#remember the adage:

[mintedwitcher]

Once again begging gen z to learn and understand hyperbole and generalisation for comedic and satirical purposes. Please.

[avaritia-apotheosis]

reminder to AO3 readers that tags are a resource (for filtering) but that they're also courtesy. AO3 authors are not obligated to tag anything except what they believe is relevant for their fic, and they should not have to expect and cater to your every little insecurity or squicks.

Remember: you are the only one responsible for your reading experiences. If you come across something you don't like, then stop reading and move on.

[rotarywires]

i really think i'd make the shift into dressing vintage (specifically the late 40s earlier 50s range) if 1) it wasn't so darned expensive to try and work my entire wardrobe (before anyone asks YES i have considered patterns, have you seen how expensive fabric is?) 2) i had the confidence to do full 40s-50s makeup and attire every day

[fridayyy-13th]

so i decided to take a nap. before i went to sleep, it was sunny, partly cloudy. kinda on the uncomfortably warm side but no biggie.

…i wake up, and it’s storming like nobody’s fucking business. rain coming down in sheets, blowing in practically sideways from all the wind. i wasn’t even asleep that long.

[wyllzel]

y'know whenever i see an overly complicated bg3 build and the person behind it is like "you NEED this for honor mode!!!!!1!1!!1!!!!" i think of that time hyungwon was like "a good artist never blames his tools" 🫣

[bakuraryxu]

my Make Contact print arrived!

[redwinterroses]

...okay but the end poem in the Poisonous Potato Update is downright unnerving. O.O

The nightshades stir. We are not alone in here.

[Player Name]?

Ah,yes, I see it now. The player tugging at the starchy strands of reality.

Do you think it knows? Do you think it wants to know?

It cannot. A mere lateral stem, branching off from the main into an endless sea of potatobilities, forever longing for the warmth of the mother tuber.

Solanum tuberosum.

We shall not dwell on such things. It is the nature of all perennial dreams. To know without remembering. Seeing how, but never knowing why.

Maybe [player] is different?

The [glitching text] forbids it. We count time in potateons, far-reaching stolons stretching out across the [glitching text]. The player is just passing by.

Will it remember us afterwards?

It is possible, but not in the sense that you hope for. The dauphinoise is layered in ways that even we cannot fathom.

We will still be here, long after this potato patch has been folded into the velvety mash of time.

As the starch commands. The player will not.

I wish we could spend more time with [player]. Make it remember that [glitched text] will [glitched text] after it leaves us.

The skin must not be peeled. The player would not understand.

Great solanaceae, it must not be peeled.

You remember our old adage. We shall guide it on its journey through.

I like this player, can I say the words?

Yes, but do not linger. The time of harvest is almost upon us. The door is closing.

[Player], listen to my voice...

Good.

Boiled, baked, roasted or fried, always trust in the potato. You are one with the tubers now.

You are the potato.

Time to sprout.

WELL OKAY THEN.

[sniperct]

I'm curious about your opinion on recent events with Biden. Do you think it's likely another Democrat will either run against him in the coming months or replace him altogether? A lot of talk about Kamala replacing him but I don't think she wants to as she's a pretty staunch supporter of his.

The only way biden gets replaced at this point is if he's dead.

We would 100% lose. Voters hate hate hate it when a party is so messy as to replace their candidate mid-run. I saw a headline saying this is biden's LBJ moment. OVER ONE DEBATE (also, uh, who won in 1968 after the dems had a contested convention? It sure as shit wasn't the democrat)

If one bad debate mattered, Reagan and Obama would have both lost their re-election bids.

Additionally, Biden has made 15 appearances in 8 cities in 9 days. Like...that's a lot. And he's been sharp in every one. And plenty of other candidates have had really bad debates and did fine in the election. We're many months out polls are noise at this point (and remember in 2022 when the red wave didn't materialize despite every poll showing republicans headed for a massive win. Polls haven't been accurate in a long, long time)

The media has also screamed for ...well every democratic candidate since Bill Clinton to resign while being mysteriously silent on the age and qualifications for Republicans, further proving the old adage 'its okay if you're a republican'. Funny how no one is calling for the convicted felon and proven rapist to resign even though he's almost the same age as Biden.

They're also already running hit-pieces on Harris(boy does the media hate Harris), and will do the same for any other candidate. The NYtimes in particular has been extremely vindictive and one-sided (they did the same to hillary)

Also a lot of this call for biden to step aside originated on the right before getting amplified on the left.

They're already prepared to sue to prevent another candidate from getting on ballots in many states and could succeed in that. In which case, auto-win for trump.

Lastly, anyone but biden or harris would mean they start from scratch money-wise; legally they can't give the 100s of millions biden has already raised (far out raising trump by the way) to any other candidates.

Democrats are very good at eating their own, we form our own circular firing squads at the drop of a hat. All of this is noise that detracts from the many, many things biden has actually done to improve the country and our lives or having the most progressive agenda of any US president.

But the media likes to keep quiet about the good stuff on the dem side and the bad stuff on the GOP side so *shrug*

[inthefallofasparrow]

Remember when previous generations used to say quaint silly little adages like, "The squeaky wheel gets the grease". Ma'am, these days the squeaky wheel gets removed and replaced, or worse, the squeaky wheel gets the product recalled and taken off the shelves. More and more it seems like if you want the grease, you in fact need to be the 'sneaky' wheel, or alternatively, the wheel whose parents are rich and well-connected in wheel circles.

[bitchiswild]

Private Lessons

Sub!GP Kazuha x F! Reader Word Count: 3.2k Warnings: smut, cream-pie, giving head, miss kink?, etc. A/n: I’m sorry I make it sound like y'all cum in 3 seconds😭 Requested

"Once again, starting from the beginning!" Your voice echoed across the dance room. "1 & 2 & 3 & 4 & 5 & 6 & 7 & 8-, Stop!" With a swift motion, you raised your hand, bringing the music to a halt and signaling the dancers to freeze.

Your gaze, sharp and focused, swept over the group. "Kazuha, your Grand Adage needs improvement; we aim for perfection here," you asserted, your tone firm.

Kazuha visibly shrank under your scrutiny, offering a meek apology, "Sorry, miss."

"Let's go through it once more, starting from the top. Remember, girls, ballerinas are perfect, so you need to be perfect," you exhorted with a commanding tone, letting out a sigh that carried a sense of expectation.

As the music started afresh, the dancers resumed their positions. "1 & 2 & 3 & 4 & 5 & 6 & 7 & 8-," you counted, guiding them through the routine. However, as the sequence progressed, Kazuha faltered, missing a step in her Grand Adage.

"Kazuha, pay attention! You've got to get it right," you exclaimed, your voice holding a mix of frustration and determination. The other dancers watched as you corrected Kazuha, emphasizing the importance of precision in every movement.

Despite your corrections, Kazuha continued to struggle with the Grand Adage. Another misstep caused her to stumble, and you couldn't help but release an exasperated sigh. "Kazuha! We need to perfect this move by next week! Focus!," you urged, your tone carrying a hint of disappointment.

Kazuha, now visibly anxious, stammered an apology, "I-I'm sorry, miss. I'll try harder."

Recognizing her unease, you softened your tone, "Take a deep breath and try again. But remember, you need to get this right." As the class ended, you addressed everyone, "Great effort, everyone! Class dismissed, except for you, Kazuha. I need to talk to you after class."

Alone in the now quiet dance room, Kazuha stood nervously before you. Her eyes darted anxiously as she awaited your feedback.

"You're talented, Kazuha, but you seem a bit nervous out there," you remarked, your tone gentler than before. "Tell me, what's going on? Is something bothering you?"

Kazuha blushed then hesitated before speaking, "I... I'm just scared of messing up. I don't want to disappoint you."

You sighed, realizing the pressure she felt. "It's okay to make mistakes; that's how we learn. But you can't let fear control you. I believe in your potential. Take a deep breath and trust yourself. We'll work on it together."

As you observed Kazuha's nervous demeanor, you decided to take a more hands-on approach to help her overcome her fears. "Let's break it down step by step," you suggested, guiding her through the movements with patience. "Start with the first position and breathe. Remember, it's okay to take your time."

Kazuha blushed as you stood close, her heart racing while you provided gentle guidance. Nodding, she attempted the steps under your watchful eye. Despite the initial struggle, she began to regain some composure with each repetition. You offered words of encouragement, emphasizing the importance of confidence in dance.

After some time, Kazuha's movements became more fluid, and a sense of accomplishment replaced the earlier anxiety. "See, you've got this! Mistakes happen, but it's how we learn from them that matters," you reassured her.

Kazuha found herself in a bit of a daze, mesmerized by the way your body moved during the dance. It stirred something in her skirt. You looked absolutely stunning.

“Kazuha?” you called out, snapping your fingers in front of her face. “Are you okay?” concern evident in your voice.

Snapping out of her trance, she blushed, hastily putting her hand in front of her to hide her incoming hard on. “Y-Yea, T-Thank Y-You, Miss,” she stammered out.

You stared at her intently, your gaze eventually shifting down, noticing her predicament. Your mouth formed an 'oh' shape as you realized what was happening.

Kazuha, realizing where you were looking and began to apologize profusely. “I-I’m so s-sorry, Miss. It's just y-you’re so b-beautiful, a-and t-the w-way y-your b-body m-moves-" she stammered, her words filled with genuine embarrassment.

You chuckled, moving closer to Kazuha until you were by her ear. In a soft whisper, you said, “I'm glad you see me this way.” Your warm breath made Kazuha shudder. She instinctively placed her hand on your waist, drawing you closer, as your arms gently wrapped around her neck.

Caught off guard by your unexpected revelation, Kazuha's nervousness intensified. "W-What do you mean?" she stammered, her eyes wide with a mix of surprise and uncertainty.

You maintained a teasing smile, "It means," you explained, your voice carrying a hint of amusement, "I have the hots for you too."

As the weight of the confession hung in the air, Kazuha's response was palpable – a shuddered breath and a whimper that betrayed the intensity of the moment. Responding to the unspoken tension, your hand instinctively rose, delicately caressing her face.

"Can I kiss you?" you asked, your gaze meeting hers, your eyes framing the question with a subtle charm. Kazuha whimpered again, her nod indicating consent. Yet, you gently tsked, your voice soft but firm, "I need words, Kazuha." She stammered a nervous agreement, "Y-Yes, miss," prompting a soft hum and understanding smile from you.

You closed the gap, pulling her into a kiss that carried the weight of tension between the two of you. Your hand slowly went down to touch her hard on, causing her to whimper in your mouth, while bucking her hips into your hands.

Your kisses grew more intense. Gently, you guided Kazuha towards the nearest wall, and she willingly pressed into your touch, her breath becoming rapid with anticipation.

"Please," she whimpered against your lips, her desire evident as your hands continued to rub her clothed dick. Pulling back slightly, you met her gaze with a playful smirk.

"Please what, Kazuha?" you teased, your fingers still teasing her aching member.

"Please, miss, touch me," she pleaded, her desperation clear in her voice.

"But I am touching you," you teased back, enjoying the effect you were having on her.

With a desperate whine, Kazuha hastily pulled down her skirt, her member now exposed and throbbing against her stomach, the tip flushed a deep, angry red.

As Kazuha's cock throbbed against her stomach, her breathing ragged with anticipation, you couldn't resist the urge to indulge her desires further. With a devilish grin, you trailed your fingertips along her exposed cock, eliciting a shiver of pleasure from her.

"Please, miss, I need more," she pleaded, her voice trembling with need.

Unable to deny her, you leaned in close, your breath hot against her ear as you whispered, "Tell me exactly what you want, Kazuha."

Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and desire, but she didn't hesitate to voice her desires. "I need your touch, your mouth, anything, please," she whimpered, her hands reaching out to grasp yours and guide them to where she craved them most.

You obliged, your fingers tracing teasing circles around her sensitive flesh, each touch igniting a spark of pleasure within her. Kazuha's moans filled the air as she arched against you.

You knelt down, her member still pulsating in your grasp, eliciting a symphony of moans from her lips. Her dick was hard, ready to explode as she had been waiting for this moment. With a sultry gaze, you met her eyes, maintaining unbroken contact as you traced the path of a prominent vein running from the base of her cock to its red tip with your tongue.

Kazuha's breath hitched as she watched you, anticipation mounting with each flick of your tongue. Your lashes fluttered seductively as you looked up at her. Without hesitation, you enveloped the head of her cock with your mouth, the sensation causing Kazuha's knees to weaken beneath her.

Her moans and whimpers grew louder, the pleasure coursing through her veins as you took her entire cock in your mouth. Your tongue danced skillfully around her, eliciting a chorus of desperate gasps and whimpers from Kazuha's trembling lips.

"F-Fuck, Miss, I'm gonna cum," Kazuha whimpered, her hand reaching out to push your head closer. You continued to shove her member down your throat, moaning as spit dripped down your chin.

Her hips began to stutter as the sensation of her member sliding into the tight confines of your throat overwhelmed her. Her legs trembled with the intensity of pleasure as her member throbbed against your tongue, each deep-throat sending waves of ecstasy coursing through her body. Kazuha's movements became erratic as she pressed her hips forward, her moans reduced to breathless whimpers as her body convulsed with pleasure. With a shudder, her hips pushed as far as they could, and a primal moan escaped her lips as her balls tightened, signaling her impending orgasm.

You felt her cock grow even harder in your mouth as her warm, salty cum began to shoot out, filling your mouth with each pulsating release. Kazuha's hips bucked uncontrollably as she emptied every last drop of her cum into your waiting mouth, her body trembling with the intensity of her release.

As her body trembled with the aftershocks of her orgasm, you tenderly withdrew from her member, relishing the lingering taste of her salty cum on your tongue. Kazuha sank against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor, her chest heaving with the exertion of her pleasure. Panting heavily, she fixed her gaze on you, a mixture of gratitude and desire swirling in her glazed eyes.

You knelt down beside her, your own breath still ragged from the intensity of the moment. Gently, you reached out to brush a strand of hair away from her flushed face, a tender smile playing on your lips as you took in the sight of her satiated form.

"Are you okay?" you whispered softly, your voice filled with concern and tenderness.

Kazuha nodded, her lips curving into a contented smile as she reached out to intertwine her fingers with yours. "More than okay," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

With a gentle tug, Kazuha pulled you into her arms, her voice filled with a desperate plea. "I want to make you feel good too, miss," she whimpered, her longing evident as she pressed her body against yours.

Feeling her urgency, you allowed yourself to be guided by her eager hands. Before you knew it, Kazuha had pushed you onto your back on the floor, her movements swift as she deftly removed your skirt and underwear in one fluid motion, exposing your core to her hungry gaze.

With a sense of anticipation, Kazuha's hand reached out to swipe at your slick folds, causing a jolt of pleasure to course through you. You couldn't help but buck your hips into her touch, a guttural groan escaping your lips at the sensation.

"Shit, Kazuha," you moaned, the intensity of her touch sending waves of pleasure rippling through your body.

"Am I making you feel good, miss?" Kazuha asked shyly, her hand never ceasing its tantalizing movements as she slowly slid inside you, making you shudder with pleasure.

"Y-Yes, just like that, Kazuha," you moaned in response, your voice thick with desire as you surrender yourself to the intoxicating pleasure of her touch.

She dipped her head closer to your cunt, her tongue swiping teasingly at your clit while her fingers continued their relentless thrusting inside you. The sensation was electrifying, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through your body.

As she began to suck on your clit with increasing fervor, a guttural moan escaped your lips, your hands instinctively flying to grip her head, pulling her closer to you. The combination of her tongue and fingers was driving you wild, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

Then, with a knowing touch, Kazuha's fingers found your G-spot, and she intensified her thrusts, hitting just the right spot to send you over the edge. Your body arched in response to her thrusts.

You cried out in ecstasy, your body shaking as the waves of pleasure crashed over you. Kazuha continued her ministrations, her touch gentle yet insistent as she guided you through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

As you lay there, trembling and breathless, Kazuha pulled you into her arms, holding you close, with a slow and deliberate movement, you began to grind your soaking core against her hardening member, eliciting a whimper from Kazuha as the warm friction ignited a new wave of arousal within her. The sensation was electrifying, and you both moaned in anticipation as you felt the delicious pressure building between your bodies.

Lifting your hips, you guided her member to your entrance, the tip dipping slowly into your slick heat. Both you and Kazuha whimpered at the sensation, the anticipation nearly unbearable as you gradually took her entire length inside you.

"M-Miss, Y-you're so tight," Kazuha whimpered, her eyes fixed on your conjoined heat as she watched her thick cock disappear inside you. Her hand tightened around your waist, holding you close as you both became lost in the overwhelming sensation.

“F-Fuck! Kazuha, you're so good to me” You moaned, as you began riding her. “Such a pretty girl, are you my good girl?” You said to her as you gripped her face, forcing her to look at you.

“Y-Yes” She whimpers out, you rolled your hips into the whimpering girl.

"Yes, what?" you questioned her, your tone stern as you bounced on her member harder, eliciting even more whimpering from her.

"Yes, what, Kazuha?" you asked her, your voice filled with anticipation as you continued to move your hips, riding her cock with fervent passion. Each thrust brought you closer to that edge of ecstasy, driving you both crazy.

"Y-Yes, Miss," she cried out in response, her voice filled with need as her dick throbbed intensely inside you, ready to release its load.

She spilled thick spurts of cum, coating your walls in warmth, you leaned down to capture her lips in a passionate kiss. Your spit connected as you pulled away for a split second to lick it up from Kazuha's lips, eliciting a moan of pleasure from her.

The warm feeling of her cum against your walls sent a shiver of pleasure down your spine, your own orgasm nearing with each passing moment.

"S-Shit, Kazuha," you muffled your screams into her shoulder as your stomach tightened, your legs beginning to shake and your vision blurring as white-hot pleasure sporadically consumed you in waves.

You both collapsed onto the floor, your bodies entwined in a state of bliss. The air was filled with the soft sounds of your labored breathing as you basked in the afterglow.

Gradually, as the waves of pleasure subsided, a sense of calm washed over you both. Kazuha nestled against you, her head resting on your chest as you gently stroked her hair, soothing her with your touch.

Feeling tears on your chest, you gently pulled Kazuha away to look at her, a worried expression on your face. "Kazuha, what's wrong?" you asked softly, concerned that you might have crossed a line.

"I-I'm sorry," she cried out, her voice trembling with emotion.

"W-What are you sorry for?" you questioned her, still worried about her well-being.

"I-I'm sorry for c-cumming inside you," she hiccuped, her words filled with guilt.

You let out a sigh of relief, realizing the source of her distress. Then, a chuckle escaped your lips as you reassured her, "It's okay, I don't mind it."

With a reassuring smile, you got off her member, you reached down between your legs, thrusting your fingers inside yourself and pulling them out, now coated in her cum. Without hesitation, you brought your fingers to your mouth, licking them clean.

As you looked into Kazuha's eyes, you could see her gaze darken behind the tears, a mixture of emotions swirling within her. Without a word, she crawled closer to you, straddling your hips as she pressed her hard cock against your wet heat. Gently, she rubbed it between your folds, eliciting a shiver of pleasure from you both.

With a shaky breath, Kazuha pushed herself inside you, her tears still streaming down her face from the guilt she felt. Your back arched at the stretch, the intrusion causing you to grasp onto Kazuha's back and groan in pleasure as she wasted no time in adjusting. Your legs instinctively wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer as she began thrusting her hips into yours.

The room quickly filled with the squelching sounds of your bodies moving together, Kazuha's cock stretching you out while your walls squeezed tightly around her with each stroke.

"You feel so good, miss, oh my god," Kazuha cried out, her voice filled with a mixture of pleasure and longing. You reached your hands to her face, wiping away her tears in a gesture of reassurance.

Her heavy balls collided with your skin with each thrust, her panting breaths hot against your ear as her back flexed with each powerful movement. Her cock slid in and out, each thrust growing more intense as she slammed back into you with increasing fervor.

"Oh my god, I'm gonna cum, miss," Kazuha whimpered, the urgency in her voice matching the frantic pace of her thrusts. You trembled under her, her cock stretching you in all the right places as you urged her on.

"Cum, Kazuha, cum in me," you cried out, your voice filled with desire as your body moved with her thrusts.

Kazuha's whiny moans fueled your own arousal, her pace becoming hard and deep as her balls slapped against you with each powerful thrust. Your walls began fluttering around her throbbing cock, the intense sensation driving you both closer to the edge.

With a final, primal cry of pleasure, your walls clamped and milked around her throbbing cock as it continued to spurt heavy streams of cum inside you. Kazuha buried her head in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as both of your legs shook with the intensity of your shared orgasm.

Kazuha collapsed on top of your body, you held her close, ignoring the sweat that coated both of your bodies. You brushed her hair behind her ear and placed a tender kiss on her forehead as she sighed contently in your embrace.

"You did so good, Kazuha. I'm proud of you," you murmured softly, your voice filled with genuine admiration as you continued to caress her back. Though Kazuha blushed at your words, you didn't notice as you both remained there in each other's embrace for a while.

Eventually, Kazuha got off of you and helped you clean up and change. The two of you then made your way to the door, staring at each other with a mixture of affection and longing.

As you locked the door, you turned to look at her and leaned in to give her a gentle peck on the lips. "I'll see you tomorrow," you told her with a wink, leaving her standing there as she watched you walk away.

The lingering warmth of your embrace and the sweetness of your parting kiss filled Kazuha's heart with a sense of happiness and contentment. She couldn't help but smile as she watched you disappear into the distance, already looking forward to seeing you again the next day.

[therobotmonster]

Chosen for What?

A short tale about chosen ones.

"There it is."

Johann's voice was barely a whisper but in the unnatural silence of the forest it might as well have been a shout. The knight took a step forward, oblivious to the crunch of his footsteps on the dry leaves or the sharp, almost metallic smell of the coming snow.

His focus was entirely upon the spear. It's shaft was made of white wood, polished so smooth he had mistaken it for marble, and the bronze spearhead was shaped like a elegantly stylized shark.

It was presently stuck within the ribcage of an obscenely oversized humanlike skeleton, which was itself entangled in the gnarled roots of a tree the size of a watchtower. The giant's bones were twice the size of a man's. More remarkably, they were made of pitted, rust-flecked iron.

Johann reached forward.

"HOLD!"

Johann froze. Even though the salvation of his people was mere inches away from his outstreched hand, he dared not ignore the voice behind him. He felt the wizard's hand grip him by the shoulder.

"You know it is not meant for you." Aldara said. She squeezed hard enough for Johann to feel it through his mail shirt. He remembered her saying that wizards aged only on the outside. He had no reason to doubt her on that point.

"And who is it for?" Johann hissed under his breath. "That scum?"

The scum in question was already walking toward the spear. Galen VonZent, the cutpurse and murderer. Galen VonZent, the spoiled, cruel son of a merchant house who killed his own father and nearly bought his way to freedom. Galen VonZent, who Alex 'sacrificed himself to save.'

"Galan, take the spear. You're ready." Aldara said, her voice heavy with the import of the moment. When Galan moved to obey, she slowly pulled Johann back away from the spear, step-by-step.

The tall, golden-haired man grabbed the spear with both hands, and began slowly pulling it free of the iron skeleton. To Johann's shock and disgust, the shark-shaped spearhead bent this way and that in a swaying motion, aiding in its release.

"The gods must be insane, or cruel beyond reasoning. If that beast is their chosen one."

"You aren't incorrect." The old woman chuckled. "But why say that now? Why not when we found him?"

"I had faith the gods had chosen well, that he'd grow into the role. But since we saved him from the gallows he has done nothing but confirm that he was right to be there. He has been cruel, selfish, cowardly, and petty at every turn." Johann's voice was a barely subdued growl. "And even if you do not believe me, he murdered Alex."

"I told you to give him a chance." Aldara said. Johann braced to be lectured about some hidden goodness or potential for redemption. "I'm glad you took my advice."

"What? You agree with me?" Johann gritted his teeth. "You should have let me at least try to pull the spear free. If he can do it, I certainly can!"

"Why is a prophecy like a worm on a line?"

"Again with your riddles! I don't know!" Johann barely managed to suppress a shout. "Is that why I am unworthy? A riddle?"

Aldara sighed. She smiled in that way that made Johann think of his grandmother, and his anger faltered. She spoke, clear and gentle. "Do you think the Gods would leave something this important up to chance?"

"Obviously not, that's why the prophecy-"

She squeezed again.

"Tell me, how do you ensure that a chosen hero isn't killed before they can save the world?"

Johann glanced back at Galan. The brute had managed to free the spear halfway, and was taking a self-congratulatory break. "Whisk him away as a child to be raised in safety? Assign a wizard to watch over him? Place other heroes along the path to help him?"

"So many moving parts." The wizard laughed. "The gods can try and play us like puppets, but free will is a wildcat in a burlap sack-"

"-you can take it wherever you want until the sack tears." Johann continued the adage. "And you'll get cut along the way regardless."

"The task gets no easier by adding more cats."

"Then how?" Johann asked, somewhere between sullen and frustrated.

"If you need to make sure only someone who is worthy can take the spear, you make the spear ensure that anyone who takes it-"

The wizard paused, a wide satisfied smile on her face. It was not the smile she had worn when they were joyously feasting with the elf-folk five days into the quest. It was the smile she had worn when she made Vorn the Destroyer's blood turn to water in his veins.

Johann's gaze was thusly occupied when the sound of Galan's sharp, anguished scream ripped through the air.

"-is worthy."

Johann turned slowly. As a knight he had heard enough death rattles and screams to know that he didn't want to witness the cause Galan's banshee-like shriek.

When he finally did turn fully, his gaze did not meet a horrifying eldritch mutilation as he expected. Instead, there stood Galan, holding the spear reverently with both hands.

Though nothing outward had changed, every aspect that Johann had found lacking was now plainly there in the lines of his face and posture of his body: compassion, thoughtfulness, maturity, competence, sincerity... even hope. Everything was there behind those eyes.

Everything except Galan VonZent.

[arcanarix]

on the random moments you info dump to geto, sometimes you accidentally tell him some of the most profound shit ever. most of what you say is pure jargon which he doesn’t mind hearing you babble on and on and on for ages about, but then you randomly drop something like: “so, did you know that apparently lemons aren’t even naturally occurring fruit in the wild? Lemons are a hybrid of a bitter orange and citron. So…next time you think about that old adage, just remember life never gave us those lemons. We made that shit ourselves.”

And you’re just met with a long stretch of silence because in a way, you also call him out on his bullshit and he’s not sure whether to be impressed or offended

[wxnheart]

Hi I was hoping you take requests? There’s this song that I recently discovered and it made me think mostly of König but you can do the other boys if you’d like to.

I was going to ask for POV of König (or any of the boys) with a shy s/o and the song is this: https://youtu.be/COSahj2SZqQ

Thank you and Happy Holidays! 🎉

𝐒𝐡𝐲!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒/𝐎 - 𝐒𝐨𝐚𝐩, 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐊ö𝐧𝐢𝐠

part two

Deeper than I've felt it before with you, baby I feel I'm falling in love with all my heart...

𝐊ö𝐧𝐢𝐠

You're so cute, Schatzi.

When you smile, there's always a hint of bashfulness there. It's bright, radiant, and makes his day every time. Never stop smiling for him.

König remembers those moments before you two became a couple. He remembers the longing in your glances. He remembers looking at you the same way. The mutual affection was there. It had always been there but you two were just too damn shy to act on it. Until now.

You were two peas in a pod, cheeks burning under each other's lovestruck gaze; your fingers tentatively touched and explored each other and for once, König didn't care who noticed. Time had slowed, his surroundings became a blur, and all he saw... was you.

Even now, all he sees is you.

And it is love. It burns brighter than his cheeks and comfortably shields him just like his mask. It invigorates him and there's nothing he looks forward to more than your smile, bright, radiant, and bashful, greeting him.

And for once, König didn't care who noticed.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 '𝐒𝐨𝐚𝐩' 𝐌𝐚𝐜𝐓𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐡

Oh-ho, you're shy! Heh. Soap likes it. Likes it a lot, actually.

Shy wasn't something he encountered often. Not in his line of work. Couldn't afford to, really.

The same could be said for his personal life, too. And so when you came with your breathy laughter and coy gaze, Soap knew he was smitten.

Of course he was. He'd be a fool not to be crazy about you.

And if there's one adage Soap has learned to live by, it's to never judge a book by its cover. Shy didn't mean scared. It didn't mean weak. It didn't mean different or inefficient. It just meant SHY and fuck everyone who thought otherwise.

You proved it each and every day. You were strong where it counted. You were sharp and fucking brave. You held the fort down whenever Soap was away. You were his rock when he needed reassurance and grounding.

Yeah, he loved you. Loved you lots, really. Loved your breathy laughter and coy gaze. He loved your wit, your courage, and your earthy wisdom.

And Soap knew he'd be a fool not to.

𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 '𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭' 𝐑𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲

God, he felt like a kid with a crush when it came to you.

He couldn't stop staring at you and you usually wouldn't stare at him at all, and whenever he did manage to lock gazes with you, you'd quickly avert your eyes. What the fuck?

Simon would be lying if he said he didn't find it cute the way you'd look away and smile to yourself knowingly. No matter how shy you were, you weren't oblivious to the way he felt. You fucking glowed under the intensity of his stare and like hell would he stop. You were an enigma wrapped in a secret and smothered in riddles that he was intent on solving.

And whenever he thought he made progress, there you were to make him realize he was nowhere near close.

And yeah, that's what led to him making the first move. That's what led to you two falling in love, becoming a couple, and fuck if he isn't the happiest bastard alive.

Sometimes Ghost wonders if this is what his parents were like before their demons made fools of them both. Did his mother smile to herself all shy and reserved and did his father want her even more? Or, shit, was it doomed from the moment they first laid eyes on each other?

Sometimes he wonders if he's destined for the same thing. Sometimes...

But Simon was determined to be better than his father. He was determined to have a fulfilling relationship. You were an enigma wrapped in a secret smothered in riddles and if it took the rest of his life to figure you out then so be it. Like hell you're getting rid of him that easily, love.

[itsawritblr]

Fuck "sensitivity readers."

I see that a couple of my Followers and other writers on here are obsessed with writing POC "correctly."

As a full-time professional writer of fiction and nonfiction who's also Hapa, I need to point out:

So you're paranoid that you're gonna write something and POC are going to come after you, calling you "racist" or "insensitive" or that you're "appropriating culture."

The only reply you need to make is in 2 steps:

Say:

Then:

There's is no "right way" to write any group of people or any race or ethnicity. Know why?

I've seen this happen. A Black writer will tell white writers how to write Blacks. Then another Black writer will say, "Wait a minute, I'm not like that, my family's not like that. We're not all Urban BLM hip-hop lovers. I'm Christian, I'm against trans in women's spaces, I have several White friends, and I listen to classic country music."

So who's right? Both.

A "sensitivity reader" or some on this hellsite will tell you HOW to write POC. When all they're telling you is their POV. They can't speak for everyone. (A perfect example.)

If you want to write about a person of a race or ethnicity other than your own, sure, do a little research, as you would with anything. If a sensitivity reader tells you your Jewish character should be celebrating Shabbat, a little research on your own will tell you that not all Jews do (as it happens, I learned this from my Jewish boyfriend, whose family never celebrated Shabbat). So that "sensitivity reader" would have given you misinformation because of her or his POV.

Do not panic that you're gonna be canceled or yelled at for "getting it wrong."

There IS no wrong. Look,

All you need to remember is:

Writer and screenwriter Anthony Horowitz was told not to write Black characters because he's white and Jewish. This stunned him. He was supposed to leave Black characters out of his work? But if he did that he'd be accused of not having Black characters.

He didn't obey. In fact, I'm reading his current novel, and he has a perfectly fine Black character in it.

Read this article:

No, Authors Should Not Be Constrained By Gender Or Race In The Characters They Create. by Lorraine Devon White, Contributor

This was the BBC.com headline:

Spy Author Anthony Horowitz ‘Warned Off’ Creating Black Character:

Author Anthony Horowitz says he was “warned off” including a black character in his new book because it was “inappropriate” for a white writer. The creator of the Alex Rider teenage spy novels says an editor told him it could be considered “patronising” ... Horowitz, who has written 10 novels featuring teenage spy Alex Rider, said there was a “chain of thought” in America that it was “inappropriate” for white writers to try to create black characters, something which he described as “dangerous territory”.

Dangerous territory, indeed.

What are we to make of this? Is an author limited to only writing characters within their race? What about gender? Religion? Age? Ethnicity? Sexual orientation? Where do the boundaries stop?

The old adage, “write what you know,” is a thesis that implies a writer should limit their imagination to the parameters of their own life and experience. But does that maxim still hold true today? Certainly in these times of viral accessibility, contact, research, knowledge, and interaction with people, places, and things far outside our own proximity is as every-day as 24/7 updates from the farthest corners of the globe. Our ability, consequently, to gain perspective sufficient enough to write outside one’s own “house” is not only doable, but, perhaps, universal and insightful, presuming one does it well.

But is it “patronizing”? Are we, as writers, simply not allowed to write outside, say, our culture, regardless of how well we might do it? Has society become so compartmentalized, so hypersensitive, politically correct, and wary of triggering repercussion, resentment, or misinterpretation that reaching beyond our own skin ― literally and figuratively – has become verboten to us as creative artists?

Interesting questions, these; particularly when you consider that men have been writing about women since time immemorial without particular societal concern that they couldn’t possibly know, couldn’t authentically muster, the requisite experiential perspective. It was a given that they could get the job done; accepted without debate. Yet the specificity, the sensitive and unique nature of being female, could be considered as disparate from the male experience as being black is to a white person, but that hasn’t stopped male authors, from Vladimir Nabokov to Wally Lamb, from creating their women of note.

Which is fair. Because the explicit job of an author is to climb inside the experience of LIFE, real or imagined, to tell compelling stories that reflect the incalculable diversity of detail, nuance, thought, and emotion of any variety of people, places, and things. And the creative mind can find and translate authenticity whether writing about Martians, coquettish teens, dogs who play poker, or characters who exactly mirror the author‘s gender or race.

I’ve had my own experience with this interesting conundrum: my last novel, Hysterical Love, was told through the first-person point-of-view of a thirty-three-year-old man, and it goes without saying: I’m not one of those. Yet I felt completely capable of infusing my story with authenticity by relying on my skills of observation, as well as my experiential knowledge as the sister of five men, the mother of a son, the wife of a man; my years on the road with rock bands, and the immersive research of being a close friend to many, many men throughout my life. I’ve been told I pulled it off, even by the men who’ve read it, so my conviction proved out.

But is the divide between cultures, races, wider than that of gender diversity? Does a white writer delegitimize their prose by including black characters? Is the reverse true?

I don’t think so. I think it depends on the writer, the quality of their work; the depth and sensitivity of their depictions. Those are my initial responses. But I also understand the question:

About two years ago I had an article up at HuffPost titled, “No, White People Will Never Understand the Black Experience,” a piece that became a flashpoint for much conversation on the topic of race. It was written in response to events of the time, particularly the egregious injustice of Sandra Bland’s arrest and subsequent (and inexplicable) jailhouse death, and the cacophony that arose amongst, amidst, and between parties on both sides of the racial divide as a result. My own thesis, my perspective on the tangible limitations we each have in perceiving and assessing the realities of life outside ourselves, is made clear by the title alone. But while there’s obviously much more to that debate, here and now we’re discussing the issue as it relates to the job of being an author and I have some specific thoughts on that.

Inspired by the many responses and conversations that ensued after the aforementioned article, as well as others written on the topic of racial conflict, bias, and injustice, I took one of the stories referenced, about an interracial couple’s experiences with police profiling, and developed it into a character-driven novel called A NICE WHITE GIRL, a title that reflects commentary made within some of the conversations I had.

This “sociopolitical love story” is told through the intertwining points-of-view of a black man and white woman dealing not only with pushback to their new and evolving relationship, but the ratcheting impact of police profiling that ultimately leads to a life-altering arrest. It’s a story that’s human, gut-wrenching, and honest, built on the foundation of my own experiences in a long-term interracial relationship earlier in my life, as well as journalistic research and interviews, personal interactions, even friendships with members of the black community. Given a commitment to creating the characters outside my demographic as authentically and sensitively as I possibly could, without watering them down or pandering to political correctness, I believe I served both my story and its cultural demands well. Did I?

Every author relies on, taps into; mines the wealth of thought, opinion, perspective, and acculturation of their own unique life experience. Certainly that’s true. But as artists, as observers and chroniclers of life by way of prose, we go beyond that pool of reference. We reach out, we expand; we explore plot lines and include characters that stretch our imagination, that dig deep into worlds, events and experiences, imagined or real, that can pull us onto less traveled roads that might demand the challenge of research, of specific observation, even outside consultation. We take these extra steps, even for fiction, because we want to infuse our work with inherent realness. Particularly when writing characters outside our culture. That was certainly the demand I faced when embarking upon this latest novel.

But I am a white woman who’s written a book with a black male character, inclusive of his mother, his sister, and various friends. I’ve depicted their family life, their interactions, relationships, thoughts and feelings. Do I not have the creative right to do that? Will I be seen as patronizing, insensitive, off base, and inappropriate? Will this make my book too controversial for representation, for publishing, for sale? Will it garner derision and disdain from members of the black community? Even members of the white community who may resent the harshness with which I depict some of the police?

I don’t know. Maybe. But it was a story I felt passionate about, compelled to write; that took the many debated aspects and elements discussed in my articles and put them into fictional form, with imagined characters who embodied and borrowed from people I knew, from conversations I’d had, from ideas, agendas, politics, and passions that had been conveyed to me by real people expressing essential and sometimes controversial perspectives. I was determined to honor them by candidly, honestly, and without apology, telling the story.

But perhaps, as Anthony Horowitz was told, I’m entering territory that is off-limits, that puts me at odds with those who might frame me as presumptuous and patronizing. “A nice white girl” who’s stepped outside of culturally acceptable boundaries.

I hope not, because I, like Mr. Horowitz, see that as “dangerous territory.”

Just as brilliant male authors have gorgeously written female protagonists; as female novelists have conjured male characters ringing with truth; as writers of one ethnicity have honestly depicted another; as fabulists have invented entire worlds of imagined wonders, authors must be limited by... NOTHING. Not a thing. They must be free to create without fear of cultural naysaying, societal judgment, threat of reprisal, or the discomfort of crossing cultural boundaries.

The only mandate to which they’re obligated is GOOD WRITING. Writing with wit and clarity. Honesty. Authenticity. Sensitivity and depth. Engaging prose, compelling plots, and visceral emotion. And, if need be, if determined helpful, the use of “sensitivity readers” who can ascertain if the writer got the cultural references right.

But just as Idris Elba could certainly make magic as James Bond, as Anthony Horowitz could create an intriguing black spy for his books; as I can write characters both male and of a culture outside my own, so must every author of merit and worth be allowed to view the entire panoply of life as fuel for their imagination. Anything else is antithetical to the mission of art... and stymying art serves no one. Not the writer, not the reader, not the myriad members of our diverse world hungry for stories that reflect their lives. Art is imagining; creating, mirroring, and provoking... all of which can and must be achieved by artists free to explore without the limiting effect of creative and cultural boundaries.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Vienna (S.R.)

*as always, the gif is not indicative of Reader's appearance.

Summary: Spencer is a bona fide 40-year-old virgin. After a few months of dating Reader, he finally decides he wants to change that. Based on "Vienna" by Billy Joel. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Virgin!Spencer, Spencer POV, established relationship loss of virginity, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex Word Count: 3k

MASTERLIST

I’d often wondered whether my preternatural love for autumn was part of why my life had turned out the way it had. As if my love for late-blooming flowers was built into my biology. Something innate in me that carried with it a promise for a lonely youth.

For a long time, I thought my state of waiting might be fated. Eternal celibacy seemed inevitable. As I watched the years pass by, I’d even started to find some comfort in knowing that there was still a part of me left untouched. Something that could be truly mine in a way things so rarely are.

I was resigned to a life filled to the brim with platonic intimacy. It had been a good life; a happy life. I had a family, albeit not in the ordinary sense of the word. But deep within me, in that 21 ounces that pseudoscience claims to constitute a soul, the longing never ceased. It persisted for nearly forty years.

And then I found her.

She walked into my life with little fanfare. Meeting her felt like finding the answer to an impossible equation after lifetimes of searching.

There had never been a dull moment with her. There was never a lapse in the conversation to permit for any awkward misunderstandings.

The first time that she kissed me, it felt nothing like the times before. It was soft and unassuming, like she were a natural extension of myself.

If one must fall into love, she caught me before my brain could even comprehend it was happening. There was no nauseating sunken stomach, no breathless anxiety of whether or not I was making a mistake.

The first night we were alone, she’d held my face in the dim light. I thought then that my lifetime of waiting had finally come to pass.

She’d only needed a moment of vulnerability to read my soul with the highest proficiency.

With an unrivaled tenderness, she’d told me that she had sensed my innocence the first day we met. That night, and every opportunity since, she had assured me that her love was not conditioned on a physical intimacy. Our life would be beautiful regardless of what it looked like, and she saw no need to fuss over something as simple as sex.

Her assurances had been unnecessary. It had hardly been a month before I found myself eager to give away what I’d once held dear.

Even without a faultless memory, I would always remember the first time she touched me without inhibition. I would forever cherish each of the times that I found myself through an exploration of her.

I had always heard the time-old adage, ‘when it’s right, you’ll know,’ and the skeptic in me doubted whether it could be true for someone like me.

But it was. Because that night, I knew. The same as I knew that the sky appears blue when it is closer to violet and that the color of grass depends on a multitude of factors, I knew that my waiting had come to an end.

I knew because it felt right when she walked into my room with faded lipstick and yet another wonderful memory. That quiet moment felt as fated as the first time I met her. That heaviness in my chest lifted when she turned to look at me, as if my soul had finally found its other half.

I approached her without words because they felt so unnecessary. I wrapped my arms around her instead, pulling her back against my chest and reveling in the warmth she provided.

She placed her hands over mine and fell back against me like a weary traveler who’d finally found their way home. I thought to myself that falling in love should always feel that way.

My lips found their way to her neck with a similar familiarity. I littered her with kisses, forever seeking the satisfaction of her sighs. I listened to each full inhale and felt the way her body moved with the breath.

The smell of her perfume would fill my lungs better than oxygen ever could. But as her skin grew feverish, so too did my lips. Chaste pecks turned to open mouthed kisses that were better spent on her.

I pulled away but lingered. I pressed my cheek against her jaw and my breath shook with excitement.

“I don’t want to wait forever,” I whispered into her ear, “I want you.”

She turned her head ever so slightly, pressing our cheeks together until I couldn’t resist the urge to kiss her. Before my lips could make it, though, she spoke the words I knew to be true but always loved to hear.

“You have me,” she said.

I believed her. I felt my belonging in the literal and metaphorical sense. I lifted a hand and pressed it against her chest to feel the soft thrumming of her heart.

Carefully, and taking the time to linger, my hands began removing her clothing. I took my time in a way I rarely ever did. Because was the kind of masterpiece that needed to be appreciated for every freckle and scar. Each perceived imperfection was nothing but the history of her, the proof of a life well-lived.

Her experience bled through to her behavior when she was bare. Although she still had her bashful moments, it didn’t take much persuading for her to drop her arms and turn to face me.

I stared with my usual awestruck expression. My eyes roamed along with my hands. They ended on either side of her smile, which was broken by laughter.

“Your turn,” she giggled.

My heart threatened to stop. Not because of nerves or insecurity, but because she looked so impossibly beautiful, and she was mine.

Her fingers were delicate but quick to undo my shirt. I wondered how it could be that someone could touch me without my needing to recoil.

I leaned into her touch, only slightly, and I sighed with relief when she finally released the pressure around my waist.

She didn’t take anything off. Instead, she slid her fingers underneath the loosened clothing. She explored skin that was normally hidden with an undeniable affection.

She looked at me much the same.

“We don’t have to do this,” she offered. Her voice was so gentle that scarred skin still broke into goosebumps at the sound of it.

I answered her offer by taking it upon myself to remove my clothing. Each piece that fell to the ground felt like the end of something.

Looking at her felt like a beginning.

Whether it was my fear of inadequacy or just the usual, simple overwhelming love I felt for her, I didn’t let her stare. Instead, I pulled her closer until our bare chests touched. Also between us was the evidence of my desire, burning hot and aching to be held by her.

A shaky breath slipped through her lips before I kissed her. I kissed her again, harder, and more insistent than ever before.

She laughed. I did, too.

“You’re the most beautiful thing in all of creation,” I murmured absentmindedly against her lips.

Still smiling, she grabbed hold of one of my hands before she pulled away from me. At first, I thought she was leading us to the bed. But then she spun around on her foot, displaying the entirety of her naked body for my adoration.

“You’d better take a closer look, then,” she said.

“I could never forget,” I reminded.

She knew that, though. That’s why she tempted me the way she did, so that I would remember perfectly how we looked in that moment.

I would see the motion in her body just before I pushed her back against my bed. I served witness to the way she made herself comfortable in a matter of seconds. Her body writhed with anticipation, her skin a perfect contrast to the sheets beneath her.

She was so beautiful in her vulnerability. I could tell she felt the same simply by the way that she looked at me.

As I climbed atop her, I tried to stop my arms from shaking. Her hand reached up to cup my cheek. I nearly fell limp in her embrace. I stumbled forward still, falling onto my forearm so that I could free a hand to feel her.

My hand slid between her open legs at the same time she reached between us. Her fingers felt scorching around the base of me. I imagine mine felt equally paralyzing as they dipped between slick folds.

We groaned in tandem at the sensation. The anticipation heightened with our quickened breath. She was already practically sobbing as I dragged my fingers down warm walls and imagined once more what it would feel like to be welcomed into her fullest embrace.

I was surprised to find how much her hand fumbled, how unpracticed she seemed when faced with my ultimate submission.

Dare I say, she almost seemed nervous. Yet I would never be anywhere near dissatisfaction. I was quite the opposite, already aching for the release that only she could give me.

“Do you want to do this?”

I was surprised to hear the question uttered in my own voice.

But I was so happy to hear her answer, “Yes.”

Then, with a lovesick smile that would always seem too good to be true, she teased, “I’m ready when you are.” 

I returned it with a taunt of my own. I withdrew my fingers and spread the remnants of her desire over her heat.

“I can tell.”

Like always, she accepted it with grace, and her own clever retort.

“I guess there really is something to that genius thing after all.”

But when the jokes were over, I was lost in the wonder once more. My whole body felt aflame with lust and lover for her the very moment that her legs fell further open.

I looked down at the way her chest heaved and her stomach tensed. Her back was arching like every part of her sought closeness.

As if her body had been begging: I love you, let me shelter you.

She must have seen how foreign the feeling was to me, because as soon as I felt the familiar warmth of tears gathering in my eyes, her grip turned gentle. One leg hooked around my waist and pulled me closer until I could feel the velvety slickness against the head of my cock.

“How about I help you with this part?” she offered.

I lowered my hand to join hers before I replied, “Together.”

“Together,” she promised.

True to her word, she helped guide me to her entrance before her hand slipped away. It found me again shortly thereafter when both of her arms were thrown around my shoulders.

I pushed forward to find a slight resistance. My breath caught in my throat, my whole body halting without any command.

“Keep going,” she said breathlessly, “It’s okay.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I explained.

She silenced any further protest by rooting her hands in my hair and pulling me in for a kiss. My hips fell forward from the momentum, sinking a few more inches into the blinding, blissful heat of her.

I tried to accommodate the feeling of her the same way her body tried to make room for me. Each twitch of my cock was returned with her walls closing in on me. Every one of her limbs begged for more of me, and I wanted so badly to give it.

But I was still bashful, still frightened by the possibility of hurting her somehow.

She ended the kiss prematurely. Before she could speak, she whimpered. Her eyes opened to reveal mirrors into myself. A vulnerability, a belonging beyond the physical.

Her body begged me, and I answered. I pressed forward, sinking into her inch by inch until there was nothing more to give. I reveled in the soft sounds of her pleasure, the way her whimpers turned to wanton moans.

“I love you through infinity,” I whispered against her lips.

“I love you, too,” she returned dreamily.

Her body was pulsing around me with a burning heat and unrivaled softness. I felt the shelter of her, the vulnerability of her embrace. There was no greater reward than the knowing that she allowed me, begged for me to claim the empty space in her body.

“You are…”

I struggled to find the words to explain the thought.

She found them for me.

“Yours,” she slurred, “I’m yours, Spencer.”

My hips moved without thought. They bucked forward and caused moans to spill from both our lips.

I became greedy quickly. I desperately sought to hear her again, to experience again the novel wonder that was her body. I pulled my hips back and focused on the way her walls clenched tighter, begging me to stay.

I returned to them immediately. I thrusted forward, faster than before and with enough force to set her body in motion.

Her mouth was open, alternating between simple, wonderful sounds and a lack of them altogether. The twisted tension, the unmuted pleasure of half-lidded eyes and flushed lips, it made me realize how badly I’d craved this experience all my life.

Again, my hips crashed into hers. I fucked her harder and took pride in the way her nails dug into my skin. I wanted her to claim me with the same animalistic nature that I displayed.

“I’ve waited my whole life for you,” I told her between brutal thrusts.

Like always, she understood the meaning behind the words. She could feel the decades of yearning with every motion. Each time that I bottomed out inside her, she would praise me, worship me, love me.

I didn’t expect her to respond with anything more than her body. It spoke so eloquently. Her back arched and her nails dragged down my shoulders as she struggled to keep hold.

To relieve her of the need, I straightened my back and sat up. With both hands, I pulled her hips up to meet mine.

“Fuck!” she squeaked.

I understood what she’d meant. The new angle felt entirely different, impossibly better than the one from mere seconds before.

“Are you alright?” I asked, anyway.

“Yes,” she said with a quick nod, “Yes, you’re perfect.”

My long dormant ego swelled at the praise. It turned my lips into a smirk and made my hands pull her even closer.

I watched with rapt attention as I pulled out of her. It seemed so intimate—was so intimate—that I couldn’t break away. Fascinated by the way her body accepted me, I continued to watch where we joined as I pulled her hips back to me. 

“You look so beautiful like this,” I groaned.

So elegant, so submissive and pliant as I filled her with the full length of my desire.

“You do, too,” she giggled.

I looked up to see her, and, immediately, I missed her. Without even taking the time to readjust her hips, I moved forward until our lips met.

She gasped at the pleasurable pain when I found a new depth of her. She swallowed my moans the same way her heat accepted me.

It was all so new, so overwhelming and invigorating that I couldn’t stop myself. My movements became sloppy and insistent. Her body folded beneath mine at the same time her arms fell on the bed. She gripped the sheets with a vengeance.

Open and wanting, her chest heaved, and her small voice managed to call my name.

“Do it, Spencer,” she pleaded with her everything, “Come for me.”

Without a single hesitation, I did. Unaware of how close I’d even come; I gave one more unrelenting thrust before I was hit with a truly staggering wave of pleasure.

As I emptied myself inside of her, the warmth pooled around what was an already burning heat. Each pulse came with bucking hips. Every time, her body tightened around me and prolonged the pleasure.

“I love you,” I chanted while the world felt far away.

She had never felt closer.

“I love you,” we said together just as I fell limp in her arms.

Breathless and with fast-beating hearts, I melted into her embrace without regret. I felt the sticky warmth as it filled every particle that remained between our joined bodies.

It was the most heavenly bliss, to feel so thoroughly loved.

Yet she was the one to say it first.

“Thank you,” she slurred.

“It was my pleasure,” I chuckled back. I’d meant it literally and in the traditional, colloquial sense.

The kindness continued when she was finally able to move again. She didn’t go far. Instead, she wrapped lazy arms around me and tilted her head back so that I could nuzzle further against her shoulder.

“Was it worth the wait?” she asked cheekily.

But I noticed the way her voice still shook. She would blame the exhaustion, but I could tell that she was nervous.

There was no reason for her to be. Regret was the furthest thing from my thoughts.

“Yes, it was,” I assured her.

Then, because she deserved to hear it and because it was the undeniable truth, I explained, “It had to be you. It would have always been you.”

“Are you saying I was meant to be yours?” she giggled.

“No,” I corrected with a smile, “I’m saying I was meant to be yours.”

“Split the difference?” she offered.

“Not a chance,” I scoffed.

“Fine,” she sighed happily. “I guess you’re mine.”

And I took comfort in knowing that everything was finally, exactly how it was meant to be.

(Tell me what you thought about this fic here!)

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