#the one i wrote the post about how that’s just an autistic man

[therealcheekface]

it’s kind of the drinks talking but i’m honestly in love w every queer man/nb in my social work classes it’s not even funny

[giantkillerjack]

Y'ALL last night i spent a total of 2 minutes tops on my appearance and then went to a lesbian bar full of attractive people anyway, got up onstage during an event about sharing stories of queer joy, openly wept almost the entire time I was up there, and I STILL managed to give a good performance and come away feeling charming!

And THEN a troupe of improv actors and a pianist put on a short and very sweet sketch based on what I had said about the joy of seeing elder Trans folk in public as a disabled Trans person.

And I hope the queer elder I saw there really felt that love especially. I felt the troupe's performance really did me justice, and it was so beautiful.

But also, y'all, I was still able to crack jokes that got the whole room laughing WHILE I WAS CRYING!!! - A skill I'm just realizing I probably polished while I was in intensive group trauma therapy lol. Shout out to all my fellow IOP/PHP buckaroos in the chat!

and the best part about this little performance of mine? My most favorite-est proudest little detail?

It was easy. It was EASY!?!?!? IT WAS EASY!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As in, the words I wanted came so naturally that I was able to deliver them with excellent timing on split-second judgment!!!!

Do you know what that means to me??? Oh I am so proud of this little Jack here! He who worked so so hard for a thing like that! I worked so much and for so long, and I shall - no, I MUST - celebrate the precious joy and pride of having achieved this childhood dream!

Oh to tell Younger Jack that he would be able to do such a thing one day! That sweet anxious confused child would feel such relief just to know it can be done! What a wonderful victory! It felt so good!

Life is fucking hard and dreams can come and go, but I can say that in this way at least I have become the kind of person I always dreamed I would be. ❤

AND I know that if I had rolled low on my charisma throw [i.e. made a social mistake] - which I have done, often do, and SHALL AGAIN [see profile picture] - I could have brushed it off with the ease of an old actor who knows that performance has only ever been the business of consensually making oneself look like a fool!

.... Or perhaps I would have processed my mistake with the knowledge of a fellow who has been to enough poetry slams to know that a kind and loving audience in a vulnerable safe space generally just responds to a performer's nervousness/awkwardness/difficulty communicating by rooting for them! I knew I was in a space where people wanted to see me do well, and that helped a lot. Bless those people for making that space. ❤❤❤

This post is not focused on my many MANY grateful and loving emotions about elder queers because, as I may have mentioned, I've sort of already expressed a lot of feelings about that for one 24-hour period. 😅

[vatelixx]

You are the knife (I turn inside myself),

S2!Post-addiction!Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and copious amounts of angst, and like a small amount of fluff to just… balance it out), Workplace rivals, aka, enemies to lovers (who are still enemies and would rather die than tell each other they’re in love).

──── autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.

Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? it’s not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), crying— like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly.

— warning: mentions of past drug addiction.

w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)

a/n: i know tumblr hates to see me coming with my Spencer Reid one shots. I wrote this at 3am when I was supposed to be studying for my latin exam, it’s okay. Uni will understand I had greater things to do. I promise i’ll get around to my requests this week, i just got possessed by the holy ghost and wrote this.

────────────

Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, he’s an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.

You’re late today. Chicago, you’ve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesn’t work.

Here’s the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldn’t want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? He’s also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.

The list stretches on.

But you and Spencer can’t both be the brains of the team. It’s unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why can’t he just—

Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Why— why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.

The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. “Don’t,” you push, padding into the office, met with Spencer’s hardened gaze. “Late night.”

“We haven’t been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and you’ve already—“

“Get your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.”

“Did you take a break?” he asks, and you both know it’s not born from care. “Maybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isn’t the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, let’s hope we don’t find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotch—“

“Have I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?” that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you can’t know, it’s not statistically possible that you’d be aware of Hankel’s lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes you’d be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.

“Right, um— the case,” he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, it’s all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.

“The case.” you agree.

You’re attuned to each other, a psychological curse he’s forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. “Look at these markings—“ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.

The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps there’s an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you don’t need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that he’s moved onto the nuances now.

Human sacrifice, it’s not the first time you’ve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But it’s certainly the first time of its kind.

“Traces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.” you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.

Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.

It’s a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.

Metaphorically and literally you’re higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. “Regina Horthorne,” the victim, “Straight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said… bacchanal?”

“Hm. I don’t know, maybe she’s like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.” you retort.

Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if he’s analysed you the way you’ve analysed him. It’s a futile question, of course he has.

Anything to gain the upper hand.

You continue, “Maybe they’re sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.”

“I’m already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. There’s a high probability ‘they’, the dominant unsub, wouldn’t even look at me, and—“ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.

“There’s a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and you’re wasting time by insulting me?” Spencer is….. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. “The BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.”

“Oh, you wound me boy genius.” you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.

Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goods— do you struggle to sleep like I do?

You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. There’s a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.

Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. “Are you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Don’t worry, i’ll let you take the credit for it. I’m sure Gideon will be so impressed.”

Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.

The distance between you has become almost null. It’s intimate, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “I’m not bitter. And I don’t care about the credit.” A lie. “Unlike you, I don’t need to prove my worth to him.”

────────────

Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one that’s installed into your mind the moment you’re employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. You’re not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, there’s no heroes in real life. Maybe it’s the sense of family, or maybe it’s just what everyone subconsciously fell into.

You can’t understand why you’re so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakota— deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. ’I assumed you two would get along,’ Prentiss had stated— but what does she know? She’s been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.

The hostility has mounted to new levels now.

It’s hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that can’t even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still you’re both stuck in this loop.

South Dakota, of course it’s South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.

Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.

You’re sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.

The tension is near-palpable, stifling. “I can do this myself. No offence,” full offence, “but you’re unneeded right now. In general, really.”

You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He can’t remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what he’d endure. It’s still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.

“No you can’t,” you retort. Maybe it’s unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostility— people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps there’s justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.

Control. All you do is reach for the blade.

“You’re just bitter that I know what I’m doing. You’re not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.”

Well that’s certainly unlikely.

“I think,” he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But he’s exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?

“I think you’re insecure” he continues, “because you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, you’re replaceable. It’s why you’re so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You can’t stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks I’m better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.”

This is uncharted territory now. It’s never been pushed to this extent. It’s never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. You’d consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way that’s different from your own personal view of him.

Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.

There’s silence, and then he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. “Did he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?”

Spencer falters.

It’s a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that you’re right. He’d been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.

That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didn’t matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?

He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.

Spencer’s eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.

“You don’t get to bring that into this.” He murmurs. “Shut up.”

“You started this—“

“Are you 5?” he bites back, “I was making an observation.”

When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, you’re quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps it’s perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe it’s all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.

“Where are you going? You can’t walk away from this one.” you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks that’ll stain and remind and then ache— it’s repetitive now.

“I covered for your ass.” you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU could’ve lost your license, you still. Didn’t. Say. Anything.

It’s not like it took much effort to discern the truth.

“I also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.” you’re not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.

You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didn’t notice. Didn’t even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.

Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and that’s more than he’s ever received before.

All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.

All he knows is that he’s stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like he’s Icarus and you’re the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if it’ll seal his fate as foolish.

It’s a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. It’s like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance that’s impossible to endure.

He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and he’s just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates you— he hates you so much that sometimes he can’t breathe when you’re around.

You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.

“I think I’d rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.” he says, and he might’ve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.

The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like he’s trying to find an answer in response to it. There’s a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.

God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. He’s never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.

“I wish you were being held hostage. It’d be quieter,” you retort. It’s muffled, and you’re moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you don’t even realise are occurring.

You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isn’t that what you’ve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?

It’s sick. It’s sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How you’ve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.

What is sickness without pleasure?

He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it’s pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. He’s backed against the wall now, and he can’t find it in him to complain.

“Of course it would be you,” he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; he’s well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesn’t feel pure.

People like him don’t get that.

He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.

He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and he’s almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.

But he can’t. Because that isn’t him when he’s with you. “Are you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, I’d like to see you try.”

Admittedly, it’s not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, he’s muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and he’s crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.

“Only person who’s ever touched you, huh?” you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.

He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, it’s just you. It’s only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.

He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things he’ll inevitably regret. “Please, I can’t-“

He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.

“Cant— can’t take it. Oh,” he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you’re gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.

“Eyes on me, boy genius.”

He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like you’re artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once he’s had his fill.

“Let’s look at you. Hm?” you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and there’s so many layers, and he’s acting coy now, as if he wasn’t whimpering moments prior.

Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isn’t this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.

He always wanted to be seen.

He just didn’t expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He can’t fight your trailing gaze, and he doesn’t want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this it— raw uncut intimacy.

You’re softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.

“Mhh,” he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.

He’s already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.

“You’re— oh.. you’re enjoying this far too much,” he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.

It feels good, so good that he can’t process the shame that’s bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and it’s not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.

“That it’s. There you go. That’s my good boy.”

Spencer sobs.

“Shh, shh, I know, I know, it’s a lot.” there’s always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.

His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. He’s not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that he’s good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.

The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, it’s what you’re both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But you’re not. That confuses him to no extent.

“I can’t— cant, ‘m so close.” his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. It’s not the most conventional ‘first time’, but he takes it regardless.

“Yeah?” you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. “You wanna cum for me, hm?”

“Oh god,” he breaks, “Yes— yes, please—“

You have no interest in denying him, not when he’s this destroyed from a mere hand-job. “Go on then. Just because you asked so nicely.”

He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.

Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?

Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, it’s quiet, as if you’re both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.

“This is, uh— yeah.” he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, he’s starting to think you’re the personification of the serpent.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t hold his own body to such pure standards. He’s not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything he’s done to it.

“Hey wait,” you’re not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds of…. you’re not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team can’t quite understand.

“Don’t make me chase you a second time, jesus.” You can’t just leave—“ you exhale, breathe, in and out, “Are you okay?”

He stops. He stops because you’ve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.

A part of him, the small part of him that’s not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the inevitable fallout won’t occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isn’t right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.

“I don’t know, im confused—“ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, im uh… i’m fine. “I just need to leave, I have to-“ he swallows. “I can’t. Not right now, I need to do— anything but this.”

He walks out on you and it’s fine.

────────────

Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. It’s. Fine.

Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how you’ve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if it’s ever going to be reversible.

When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. You’re adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. It’s late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldn’t go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).

Everything is fine. To reiterate.

It’s not.. It’s not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? It’s exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldn’t be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?

Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.

And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.

In reality, he’s not. Because, sure, he’s sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But he’s intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and it’s making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he can’t quite believe you’re tangible.

“You look nice, I guess,” he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.

As if the ‘incident’ (as he’s taken to calling it) didn’t tilt his world on its axis.

“You also look nice, I guess.” you retort, and it’s the best you’re going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)

You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?You’re. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.

“What do you think?” you ask, “I might go as you for halloween, it’ll definitely scare the kids.”

“They make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, I’d take that as a compliment,”

It’s a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposing— no.

He wants to say something about how ridiculous you look— but it’s hard to focus, you’re taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. You’re malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which you’ve already done to a painful extent).

“You can’t just touch my stuff.” he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.

“Oh chill out, boy wonder. It’s a pair of glasses,” you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. There’s heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).

Focus.

You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, it’s a sight you’ve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. “There. Oh, were you just upset because you couldn’t see me properly? That’s sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He can see everything.

Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.

He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.

But it’s not good enough.

“You,” he says between messy kisses, “Need to keep your hands to yourself.” — okay, he’s not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.

But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.

He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. You’re bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.

But now, there’s no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god he’s tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).

The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. “This can’t keep happening,” he mumbles against your smeared lips.

“Do you remember last time?” you question. It’s taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But you’re fairly certain this compromising position wouldn’t exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.

Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.

Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some ‘dignified’ extent. “Had you just like this,” you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. “I bet you’d let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?”

And if he weren’t so far gone, he’d protest, he’d tell you that no, this is wrong, because you’re so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldn’t be him.

But you don’t let good men rise, and there’s something so enticing about the depths of hell. He’s not sure he’s good anyway. It’s a complex situation. “You’re a sadist,” he murmurs, breathless, “I wouldn’t.”

Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. He’s nervous, “Could we, like… at least find a bathroom? I’d take a bathroom, even though there’s endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, i’ll just pay— Anything. I’ll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, and—“

“Fuck,” he’s never been the type to swear, “I’ll do anything.” this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.

────────────

French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.

The second you’re both inside your apartment, you’re clattering into things. “I love your eyes,” you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, “Love it when you cry for me.”

You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they might’ve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.

No big deal!

“It’s an involuntary bodily response. You’re a dacryphiliac.” he responds.

There’s not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.

He’s reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.

“It’s not a fetish if I only feel it for you—“

Spencer breaks.

“No-no-no,” he says, too loudly, “You can’t just- say those things. You can’t tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. You’re volatile. Destructive,” he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. You’ve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.

“Why am… Why am I not scared?” he asks, “It’s not like I make you cry…”

“Because there’s no reason to be scared.” you answer simply. And at surface level, it’s true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, you’ve always trusted him. It’s a coveted admission, considering you’re circumspect by nature.

You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. He’s standing there, and you’re not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps you’ve misplaced as enmity for so long.

“You could make me cry,” you state, because if there’s one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, it’s him. It’s always going to be him.

It’s a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.

“Why would I want you to cry? That’s— i’m not even sure how I would go about it.”

You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until you’re hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. “It doesn’t always have to be bad.” you explain, because he’s looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. “Last time,” those words still feel like poison, “When I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.”

He’s staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.

Your hand catches his wrist, and then you’re hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. He’s tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. “Make me cry, boy genius.”

You act like this is the most indecent thing he’s capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, it’s up there on his list, but admittedly he hasn’t really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.

Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then he’s just groaning, cursing Gods he doesn’t believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he won’t commit to.

It’s blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if he’s worshiping something he can’t even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.

His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.

Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that you’re just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.

He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didn’t even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.

And there's knowledge here, but it’s not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when he’s got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.

The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, you’re ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head you’ve received (though you’re sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but it’s wanting, in a way that makes you ache.

“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”

You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, he’d do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.

But he can’t focus, can’t think about anything when you’re reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?

He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, let’s you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.

Your body shudders, and you’re making noises he hasn’t heard before, sounds that could only be described as obscene— and his name, you’re moaning his name, and god, he’s certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.

It’s when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.

You’re messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but you’re gorgeous, and he’d do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that he’s given you. No one else.

“I love your face.” He says, a little bluntly. But it’s true, he does.

So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,

And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.

His knees are bruised. That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when you’ve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. It’s not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after you’ve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, he’s an incriminating sight.

“Losing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.” you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. It’s a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.

“Ironic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.” he mutters.

Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and he’s lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because he’d let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before. You’re seeing him, seeing things he doesn’t even know himself. But there’s nowhere to hide, not while you’re slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that he’s unaccustomed to.

“I won’t go easy on you,” you assure. Even though that’s technically a straight-faced lie. Of course it’ll be more tender than anything else you’ve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. It’s only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.

Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.

“Hands above your head,” you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. “That’s good— good boy. Tell me if they’re too tight,” you say, binding them with his discarded tie.

You stare, and it’s like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, he’d let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.

“Too tight? I’ve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.” he retorts before tugging at the restraints, “Tighter.”

“Didn’t realise you were so into this—“

“Neither did I,” he scoffs, “I’ve never done it before, obviously.”

“Now you have. Congrats, i’ll give you a sticker once we’re done. Gold star, huh?” and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until you’re knotting it in place. Until he’s entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? It’s hard to find fear when you’ve covered him on the field for over a year (he’s prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).

“Yes, thank you. I’ll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.” right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.

And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.

Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.

You’re the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.

You’re lethal, and he’s smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except he’s never been smart when it comes to people.

Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until he’s spilling blood, and it’s a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.

“Sensitive.” you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way you’ve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.

“Are you always like this?” you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. “Poor baby, so touch-starved.”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word sensitive.” he replies, “More susceptible to the fact that you’re touching me, and that I haven’t felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, it’s usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.”

Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.

“Oh you’re a soldier, you suffer so much.“ you state, and it’s condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like you’re witnessing ascension.

It’s pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.

You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where you’re certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe there’s something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.

Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if it’s bad, even if it’s cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.

“Stop mocking me.” he replies, it’s through laboured breath. “Just because I don’t have your proclivity for taking hits doesn’t mean I don’t suffer.”

No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever cared to try. You’re his first.

“I know you suffer,” you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you should’ve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.

Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?

Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. It’s not similar to before: it won’t end after he’s found his release, and it’s not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.

“And you know i’m always going to take the hits for you, regardless.” he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.

“Oh—“ he breathes out. He’s fairly certain he’s supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then he’s retorting, “You could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.”

He’s overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isn’t worthy of being saved. Isn’t worth the effort.

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer.” you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.

“Shit— okay, okay,” he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but it’s just so good.

He’s always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.

He doesn’t even really touch himself. There’s been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But they’re rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.

He’s a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.

He’s never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because he’d always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.

He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, he’d accept it, in its most primal form.

“You get off on this,” he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.

“Well I’d be pretty concerned if I wasn’t getting off on this right now—“

“No,” he pushes, “You like that i’m, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?” he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. “Ruin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. I’ll only come back, i’ve already done it once. Statistically, it’s going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.”

When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until you’re lining him up, until you’re sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.

“You’re so—“ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. “Fuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?”

“You.” he mutters, playing coy. “But you’re a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..”

“I think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.”

“It is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..”

He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.

“Better,” you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? He’s swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.

You know him. The way you touch is like you’re searching for something. Anything about him. It’s like you’re a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you must’ve found them, because you’re suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and it’s all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.

He tugs at his restraints, because he won’t go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows it’s fated that he will inevitably fall. “Please—please untie me, just wanna hold your hand.”

And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until you’re breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. It’s such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly you’re fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.

It’s against your nature, but you can’t help, can’t refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re doing so good f’me. Such a good boy,”

Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.

He grips your hip. That’s the first thing he does once he’s sufficiently sane, well… partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.

He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because he’s sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until you’re on his lap, until you’re sat in your rightful place.

Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.

The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, he’d never be rough with you, he’s all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But it’s overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.

And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, it’s like he’s seeing god in the shape of your cupid’s bow.

“Please, I need—“ he stutters over his words, “If you don’t move, I swear—“ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder— “I swear, I’m gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you can’t leave me like this, please—”

“The Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?” you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.

“No. I’m stating my rights,” he says, “Torture is prohibited.”

“I’m not torturing you—“

You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.” he whimpers.

It’s indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices you’re certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, it’s new. It’s your own first, and you can’t even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.

His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and he’d thank you for it.

You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.

“Please,” he whimpers again— he’s too pretty to be asking so nicely. “I just— I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that I’m not even sure if my body can handle it.”

It’s not dirty talk, it’s more like he’s begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.

And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.

It’s a religious experience, like he’s about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. He’s almost afraid to touch you— to stain something divine, like you’re too much for him. But you’re not.

“I like this. Like you. Like you here. You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, and it’s untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. “so good, so perfect, all I need, please—”

“Stop it.” you bite, preferring him defiant over this— because this opens up wounds you weren’t even aware existed. “Oh fuck, stop it.”

“So good. You’re so good,” he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.

“Says you.”

“Says me.”

You fuck him harder.

“Oh,” is all he can pronounce, little oh’s every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until you’re bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.

And it’s not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. “If being nice got me this, I’d be so nice to you for the rest of my life—“

Another lie. But it’s worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until you’re clenching around him, and he’s there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and there’s nothing but bliss.

“I hate you so much,” you say in the aftermath, and it’s closest you’ve ever gotten to a confession of love.

He laughs, wipes away tears, “Hate you more.”

“Don’t leave this time.” he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, you’re both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.

“Oh i’m going to be so mean tomorrow.” you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.

He can only sigh, stare at you dreamily. “God, is that a promise?”

[divorcedfiddleford]

You made a post saying “it has been zero days since our last alex hirsch hates ford so much bullshit” and i know it was mostly hyperbole, but you have some really good takes that I would love to be elaborated on in terms of how ford is written

it really wasn't hyperbolic. over the years he's just really shown a lot of hatred towards this one character.

content warning: discussion of abuse

i want to start with this clip from the commentary which i think of as a microcosm for how the writers and especially alex think about ford.

transcript:

rob renzetti: i mean he [mcgucket] should've basically knocked ford out, and... and destroyed the... you know, tied him up, and, destroyed... and... alex hirsch, speaking over him: yeah he should've beat ford with a wrench and taken this thing apart piece by piece! he's the one who understood how to built [sic] it, but...

... so that seems like a pretty violent course of action. shall we unpack that?

ford is a character who's pretty explicitly written as a victim of abuse, and who now has c-ptsd as a direct result of the abuse he experienced. alex hirsch believes that ford deserved everything bad that happened to him, that it's ford's own fault, and that he also deserved worse things to happen to him. this is why, given every narrative chance, alex hirsch has piled more suffering onto ford's plate. the biggest example of this i can think of is in the journal, when he wrote that fiddleford was actively erasing ford's memory (despite this being a massive timeline contradiction which i still refuse to accept). because god forbid ford even have one remotely healthy relationship with somebody. that would be too good for him. ford was manipulated and lied to by bill, but alex repeatedly compares him to icarus, a teenager whose demise was the result of his own ignorance. this comparison is still so fucking offensive to me. the sun did not lie to icarus, did not guarantee icarus all of the happiness and success and sense of belonging which he had been denied all his life, did not actively shut out the voices of those around him who would try to help him.

alex in general has a very strange relationship with abuse. he seems to get really upset when people read his characters as victims of abuse. the strongest instance of this is actually not with ford, it's with pacifica - especially in the nwmm episode commentary. the episode says "pacifica's parents have conditioned her to respond to a bell" and alex says people got "the wrong idea" about it. like. dude. what the fuck. you wrote abuse. even if you didn't mean to, that's what you wrote. you can't say people got "the wrong idea" just because you didn't think about the subtext of what you were writing. anyway, back to ford: i believe this extends to him as well. alex wanted to write a character who's a foil to stan and who was a selfish unlikable victim of his own arrogance. however that's not what he wrote. he somehow seemingly accidentally wrote a really compelling and relatable awesome autistic guy who had to fight for every good thing he he ever had in his life only for it to be taken from him every single time. but alex can't let go of seeing ford as just "the opposite of stan". when he talks about "how someone as smart as ford could fall for bill's tricks", he refuses to realize he wrote a situation in which a man was being psychologically manipulated and tortured.

it goes back further, too. people repeatedly theorized that filbrick was... not a very good father, to say the least. on top of the very explicit and canon fact that he threw one of his children out on the street (seriously, there is no defense for this), people pointed out that stan would flinch at filbrick, that ford seemed upset by things filbrick said but dared not talk back, that filbrick was mad at stan not for hurting his brother, but for "costing the family potential millions". but alex can't have people seeing ford as sympathetic. ford can't have it bad like stan did. ford had to have everything and he lost it all because he sucks so much. so he wrote the graphic novel story where ford is filbrick's favorite child and filbrick also is not even a bad parent you guys he's just stoic. ignore the whole thing in dreamscaperers where stan perpetuates the abuse that filbrick did to him. ignore the fact that ford was shouting at stan and then completely shut up as soon as filbrick entered the room and did not say another word for the rest of the night. ignore all that because i just made up this story where he cries at a present from stan. filbrick loved his boys for sure you guys!!!

i'm not even touching on how alex repeatedly villainizes traits commonly associated with mental illness and neurodivergence. ford's hypervigilance becomes arrogance. his passion for knowledge means he's a know-it-all. his difficulty socializing and making friends means he's a misanthrope. his lingering resentment for the way he was raised means he hates his brother and is the worst human being to ever have lived. i could go on, go even further into how the finale reaffirms this, but i feel weird talking about this too much.

[up-in-flames-writing]

I wasn't sure if I wanted to make this post, but it feels nowadays like no matter what I say, people will find something wrong with it. I can't say anything about transmasculinity without someone with 'TERFs dni' in their bio foaming at the mouth about it.

Cause it ain't just the radfems & the TERFs, half of the damn queer community is like this as well.

And my main point here is that I fucking despise being a transmasc writer. People fucking despise transmasc creators in general!

I remember watching a cishet 'feminist' reviewing a book by a transman, & acting like he was just a stupid little girl who didn't understand feminism, cause he wrote a book about how men are mistreated, & he wrote it as a transman! & I'm sorry that not all of us can be as damn articulate as your feminism priestesses of the 1900s, but even if we were you'd still find a fucking fault in it!

Cause I love writing stories were a girl becomes a warrior & finds out he's actually a man, & he's better this way than he ever was before, & I was once that little girl who was signed up for martial arts classes & got so much euphoria from beating up all the little boys, but I was already a little boy at that time, I just didn't know it!

Oh, but that's not feminist. It ain't 'female empowerment'. Seeing Mulan as trans in your headcanon isn't feminism, & writing about little girls becoming strong men is misogynist, even if that little girl was never a little girl to begin with!

And I'm just so fucking tired, y'all. One type of 'feminist' hates me for being trans, & the other for being a man, & no matter what I do I just get harassed over & over.

& I'll probably bring this curse over to this blog now. Until now, people have been sending harassment to my dead main blog. Well, they won't be able to do that soon. It'll be this blog, or my kinda dead RP blog.

& when I say I'm terrified, I mean it. Cause I was a terrified little girl growing up, bullied for being autistic & weird & queer & faggy & masculine. & now I'm terrified once again, cause I keep being harassed for being autistic, weird, queer, faggy, masculine, & for refusing to shut up about it. & I want this blog to stay a safe place.

But this is my writing blog. I am a writer. I write stories where little girls become strong men, & I wish someone would call that 'trans empowerment'. & what's empowering in staying hidden?

This is my writing blog, & I deserve to speak up against the bullshit I have to face as a transman & a writer. & the truth is: people fucking despise transmasc writers.

[themonochromaticcat]

Joost Klein HC’s

>Joost x Autistic!Gn!Reader

>genre- fluff / Headcanons / idk?

>warnings- ableism for one of the hc’s; idk man 😕

A/N uhmmm I haven’t wrote in ages, so this could possibly be a bit bad but after a while trust me- I’ll be better. The autism hc’s and hate are based off of my own experiences, so they might not be accurate for everyone!! And if you have requests just message me- they’re open for now <3 Hope you enjoy!

2nd A/N this is right before posting- but Joost is autistic??? What a coincidence 😭

He’d be really patient with you if you needed it- specially sensory issues! Like if anything got too much for you he’d probably have your noise cancelling headphones or something similar.

He’d gladly listen to you rant about your hyper fixations! Like he’d sit and indulge in the conversation with you and try learn about it so that he could talk to you about it ^_^

If someone was really rude about any special needs you had, he’d instantly defend you and scold (or educate) the person that was being rude.

He wouldn’t really be surprised when you revealed that you were autistic; though a lot of things would make more sense to him.

He’d definitely help you make your guys’ house a safe space (if you moved in together) and make sure that the whole process isn’t very overwhelming.

Whenever he has tours / concerts he tries to make the whole process really comfortable for you - like giving you a space in the vip area; noise cancelling headphones; etc, etc.

HAIII!!1!1!1!!! I hoped y’all liked this <33 this is my first official proper post so yippee!!1! Sorry that it’s a bit short though, I’m just getting used how to write on here :,( Any feedback will be appreciated as English isn’t my first language, anyways, have a good day/night.

🌿💐 Chroma.

[spaceumbredoggos]

However fucked up Alex reveals Bill and Ford’s relationship is revealed to be in The Book Of Bill, Kenz and Bill’s is a hundred times worse.

Disclaimer: I am not glorifying abuse in any way shape or form. I myself have had nightmares similar to this despite never being sexually abused, both Bill related and otherwise. Some of these are based on personal experience (such as the nightmares), whilst others are a device used to show how fucked up shipping Bill with pretty much anyone is. Not even the Axolotl is safe in my opinion. If Bill was real, I’d guarantee he’d probably be a massive creep and with how thirsty his fankids are (and I’m calling myself out here) he’d probably use his magic to g*oom those kids like a church pastor. The thing that scares me the most about Bill being canonically real is not that he could catastrophically end the world, it’s his oversexualization in the fandom that got so bad, Alex himself had to make him unattractive. This will be along the lines of a Yandere Bill Cipher x Reader headcanons. With that being said, here’s a few content warnings:

G*ooming, Pedoph*lia, s*xual abuse and assault, physical and psychological abuse, mind control, cult-like things, psychosis, and general paranoia. I’m not saying these things actually happened, but knowing Bill’s character and his powers and history, if he was real, I’d generally be afraid for anyone in the Gravity Falls fandom. Especially minors.

This could be my most controversial post yet, and it could jeopardize any potential of getting into some colleges. This may sound like paranoid rambling, but I know that Bill is just a cartoon character. That being said, Alex like the blur the line between our world and the world of gravity falls with Bill’s character, dicing around the fact that he’s influenced history and wrote all religion on the basis of a lie. I’m not scapegoating him as “controlling global politics on a massive scale” because that would be stupid and I’ll sound like those tin foil hat rednecks that snort moonshine and burn pride flags. My heart goes out to all those who have been impacted by all forms of abuse as an abuse survivor myself. Alex, if you see this post (or any other of my posts/ read my fanfics), just know that it’s a critique on the fandom and the canon lore, and a cautionary warning to avoid lawsuits in case The Book of Bill Cipher causes mass psychosis.

As a kid (ages 7-9) I would watch Gravity Falls casually. At that age, the only thing I consumed online content wise was Skylanders and Minecraft content (Skylanders until age nine, then it was pretty much a lot of Team Crafted, Popularmmos, DanTDM, and other Minecraft YouTubers.) I didn’t invest in the Gravity Falls fandom until I was eleven (that’s when I first started writing my fanfics. The drafts are long gone because they were on school computers that were crammed with viruses due to kids installing Minecraft mods (this was just before chromebooks became mainstream. I went to a special ed middle school specifically for autistic individuals (it was pretty ableist, gonna make a post on that.) so the rules on what was allowed in school were pretty loose content wise. It didn’t have to be educational, as long as it didn’t have blood or guns. There were no safe search filters or Go Guardian (I remember one of my friends accidentally finding Iris from Pokemon black and white vore. I also found Pacifica vore.)) Before that, the February before my tenth birthday, my dad took my TV out of my room due to behavioral issues (undiagnosed autism go brrr). Around that time, there was talk in my town that the Disney channel was “rotting kids minds” with bad attitudes and crude humor (this could be said about any child’s television network (I mean, look at Nickelodeon.) but I lived in a pretty conservative area of Southern California and had a pretty conservative dad. So naturally, Disney was the scapegoat (this was way before the “woke” era of Disney.)) All of this talk of Brainrot made me stop watching the Disney channel during the peak era of gravity falls (2015 as a whole) and I didn’t watch gravity falls again until summer of 2016 when my tv was put back in my room (with intense parental controls so that I couldn’t watch my vet shows.) That’s when I had my first gravity falls dream about Bill cipher. It had to do with getting unicorn hair to protect my house from Bill Cipher. I had an interest in dreams previously due to warrior cats. It was at that moment when Gravity Falls was added to the obsession list.

As a neurodivergent eleven year old surrounded by other neurodivergent preteens and teens, we found common ground talking about Gravity Falls at school. I also would, whenever I didn’t feel the prying eyes of the grown ups or my peers would go off outside and act out my gravity falls x pokemon x warrior cats fanfiction (I’m not sure if those are signs of maladaptive daydreaming disorder or I simply had an intense imagination that would consume my body and make me want to just act out my fanfictions outside. I don’t do this anymore, mostly because of my own embarrassment and I can just write it out.) Yes, there were times where the discussion or action played out Bill Cipher being real. A lot of my “play” as I called it back then was me being kidnapped or possessed by Bill. I even wrote some really cringey fanfics involving my friends and Bill Cipher. To this day, I still involve my family in my fanfiction, but more final drafts will have their names changed. Weirdmaggeddon was a common topic, as well as Bill Cipher possession.

As time went on, I had more dreams about Bill Cipher, fueling the obsession and the fact that Bill could be real. During my middle school years, I never had a crush on Bill Cipher, despite what my friends seem to think. My parents just took it as whatever and as long as I was happy and just working towards going to a neurotypical non-sped school. My crush on Bill Cipher didn’t start until I was in high school. I remember it specifically being Valentine’s Day 2020 when I learned that I have a crush on the triangle. My dreams of Bill would only get more frequent and worse from here (involving the typical horny teenage dream that I don’t want to elaborate because I feel weird doing so (you’ll see why later on.))

Now there’s typically nothing wrong with having a cartoon crush. Given any other cartoon character that doesn’t have a canon history of influencing this world (Bill’s history of influence is vague but it still counts) I would excuse this as another silly cartoon crush like PurpleCliffe simping for Cynthia and the like. However, given that it’s in the show’s canon that Bill could be real and he crossed over to our world, do you understand what implications this could have? Bill is trillions of years old, he’s likely seen every timeline to ever exist. Meanwhile, there are whole armies of fankids who are down bad for him (including me.)

Notice how when I first started getting into Gravity Falls that I didn’t have a crush on him. How many other fankids felt the same way? It wasn’t until years of obsessing over Gravity Falls did I develop feelings for him. And of Alex says in the Book of Bill Cipher what I think he’s going to say (that Bill probably ab*sed Ford sexually with possible g*ooming involved), notice the pattern that is being presented here? Alex, if you blur the lines between fiction and reality with a villain who may or may not have canonically g*oomed and abused someone, possibly using mind control given his powers and his role as a dream demon, could it really be so far fetched that… (I’m not going to say it because it’s leaving a sour taste in my mouth, but use your imagination.)

If we take Alex’s word that Bill has crossed over to our world, then we can only assume that there are vulnerable kids and adults being… You get the picture. I’m not explicitly saying that it is happening right now, but this is problematic because revealing that Bill ab*sed Ford in that way means that Alex would probably imply that Bill is doing the same to MINORS. I may sound paranoid and this may just be a ramble, but considering the show’s canon and how mythology is filled with cases of degenerative acts from deities, this is a really fucked up situation.

It may be funny to say “haha, evil triangle man is sexy” but at the end of the day, Alex stated that Bill has crossed over into our world. For all we know, he could be taking advantage of the fact that people thirst for him, probably not in pleasant ways.

[yippieitsarvensart]

Tweels hc doodles + notes!

Goodness me, I've not been working on these for very long but here's all of what I've thought of within 2 days of thinking about them!! I basically started writing about them the moment I finished drawing "the fuck you brothers" post (9/24) (and today, 9/26) I totally have been thinking about them more after I wrote all this, so I will be continuing on with my hcs right here, under the cut :3 (keep in mind I have not yet played twst! If I get anything gravely wrong correct me!) (9/28, edit: I downloaded twst y'all...)

Both of the twins are autistic, just being on very different ends of er... intensity? Idk how to word that. I just mean that Floyd is someone who has trouble regulating his emotions and stims a lot. Jade doesn't stim as often, he probably would if he were infodumping about mushrooms/his terrariums or whatever else. I think I mean. That Jade suppressed his autistic tendencies by a lot to seem more like a gentleman, while Floyd doesn't really give much of a shit and probably doesn't even know he's autistic.

on that note they both have ADHD. AuDHD brothers.

Anyways as I way saying abt Floyd stimmies; He stims a LOT. Just, all the damn time. It gets so annoying for a lot of people and everyone knows he can't control it. His clingyness is also stimming, he's very touchy. A lot of stim toys don't actually help him but he does calm down significantly more when he's wearing headphones and listening to loud music. That's what stimulates him the most.

Jade only stims when excited, yeah I mentioned that. But did I mention he also stims a lot when stressed. In front of costumers, if he was stressed he might only fiddle with his fingers behind his back. But as soon as he gets away it's full body stimming time baby. Mans is not okay but he cannot let that mask slip!! (I forgot the word before, but I meant to say in my first dotpoint that jade is better at masking than Floyd!!)

Floyd mcr liker >_< (songs about depression and drugs to think about violence to!) Floyd also likes shit like "41 mins of roblox music" or any spongebob music. skull emoji.

Jade Laufey liker :33 (calm songs to think about violence to!)

Floyd likes dancing around in his room to music. Like really getting into it. Putting one song on loop and doing the same dance moves over and over again. (stimming) (oh my god I'm PROJECTING AGAIN stop....)

Jade likes drawing mushrooms. He's really good at drawing nature and when I say "good" I mean if you looked at it, you'd think it was a picture. Like abnormally good for someone who used to not even have paper available...

I saw this from a moot once on twitter I think, but they both (+ Azul) probably had a hard time adjusting to walking around everywhere instead of swimming when they first came onto land. And I think there was something about holding on to bars on stairs WAYY too tight because they feel so wobbly going up them. Same with like, escalators? and elevators? didn't fucking trust them. And they still don't sometimes... Adding onto this I think that they'd both get really frustrated at first with it. Like genuinely really upset; Floyd dramatically falling to the floor and flailing around on the verge of tears while Jade punches the ground over and over... They obviously got better at land things after a long while but for a bit they were just so. not okay LOL

I think for casual/home clothes they'd both be really into big fluffy jumpers. massive fucking huge fluffy shits. They'd be all over the texture and it would be so so texture /pos drooling emoji

I had a little thing that I thought of where I would give Floyd Heart shaped eye shines PLUS an extra smaller not heart eye shine. And giving Jade a square shaped shine with no extra shines. It just makes so much sense to me. Like I can't explain it very well but if you get it, you get me. Do you get me...

WHICH leads me to say then that when Floyd gets MAD he would have NO eye shines. Do you get me. I totally make sense right/. And Jade getting happy about anything even if it doesn't show on his face it would totally show in his eyes... Which also brings me back to something I wrote in my doodle notes with the pupils being like cats... OUGH I'M GOING INSANE DO I MAKE SENSE

another thing my twt moot said !! Floyd would hate necklaces/rings/other accessories and jewelry! It relates back to my point about Floyd hating the feeling of tight clothes, and things touching his skin too much. I feel like if he had say, a necklace on for like 0.1s he would rip it the fuck off, destroying the necklace in the process

Floyd: :3 (aggressive)

Floyd loving to squeeze people but hurting them is 90% of the time on purpose hurting and 10% accidental hurting and when it IS accidental he gets so upset about it. I like to think Floyd is the more emotional out of the two... just so many emotions in that boy. like he just !! wants to give you love !!! but he's so strong he breaks ur ribs !!!! many of ur ribs!! ur honestly surprised you haven't punctured a lung yet!!!

On that note they BOTH are extremely touch starved. Floyd would fucking LOVE it if someone were to lay down on top of him for hours he would feel so squished!! and warm and nice!! and comfy!

Jade on the other hand, LOVES holding hands. holding ONTO something holding onto someONE.

Jade is a gift giver (love language) I bet you can't guess what Floyd is

His love language is Physical touch. Yeah

Jade getting people way too many gifts when it's a special occasion for them because he thinks they might think it's weird if he gets them a gift on any other day.

Floyd hyperpop liker (just overall really likes loud thrashy music or whatever)

Floyd also really got into those games where you have to beat the shit out of a dummy. He doesn't like ones where you have to TIME a hit to make it work (makes him annoyed bc he can't do it) Games like Pou I think....

While Jade enjoys colour by number or those hue games? just doing it in his free time.

[multi-fan-girlie]

Masterlist

My requests are currently open

My pairings

just thought i should put my fic on one post since ive done a few now❤ PLS note i haven't wrote much comfort or hurt

I do Fem! reader's, masc! reader's and gn! readers and cannon's for all characters! My favourite is autistic Spencer tho x

I've also starred writing Descendants stuff from any of the 4 movie's

😍=fluff | ❤️‍🔥 = smut | ⛅ = comfort | ❤️‍🩹 = hurt | 💔 = angst

char x reader fics

😍First tattoo, lasting love || Summary - Artist!emily prentiss is giving Fem!reader her first tattoo and Fem!reader is a little shy

😍/⛅ Safe with him || Summary - It's yours and spencer's date night but a terrible storm changed plans / Sunshine!reader/

❤️‍🔥bratty behaviour || summary - hotch is having angry sex with you since you where being a brat /bratty!Fem!reader

❤️‍🔥HIS need, HER desire || summary - Aaron comes home needy wanting you

Ships

😍Quiet attraction pt.1 || summary - Luke asks spencer on a date after months of crushing on him / ralvez /

😍Quiet attraction pt.2 || summary - luke brings spencer back to his after their first date / ralvez /

😍/❤️‍🩹Love and Apologies || summary - hotch and derek had an argument the night before and it transpires into work /hotch x derek ship/

💔/❤️‍🩹 The man behind the badge || Summary - spencer is in denial about his sexuality and takes it out on luke (idk how to summarise it tbh)

💔/❤️‍🩹 The man behind The badge pt2 || Summary- a couple weeks later Spencer is still cold to Luke and yells at him during a case

😍 The man behind the badge pt 3 || Summary- luke asks spencer on a date after seeing him at a cafe...

Head cannon's

Domestic!Ralvez

One-shots

Maths

Descendants

😍||James hook x reader headcannons

[autistichalsin]

This is a bit of a ramble and not really an ask but it was on the brain and i had to get it out, please forgive.

With everyone of your posts i read about Halsin i have come to realize why i like the man so much.

That motherf*****r is me!

Just instead of a 6'4" Polyam Pansexual druid bear, I am a 5'0" nonbinary aroace cryptid with DD's.

Evidence:

He was put in a leadership position he shouldnt have that ultimately isolated him. I was shoved into the "strong friend" role that ultimatrly did the same.

Went through a heavily traumatic life event then shoved into a ****ton of resposibility imedietly after. The dearh of my mom was thr same and shoved me into a caretaker role i wasnt prepared for.

Used unhealthy coping mechanisms until he figured out a healthier way to go about things. Used Cannibus, "Projects to be Prpductive and not lazy", and to be honest, became obsessed with playing video games to a point where when i started to work on myself, trying to play a video game, even one i had played before, gave me Anxiety.

Ultimately being able to finally listen to oneself and accept there are things he just wasnt suited for and made changes accordingly. Me, the last year and a half.

Add on to the fact that he is Autistic coded, which is something i only got recently diagnosed with and I am still figuring out, it is nuts how similar we are.

I have never had a character i have related to this much in media before and I never thought it would be this comforting to know that someone like Halsin exists, even if only in fiction.

Through him I have come to better understsnd how important representation is in media, even if that representation is seeing someone else who has gone through similar life events to you and came out the other side still warm and kind, unlike how media often portrays them as bitter and angry.

It helps me realize that despite what i have been through I can still choose to be kind and caring, even if I am a little more wary about who i give it too and for how long.

I want to give whoever wrote that man into existence a big hug and thank them for giving me someone to aspire to.

I hereby declare a Paladin's Oath of Devotion to Halsin Silverbough!

And hope that anybody who reads this, finds someone that represents them just as much as he did me.

HUGS!

I feel you- I have noticed some VERY common traits among other Halsin fans. One of those is that a lot of us tend to have traumas of various kinds, and have struggled a bit with cynicism and/or staying kind to others.

The thing about kindness is that it's a choice. You choose to be kind, and you don't always succeed. (Be really wary around anyone who claims to be unfailingly kind.) But you do try, even when a lot of others show no real interest in that. Just like Halsin, particularly in act 3. It's something a lot of us relate to, I think, that struggle of being kind in the face of trauma.

[mageofseven]

MC Talking about Trauma they Experienced (Luce, Dia, Satan, Beel & Belphie)

Edit: this has been in my drafts for a while now. I started this one day when my depression was really bad and this was actually very therapeutic to write.

However, I got super emotionally exhausted from it and sort of abandoned it and since then, I've been debating whether to finish it, delete it, or post it as is.

After some thinking, I decided to add another character or so to the post and then post it.

Please, please check the trigger warnings below and do not read anything you can't handle.

Please protect yourself and always check for trigger warnings.

Now everything below this message is what I wrote originally that night.

Stay safe and if you do still read this, thank you for your time!~

~~~~~~~~~~

I wanted to write this because it's been on my mind; I'm autistic so I tend to have zero filter and over share things, but often in a nonchalant way, like I'm telling you about a cat I saw outside and not about things I talk to my therapist about on a weekly basis.

Basically, this is a post where MC shares bad memories (whether in an upset or nonchalant way) and we see how the Boys react.

So like, angst ahead, but the kind that might hit too close to home for some people.

I'll keep it all below the cut so you don't have to read anything potentially triggering for you if don't want to.

TW: physical abuse, emotional manipulation, child abuse, alcoholism, parents with anger issues

•▪︎▪︎◇°●♡●°◇▪︎▪︎•

Lucifer:

"MC, we're not having that for dinner for the 4th night this week."

"But...what will I eat then?"

The man sighed.

"I don't know. I'll have to figure something out." He told them. "Honestly, meal planning would be a lot easier without your food sensitivities."

The human stared into space, mind seemingly far away.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow before stepping closer.

"MC? Is something wrong, Love?"

"I'm remembering the time my mom slapped me on the face at a community barbeque in front of everyone there because she wasted money on buying me a ticket for an event without any food I could eat; I ran away and hid so I could cry and hyperventilate without people judging me."

His eyes widened.

"When did this happen?"

The human shrugged.

"I dunno. A few years back." They guessed. "I didn't get to have any food at all that day because my mom was so mad at me."

Lucifer took their hand and squeezed it.

"Well, you aren't with your mother anymore." The man smiled bitterly before adding. "I suppose we could just order pizza for tomorrow's dinner."

"No peppers? No olives?" The human asked, surprised.

"No peppers, no olives." He nodded.

"No iguana eyes? No anglerfish lantern?"

"None." He promised, despite knowing Beel's disappointment at the last two toppings not being on the pizza.

MC smiled and squeeze their boyfriend's hand back.

"Thank ya, Luce~"

The man's smile became softer.

He made a mental note to ask for Barbatos' help with finding more foods his Love can eat, but for now, the demon just didn't want MC thinking back on such horrible memories.

Like always, Luce just wanted to treat his Love how they deserved and not how they've always been treated.

Diavolo:

The two were discussing the prince's relationship with his currently deep-slumbering father.

It wasn't a topic Dia liked to speak about, but as his relationship with MC deepened, he found himself confiding in her with things he used to avoid discussing.

"...so in fairness, maybe we were never going to be close, considering the circumstances."

MC looked away, tears in their eyes.

"My Queen..." Diavolo brought his hand to their cheek. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to upset you with this."

MC shook their head.

"No, its not you." They told their boyfriend. "I just...I kinda relate in a a way..."

The prince brought the human into arms before kisskng their forehead.

"I can tell you have something in mind to share; you can share it with me."

MC was quiet for a moment before nodding.

"Once when I was a kid, we had a speaker come to class to teach us about child abuse. They handed out these pamphlets and explained to us that if our parents do any of the stuff that we talked about that day then we could call a number in the pamphlet..."

The demon tightened his embrace around them, not liking where this story was headed.

"I...I remember learning that a lot of stuff my parents did to me and my siblings was bad," They continued. "So I went home and told my parents that a speaker came to school and he told me that if they keep doing bad things and mistreat me that I could call the number on the paper..."

The human's tears fell down their cheeks, followed by Dia kissing them away.

"My Queen..."

"Ya know what they said to me?" They asked rhetorically. "They said 'Do it. I dare you'. Told me those people would take me and my siblings away, put us in foster care and split us up. That I would never see them or my brother or sister or my grandparents or anyone that I loved ever again...and told me they wouldn't even care, that they could just 'make another just like me' and that I would be responsible for my siblings' and my own suffering while my parents would just be happy to get rid of me."

The prince pulled MC into a tighter embrace as they cried.

"I wanted a good relationship with my parents so badly, but how do you become close with people who tell you at such a young age that you are replaceable and a burden they didn't even want?"

"You don't." He said softly in their ear as he stroked their hair. "Your parents were miserable people who never deserved having you as their child; they made sure of that."

The man leaned back to look them in the eyes.

"My Queen...I'm sorry you went through that. Please remember that you didn't deserve it though."

MC nodded.

"I...I know. Logically anyway...but it doesn't feel true, ya know?"

"Oh MC..."

Diavolo took the rest of the day off work, regardless of any urges or reminders from Barbatos.

This man wanted so desperately to comfort his beloved and heal the hole in her heart.

Still, the man knew there was not much he could do for the latter; this was just something his Queen had to work through on their own.

That wasn't going to stop this man from showering them love and reminding them just how perfect and sweet they are to him.

Satan:

Satan had gotten into an argument with Lucifer, resulting in one of his fits of rage.

They were so rare now of days; this was essentially the oldest bringing up the wrong thing at the wrong time and pushed it too far

Causing Satan to destroy half of the living room and the two 'brothers' screaming at one another.

This went on for a while till the two men noticed the human in the corner hyperventilating.

That knocked the blonde out of his anger real quick as he raced to their side.

Lucifer allowed the argument to pause for now, considering the human's condition, and so left them be.

Eventually, MC calmed down enough and launched themself into their boyfriend's arms.

"I'm sorry..." He spoke softly into their ear. "I shouldn't have lost control like that...especially in front of you."

MC shook their head within his arms before sniffling.

"It's not you..." They mumbled. "When the crashing started...I-I just...I didn't see you...I didn't see House of Lamentation..."

"What do you mean, Kitten?" He stroked their hair before pulling back to meet their eyes.

"I...I was in my head." They explained. "It reminded me of a time when I was a kid...my dad was drunk and got angry at my little brother. I...didn't see what happened, but I heard curses and crashes and my brother begging him to stop...and I didn't save him. I didn't save him. I hid in the kitchen and sobbed with my arms over my head, begging for him to stop in my mind but not being able move or even speak..."

"Kitten..." Satan hugged them tightly to his chest again. "You're not there; you're here with me and you're safe."

"But my brother--"

"You would have just gotten hurt too." He told them. "You were a child just trying to to survive. It's not your fault."

"But--"

"It's not your fault." He repeated.

This time, the human just closed their eyes and hung their head.

Satan picked them up and carried the human to their room; the...scare, I guess you could call it, had really tired his partner out.

He laid his Kitten on their bed and kissed their forehead.

Satan vowed to never himself lose control in front of them ever again.

Even if this time it had less to do with what he did and more about something they experienced long ago, the wrath demon needed to keep himself in check so he never brought such bad memories to his Kitten's head again.

Beel & Belphie:

The human went on a walk with the twins and, as per usual, Beel made a stop at Madam Screams to get a few dozen pastries.

Beel carried all of the bags of sweets himself and, no matter how often MC saw him carry so much food and never drop any of it, it still amazed the human.

"Dang, that's even more than yesterday..." Belphie commented. "Did you already spend all of your grimm this month?"

"Almost." The gluttony shrugged, still not dropping a single bag.

Suddenly, MC's steps slowed till they were frozen in place.

"-C? MC?" Belphie called to them.

The human slowly raised their gaze up at the men.

"You okay, Muffin?" Beel asked, concern evident on his face.

MC nodded.

"I was remembering one of the fights my parents had when I was a little kid." They explained calmly. "My dad spent over a $1,000 at the bar in a week 'cause he kept buying his friends drinks. Mama told him that he can't keep doing that because they were barely able to put food on the table as things were; Dad yelled at her for telling him what to do and Mom yelled back that she hopes he ends up dead in a ditch somewhere--what?"

The human was genuinely confused by the two demons, who stared at her with a mix of shock and pity.

Belphie shook his head.

"Let's just get home, butthead."

And with that, both twins wrapped an arm around them protectively

Causing Beel to drop two of his bags.

Still, the tallest demon never looked back as he and his brother took their human home, a place where hopefully better memories will come to their mind.

[applesandbannas747]

If you lost all of the stories you’ve ever published on ao3 and were only able to recover five, which stories would they be, and why? (Top five across the board, but top five fence fics would be cool too) 📚✨

I completely welcome you to write a novel length answer 📝✨

okay HOW did I never see this one? This is such a fun and mean question!!

In no particular order:

Fairy Bound - this is my only current Artemis Fowl fic, but it's one of my favorite things I've ever written because it's everything I want in a series that was long finished when I wrote it. It's the ending and conclusion I wish the characters got (and I'm disappointed severely with the new canon material). It's also just full of tropes I love and has moments that have a soft spot in my heart. I also know it's meant as much to a good number of people in the fandom as it has to me, so it would be missed if it were lost

Truths - this took the cake for longest work I'd written for a long time before being dethroned, and it was a really cool experience to write. I think the Truths series was the last I wrote as I posted, which was really fun because some comments helped shape it if I remember correctly. It's where I really fleshed out a lot of my ideas about Fence and the characters and was a huge milestone in my writing abilitiy--it really helped me to improve in a lot of ways, and I think it was a milestone in my Fence era as well. I connected with a lot of people during its run that I've longsince lost contact with but will always love, and it's another one that people tell me from time to time really means something to them, which makes me love it extra for that--I don’t know, connection? And of course I used a lot of tropes I love and built up a lot of headcanons and lore that I still carry to this day!

Trouble - man this is where Eugesse started, and I can't abandon it even if I'd change so much about it if I wrote it again. I love a lot of moments from this fic and I indulged so much in building the Labaos and learning how to code to make text messages--it was a fic filled with so many firsts! But I also assumed it would be a fic filled with a lot of lasts--I truly didn't intend to write Eugesse again until we had more content on him because this was back during The Great Hiatus (but boy am I glad I didn't stick to that 💀💀💀)... So the iea with Trouble was that it got to be paced weirdly because there were so many moments, beats, and tropes I wanted to hit with Eugesse and this was my only chance, so I needed to fit them all in. So while this is the only fic I debated over including on this list because I think it's the weakest one here in terms of writing, it will always hold a special place in my heart, and it means a lot to me.

Promised Things - how could I not include the Things to Hold Onto series? In a very literal way if my house were burning to the ground, the physical bookbound (!!!!!) versions a friend made and sent me would be top priority after living things. This is another fic that I really strove to improve my writing with, and it's significant as well because it was the fic I wrote after an autistic meltdown over the ARC of Striking Distance I read, after which, I felt sick and conflicted whenever I thought about writing for Fence because the thought of adjusting my characterizations to fit canon made sent me spiraling. So I took a break and wrote a couple novels, including one that took the plot of an au I'd been looking forward to writing (if you're wondering when this 'break' took place, it was March-July 2020; I had enough backlog that there was never a break in my posting schedule to reflect the break I took in writing). But do you know what I found? I was more miserable not writing for Fence than anything, and even while I was actively writing novels in NaNoWriMo challenges, I found myself sneaking in writing time for Fence anyway--for Promised Things, specifically. And I found my love of Fence again through it, which sounds like such a conceited thing to say lmfao but I love who I thought the characters were and writing this fic helped me start to accept that it was okay to still write them the way I saw them. So on a meta level, this one means a lot to me. And on a writing level, I'm proud of the detail I put into it and the planning it took. Pull up any chapter in this series and I could find the day of the week it took place on. I've not quite achieved this level of detail since. It also got a lot of editing to improve it as we went along, and I'm happy with how it turned out and proud of the work that went into it. And, yeah, I'm lizardbrained too and the fact that this one got WAY more love than I ever expected in any way does (positively) effect how I see it. So this one's getting saved lol

Breakable Things - to this day, this fic is one of the stories I am proudest of, and I think it's a strong piece of writing in terms of character development. It was a long redemption arc for Jesse and I worked really hard on making it a successful one--and it is the number one fic I've had people tell me I won them over with Jesse in, so I like to think that it was a successful arc XD I've always said that in this series, Seiji and Jesse both grew up in hell, but they both view Jesse and Jesse only as the monster--and in Promised Things, we get Seiji's point of view, and Nick's, who is seeing through the damage done to Seiji and seeing a monster in Jesse through it. Which made writing Breakable Things so fucking fun because Eugene's the only perspective that doesn't cast Jesse as the villain. And, yeah, Jesse sees himself as a victim and likes to throw himself pity parties, but under it all, it's not Seiji he blames for anything, it's not his dad, it's hardly even Nick. and we get to see that in this fic and see how the damage he caused is just as real as before, but that his pain isn't less than Seiji's. And more than any other character in the series, Jesse works to confront the truth of who he is and figure it out and improve, a lot of the time, alone. Seiji fell into a situation that naturally healed him. Jesse dove head first into one that was intended to break everyone--but he was also put on an edge that Seiji wasn't, and that made all the difference. Anyway, I have a lot of feelings about Jesse and I had a lot of fun trying to redeem him/show his side and contrast it with Seiji's without making it feel like I was trying to tragic-backstory his ass out of accountability for the shit he did. Also! I wrote bits of this fic in tandem with Promised Things--any major scene with Jesse, I either had notes for Jesse's side, wrote Jesse's side right after, or even wrote Jesse's POV of it first, which was an interesting way of writing a sequel that I've never done any other time.

[sarah-sandwich]

20 Questions (for fanfic writers)

1. how many works do you have on ao3?

45

2. what's your total ao3 word count?

1,280,212 lol

3. what fandoms do you write for?

presently? Just spider-man ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

4. top five fics by kudos:

Paradise (spread out with a butter knife) - spideypool 72k - soulmates au that's actually about the power of friendship

Don't Freak Out - parkner 136k - the one where they get kidnapped and spidey saves the day in the first chapter then they spend the rest of the fic falling in love

A Peach Like You - parkner 73k - sequel to a 16k coming of age one-shot in Harley's POV. This one is Peter's POV and he's autistic, overworked, and overwhelmed and this is the very worst time ever for falling in love so he's absolutely not going to do that... on purpose.

The Distance Between (You and Me) - parkner 29k - bodyguard au! Harley was kidnapped and rescued but his kidnappers are still out there so Tony begs an old friend to keep an eye on him until Natasha hunts them down.

You're Freaking Out - parkner 166k - sequel to Don't Freak Out this time with Plot! and Miles!!!

5. do you respond to comments?

Sometimes? I've gotten really bad about it :( After an update/new fic I try to get all the comments that come in over a week or so... but then I retreat into my cave and giggle and squee over them in private.

6. what is the fic your wrote with the angstiest ending?

Hmm I don't really do angst and especially not endings... but maybe The Devil is a Hopeless Romantic? I wouldn't call it an angsty ending though. Maybe bittersweet? Idk it's been awhile since I've read it. Not my favorite tbh

7. what's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Happy endings are my bread and butter lol The happiest? Uhhh

Lemme just plug For the First Time, Eye to Eye because it's one of my all time favs and hasn't come up yet.

8. do you get hate on fics?

nope!

9. do you write smut?

yep! Baseball Smut ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ yeah that's the title just posted this morning!

10. craziest crossover:

I haven't written a crossover since I was writing for spn and none of them ever made it out of my wips folder lol I had spn crossovers with Firefly, Teen Wolf, The 100, Criminal Minds, and (naturally) The Hunger Games. Man, I miss that. Such a versatile show.

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that I know of!

12. have you ever had a fic translated?

YES! biggest compliment so cool

13. have you ever co-written a fic before?

nope! Done some brainstorming a time or two but just for fun. idk that I could collaborate that well what with my disappearing into the abyss habit...

14. all time favorite ship?

I mean parkner's got the longevity doesn't it? Dean and Cas will always have a special place with me though

15. what's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

My time travel time loop parkner fic le siighh

16. what are your writing strengths?

Hmm I think overall voice (not just dialogue but internal narrative too) and breathing fresh air into old tropes.

17. what are your writing weaknesses?

Action scenes. My god they take forever to think of a way to do them that isn't tired and boring. And then I still have to write it.

18. thoughts on dialogue in another language?

adds enrichment in my enclosure

19. first fandom you wrote in?

hp

20. favorite fic you've written?

oof umm probably Peaches Ain't Pretty (the alluded to 16k Harley POV coming of age one-shot). Taught me I could write outside of fanfic if I wanted. It's actually the foundational inspiration that lead to Red, like my bleeding heart in your hand. Opened up the whole beach (if I'm brave enough to leave the sandbox). Anyway it's got a special spot in my heart. I'm probably due for a re-read tbh.

Thanks for tagging me @spoofymcgee!

no pressure tagging: @jammerific @wyxan @myarmsaretoolong @fieldsofview

[mmmaruda]

I already wrote one post about kavetham but it was rushed, and also, I think some of the things I mentioned weren't canon. So I'm here again writing a short analysis about fictional men. Actually, it will be mostly calling out the genshin fandom out on infantilisation and feminisation of gay men or not stereotypically masculine men. (I might link down below some fanfics that I think do kaveh and haitham justice, so bear with me)

Before I even begin I have to mention that I don't play genshin so my perception of kavetham could be flawed. But at the same time when I look what the fandom did to them I can proudly say that I have a better grasp on their characters. Also English is not my first language, so if you see any mistakes please point them out.

Kaveh is a well-known architect who graduated Kashahewar with honors. Sumeru NPC'S describe him as talented and a genius. Many people wish to meet him in person. After all, he singlehandedly brought back pride to Kashahewar.

Fandom loves to diminish Kaveh's accomplishments and effords only to turn him into a loving housewife or an incapable baby man who needs a strong leader. To the people who think Kaveh would be stay at home spouse and would stop designing architecture, with full offence you are stupid. If he was hooled up in one place he would eat through the bricks like a rat just to get out.

To add to the stereotypes of gay men, Alhaitham is perceived as some short of cold sugar daddy. Mind you, he is very much autistic coded. Also just because he doesn't need help from others doesn't make him any less autistic. He is constantly dehumanised because he 'doesn't show emotions', many people on spectrum struggle with showing emotions or controling them.

Fucking albeism.

People love to antagonise Alhaitham in order to make Kaveh a victim which he is not. Kaveh fights just as ugly and viciously as Alhaitham. They are both to blame for the state of their relationship, too proud to apologise and finally talk.

I like to think of them as predatory cats because of the way they fight, claws, teeth. All that.

How many times a gay ship falls victim of toxic heteronormativity. Making one guy hyper feminine and the other masculine. If a man is slightly feminine that doesn't make him weak, dependent on others or not capable. Stop treating typically feminine traits or things associated with women as worse. Yes, Kaveh worries about his reputation, his looks, aesthetics and generally how people perceive him. It's not very "alpha male"of him but does that make him less of a man? Gender roles and heteronormativity is fucking sexist, linked to clasism and racism. So stop with this shit, do you really support lgbt or do you have some weird fethishes? Are you an ally or is it all for show.

Most of kavetham shippers are girls who insert themselves in Kaveh's place and in order to relate to him they make him ooc. Most of you have this fantasy of having an older man taking care of you which is fine but just because you have daddy issues you don't have to take it out on gay people.

Another thing I see people talk about is how weak and helpless Kaveh is. Mehrak weilds his claymore for him but that doesn't mean he's feeble. Why would he chose this type of weapon if he couldn't weild it? Also he works as a architect whose job is to design as in to draw on paper. He needs his hands to be in top condition. But Alhaitham is a scribe and fights with swords, well he also does the bare minimum when it comes to his job. Unlike Kaveh who puts 100% in every single project of his.

He may be nice but he has his own opinions and is not afraid to voice them. He is a very opinionated person. Who fights what he thinks is right. Kaveh would not cry if Haitham was mean to him, he would be offended. Because he is angry, he's frustrated with his work, his life, and past.

Kaveh is a selfish man. It's painfully ironic how by being selfless he is actively being selfish. His acts of kindness are a way for him to stop from feeling guilty, he's punishing himself by sacrificing things for the better of others. Of course it's not always but often enough, he does this without even knowing it. It's something Kaveh doesn't realise or doesn't want to admit. By being extremely selfless he hurts not only himself but also his close ones. Image seeing someone you consider family self-destruct. That's why Alhaitham is so frustrated with Kaveh. He does throw occasionally some jabs at Kaveh about the way he lives but it's never too serious. He does that because Kaveh doesn't accept help, he feels as if he was undeserving of it. Alhaitham is frustrated but never angry at him. He deeply cares for Kaveh, otherwise he wouldn't offer to live with him. Althaitam is very patient and emotionally intelligent person, he just doesnt bother with social norms and anything that is a waste of time. He wants for Kaveh to admit that all of his problems don't come from his misfortune but rather his idealism and guilt. By Alhaitham's logic if Kaveh accepted the truth his life would drastically get better. No matter how hurtful and hard to accept it, truth is the truth. Telling yourself kind lies isn't hoing to change anything. That's why it's so hard for Kaveh to pay off his debt. Giving away his money because he's such a 'good' person. It's hard for him, he doesn't have a support system. I'm pretty sure he never had one. His mother too busy working, rasing him and dealing with her own depression.

Kaveh is a renowed architect with years of practice and experience. Whenever I see people think he only desings decorative buldings that aren't practical my blood boils. He is master architect, he knows how to desingn buildings that are practical yet beautiful. Of course his clients pay him well. He is the Light of Kashahewar, people fight to get their commission done by him. He's probably very picky about them and the clients he works with and I can see him redirecting his potential clients to other architects from the goodness of his heart. That's a very Kaveh thing to do. He earns money buy spends it in dubious ways.

Also people froget he's batshit insane.

He's probably out there licking walls and bricks. From our perspective he would be architecture major. Those people are weird and depressed, spoiler alert they are as bad after graduation. Btw to people who make those tiktok vids where two characters pass each other notes in class, Kaveh would not ask Alhaitham what is the answer to a match question. Wake the fuck up. Kaveh is a walking calculator, literally. So what if in your au he's not an architect, then he is in STEM or just really good at match. Why? Because you cannot change all the traits of the characters in your au or it's becoming an oc.

Besides Kavehs isn't interested only in architecture but also in mechanics. He didnt make Mehrak but repaired it, which makes him knowledgeable in many fields other than architecture.

This is the type of a genius who doesn't drink or eat until they complete this one specific task. Thinking about styles of windowsills probably turns him on. He's brilliant but he's also a loser and self-destructive. He's smart but naive. Istg if i see another person making him unintelligent, I'm this close to blocking half of the fandom. One of Kaveh's most important character traits is kindness, guilt, altruism, and intelligence. He is the type to strive for knowledge to be well rounded, just because. Kaveh would read all the books about launguistics just to argue with Alhaitham. Hes petty like that. Also I feel like he wouldn't stop at designing buildings. This guy probably has atomic bomb plans casually stored in his room. A big part of what shaped Kaveh's character while growing up is not only his father death but his mother's misery. I actually think but his mother's misery. I actually think his mother emotional state affected him more than his father death. Lots of peopel make Fahrnak some antagonist that abandoned Kaveh because he reminds her of his father. Y'all just love to vilanize women, to add character depth to male characters you make female characters evil. You know who makes this type of shit content? Vivziepop. Shit ass content, do better. This is the same thing as the cheating trope in mlm when one male character cheats with a woman. Bifobia, sexism and fethishsacion.

I will add something ab alhaitham and more haikaveh all that mirror shit later. Actually if someone will remind to me to move my ass and end this I would be thankful really.

but his mother's misery. I actually think his mother emotional state affected him more than his father death. Lots of peopel make Fahrnak some antagonist that abandoned Kaveh because he reminds her of his father. Y'all just love to vilanize women, to add character depth to male characters you make female characters evil. You know who makes this type of shit content? Vivziepop. Shit ass content, do better. This is the same thing as the cheating trope in mlm when one male character cheats with a woman. Bifobia, sexism and fethishsacion.

[joewinkothehorrormoviedirector]

It's REALLY STUPID how Everyone always gets "freaked out & mad" at me/Joe Winko (Single Autistic GAY Guy) because I want a Crazy Obsessive Man to be my Lover/Partner 😑

I'm a single Gay Autistic guy in my 20s & This is something I wanted to vent about. It doesn't make me too mad but it always kind of gets on my nerves whenever I post online saying that I want a crazy Obsessive man to become my Lover, EVERYONE always bashes me for it... YEAH, I KNOW FOR A FACT THAT NO NORMAL/SANE PERSON WOULD EVER ASK FOR THIS! BUT WHAT SO MANY PEOPLE FAIL TO UNDERSTAND IS THAT I-MYSELF AM NOT A NORMAL/SANE PERSON MYSELF! & I CLEARLY HAVE NO PROBLEM WITH THAT! It's usually females that will comment & always tell me "You do not want a man to be Obsessed with you Joe! It's dangerous & unhealthy & disastrous!" especially when they see this manifestation note that I wrote (it's supposed to be wrote from the perspective of a crazy man who falls in love with me)... but it makes me wonder, did they even read the note? Because CLEALY if they read the note & know the context, me having a crazy Obsessive man like this WOULD NOT BE BAD AT ALL! The note clearly states that the man writing it, although crazy/Obsessive like I want him to be, is clearly respectful of my sexual limits/desires & even wants to spend tons of time with me (exactly as I want him to) & EVEN WANTS TO TAKE ME ON LONG DRIVES/ROADTRIPS, WHICH IS ABSOLUTELY SOMETHING I AM UP FOR!

Another thing about the people who get upset with me whenever I ask for this, is that they probably think that If I had an Obsessive Lover, he would always want to be with me & always want to spend time with me & I wouldn't have time to hang out with my friends or anything like that, which they are grossly misunderstanding because I myself am actually a total recluse due to my Autism. I virtually NEVER go out at all, besides when I'm going on a roadtrip with a stranger I talk to online but when I have my Obsessive Lover, Him & I would be doing that instead & I wouldn't need to go on roadtrips with strangers online. So him & I would always be together.

I also imagine that my Obsessive Lover would also be a recluse as well, so it would work out PERFECTLY! It would just be him & I. I see how that would be a problem for a normal person in their 20s who has an active social life, but that Obviously would NOT be the case for me! Yeah, I have friends I talk to online who watch me on YouTube but it'd just be that... My Obsessive Lover would also want me to keep doing my YouTube videos as well.

I see how it'd be an issue if he was trying to do Harmful stuff to me, such as going against my sexual limits or anything else like that, BUT at 6 foot 3 & 145lbs, I'm quite good at fending for myself.

I just think it's weird how people get angry/upset & bash me for wanting this... one person even told me that I was really sick for wanting a man like this & that I needed help because I am crazy... First of all, I HATED every single therapist I have ever had, but also, if that person was smart enough to realize that I am crazy (I ain't doubting that...) then don't you think it only makes sense for me to be with ANOTHER crazy man?? SO DAMN STUPID!

There was even one fucking discord server for single people in Brevard County Florida that banned me because they claimed that people were getting uncomfortable because I kept talking about how I wanted a Crazy Obsessive Man to be my Lover, despite me not directly contacting ANYONE in the fucking server & despite me only talking about myself & what I wanted the whole time...

HOW THE FUCK DOES THAT MAKE ANYONE ELSE UNCOMFROTABLE? my best guess is that they were simple minded that they figure that because I want a crazy Obsessive man to become my Lover/Partner, that I myself must be a crazy Obsessive man also, WHICH IS FAR FROM THE TRUTH! (and is probably the reason why I never found a lover/partner at all). Back when I was a kid, my adoptive Dad once told me (before he knew I was Gay) to "find a girl who is Crazy about you, don't find a girl who you're Crazy about..." THE BEST THING HE COULD HAVE EVER TOLD ME! HOWEVER, I HAVE TALKED TO THOUSANDS OF MEN ONLINE & ALSO HAVE THOUSANDS OF SHIRTLESS PICTURES & VIDEOS OF MYSELF POSTED ALL OVER YOUTUBE & HAVEN'T EVEN CAME CLOSE TO FINDING A CRAZY OBSESSIVE MAN. BUT ONE DAY I ABSOLUTELY WILL! ⛤ I CAN FEEL IT ⛤

But I also think it's really stupid how people are scared of me because they're stupid enough think that I myself am an Obsessive Person & apparently they get worried about me becoming Obsessed with them, but that ABSOLUTELY WILL NOT HAPPEN, if someone doesn't like me, I virtually instantly move on to find a man who DOES like me, but I have not even came close to finding that yet, BUT ONE DAY I WILL.

Sorry for the long ramble, but I just need to vent.

BUT HERE ARE MY QUESTIONS FOR EVERYONE ELSE (AND NO, I AM NOT LOOKING FOR ADVICE, UNLESS IT'S ANOTHER SITE YOU THINK I MIGHT HAVE LUCK FINDING THIS ON)

1.) Is there anyone here who gets nervous/uncomfortable that I am looking for a crazy/Obsessive man to fall in Love with me?

2.) Is there anyone else here who thinks it's really stupid how people always get mad/uncomfortable/freaked-out that I'm trying to find a crazy Obsessive man to fall in love with me?

I mean, I want the crazy obsessive man to fall in love with me/Joe-Winko AND ONLY ME/JOE-WINKO! & I DON'T WANT HIM TO FALL IN LOVE WITH ANYONE ELSE WHO READS THAT I'M LOOKING FOR A CRAZY OBSESSIVE MAN TO FALL IN LOVE WITH ME! It's just for me & NOT ANYONE ELSE! 😑

So weird how people get freaked out about this 😑

BUT I SHALL FIND EXACTLY WHAT I AM LOOKING FOR ⛤ SO MOTE IT BE ⛤

EDIT: this is actually Another major thing I forgot to mention. I actually been casting a ton of love spells to summon a crazy Obsessive man into my life & one thing A LOT of people tend to warn me about is Joe, what if it ends up being a VERY UGLY man who falls in love with you? the thing with me is, I seriously don't care what a man looks like or how ugly he is (to be completely honest, I'm actually a freak who likes ugly guys). But i also like normal guys & handsome guys too. I believe it's what's on the inside that counts. I myself am MALE & I want my Obsessive Lover to ALSO BE MALE therefor, him & I obviously won't be procreating with each other due to it being impossible, therefore it doesn't matter how ugly he is ☺ I'll still Love him just as much ☺ ♥ ⛤

[an-aroaces-harem]

A quiet happiness

Pairing: Ellis x OC

Warnings: just simple love-making, nothing extreme; cunnilingus; Ellis has slight dom undertones; purposely triggered autistic meltdown; modern!au

Author's note: I'm sorry if Ellis seems ooc in any way; I originally wrote this thing with another person in mind but would never post it in that form, but I like it too much to let it collect dust so yeah, I tried my best to incorporate Ellis. Also, I don't want to hear any complains about my OC not being a real autist or anything; first of all, autism is a spectrum, second of all, I'm autistic myself.

But as long as it makes her happy, he will do anything to chase her happiness.

»Hey, Rose.«

Said girl looks up, questioning, and faces Chelsea, an annoying and bitchy girl from her math class. She’s grinning, tracing her manicured fingernails along Rose’s notes, jumbling them all over her desk. Gasping, Rose tries to rearrange them with shaking fingers.

»Your notes are always so neat, aren’t they? I’m sure they explain math better than this old hag,« Chelsea says, arching one eyebrow, a thick, dark line above her eye, in question while batting her clumped eyelashes innocently. »How about you lend them to me? I mean, that’s what friends are for, right?«

»We aren’t friends—and please stop that.« Frantically, Rose tries to bring everything back in order but snarling Chelseaʼs having none of it.

»What’s the problem? Ah, right, you’re such a neat-freak.« With a sinister smile, Chelsea grips her notes, holding them high above Rose’s head who’s reaching out to them but to no avail. There’s no one left in the classroom and Rose’s legs refuse to stand up as her mind completely blanks out, only full of the desire to get rid of the disarray of her things.

Horrified, she watches as Chelsea tears out the first page and then the next and the next and the sound of ripping paper echoes in her ears. Rose can’t stand it—she needs her perfect order and so she covers her ears, sobbing and mumbling »please stop« over and over again. And yet, her eyes are locked onto the action in front of her, playing the scene again and again, not realizing Chelsea suddenly stops.

The smell of leather and a hint of fruity cologne reaches her nostrils and then a hand lays itself on Chelsea’s shoulder, she lets out a hurt sound as her shoulder’s nearly crushed. Rose glances to the side, ears still covered but she’s already relaxing.

»Hey, what are you—fuck, stop it, you’re seriously breaking my shoulder here,« Chelsea whines but her eyes are glued to the handsome male next to her, his lips drawn in a small smile, emitting a dangerous and eerie aura. The destroyed notes fall out of her hands as she tries to peel off his hand.

Rose keeps her eyes on him, not wanting to look at the chaos.

»Say you’re sorry and then leave her alone,« his voice is such a low growl that Rose actually can’t hear him but knows anyway what he’s saying. »Come on, what are you waiting for?«

»How do you know—Ow! Okay, okay, I’m sorry, okay? Now, let go of me.« Massaging her shoulder Chelsea dashes out of the room the moment she’s free.

The male crouches to her eye level, warm, big hands carefully removing her own from her ears. His expression changing into a soft, worried one. »You didn’t come and you didn’t text me, so I came looking for you. Can you stand?«

»My notes,« Rose says instead.

Patting her head, he hushes her. »It’s okay, I’ll help you making new ones later but first you have to stand up.« Rose nods, still a bit panicked, but she isn’t alone anymore, she can do it while he packs her things behind her back.

With the chaos gone, her panic subsides completely. She snuggles herself into his side as he drapes his arm around her waist, pressing her closer to him.

»Thank you, Ellis,« Rose whispers as they make their way out of school, ignoring the few people still left gawking at him. They don’t need to know who the mysterious, good-looking man on Rose’s side is. They should be able to tell, anyway.

»No need to, that’s what boyfriends are for. And I knew something wasn’t right when you didn’t come,« Ellis replies, holding open the door of the main entrance for her, »because you would be the last person to be late on purpose.«

Ellis’ motor bike waits for them in the parking lot, black and sleek and dangerous. He hands Rose his jacket—she drowns in his smell—and then her backpack which she slides on both shoulders. At first she worries that it would be too cold for him but Ellis’s like a walking heating system and he won’t die from it, he ensures.

He puts her helmet on first, then his and she slings her arms around his torso as if her life depends on it. Actually, it does. Not even ten minutes later he drives into an underground garage of a fancy and big apartment complex. Neither his bike nor himself fit here and whenever they meet other residents in the elevator, they frown. At least, he always brings the same girl home with him.

The moment they’re in his apartment, her spine hits against the door and his lips are on hers, kissing her with fervor as his fingers slide beneath her sweater, leaving burning trails on her waist and stomach.

»I missed you, baby,« he breaths between two kisses and dips lower to her neck. A stomach growls and then another. Chuckling, Ellis lets go of her. »Sometimes I believe you’re always hungry.«

»Your stomach growled first, Ellis,« Rose retorts giggling and adjusts her sweater.

»Pretty sure it was yours.« Laughing, he proceeds to the kitchen while she puts his discarded boots in place, placing hers right beside them and hangs his jacket on his coat rack.

On socked feet she follows him. »What are we having for dinner?«

»Whatever makes you happy.« He opens his refrigerator, checking it for the ingredients and gives her a thumbs up. »Does your favorite comfort food sound good?«

She nods, smiling, and so they settle for it. Comfort food definitely sounds like the best call.

»How about we continue where we stopped?«

They just finished doing the dishes and Ellis stands behind her, his arms wide open. Rose accepts the invitation, jumping right into his arms and hooks her legs around his waist. His hands hold her up with ease, sliding from her thighs to her butt. Before dating Ellis, she has never been fond of the idea of butt grabbing but his hands are just a perfect fit, kneading the flesh just the right way.

With a pant, she snuggles her face into the crook of his neck and her lips brush over the sensitive skin, her warm huffs of breath leaving goosebumps there. His body slightly vibrates as he chuckles. »Someone missed me too, hm?« Rose nods, though it’s more of a rub of her forehead against his neck and hands clenching into his hoodie.

He starts walking to the bedroom while he presses his lips on every accessible place on her and just mere seconds later Rose lands upon the soft mattress. Ellis follows suit and kisses her breathless the moment he’s close enough, prying off her sweater again. It lands somewhere on the ground, getting company from Ellis’ hoodie soon after.

No matter how often she has already seen him shirtless, she’s still in awe. His skin tone pale—like he bathed in pure moonlight—and a fit yet not too muscular torso. Too many muscles would just scare her away but he’s perfect. Her fingers brush over the supple and soft skin, exploring every mole and mark as if it’s the first time she sees him like that.

Then her hand hovers over his belt and Ellis looks at her with lidded eyes, telling her wordlessly to open it because his tight jeans gets more uncomfortable with every passing second. After a very long minute—in his opinion at least—she shows mercy and unbuckles his belt before popping open the button and pulling down the zipper.

»Little tease,« Ellis groans but he likes it anyway. Normally, Rose isn’t that straightforward so he appreciates this rare forwardness at every chance. Most of the time he just needs his mouth in the right places and Rose’s mind stops working as she completely melts under him. She’s too far gone then to be anything than passive but responding.

But as long as it makes her happy, he will do anything to chase her happiness.

He finally gets rid of his jeans and also Rose’s socks but makes no move to open her pants as well. Maybe they won’t be straining her like his did but he knows she hates the feeling of soaked panties and so he pins her into the mattress, holding up her hands as she tries to open her jeans herself. »No, no, that won’t do, baby girl,« he smirks.

Her eyes are big, waiting and Ellis complies. He trails open-mouthed kisses along her jaw and down her throat which causes Rose to whimper. She arches her upper body and his eyes land on her breasts. They’re small, soft yet firm and covered by a lacy bralette without padding. Lowering his lips, he smiles at her and starts sucking at one of her nipples through the fabric. The friction makes her whimper again.

»What do you say, baby girl?« Ellis asks while his free hand fondles her other breast. Rose just shakes her head, lips tightly pressed against each other. Instead she lifts her leg and her knee brushes against his growing bulge. His breath hitches. Today, she’s really feisty—or her meltdown just rattled her up.

His hand leaves her breast, wandering south until it kneads the thigh of her lifted leg. Her body starts squirming underneath him and she presses her legs together, her feet scraping along the bed sheets. That makes him wanting to tease her more, sliding his hand between her legs and they fall apart in an instant.

He wins. »I’m listening, baby girl.« Still nothing—except for her whines and tiny moans. »You just have to say ›please‹ and I’ll do anything you want.«

»No,« she answers weakly, »I don’t have to say it.«

»Baby girl.«

»No.«

»Baby girl.« He nibbles along her ear.

Rose turns her head to the side, her warm breath fanning over his lips. »Ellis.«

Any other time he wouldn’t give in but he missed her when he was away for the last three days and calling him by his name is basically her saying ›please‹ anyway. He literally rips off her jeans and their remaining clothes, not wasting any more time. Letting go off her hands, he settles himself comfortably between her legs.

»I missed you, baby,« he repeats his words from earlier, »and I believe I forgot how you taste like. Would it make you happy if I refreshed my memories?«

»Please,« she mewls and the moment his tongue starts lapping up her juices, she leaves behind a whining, trembling and moaning mess. His mouth can really do wonders and no one appreciates it like Rose does as her body responds so well. Legs shaking, calves pressing into his sides and her moans get louder and louder, his name slurred and with a precise lick against her most sensitive spot, she’s gone.

She lies there with her head rolled to the side, completely spent, her chest heaves as she comes down from her high—utterly beautiful. Her hands find his shoulders and beckons him to come up.

And he’s just as beautiful. Lips and chin glistening with her juices, eyes dark and hazy, his bangs damp and sticking to his forehead. His face may scream ›lust‹ like this but he also views her with adoration.

»You okay, baby?« he asks softly and low, caressing her cheek with his knuckles.

»More than okay,« she answers breathlessly and pulls him even closer, pressing their mouths together in another kiss. Ellis tastes now like a mixture of himself and her, absolutely intriguing. There’s a string of saliva as they break away for oxygen. »We can go on, you won’t overstimulate me anymore.«

Shortly after, Rose’s fingers curl tightly into his hair as he’s filling and stretching her. Since he was her first, she has no comparison but—yet again—Ellis just seems like the right fit for her body. Not that she’s interested in finding out otherwise. When she adjusts to his size, her tight grip lessens and he knows he can move.

As their hips move in unison, Ellis whispers into her ear, »Admittedly, I’d be interested in it. Pleasuring you over and over until you’re in pure bliss and I’m the only thing left in your mind.«

She gasps and imagines it but there’s something else. »Don’t,« is her simple answer and she hides her face in the crook of his neck, »I don’t deserve that. You—«

»Stop that, baby girl.« Ellis’ movements still and he forces her gently with his hand under her chin to look at him. »You’re my everything. If you asked, I would kiss the ground you walked over. It would be a lie if I said I don’t mind at all that you don’t go down on me too but we tried it several times and you simply can’t. Every time you ended up choking, gagging and tears streamed down your face. I don’t want to see you like this ever again.«

»I’m sorry.«

»Don’t be, it’s not your fault,« he assures her as his hips begin to thrust in a slow manner again, »relationships are built on compromises and that’s one of them. But now—relax, baby girl.«

Ellis kisses her. Slow, languid, deep and assuring her that everything’s okay. Her mind calms down, she falls into the same pace as him as they gradually become faster again. She wants to lose herself in the feeling and Ellis is eager to comply, further helping as his hand slips between their bodies to touch her.

»Come for me, baby,« he murmurs in a husky, low voice, »I want you to feel it while I’m still inside you.« As if he pushes a button—though he basically does—and she falls, crashing into heaven and back, her body going limp. Ellis doesn’t stop touching her until it’s too much for Rose and shoves away his hand.

Engulfed in her contracting heat, he follows suit and rolls to the side before he collapses on her small frame. As Ellis lies on his back, breathing hard, Rose crawls onto him, bedding her head on his chest. She listens to his pounding heart coming down, it soothes her.

»Three days were three days too many,« Ellis says after a few quiet minutes, chest vibrating as he talks. »And when you go to college we’ll have even less time.« She can hear the small pout.

»You donʼt have to worry,« she reassures him, »my career plans involve you anyway. You are my very important muse, remember?«

He hums. »I suppose that’s true.« His draws little nothings on her back. »So how about another round, hm?«

»First, I need to go to the toilet.« With that, she staggers out of bed, legs a bit unsteady, heading for the bathroom en suite. »It’s sticky.«

»Hey!« he shouts indignantly but still smiling, »What do you mean, ›sticky‹? It’s my very own seed full of love for you.«

She stops in her tracks and looks back, giggling. »Idiot.«