wouldn’t have chosen to have a baby, anymore than you would have. And we do have… options.”

You shake your head. “I know, but I don’t want that. I think I want it. But if you don’t…”

“I do,” he says, so quickly and so firmly, it makes your stomach flutter.

“You do?”

Joel nods, meeting your eyes. “I think you know that you’re the love of my life. If we’d met before, when I was younger, before all this, I’d have married you and had as many kids as we could’ve.” His expression is soft, nearly dreamy. “I’d have worked hard and bought a big house, with a big yard and some dogs. Maybe a farm or something. We’d have been happy.”

You sink into him, picturing it together. It doesn’t sound so bad. “But we met here, honey, and we’ve made the best of it. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me. I want you to move into my house, I want to take care of both of you. Parenting ain’t easy, but we can do it together. Plus, Tommy and Maria will be around. And Ellie. We aren’t alone.”

Your throat feels thick and tears are pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“Are you sure I can do it?” you ask.

Joel holds you close, his chin resting on top of your head. “Never been more sure of anything in my life.”

[sniktbaby]

something you could sin for

summary: logan is your dad's best friend. both of you struggle to come to terms with your growing feelings for each other.

warnings: angst, dad's best friend, a hint of jealousy-based misogyny, age gap (reader is in her late 20s!), size difference, some dirty talk, size kink (logan has a huge d), smidge of praise, pet names (baby, princess, darling), shower sex, oral sex (f + m receiving), pain kink if you squint, riding, clitplay, creampie, lots of religious terms (idk man), cliffhanger ending maybe???

word count: 6.6k

author's note: yeehaw cowboy logan!!! i had such a fun time writing this one! i might do a sequel to this if you guys like it! title is from midnight cowboy by jade <3

It is your birthday. Logan, your dad’s best friend, stands by the barbeque, chatting it up with your dad. He steals glances at you, hoping you don’t notice his gaze underneath his signature cowboy hat and dark aviators.

He really has been making an effort not to look. Trying not to notice the baby blue dress you’re wearing, the way it cinches at your waist. How the thin fabric flows over your hips. And he definitely didn’t catch sight of you bending down to pet his dog, your breasts barely contained by the cups of the dress, revealing that you’re not wearing a bra.

No, he didn’t notice that at all.

Fuck. What is he thinking? You’re his best friend’s daughter, for Christ’s sake! He even brought a date, some little redhead he picked up at the bar, just so he’d have an excuse to stay away from you.

But the truth is, the second he saw you - barefoot in the grass in that damn dress, laughing with your friends while you posed in front of the balloon wall - he couldn’t even remember the redhead’s name. He didn’t want to remember, checked out of that whole idea.

The sun is setting now. Logan goes to help your dad with getting a bonfire started as you sit on the porch, a slice of cake balanced on a paper plate in your lap. The redhead Logan brought stands so close to him, hanging off his every word, and it makes your muscles tense. You’re so distracted, watching this woman laugh at Logan’s dumb jokes, that you don’t notice Addy, Logan’s dog, sprinting up to you. Before you have time to react, you’re absolutely covered in vanilla cake and strawberry frosting.

Logan looks over, noticing the commotion. He can see your cheeks flush and your eyes water as you stand there, smothered in cake. He knows you would never be mad at Addy over an accident. You’re too understanding, as sweet as the dessert smeared all over your pretty dress. You’re crushed because the redhead beside him is pointing at you, laughing.

You’re embarrassed, humiliated, and his little date isn’t helping. His jaw clenches as he watches you hurry inside the house.

“Shit. Logan, go check on her, will ya?”

Logan turns toward your dad, who is still occupied with getting the fire just the way he wants it. A stubborn perfectionist. You inherited that from him.

But Logan can’t go after you. He can barely be alone with you these days, much less when you’re upset. He’ll just want to hold you, stroke your hair, tell you the truth about how he feels. He can’t do that. “Why me?” he asks, taking a step to the side as the redhead goes to lock arms with him.

Your dad chuckles, breaking a branch over his knee. “You’ve always been better at cheerin’ her up when she’s like this.”

He’s not wrong. With a sigh, Logan nods, then makes his way towards the house.

You disappear inside. Honestly, Addy did you a favor. You needed a moment to yourself, to clear your head. Get Logan out of it.

You were already jealous that he brought another woman. Then you think of her laughing face when Addy knocked the slice of cake against you. And now you’re so fucking humiliated, it stings your skin. Sure, it was funny, but her pointing finger and high-pitched giggle felt like malice. She already has the man you want, she has to laugh at you too?

Ugh. You can’t keep pretending like your feelings for Logan aren’t bigger than a silly childhood crush.

You retreat to your bedroom, sitting on the edge of your bed as you take a couple of deep breaths. You look down at the cake staining your dress, frosting smeared on your chest. It’s even in your hair.

You sigh. You need to calm down before going back out there.

Logan follows you through the house. This was a bad idea. He knows he shouldn’t have come after you. He should have stayed outside with the others, kept his hands clean of anything that doesn’t involve whiskey or cigars. But seeing you walk away, knowing you’re upset…

He’s here now, standing outside of your goddamn door.

He clears his throat, making you look up. You’re surprised to see him, his arms crossed tight over his chest, the fabric of his t-shirt pulled taut over his muscles.

He lifts his chin at you. “You okay?”

Your lips lift. “Fine,” you reply, lowering your gaze. You pick at a piece of cake stuck to your thigh. “Guess Addy was mad I didn’t cut her a slice.”

He lets out a rough chuckle as he pushes off the doorframe. Your joke lands soft and he hates that he put that tremble in your voice. He folds his arms tighter across his chest like it’ll somehow hold everything in - his control, his guilt, the goddamn animal inside him that perks up every time you look at him, like he’s worth something.

You look at him like you know him. Like you can see past the claws and the scars and the rage that lives under his skin. You look at him like you want all of him, even if it’s broken, even if it might hurt you.

And that scares the hell out of him.

You search his face. He looks troubled, like there’s something brewing beneath the surface if you could only pull it out of him. “You could’ve given me the heads up that you were bringing someone,” you murmur, shrugging your shoulders, feigning nonchalance though your fingers twist anxiously in your lap. “I mean…it’s your life, right? You can bring whoever you want. The guy I’m seeing was gonna come, but…”

A lie. You swallow hard, forcing a bitter smile.

His jaw clenches, nostrils flaring slightly. “You’re lyin’.” A slow exhale, one of his hands coming up to rub the back of his neck, knuckles brushing against the collar of his shirt. His dog tags shift under the cotton. He takes a step closer, drawn to you like a moth to flame.

You stiffen at his accusation, lips parting in surprise before pressing into a tight line. Your gaze drops to the floor. “You think I’m lying?” Your voice is quieter now, but still laced with defiance. You raise your chin, meeting his eyes again.

He takes another step, close enough now that he could reach out and touch you. Wipe the frosting from your skin. Taste it. Taste you.

Instead, he braces a hand on the bedpost beside your head, caging you in without laying a finger on you. “Think you’re lyin’ ‘bout the guy.” He tilts his head, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours. “Doubt he exists. Doubt anyone else gets that look from you.”

Your breath hitches, caught somewhere between fear and desire. He’s standing so close - too close - but he still hasn’t touched you. He’s choosing restraint, control. Something you don’t want from him. But you refuse to give in first.

You angle your head away from him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Stubborn girl. You always have been. You were always one to bite your lip bloody before admitting you were hurt.

Logan smirks, reaching up to tug off his hat. Without breaking eye contact, he settles it atop your head. It dips low over your brow, too big for you, shadowing your face just enough to make you raise your chin towards him. His thumb brushes the shell of your ear before pulling away completely, letting you feel his absence now that you’ve tasted his touch.

“Sure you don’t,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement and something darker.

The weight of his hat feels heavier than it should. Your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to touch him, to tear that fabric off of him until there’s no space left between you. Your heart pounds wildly beneath your ribs, hopeful and terrified all at once. Your breaths are coming fast, shallow, like you’re scared one wrong move will end whatever the hell is happening between you.

Your voice cracks when you speak. “You shouldn’t be in here, Logan.”

You’re right. He shouldn’t be in here. The curtains are drawn, the whole damn world waiting outside for them. None of them know how close he is to crossing a line he can’t come back from.

But he doesn’t move.

Your eyes. The way you look at him with desperation. Hunger. It mirrors something dark and restless in him. Something that has been clawing at his ribs for years, begging him to stop running. Stop hiding behind rules and regrets.

He shifts, just enough to close the distance between you. His knee presses into the mattress beside your thigh. His movements are slow, careful, wanting you to feel what you should know by now.

That he wants you.

Your breath catches, your thighs squeezing together. A million thoughts race through your head. You should tell him that this isn’t right. That he’s too old, too forbidden, too connected to your family to ever truly belong to you.

But instead, you lean into him, your chest rising and falling faster now. Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Logan…” Your fingers curl into the fabric beneath you, fighting the urge to pull him closer. To kiss him.

Your voice, his name on your lips - it sounds like a prayer. A surrender. A warning.

He shouldn’t. He really fucking shouldn’t.

But you leaned in. That tiny, traitorous shift of your body towards his - that was all it took. The last thread snaps. No more lies. No more pretending he doesn’t want you like this. Like he hasn’t wanted you for years. He cups your face before he loses his nerve, rough palm cradling your jaw like you’re both delicate and dangerous - which you are.

“Shouldn’t…” he mutters, thumb grazing your bottom lip, feeling you tremble underneath it, “...but I was never very good at doin’ what I should.”

And then he kisses you. Hard.

The kiss steals the air from your lungs, hot and demanding and utterly consuming. You go rigid beneath his touch, stunned that this is happening - that he is kissing you, claiming your mouth like he owns every secret you’ve whispered in the dark.

And then you push him away, roughly, causing him to stumble back a few steps.

The loss of your warmth hits him like a punch to the gut. He staggers back, blinking rapidly as if just waking up from a dream where he got to pretend he deserved to touch you like that.

Shit.

He rakes a shaky hand through his hair, teeth gritted against the self-loathing crawling up his spine. He came in here to check on you, to play it cool, and instead he kissed you like he had some sort of claim. Like he wasn’t supposed to be the responsible one.

“I-” He stops. Can’t even finish his sentence. He doesn’t know what the hell to say.

You bring a trembling hand to your lips, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin like you’re trying to memorize the feel of his kiss. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, uneven breaths escaping your parted lips. Your eyes well up, but you blink furiously to fight it back. Not here. Not in front of him. “No…” Your voice breaks on the word, and you shake your head violently. The cowboy hat slips sideways and you snatch it off, tossing it onto the bed like it burned you. “You don’t get to do that.”

The hat hitting the sheets feels like a slap to his cheek. You’re crying. Trying not to, stubborn girl, but he can see it. Smell it. That salt in the air - sharp and painful, like blood. And it’s his fault.

He exhales, eyes fixed on the floor between you like he’s staring into the grave of every rule he swore he wouldn’t break. “No…” He swallows hard, fists clenching at his sides.

You stand abruptly, the mattress creaking softly beneath you. The wood floor is cold on your bare feet, grounding you, reminding you who you are - who he is. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself. “I’m going for a shower.” You turn, heading for the bathroom connected to your bedroom.

He watches you, muscles coiled tight like he expects you to vanish the second you’re out of his sight. But when you start to close the bathroom door, something inside of him snaps for the second time tonight.

No. Not after that kiss. Not after years of watching you grow up, laughing when he picked you up after your first night of drinking because you were too scared to call home. Hurting when you cried over boys who never deserved you, little pricks. Loving you in ways he buried so deep he convinced himself he could live with this ache.

He pushes the door open before you can close it completely, his actions gentle but firm. Letting you know he’s in this. Letting you decide if you want to throw him out. He’ll leave if you tell him to.

You freeze. Your back to him, shoulders rising with each breath. You ignore him, moving to the faucet to turn on the water. Steam begins to rise as the water heats, fogging up the room. Then you turn to face him. “Logan…” Your voice wavers, partly a plea, a little bit of a warning.

The door clicks shut behind him and he takes a step towards you, close enough now that his heat licks at your skin like the thoughts tear through his skull. You’re trembling, shakes that tell him you’re barely holding on. Just like him.

He doesn’t respond. Words failed him the moment your mouths met.

Slowly, he reaches for you and brushes your hair over one shoulder. You turn away from him again, but he doesn’t falter. He takes in the curve of your spine beneath your dress, vertebrae pressing against fabric like the keys of a piano - each one a note he wants to play until you make music.

His knuckles graze your neck as he finds the zipper of your dress, his touch a promise, maybe a threat.

You can still stop him. You should stop him.

The sensation of his knuckles against your neck sends a jolt down your spine, electric and terrifying. Your eyelids flutter shut, your breath catching in your throat as goosebumps erupt across your skin despite the warmth from the steam. You stand there, immobilized by the suffocating haze of want and guilt until a shaky whimper escapes your lips. You reach out, your nails digging into the porcelain of the sink, your entire body taut like a bowstring pulled to its limit. “Please…”

That whimper nearly undoes him. You don’t tell him to get lost. Didn’t slam that door in his face like he wished you would’ve every goddamn day since you stopped being a girl and started walking through the world like a storm he couldn’t outrun.

So he takes his time, moving slow. Fingertips taking a hold of the zipper, he peels it down like he’s unveiling something sacred. Inch by inch, the curve of your back is exposed. His chest presses lightly against you, solid and impossibly warm.

You feel him - the breadth of his shoulders, the tension humming in his muscles, the heavy beat of his heart echoing your own. Your knees threaten to buckle. Your head drops forward, chin brushing your collarbone as a soft, strangled gasp slips free.

His touch feels safe, like coming home.

But you’ve been starved of this for far too long. You don’t want to be safe. You want him.

“Don’t…treat me like I’m made of glass.” You shift back, just a fraction - an invitation. A challenge. You want him to handle you like you’re real, not some memory wrapped in lace and nostalgia. Want him to stop tiptoeing around what you both know is real.

You want him to stop acting like he’s scared.

He tightens his grip on your hip, breath skating along the shell of your ear. “Patience, darlin’.” He murmurs it like a sin, his thumb hooking just beneath the loosened strap of your dress, teasing it down your shoulder. Slow. Deliberate. Driving you both insane.

He peels the dress from your shoulders, gentle, like he’s unwrapping a gift he never thought he’d be allowed to open. Fabric bunches at your elbows, the straps sliding down your arms, then pooling at your waist before he lets it fall entirely.

He drags his palms down your sides, feeling every tremor, every hitch of your breath against his chest. You’re so small in his hands. So soft. So damn perfect. He presses his mouth to your neck.

But you pull away and turn around, taking a moment to soak in the way his pupils dilate at the sight of your bare breasts. Slowly, not breaking eye contact, you pull off your panties, leaving you completely nude before him. He reaches out to touch you, but you don’t let him.

You pull back the shower curtain, stepping under the hot water. The shower douses your back as you watch him peel off his shirt and strip out of his jeans. You hold his gaze, fighting the urge to lower your eyes to the large tent in his boxers.

You don’t have a choice but to look when he steps out of the fabric. God, every single part of him is just so fucking big.

Logan watches the way the water drips from your hair, runs in rivulets down your collarbone, your breasts - perfect, full, begging for his mouth. You’re watching him like you expect him to hesitate. Like you think he won’t follow through.

He doesn’t give you time to second guess. Doesn’t give himself time either. He steps into the spray, steam swallowing you both, hot water scalding his back like penance.

Driving you back against the tile, hands braced on either side of you, he cages you in. Trapping you with him in this moment, this madness. “You sure?”

All you can do is nod, and he pushes you against the wall. Your head tips back as you close your eyes, a gasp escaping your lips as he bends, his mouth covering your nipple.

You taste like heaven and sin all wrapped into one. Your nipple hardens against his tongue, and he groans, the sound swallowed by the rushing water. You arch into him, offering yourself like an answer to a prayer he never knew how to say.

One hand finds your hip, anchoring you as he feasts on you, his mouth greedy and punishing. You’re soft everywhere he’s rough. It makes him want to mark you. Claim every inch of your skin until there’s no doubt in your mind who you belong to.

But you don’t belong to him, and you’re not his. Not really. Not in any way that matters beyond this steam-filled prison you’ve built together.

You laugh suddenly, bringing him out of his thoughts. You’re thinking about all the times you imagined this moment. Rutting against your pillow, soaking through the fabric, whispering his name into the mattress…

“What’s so funny, darlin’?” he murmurs against your skin, trailing kisses upwards, to the hollow of your throat. His fingers flex on your hip, urging you to open your eyes, to look at him. Steam swirls around your bodies, the water pounding down like judgement.

He signed his soul over to the Devil the second he walked into this bathroom.

You respond to his question by grabbing his face and bringing him closer. “Nothing.” Before he can probe further, you kiss him. You lick into his mouth and wrap your arms around him, holding him tight against you as the warm water blankets your bodies. You never take your hands off of him as he kisses down your neck again, trailing down to your belly.

You kiss him like you’re starved for it. Starved for him. Tongue sliding against his, soft and wet and desperate. He groans into your mouth, hands tightening on your waist as he deepens the kiss. He feels you melt against him, eager, finally in his arms where you belong.

Then you’re pulling him down - hands in his hair, guiding him lower, arching into his touch as he trails kisses down your throat, between your breasts, over the plane of your belly. Water slicks your skin, making you shine in the dim bathroom light. You shiver as his stubble scrapes against the sensitive skin of your stomach, sending sparks straight between your legs.

You get the urge to ask him something. Your voice comes out breathless and thick with longing. “What would you have done-” He bites you, causing you to gasp. “-if I had brought another guy?”

The unexpected question hits him like a blade between the ribs. If you’d brought someone else. If he had walked in tonight and seen you wrapped around another man - laughing, touching, kissing.

Jealousy roars in his veins, loud and primal. His grip on you tightens, almost bruising. Intentional. He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, steam and lust warping the space between you. His voice is gravel and venom and something dangerously close to confession.

“Broke him in half.” He drags the words out, letting them simmer in the heat between you.

That isn’t enough for you. “Sooo…” You lift a brow, aware you’re being a brat. “...you don’t like the idea of me fucking other men?”

A growl rumbles from his chest. He stands to his full height, bracing his forearm against the tile beside your head, leaning in until his breath ghosts over your lips. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to choke. “Not a fan, no.” He smirks, but there’s no humour in it. His thumb drags slowly across your bottom lip.

His words awaken something in you, an animalistic ache that you didn’t know existed. You roll your hips forward, feeling his hard length press against your thigh. “Well then…” You bite down on your lip, lashes fluttering as you look up at him. “Start getting more possessive and I won’t have to.”

Your hands find purchase on his strong biceps. “Tell me I’m your girl.”

The words wrap around his throat like chains. Sweet, deadly chains.

Tell me I’m your girl.

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, slamming them against the wet tile and holding you there like a warning. Like a vow.

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’, huh?” He grinds the words out through clenched teeth.

Maybe you pushed too far. “Trying to make you jealous,” you admit. You kiss him, deep and strong, covering his mouth like it’s your last meal. “Is it working?”

The kiss hits him like a bullet to the chest - fast and lethal. You’re not playing fair, and he’s had enough of this game. Enough of you testing him, pushing him, making him say things he can’t take back.

He releases your wrists and shoves his hands into your wet hair, gripping tight as he angles your head back, breaking the kiss. Your throat arches beautifully, vulnerable and open, and he growls against your skin. “Smartass.” He mutters it like a curse before he drops to his knees in the slippery tub, taking your thighs in his hands and hauling you against him. Roughly, Logan yanks your hips towards his mouth. His tongue glides up your pussy over and over again, each swipe ending in a nibble.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head, groaning, gasping for air. His lips are relentless, tugging on your clit and making you shudder. You don’t care who can hear you. You lift your leg, placing a foot on the edge of the tub behind him, fisting his hair with one hand and reaching up, gripping the windowsill behind you with another.

Logan devours you. You taste like honey and sin, like every wicked thought he’s ever had about you curled into one addictive flavour he can’t get enough of. His tongue drags deep and slow - marking you in the way only he can. He groans around your clit, the vibration making you jerk against his mouth.

“Ride my face, princess,” he rasps against your soaked cunt, his voice rough, one of his hands digging into your ass to keep you grounded. You want to be heard? Want the whole damn world to know who has you screaming? Fine.

He bites you, and your head pushes back against the wall, overcome with ecstasy. You roll your hips, thrusting into his mouth. He kisses and tugs, sucking on your inner thighs and swirling his tongue over your slit. He’s messy, his saliva mixing with your slick until your pussy is dripping.

“Fuck.” You’re trembling. You grind against his mouth faster. “More, Logan.”

More. Goddamn, you’re shameless when you want to be. Voice raw, hips grinding like you were born to chase this kind of pleasure. And he’s the bastard feeding it to you.

He bites down again, just hard enough to make you squeal, then he soothes it with his tongue, dragging slow circles around your clit while his fingers dig into your ass cheeks, spreading you wider. He wants every drop of you. Your juices coat his beard, slick and sweet, and he growls against you. “Greedy girl,” he mutters, lips brushing your clit with every word.

He takes your ass in both hands, diving inside of you with his tongue. You cry out, gripping his hair so tight you hear him hiss in pain. But he doesn’t stop fucking you. Not for a second.

Heat fills your stomach, and you throb as his tongue thrusts in and out you. You peer down, taking in the view, and you notice one of his hands has left your ass to tug on his own cock. The sight makes you feel dizzy.

He can’t get enough of your soaked cunt - dripping, pulsing, perfect. His tongue dives deep, chasing every ripple of your walls clenching around nothing. You taste too good. It feels too right. He hauls you harder against his mouth, growling as you grip his hair like reins, like you’re riding him to ruin. Good. You can use him. Take whatever you need.

He looks up at you, jerking himself slow and rough, thumb rubbing the slit as he pictures burying every inch of his cock inside of your tight heat. Stretching you wide. Making you take all of him until there’s no mistaking who owns that sweet, greedy pussy.

Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire, your body aching to come. “You wanna fuck me?” you ask him breathlessly, your eyes locked on to the way he pulls on himself.

The words hit him like a match to gasoline. Fuck yeah, he wants to fuck you. Has for years. Every damn day he told himself no, every night he lied awake wishing he could say yes.

He pulls back just enough to sit, brute force dragging him down to the slick porcelain floor. Legs splayed, dick jutting up hard and ready, beads of pre-come glistening in the bathroom light. He braces his arms behind him, holding himself steady for what he knows is coming.

His voice is like sandpaper when he answers. “Climb on, darlin’.” He tilts his chin up, eyes locking on yours. He reaches out, pulling you down on top of him.

Logan’s large frame in the tiny bathtub makes you want to laugh, and you almost do, but then he rolls his cock against your slit. You gasp. That’s one way to shut you up.

Logan lets out a low chuckle, his large hands traveling over your body. He lets you grind down slowly until you’re panting and clutching at his shoulders. He braces one hand on the small of your back, the other gripping your thigh, guiding your movements. Dominant because he knows that’s what you want. What you need.

“Easy, princess,” he murmurs against your neck, lips grazing damp skin as you writhe against him. “I’ve got ya.”

He doesn’t know if he can hold back much longer. You’re slick, swollen, rocking against him like you’re trying to set yourself on fire - and him with you.

Leaning down, you kiss and lick a path down his chest, his stomach. You nibble the prominent vein leading down to his length, wanting to take your time with him the same way he did with you. Prove to him that you know patience too.

You lower your mouth on his tip, taking him down your throat and giving him something to watch. Your mouth wraps around him like velvet, tight and wet and way too fucking good. He fists one hand in your hair - holding on, feeling you, reminding himself that this is real.

You take him deep, slow, teasing - like you’re trying to prove a point. Taunting him with that pretty mouth, showing him that you can be cruel and kind all at once. He watches you - every damn second of it. Lips stretched around his length, cheeks hollowing, eyes fluttering shut like you’re savouring him. You own him right now. His body, mind, and soul - it all belongs to you. “Damn, baby…”

The way his voice cracks. The plea in his tone. It’s too much.

Fuck patience.

You swing your leg over his hip, straddling him once again, lowering yourself on to him. You hold his cock in your fist as you sink down. The tip dips inside, and your nails dig into the meat of his shoulders as you squeeze your eyes shut. Your body tenses.

The second you sink down on him - slow and agonizing - he sees stars. White-hot and blinding. Your heat wraps around him, tight and perfect, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut too, suck in a breath through his nose, and pray to a God he doesn’t believe in that he doesn’t blow apart like some dumb kid getting his first blowjob.

Then he notices you’ve stopped, freezing halfway down, muscles tensed like you’re trying to hold yourself together. He hums, pleased with himself. Brave girl you are. Stubborn too. You don’t need to look at him to know he’s smirking like he just won the lottery.

He shifts his hands to your hips, thumbs pressing into the bone, steadying you. Keeping you still, but he urges you forward. “C’mon, darlin’.”

You start to move, your hips circling at a slow pace. He doesn’t stop caressing you, motivating you. You drop lower, sinking an inch of him inside you, then another. And then you stop again. “Just…give me a second,” you breathe.

You move like you want to torture him. It is driving him absolutely insane, how good you feel wrapped around him. He lets out a harsh breath, eyes rolling back for just a second before snapping back open.

He nods at your request, his voice gruff and strained. “Take your time, princess.” His thumb strokes soothing patterns on your hip, trying to be gentle. For you.

You start to slide up and down, just barely. He’s long, and thick. The stretch burns, it hurts, but you sink further down. The pain is uncomfortable, but bearable.

Logan can feel your heat, your tightness, and you’re so wet - but you’re still fighting through the burn. He braces his hand firmly on your hip, holding you. Anchoring. Letting you feel him, letting you set the pace even though every part of his being wants to flip you over and pound into you until neither one of you can think.

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, voice raspy, eyes hooded as he drinks in every reaction, every flinch, every moment of pleasure etched onto your face mixed with the sting.

Your hips shift - just a little - and he feels it. That instinct to move, to chase the rhythm, but you’re not ready yet. Not fully. He can still feel you tensing, fighting through the discomfort like you always do - never backing down, never asking for help.

He tightens his grip on your hip, firm but careful, using just enough pressure to still your movements. His other hand reaches up to cup your face, his thumb brushing away a strand of damp hair stuck to your cheek. He tilts your chin down so you have to look at him. “Give yourself a minute, darlin’,” he says, voice rough with restraint but softened by something he’s afraid to name out loud.

You lean down, stretched, a little sore, and filled. He’s inside you all the way. You kiss him, and then you start to move, rolling your hips. Both of you moan at the new sensation.

You settle on him fully and he swears he dies for a second, going to some version of heaven where he actually deserves to touch you like this. Where he doesn’t have to carry every regret, every rule he broke to get here. He deepens the kiss the second he feels you roll your hips - slow and uncertain - and he groans into your mouth, because holy fuck, you feel too good. Too right. It’s too much.

He kisses you harder, ruthlessly, taking your bottom lip between his teeth and biting just enough to make you gasp. His hands on your hips guide you, lifting you slightly before pulling you back down. “Ride me, baby.”

You moan as his tongue swipes over your bottom lip. “Okay.”

You rut against him. It isn’t long before the discomfort is gone completely, replaced by a throbbing warmth. You slide up and down his length, his cock moving in and out of you easily now. You move like you’ve found religion - hips rolling and taking him deep. Wet, slick sounds fill the cramped bathtub, drowned out only by your ragged breaths and the constant hum of the shower.

He watches you ride him. “That’s it, princess,” he murmurs, thumb pressing into the notch of your hip, guiding your rhythm when you stutter - when you get too greedy, too fast. “So damn good.”

You smile at his praise and lean back, gripping both sides of the tub as your hips roll. You tilt your head back, and you know his eyes are on you. God, you love the feeling of his eyes on your body as you put on a show for him. Water still streams down from the showerhead, droplets catching on your skin, sliding down your collarbone, disappearing into the valley between your breasts. He wants to lick every trace of it off of you.

But he doesn’t move. Just watches, letting you take control. Letting you show him exactly how much you want this - how much you want him.

You grind down faster. The thickness, his tip hitting you deep inside, his thumb finding its way to your swollen clit - it’s all too much, and also the best fucking thing you have ever felt. “Oh…” you groan, bouncing quicker now. You can feel your climax building.

You’re moving like you’re possessed - wild, uninhibited, chasing that edge like he’s not right there with you, praying for mercy. His thumb circles your clit, firm and relentless, matching the frantic pace of your hips. You’re soaked, swollen.

You’re close. So damn close.

And he wants it. Wants to feel you come apart on him. Wants every asshole at that party to wonder where the hell you disappeared to and what the fuck he’s doing to you. His voice is pure sin when he barks out, commanding, “Fuck me harder, baby.”

You grab his hand from your hip. You place the tip of his index finger on your tongue, slowly taking him down to the knuckle. You take his finger like it’s his cock - slow, wet, deep - and he swears he can feel it in his fucking toes. His hips jerk up on instinct, chasing friction, chasing relief he doesn’t deserve yet. Not when you’re still riding him like a damn fever dream.

He lets out a choked whimper - pathetic and desperate - and his free hand leaves your clit to dig into your thigh, like he needs leverage just to survive you. “B-Baby…” he tries to warn you, his voice cracked and breathless. He’s hanging on by a thread.

He’s going to come. You’ll never forget that sound.

It hits him like a freight train, merciless. His back bows off the porcelain, every muscle locking up as he lets himself go.

He comes hard, a groan ripping from his throat like he’s being torn apart from the inside out, your name spilling out like a curse and a prayer all at once. “Baby…fuck…”

You keep moving - relentless little vixen you are - and he lets you, even though he swears he’s going to die from it. He lets you chase your high while he tries to remember how the hell to breathe.

And then you come too. “God! Logan!”

His hands fly to your tits as you shake and shudder above him, your insides bursting with wave after wave of euphoric bliss. Your hips piston against him, jerking harder and faster until your climax begins to fade, and you collapse on top of him.

He holds you against him, his grip tight. You think you can feel him kissing your hair, but the world is still spinning, everything moving too fast to be sure. He’s right there, holding you through every tremor, every gasp, every shattered moan that leaves your lips.

Your breasts are soft and warm, nipples dragging across his chest with every shiver, and he groans, wrapping his arms around your waist. You’re exhausted, spent, and he holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the world - even though he’s the last man alive who should be allowed to.

He presses his lips to your wet hair, breathing you in, anchoring himself to this moment, even though he knows what comes next. Regrets. Rules. Consequences.

Still panting softly, you lift your head from his chest just enough to meet his gaze. Your cheeks are flushed, your lips parted, and your hair sticks to your skin in damp waves. There’s a lazy, satisfied smile tugging at your lips - one that says you don’t regret a single second of this.

Your smile hits him square in the chest, soft and sleepy and full of something he doesn’t deserve. He wants to kiss you again. Wants to taste that satisfaction on your lips, seal it in like a promise. But he doesn’t move. He can’t. Reality is creeping in now. Outside this bathroom, people are laughing, drinking, wondering what you two are doing. Your dad, his best friend, is out there, slapping backs and pouring drinks, telling stupid stories around the fire, completely clueless that Logan just ruined his trust.

You shift slightly, resting your chin on Logan’s chest so you can look at him better. Your fingers trail lazily over his shoulder, tracing invisible patterns along his skin. “You’re thinking too loud,” you murmur, your voice soft but steady. Your expression doesn’t lose that quiet happiness. With a smirk, you add, “They can wait five more minutes.” You press a lingering kiss to his collarbone before settling back against him, your ear over his heart.

He feels your kiss everywhere - in his ribs, his throat, in the marrow of his bones that have carried shame and guilt for far too long.

You’re right, he is thinking. Thinking about what happens now. About what happens when the water goes cold and you have to step back into a world where he’s supposed to be untouchable. Where you’re supposed to be off-limits.

But you dare him to stay. Dare the world to interrupt.

He exhales slowly, one arm curling tighter around your back. The other drifts absentmindedly through your hair, fingers threading through the strands like he’s done a thousand times in dreams he woke from ashamed.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice low. “Five more minutes.”

[wannabanauthor]

Is there a canon reason why Buck hasn’t reached out to Tommy to apologize or fix things?

Because he’ll complain to everyone about missing Tommy, but he does nothing about it.

Why?

Is he just taking Tommy for granted? Is his ego so big that he thinks a hot firefighter pilot is going to wait for him?

What frustrates me the most is that he plays stupid when it comes to Tommy. Like he didn’t say something to officially end the chances of Tommy wanting to try again.

He wants Tommy but refuses to take action, and that is so frustrating because he’s had 5 business years to clear things up, and he still does nothing.

Seriously though, what is his issue?

Does he think that apologies happen through wishful thinking instead of picking up the phone?

He could have cleared things up before Tommy left that morning, but all he does is watch him leave with a half-assed attempt to talk to him. He told Tommy he was a one night stand and is shocked that Tommy is hurt by it, and what does he do? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He says he should call Tommy and apologize, and he doesn’t. Not even off screen.

He could have apologized in the helicopter. It’d take one sentence. Tommy managed to convey his feelings in three words, and what does Buck say in response? Nothing. He just looks happy, but he does not reciprocate.

Yeah, I’m going to need Tommy to move on because Buck is too stupid to fix things. He thinks time is an apology then gets upset when it doesn’t work.

No shit, Buck, you have to put some effort into relationships. Thank you for proving Tommy right at every turn.

Maybe Buck really wasn’t ready, and I’m going to need him to shut up about Tommy because Buck will continue to do nothing about it.

Yes, I’m still mad because it doesn’t make sense. Tommy has no reason to reach out to Buck after what Buck said. Buck knows that but still does nothing.

I hope Tommy finds someone else who is willing to give him the same amount of love he gives them, because Buck ain’t it.

I don’t want to be an anti shipper, but Buck’s stupidity isn’t cute anymore. He’s in his 30s.

Tommy is not coming back to Buck because Tommy thinks that Buck doesn’t care about him anymore. And Buck refuses to prove him wrong. It’s like he’s actively sabotaging his chances to get back with Tommy.

I’m still not watching the show again until after it ends for good.

I ship Tommy with happiness, and I ship Buck with consequences of his inactions.

[tonitheloftwing]

Trying to dispel the accusations that I'm unfairly targeting GlobOfChaos for fic theft.

To make it brief, I’ve had issues w/ user GlobOfChaos since about a week after meeting them, but my intention was never to try and create a harassment campaign like was stated. I have a LOT of screenshots saved so I’ll be going thru the entire timeline, even w/ things that seem insignificant, to express why I feel the way I do about this user. If I don’t find something super important and it’s mainly here for context, title will be highlighted orange instead of red.

The Start

I’ll be transparent that from the get-go I never really got along with Globbo, mostly because about a week they joined Charlie’s Discord server, I noticed they had a tendency to talk over people. I was talked over repeatedly by them, and this was my main issue with them from the beginning of February to the end of March. However, I tried my best to be cordial with them, and I figured that they were just bad at reading the room, and I figured they weren’t trying to cause any deliberate harm by talking over people. I won’t give any screenshots of them talking over people here since it would be incredibly redundant and there’s a limited amount of pics I can put in a post, but I can provide them if needed in a separate post. TLDR it mostly boiled down to them interrupting either mid-conversation (about something else) or about 5 seconds after someone finished talking with their own headcanons. And again, this isn’t a Satan-level move. At most, just kind of annoying. Note that at this point I had not discussed with them the way they were making me feel.

Aftermath Of Peppermintpillz

Notice that I said the first time I had a real issue with Globbo was during late March. This is because, around that time, Peppermintpillz was harassing a ton of people in the fanbase, including myself. This isn’t about him, but for context, he had leaked my private NSFW tumblr blog, which included things like lewd images of me and extremely private details about my sex life to his public Instagram, where minors would have access to it. Obviously, this was pretty upsetting to me and I wanted to move on from it.

Globbo comes into play here because there was an incident where they were talking in Charlie’s server, very vaguely, about how “blocking doesn’t always work”. I had issues with Peppermintpillz block evading me by creating alt accounts and having her irl friend message me, so when Globbo said this, I was worried that Peppermintpillz had found another way to access my blogs. Thankfully this wasn’t the case but it kind of scared the shit out of me and I was frustrated with how vague they were being.

Notice the timestamps between each message. This was the main point of my frustration. I was having a full-on panic attack while trying to figure out if Peppermintpillz had shared more revenge porn of me or not, but it ended up being some drama in the classical music fandom.

Boundary Push #1

This requires additional context, that being that I have dissociative identity disorder and one of the two most frequent fronters in our system is an introject of Little Mac. If you don’t know what that means, dw, you can read the screenshots as I also explained what that means to Globbo. (This is Mac writing this rn, hi)

To sum up what happens in the screenshots, Globbo asks what I mean when I say I’m a Little Mac introject. I forget the exact context of this convo but I think I’d mentioned it earlier when I was upset abt something or other, they asked what it meant then, and I asked them to ask me when I wasn’t upset and I’d be happy to explain. I absolutely didn’t mind explaining to them either! I like getting to be open about my identity with people, and I remember feeling kinda happy that Globbo was making an effort to connect with me, when previously the whole thing had been one sided - me trying to be nice to them, but them talking over me as if I didn’t exist.

Then I just explain, and they ask why I got into Punch-Out and why I introjected Mac specifically, which are both entirely appropriate questions, although the first doesn’t really relate to the topic at hand. Also you’ll see in the screenshots that Globbo calls him a bean dip - I have no idea what that means lol.

But then, after I’ve kinda just poured my heart out to them, they… immediately talked over me with discussion of their Little Mac AU.

This was especially hurtful to me at that moment because I had specifically told them not to talk about their reverse Mac AU with me. Reasoning is given in the screenshots: I didn’t want to talk about Mac being a “psychotic” and manipulative person! (Note that psychotic is used incorrectly here. We’re not at the ableism section yet but it is ableism to refer to someone who is just unhinged and insane as “psychotic”, because experiencing psychosis does not make someone unhinged or insane. It just means they experience delusions and/or hallucinations.)

You can see them immediately breaking the boundary that I’d established literally 2 minutes after the initial boundary had been set, and as you can see, I ignored them. You can also see me in the messages above trying to just ignore them and not enforce the boundary, and I’ll be 100% honest and say that I absolutely should have made my boundaries more clear. I REALLY struggle with setting boundaries due to a history of abuse that we don’t need to get into but I acknowledge that I need to be better about this and I’m trying to be better. I tend to feel an extreme amount of guilt when setting boundaries, so enforcing those boundaries is difficult for me. Regardless, Globbo still pushed and broke them.

Ableism #1

This can be summed up briefly by saying that I suspect Globbo does not do much research into the mental disorders they write about and like to rely on people with those mental disorders to give them information for their writing

First screenshot shows Globbo asking if anyone in Charlie’s discord server is bipolar. Somebody is, I know who they were looking for, but I’m gonna assume they’d like to be uninvolved in this. Second screenshot shows them going into my DMs asking me if I’m bipolar. (Later messages are included to show where the convos ended.) This also isn't inherently ableist but it shows that Globbo kind of regards mentally ill people as a resource for them to use for writing rather than actual friends to talk to, which can also be seen w/ when I opened up about my DID and they just... Didn't give a shit. I wouldn't call them ableist if it was just this, but there's more ofc. Also the person w/ bipolar in Charlie's server expressed discomfort with Globbo's actions, saying they felt like they were being treated like a lab rat, but I'm not including screenshots of that since I think they'd rather stay out of this + image limit. They also seem to feel entitled to people's private medical history... but we'll get to that in a moment.

Ableism #2

They fakeclaimed me! To my face! While I was having a breakdown!

For context, I was venting about my moral scrupulosity and mentioned having OCD. I had just recently gotten diagnosed w/ it.

To break this down...

They say they're not calling me a liar, but why else would you ask if I'm diagnosed w/ my various mental illnesses if you didn't think I was lying?

Asking for the status on my medication or diagnoses like this - in an accusatory context - is not appropriate. They are not entitled to my private medical information. Even if they were asking to try to be helpful, it really felt like they were accusing me of exaggerating my symptoms/faking being mentally ill. As you can see, I was being pretty short with them, since I didn't want to give them what they wanted (my private medical history)

This isn't really a big deal but acting like a stress ball is going to cure my debilitating OCD symptoms is pretty comical

We'll talk about them being a psychiatry student in a moment, but as someone who has had various negative experiences w/ the field, the fact someone like Globbo is studying to be a psychiatrist is concerning

Ableism #4

Only context needed is that they dropped this in the main channel of Charlie's server out of literally nowhere

Let's break this down as well.

I am by no means an expert on bipolar disorder but I'm pretty sure that talk therapy has no hold over how frequently you experience manic episodes. Medication can mitigate the symptoms but bipolar is not a disorder that can be cured or go away.

"One less person become a psychopath" is frankly, evil. As I've argued previously, in my opinion, Globbo tends to treat mentally ill people like we're subhuman, like we're fundamentally broken and need to be fixed, and of course as resources for their fic writing. This message is what made me fear for any future clients they may have because it's clear that they're not going into the psychiatric field with the intent to help mentally ill people and advocate for us - they're going into the field with the intention to fix us and make us more socially acceptable to the people who oppress us. They do not view mentally ill people as the same level of human as themselves.

Context Leading Up To The OC Theft

On April 11th I was at a breaking point w/ Globbo when it came to how frequently I was being talked over and how my boundaries were being pushed repeatedly, and after about 4 hours of trying to explain to Charlie why I was hurt, he talked to Globbo about this, and then Globbo and I talked. You'll see me acknowledge in DMs that this was the wrong decision to make, and as I said previously in this post, I still agree with that. I should have been explicitly clear every time I felt like I was being talked over or had my boundaries being pushed, but I didn't do that because I felt guilty.

Context Leading Up To The OC Theft #2

This is basically just my proof that Globbo knew alcohol was a trigger for me. They got told off for talking about how they wanted to get hammered in a server with a bunch of kids in it, so they went to my DMs to do it.

The OC Theft

This has been laid out clearly and I have nothing to add to this other than the fact that Charlie had told everyone in the server they were going to take a break from Discord - after we had spent HOURS the previous day trying to work out my emotions with Globbo and make amends, bro was exhausted and needed a break. Then, of course, as soon as Charlie went offline, the OC theft occurred.

I don't feel the need to defend myself any further bc IMHO it's cut and dry. Globbo stole my OC, and with the context of my personal trauma surrounding alcohol and abuse, took my OC and made her an alcoholic abuser. I shouldn't have to defend why that's wrong.

I also want to note that people are allowed to write whatever the hell they want with any characters in PO as long as it doesn't veer into CSEM territory, but I'm going to address the claims that I'm the fic police further when I reply to FourEyedFella's post. But for now just know that I am not the fic police. Write whatever you want. Just don't use my OC to do it.

Block Evade #1 + Globbo Admits To Stealing!

What it says in the tin. Here, you can clearly see that Globbo admitted that they were in the wrong, that multiple fics were plagiarized, that I can keep my post up, and that their writing is, by their own words, "copy-pasted like". Also they created an entire new tumblr account (with a new email!) to block evade me so like.

Here's the message they sent to Tarte, also admitting that they'd stolen from Tarte. Note that Globbo has been a hell of a lot less forthcoming with the fact they stole from Tarte than the fact they stole from me, but here's that.

Block Evading #2, #3, and #4

I don't have screenshots for this but after I initially blocked Globbo, and their new account, they:

Started publishing anon fics on ao3 to avoid my block of them there

Interacted with Tarte in communities despite Tarte having blocked them because the block feature doesn't work in communities for some reason???

Created an entirely new Punch Out headcanon account, which might have not been to block evade, but definitely did evade blocks

Having to cut them off MULTIPLE TIMES because they kept finding new ways to contact me was annoying to say the least. I just wanted to move on and not think about the theft.

Asperger's Ryan

This kinda speaks for itself, Asperger's + puzzle piece symbol is not cool. However I have since learned that Globbo themselves got diagnosed with Asperger's, which DOES check out timeline-wise since the diagnosis was made null in 2014, and Globbo is 22, meaning that they had 11 years where they could have been diagnosed with autism and not Asperger's. The fact they didn't know Asperger's and the puzzle piece were both extremely harmful to autistic folk kinda proves my point that, despite being in the psychiatry field, they don't do much research into the disorders they write about... like, at all, but I do agree that they might have just not known. However at this point I already had them blocked, I was only checking their blog as a form of mental self harm (not healthy btw don't do this ever) so I wasn't gonna be the one to explain it to them.

So yeah that's my side of what the fuck is going on. I'm not going to go into how this has affected me mentally since I don't want anyone to accuse me of guilt tripping but TLDR it has and I'd like to move on from this? Also I'm sorry to main tag this but since FourEyedFella put theirs in the main tag, I'm going to as well to defend myself

@foureyedfella

[winxanity-ii]

When the fic I so good you wanna write a fanfic of a fanfic. (With ur permission of course). But my brain worms are acting up again so I need to spitball

Ok so I was just imagining, like a reader gets reincarnated into your fanfic, do they have powers? Maybe maybe not but either way the gods notice sooner or later. Hat do they want to do? Find a way home? Try to live as inconspicuously as possible? Shake up the plot? Be an absolute gremlin and troll everyone Cheshire Cat style? Who knows but one thing is for certain. They got isekaid into a fanfiction of epic THE MUSICAL, and they are horrified that everyone randomly breaks out into a musical number at the slightest inconvenience and they CANNOT take anything seriously due to that. Unfortunately they themselves are not immune to this plot device. Isekai comes at a cause after all. (Sorry my English is a but bad it’s not my first language😭)

FANGIRL SCREECHHH YESSS you’re literally psychic because… I lowkey wasn’t gonna say anything, but I have slipped it into a few past A/Ns 👀

Okay so basically—yes. You are 100% on the money. One of the reasons I’ve been so tedious and careful with Godly Things is because I always knew I wanted to write an isekai fic into it later. Like, that’s literally the origin story. Originally I was like “hmm how do I write an isekai into EPIC: The Musical without just yeeting reader in awkwardly,” and then my brain said, “Wait… what if I just build the fic they'd get isekai’d into first.”

So boom. Godly Things was born.

Then it kinda exploded. 20+ chapters later, I’m like “huh. This is no longer a silly setup. This is a full-blown mythological spiral with themes and trauma and divine agendas???”

BUT. Once Godly Things wraps, I’m absolutely going off the rails with the isekai version. Like I’m talking max-level gremlin reader. Fully aware. Mildly unhinged. Possibly cursed by the format. Definitely traumatized by spontaneous musical numbers. Can’t take anything seriously. Gets divine dreams and tries to sleep through them. Tells the gods “no” like that’s a valid answer. Thinks Telemachus is hot but also absolutely NOT going to let that slide without at least three breakdowns. Full fanservice. Meta chaos. You get it 😌

ANYWAY. Long story short: YOU GET IT. You see the vision. When it drops, I’m calling you first.

(Also your English is totally fine, don’t even worry!! I understood every word and loved all of it 💛)

[dandyleyen]

yet again thinking abt how dunmeshi is helping me fix my relationship with food,,,,,,,, thank u lord for giving me a reason to enjoy food and enjoy eating and enjoy cooking so I can Normally take care of myself like a normal adult my age can

[mylove-thresher]

new mechanical pencils so fayahhhhh

[cherrysnax]

I’ve watched myself become extremely jaded in the last. oh idk 24 years of life but I continue to drag myself out of that mindset. it’s not easy and I don’t do it alone, and I slide back sometimes but I know that people can be better, I can be better, the world can be better

[channiesrooom]

i deleted tiktok. i am free of my shackles

[egregiousderp]

One of my kiddos said I was like Senshi and AU had to stop and scream because I feel like I’m Chilchuck at best my dudes. Senshi is the goal though.

[deityofhearts]

one day I’ll be medicated then you’ll see.. you’ll all see…

[abowlofpetuniasandawhale]

.

[lesbiansanemi]

I was going to try and type out how I’m feeling today cuz it’s decidedly not very good though not nearly as bad as it was a couple weeks ago but I’m giving up I think I just wanna lay face down in the floor

[gravitytrips]

You are so right.

massive amount of tags below but have some good thoughts

We’ve all heard the “Scout gets too much attention” rants in the fandom but I also want to say: Scout gets too much hate.

Like, he’s decidedly NOT a coward. I have no idea where people get that from. His entire backstory is that he got fast to that he could run into danger before the fight ended. He’s got voice lines pleading for his life, but every character has voice lines where they’re weak or losing.

He’s also not that annoying to anyone but Spy (besides the people he’s killing). I’m easier on this though because it comes from gameplay habits.

Also, Scout is strong. Maybe not physically, and certainly not as much as the rest of the team, but he’s quick, acrobatic, and whip smart about surroundings. He did single handedly take on a Heavy. Sure, it was his meet-the and everyone is overpowered but still. He puts up a fight. (My favorite subversive moment of the ‘scout gets wreaked by everyone automatically’ is in Mann Swap where we see him use his skillset to match with heavy’s strength.)

It’s hilarious to punch the punching bag, ofc. But Scout is my least favorite of the main nine and it still kills me to see him in “serious” tf2 fan media with only his joke traits.

[nasa-parker]

best friend just said she feels hurt by our friendship and wants to talk about it but hasn’t replied back to me 😀👍🏼