#they come with a ‘do not separate’ label

[asxgard]

Companionship | pt. 12

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

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Summary: You and Michael have an honest conversation about your insecurities and expectations. The sexual tension comes to a head.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: this chapter was not as fleshed out in my outline as the others lol sorry it took so long! Thank you for all the likes, comments and reblogs💜💜

note to self: need to up the word count? add smut lol

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: age gap, mild angst, foul language, mild jealous!Robby, fluff, SMUT (MINORS DNI), afab!reader, fingering, p in v, light praise kink, pet names (sweetheart, honey, baby)

not beta read

In the dates that followed, a contentment settled. You felt like you would be able to forgive him for the harsh words he had hurled at you, and build the relationship based on mutual trust in time. You took it slow, usually going to restaurants or the museum, and he only ever kissed you goodnight, though he always lingered just enough to steal another.

Days bled into weeks, dates into quiet nights in. The holidays came and went, though you spent them separately. Michael worked several holiday shifts, while you spent time with friends and family. “Next year, we’ll spend them together.” and that was good enough.

Marsi kept pressing to meet him, which Erin would echo, and it became increasingly difficult to fend them off. You were enjoying your time with Michael, and did not want to rush anything. The feelings twisting around in your chest had other plans, however, tangling deeper with every day you spent together.

Michael paid for your utilities that month, as “a late holiday gift” and then paid for the CPA review course as “a graduation gift”. He then splurged and took you out to the fanciest restaurant in Pittsburgh, to celebrate.

It made you feel like you were taking advantage of him, but part of you also felt massive relief that those bills weren’t on your shoulders. It also stirred something in your stomach at being spoiled, something you had not quite experienced before.

“I appreciate it a lot, Mike, just…” You sighed, flipping the chicken in the pan.

He watched you expectantly, setting his wine glass onto the counter.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

He smiled gently, “I know that, trust me. I paid off my loans some years ago, so I understand how stressful it can be. If I can help, I want to.”

“Thank you.” You said softly, “Feels like something a boyfriend might do…”

“Aren’t I?”

You looked over at him in surprise, blinking a few times. “I knew we were exclusive, I just didn’t realize we had given it a name yet.”

He cupped her cheek, “Then, would you like to make this official and be my girlfriend?”

Your cheeks heated, and you grinned at him, looking at him through you eyelashes. This still felt slow, easy, but the title made you feel more secure. It felt like a breath of relief.

“I’d like that a lot, yeah.”

“Label or not, it’s you and me?”

“You and me.” You agreed. “But I like the label.”

He smiled, “Me too.”

He leaned down to capture your lips and you savored the kiss, tasting the wine on his tongue. He ran a thumb over your cheek before pulling away.

It was easy enough to guess how Marsi had tricked you into meeting Michael. An offhanded comment about going to a bar with Michael, and a coy, “have fun!”, and then there they were in the bar waiting for you.

You paused at the door, Michael nearly walking into the back of you.

His hand found your arm, “You alright?”

“Well fuck me.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I’m going to say this in advance: I’m so sorry.”

“What?”

Erin approached first, “So you must be Michael.”

Michael’s eyes looked over to Erin, taking in her smirk and carefree expression, though her eyes were subtly assessing him. Marsi, next to her, was being less subtle.

“Michael, these are my friends, Erin and Marsi.” You introduced, looking up at Michael with an apologetic smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Erin grinned back at you.

Michael offered a careful smile, “Nice to meet you.”

Marsi hummed, while Erin clapped her hands together.

“So glad you’re here! Drink?” Erin grabbed your hand and pulled you to the bar.

Michael followed dutifully.

“What the hell, Erin?” You hissed lowly. “I mean, seriously?”

Erin smiled innocently, blinking her eyes at her, “What? We like this bar too, you know.”

You groaned, “You completely blindsided me. He deserved a warning.”

Marsi scoffed, “He’ll be just fine.”

You let out a long breath of air, and ordered a drink. Michael slid in beside you, ordering a beer.

You leaned in to Michael to whisper, “This was not my idea, I’m sorry.”

He smiled easily, “Don’t fret. I’m glad I’m able to meet some of your friends.”

“You don’t think it’s too soon?”

“Not at all, I’m your boyfriend. I expected to meet them soon, anyways. We can plan something with some of my…friends, if that makes you feel better.” He offered.

Butterflies filled your stomach, nerves rattling around your bloodstream, but you nodded. “Yeah, yes, please.”

He smiled.

—

Erin and Marsi were pleasant — though Marsi was not-so-subtly grilling him. Each question made you hide behind your hand, mouthing “I’m sorry” to him. He brushed it off and grabbed your hand.

With his hand on your lower back, he began to notice the eyes. It made him bristle, removing his hands from your skin. You noticed his shift in mood easily, raising a simple eyebrow to ask what your were likely thinking. He only offered a small smile to answer that he was fine.

He was not fine. It felt like the bubble around them had finally burst — letting in all the outside judgements that had been lingering the entire time. He tried not to care, but it made him self conscious. You were very clearly younger than him, even in the low lighting of the bar, and he could feel other men circling like sharks.

When you excused yourself to get another drink at the bar, Erin and Marsi departed to dance, and heat rose to his cheeks. He felt out of his depth, sipping his beer at the table they had secured, alone and yet, completely occupied by his racing mind.

Could he truly do this to you? Tie you to him and ruin your youth? He always tried to be a gentleman, but wasn’t the noble thing to do to let you go? His stomach churned, mind and heart battling it out.

He wanted you, in every way a man could want a woman, for as long as you would have him. The warm, fuzzy feeling swaying around his chest made a hard fight against the guilty, self deprecating thoughts.

They all screeched to a halt when a man approached you at the bar, hand on you back to whisper something to you. He watched, frozen to his chair, as you scrunched your nose at him, shifting out of his hold.

How could he blame the man? You were gorgeous. Stunning. Beautiful in mind and body. Smart, so incredibly smart, with a laugh that eased all the haunting feelings in his chest.

Your eyes meeting his across the bar and he was out of his seat, making his way over to you. Your eyes softened when he approached, the man’s back still facing him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Michael said, getting his attention.

The man only glanced sideways at Michael, “Get lost, old man. Trying to have a conversation here.”

“That’s my boyfriend, asshole.” You snapped before Michael could even open his mouth again.

Michael smirked, looking back at the man. His voice lowered closer to something dangerous, “She likes her space, so disrespectfully, you get lost.”

The man raised a questioning eyebrow at you, disbelief flashing across his features, before he must’ve decided it wasn’t worth it. Michael slid closer to you, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“Was that jealousy?” You asked with a playful eyebrow raise, sipping your drink. “Can’t say I hated it — it was kinda hot — but, still. I could’ve handled that. I’ve chosen you. Random men aren’t going to be able to change that.”

“Kinda hot?” He raised a teasing eyebrow.

You chuckled, “Of course that's what you got out of what I said.”

“No, no, I heard you. Just wanna revisit that bit.”

You rolled your eyes playfully.

He pulled you close and kissed the top of your head. “Just want everyone here to know you’re mine. Even if they judge us.”

You flustered, and your mouth opened and closed several times. He noted how those words made you fluster, and tucked it away for another day.

“I want you, Mike. I know people are gonna look at us, and yeah, I don’t love that. But I can’t let that stop me from being happy, you know? You make me happy.”

He blinked, searching your eyes, “They’re never going to stop.”

“You said you wanted everyone to know I was yours.” You swallowed, eyes flicking between his. “I want everyone to know you’re mine, too.”

He smiled, kissing your lips in more than just a fleeting meeting of mouths. It was passionate, and made the blood rush down.

“So we might as well get used to it, or ignore it.” You breathed against his lips. “I want to be here, with you. No one else.”

“You and me against the world, then?”

“You and me.” You confirmed.

—

Over dinner one night, you were twisting the pasta on your fork, your focus was clearly elsewhere.

“You okay?”

You looked back up at him and smiled, “I forgive you. Thank you for giving me the time to.”

He blinked, swallowing his food. He reached across the table and grabbed your hand.

“Thank you.”

Sometime after dinner on the quiet night in, you found your way to Michael’s lap, exploring further than you had gone together. You straddled him, hands on each side of his face, kissing him deeply while his hands explored the skin around your waist. When your lips parted, Michael’s pupils had blown wide, black devouring the brown of his iris. He was taking deep breaths, watching you intently.

You moved your lips to kiss down his neck and his hips jerked up just enough to elicit a whine from your mouth.

Your eyes found each other again, testing, teasing, tentative. Your fingers fiddled with the gold chain near the back of his neck, the other going to his chest where his shirt separated you.

“We can call it here—”

“Do you want to?” You asked, eyes trying to read his expression.

“No.” It sounded mildly strangled. “But we can, if you’re not comfortable. I want to do this right.”

“Michael, I want you. This feels right.”

His eyes darkened, hands tightening around your hips. His lips were back on yours, greedy, hungry, and your tongue darted into his mouth. You swallowed his moan, hips moving in search of friction.

Leaning forward slightly, you wrapped your arms around his neck as he stood up. You squealed, wrapping your legs around his hips to hold onto him. He had his hands on the tops of your thighs, keeping you from falling, as he made the journey to his room.

“Michael—!” was more surprise than protest.

He grinned against your mouth, moving into his bedroom. You would have taken the room in, if it weren’t for Michael distracting you completely. He leaned down to plop you onto the bed, and you instinctively reached back up for him.

Michael was looking down at you with a smile that reached his eyes, soft and serene. He kissed you lightly, and you scooted back on the bed, pulling him with you. He settled between your legs, breath hot against your neck, kissing down the column of your throat and making you whine again.

Your hips moved up to gain some friction, making him suck on the skin at the base of your throat at the juncture of your collarbone. You gripped the hair at the back of his neck, trying to keep hold of your senses.

Michael moved to sit back on his haunches, removing his shirt and unbuttoning his jeans. A rush of excitement flooded your chest, and you sat up enough to remove your blouse. With your bra, Michael pulled off your pants until they each were only left in your underwear.

When he got back down to kiss you, the heat of him between your legs made your head grow hazy, consumed with him him him. The smell of vanilla and sandalwood filling your nose, the taste of him on your tongue and his large, warm hands exploring your body.

His hand gripped your thigh and squeezed your flesh, and with his tongue back in your mouth, the rest of the world fell away.

Michael kissed over your shoulder, one hand slipping between you until it met your panties.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes.” You choked out, his fingers slipping underneath the fabric to meet the wet heat.

He gathered a bit of your slick before rubbing soft circles on your clit, making your jolt, a moan escaping. He kissed back up your throat and across your jaw, beard tickling your skin. His fingers moved in a steady motion and heat pooled low.

“Want to feel you.” You mustered, grabbing at his biceps, thoughts going feral at the feel of them flexing beneath your hold.

“I’m in no rush tonight, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

When one of his fingers slipped inside, you lost the meaning of patience, eyes screwed tight. He curled it expertly upwards, rubbing against that delicious spot inside you, making you mewl. His thumb kept its pace on your clit.

“Michael.” You ground out, trying to remember to breathe. “That feels so good.”

He hummed against your throat, kissing your skin. He added another finger, and heat built up, licking up your abdomen. You felt that coil tighten, like a rubber band being pulled taut.

“Please.” You begged, panting slightly, one hand still on his bicep, while the other gripped tightly to his shoulder.

“I’ve got you, come on.” His lips met yours.

You moaned when he added a little pressure to his thumb, that burning ecstasy just within reach. Trying to breathe, it was that all consuming feeling of him everywhere that kept you tethered. Your eyes met, and your orgasm came swiftly, the rubber band snapping. You gripped him tightly, squeezing your hands on his shoulders as several lewd moans left your mouth.

“So good, sweetheart.” He kissed your cheek, not letting up.

It quickly became over sensitive, and you reached down to grab his wrist to stop him.

“Fuck.” You let out with a smile, followed by a whine when he removed his fingers.

His fingers glistened and he held your gaze as he stuck them into his mouth, sucking on them. You felt your pupils dilate, a pulse starting again between your thighs as the desire for him heightened again. You had such an urge to get your mouth on him.

“Taste so good, sweetheart — can’t wait to get my mouth on you.”

Your hum was dangerously close to a whine, “Need you now. Please.”

“Are you sure? We don’t have to.”

“Michael. Do you want me to beg for it?” You asked, hands on either side of his face, fingers on the back of his head in his hair.

A sly smirk grew on his lips, “It could be arranged.”

You groaned, throwing your head back on the pillow, making him chuckle lightly.

“Maybe another time, then.” He said, kissing up your torso, stopping to pay attention to your nipples.

He took a peaked nipple into his mouth and your fingers found his hair, a whimper escaping. His tongue rolled over the bud, before sucking hard and moving to give the other his attention. His hand moved to the one he had just left, rolling it between his fingers. It sent sparks straight to your core, walls clenching around nothing. A few breathless moans left your mouth, lips parted as your eyes closed, relishing in his attentions.

Need pulsed through your system, throbbing with want and driving you mad. Red tinted lust clouded your mind, hot and heavy, driven by his skilled fingers and hot mouth.

“I need your cock, Mike…fuck—please.”

He groaned against you, adjusting his hips and you eyes fluttered at the weight of him. His eyes met yours and you could see he was torn between worshipping you and taking his time to unravel you again slowly, and fully just submitting to the desire.

It seemed to be a conundrum you were both stuck between: wanting to savor the moment and throwing patience out the window. Though you had abandoned patience as soon as he got his hands on you, but you also knew you did not want to rush something you had been thinking about for ages.

Making the decision, you moved one hand to the band of his boxers, slipping underneath and a gasp stuck in your throat when you wrapped your hand around his length. He stilled and savored your hand on him, his eyes closing.

You pumped a few times, and Michael shifted to pull his boxers completely off, revealing his hardened length to you. Your eyes nearly rolled back into your head at the sight of it — big enough to elicit excitement and not fear, girthy without being too much, a nest of brown curls at the base. Your thoughts spiraled, pussy clenching again around nothing.

Reaching for the nightstand, Michael pulled out a condom, and put it on quickly, without fanfare. Once it was rolled to the base of him, he slotted himself between your spread legs, kissing your jaw and cheeks before pecking a few to your lips.

You gripped his shoulders when he ran the tip through your folds, stopping to add a bit of pressure to your clit. He ran the bottom of his cock over your clit until tears gathered at the corner of your eyes — half from overstimulation, half desperation.

He lined himself up with your entrance, pushing in the blunt head of his cock in slowly. You sucked in a shallow breath, tightening your grip on him. A groan echoed low in his throat, eyes closed, forehead resting on yours as he drove in deeper. He let out a long breath, grabbed one of your thighs and pulled it up to his hip. He then steadied himself with both forearms at either side of her head, hips fully meeting yours.

The kiss he captured was deeply passionate, and you wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him to you. You reveled in his weight on you, and the stretch of him between your legs. Devine and adding to the aching heat in your core. You wrapped your legs fully around him, criss-crossing your feet at the small of his back, which gained a tiny moan from Michael.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you feel so good, sweetheart.” He said, burying his face in your neck, still holding still.

Your back arched slightly at the praise, clenching around him, a curse slipping past your lips. “Oh my—Mike.”

“Don’t—” he choked, “—fuck, you keep doing that and I’m not going to last.”

“Can’t help it—feels so good.” You whispered, trying to keep your from clenching again at the sound of his husky undertones.

“I know, honey, I know.”

He took a long moment without moving, instead looking into your eyes with an intimacy that spread warmth down your spine and made your heart race.

When he started moving, it was slow, deliberate, each thrust a vow, a phrase they had not yet been said. Moving out just enough before moving back in at a languid pace, the long drag of his hips filled your lower belly with heat. It felt like words had been stolen from your lips, staring wide-eyed up at him and treasuring the way his eyes held steady, filled with equal parts adoration and desire.

Reaching between them again, his thumb met your clit and he rubbed a slow circle. Searing heat flooded your bloodstream, and you throbbed around him. You panted out soft breaths of air, swallowing thickly before leaning up to kiss his lips.

The rhythm grew steady, and each drag of his hips felt more lovely than the last. Filling so full of him, all of your senses clouded with his smell, his taste, his touch, and it made everything more delicious, more divine, until he was every thought in your head.

The coil started tightening again, and you moaned. You thought you might never have your fill of him. With each snap of his hips, you then knew with certainty that you would never get enough. He brushed the spongy spot inside you that had you tensing, curling your toes, sinful noises rolling off your tongue without permission.

The familiar euphoria started expanding low in your belly, your eyes hooded with pleasure that was nearly overwhelming. The perfect feeling of him, being so stuffed full — there were no words for it.

"You're mine. Say it." He whispered huskily, eyes on yours.

The words traveled right to your core. "Yours, Michael. All yours."

The kiss he met your lips with was greedy, like he was devouring the words, roughly taking in your bottom lip. Hands in his hair, you gave it all to him.

Michael’s face scrunched up as pleasure must have been spreading through his system, though his kisses were still slow and controlled.

Feeling the edge of your release, you felt like you never wanted it to end, even at the cusp of your second orgasm. You wanted to savor it. Though with each thrust in and out, you fell into a desperation to feel the crashing wave of heat, clinging to him.

It felt overly indulgent to approach your second climax of the night, and you knew he was going to spoil you in every way he could.

“Mike—ohmygod—I’m—” you cried out, gripping his shoulders like your life depended on it.

“That’s it—I can feel that you’re close, sweetheart. I wanna feel it, give it to me, come on.” He encouraged, tone breathy in your ear.

He moved the hand from between them to intertwine their fingers beside your head, and replaced it with his other hand without missing a beat, not leaving you wanting for long. He added pressure with the pad of his thumb, and your thoughts stalled out. Just burning pleasure in your core, echoing outwards.

“Can feel you getting tight—fuck, sweetheart—come on my cock for me, come on.”

A high pitched whine left your lips, and everything tightened — your grip, your legs around his waist, your pussy clenching making him gasp and groan, your whole body tensing.

His low hiss of your name threw you over the edge, sending your hurtling into the white-hot heat that was all-consuming. The coil snapped and fire exploded through your system, all your resolve shattering. Your eyes screwed shut, pussy pulsing around him while he fucked you through it.

A mix of his name and incoherent moans came from your lips, scorching heat overcoming every nerve. It kept rolling as his hips kept moving and you sucked in a deep breath, as he whispered soft praises in your ear. You panted, trying to catch your breath — you felt like you were floating above your body, pleasure stinging every nerve until it slowly started ebbing away.

“Mike—oh!” Your back arched again, feeling his skin flush against your, as his cock continued to drive into you. “You feel so good, baby.”

“Yeah? Like being full of me?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” You chanted, each word matching with each thrust into your wet heat.

His new pace was faster, making stars dance behind your eyes, his grunts and groans making you unconsciously pulse around him. He moved his hand from between your legs to beside you, moving up just enough to stare down at you. Pleasure started contorting his face, your name on his tongue.

His forehead met yours, panting, each snap of his hips growing sloppy.

“Mmm love being so full of you, Mike. You feel so good.”

Michael kissed you, unfocused and messy, moaning into your mouth as his orgasm overcame him. His hips stuttered until they stopped, and the feeling pulled a final low moan from your lips.

He heaved a few breaths, your chest rising and falling in time with his. He met your eyes and smiled.

When he pulled out, it left you feeling empty, but you slipped to his side after he discarded the condom. He wrapped an arm around you, kissing your forehead. You traced tiny shapes along his chest, feeling so full of an emotion you did not yet want to name, but it thrummed just beneath the surface.

“I’m falling in love with you.” He said quietly, like it was a secret.

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “I’ve been falling for you, too.”

Michael’s face lit up and he leaned down to kiss you tenderly.

“You and me?”

“You and me.”

want to join any of my taglists? shoot me a message!

Companionship taglist: @queenslandlover-93 @clementine111002 @virgomillie @emily-b @kaygilles @lt-jakeseresin @imonmykneessir @kniselle @gabsgabsvaz @rosiepoise88 @calivia @holdonimwalkingmysnail @valhallavalkyrie9 @blahkateisdone @shadowhuntyi @fuckalrighty @elli3williams @yournerdmodziata @i-know-i-can @dickheadturner @dcgoddess @pittobsessed @glamorizethechaos @blueb33ry-cat @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange @burningpenguinwitch @evienorville @equallyshaw @heyysolsister @justrandomthougt @babygirlagenda @lauracantsleep @rogersbarnesxx

Dr. Robby taglist: @cherriready @seeyalaterinnovator @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @bxxbxy @18lkpeters @flyinglama @hagarsays @mayabbot @anakingreys @happyfox43 @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @girl-obsessed-with-things @laurenkate79 @woodxtock @rosie-posie08

(50 tags have been reached with the combo of all three taglists, so unfortunately some of Dr. Robby & all of The Pitt taglist for this series will be added in a reblog right after this is posted - I’m sorry if this is an inconvenience!)

Gimme that man

Didn’t realize how expensive it was to be a CPA after graduating with your masters lol, Robby you’re a real one

[luvfae]

BEST FRIENDS MAKE THE WORST LOVERS

summary: he was yours first and if you can’t have him, no one can.

parings: thanos x f!reader

warnings: cheating, smut, swearing

You've always had a thing for your best friend, Su-bong.

You don't know exactly when it happened — the shift, the slip, the quiet fall. Maybe it was after that night at a mutual friend's seventeenth birthday, both of you half-drunk and grinning, tipsy on cheap vodka and shared frustration. You'd looked at each other, shrugged, and decided you were tired of waiting, tired of wondering. Virginity was overrated anyway. So you'd fucked — clumsy, curious, urgent. Just to say you had.

Or maybe it was before that. Before you ever touched. When the laughter came easy, and his hoodie always ended up on your shoulders, and you'd catch yourself staring at the slope of his neck, wondering how it would taste. Wondering why no one else ever made you feel quite the same.

Whatever the case — the truth settled in after. Quiet and permanent. A part of you.

You want him.

But not in the way that's noble or romantic. Not in the way you could explain to your friends without sounding unhinged. You want him selfishly — he doesn’t have to love you or be your boyfriend.

You just want him to be yours.

In the way that matters in private. In the way that doesn't need labels, or promises, or futures. In the way that makes you the only one who knows how he sounds when he comes.

And he's still your best friend. Always has been. You're good at that part — loyal, ride-or-die, first to answer the phone at 3am. You show up. You look out. You hold the parts of him that no one else gets to see. The sharp and the soft.

But you also keep his bed warm when he needs it. Keep his mouth busy. Keep his balls empty.

And for a while, that was enough.

Until he got a girlfriend.

At first, it was fine. Truly. She was pretty in a harmless way. Nice in a way that didn't raise your hackles. She didn't try to separate him from you — not at first. She smiled when you walked into the room. Laughed at your jokes. Let him lean against you at parties and never questioned how easily your bodies fit together.

You even tried to be happy for him. Because you do love him — in that complicated, sideways, back-of-your-throat kind of way.

And you thought you could handle it. Thought you could go without. Thought you could be just friends again.

At first.

Until the jealousy started to rot you from the inside.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just a slow, creeping burn that sank into your bones.

It wasn't just the loss of the best dick of your life — it was the silence. No more lazy smoke sessions on your balcony. No more co-op missions at midnight, legs tangled on the couch. No more FaceTime rings answered on the first buzz, no matter the hour, no matter the reason.

You weren't just losing the sex.

You were losing him.

And you could live without the fucking, maybe. But not the version of him that belonged to you. The version that lived on your couch, barefoot and loud. The version that rolled your joints better than you did, who knew your Panda Express order by heart, who'd watched you cry over boys he never liked anyway.

You could feel her pulling him away in inches. And you were never one to beg. So you made sure he remembered where he came from.

The first fight hits hard — and loud.

You don't get the details. You don't ask. He just shows up at your apartment at 11:42PM, hoodie half-zipped, phone clenched in one fist like he wants to throw it through the wall.

"Bad night?" you ask.

He exhales, tight and bitter. "You have no idea."

You hand him the joint before you say anything else. He takes it wordlessly, flicks the lighter like second nature, and leans against your kitchen counter like it's his.

Like he never left.

"She says I don't talk to her," he mutters, exhaling smoke. "Says I shut down. But then when I do say something, it's wrong. Too much, too blunt, too—" he waves a hand, "—me."

You let him talk.

Let him pace.

He moves like the words are eating him alive, like if he stands still too long they'll rot a hole through his ribs.

You sit on the couch, pull your knees up. Watch him unravel.

"I try," he mutters. "I fucking try. But I'm not soft like she wants me to be. I'm not—"

You tilt your head. "You don't have to be soft with me."

His gaze flicks to you.

You tap the cushion beside you. He doesn't hesitate. Just drops down, exhales hard, passes the joint back.

The silence that follows is familiar.

Laced with old habits. Old sins.

Your legs are over his in the next minute — casual, innocent on the surface. Then your hand on his chest. Then your lips at his jaw.

He doesn't move.

"She just doesn't get me, you know?" he murmurs, voice low, almost broken.

You kiss his neck. Slow. You feel him shudder. Feel his hand drop to your thigh.

"I do," you whisper.

And then, without thinking — or maybe because you've thought about it too much — you straddle him, rock your hips against him.

Just once.

It's not enough to cross the line.

But it's enough to smear it.

His head drops back against the couch, a low sound breaking in his throat. Your name, half-spoken.

You move again. A little slower. A little deeper.

He doesn't stop you.

Doesn't even try.

His hand grabs your hip, hard.

And then he's fucking into you — desperate, panting like he's been starving for weeks. You're still on top of him, still pretending you didn't plan this, and he's still trying to pretend he's not cheating.

But he is.

And you're moaning into his mouth like it's the first time all over again.

You're his best friend.

And you've never made it so easy to forget someone else.

It becomes a pattern — ritual, even. Every time they fight, he ends up here. Knuckles tense. Mouth tight. Carrying anger like it's stuffed in the lining of his jacket, waiting for you to tear it out of him.

And you always do.

You fuck him like you own him. Like you're the only one who could ever handle him. You ride him until his voice cracks and his grip bruises and the heat behind his eyes dissolves into something messier. Needier.

His fury fades between your thighs — swallowed by how fucking tight you are, how perfectly you take him, how your pussy milks the stress out of him like it's your job.

And maybe it is. Maybe you made it your job the night he chose someone else.

You drag orgasms out of him like confessions. Make him moan in ways she's never heard. Make him forget what he was mad about in the first place.

Because she argues.

You open your legs.

She gives him space.

You give him your throat.

And when you sink to your knees, slow and smug, dragging your tongue along the base of his cock before wrapping your mouth around him like you're starved — he breaks.

Every time.

One hand in your hair, the other gripping the back of your neck like he needs to feel you taking it. Eyes rolling back. Chest heaving.

"Fuck, you're warm," he groans, voice wrecked. "Always so good to me."

You hum around him. Eyes glassy. Drool on your chin.

She never sucked him like this. Never let him fuck her face until he was twitching, nearly crying, emptying everything down your throat because he couldn't hold back even if he wanted to.

And the worst part?

You know that.

You want him ruined. You want him addicted. You want him thinking about you when he's inside her.

And he does.

Because her moans are soft.

Yours are filthy.

She kisses him sweet.

You beg him to breed you.

You whisper, between gasps and trembles, "I want your cum. Want it deep. Want to feel it leaking out when I walk."

She tells him to slow down.

You tell him to break you.

She arches away.

You arch into it.

And every time he's sure he's going to end it — every time he's buttoning his jeans with shaking hands and the taste of you still in his mouth — he remembers.

She's not you.

But you're not her, either.

Because where you fuck and praise and give him everything he wants, she holds his face and tells him things he doesn't want to hear. Things that make him better. Things that make him human.

You make him forget.

She makes him try.

And that's the difference. That's why he hasn't left her.

But you? You don't need him to stay. You just need him to come back.

And he always does.

It's happened enough times now that it feels like fate.

Fucked-up. Familiar. You, bent over your bed. Him, buried inside you. Whispering things he swore he'd never say again. Praising your cunt. Cursing himself. Saying your name like a sin and a salvation.

And still — he goes back to her.

You know this pattern by heart.

You know she doesn't suspect yet — but she will.

Because she's not blind. Not anymore.

It starts at a party.

It always starts at a party.

You're wearing that dress you know he likes — the one that rides a little too high when you bend, clings a little too tight when you sit.

You feel his eyes before you see them. Heavy. Heat-soaked. Lingering too long on your legs. His beer stalls halfway to his mouth. Frozen. Like he forgot anyone else existed.

You don't look at him. Not directly. You just sip your drink and laugh at something someone else said — as if you can't feel the weight of his stare branded into the inside of your thigh.

But she sees it.

The way his jaw tightens.

The way his chest rises when you cross your legs.

The way his pupils don't move until you finally get up to leave the room.

She doesn't say anything then. But it eats at her.

Later, when the noise fades and they're alone in her car, she turns to him. "Do you have feelings for her?"

He scoffs. Too quick. Too sharp. "She's just my best friend."

And maybe he believes it.

Or maybe he's just repeating it — like a mantra.

Like a lie he's told so often it's starting to sound like truth. But his voice cracks just slightly when he says it. And she hears that too.

It's not just that night.

It's not just the look.

There are other moments — quiet things, easy to brush off on the surface, but wrong if you stare too long.

She stares too long now.

You're curled up on the couch in Su-bong's hoodie, barefoot, legs tucked under you. He's in the kitchen pouring drinks, and she watches the way he glances at you — like a habit, like gravity. You don't notice. Or pretend not to.

When he comes back and hands you a glass, she says, a little too light, "Su-bong never lets me wear that hoodie."

You grin. Sip. "I was cold."

Her laugh is thin. She doesn't say what she's thinking. That you're never cold when she's around. Only when she isn't.

Or the time, she walked in on him helping you zip up a dress. His fingers are at your spine. Your hair is swept to the side. He's laughing at something you said, low and under his breath.

You both freeze when she opens the door.

You turn. Smile. "This thing's impossible without help."

She nods. Smiles back.

But later that night, she whispers in the dark, "Why didn't she just ask me?"

He doesn't have an answer. He just kisses her shoulder and pulls her closer, like she won't notice how his hands don't linger the way they lingered on you.

The parties were always the worst. Too much alcohol. Too many people.

One time, she finds you both in the hallway, laughing too hard. Your hand on his chest. His arm above your head on the wall.

The moment stretches.

"What's going on?" she asks, voice sharp.

You pull away immediately. Too quick. "Nothing," you say. "He was just being an idiot."

Su-bong nods. Eyes down. "Just messing around."

But she sees the way your lipstick's smudged.

The way his hand brushes your back when he walks past her.

She doesn't say anything that night. Doesn't cause a scene. But when they get home, she doesn't kiss him. She doesn't even look at him.

And he doesn't ask why.

Because he already knows.

It's well past midnight when the knock comes.

Soft. Hesitant. Familiar.

You're not even surprised — just rise from the couch in silence, heart already bruising in your chest.

You open the door and he's there.

Su-bong.

Shoulders hunched. Hoodie soaked from the rain. Eyes rimmed red.

His mouth moves like he's trying to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a breath, jagged and raw, and then he's pulling you into him, holding you like you're the only solid thing left in the world.

And that's when you feel it — not just the weight of him, not just the tremble in his arms, but the wet warmth that hits your collarbone.

Tears.

You freeze. You've seen him at his worst — high, drunk, bruised, broken. But never this.

He's crying.

And not because he lost her.

Because he didn't.

Because she's still there, still waiting for him to come home.

And he's not sorry.

Not really.

Not enough.

That's what's killing him.

You guide him inside without a word. Sit him down. Wrap a blanket around his shoulders like you're bandaging a wound that never bled right. He stares at the floor like it's going to collapse under him.

Minutes pass.

Then, softly — voice shredded, "she doesn't deserve a fucking asshole like me."

You smile.

Not cruel. Not smug. Just... knowing. You reach out. Brush wet strands of hair from his forehead. Let your fingers linger.

"Maybe not," you hum, warm and quiet. "But I do."

He looks at you. Eyes wide. Bloodshot. Searching.

And you say the thing that's lived in your chest for years.

"I've never asked you to be anyone but yourself, Su-bong."

Something breaks in him then. Not the way it did in her hallway, not in anger or panic — but quietly.

Like relief.

Like love.

His hand finds yours. Brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like he's never touched you before.

And when he leans in, when his lips meet yours, it's not rushed. Not hungry.

It's soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that tastes like apology and something almost sacred.

He doesn't take you to the bed. He follows you there.

Undresses you carefully, like he's worried you'll disappear. Like this version of you is something new — or maybe something he's just now letting himself see.

And when he pushes into you, slow and deep, chest to chest, your name on his tongue — it hits different.

Not like every other time. Not like fucking to forget. He's not fucking you now. He's making love to you.

And that terrifies you.

Because when he groans into your neck, "God, you feel like home," your body arches into his and your heart whispers, Please. Choose me.

And for the first time, you let yourself imagine what that might look like. Not the secret. Not the backup. Not the girl he runs to when he's wrecked.

But the girl he stays with when he's okay.

The girl he wakes up beside in the morning.

The girl he picks.

Out loud.

All the way.

And when he holds your face after, panting and dazed, whispering thank you, you don't say anything back. You just press your lips to his cheek and let yourself hope.

You don't sleep that night.

He does.

Right beside you, sprawled on your sheets like he's always belonged there, like the fight that sent him here never existed. One arm draped over your waist, breath slow and steady, skin still damp with the memory of what you let him do — of what he let himself feel.

And you watch him. In the quiet. In the dark.

You trace the lines of his jaw with your eyes, the way his mouth softens in sleep, the curve of his bare shoulder where it catches the first hint of dawn.

You could love him like this.

You do.

But it's no longer enough.

Because you're tired of hiding. Tired of being the secret he comes to when he's aching, the mouth he fucks when he's angry, the name he moans into a pillow he doesn't get to keep.

You're tired of being good at it.

Of being his best friend.

Of being the one who listens, and waits, and swallows.

You've seen what's left of him after a fight. You've seen what he looks like when he breaks. And now you've seen what he looks like when he gives himself to you — not rough, not reckless — but soft.

Yours.

And if you can have that version of him — even for one night — you know you can have it again.

If she wasn't in the way.

You think about her when you kiss his temple. Think about how she clings to what little of him he gives her.

How she thinks she knows him.

Thinks she has him.

But you've felt him cry.

You've felt him come apart.

You've felt him say nothing and mean everything.

She doesn't have that.

She never did.

So maybe it's time she finds out what you already know — That he was never really hers to begin with.

Not the way that matters. Not where it counts.

And maybe that makes you cruel. But cruelty is a small price for ownership.

For love.

For him.

So you lay back down beside him, head on his chest, heart thudding with quiet resolve.

You're done sharing.

And if he won't choose you outright — you'll make it so he can't keep hiding.

It starts small.

A text.

I miss you, when you know he's in bed with her.

You don't expect him to answer — not right away.

But you know he sees it. You know he thinks about it. And that's enough. At first.

Then come the games.

You start leaving things behind — panties tucked half-visible under his pillow, lip gloss on his sink, a stray earring on the floor of his passenger seat. Things she'll find if she's even half paying attention.

You press hickeys just above his collarbone — places too risky to ignore, but too intimate to blame on anyone else.

He gets mad, sometimes. Tells you to be careful. Says she's suspicious.

But you know him.

If he really wanted to stop you, he would.

And when he doesn't?

You push harder.

Nudes at 3:14AM.

Soft lighting. Lip bitten. Panties pushed aside.

Wish you were here.

You pray she checks his phone. That she sees the way his hands linger too long, the way he won't meet her eyes the morning after he's been inside you.

But it doesn't work.

She never finds the panties. He wears hoodies to hide the bruises. She doesn't go through his phone.

So you get bolder.

The comments come next. Sweet. Polished. Laced with venom.

When Su-bong is out of earshot — fetching drinks, answering a call — you smile at her, too wide, too warm, and say things like:

"I hope you don't mind that he still comes to me when he's upset. Old habits die hard, I guess."

"He's always been... generous. I'm sure you appreciate that, too."

"It's the little things, you know? Like how he knows just where to put his hands. Always so intuitive."

"I've always loved how... responsive he is. Even the smallest touch gets a reaction."

And you get a reaction. Every time. She flinches. Smiles too tight. Looks to Su-bong with that look — like she's trying to catch him looking at you first.

She never does.

Because he's careful.

But not careful enough.

Eventually, she tells him:

"I don't want you seeing her anymore."

And for a while — you don't hear from him. No texts. No calls. Not even a half-assed excuse.

So you show up. Late afternoon. Hair down. Hoodie oversized. Nothing underneath but perfume and patience.

She's not home.

He opens the door like he expected this — like he hoped you wouldn't come, and knew you would anyway.

He doesn't invite you in.

You step in anyway.

His voice is quiet. Heavy.

"She's onto us." A beat. "She wants me to stop seeing you."

You nod. Say nothing. Let the silence choke him for a moment before you sit on the edge of his bed.

Then you say it.

"I was the one who held you when you were nothing." Not loud. Not bitter. Just... true. "You only love her because I taught you how."

And he doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

So you stand. Walk up slow. Put your hand on his chest — right where you can feel the thud of his guilty heart — and lean in.

You kiss him.

Soft. Final.

And he kisses you back.

Because he always does.

His mouth is still on yours.

Soft. Then not.

The kind of kiss that shouldn't happen. The kind that tastes like final decisions and fucked-up truths and everything he swore he wasn't going to do again.

But he doesn't pull away.

And you don't let him.

His hands slide to your waist — grip tightening like he's trying to stop himself from shaking. He presses his forehead to yours for a beat, breath shallow.

"I shouldn't," he whispers.

You smile against his lips. "Then don't."

He groans. A low, guttural sound that vibrates in his throat — and then he kisses you again, this time deeper, hungrier, teeth grazing, tongue pushing past your lips like he needs to taste every second you've been apart.

Your fingers curl in his shirt. Tug. Yank. You want skin.

"Su-bong—" you gasp into his mouth, "—I want you to touch me."

"I fucking am touching you," he snaps, hand sliding down to your ass, squeezing hard.

"Not enough."

He curses under his breath — like the request hurts — like it lights something up under his ribs.

You shove him back a step, just enough to grab the edge of your hoodie and pull it over your head in one motion. No bra. Just skin.

His breath catches. "Jesus fuck."

He stares for a second too long — like he forgot how good you looked underneath all your attitude — then grabs your jaw and kisses you hard, dragging his other hand up your side, palm rough against your bare breast. He groans into your mouth when your nipple tightens under his thumb.

"You do this on purpose," he growls. "Show up like this, act like you didn't plan the whole fucking thing."

You moan, arching into his touch. "Of course I did."

"Brat," he mutters. "You're fucking evil."

You just grin, gasping when his mouth drops to your neck, tongue dragging over your pulse before he bites — not gently — and sucks a bruise into the skin just below your collarbone.

You gasp again as he starts walking you backward, fast and clumsy, until the backs of your knees hit his bed. You fall with a soft thud, legs spreading instinctively, panties already damp and sticking to your skin.

"I don't have time—" he pants, eyes locked on the wet patch.

"You have time," you breathe.

He grabs your thighs, spreads them wide, pushes them up until your knees are almost to your chest, panties stretched tight across your cunt.

"I should make you beg," he mutters.

"I already am," you whisper.

His mouth crashes down.

Right over your panties.

And you cry out — hips lifting, thighs twitching — as he drags his tongue hard over the soaked fabric, lips curling when he feels how fucking wet you are.

"Goddamn," he groans. "You missed me that bad?"

You nod, breathless.

"I didn't even touch you yet."

"You don't need to," you whimper.

He's licking you through your panties like it's the only thing keeping him sane, but when his watch buzzes on his wrist, he pulls back just an inch — breathless, flushed, mouth glistening.

"Shit," he mutters. Checks the time. "She's gonna be home soon."

Your head tips back, eyes fluttering. "Then you better be quick."

That breaks him.

His mouth crashes to yours as he fumbles for his belt, yanking it open one-handed, pants halfway down his thighs. You reach for him at the same time, push your panties to the side, pull him between your legs like he belongs there — like he never left.

"I shouldn't be doing this," he pants against your lips.

"Then don't make it slow," you whisper. "Just make it worth it."

And he does.

He shoves into you in one desperate thrust — so deep, so fucking full it rips a moan straight out of your chest. His hands are braced on either side of your head for a second before one slides to your throat, gripping just enough to make your breath catch.

"Fuck—this pussy," he gasps. "Every fucking time. It's like you were made to fuck me."

You choke out a laugh, nails digging into his back. "Maybe I was."

He fucks you hard. Deep. Not rushed — but urgent. Like he's trying to memorize every sound you make, every clench, every tremble. His body presses you down into the mattress, your legs over his shoulders, angle so brutal it leaves you speechless.

"You like this?" he grunts, tightening his grip on your throat.

You can't even answer. Just nod, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream.

"Use your words," he growls. "You want it like this, don't you?"

"Y-Yes—yes—Su-bong—please—"

"Say what you want, baby," he pants, eyes locked on your face. "Tell me."

"Choke me—fuck—choke me harder," you gasp. "You know I love it. You know I love when you ruin me—"

He does.

His hand tightens. Your head tips back.

He leans in close, mouth brushing your cheek, voice rough and tender all at once.

"My girl," he murmurs. "My pretty fucking girl. Gonna fill you up. Don't worry."

Your breath hitches. "Please—please—inside—please—"

And that's when the door opens.

A pause.

The world stops.

You don't see her.

But you hear her.

A gasp. A stutter.

And then—shattered glass.

You twist your head toward the doorway — and she's there. Frozen. Face pale. Eyes wide. Tears spilling.

Su-bong freezes inside you. Hands still on your throat.

Your eyes widen. You try to speak, but nothing comes out.

She breaks the silence.

"You told me not to worry about her!" Her voice cracks. "You said she was your best friend!" She's shaking now, yelling, chest heaving. "You told me I could trust you!"

Su-bong still hasn't moved.

He looks down at you — stunned, guilty, still hard inside you. And you — eyes glassy, lips parted — look up at him like this is the moment you've been waiting for.

Because now?

There's no hiding.

There's no going back.

And someone's about to burn for it.

The silence stretches thick — heavy enough to suffocate.

Your chest rises and falls, your heart hammering somewhere near your throat, but your smile is steady.

You sit there, half-naked under the covers, legs spread slightly, still slick and throbbing, Su-bong's cock still twitching against your inner thigh.

You meet her eyes.

Hold her gaze.

And you smirk.

Soft. Lethal.

The final nail in the coffin.

Then you tilt your head, voice syrupy sweet, “he only fucks me like this because he can't with you."

The words land like a slap.

Her whole face crumples — color draining, mouth trembling — and Su-bong jolts like you physically punched him. His hand shoots out, grabbing the edge of the bed, knuckles white.

"Jesus—" he growls under his breath, glaring at you. “Why the fuck would you say that?"

But it's too late.

The damage is done.

She stumbles backward, tears spilling down her cheeks, choking on a sob so broken it barely sounds human.

Su-bong yanks the covers over your body, muttering furious, useless curses under his breath as he shoves away from the bed — pulling his jeans up, erection angrily straining against the denim.

He catches her in the hallway.

"Babe, wait—"

You hear her voice crack like glass, “don’t call me that. Don't you dare fucking call me that."

A slam of a door.

And then silence.

You give it a beat. Two.

Then you slide out of his bed, bare feet padding across the floor, still naked, sticky, shameless. You find him slumped on the couch, head in his hands, shoulders hunched like he's trying to disappear inside himself.

For a second — just a second — you feel almost sorry for him.

But then the old ache tugs at your ribs — the jealousy, the hunger, the way he always picked her first even if it was just for the sake of appearances — and it washes clean away.

You move without thinking.

Sink to your knees between his legs.

His hands tense where they grip his hair, but he doesn't look up — not even when you rub your palms soothingly along his thighs, slow, careful, patient.

You nudge your head under his hands, tipping your chin up.

His red-rimmed eyes meet yours.

Broken. Defeated. Addicted.

"Want me to make it better?" you murmur, voice dripping with false innocence. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweet and slow. “Want me to finish you off, baby?"

He exhales — wrecked, trembling.

You see the exact second he caves. The way his shoulders drop, his mouth slackens, his thighs part just slightly under your touch.

He nods. Small. Miserable.

"Yeah," he rasps, almost inaudible. “Yeah, baby. Please."

You smile — soft, secret — and lean forward, pressing a kiss to the damp denim over his cock.

He shudders.

He's still hard for you.

Even after all that.

Even after her.

And that?

That's the sweetest victory of all.

[klapollo-week]

The final prompts for Klapollo Week 2025 are here!

Many thanks to those who submitted ideas for our prompts and all who helped to vote for the final seven! Now, the moment you've been waiting for... it’s time to reveal this year’s prompts for Klapollo Week!

Sunday, June 15, 2025: Perceive

Apollo's unique "Perceive" ability aids him in the courtroom, allowing him to get the whole truth out of witnesses and uncooperative councils. He can focus on small habits and movements of people, which, to any regular person, are practically impossible to see. How does this ability affect his and Klavier's trust in their relationship? What secrets of Klavier's would Apollo be able to uncover with such a unique skill?

Monday, June 16, 2025: Hurt/Comfort

A popular and beloved trope for a very good reason. Klavier and Apollo have been through plenty of hardship, both physical and mental, on their own and together. How do these hardships affect their day-to-day lives? How would they console each other if they ever needed comfort? How do they express their love when they're at their most vulnerable?

Tuesday, June 17, 2025: Getting together

The beginnings of a new relationship can be a confusing and tricky territory to navigate. At the start of a blossoming romance, how do Klavier and Apollo learn from each other? How do they connect and grow closer? How do they even start dating, anyways?

Wednesday, June 18, 2025: Soulmates

Bound by strings, connected by clocks, meeting in dreams... there are many ways that destiny and fate can find its way to someone. When the universe has decided their paths for them, how do Klavier and Apollo react? How do they find each other? How do separate roads come together and intertwine?

Thursday, June 19, 2025: Gender

In many people's interpretations, Apollo and Klavier have unique relationships with gender. One's gender identity is oftentimes a big part of how they see themself, and one's gender presentation or expression can sometimes be entirely different from their gender identity. How do Klavier and Apollo express their gender identities? How do they support each other when trying out new labels or presentations? How do they see things differently based on their different (or shared) experiences?

Friday, June 20, 2025: Different first meeting au

We all know the iconic first meeting between Apollo and Klavier, in which the famous line "This is the first time I've felt this way with a man" was first uttered. But what if that never actually happened? What if, instead, Apollo and Klavier had met under completely different circumstances? Would their opinions on each other change or stay the same? Maybe in another universe, Apollo would be the one doing the flirting...

Saturday, June 21, 2025: Guilt

We all make mistakes sometimes, and we all have our screw-ups. But sometimes, no matter how hard we want to forget, the things we've done in the past continue to hang around and haunt us. What would Klavier and Apollo feel guilty about? How do both of them reach reconciliation? How do they make peace with what is long behind them?

Don’t forget to use the tag #KlapolloWeek2025 so your works can be archived to our account! For everyone's convenience, please make sure that you familiarize yourself with our Archive Criteria and FAQ before you submit any work, and send us an ask if you have any questions! We’re very excited to see what you all will make for this event, and we’ll be waiting to see you all soon!

Thanks for sharing, @aafancalendar! ❤💜

[greennoobartist]

I seem to have acquired another question on your LGBTQ stance, if your ok answering, I know you said that you said you were gonna make a separate post answering my comment but I have more now 😭. So, do you think that there is anything morally wrong with being gay? or was it really just past experiences that made you push them away? Do you even think this should be a conversation and people should just mind their own dang business and respect if you say that you don't support something.

Alright, here I am. Sorry for the wait, but I wanted to give it my fullest for this question. I'll now address everything in detail!

Note: my LGBTQ stance is a lot connected to my religion, so all religious stuff will be colored in violet. If you're not fine with religious talk, especially religion that isn't Christianity, i suggest you skip violet colored paragraphs, but I can't promise that my stance will make sense if you do so.

With that being said, let's do this...

In my honest opinion, saying that i support LGBT is a strong term. I mean the term "support" is a bit like off, to word it that way. I cannot say that I support it, but the closest description would be respect it? Im not sure if even that can be near my stance. Just as mentioned above, my stance on LGBT is a lot, and actually completely, based on my religion. When it comes to my gender and sexuality, i completely lean on my religion for its guidance and orders.

In my religion, being LGBT is actually prohibited. That includes being transgender and/or genderfluid. Any adjustments to one's gender or sexuality is prohibited. In the religion i believe in, the only permitted option for one is to be cisgender and straight, which explains why i am so. Any changes to one's naturally given gender and sexuality is prohibited. Of course now, im only saying this for my religion, im not trying to be pushy, im only trying to explain my stance.

So, that explains why im cis and straight. Now supporting others in such act is also prohibited. Although, my religion is also about being respectful and kind to every soul Allah, s.w.t., brought to the World, so now being pushy and causing harm to someone different than me would also be a big mistake. What I'm trying to say is, no, i don't support it and i won't be encouraging it, my religion isn't allowing me to and I'm a religious person, so I'm not supporting it and I'm not the part of it, but I'll be respectful and kind towards such people.

Vidow?... This doesn't do with my religion at all, I really can't see them as anything more than best friends, really. I understand that the majority of the fandom ships them, but I don't. Do i care? Well, i can't change it. So, the only thing I care about when it comes to Vidow is that people accept and don't hate me because of my opinion. Another thing I care about is that my content I'll make for them isn't tagged and labeled as romantic Vidow. That's actually it. I can't change the majority of the fandom, so I don't care that much, i just want my opinion to be respected. I think im not asking for much.

About people praying on children when it comes to LGBT, yeah I also noticed that, and I really don't know what to say about that. I really find it annoying when people disrespect straight people and when they push LGBT into others, especially children. That's just not okay. I will respect it since I can't change your opinions and views, but don't push it into me. And into children? That's just low. I don't know anymore if I can label as a child anymore, depends on what we count as a child, but either way it's disrespectful to force people into anything, not just LGBT. Im afraid that continuing here would just cause a conflict since this could really be discussed into really really deeply, so ill leave it here to avoid any conflict.

Do I find anything morally wrong about being gay? Or is it just my past experiences that made me push them away? To be sincerely honest, it's both my experiences and my religion. When it comes to finding it morally wrong or not, that is completely dependent on my religion! Which says that yes, there is something wrong about being so. But again, my stance on LGBT is purely relying on my religion, so if you're not fine with my stance, then you're not fine with my religion either. And my stance is 90% everything that my religion says, not my personal opinions. I'm not trying to offend anyone, I'm sharing the point of view of my religion, which I oblige to follow since my religion is my personal life decision. Me, personally, find being gay more unusual, probably since I didn't get used to being with such people and didn't have much opportunities in the past to interact with such individuals. I'm doing my best to be respectful, but my opinion stands.

For the last, i find it completely pointless to argue or to make a conversation about it. Everyone has their own opinions, so in my view, arguing over it is just purely pointless. Pushing your opinions into someone else or trying to prove why your opinion is correct just rises conflict and misunderstandings. It's not worth it. I find it fine to ask someone to explain their stance on why do they think so or to ask to confirm someone's opinion, but I honestly think that everyone should mind their own business and respect everyone's opinions, no matter how different they are. Why making conflicts? It's just not worth it. We just get nowhere. In fact, we might break friendships because of such. Sincerely, i really want people to not fuss over it that much and for everyone to focus on themselves and respect others. Asking questions and being curious is great, but being disrespectful and harmful is not.

To make my stance even clearer if it isn't clear what's my religion: I'm a Muslim. My religion is Islam. Islam doesn't allow any adjustments to one's naturally given gender and sexuality that was bestowed upon by The One and Only, The Almighty Allah. My stance on LGBT is purely on how prophet Muhammad, p.b.u.h., adviced and on how Allah The Almighty ordered. With respectful sincerity, I'm not changing my opinions.

For closing and as a note: If there is anyone who isn't fine with my opinion or religion, feel free to leave and block me and do whatever you want. I'm not going to force anyone to support me. I don't mind anyone blocking me or ignoring me after such addresses. I really don't mind. Don't hesitate, don't think it'll hurt me. If you're not fine with my opinions and religion, feel free to leave. I don't need anyone to disrespect me and hate me.

Huge thanks to everyone who gave their time to read through this. I really appreciate it and I hope that this cleared everything.

[borntocreatee]

THE "VOID STATE"

What is the Void State?

The void state, aka pure consciousness or the "I am" state, is simply you being your true, original self: pure consciousness, nothing more. It’s not a magical place. It’s your natural state, your home, where you always return because it’s what you are.

You are pure consciousness, an energy experiencing the universe. Right now, you’re in a physical body with a name, experiencing senses like touch, smell, sight, taste, and hearing. But in the void state, none of that exists. There’s no body, no mind, no thoughts, emotions, beliefs, traumas, or labels. It’s just you: pure consciousness, existing. You’re simply you in your natural state.

This isn’t strange or special. When you’re not playing the role of a human, you’re just consciousness. There’s nothing more “you” than this state.

The void state or pure consciousness is NOT:

• SATS

• Falling asleep

• Meditating

• Floating in nothingness

• Having a sleeping body and an awake mind

• Being in theta, beta, or gamma states

• Deep relaxation

• A manifestation method

• A transition from conscious to subconscious mind

• The center of your mind

All of the above are completely incorrect. The void state is simply BEING consciousness. You’re not floating, you’re not in a place, you’re not asleep, you’re not meditating, you’re not in nothingness—you’re just consciousness.

What is the void for? What are the benefits?

• You fully connect with who you’ve always been.

• Absolute peace.

• You can manifest anything instantly.

Examples of things you can manifest:

• Eliminate depression, anxiety, or any mental disorder.

• Change your past.

• Change your appearance.

• Alter your genetics.

• Manifest waking up in this state every night.

• Manifest your future.

• Shift instantly to another reality.

• Have lucid dreams.

• A magical notebook where everything you write comes true.

• A magic word for manifesting or shifting.

As you can see, these are things you might never have imagined you could manifest. And as mentioned, anything you manifest in this state happens instantly. When you return to 3D awareness, you’ll see it. If it didn’t manifest, you weren’t in the void. You can’t fail in this state—your beliefs or assumptions don’t matter. If you truly entered this state, what you manifested is guaranteed to happen.

Why is manifestation instant in this state?

Because in this state, there’s no separation between you and what you desire. There’s no body, no mind, no time, no beliefs, no expectations, no limitations, no blocks, no resistance. It’s just you: pure consciousness, being.

In everyday reality, when we manifest, we do so from the mind, from an identity that believes it “needs something” or that “it will be reflected soon.” This creates separation: you here, your desire there. That distance creates the “process” or “waiting time” because you see it as something to achieve, something separate from you.

But in the void, there’s no distance. There’s no doubting mind, no beliefs, no resistance, no mental filters—nothing interferes. It’s just consciousness. The moment you decide, affirm, or desire something, it becomes part of you. You don’t attract it or wait for it—you ARE it. And by being it, it manifests. What you say and what you are become one.

Main characteristics of this state:

• No sight, hearing, smell, touch, or taste.

• No labels, nothing has form or definition.

• No traumas.

• No time—no past, present, or future.

• No body.

• No emotions.

• Only peace, calm, and neutrality—not because you feel “good” or “happy,” but because you simply ARE, and nothing is missing.

Is it dangerous?

No.

What does pure consciousness look like?

It doesn’t “look” like anything. You have no eyes, you’re not anywhere, there’s nothing to see—you’re just consciousness. This scares some people. But if you want, you can visualize landscapes or galaxies.

How do I know if I’ve reached it?

You’ll know the moment you enter because you’ll have none of your five senses and feel absolute peace. Don’t worry about not noticing—it’s unmistakable.

How do I manifest in this state?

You can manifest by affirming, visualizing, deciding, thinking, or simply desiring something. For example, to change your eye color, you could say: “My eyes are green.” And that’s it.

So, how do you “enter” in this state?

You don’t “enter” it because you’re already there. You simply stop paying attention to everything else: the world, your body, your worries. It’s like watching TV and lowering the volume to hear silence. The silence was always there—you just had to turn down the noise.

How do I put this into practice?

Focus on being aware that you exist, without adding anything to it. Do this in a way that works for you.

Think about how you learn or enjoy daily activities. Are you a visual, auditory, writing, or tactile learner? What resonates with you? What works?

• Visual: Did you learn best with mind maps, diagrams, or imagining lessons as stories?

Methods: Visualization, imagination, creating scenarios.

• Auditory: Did you learn by listening to explanations, recording lectures, debating, or memorizing out loud?

Methods: Subliminals, affirmations, affirmation tapes, inner dialogue.

• Writing: Did you benefit from detailed notes, summaries, or lists to organize your studies?

Methods: Scripting, journaling.

• Physical: Did you focus better by highlighting books, using flashcards, or moving while studying?

Methods: Meditations, tapping.

There’s no “right” way, and you can use more than one.

My favorite method: The Law of Assumption

It’s not a method per se, but it’s essential and won’t fail you.

What is the Law of Assumption?

Whatever you assume to be true or false is reflected in your reality.

How to assume?

You can assume by visualizing, imagining, deciding, thinking, acknowledging, saying, accepting, or affirming that something is true or that you already have it.

How to manifest?

• Choose your desire.

• Assume it’s already yours.

• Done—it’s yours.

To apply it to the void state, simply assume you’ve already entered, that you enter every night, that saying a phrase gets you there, or that affirming once is enough—whatever you want.

After assuming, stay firm in it. Keep choosing thoughts aligned with your assumption and don’t contradict it. You’ve already succeeded—don’t betray yourself by thinking otherwise.

Inducing this state is easy. It’s as natural as sleeping, breathing, or your heartbeat. One reason people don’t achieve it is because they overthink it.

When you understand that pure consciousness is literally just being conscious, you’ll see that complicating it is pointless.

What if I don’t succeed?

Don’t overcomplicate it. People don’t “enter” because they think it’s super complex, like learning to fly. But it’s as natural as sleeping or breathing.

Overthinking creates resistance. Think of it like floating in a pool: relax, and you float; tense up, and you sink.

You don’t have to follow anyone else’s steps or fit into a method. They’re just ideas to find what you enjoy.

If you prefer sitting with your eyes open and listening to music, do it. If you like imagining while listening to rain, great. The key is to stop looking outside and focus inward on what works for you.

It’s your home. You don’t have to “go” there because you never left.

So, relax and try it your way. It’s like being a kid and playing without rules.

The next time you hear “void state” or “pure consciousness,” remember it’s not a place, a ritual, or a method. It’s your natural state, before any thought or identity. Just consciousness. Just you.

And when you recognize yourself as that consciousness, there’s nothing you can’t be, have, or experience. Not because you found a cosmic “trick” or universal secret, but because you’ve always created your life. Now you know it.

There’s no right or wrong way—only what feels natural to you.

It’s not about doing it "correctly"; it’s about being.

You are consciousness. You already know how to return to yourself. Trust that.

The most important thing is to do what truly feels good to you, not just copy what others do.

[stereopticons]

On This Day in Schitt's Creek: April 25

2019

collide [david/patrick, G, 1,422] by my_middle_name_is_awkward

Last night had been absolutely perfect. There had been some awkwardness when Patrick requested they keep the lights on, claiming he didn’t want to hide away under the covers when they saw each other naked for the first time, but that was simply because David had been worried that once he saw David, he would realize that he wasn’t into men the way he thought he was. But Patrick had been right to suggest keeping the lights on, because not only did Patrick seem to enjoy his male physique, he seemed obsessed with it, his roaming hands going everywhere they wanted.

I will [david/patrick, G, 1,940] by livelyvague

David is sick and Patrick wants to take care of him. Based off a reddit post and a Mitski song.

Let Me Be the One [david/patrick, E, 2,193] by @wildxwiredmakes

“I’m sorry I forced you into doing something you didn’t want to do,” he says earnestly, gaze darting nervously away from Patrick’s face and then back again. Patrick cups David’s cheek gently, sliding a thumb across his cheekbone. “You didn’t,” he replies softly. “I knew what you were trying to do, but I meant it when I said I don’t want to be with anyone else,” he pauses for a moment. “I just want you, David.” — OR what happens when I watch S5x6 (Rock On) and then listen to Smother Me by The Used.

Sick of Losing Soulmates [patrick/rachel, T, 502] by destroyerofhearts

“Will you ever let us be together?” Patrick turned to look at her. “I don’t know.” She huffed out a laugh. “Just what every girl wants to hear.”

what tiger woods was to golf [patrick & ted, G, 1,435] by oh_la_fraise

As the game goes on, Patrick grows more on edge waiting for the "if you hurt my son, I’ll ruin you" moment. He has a vision of Mr. Rose separating them to look for an errant ball and threatening to slowly strangle Patrick to death with the hotel’s weird smelling carpet. Judging by the increasingly desperate looks Ted keeps throwing, he feels the same.

2020

Ever After [david/patrick, E, 5,266] by bigficenergy

Between the I dos and the goodbyes.

Partners [david/patrick, E, 3,267] by @unfolded73

The third in the Labels series. Set sometime between "Rock On" and "The Hospies."

2021

Cottage [david/patrick, T, 562] by ticklishraspberries

Newlyweds David and Patrick share a giggly morning in their new home.

Easiest decision of my life [david/patrick, E, 7,191] by Fafsernir

love him, but leave him wild [david/patrick, E, 3,550] by @blackandwhiteandrose

Five times Patrick thoroughly appreciates David's total disregard for gender stereotypes... and one time he tries it himself.

Spontaneous Perfection [david/patrick, E, 1,230] by @im-televisions-moira-rose

The night Patrick gets keys to his apartment, he and David don't want to wait for furniture. Writing referenced is a quote from Henry Rollins. "You are beautiful like demolition. Just the thought of you draws my knuckles white...."

wish you were sober [david/patrick, NR, 1,094] by childcrow

david wants to be better, for patrick.

2022

[Podfic] A Warm Hearted Person Who'll Love Me Till the End [stevie & david, G, podfic] by Amanita_Fierce @b13-maybethistime @petrodobreva @sunlightsymphony

Two people go to a park and have a nice chat. Podfic of A Warm Hearted Person Who'll Love Me Till the End by NeelyO.

[podfic] coming up only to hold you under [david/patrick, G, podfic] by Amanita_Fierce @b13-maybethistime @petrodobreva @sunlightsymphony

Two people go to a park and have a nice chat. But it’s not nice. It’s the opposite of nice. Podfic of coming up only to hold you under by barelypink.

[Podfic] Just Passing Through [david/patrick, G, podfic] by Amanita_Fierce @petrodobreva @sunlightsymphony

Two people go to a park and have a nice chat. They were just meant to be passing through Schitt’s Creek having first posed for photos with that joke of a town sign. But another sign caught their attention and they decided to stop. Podfic of Just Passing Through by Five678Patty.

[Podfic] Take It With Me When I Go [david/patrick, NR, podfic] by Amanita_Fierce @b13-maybethistime @sunlightsymphony

Two people go to a park and have a nice chat. One has succumbed to a fresh wave of crippling loneliness. The other has spent the afternoon weeping. So perhaps it’s not the best day to start the rest of their lives. But fate has an odd sense of humor when it comes to timing these things. Podfic of Take It With Me When I Go by Distractivate.

Love Is That Condition [david/patrick, T, 2,001] by kez

Patrick calls off the wedding after telling David he doesn’t want to go to New York and maybe they want different things.

TaskPatrick [david/patrick, T, 2,781] by @mostlyinthemorning

David needs some help. He needs a lot of help. Good thing there’s an app for that.

Tease [david/patrick, M, 1,150] by @a-noble-dragon

David lays still enough that anyone else but his own husband would think him still asleep. But Patrick knows better. David’s teasing him.

2024

Skirting the Rules [david/patrick, T, 100] by @a-noble-dragon

Patrick’s jaw drops when David walks into the Apothecary wearing a denim skirt.

Stats:

No fanworks for 2017, 2018, or 2023 2019: 5 fics/7,492 words 2020: 2 fics/8,533 words 2021: 5 fics/13,627 words 2022: 7 fanworks (3 fics, 4 podfics)/6,052 words 2024: 1 fic/100 words Total: 20 fanworks (16 fics, 4 podfics)/35,804 words

[lesbiannieism]

not the galex fp3 interviews 😭

[sleptokne]

thinking about the "show me how to dance forever" and the clues and stuff again and just ... that's Sleep Token. that's the band. that's the band making the whole fandom crazy, having us (jokingly...?) believe that we are cracking the code to the holy grail for them.

we're interacting. we're interested and engaging in the little bits of content we're getting, the mystery that is such a part of the band. interpreting and researching left and right.

and I just love it.

this is how you keep your fans entertained, not a soulless merch drop after another.

the last few weeks to months were pics and videos of the tours, which is great, but also a lot of (justified!) critique about the whole merch and comic situation. I saw it on my dash a lot and I agreed that this is sad and outrageous. because that's not Sleep Token.

it's the label that's currently trying to squeeze as much cash out of the fandom as possible. with very questionable merch items and prices... to put it gently.

and to see how much this small glimpse of what's to come this year has changed the vibe of the fandom (at least on my dashboard) is so refreshing.

you can literally see clear as day what the difference between a soulless label and a passionate band is, and it makes me believe even more that vessel put his foot down in terms of creative output and their music and everything it involves.

if the mystery isn't part of the merch, and RCA only sees a cash cow in the band, at least we can be certain that the band stays true to themselves.

and goddamn, let's crack the code to find the holy grail for vessel.

[grottomo]

Does he find nourishment at the very sight of you?

[xirayn]

Is this anything?

A/B/O stonathan scrap under the cut.

One of the largest misconceptions about omegas is that they are docile or weak. The truth is that their aggression just isn't performative. While an alpha will try to prevent violence through displays of dominance, an omega is quiet one moment and lashing out the next. Steve got first hand experience with just how quickly an omega could go on the attack when he provoked Jonathan in the alley. Of course the most dangerous an omega gets is when they are protecting their pack, which Steve is currently getting first hand experience with, also courtesy of Jonathan. At least this time he isn't the target.

A snarl challenges the demodog as Jonathan picks up the nailbat Steve dropped when he was attacked. The monster turns from trying to break through the door Will ducked behind after hitting it with a few shots to draw it's attention. When it lunges at Jonathan, he thrusts his weapon down it's throat and uses it's momentum to smash it into the ground. He yanks the weapon free then brings it down again. Steve is just conscious enough to be impressed. Then, with the threat gone as much as it ever is in the Upside Down, his eyes start to close as the darkness creeps over him.

"Jonathan!" Dustin yells from where he is applying pressure to the claw marks gouged into Steve's side.

"Shit."

A bright, woody floral catches the alpha's nose. There is a richly sweet note to it that stirs his instincts enough to keep him awake. He raises his head from where it has fallen to his chest to sniff the air.

Jonathan strips his flannel off to pack Steve's wounds with, tying the sleeves to secure it in place. He pulls out his pocket knife and flips it open.

"What are you doing?" Dustin asks.

"He's going to die if we don't do something to keep his heart pumping," Jonathan explains as he presses the blade against a scent gland on his neck. He drops the knife beside him then reaches for Steve. "And unless you have an adrenaline shot, this is the only way I know how."

A hand on the back of Steve's head guides him closer to the cut. The alpha wets his lips and breaths in to taste the pheromones drawing him in. His tongue gathers the blood with a slow lick. The motion is repeated until instinct drives him to press his teeth against Jonathan's skin. When he pauses before piercing flesh, Jonathan trills an invitation.

Mating bonds can be broken, after all.

The initial pain of the bite is quickly drowned under a euphoric flood of bonding chemicals. They slot Steve into the pleasure center of Jonathan's brain right up against the spot Nancy still owns despite their breakup. The initial thrill of it settles into a warm glow that holds promises of love and partnership. Jonathan learned from his parents not to trust those promises. Maybe if they put in the work, but that is a dangerous thought. He pushes it away with the knowledge that whatever either of them are currently feeling is as temporary as any high.

A rumble resonates from the alpha's chest as he soothes the wound with his tongue. Arousal sparks between them, but their surroundings keeps it from catching. When Steve's higher functions return, he stills. Jonathan can feel the tension gathering in the set of his shoulders. Then an unexpected kiss is placed against the bite mark and Steve is pushing himself to his feet, the surge of adrenaline meant to help him defend his claim giving him the second wind needed to stay alive. Jonathan stands beside him. Their eyes meet. Steve's fingers flex with the desire to touch. He opens his mouth.

"Later," Jonathan murmurs to cut off anything Steve might say. Consequences can wait for the hospital.

[darabeatha]

[remnantglow]

I've been writing my own sci-fi universe on and off after new Trek disappointed me, and has continued to disappoint me. If I had to sum it up it would be Star Trek but more overtly communist and also military sci-fi. I've mainly been inspired by things I've read/played/watched, which has mainly been made by white or western creators, so I wanted to ask if you had any recommendations for sci-fi made by POC creators to broaden my horizons.

omg of course!!! (with the caveat that unfortunately non-Western scifi specifically is a bit of a blindspot for me, so most of these will be Western authors of colour)

Babel-17 by Samuel R. Delany

Dawn by Octavia E. Butler

Binti by Nnedi Okorafor (& i recommend reading the complete trilogy - imo it works best read together as one whole)

The Space Between Worlds by Micaiah Johnson

Stories of Your Life and Others by Ted Chiang

New Suns: Original Speculative Fiction by People of Color ed. by Nisi Shawl

How Long 'til Black Future Month? by N.K. Jemisin

I'm Waiting for You and Other Stories by Kim Bo-Young

And 2 that i personally haven't read yet but i think NEED to be mentioned, especially if we're talking space stories:

Ninefox Gambit by Yoon Ha Lee (also military scifi!)

An Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon

also, short story anthologies!!! if you're looking for new authors or want to explore works from a specific culture/place, they're a great way to do that. here's a couple from my own reading list for this year:

Palestine + 100: Stories from a Century after the Nakba

Africa Risen: A New Era of Speculative Fiction

Readymade Bodhisattva: The Kaya Anthology of South Korean Science Fiction

Sinopticon: A Celebration of Chinese Science Fiction

& finally, i don't really watch a lot of tv/movies, but i do wanna wholeheartedly recommend:

Everything Everywhere All At Once

Janelle Monáe's Dirty Computer (free on youtube and an absolutely top tier example of afrofuturism)

Nope

They Cloned Tyrone

[sysig]

*chanting* Second pet, second pet, second pet! (Patreon)

[evocaitart]

Happy Ace Week 💜 Here's your regularly scheduled reminder that asexual people belong in the queer community because WE. ARE. QUEER!

If you like my lil ace bunnies, I have them as stickers in my shop!

Being Ace is Not a Choice Asexuality ≠ Celibacy! Many Aces TRY to feel attraction despite being unable. This can make them feel broken, wrong, and confused. It can take young Aces many years of suffering before they finally figure out that their sexuality just works differently from others. Being Ace is Not Just Low Libido Aces have a range of libidos. Many have a low libido and abstain from sex, but others have high libidos and enjoy sex for a number of reasons. Libido is your sex drive; the urge to partake in sexual activities. This urge is separate from attraction, which is WHO you feel sexual desire for. Aces are Not Heterosexual Heterosexuality = “attraction to the opposite sex”. Since Aces do not feel attraction to ANY gender or sex, they don’t fall under this definition. This point requires some nuance because many Ace sub-labels (such as Demisexual) CAN experience attraction in a limited or fluctuating capacity. However, the way that these labels experience sexuality still falls outside of what heterosexual society deems as “normal” attraction and can cause compatibility issues in relationships with non-Aces. That being said, some Aces still choose to identify with the Heterosexual label if it resonates with them. You can be both Heterosexual AND Ace, but being Ace is not the same as being Heterosexual! Discrimination/Struggle Happens Many people claim that Aces do not experience any discrimination and thus they don't belong in the queer community. This couldn't be further from the truth. Corrective assault, “it’s just a phase,” getting called mentally/physically ill, “you haven’t met the right person yet” are just a few examples. On top of the blatant discrimination listed above, Aces also deal with other struggles in our very sexual society, particularly when seeking romantic relationships. Aces who are sex-repulsed struggle to keep their partners satisfied in bed. Likewise, non-Ace partners often feel rejected and uncomfortable with the notion that Aces don't find them attractive. This disappointment from their partners can weigh heavily on Aces and make them feel broken/wrong.

Thank you for coming to my Ace talk hehehe. If you're Ace I hope you feel validated. If you're not, I hope you learned something!

[rafescherie]

✮⋆˙ a little dry humping never ruined a friendship.

warnings — 18+ MDNI. bsf!rafe x bsf!reader. dry humping, dirty talk & praise.

cherie's note — based off of this tweet!

your hips rolled against his like this was normal — like you weren't even thinking, and this was all just instinct. thighs straddling his lap, his large hands guiding your movements in rhythm with his. rafe's mouth was on you like he was starving — like he had anticipated this moment for years.

his back was slouched against his headboard, head tipped just enough for you to take what you wanted: sloppy kisses, open mouths, gasping against each other when the heat surged too fast. your lips slid against his like you owned them, tongue teasing until he groaned into you, that deep, guttural sound that vibrated straight to your core.

you could feel him under you — hot and hard through the thin material of his boxers, one of the only two things acting as a barrier in this moment— flimsy fabric, and a label you were dangerously close to ignoring.

best friends. nothing more.

"jesus," he muttered, breath ragged, hands gripping your waist with determination, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt like he needed to feel every inch of your skin. "you feel so good on me, baby."

a broken, throaty whine tore from your lips, raw and unrestrained, your chest rising and falling in frantic, shallow breaths. your eyes fluttered shut as your hips moved on their own, chasing friction like it was the only thing keeping you alive. every slow grind dragged your soaked panties across the thick, throbbing bulge straining against his boxers — each pass nudging your swollen clit with aimed precision. the wet heat between your thighs was unbearable, your need slick and shameless, seeping through the fabric that felt far too thin to separate you from what you really wanted.

"you're soaking through your panties... fuck, baby. you feel that?" he murmured, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes — his pupils blown wide, mouth swollen from kissing.

his words hung in the air, and for a second, the tension was almost suffocating. you could feel the heat creeping on your face, a mix of embarrassment and guilt. you swallowed hard, biting your lip to keep from responding too quickly, but your body couldn't lie.

"shut up," you whispered, your voice low, almost pleading. you didn't know if you were telling him to stop, or trying to distract yourself from the growing feeling in your stomach. but your hips still moved, still rocked, against the pressure of him beneath you, betraying every word you tried to say.

rafe smirked, but his eyes were still locked on you, unreadable — dangerous. "i'm hardly doing anything, sweetheart," he muttered, his voice rough, a little shaky. his hands glide against the skin of your waist, goosebumps rising in their path. "you're the one who can't stay still."

the taste of copper in your mouth was undeniable — teeth biting down on your bottom lip, hands gripping his shoulders in attempt of stability, trying to keep steady — trying desperately to keep yourself together. "you're one to talk — whose idea was it for me to sit in your lap, ray?"

rafe's gaze faltered down to where you were both pressed together, lips parting like he was going to say something, but he didn't. instead, he gripped your hips again, guiding your movements, slow and deliberate, just enough to make your breath hitch in your throat.

the pressure was building, slow and unbearable, like the air itself was too thick to breathe — suffocating. each grind of your hips against his sent a shock to your shaking body, tightening everything within you.

rafe's breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling under you, his blue eyes half-lidded watching you with a hunger you couldn't ignore. "fuck, you're close, huh?” he muttered, his voice thick with need, the words pulling something deep from within you.

"come on," rafe coaxed, his voice rough, low. "let go, baby. let me watch you come undone."

each roll of your hips made the pressure at your core spike higher, sharper. you were so close — until, finally, something snapped. the words sent a wave of heat crashing over you, the combination of his touch and his filthy praise pushing you to the edge. you gasped, nails digging into his chest, hips rutting harder against rafe, desperate for that release.

he lets out a sharp, unmistakable whimper, hot spurts of his own cum coating the soaked fabric of your lace panties, sticky strings of his release mixing with the wet mess between your folds.

for a moment, the air is thick with something undeniable — hot, heavy panting, chests heaving against one another as you both blink in astonishment, then break into soft, methodical laughter at the predicament you’ve found yourselves in.

"we're supposed to be—"

"friends?" he laughs, catching his breath, gaze flickering down towards where your messy cunt presses persistently against his crotch, "yeah, keep sitting on me like that and say it again."

[lightning-system]

As a medium/lower support needs autistic who works with young higher support needs autistic:

We all matter. We all have the same diagnosis. We all deserve to be treated with dignity and respect.

But we are not the same.

I can mask and might be seen as 'odd' or 'weird' in public. The students I work with are seen as 'dangerous' and 'practically little kids'.

I can go to university and work with accommodations. The students I work with likely will never live independently and a few might find jobs that support them but still pay them less than an abled worker.

I have full control of my finances. The students I work with aren't allowed to make independent financial decisions, even if capable.

If I say 'no,' I'm making a choice. The students I work with can't say 'no' without being labeled as defiant and difficult.

I can feed myself, bathe myself, and take care of myself with extreme challenges. The students I work with are unable to take care of themselves without high levels of support/one on one support.

I had an IEP in high school but was mainstreamed in classes. The students I work with take separate classes and some rarely get to interact with their abled peers.

Our experiences are fundamentally different. Higher support needs autistics will experience a specific type of ableism I never will, and can never fully understand.

Lower support needs autistics need to stop saying we understand what higher support needs autistics are going through and then present autism as only being disabling because of society/lack of acceptance because that is dangerous. We need to stop saying every autistic person is capable of everything if given the right support because that leaves out huge parts of our community who will never be able to do certain things, regardless of support.

We are worthy of existence regardless of our abilities.

Autism is a spectrum. It is not the same for every autistic person. Autism acceptance and advocacy has to come with accepting, acknowledging, and listening to our higher support needs peers.