#self image for ts

[angelbitezzz]

Whoopsie

(full page under the cut)

[ts-sides-head-canon]

Hey there, I might send in another post later, but I just have to share this. It's been in my head for half of the day. But first, this is mainly for a human AU, and also content/trigger warning for toxic and abusive relationships, self-image and romantic issues, and unhealthy dynamics with "intamacy". Part of me has no idea if this is gonna end up being deleted, but please let me know if it is. I just feel the need to share this.

I have no idea how much people realise the potential for creative twins angst with the song "Mad at Disney." There's so much potential angst you could dive into for both of them with their potential views on romance. I imagine that Roman would primarily sing the verses, Remus comes in for the pre-chorus, and they share the chorus.

For Roman, it could be him lamenting the fact that all his romantic relationships so far have been one-sided, the fact that he puts his heart in other people's hands only for them to have been using him for wealth, status or pleasure. The line "What the hell is love supposed to feel like?" being about how he's well aware of what it feels like to be in love, but not what it's like for that love to be reciprocated. The ending line "No more wishing on a shooting star" could indicate Roman completely giving up on love as he can't trust his own judgement and doesn't feel like anyone will ever be telling the truth when they say I love you back.

For Remus, it could be him lamenting that he's never going to be loved. He's constantly insulted and ridiculed by his peers, and the only people who are ever nice to him are only after a "good time." At this point, he's completely convinced that nobody will ever love him, so he avoids falling himself, even keeping affectionate things like kissing out of more carnal encounters because it's so connected with love. For him, the line "what the hell is love supposed to feel like?" means that he has no idea what it feels like to have the feeling that he even could be loved, that he's worth loving. The ending line "No more wishing on a shooting star" indicates that he's resigned himself to only ever being used for the pleasure of others, and the belief that he's never gonna be worth the time and effort of growing attached let alone falling in love.

I know this is kinda heavy, but I just can't help but imagine this. I didn't even listen to the song, it just popped into my head, and I was like, "Oh yeah, that's angsty. " It honestly could incapulate most of the issues that I give the twins romantically in human AU'S. Again, please let me know if this is too dark or sad or something like that, I sometimes have a hard time telling with these things. I'll probably have something more light-hearted later, so even if this doesn't make it to your blog, you can share that info dump instead.

HI! I am so sorry this took so long to answer properly. I am going to say for Remus's section that that's about as far as I'm going to let ventures into more NSFW topics go.

Anyways these are so sad dhdhdh.

[ventismacchiato]

O4 stuck with you — screaming and fighting !

scaramouche x gender neutral reader

You and Scaramouche were dragged backstage and away from prying eyes, faces flushed and chests rising as the adrenaline from the argument on stage had yet to wear off. The dressing room was still, only filled with you both throwing insults at one another. The rest of your group members shared sheepish looks with one another, deciding to let you both get it out of your system.

As soon as the door was tightly shut you whirled around to face Scara.

“You just always have to get the last word, don’t you?” you asked, stepping closer to him.

“You’re the one who started yelling at me, I was just defending myself,” Scaramouche replied, his tone equally heated, but his posture was much more composed than you. 

“You’re the one who told me to give up,” you accused. 

“Yeah, give up the trophy so I could hold it,” Scara sighed.

“Yeah, as if you deserve to hold it.”

“Now that you mention it, I do deserve it more than you.” 

“You don’t know what it’s like to actually work for something,” you glared, voice laced with contempt, “You probably get everything handed to you by your mom.”

He glanced away, abruptly uncomfortable. “You shouldn’t talk. Your voice is even more unpleasant when you’re whining.” 

Naturally, you kept talking

“That’s the only reason you’re even here with the rest of us,” you continued, letting your jealousy cloud your senses, “I can’t be the only one who thinks that.”

Scaramouche’s face hardened. He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he muttered, shoving his way past you to leave the dressing room before turning around one last time.

“Nobody even knew she was my mother until I became a trainee. I used a different name on the application forms. But if hanging onto that little fact makes you feel better about being so pathetic then be my fucking guest.” 

And with that he slammed the door behind him.

You hated the way he could make you inexplicably self-conscious. It used to be a foreign sensation, one left behind long ago in insecure adolescence.

You stood there, breathing heavily, as the door swung shut. The room was silent, everyone stunned by the intensity of the confrontation.

Lumine stepped up and placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, slowly guiding you outside to cool off. 

“We’re also gonna head back,” Aether awkwardly laughed, grabbing Childe and Kazuha by their collars and dragging them out.

“So, that just happened.”

“Shut up, Venti.”

“We really need to broaden your vocabulary, Y/n. Your insults could be better.”

“You too, Fischl! Zip it!”

stuck with you!

masterlist — prev | next

begging u guys to let me use ur usernames as fans in this au pls let me make u a crazy stantwt user xx but pls comment on the masterlist so i see it

also everyone saying scara keeps eating yn up w insults is sending me 😭😭

title from the way i loved you by ts it suits scarayn so well

synopsis — after the disaster that was the live award show, where you and scaramouche got into an argument on stage after both of your groups got a tie for top artists, your guys' PR teams have been in shambles trying to scrape up your mess. that's when the idea to send you both off with some other idols to a remote location for a survival dating show to mend your public image comes up. before you know it your bags are packed and you’re on a plane to a remote island. the only obligation is you need to end up with scaramouche at the end of the show, whether you end up liking him or not doesn’t matter to your managers as long as the show’s ratings stay high. whatever you do in between to get there is up to you!

notes — 👍 leave me comments and asks instead of begging for updates pleek i need motivation to post more

taglist — @na1lea @cindywasneverhere @lunavixia @aestherin @mlaakai @camvrin @retiredmommylover @iheartpieck @jangyung @cartierfiles @loveariel @silly-ez @mochipls @pomeiu @chuuismylife @flowerypesky @creammpuff @justanothertiredreader @boxdisappeared @kissmiere @kissingkzuha @webbywill @kazusboyfriend @s3xpistolss @pjsucks @bunns-wonderland @lordbugs @localgirlywithnolife @kosumos @danfelions @featuredtofu @pinxeajin @herebyaccident0 @haeunoo @scaradooche @pglt19 @chemiru @childesbabygirl @simonisferal @shutingstar @vxcmx @domimiki @ttalgi @esuz @tokkishouse @kitsuvil @scarasmood @ihearttori @nomurahayami @starringyau @androxphobic

[ghostarii]

GLASS TABLE GIRL ! ～ BLADE . ❛ i just wanna be one of your girls tonight.

˖ ⁺ ⫾  SHOW NOTES fem!reader ❱ guitarist!blade ❱ groping ❱ reader is a groupie ❱ PWP!!! ❱ (reader is intoxicated so technically) dubcon ❱ spanking ❱ degradation ❱ clit n nipple slapping ❱ ig ooc!blade but who cares ❱ choking/asphyxiation ❱ size kink ❱ dacryphilia ❱ outdoor/public sex ❱ exhibitionism ❱ spit ❱ face-fucking ❱ dirty talk ❱ reader has 0 self respect ❱ name calling ❱ overstimulation ❱ creampie & unprotected sex (stay safe) ❱ clit pinching ❱ hair pulling ❱ multiple orgasms ❱ cumplay(?) ❱ no aftercare ❱ minors & dc antis do not interact.

˖ ⁺ ⫾  CREDITS i have not written a fic in so effing long nd i was high writing this so excuse my rustiness :c but i have risen from my grave so let’s rejoice nonetheless ! !blade is on my mind 24/7 n i just want to be used n abused by him omfg turn me OWT! i listened to one of the girls by the weeknd literally the entire time i wrote this sooo feel free to listen while reading ^_^ i was js writing as i went so ts is very pwp sorryyy . . i’m gonna try to be more active on here i js need time to write so in the meantime pls show that my works would be appreciated here =( likes & reblogs are so GREATLY APPRECIATED ! ! ! if u don’t like, pls scroll cs comm guidelines r so mean to creators T_T

˖ ⁺ ⫾  RUN TIME 7.5k+ words . (of pure filth)

IF SOMEBODY ASKED you who your favorite artist was, you would say Ren—known by his moniker: BLADE. There was nothing you didn't like about this man; everything about him fundamentally and ultimately was the object of a girlish obsession. You knew all of his songs front to back, followed his social media on every single platform, and never missed a single piece of media uploaded about him. Your life was built around his style: dark and mysterious and enigmatic. He was your number one, unmatched and unchanged.

He was a hard man to come by. He frequently held small shows, with no more than twenty-thousand people on the high end. It was impossible to go, and every time you tried, your chance miserably passed you up. But this time, June twenty-third, twenty-twenty-three, you were right there, in the middle of the pit, only mere feet away from Blade. It was your first time seeing him in person by the grace of your best friend who surprisingly snagged tickets, and you’d never been more grateful in your life.

Blade was ethereal. The concert videos you’d seen over the years did not compare to the image in front of your face. It was dark, the main lights being spotlights shone on his pearly, perspiring, black, skin-tight silk-clothed skin, and dim red LED lights on the set behind him. His fingers ran effortlessly across his guitar, an inexplicably attractive riff and tone singing from the instrument. You felt like you were in Heaven, your eyes never leaving the show before your eyes. It was hot and uncomfortable in the pit but it was worth it. So worth it because he looked at you: taking you in with an unfaltering stare. His lip slipped between his teeth, and he shook his head, throwing stray locks to the back, and God, you felt as though you needed to be bolted to the ground with the way you wanted to jump on the stage. He walks up to the microphone, the most gut-wrenchingly hot vocals sliding off of his tongue. His eyes were closed, smudged eyeliner emphasizing his fluttering, long lashes, and his lips were spit-slicked, parting and pursing with each sultry lyric leaving. They were plump and rosy as if they were asking to be kissed—it was a sight to behold.

You sang your heart out, dragging your hand from waving in the air down a curvy path on your body, going from your shoulder to your chest to below where Blade’s sight would reach. You turned to your friend and recited the lyrics with a big smile and following giggle, all to turn your attention back to the stage and lock eyes with him. Your thighs clamped together just at the narrowed and burning gaze he delivered. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted a man more than you do right now.

Your friend found a way closer to the stage and you wedged your way between the crowd, finding yourself so close that the speakers were banging on your eardrums. You could feel the music in your bones, and all you could think of to describe it was hot and heavy. Maybe it was all of the pregaming you and your friend did before the concert, or the condensed heat and gyrating bodies, but you were so hot. You wipe your sweaty skin as you sway to the beginning of the next song, taking out your phone to begin recording.

Blade leans into the mic, muttering lowly, “I want you all to sing.” He pulls the microphone out of the stand, letting his guitar hang off of his shoulder from the strap. And that’s when he makes his way to where you stand, muttering small “yeah”’s and “good job”’s into the mic as the crowd collectively sings. He kneels right before you, “Sing.” he says into the mic.

You go wide-eyed—cute, he thinks—but you start singing. You grab an open portion of the microphone, leaning in as close as possible and reciting the lyrics of the song just as you were told. All eyes and cameras were on you, and that included Blade, who held an intense gaze on you the entire verse. When you finish the crowd erupts in cheers and screams, and he pulls away, finishing the song. You turned to your friend and screamed about your main character moment, dancing and singing even happier into her recording phone. This was the best night of your life.

For the rest of the concert, you had the time of your life. Blade ends the show with a final guitar solo, the entire audience silent as he wrecks the strings and pours his heart into his vocals. He briefly spoke to his fans, thanking everyone for coming out and heading backstage as everyone began to clear out. And all he could think about was that girl who his eyes couldn't help but wander toward, and to whom his thoughts dedicated his innuendos. He remembers the sign you held at the beginning of the show: “BLADE ♡WNS M(Y)E (HEART) ♡”. Your eyes honed filth that your natural disposition didn’t and he longed for it. He held bated breath as he informed his security about you, requesting you be located and brought to him and they replied with “We’ll try our best, sir.”

It was an after-concert tradition for Blade to hit up a local club, especially in situations like this where it was his last stop. He hoped he’d find you there, but he knew you would, especially if you were as big of a fan as you looked.

“Yukong, just thirty minutes! Please!!” you pleaded, trying to pull your friend into your opinion. She shook her head no, “I can’t! I have to go home! I’m so tired and you know…” you stop your friend there, not wanting to hear about her boyfriend.

“Fine. I’m still going though, text me when you get home.” you didn’t want Yukong to go home. But arguing was pointless, and only time was being put to the test, not her stubbornness. You knew from your years as a Blade fan that he always went to the club after a concert to meet fans, and some rumors even suggested ulterior motives, so you wanted to go. Yukong frowned at your flat expression but still hugged you, waving at you as she got in her car to go home. You’d be flying solo, but you had faith in yourself.

So you make your way over to the nearest club via taxi, praying that this is the one that Blade would visit. You weren’t all too familiar with the place, its name, Starskiff Haven, only being one you’ve heard in passing. Regardless, your thoughts were assured by the abundance of fighting and pushing bodies to get in the door—and when your phone lit up, a Twitter notification from a Blade Updates page noting his location, Starskiff Haven, you smiled widely, making your way to the line.

It was way too long and you weren’t interested in waiting all night—you had to meet Blade. A time like this is when Yukong comes into hand with her very stern persuasion, something that’s near impossible to deny. But she left, and you’d have to figure out a way in. And a thought immediately came to mind.

You walked to the front of the line, breathing in deeply and psyching yourself up for how incredibly you were about to embarrass yourself. When you exhale, you book it, beelining straight into the club, right past security. You immediately shift your demeanor, blending into the crowd seamlessly as security guards rush in, looking around for you. Hiding behind the most cluelessly drunk girl, you make your way to the bar, immediately ordering a sidecar. It packed a punch and the combination of how many shots you had earlier, it’d be just enough to get you through whatever you were about to do.

You turn around in the swivel stool, taking in the atmosphere and coasting the area for any sighting of Blade. The club was darker than the concert but heavily illuminated with hazy, colorful LEDS and much, much louder, filled to the brim with chatter and deafening bass-boosted music. Your drink was brought to you moments later, and with a big sip, you raked your eyes over the club once again. You could see bodies grinding on the main floor, the DJ bopping his head as his hands moved diligently across his DJ controller, couples making out and slipping into cornered areas, and friend groups recording and taking pictures. It was a lively environment, sure, and from the strength that beat on your tongue, established by incredibly skilled bartenders—but you weren’t looking for a new clubbing spot, you were looking for Blade.

And Blade was looking for you. Swimming through the unforgivingly hot crowd for you. He wasn’t itching to have you, he was itching to take you. Every time he closed his eyes he was brought back to his time on stage and how you danced in the audience. How your lips pushed out his lyrics and how your hands couldn’t stop waving in the air and running on your skin. How you swiped off sweat from your forehead and fanned yourself with your sign. And how you couldn’t keep your star-filled eyes off of him. Every light reflection off of your eyes showed desperation and neediness. You were begging to be picked without ever uttering a word, and he was not one to ignore indulgence. You needed him and he wanted you—so where are you?

Perched on that blue-velvet cushioned swivel stool. Sipping whatever remaining contents of your sidecar. And when he saw you, you saw him. You locked eyes and each plastered ill-intended smirks across your faces. And while you had his attention, you brought the glass to your lips, smacking them open and running your tongue along the sugar rim, collecting the sweetness on your tongue. You sucked on your tongue, rolling your eyes and he swears the “Ahh” leaving your lips is audible from his distance. He stayed still even as you slapped down your money on the counter, hopping down and disappearing into the crowd.

You make your way to him quickly, holding onto your rapidly rising chest and laughing at yourself. You were on a roll of unbelievable behavior, but it seemed to be a clean stroke because you were yet to meet a roadblock. And in a very blurry couple of minutes, the goal you’d been working toward was in the palm of your hand—literally.

You danced your way to Blade when you were finally close to him, sliding up against his body sweetly. He was tall and so sturdy against you, but he was smooth like butter as he synced to your movements and danced behind you. His hands were on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as he pushed up against you. Your exchange was wordless but it spoke volumes. It felt like a dream, entirely too good to be true but you indulged anyway, grinding against him. A gasp escapes your mouth as his left hand unabashedly grapes your tit, squeezing roughly and experimentally. His other hand trails dangerously on the band of your shorts and you let your head fall back on his shoulder, “I'm your biggest fan…”

He laughs at your declaration, leaning to press his lips feather-lightly at the shell of your ear, “Are you now?” you nod immediately, pressing into him. “‘Blade owns me’.” he mocks your sign, and laughs when he feels you slightly tense under his touch.

“I picked you,” and again, he leans down to your ear, “Are you happy, slut?” The word is so mean but it sounds so good from him. You nearly moan, nodding eagerly, as if complying with his word came with a medal. You were a slut, so willing to give it up as soon as he laid eyes on you. And you weren’t afraid to go low to get his attention, doing just about anything to be his for the night.

Fangirls like you are nothing new to Blade and as a man who looks like he does, it comes with the territory. He can read you like a damn book, cover to cover with ease because despite how enigmatic and indifferent to the norm you may try to appear, you wear your whole being on your sleeve. You do everything in your power to be somebody you're not. Your life revolves around who you think you should be and not who you are. A lot of girls are born with “it”: an innate ability to be the one wanted and desired, but you? Your “it” is manufactured, the blueprint drawn out by girls who are it. You're stuck in a limbo created by your age: too old to not be settling down, but too young to not live your life, and you try to make a box for yourself, being the exception to a path laid out for you. You're lost in the life you lead, and with the way you're dancing so shamelessly and needily on him, Blade knows you. You’re the type of girl who sees getting used as a flex, and despite signing an NDA or promising to never say anything, you’ll tell this person and that person that you got to sleep with the Blade; that the Blade picked you. Women like you are a cancer in the industry. Pests that are incessant and damn near impossible to get rid of. He knows you won't be any different than those before you, but there’s a desire to take you that he cannot ignore.

It’s his natural instinct as a man—or he’s just a shitty person. Perhaps a combination of both, because all he can think about is putting you to use. You’re making it so easy, moaning into the air under the thick remixed song the DJ is spinning, grinding against him, and holding his hand on your tit—you want him, and you’re giving yourself to him on a silver platter. You have a clear lack of respect for yourself, but luckily for you, that’s Blade’s type in women.

The atmosphere seems to be getting heavier, and it feels like time is getting slow and choppy. Now your arms are around Blade’s neck and his large hands are holding onto your ass, and you’re so close, you can feel your chests brushing with each breath you take. The world around you is nothing but background. It doesn’t exist to you, it doesn't matter to you. Not when you have Blade, the literal man of your dreams, right in your palm, and all he's looking at is you.

You feel so special. So wanted and so desired. You feel all eyes on you like you're the main attraction and everybody can’t help but watch and weep, wishing to be you. Your ego is skyrocketed and every embarrassing thing you’ve done tonight doesn't matter to you anymore because it paid off. Your eyes locked and the space between you closed. Your heart synced with the booming beat of the current song playing. You lean in, pressing your hands at the back of his neck and pulling him in. And you kiss him. You kiss Blade.

Blade kisses you back. He tightens the grip on your ass and you moan into his mouth, letting him infiltrate your mouth. He sucks on your tongue, smiling against you when he feels you push up on your tippy toes and hears you whimper into his mouth. He kisses you back. He pulls your bottom lip between his teeth, pecking your lips once more before moving to your cheek, then to your jaw, then to your neck. His hands are groping at you, roughly grabbing your ass, then your waist, then your breasts. “Are you wet?”

He says it so only you can hear it. You nod. “How wet?” He moves back up to your jaw, placing another kiss. You flutter your lashes, meeting his gaze, “So wet. All for you.”

At your response, he groans, pulling off of you. He chuckles when you pout at him. You’re just what he needs for this night. He grabs your chin, holding your face and leaning down, your lips brushing against his own. “I'm going to go smoke.” and he tells you this for a reason.

You watch with the biggest smile on your face as he sifts through the crowd, heading out of a side door. It was now or never.

Quickly, you rush to the bathroom to freshen up. You fix your hair, digging into your pocket and fishing out your lipgloss, reapplying, and you fan yourself, cooling down to not look a flustered mess. And just as quick as you ran in, you ran out toward the side door, immediately looking both ways for Blade. You smell smoke distantly and turn right, and a few paces down he stood, leaning against the brick wall of the neighboring restaurant. He's next to stacks of old wood and crates and you smile, thinking about whatever was about to go down between you.

You step in front of him and he smiles, taking you in once again. He blows his smoke in your face, tapping the ash off the cigarette before smashing the butt into the wall behind him. “Hi,” you say. He says nothing back, just slides his hand to the back of your neck and pulls you in. The kiss you share this time is messy and he now asserts control, nipping your bottom lip when he feels you go weak and pulls back.

He rakes his eyes up and down your body as you stand for him. This is the first time all night he’s seen you properly, in moderately okay lighting. Your jean mini-skirt is tight to you, accentuating the curve and fullness of your ass, and teases what’s beneath with your plump thighs poking out and how it rides up slightly. Your skin-tight baby tank is seemingly one with your figure, bringing out the best in you and making him smile with the “I ♡ BLADE” print across your chest. Your thigh-high boots did nothing when you were near him—he was looming and caging. He was intimidating and arousing, and with the lustful gaze you shared, the climax of your day was steadily approaching.

“Take it off.” He looks down at your chest and you get the memo; immediately grabbing the hem of your tank top and pulling it over your head. “Slow. Take your time…” And you listen, letting your body swivel as you remove the shirt. You unhook the clasp of your bra, and before your boobs could spill out of the confines, he grabs you and wedged you between him and the wall he previously leaned on.

The front of your body is slapped on the cold brick, but you’re swallowed in warmth as he presses against you, grinding his hard-on against your ass. One hand grabs your wrists, and the other turns you around. You look at him innocently, shivering at the breeze that blows down the alley. You can smell him: woody, smokey, and expensive. Yet here he was, pressing you up against a brick wall in a random alley. “You’re such an easy slut, y’know.”

“Bet you been thinking about this; daydreaming about your favorite artist pinning you and trashing you like the fucking whore you are.” he presses against your front, nipping at your jaw. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

You whimper, “Fuck me. Take me. Make me yours.”

“Tell me.” He growls - your answer not sufficing. “Want you to break me,”

“Always fantasized…wanting you to shove your dick down my throat and use it mindlessly and mercilessly.” He begins to kiss down your throat again, licking the tender skin. He smirks when you stop talking, your breath hitching and your head craning backward to open the expanse of your neck. He starts biting on your newfound sweet spot when you begin again, “Spit in my mouth and force me to swallow it with your cum,”

He gets to your chest, immediately taking a nipple between his teeth. He listens to you wince and whine as he does, pushing your chest into his face. “And make me beg you to fuck me. Teasing me…fuck—pinching me, pulling my hair until I'm teary-eyed and begging…”

“...And then you fuck me like you hate me; choking me, slapping me, degrading me all while I thank you stupidly.”

“You’re just fucking disgusting,” he mumbles around your nipple. He lets your hands go, palming your free tit immediately. His eyes are narrow as you whine when he twinges the bud roughly. “Put so much thought into this…you’re a weirdo slut.”

You shake your head, breathing out heavily to refute his claim, “Nuh-uh—your biggest fan.” you correct.

He laughs at you. You’re much more fun than he thought, and a lot less shameless, too. You're throwing all of your big cards out; this is your go-big or go-home moment, and while you have him here, you’ll bare yourself wholly because if not now, then not ever. Blade has to commend your patience though. You're letting him toy around, graze around your unknown territory and feel you out. You’re needy but obedient. Tired of waiting but understanding. Absolutely fucking shameful and proud, but eager to be good—so maybe he was wrong about you. You do have an “it”: an innate ability to be the perfect fucktoy.

When he lets you go, he immediately instructs you to get on your knees. And you listen immediately. The cold gravel digs into your bare knees and it's incredibly uncomfortable, yet you don’t utter a word. Your nipples are hard and pebbled and are probably so sensitive, yet you say nothing. You only sit before him, fingers dancing on the exposed thigh as you look up at him, waiting to be put to use.

So he slaps you. As you told him to—he slaps you, and his hand is heavy coming against your skin. It sounds off for what felt like possibly hundreds of miles, and your face doesn’t sting, but it hurts. The skin is heating up from the impact and your head turns to the side, hair falling against your face, yet you don’t utter a word. He grabs the back of your head, forcing you to look at him and dangerously smiling when your teary eyes look up at him wide and thankfully. “Pull my cock out,” he instructs, letting you go and standing up straight.

You get to work on his belt, undoing it swiftly, and then you unbutton his pants. You tease yourself: slowly pulling the zipper down, and when pulling his pants down to his ankles, you palm him softly, gently patting his throbbing cock and staring at the growing wet spot in his underwear. You kiss the wet spot, and then you kiss it again, and again until you suck lightly on it while making eye contact with him. You moan at the very faint taste, fluttering your eyes shut, and finally sliding your hand under the band of his underwear, holding his dick.

Blade hisses at your touch, bucking slightly into your hold at the initial contact. Usually, he’d curse you out at this point for going so slow, but he’s letting it slide this time; allowing you to take control and show him how worth it and nasty you really are.

He’s big. He’s thick—your hand can just barely wrap around the entire shaft, and as you lift him to unsheath him from his boxers, you feel how heavy he is. And hard. So fucking hard.

You gawk at his cock like a kid in a candy store, staring at his leaking slit intensely—almost as if you're waiting. “Go ahead; show me how big of a fan you are.”

You kiss his tip, the bead of precum smearing on your lips. Smacking your lips apart suggestively, you wrap your right hand around the base, applying tightness and pressure as you find the right grip, and when you do, you finally lick a clean stripe across the head. Your tongue sweeps up the new milky droplet spilling out, and you contently hum at the taste, making him groan in response. You lick from the angry tip all the way to his trimmed base, then back up again until you’ve teased every side of him and located his sensitive vein.

If anybody would have told you that all you dreamed about would be coming to fruition—all by mere luck and chance—you wouldn’t believe it. And you still don't; even as you spit a thick bead of your saliva on his cock and then massage it in with your tongue, swirling all around the sensitive head. But it’s real because he moans out for you as you finally take him in, the throb getting heavier as he sits on your tongue and your lips hug him tight.

You begin your ministrations: toying with his balls lightly as you bob up and down, going as far as you could. You tried your best to take him all in. You stretched your mouth wide around him until it felt like your mouth was going to rip at the corners and until it felt like all you could do was sputter and leak drool around him. Tears brimmed in your eyes and each time you blinked them back, keeping a pretty smile on your face every time you came up for air. Your lipgloss was mixed in with spit, and clear tear streaks had already begun to run their course with your base makeup, but you didn't stop. You were moaning incessantly, suffocating his dick in your intense vibrations that had him moaning and grunting.

When you come up from your nth deepthroat attempt, it's not for air, but to breathlessly huff out “Fuck my face…please,” And since you asked so nicely…

“Blink twice if it gets to be too much.” You open your mouth as wide as you could, sticking your tongue out. He pulls your hair back for you, yanking your head back and spitting on your tongue. His eyes tell you not to move, so you don’t, keeping eye contact with him as he wraps his other hand around your own, guiding your smaller hands up and down his shaft. He shudders, “F-fuck…’m so fuckin’ hard…”

And then he slides onto your tongue, not wasting any time before bottoming out in your mouth. Your eyes widen in surprise, and your unprepared gags speak volumes to your shock. But that doesn't deter you from wrapping your lips around him. And from there, he pulls out, pulling your head back and then pushing you back down as he thrusts his hips forward. He curses under his breath before picking up his pace, thrusting so hard that his grip tightens on your hair to hold you properly in place, fucking roughly into your face. You can only choke and sputter, having already taken your hands from around his dick and digging crescent nail shapes into his thighs. The sounds eliciting from the two of you are so nasty and filthy. His balls slap at your chin, your voice rings out from around his girth, and his moans echo around the world. You can’t take it but you’re doing a great job of trying. He slaps your face again, pulling out and hitting his tip on your tongue. “Keep your fucking eyes on me,”

“If you can do that, I'll cum all down your throat and all over your pretty fucking face, okay?” You nod eagerly, and as an incredibly degrading action of praise and acceptance, he slaps his spit-slicked dick against your cheek a few times. “Good girl.” Butterflies swarm in your stomach at his praise.

When Blade slides in, he smacks against your face. He goes to the very hilt, pushing his way to the depths of your throat roughly. Your nose is pressed up against his pelvis, and your cheeks are catching stray tears. But this is consistent as he begins thrusting, using you per your request. He grunts out each time his tip hits the back of your throat, thrusting so roughly and meanly into you. Again, you feel like all you can do is choke and gag, spilling slobber and precum mix back down his length. It’s fucking filthy and the loud squelching and impact noises hit your ears nastily, yet you can’t help but squirm and attempt to grind for friction to subdue the need throbbing in your clit.

Above you, the man is falling apart. His hips stutter every now and then and his voice is fucking endless. His long hair sticks to his sweaty forehead and sides of his neck, and it looks damn near intentionally placed from how beautiful he looks. The outdoor lights are like distant illuminators; glowing behind him softly—almost angelically. His eyebrows are knitted together and he struggles to keep his eyes every time he reaches the back of your throat and you start gagging. It’s beyond pleasurable. Blade isn't sure if it’s because of all the tension the two of you have built up, or if it's because he hasn't had any action in the last 3 weeks because of his neverending schedule, or if it’s because your mouth is fucking amazing, but he can't keep himself together. His chest starts heaving faster as he comes close to his high, his knees beginning to buckle, and his stomach caving.

You flick your tongue on the underside of his cock as much as you can and glue your eyes to his, seeing his release breaking him down inch by inch. “Fuck! I'm gonna fucking cum!” He announces, throwing his head back.

He stills in your mouth and you take the opportunity to suck harshly on his tip, swirling your tongue around it like it’s the sweetest lolly you’ve ever tasted. He pulls out of your mouth, and you vigorously stroke his cock, so focused and determined to milk him dry. He leans forward, slapping his palm against the wall behind you for stability as he cums. He moans so prettily as he paints your face, the warm ropes making you hum contently. You give him no break, sucking his tip one last time to make sure you get the most out of what he’s given you.

Blade catches his breath, standing up straight soon after and condescendingly cooing at the mess made on your face. He picks up a glob as he sweeps his thumb over your cheek, sliding the digit in your mouth. He presses on your tongue, finding pleasure in how you swallow your sounds under a layer of gagging, but how you never tear your eyes off of him. He does this until you’ve cleaned off your face—but he's not done with you.

You're finally allowed off of your aching knees. You're sure the gravel will leave an indent from how long you were down there. He pinches your pebbled nipples, smirking as you yelp. “What was it that was next? Making you beg..making you earn my cock in you?” you nod rapidly, backing into the wall for stability as he toys with your very sensitive tits. “Show me how you beg then.”

You put your hands on his shoulders to help you stand up, feeling so weak all of a sudden. Your voice cracks as you try to speak, meek little whimpers flowing out as he works your body expertly—like he knows what gets you going. “Please…fuck–Please fuck me, I need you so bad…!”

A shrill yelp is chased out of your throat when his palm cracks against one of your boobs, “Is that all you got? Try again.”

So you do. “Need you to fuck me, Blade. I wanna be used by you, broken–please, I'll do anything!”

“Not good enough. Again.”

“Please fuck me like the slut I am! I need to be full of you, need to have you fuck me ragged and dumb so all I think of is you!” you pitch up your voice, breathing it all out in one breath.

Pitiful. Another smack. “Again.”

“I'm so needy for you, please! It hurts–I need you so much, it hurts! Please…”

And he's heard enough. His right hand slides up to your neck, forcing you against the wall. His grip is tight, fingers pressing into the sides and you have to fight for your eyes to not roll to the back of your head. “You must not want me as bad as you acted like you did…”

“I do! I do!” You interject, but your voice is weak and small—nothing in comparison to his deep and lust-saturated tone. “Then act like you do. Beg.”

He runs his other hand up your thigh, cupping your cunt. Your panties are soaked, and he can feel the heat radiating off of you. He pushes the fabric to the side, running two fingers through your folds and you swear you almost fell out then and there. You'd gone teased and untouched all night—you were beyond ready.

“Pussy is fucking soaked…” he mumbles, letting his index and middle finger twirl through your folds, getting closer and closer to your clit. “You want me here? To fuck your sloppy pussy until you're cumming your brains out?”

Your eyes start to roll and he can feel the pulse intensify in your cunt. That's exactly what you wanted. “Say it. Say ‘I want my sloppy pussy fucked until I'm cumming my brains out, Blade’. Say it,”

You part your lips, and he slightly loosens the grip on your throat, “Wan–want…I want my sloppy pussy…” You get shy with your words, and he delivers a slap to your clit. The stimulation has you buckling over. You feel like his hands on you are going to be the death of you. “Say it.”

With the courage finally built up, “I want my sloppy pussy fucked until I'm cumming my brains out, Blade! Please, I need it s’bad…feel like I'm gonna fucking die!” leaves your lips easily like spreading butter on toast. His lips that you never got enough of tasting quirk up into his signature smirk. He lets you go, pushing you against the wooden crates and flipping up your jean skirt.

“There you go; atta-fucking-girl.” he practically rips your panties off of you, slapping your pussy just for the hell of it. He cringes at the sound it makes and laughs cruelly at your whimpering. He presses up against you, his semi-hard dick pressed against your ass, and he wraps his arm around you and shows you the coat of your arousal that paints his fingers. “Spit.”

With your spit and abundance of slick collected on his fingers, Blade strokes his cock, going until he’s near painfully hard. The sounds he elicits make your pussy clench around nothing, needing to be satiated so desperately. “Are you ready? There’s no going back.”

This is somehow the sweetest moment for you. Your heart swells and you can only sheepishly nod, wiggling your hips eagerly. “Never been more sure about anything in my life. Ruin me.”

Ask once more, and you shall receive once more. His cock is swiped through your folds and collects a considerable amount of your arousal. He lines up at your entrance, watching you brace yourself with a smile ingrained into his face. He pushes in with a sharp inhale, biting his tongue at the feel of your tightness. Your pussy sucks him right in and—fuck. Warm and soft and tight, he could cum right now.

Your face crinkles up and you grip tightly onto the wooden crates in front of you. You’ve dreamt of this for so long—touched yourself at night to the thought and it's finally happening. He's inside of you, stretching you out, sinking in and in and in, inch by inch until he buries himself deep in your guts, until his tight and heavy balls are touching your folds. You're so sensitive you feel like you're ready to cream already, and you need it, need him, and need more. You grind your hips back on him, exhaling thickly as you rest your head against your forearm. “So fucking ready for me…”

His hand cracks down on your ass. It hurts so well and you wince, arching your back further. He sighs, kneading your skin softly. Then he pulls out, inching out until only the tip sits idly in you. You turn around to look at him, and doing that ignites his fire.

Your face is pathetic and fucked out already. Eyebrows knitted together and your eyes heavy, hardly staying open. Your lips are parted yet folded into a small frown, and perspiration rests at your hairline. You egg him on to slam into you, and he watches your frown drop into a wide ‘o’ shape, your eyes fluttering. So he does it again. And your lip now slips between your teeth. And again. And you drop your head back onto your arms.

And so Blade keeps up this pace, gradually going faster as the pit in his stomach urges him to do so. Your sounds are now uncontrollable—they fly out of you like a skipping record, incoherent babbles, and sinful moans. Each collision of your bodies elicits a visceral, wet slap that echoes off the walls of the alleyway. People around the world could probably hear what you're doing, and you're not sure if that bothers you…if the thought of a curious passerby walking down this alley naïvely would be an issue. If anything, it makes you get louder, your throat not getting to rest.

He hits you again, groaning when your pussy clenches around him. “You’re so fucking loud– you want somebody to find us?” Yes, that is what you want to say. But you moan out louder, shaking your head no. He hits you again. “Don’t lie to me,”

“You’re a fucking painslut,” he spits at you. He wraps his arm to reach your clit, immediately finding the bud and pinching it. Your knees go weak and he stabilizes you against him by pushing you further into the crates in front of you. You sniffle and whimper, presumably spilling tears down your filthy fucking face but doing nothing but asking for more. You've gotten so wet, dripping everywhere messily and Blade only cringes his face up with each wet collision. You're so nasty, so filthy, letting a stranger who you parasocial bonded yourself to defile you in public. He's feeding into your crazed delusions, but he’d honestly rather be doing nothing else. When he pinches your clit again your body shakes. Your knees buckle again and from the waist up you're basically limp. He feels you tighten around him and he sucks his teeth, parting your ass to peer at the milky ring forming around the base of his cock. “Did you just fucking cum?” Yes, you did. And you felt like Heaven doing it.

“You came ‘cause I pinched your clit…” he does it again and you jolt up, whining for him to stop. “So if I slap it…” he slaps it, eyeing you for your reaction. “Or rub on it like I love you…” his fingers run circles on your bud, feeling you get impossibly tighter around him. “So fucking easy.”

He resumes his thrusts like he never stopped—slamming into you unapologetically and now additionally, rubbing on your cute, abused clit. He's not going to last long at this rate. Your pussy gushes around him like a running river and the noises have gotten even nastier. Squelching and the occasional puffs of air escaping…you’re a mess.

“Love this fucking cunt,” he praises while pinching your clit. His free hand that rested on the small of your back is now holding onto your neck, forcing you to stand upright against him. Blade is lean but muscular. His arms flex and you feel his abs every time your bodies get close enough. His strong thighs touch yours and it's like you feel his entire body weight every time he pushes into you. “So good, ‘s so fucking good, Blade!”

The man laughs at your outburst. He angles his hips differently, trying so hard to find your sweet spot to get you creaming again. “Yeah?” he asks, tightening his grip on your throat. “Mhm-!” you concur.

“Where?” He’s sure he's found it, and he drives his hips up, groaning happily once he feels your gummy walls contract around him. “Here?”

Your head nods rapidly. “Yes, yes, yes–fuck! Right there, oh my fucking God!”

Neither of you are going to last. Blade’s balls are so tight and the way your pussy hugs him is even tighter. You suck him in like you never want him to leave, but your over-stimulated squeals and shaking thighs suggest otherwise. He’s found your sweet spot and is recklessly abusing it, going all or nothing. The way he toyed with your clit like a kitten pawing at a toy was too much—it started to hurt, to throb endlessly as your stomach knotted and your hole drooled. His grip on your neck was the icing on the cake. You felt like you could no longer breathe — like his thrusts were knocking the wind out of you and him choking you was keeping it out. Every little thing he did pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

He was even more merciless than before. Blade fucked into you harder, rougher, and faster than before, and you chalked that up to his orgasm catching up to him. You listen to his songs on repeat all the time but never have you heard him sing more beautifully than now as he digs your pussy out. You were really blessed with this night, and now it is coming to a very eventful end.

“‘M gonna fucking cum–!” You announce, and Blade nods his head in agreement. He slaps your cunt one last time, his fingers covered in your juices now tweaking at one of your nipples. “Me…me too, fuck.”

He leans into your ear, “Make me cum in this fucking pussy,” a throaty moan breaks his sentence, and you moan back, feeling it coming. “So close, so close…!”

It's this contraction that has Blade falling apart. He thrusts into you one last time, his eyes shooting wide open as he cums deep in you. He moans gutturally and shakily, feeling you clench tighter as you orgasm as well. His hips stutter in you and your hips ride back onto him as you both come down from your highs. The alley is now deafeningly silent and you flush in embarrassment from how loud you must have been. He lets your neck and tit go, using one hand to now spread your ass and pull out his cock. Your pussy is puffy and shiny, and when he’s out, he watches with a burning gaze as your mixture of cum starts to slightly spill out.

He groans, slapping your ass one last time. You two finally separate, and you turn around to look at him. You're sure he doesn't look as fucked up as you do, but even so disheveled and fucked out and sweaty as he is, you can’t help but feel your heart flutter. He pulls up his boxers and pants, fixing his shirt before he looks over at your mostly naked frame. He comes over to you, pulling down your skirt, and his doing this makes you feel less like a one-night stand, and more like one of his girls.

Being so close to you, he breathes you in. You smell like sex, but beneath that is a layer of whatever fruity perfume you sprayed on you, and it's delectable; so he kisses you. It's something he doesn't usually do, and he wouldn't have done it for you, but you entrance him. Perhaps it's because you're what he likes— he's met his match.

But you kiss each other passionately like you were trying to reignite the flame you just spent God knows how long fucking out. Your tongues are well acquainted with one another, swirling and bumping and riding past one another knowingly. He pulls away from you, looking in your eyes as he lets spit fall onto your tongue once again. You smile happily as you swallow it—God, you could do this forever. “Come back with me,”

You didn't expect him to say that. You blink your eyes a few times in disbelief. This night can't be any more unreal. He notices your confusion and smiles, “Is that a no–”

“–No! I'll come with you!” you don't know where he’s taking you, or what it means to go with him. You do know that you’ll have a lot to tell Yukong, NDA or not, and that you’ll never forget this day.

Smiling again, this time devilishly, Blade pulls away from you, pinching your cheek. “Good girl.”

[taylortruther]

also re: the racial component of TS/fan base, if you haven't you should watch Alex Avila's video on Taylor Swift, I think it was really well done

this is SO good. thank you SO much for this recommendation.

i really liked how avila noted how masterfully taylor blends authenticity and social normativity - "the reason taylor swift seems so authentic to young girls is because she's conforming to an image [of white patriarchal girlhood] that young women internalized from a young age." similarly, the popular feminism of 2014 (when 1989 was released) was flimsy and did not challenge patriarchal norms, and we see how she made feminism part of 1989's branding.

and he asks a question i often pose: is there anything subversive in idolizing the most popular cultural object? does poptimism (the critique of pop music as a serious form of art) simply reinforce existing power structures??

taylor swift and whiteness

understanding how someone becomes a legend and icon means understanding how they challenge, but also reinforce, the biases in society, which includes race, class, gender, and so forth. and "there IS something deeply white about [taylor's] image" (1:18:33). her image is cultural whiteness! taylor swift's relatability (which is and has always been part of her brand), her social capital, her social normativity, is directly tied to the neoliberal racial philosophy that, instead of calling whiteness superior, establishes whiteness as the norm (1:21:23).

millennials want celebrities to be morally pure. this is a mistake.

also - LOVE that he points out that millennials don't judge female celebrities by their sexuality or modesty anymore, but instead they judge based on political awareness, which is just another way of continuing the "patriarchal history of regulating narratives around women's actions" (1:42:39). avila focuses specifically on millennials here, cautioning us not to consider this a a sign of true political engagement from millennials. as he points out, systems of oppression adapt to our ever-changing culture. when we try to 'cancel' or 'hold a celebrity accountable' for their ideologies or missteps, sometimes it's because they're truly terrible, and other times it's because we hold women to "unrealistic standards of purity." ie, this isn't necessarily real political engagement, it is just another example of judging women. often it's both (pointing out missteps, and also being sexist.)

whiteness again

avila goes on to discuss how white women have long been held up as virtuous, moral centers of american families - and while this is a racist and sexist practice, given that woc aren't seen as virtuous, it also lays the foundation for why white women in particular dominate conversations about politics in the public sphere. it is an Event every time a white celebrity frames their political awakening as a personal, spiritual journey of self-realization. yes, this act is important, because women must learn about their own oppression, and talk about it, in order to educate others.

but when taylor (or any other famous white woman) frames politics solely through the personal, it relieves her of the obligation to critique systemic issues. her own political awakening is all that matters - she must prove her own political purity (instead of sexual purity, as before.) there is a deep problem in society demanding this, rather than larger systemic change, but we'll get to that later.

this personal political purity awakening earns her a lot of goodwill, but her resistance ends with herself. and this is a pattern that we see happen all the time, in what robin james calls "neoliberal resistance discourses" in pop: someone is damaged by oppression (sexism), she overcomes it brilliantly with an awakening (miss americana/lover/denouncing trump era), and she absorbs this goodwill into her brand. these individual damages and awakenings supposedly symbolize society's own awakening and resilience(!). (1:52:48)

🚨 some readers might be getting tired/annoyed at this; i can hear y'all saying "well, what do you even WANT from her omg!!!" just stay with me here. 🚨

she holds a mirror up to society, tho

what avila so brilliantly points out is that... this cycle of damages and resilience isn't helpful. it goes nowhere! and we are all at the mercy of the same patterns as taylor. it's not about taylor, it's about us, and how capitalism commodifies everything, including social movements! including personal 'goodness'! a neoliberal system wants individuals to care about their individual choices and looking like good individuals; it encourages the use of "purity tests" and "commodified algorithmic social movements" to discourage challenges to systemic issues (reminds me of the celebrity blackout situation earlier this year, and conversations we have about politics, well, daily on here.) and the pattern of a person failing politically as an individual is part of this machine. if we're too busy policing individuals for their purity, we won't ever organize together for shared material goals. unfortunately, unlike taylor swift, most of us are not extremely powerful, wealthy, and influential as individuals. she does have more power than us in this regard.

taylor as cultural hegemony

anyway, avila goes on to talk about how taylor had this musical renaissance with folklore, and became more honest about her masterminding her own career in midnights. she has shown herself not just to be a musical chameleon, but a cultural one as well, positioning herself as white teenage purity when the culture called for it (circa 2008-2010), neoliberal pop feminism (1989 -> lover), pandemic escapism (folkmore) - and the culture has become part of her brand, part of her music. music that is already heavily wrapped up in her own life. she is the brand she is the culture. of course she put the work in, and not just anyone could do this. but imo, her whiteness (which, again, gives her this "default" "neutral" background to work with) is part of this success. "sure, she's challenged the institution but all in the effort to become the new face of musical hegemony" (2:06:25.) she challenges systems to assimilate into them, or create them in a way that requires assimilation.

of course, this is all based on her REAL experiences, her REAL life. she is living her own life, and also living it in this metacognitive way that mirrors culture.

but we don't have to hate taylor, actually!

and MOST interestingly, avila closes out by suggesting: it's not actually super healthy to always be suspicious and critical of art (2:17:24.) yes, there is a long political history of "paranoid reading," of critique based on marx, freud, and nietzsche's philosophies. it is the basis of A LOT of our frameworks for thinking about the world, including art.

as i've said before, it's interesting to discuss taylor or celebrities because they hold a mirror up to society. but we can't just relentlessly critique ourselves - after all, the critique is supposed to protect us from being bad! the critique is what keeps us good! and it's why we project so much onto them (the celebrities, or "bad" people.)

this video dove into a term that may be new to a lot of people (i only learned of it recently) - "reparative reading." rather than relentlessly critique art or what-have-you, engage with it in ways that is "affirmative, creative, and caring." this does not mean you toss out critical readings - reparative readings can coexist, and give us hope, optimism, feelings of beauty/appreciation, and affirmation.

for example, it's why -while i enjoy critiquing taylor (or what she Represents) - i am also here to just... have fun. i don't want to linger 24/7 on her emissions, or what she hasn't done, or who she's friends with. it's also why, as a fan of color, i hate that she is often dismissed and minimized to "white musician making music for white women." i find affirmation in a lot of her music, regardless of her race; i find optimism and hope in the way women so deeply relate to her, and how queer fans (also like myself) relate to her! (which avila points out too 2:21:00.) it's why i stopped debunking stuff, because queerness - like any other aspect of the fandom - is such a critical, significant part of why her music is beloved. it's so important for people to recognize that she is more than just 'music for straight white heterosexual cisgender women.'

[demonicbaby666]

i. A late night text

Feelings Are Fatal Masterlist | Masterlists | ii

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Jennifer Jareau x fem!Reader

Words: 5.4k+

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, fingering, oral sex, alcohol mentioned

It was a single text. 

‘What are you doing?’ 

It was nothing of significance. 

‘What are you doing?’

It painted light on your blackened phone in the dead of that Friday night. When you should have been out with friends and not rotting in bed with Netflix pulled up on your laptop and a family-sized pack of Doritos nestled at your side. The city roared with life. The hustle and bustle of busybodies dancing, shouting and singing called so desperately for your attention. The universe begged you to live for once, not for anyone else but for yourself. 

‘What are you doing?’

You knew what it meant–the true meaning behind messages sent after dusk and before dawn. They pulled uncomfortably at the muscles in the stomach, forced gooseflesh to pebble the expanse of your arms and raised the hairs on your skin to stand tall. They made you weak, ripped your resolve to shreds and forced the self-preservation you built for yourself to melt. 

Regardless of the outcome always being the same, every night, you told yourself, would be the night you’d be strong. You’d put your phone on silent, place it to the side facing down, and recommence a wild evening of trash TV in which you would think nothing of debauchery. 

‘What are you doing?’

Ten minutes. It was your max. Ten fucking minutes and the blasted, overpriced hunk of metal was in your hands as you nervously stared at the three dots that seemed to be taunting you, flickering back and forth until another grey bubble burst into light. 

‘Case is closed. I’m back home.’ 

You were better than this; you had enough respect for yourself not to do this. You didn't need to answer someone’s beck and all. 

The clattering of words typed out on your phone filled the sorrowful silence. 

‘I’m outttttttt at the mo. Gimme 20 and I’ll make my way over.’

The necessary number of Ts needed was one, but it didn't hurt to overplay the whole ‘out on a Friday night’ thing, and it wouldn’t be the first time either of you had liquor running through your systems during one of your nightcaps, even if it was a lie this time. It was a needed lie. The tattered pyjamas you wore and the mess on your head wouldn’t paint the image you wanted in JJ’s mind. Dancing amongst friends and strangers, hot and horny, that was better suited to your dynamic–which, simply put, was emotionless fucking. 

Time, it would seem, was not on your side. This was unfortunate because, even if your clothes were to end up on JJ’s floor, you still had to think through what to wear to both give the illusion you were flitting from club to club and impress JJ enough to have her distracted from the fact you were so quick to drop everything and come crawling. 

It was exhausting–the need to make her want you more than she supposedly already did, the hollowness that accompanied every late-night visit you paid her, the following mornings you spent in a taxi crying on the way home, smelling the sweetness of her perfume on whatever article of clothing you'd borrowed from her. Most painful of all was knowing she’d never feel the same. 

You needed it to stop. This needed to stop. 

She was your best friend, for Christ's sake. You were, in plain and simple terms, your best friend’s fucking booty call. Your best friend with whom you were so stupidly and utterly infatuated, it’d been a miracle you hadn’t outright admitted you loved her amid a mind-blowing orgasm—which she had given you several. 

All it would take was one text. Your fingers itched to type the words out as you stood over your unmade bed, teeth mindlessly nibbling at your bottom lip. 

‘It's over. I can’t do this anymore.’

A single finger hovered over that blue arrow. You’d only have to click send, and all of this would be over. You could go back to pretending you were JJ’s friend, that it didn’t hurt when she was away on a case and most likely sharing a bed with a far more attractive woman than yourself, because needs must and all, that it didn’t affect you that she only looked at you with such fervency when she needed an outlet for her stress and that you most certainly did not want anything more than unembellished platonic love from her. 

Your body’s need for her won out with the selection and subsequent deletion of the message.

The only dress available was one far too short for the evening air, and frantically searching for another was not an option when you were already lost in half sets of lingerie. So, you settled, even if it meant risking your legs to hypothermia. Even if it meant wearing a g-string in favour of finishing your makeup because that was the only pair of underwear you could find with a matching bra. It didn’t necessarily aid you in any way that the rightly impatient Uber driver outside was threatening to wake the whole block with a blaring horn. 

It was pathetic. You knew it. The driver knew it from the second you tumbled into the car out of breath and dressed like a hooker. Still, he was kind enough to greet you with a grunt and murmur of your name, instead choosing to silently judge you through his rearview mirror and remain silent for the duration of the drive. 

The city lights glinted defiantly against the blighting dark. You watched, mesmerised, as street lamps, neon signs, and lone candles swaying in closing restaurants bled into one. They morphed into one big blur until they were slowly replaced by the quiet stirring of TV screens and dwindling dimmed bedroom lights. 

The area housing JJ’s apartment was quiet, eerily so. Only the hum of the engine, the distant shrill of a car horn, and the crunch of tyres against asphalt as everything came to a halt could be heard through the dense silence. 

Another glare from the rearview mirror afforded you no extra time to prepare for what was to come. Your only comfort was a deep breath and a silent prayer that your emotions wouldn’t step out of line as you reached for the handle and pushed the door open. 

Blonde hair greeted you as you exited the stuffy Uber, and immediately, you were pulled into a warm embrace so tight you could smell the familiar scent of JJ’s shampoo–honey and home. You’d missed this. You’d missed her. With hands at your waist eagerly pulling you in, you lost yourself in the feel of the warm body pressed against your front. 

Occasions like these kept you coming; you were a scavenger, living off scraps. Pitiful was what it was, yet you couldn’t find the strength not to come running when JJ called. It was easy to pretend that evenings like these meant more than they did, that JJ wanted you more than just for your body, that you wouldn’t meet up with her in a couple of days for a coffee and act like none of this had happened. 

When your bodies perfectly slotted against each other outside her apartment complex, your head nestled in her neck, and her lips hovering over your cheek, it was hard to think of yourself as anything other than made for one another. They were the type of thoughts you kept under lock and key, aware but discontent that they’d always exist for you and you alone. 

You’d learnt to live that way because you knew your feelings were woven so deep into the fabric of your being that it was hard to imagine a life without them. Somehow, you knew JJ had always been there, rooted so deep in your heart, that having her infinitesimally, compared to how you wanted her, was better than not having her at all—even if it hurt, even if it turned your tears to acid as they burned your cheeks. 

“You smell nice,” you mindlessly sighed into the warmth of JJ’s neck. It couldn’t be helped. Slips always happened when she was affectionate. 

“You smell like vodka,” She chuckled. 

So what if you had a shot or three before racing down to the Uber? After all, you had a lie to sell and were nothing if not committed to the gambit. 

“Yes, well, I was out,” You muttered. 

Shaking yourself out of your love-fueled daze, you attempted, and subsequently failed, to peel yourself out of JJ’s embrace. Her hands were stellar on your waist, refusing to budge. However, you couldn’t say you minded, not when she slowly walked backwards and spun the both of you so your back was to the wall. A thin smirk lined her rosy lips, and you settled on lightly slapping her chest when she wouldn’t release you in reprimand for her earlier comment. 

“But then I got a tempting text from a certain somebody.” 

“Pray tell, what was so tempting about this text?” 

You reminded yourself why you were here and, more importantly, what you were here for. 

“It wasn’t the text itself. It was how wet I got when I realised who it was from,” you replied, running your tongue along your lip. 

“Fuck,” JJ growled, her pupils dilating. The release of your waist was quickly remedied by the grip of her hand sliding into yours and the eager jerk of her pulling you through the complex’s doors.

Unlike your own, JJ’s apartment was spacious. Despite there being a certain emptiness in the place, it had character. There was the mustard couch you’d spent many evenings eating ice cream on, binge-watching whatever JJ decided to throw on. There was the vintage coffee table you’d helped pick out and carry back from the local thrift store that had honestly seen better days now that it was marked with one too many wine stains. There were the pictures that dotted stone grey walls bright with happy memories—a couple with the team, some with just the BAU girls and the ones you most treasured, the ones with only the two of you. 

In a delicately carved rustic frame was the picture of you and JJ at Sandbridge Beach. She was buried up to the neck in sand and had on her goofy smile, the one that showed all her teeth. You stood proudly above her, plastic shovel in hand, with an equally goofy smile of your own tugging at your lips. You looked happy. 

It was packed that day, but after the three-hour drive filled with 2000s tunes and an unhealthy amount of Cheetos that JJ demanded she be fed, you weren’t about to turn back around. She was adamant about that. So you pretended that no one else was at that beach, that the people next to you weren’t rolling their eyes at your childish antics, that the water wasn’t polluted with the masses when JJ lifted you, slinging your legs around her waist and died with laughter as she dunked the both of you under cold salty shores. You were happy.

There was something so bittersweet about staring at these memories built on friendship. The reminder of what your relationship truly was tugged at your chest each time you burst through those apartment doors. Of course, you wouldn't have it the other way. Your place was no better; if anything, it was worse; in the foundations of every nook and cranny, there was a memory of your and JJ’s friendship. No, being here was more manageable. At JJ’s, you could - as you always did - leave in the morning and find solace in your empty bed, find peace in soaking your pillow with tears, relish in the shame of knowing in only a few nights, you’d do it all again in a heartbeat. 

“Tell me you weren’t out for long,” JJ groaned from behind you, hands mapping a path down your back, resting on the curve of your ass. You could feel the frustration bubbling in her chest. “Dressed like this.”

You only just about managed to say, “An hour or two,” before the blonde had you turned around, lips turning your brain to mush as she kissed you for the first time that evening. Though sudden, it was entirely welcome, and how could it not have been when she tasted so sweet? 

The first time you sampled her was five months prior. It was after you hosted a small gathering at your place, where drinks flowed freely, and laughter was heard from every corner. She stayed that evening when the place wasn’t nearly messy enough to need help. With a bin bag in her hand and conversation light on her tongue, she collected cups and wrappers, wiped surfaces down, and when there was nothing else to do, she crept up behind you and whispered all the sinful things she wanted to do to you the second she saw you in that dress. 

Garcia introduced the two of you five years before; for most of those years, you’d pined for JJ, longed for her, and loved her. It started small, like falling in love with how she looked after Garcia. Then, when the two of you began to spend more time alone, it was the way her eyes shone under low lights, the way her hair looked after it was windswept and slightly knotted. 

After that night, it was the smell she left on your pillow, the tingling she left between your legs, and the smile she plastered on your face. Then, as all things go, because happiness was not a thing you got to experience for long, life took it away. 

The following day, she was gone. The right side of your bed was empty and cold. 

You didn’t think much of that morning. Bursting through Garcia’s door, sitting on her couch and crying your eyes out wasn’t a fond memory. The blonde was kind enough not to pry, kinder to let you stay the day, then night. By the following day, you’d built your walls back up and reminded yourself that what you felt for JJ was one-sided and what she wanted from you would never be what you wanted from her. 

“I’ve missed you.” 

This. She meant this, surely. She’d missed the sex. Not you, never you. Telling yourself that was supposed to help, yet it only intensified the sting of longing caged within your chest. 

When JJ’s tongue pushed eagerly into your mouth, the small squeak that echoed in your throat morphed into a liquid moan, and you thought nothing more of her admission. If you did, with most things regarding JJ, it’d have driven you crazy. Instead, you focussed on the fingers skimming down the back of your dress, curling at its hem and delving under. Her touch was feather light at your thigh, and whilst you appreciated her being gentle any other time, now was not the time. 

You didn’t want her to treat you like a glass figurine, like you were something she could break, because she’s already broken you, and her light touches and soft kisses would never be enough to put you back together. 

No. Only crushing you over and over with an iron fist and sex-addled savagery would compensate. 

With one hand firmly placed on JJ’s shoulder, you moved the other to her questing fingers. Tearing them away from their tender endeavours, you rose them higher and higher till they were ghosting over your sex, mere millimetres away from your soaked panties. 

“Someone’s in a rush,” JJ laughed, nipping down the length of your throat. 

“Well, I assumed I wasn’t summoned here for casual banter.”

“The kitten has claws,” the blonde mumbled, continuing her descent to your neck. There, her pearly teeth nibbled at your thudding pulse point while her fingers remained vexingly still. 

“Stop talking.” 

Somewhere between dragging JJ out of the longue and into her bedroom, she had managed to unzip your dress and gift it to the corridor floor. You were equal in your endeavours, ridding her of her t-shirt, unbuckling and pulling leather through belt loops. Between all the kissing, it was an impressive yet chaotic sight. 

By the time you arrived at the foot of her bed, you both had quite the view, JJ more so. 

The look she got in her eyes was something you’d never forget. It was as though she was trying to take every part of you in at once. You were the open spread at an all-you-can-eat buffet, and she didn’t know what to begin with. That look was scorched into the back of your eyes and ingrained into every late-night fantasy. This time, however, it was shadowed by a look of something darker. 

“Were you planning on meeting someone?” she asked, taking a small step back and frowning. 

“What?” 

You looked down, admiring your lingerie set with great pride, until realisation dawned on you. Before coming to JJ’s, you were ‘out’ without knowing where you would end the night. The red lace cladding your breast and sparse over your cunt would have led anyone to believe you wanted to entertain a particular type of company, and whilst any willing participant would have no qualms with seeing you in such a set, the look in JJ’s judgemental eyes told you she was not partial to that thought. 

“That is not a night out with the girls' set of underwear.” Her eyes were back to roaming your body, only now the attention seemed more desperate. 

“Would you rather I take them off?” You tried to rid the room of tension with a sprinkle of seductive humour. Entertaining the thought she felt she had some claim over you was moronic. 

Maybe it wasn’t the answer she was looking for. Or perhaps it was. Maybe this was all a game of chess, and she would always remain two steps ahead. 

Whatever it was, you knew your part in it was a mere pawn. Your job would always be to heed and obey but put up a bit of a fight, come when called, but don’t let it be known you’re desperate, take and give pleasure, but don’t let any memories of it fester inside you and bring up feelings of true significance. 

At the latter, you’d failed - even if love blossomed in your heart years ago - but you could do the rest. 

“Or I could go put my dress back on. If the image isn’t to your liking?” You look over her shoulder into the corridor, where your dress lay in wait.

“Don’t even think about it,” she warned, voice low and gravelly, fingers pinching your chin to force your gaze back to her. 

Her eyes were two glaziers, flecks of grey pebbling her irises like raindrops on a sheet of water. Surely, you committed a heinous crime in a previous life, and this was your penance–to be tortured over and over again by your own heart, to kiss this beautiful and kind woman, have opened the depths of your soul to her, and have her see nothing but a body in which she could use to decompress and view as nothing more than a friend come morning. 

These evenings, blanketed by the cover of night and veiled under the guise of necessity, would be the most you would ever have of her. And, yes, it was selfish to take and take, trick her into believing you were using her in the same way she was using you, but your punishment came swiftly. It was delivered to you on a tray of coal the mornings after, and time and time again, you invited the sordid torment into your home with an enveloping hug and salty tears. 

Fingers dipping into your panties drew your attention away from the tempests of JJ’s eyes, and through the lump in your throat came a gasp, morphing into a moan when JJ slid down to your sex. 

“You weren’t kidding about how wet you got.” JJ tilted your head ever so slightly to the side to nibble at your earlobe, sending a single electric current running down your spine. It was joined shortly by a second when the blonde sucked her shimmering fingers to her mouth. 

“When have I ever lied to you?” You asked, somewhat winded. Except a couple of minutes ago, alongside every time I pretend not to hold you in my heart. “This is what you do to me.” At least that wasn’t a lie. 

While JJ was momentarily distracted by your admission, you took the opportunity to level your state of undress. Dropping to your knees, you tugged her trousers down and over her ankles, pressing kisses into the meat of her thighs. She showed no reservation or aversion. If anything, her fingers threading through your hair was a cue to offer her more from your auspicious position. 

And offer, you did. 

Moving her underwear to the side, you breathed in the sugared scent of her and felt saliva gather at the sides of your mouth as plain want turned to ardent need. Somehow, by some miracle, you were allowed to do this—taste the most intimate area of JJ’s body, hear her moan above you and watch the gentle push and pull of her chest grow rapid. 

Restraint was not something your nighttime companion liked to exercise, so it came as no shock when she used her sturdy grip to urge you closer. Despite her silent request for more, JJ’s head still jerked back and let out a rather loud ‘oh my god’ when you followed instructions and sucked her clit into your mouth. But her reactions had never previously bothered you, and they weren’t suddenly about to. 

You let them guide you. 

When her moans became strained and whiny, you knew to slow down. When her left knee twitched ever so slightly, you knew to move a smidge to the right. And when one of her legs hooked over your shoulder, you knew to bury as many fingers as she could take inside her and pump till her throat was raw and cum was dripping down your chin. 

“You’re too good at that,” JJ happily sighed, dropping her thigh down from your shoulder and mustering the strength to pull you to your feet. 

Happy to taste herself on your tongue, the blonde leaned forward, slotting your lips together and letting loose a contented hum. You matched her vocal bliss, growing nosier with the removal of your bra and the playful tweaking of your nipples. Her touch was addictive, and your hips pledged to reveal as much. They slaved away, trying to locate anything to grind down on, first the sticky material of your ruined panties, then, with great relief, the toned length of JJ’s thigh. 

The inner turmoil settled down, quieted by the hastening pumping of your heart. You welcomed the fall onto JJ’s bed with a mere squeak and watched enamoured as she rid herself of her bra and underwear, then moved onto the mere strip of material keeping her from seeing you fully and gloriously bare. 

You smirked at the wolfish glint in JJ’s eyes, the slight parting of her lips as she let out a shaky breath and spread your legs–an invitation to fill the vacant space with her body. 

It seemed that JJ had other plans. In one swooping move, she had you flipped on your stomach, manoeuvring your body till your cheek was pressed against crumpled sheets, ass raised high in the air, and ankles hanging off the bottom of her bed. 

“You’re perfect,” JJ breathlessly whispered, crouching down and using the pads of her thumbs to part your folds. The casualness of voicing such a thought left you dizzy. 

Why did she always have to do that? Take your breath away with words alone, and on top of that, act like it meant nothing. It meant something to you. It vexingly meant too much to you. She threw these compliments about, always sounding so sure, so firm in her belief that they were fact and not opinion. 

“JJ,” you whined, growing restless with the influx of poignant thoughts, desperate for more than her warm breath hovering over your sex. 

“Yes?” she feigned innocence, taunting you with her candied tone. 

You grit your teeth, taking a deep breath to alleviate some of the tension growing taunt in your stomach. “I swear to god if you don’t-”

Your own drawn-out cry cut you off. JJ’s tongue was back on you, only now it was consistently moving up and down the length of your pussy, occasionally circling the bundle of your nerves waiting at the apex of your sex. Even if it had only been slightly under a week since you last tumbled under bed sheets with the blonde or two days since you stuck your hand beneath pyjama bottoms and tended to your own needs, you were convinced the releasing tension burrowed deep into your bones had been gathering for not days, but months or years, waiting to be granted this kind of attention. 

Her tongue was insistent, steadfast on your clit from the moment she suckled it into her mouth like a starving baby to its mother's tit. She moved feverishly fast, then lulled her pace. The press of her tongue was harsh on you, then so light you barely felt the echo of it on your clit. Over and over, fast then slow, concrete then pillow soft until finally, she had you dribbling between whines and moans, your knuckles white with the force of your hold on bedsheets. 

The fiery inferno intensifying deep within your gut was utterly unruly. Its heat burned from your core up to your chest, down to the tips of your toes, which hung precariously off the end of the bed. Every word leaving your mouth was incomprehensible. They came out muffled, embedding themselves deep into crinkled cotton, and honestly, you were thankful. Between your senses leaving your body the moment JJ touched you and the disappearance of any inclination to keep things platonic between you, you knew what you wanted to say, or rather were trying to say, would have thrown a wrench into this delicate dynamic you both shared. 

A cry resembling JJ’s name echoed in your ears as she picked up her pace, ceasing her teasing touches and now favouring consistent flicks of her tongue. 

Abruptly, she stood up, and you would have vocalised your annoyance had it not been for what she did next. Using the full force of her body, she slotted her fingers in and out of you at what could only be deemed a brutal pace. Each thrust ended with fingertips grazing your g-spot, something the blonde never failed to hit, edging you closer to the summit of your release. 

“Touch yourself,” JJ panted from behind you, sounding almost as wrecked as you felt. 

You let out a hiss, your nipples so very sensitive as they brushed against cotton sheets in a desperate attempt to work your hand down to your clit. It was an outward struggle to maintain a repetitive pattern, the slip and slide of arousal making it impossible to work the set of nerves for any longer than a few seconds, but your efforts were not in vain. 

The flutters of pleasure rolling around in your stomach were hastening, the shuddering of your canal walls around slender fingers was intensifying, and all the while, JJ’s misshaped voice echoed in your ears, becoming more and more muffled. 

Pinpricks of light burst behind your eyelids, a fire roared in your stomach, and your hips caved to carnal need, uncontrollably rutting forward and back with the careful aid of JJ’s unoccupied hand. 

Your body was being ripped apart. Every inch of you stretched so thin that you were sure this would be when you’d break with ‘Jennifer’ on your tongue and adoration heavy in your heart. 

JJ did not let you lose yourself as you plummeted into the fiery pits of your orgasm. Her fingers, still tucked inside your twitching cunt, swept back and forth, hell-bent on prolonging the undulating pleasure coursing through your core. Her lips, pressed against your neck, moved lower to your arched spine where she lay kiss after gentle kiss. And her words, a second ago, hot and demanding, were now kind and coaxing. 

She tended to do this–piece you back together without having ever known she tore you apart, often until you were spent and your limbs immobilised. That night was no exception. You gave as good as you got, ignoring the orange and yellow hues painting the horizon outside the window and the cruel reality they brought with them. It was when you could no longer keep your eyes open that you succumbed to the pull of sleep. 

—

Most mornings, you’d wake up alone. Whilst it was a depressing reality to some to turn and find your sheets cold, it was what you’d learnt to prefer. There was, of course, merit to opening your eyes and being greeted by the luminous sight of blonde hair and copious amounts of nakedness. The sight would always be welcome, that remained undisputed. It was the urges you quarrelled with in the early hours of dawn that you had an issue with. You’d think that months of sleeping together would teach you some restraint. Alas, whenever you woke up to the sight of JJ, all you wanted to do was curl into her, wake her with soft, affectionate kisses and beg her to make you her signature chocolate chip pancakes. 

That wasn’t written into your invisible contract. What was agreed, or what you decided was non-verbally agreed, was that you’d have sex, sometimes you’d stay for the night, and in the event you did, you’d be out of her hair before she started her day, so both of you and JJ were spared from any spontaneous love declarations. 

Still, it didn’t make it any easier to remove JJ’s arms from around your waist, to quietly slip out of bed and force yourself not to look back lest you fall right back into her arms. 

There was no chance you were returning home in the clothes you’d worn the night before; comfort was always essential for your walk of shame. So, you tip-toed over to JJ’s closet and slowly pulled the doors open. No matter how gentle you were, the hinges refused to allow you a peaceful exit, sending a painful squeak out into the morning quiet. 

“Where are you going?” JJ grumbled, and you tried so fucking hard not to fall more in love with her when she did that. When she acted as though it was weird for you to leave before breakfast, like she wanted you to stay. It was helpless; when her droopy eyes locked onto yours, you felt your heart race and your stomach flutter. How could anyone look so perfect, having only just woken up? 

“I’ve got a thing,” you muttered, throwing one of her sweatshirts over your head. 

“A thing?” She gave you a cautionary look when she once again managed to catch your attention, her disbelief cutting a crease between her eyebrows. “It’s too early for a thing. Come back to bed.” 

Why did she have to do that? Force you to break your heart by denying yourself the very thing you’d yearned for since the moment you met her. 

“I’m having coffee with Pen.” 

She begrudgingly sat up and levelled you with another condescending glare, “At this time?”

“Well, you see,” you said, staring back at JJ unstirred as you pulled on a pair of stolen leggings. “I have to go home and do this thing called having a shower so I don't meet our beloved friend looking and smelling like I spent a great portion of last night between your legs.”

“But-” 

You strode over, bending at the hip to cut her off with a chaste kiss, ignoring the pull of your heart to fall back into bed and pick up where you left off last night. For a bit longer, pretend that this was a real relationship where you could kiss the woman you loved whenever and wherever you wanted. 

“I’m going now,” you mumbled over her lips, ripping away to grab your phone and walk straight out of her bedroom. 

You heard a heavy sigh, the thud of her head defeatedly falling back on a pillow as you clambered out of the apartment, heart tucked under your sleeve, tears stinging the backs of your eyes. 

Taglist: @sincerestlove @hot4milfs @chestnutninny @theoneforhobbies @lez-talk1 @obsessedwjill | Click here to be added to the series taglist

[sadicubus]

ೀㅤㅤNPD subtype flags

Exclusive to those with these subtypes, transNPD dni. (Don't expect the symbols to be aligned i couldn't do ts if my life depended on it)

Made by someone with NPD don't come for me guys i'm just a girl

Covert Narcissistic Personality Disorder

Covert NPD is a more internalized or hidden form of NPD. They are often more sensitive or self-doubtful and may put themselves down which conflicts with the 'traditional' image of a narcissist.

Viceroy butterfly to symbolize how they can be mistaken for being “normal” since they blend in more than an overt narcissist the same way viceroy butterflies get mistaken for monarchs. Green and brown to represent idfk being hidden or something.

Overt Narcissistic Personality Disorder

Overt NPD is the standard definition of a narcissist. They may overestimate their abilities compared to others and aren’t as likely to self-deprecate. You get the drill

I think you could guess why I put a peacock. Uhmmm colors cause they're eyecatching.

Antagonistic Narcissistic Personality Disorder

A subcategory of overt narcissism, antagonistic narcissists are heavily engaged with other people to ‘compete’ with them. They’re characterized by their extremely likely tendency to argue and hold grudges, as well as antagonize others.

Fox as the symbol as they're competitive/territorial animals. Blue and Yellow (Gold) to symbolize first place medals or winning. Self-indulgent.

Communal Narcissistic Personality Disorder

Communal narcissists, another subcategory of overt, believe they’re better than others because of their high moral standing. They believe they’re morally superior but often do not follow what they preach and struggle to see their own insensitivity.

Lions cause they're often see as more superior animals. Blue because it's the most popular color.

Malignant Narcissistic Personality Disorder

Malignant narcissists, share traits with overt narcissists, but tend to be significantly more malicious and aggressive towards other people. They’re more likely to struggle with laws and often show antisocial (ASPD) traits.

Symbol is a hornet cause they're typically aggressive, red cause yeah

[vervainium]

theodore nott headcanons pt 2

(bc u guys are sl*ts and wouldn’t stop asking me [i had one person request LOL])

a/n these are more like… romantic maybe? maybe even emotional? i like them tho i like them and now they’re all canon because i said so and the harry potter community basically created him out of thin air so 😁💁🏼‍♀️

firstly i believe in curly haired theo

it’s common knowledge in my community that i believe theo is smart

i think he is articulated and he knows how to process his words

he could be a REALLY (hot) good english professor

my point; hozier type words

i think that he is a naturally deep lover

he is so emotionally raw and i think he writes it all down in this cute little note book that he keeps under his mattress

perhaps he even lets you read it or gives it to you, we will never know

i think that hes secretive with his love though

anyways um

i think he loves eye contact

it allows him to connect better with people

i think it would be his thing to talk with his eyes

his eyes can be very expressive i believe like super expressive

like you make eye contact with him and suddenly you know his every thought

i honestly love the whole selective mute thing

he values his voice and his pride and it’s almost like a sacred thing because he isn’t talkative at home with yk… the big ol man

oh this might be short okay speed round

a great baker

specifically pastries

loves a good fantasy novel

he would love game of thrones and the house of the dragon

secretly super passionate about muggle life me thinks

loves to sit alone with himself

i actually think he’s stable in his self image!!!!!

i know this is controversial but hear me out he has such an example of what he doesn’t want to be (his dad) and he also has good examples (his trusted teachers)

i think he has a very good idea of who he is and who he wants to be

as you read these again bc they’re so good, i know you will, listen to angel of small death and the codeine scene by hozier

bye!!!!

[jinxekkotimebomb]

Kiruko/Haruki Heavenly Delusion's complex trans character

Thread explaining Kiruko/Haruki's character as of Chapter 54 of Heavenly Delusion.

I’ve seen many be confused over the intended way to view Kiruko’s character because of the many complexities of her arc. One of the biggest important aspects of her character and the narrative as a whole is identity and how our desires shape us.

To start with simplifying her ‘love’ for her sister as ‘siscon love’ is heavily missing the point and intention of her character. Yes, Haruki does have an unhealthy complex for Kiriko but it’s less of sexual/romantic love and more a deep pining and desire to be her body and all.

This is shown further when she outright does wake up in Kiriko's body post surgery. Her first thought after the sadness of losing her sister was a dark pleasure over having the body of her sister. She feels heavy guilt over liking the situation which is a big part of her complex.

Another aspect of Kiruko's character people overlook is the extreme admiration/idolization and possible love she has over Robin. This extends to Kiruko when she was still Haruki as shown by her overreliance in needing Robin to save her, needing to be useful to Robin and so on.

Her perfect image of Robin is shattered however when they reunite after 5 years and he takes advantage of her and sexually assaults her. With the way her identity is heavily formed around others Haruki (Robin), Kiriko (Kiruko) this completely shatters her self image.

The way she dissociated her mind (Haruki) from her body (Kiruko) during the assault plus the feeling of being trapped in the mirror implies a deeper desire of Haruki's from before the accident. Which is that she wanted to swap places with Kiriko while she and Robin were together.

Her love/admiration for Robin is as vital to her identity as her attachment with Kiriko as it shapes her identity as much as Kiriko does. This is shown by how she carries on wearing the jacket Robin handed to her all this time since she lost Kiriko and started her life as Kiruko.

It isn't until her talk with Maru after the assault she can finally let go of her past identity of Haruki and move on from her lingering attachments. From here on she's accepted herself as a woman as Kiruko and is trying to find worth and a goal in the aimless world with Maru.

Her feelings for Maru and her gender identity also go hand in hand. She first confesses to Maru she used to be a guy 'Haruki' when he first confesses to her on the boat because she feels guilty about idea of him liking her as she used to be a guy but she trusts him enough by then.

The scene where she asks Maru if he's fine with him touching her breasts after the promise he could do so is important in mentioning since she's fine with him doing that as long as he's fine with the fact she used to be a boy and her past identity of Haruki.

Her feelings for Maru primarily start to come to surface more outright when she started moving on from Robin. She's also a lot softer and more comfortable in her skin in more recent chapters.

In summary Haruki likely had gender identity issues and envy for his sister which was rationalized in his head as a sort of twisted love. And her identity is shackled around others too strongly due to her low self worth and self deprecation.

I think it's vital to understanding her character and while she's heavily flawed it's very realistic. I think this quote from Masakazu Ishiguro explains the idea behind her character well, the extreme end of a love a brother has for his sister to the point he wants to become her.

There's also this interview where instead of using the manga genderbending genre tags TS or TSF, the full katakana "トランスセクシュアル" , the official term for Transsexual/Transgender people, is used instead.

I'll update this thread whenever new chapters drop or i notice more. Kiruko is a deeply personal character for me so wanted more to be able to understand her mindset and struggles.

[ghostsofharrenhal]

Taylor Swift demands Jack Sweeney stop tracking her jet - The Washington Post (archive.org)

^ Link to the article without paywall

This honestly does it for me. After all the TS oversaturation the past year (and yes, I did enjoy Eras and supported her music until Midnights; Lord knows I've listened to her since I was a preteen), I'm surrendering my [casual] Swiftie card. I've tried to like her as a person/brand (brand is the better word) but now I cannot dissociate her image from her music anymore (I can't "kill" the artist from the art anymore).

How she straight-up acted in the Grammys (the Celine snub then PR cleanup, making the awards show all about her, the strategic announcement of TPD, I could go on objectively but yeah) might just be the tipping point already. And who am I, right? What's one less listener? What's one less woman who denounces TS's white feminism and performative/selective activism?

I've ignored the M*tt H**ly debacle, the Ice Spice tokenization, the Olivia Rodrigo royalties issue which I knew against my will, the Person of the Year hot water, the brat pack upgrade featuring Republican Lana Del Rey, the 'self-made' origins myth debunked, the rubbing elbows with Mahomes, the ever-growing rabid fanbase out for blood, and so on, so on.

As a person of color I just want these things out. If 'feminism' is enabling this billionaire to get away with her crimes (yes, she's a climate criminal now for me, what with using her jet as a taxi to see her newest boytoy across the globe), then I'm not seated. If 'feminism' is shrugging off her response or lack of action towards the fan, Ana Clara, who died in the Brazil leg of the tour, then I am speaking now.

I guess, it's finally been exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero.

[joesalw]

Ok, that's gonna be long one.

One jet is around $50 million. She has two. And now she had the ig tracking account taken down claiming that's an invasion of privacy. Very interesting considering the account existed for a few years and she didn't have any problems with it and now suddenly she gets called out for abusing the environment it's become invasive. The lady is shady. And the fact that her answer about not going to therapy is 'i feel very sane'. Oof. She's republican raised for sure. Those people think that any mental health issue equals clinical insanity and if you're seeing a therapist there must be something wrong with you.

She's jumping from one relationship to another and doesn't even know who she is. She just molds into whatever her man wants or what looks best for the image. She doesn't know how to exist on her own. For someone who presents herself as a 'girlboss' she sure doesn't have a sense of self-worth and always has to have a man next to her. No matter how bigoted he may be. She's not getting any younger so she's getting desperate and that's probably why she's unleashing on Joe. If she wants a kid, she doesn't have much time left so she latches on to every man throwing themselves at her in hopes of a happily ever after. It doesn't work like that. Fix yourself first then move on to look for someone to build a life and future with. There's no way any sane grown man would want a self-sabotaging, fight-picking, obsessive overgrown teenager with no sense of boundaries to even marry let alone have a child with. She doesn't know where her public life ends and private one begins.

I'm sure Joe saw all of that and dipped. It's not good to bring a child in that environment. And if they'd ever had one, she'd go on with her life and he'd be a house husband. I've never seen TS as maternal, nurturing or even mature enough to have a child because she seems not to have the capacity to take care of herself. In 2016 Joe was the one who took care of her and 'saved her'. It wasn't her own doing. And when he left, she started spiraling again. She portrayed herself as a mature grown woman in her 2020 albums and that turned out to be a farce. She's still that same insecure 16 year-old but richer, more influential and famous. Her recent interviews are a solid proof of that.

Her music is also nothing special. Some generic pop with repetitive and recycled melodies. She's not a vocalist, not a dancer, doesn't have a superb instrument skill, there's barely any emotion in every song she sings. Her lyrical topics are the same and don't hold any though provoking themes. She uses nonsensical metaphors and uncommonly used words to make her lyrics look better and herself seem smarter. It doesn't change the point of the song though. Argumentative antithetical dream girl is just a glamorous way of saying manic. Machiavellian is a way of saying manipulative, being morally indifferent and self-serving, lacking empathy. Sure does sound nice, huh? "I'm only cryptic and Machiavellian (manipulative, selfish, deceptive, cunning. call it whatever you want) 'cause I care". Machiavellianism in psychology is described as one of the traits in the Dark triad model. Right along narcissism and psychopathy. Mastermind is masterminding out in the open and no one bats an eye. The psychologists that named the trait after Niccolo Machiavelli said that one of the core features is lack of concern for conventional morality (they aren't concerned about the morality of lying and cheating). If you're into psychology Richard Christie and Florence L. Geis (the ones that named the trait) have a book "Studies in Machiavellianism" which is a pretty good and insightful read.

(just my assumption) I'm sure Joe dropped that word on her and she was like 'ooh, sounds nice and Machiavelli was like very political, a bit controversial and cool and people refer to him a lot, I'll definitely be using that in a song'. lmao. little did she know. I think she thought he meant it in a political sense and not a psychological one. Which are totally different things. And I'm sure he was like 'lol, she thought'.

There're a ton of celebrities bringing her up on talk-shows as well. At least once a week there's a bit on some show about a certain celeb's interaction with her. As someone who enjoys learning english trough media that's quite disturbing. I see her everywhere, TV shows, news articles, social media outlets. She's becoming inescapable. And that makes me wonder about the proportion of celebrities and journalists who genuinely like her and the ones who bring her up to get more attention. God forbid you say anything negative about her. Her Karen army will immediately send death threats your way, make fun of every aspect of your life or even dox you. And with her silence she's enabling this behaviour because she's a self-proclaimed Machiavellian (whether she chose a psychological meaning for the song or not) and doesn't care what her minions do as long as she doesn't get called out for it.

She only allows non-critical journalists to interview her. I mean, what kind of self-suck is that? An interview should be a form of discussion and not an ass kissing session. Any negative article about her will have your whole outlet blacklisted from interacting with her and her team. She needs to be in full control of the narrative all the damn time because she knows that once she lets go of the rein all of the skeletons in her closet will fall out on their own.

She's digging her own grave and I'm here for it. Last time she could make Kim and Kanye the villains and this time she'll have no one to blame but herself. Her narcissistic flat ass would make Tree the scapegoat if there's no one else she could point her finger to. It's always someone else's fault but hers. A chronic victim of this cruel patriarchal world.

I have studied psychology briefly and have learned about the dark triad and machiavellianism. What's surprising to me is that high mach people can gain advantage in the short run but ultimately lose their power in the long run because people start seeing through their surface level acting, which is what we're seeing through her behaviour right now. She acts to be an activist only when it benefits her. But swifties have so much obsession with her that even if they find it disturbing, they will try to justify it. Also idk how Taylor flexes about her machiavellianism, like to me that's not something to be proud of, the ends do not justify the means when you hurt so many people in the process. The fact that she's accepting she's cunning, manipulative, deceptive and lies to get things according to her own interest tells a lot about who she is as a person! no wonder why Joe didn’t want to marry her. Her machiavellianism trait only benefitted her in the short run

[angelbitezzz]

The camera is shoved into Sans's arms with a small "oomph" from the skeleton. He flips it around, and you watch as she frantically dials on her phone and lifts it to her ear. They seem to pick up on the other side.

The stream goes to static as she flails at the camera.

(just tagging you since you asked that in the replies- @slipperysheep)

[scholarlyshifter]

If you want to make your DR-self

https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.bing.com%2Fimages%2Fcreate%2F&t=YjA4YjlmODg3NGMxNDU4YTUxYmNmMGZkMGVlOTdhNzBmNWUwMGQ0YixhNjlkYzA2ZGZiZTUyMmM0NmE2NzFiZTg5NDY5ZjQ2NTI1YTY4YWRj&ts=1710472140

I hate AI, and all the terrible possibilities that comes with it, but I am broke and a terrible drawer, so I look to Bing to help visualize my DR-selves.

You can make your prompt anything but for portraits of my DR-self this is the format I use for my prompts:

"[fandom of DR] [style] with a [person 1] with [hair descriptors] and [eye descriptors] who's wearing [clothing item 1] and [clothing item 2] with [accessories] and [defining features]"

Because it is AI the images won't be perfect every time and it may take a couple tries.

Bing will give you 15 boosts daily, once you use these you can still produce free images, but it will take longer than it does with the boosts.

Bing also does not produce images with things like some weapons if stated explicitly in the prompt but if you imply these weapons in the prompt like adding a holster to your accessories Bing will add them in.

[9w1ft]

Hey… I like how this page is still chill and calm despite everything happening around. Because it’s so difficult to be a TS fan right now. Like what is happening? Not a single post acknowledging the election, decking herself in red, hanging out with those people :/ it’s getting difficult, because we interpret her clothes, everything she does. Shouldn’t we also interpret what she is showing right now?? I know it’s part of her job. But then couldn’t she have picked a more moderate player someone whose support systems don’t scream maga?? This is a deliberate choice she has made. To fill the pockets of people who are wildly conservative. It’s not even about Kaylor anymore. So many years since that documentary and her so called growth and for her to turn around and do this to her image. I just :/

i don’t think that there is any one correct way to react so please don’t take this as me trying to prescribe a certain way of thinking about it onto everyone, it’s just my way of taking things in. i deeply recognize and respect your sentiments. let me share a bit about where im coming from

i think firstly, i came into this thing in early 2018, during the first trump presidency, and so these big level developments are more like a return to the environment from which i started. i think that it is probably even harder if you’re a gaylor or kaylor that came in to things after 2020. not saying it can’t be hard anyway, it is, but i think this might help give a little background to my mindset

next, i always saw miss americana as a coming out documentary that was pivoted and transformed into an activism-adjacent documentary. at the time a lot of us foresaw what this issues with that would come to be, and i think a lot of us recognized that she was setting herself up for very big image issues unless she took the new direction of the documentary in stride, which some of us assumed would not be something to expect. like, we had hope, but we were able to recognize how nuanced her particular situation was. like i think for a lot of us, the line in anti hero “did you hear my covert narcissism disguised as altruism like some kind of congressman” meant a ton because it showed a level of self awareness about the situation that we all assumed she had but didn’t have many straightforward examples to point to that said as much.

also i think that her unsuccessful attempt to unseat marsha blackburn in 2020 probably sent her spiraling back into the mindset she was in in 2016. that is to say, and im sorry this is an armchair psychologist thing to say but its based on what i observed from miss americana, subsequent interviews, and some of the lyricism of midnights, that taylor might worry deeply that her actions might affect political races negatively, and she might even feel cursed, or afraid of ruining things, by saying something. i don’t want to get into what i or we might think about that from an ethics standpoint because i think it’s an endless conversation but i think its worth pointing out that there is a level of stress that she probably feels that may paralyze her in ways that might not make sense to you or i. once again, im just trying to offer a potential answer as to why, not to make some sort of excuse.

then, past 2020, with the way i see things with kaylor, i believe taylor re-prioritized to focus more on her loved ones than to feedback from her fans. does this explain every move she has made since? not entirely, but i think it is somewhat more understandable —at least to me— than the popular gaylor notion that taylor is single gay and trying to dismantle the system.. or dating some other woman, the potential options of which get floated around do not seem, to me at least, to be people whose circumstances would make it difficult for her to come out or to express her political opinion. the stakes are simply not there for me, so i find these possibilities less likely whereas i find kaylor to offer several more likely scenarios

i’m sorry.. ive rambled on again haven’t i.

as for the way things are going presently, it sure ain’t ideal!! but i’ve decided to believe that the majority of taylor’s decisions up until now were considered and implemented with some level of thought and intention on her part, weighing the benefits and risks to herself and to some extent, the world, but that her thought process and decision making is informed by information and pressures the likes of which you or i simply cannot fully know. i believe that, if i was in her shoes, i would be able to understand how grey a lot of the choices are for her. empirically speaking, a lot of them would still probably not make sense to me but, i believe my ability to understand would deepen.

i think for me what i have decided for myself is that blogging about kaylor here on tumblr is something that is interesting to me and fulfilling in all these weird internet ways, and that so long as i find it worthwhile to my life and so long as i keep meeting and hearing from you or others that tell me they appreciate my.. i guess.. more lighthearted?… approach to it? ill continue. i think its a kind of internet record worth keeping.

also, throughout the years i’ve just reconfirmed again and again for myself that we as fans really do not have an affect on taylor’s or karlie’s actions, especially contemporarily. and i think this has also lifted a little bit of the stress i used to place on myself under the assumption that maybe they might read some of our blogs or our feedback and that maybe i or we had some responsibility to affect them in some way. i just don’t think that’s the case, as they provedly do not listen to the big stuff. and even if they did, i doubt we have the background information needed to provide a truly informed opinion. and oh, i guess, maybe they check in idk idk idk who knows but, i now see this all as an activity in observation chiefly and maybe once in awhile if we are lucky, a comet might pass on by.

ack! i’m rambling again.

i guess one more parting thought related to this in a way is, when i came to tumblr back in 2018, there were a handful of blogs that had a similar setup or demeanor as my blog currently does, and, especially after late 2018, but late 2019 as well, and again in 2020, and i guess again in 2021 😆, i watched as one by one these types of blogs resigned or deactivated. and within this landscape, i recognized there was a need for blogs like these. if they all disappeared… well… it wouldn’t have been good for the ecosystem and the people living it. so as the years went by i continued to build my outlook and blog into what it is presently. hopefully it is useful or provides some space for you or other to unfurrow your brow for a second. rest is also important.

[beebopboom]

The Meta Underground

A Guide to Navigating what has been my brainrot posting about Good Omens

I apologize in advance for how long a lot of these are

feel free to message and asks are always open!!

non good omens related blog -> @boppinbee

Meta Series

The Bookshop

A Bookshop in Soho Eden - the bookshop is set up like a garden, hidden Tree of Life, rivers of time, and is the whole of Whickber St Eden?

The Book of Life to The Second Coming Pipeline - a couple of theories about the book of life, the rings, the fly, bookshop, and coffee

The Second…….Ball? - Gabriel’s arrival really did trigger the Second Coming - at least a version of it

The Title Sequence

Background Shenanigans - hints in the background of s1’s TS that lead to s2’s and what that might mean for our story.

Timeline Theory - those walkways are timelines

Heaven’s Timeline - a more in-depth look at how the walkways are Heaven’s planned timeline

Three Final Acts -the three magic tricks we see in the title sequence and what they might be in the show

Not the Magic Trick we see - initial findings for Three Final Acts

Mystery symbol - the ongoing search for a mystery symbol

The Metatron

The Angel Behind the Curtain - some wizard of oz parallels - we are just warming up people

Always an Angel, Never a Man - let’s dive into who he is in scripture shall we?

Am I a Good Angel? Am I a Mad Angel? - some similarities between him and the figure head of the devil

A Kind of Magic - numerology, tarot cards, and is he cosplaying?

Words of a Wise Angel - an actual look into his actions in the show and some of his funny word meanings

Agnes Nutter

The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter - a list of all her prophecies and images I could find from her book

Messages from Above - is she a witch? is she a prophet? how about both? let’s look into how she is getting her prophecies

Refined by Fire

(unfinished)

Clothing

there will be more here eventually and has to be updated

Clothing within Ranks -Angel Clothes and what the colors mean in show!universe

Aziraphale’s tartan - how lighting seems to effect his bow tie

Theories

Greasy Johnson: A Red Herring? - season three speculation about how the baby swap included Jesus as well, Hello Warlock

Unexpected Help - Saraqael was the one who opened the gateway in the bookshop

Nuns Night Out - what are those nuns doing at the theatre?

A Case of Missing Weaponry - ever wondered where Michael’s spear is? boy do i have a crackpot theory for you.

Meta Groups

Aziraphale

Aziraphale’s Flaming Sword - the human history behind his sword

The Halo was the Cause - why the Halo was the reason the Metatron showed up

An early journey of questioning - it really doesn’t take him long

Aziraphale’s Protection - how he protects Crowley

Aziraphale’s unintentional? placement - Aziraphale standing to the left of Gabriel in Job

A lying Angel - lying to protect his love

Choosing Death- choosing death doesn’t work maybe it’s time for something else

Don’t try to be God - why Aziraphale got nervous in Before the Beginning

Crowley

Crowley’s Fall - he really didn’t mean to Fall

Anthony J Crowley - a self discovery through his name

Defensive Crowley - acknowledging the consequences of the arrangement

Crowley losing the bookshop - and he’s the only one to have

Crowley giving up Alpha Centauri - he gave away their safe space

Stars to Plants - she just wants to watch her creations grow ok

Crowley’s Ringtone - not quite a normal phone sound

It’s always too Late

The Ineffables

The apology routine - maybe there is more to it than the dance

They love humanity - just in different ways

A duet - it’s not a want but a need

Nothing - their versions of nothing

Power dynamic - “second in command” ok wow that hurt

Paranoia and Isolation - how the pandemic may have affected them

Difference of Perspective - how the audience vs characters view A&C

Timeline

The Flood changed it all - it really fucked them up

Future Minisode time slots - the gaps in time for possible future minisodes

Heaven

1827 Second Coming? -crowley and aziraphale unintentionally fucking things up

Metatron future manipulation - something he is going to “let” Aziraphale do in s3

Angel confrontation tactic - they really like trapping Aziraphale into conversations huh?

Wildcard

Dirty Donkey Lift - just questioning why the hell it is there

Cut dream sequence - whose is it?

Something up with fours? - discussing some fours in the show

Angels don’t dance - and they don’t ask for forgiveness

Freemasons lodge - duality of the Resurrectionist

No Garden? No God - they left the garden

Maggie’s Ugrency - picking apart her misspelling

Questioning the Coffee Shop - only two beings do it - Crowley and the Metatron

Slamming of the books - Jim says some interesting things when slamming two books together and what it could mean

If Gabriel can leave Heaven and be with Beelzebub, why can’t Aziraphale do the same with Crowley - more of a ramble than anything else

The Wicked Bible - the second printing error

ASAP - further look at the many asap’s around the coffee shop and how it plays into the final fifteen

Memory Returns - a (currently) three way visual parallel of when memories are returned

Acrostic Clues

fuck I have to reorganize this again

[skeletwinsauaskbox]

Do you guys have candy in the underground? If so what’s EVERYBODY’S favorite?

Some notes:

Papyrus liking lollipops is a nod to his TS!Underswap self. Funny Gummies are also considered a kid's candy, so it suits him!

Sans has a big sweet tooth, but not for candies, exactly. He prefers baked goods, especially freshly baked ones.

I had this mental image of Alphys slurping up gummy worms like there's no tomorrow and I found that hilarious.

For Undyne, the spicier the better!!!

I also think Asgore has a sweet tooth. I mean, come on.

Grillby is just that guy lol.