#this is not BY ANY MEANS anti woman or complaining

[here-there-were-dragons]

my mother is absolutely convinced of some nonsense conspiracy theory that (in her words) "originally humanity lived in peaceful all-woman societies of goddess worshippers who took care of eachother and lived in harmony, while males were roving loners that had no society and never cooperated. that changed when the men banded together and overthrew the peaceful woman-dominated societies, and enslaved us all." and, according to her, this is proof that a woman-dominated world would be innately more peaceful, and that men are innately violent and evil and should be either barred from holding any legal power or leadership roles or at least should be (again in her words) "gelded like bulls" to remove their testosterone before even being considered for such a thing.

she also evidently believes that the problem with all religions today is primarily that they aren't "goddess worshippers", because she seems to think goddess religions are inherently peaceful and pure too and seems to be especially obsessed with "Isis" in particular. the very very few times she's openly considered it unambiguously bad for some population or another to have been exterminated (she's got a bad case of devil's advocating genocide brain), she's gone out of her way to make up some crap about how said people were a peaceful society of goddess-worshippers, almost always of isis. delusions of isis-worship seem to be the only thing that ever causes her to consider any arab or middle-eastern culture, society, or ethnicity to be relatively uncomplicatedly undeserving of extermination, in fact, because every fucking time she doesn't immediately start devils-advocating it and making remarks about how "the rest of the world should box them in and let them blow eachother up" it's when she's whinging on about how whatever specific micro-ethnicity she's thinking about are or were traditional persecuted isis-worshippers.

the sole major exception to her weird fixation on isis worship justifying worthiness of life is the whole israel thing going on, in which she has consistently made very obvious that literally the only reason she's against the genocide of palestine is because it gives her an excuse to even more openly hate jewish people than she already did. and honestly i'm not sure even that's true because i think she's made some offhand remarks about palestinians having probably been peaceful isis worshipers before the jews infected them with christianity or something anyway.

so for the last, however fucking long it's been i've been constantly having to listen to her go off about how this behavior is in the jew's blood or whatever and that they literally invented all genocide because somehow the concept didn't exist before them and wouldn't have ever been invented by the rest of humanity without those jewish aliens dropping it in i fucking guess apparently and she furthermore goes on about how every single genocide and mass-oppression movement in history is directly inspired by them, ESPECIALLY the nazis, and THEN i have to listen to her rant about how, basically, wwii was something they entirely brought on themselves by "dominating the economy and treating everyone not them like shit" and the nazis were just "using their own tactics back at them". and then she goes on a rant about how the people the original jews exterminated back in the day (aka the first ever genocide, which they invented, because jews invented genocide and hate according to her) in the middle east region were peaceful matriarchal isis-worshipers.

and then she starts making comments about arabs being backwards and palestinians either being mysogynist muslims that should be boxed in to blow eachother up with everyone else or secret peaceful isis worshippers corrupted by men's cruel hand, sometimes in the same sentence, entirely dependent on which group she's more in the mood to hate at the time.

it's exhausting. beyond exhausting. her sole purpose in existence seems to be to have the singularly most exhausting set of politics physically possible to fit into one person.

just, sometimes i think, if there really is anything at all to the incredibly stupid and inexplicably popular idea that anyone or anything has a Purpose tm to exist for, i feel like my mother's purpose is to be walking proof to me of a Type Of Guy That Is Real, cause i sure as fuck would have trouble inventing this mess if it wasn't standing right in front of me spewing confusingly bipartisan hate. all of her thoughts and opinions are these long winding nonsense chains that feel like if that man carrying thing sketch about the friend with confusing politics was a person. on meth.

[ihavenomouthandimustmouth]

It seems like a lot of the anti-transmasculinity/transandrophobia discourse revolves around the ideas that either this does not occur, does not occur in real life, or is just transmascs viewing criticisms of transmisogynistic transmascs as oppression, so here’s a story.

I live with some other people around my age, and I stopped using my deadname with them earlier this year. it hasn’t been that long, about 3 months, but generally, they use my correct name with an occasional mistake, usually followed up by a correction. one of them, however, just cannot seem to stop deadnaming me, often without correcting afterwards. when they do notice they’ve gotten it wrong, it’s usually followed up by a big thing about how they don’t know why they’re so bad at it or blaming it on being drunk if they’re drunk, but often not an apology.

an additional piece of this—my partner, who is a trans woman, changed the name they use around the same time, but this person almost always gets her name right. this person knows me a bit better/longer than they do her, but not that much better/longer, and generally, when I am around them, my partner is also there. (adding a cut here because this is gonna be long)

I talked with my therapist about this at my last session. I was seeking advice on how to handle it, but I also spent a lot of time just complaining and running through different incidences of this happening. I ended up telling her about some of the weird things this person said to me when I first started socially transitioning, including them saying that they were sad when I came out because they (direct quote) “didn’t want to stop seeing me as a genderless elf” (???!?) (I had previously identified as nonbinary and used any pronouns) and followed that up by saying that they hated men, which they then followed up by saying “not trans men though” (which like okay but then why bring that up in this conversation).

In talking my therapist, I circled back to the deadnaming issue and said that I thought this person was doing this to me and not my partner because my partner is more feminine than I am masculine (in social behavior and the way we look as two people that have not started medically transitioning). my therapist pushed back on this and said that, based on all the things I said, it seemed more like this person just didn’t want to see me as a man.

this blew my mind a little because I, a transmasculine person who spends way too much time on trans and transmasc internet, did not put the situation in this context while my therapist, a cis woman who is supportive but not super aware of the trans experience, did. it made a lot of sense though, and fit into the context of my other experiences and interactions with this person.

this person is a nonbinary person who has never identified as or been seen as a man. they are supportive of trans people generally and of their rights. they are also someone who believes that woman are inherently better than men. this generally doesn’t have much of an impact on the cis men we live with—for them, this more comes as being around for jokes that might make them a little uncomfortable, but doesn’t stop them from being seen as men. for me, this means I have to deal with the fact that this person doesn’t want to see me as a man and deadnames me accordingly, seemingly because they see me transitioning as a loss.

my point here is that when transmasculine people say that there are issues they face specifically related to them being transmasculine, that’s not a lie or a hypothetical. there is a stark contrast between the way this person treats my transfem partner and myself (and, after talking with someone who’s lived here with this person for longer, other transmasculine people who have lived in the house). they are supportive of trans people as a group, but not of transmasculinity, and I have to deal with the consequences.

[joosthead]

skin || j.k. x f!reader

WARNING #1: explicit real person fiction ahead, dni if below 18. dni if anti-rpf

WARNING #2: explicit rpf/real person fiction content ahead. read at your own risk. dni if anti rpf, dni or read ahead if you simply don’t like rpf lol

₊˚⊹⋆ joost wants to make a song.

₊˚⊹⋆ for @spentandpent’s contest 😅🩷 (2 months late)

₊˚⊹⋆ reader: f!reader. notfamous!reader. normal au a.k.a. reader has an office job and attends university. reader is not dutch

₊˚⊹⋆ word count: 10.3k

₊˚⊹⋆ cw: smut (established relationship, consensual audio recording during sex, f!receiving oral, mirror, ruined orgasm, overstimulation, squirting, vibrator, multiple orgasms, unprotected piv, slight breeding kink, creampie), kind of really porny i can't lie. pwp. crying both out of (momentary) sadness and because cumming 🩷 reader🤝being total crybabies🤝juno

WARNING #3: rpf ahead—don't like it, don't read it. do not repost this on any other platform, screenshots or text alike. do not click ahead if you don’t want to read rpf. do not interact if you are below 18. how to block tags/words on tumblr.

₊˚⊹⋆ track(s) of the fic: “skin” by mac miller, “p power” by gunna

₊˚⊹⋆ junote: vibrator. go big or go home right 🩷 as always @howisjoostfanfictionforfree my partner in filth 🩷 @spentandpent for infecting me w the overstim brainworms 🩷 and lovely @xiaoflan for listening to me complain about this fic ! 😆🩷 i love and appreciate you all 🩷 the art for the header is by one of my amazing best friends <3

18+ only — explicit rpf content ahead, minors dni, anti rpf dni. 4th and final warning!

“Are you ready, mijn schat?” Joost asks in a soft voice, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you. 

“Ready as I'll ever be, Joosti.” 

One of his nicest microphones is set up on your bedside table, wires crossing every which way, his laptop on the ground and hooked up to it.

This was an idea that came about spontaneously, as most things regarding Joost come about; on the train home together, sharing his wired earphones with each other and listening to your playlist of liked songs when Skin by Mac Miller came on. His ears perked up and his eyes brightened at the first few seconds, and you knew you were in for it. 

There’s a woman in the first few seconds—she sounds like she’s having a positively great time, mewling softly, panting in a way that sounds almost like you when Joost is fucking you good. This was on your playlist?!?! You couldn’t fathom a situation where you’d listen to this in public, but here you were, hearing it all as you watched Joost and his mouth drop open a bit. 

Your cheeks warmed and he poked you in the side—“Oh my god,” he said, taking your hand and shaking it. “You know what this means, right?” You shook your head no though you knew the answer—”Our turn!!!!!” He said it so loud that an old lady beside you gave him a dirty look, and he just smiled at her. “Can we? Can we?” 

“Joost.” 

“I just want to hear what it’s like—if I made a song and your beautiful voice was in the background like this or you were my little producer tag.” 

“Very creative,” you laughed, sarcastic. Secretly…you two aren’t exactly public about your relationship. He would post about your anniversaries, your birthday, Valentine’s Day, your vacations; they know you exist, and that he has a long-term girlfriend, but you were so private you were almost elusive. “You want my moan in the back of your song?” 

Something so…obvious under his belt. Something so loud. It was unlike you, and you knew it would never be released, at least not in the raw form he’d likely want it to be in, but it was still something. Something that made your stomach turn in that way that felt good and not scary, even with how rarely you were in the public eye.

You existed in the backgrounds of Joost, Appie, Alanis, Stuntje’s Instagram stories; you existed as a tag of a username, a pixelated and blurred out face in Joost’s photo dumps to protect your privacy. You exist out of the spotlight, in the background, not as the beat of his song, but you figure—it is only a matter of time until you join him in the sun. 

“Who better than you? I want you everywhere, schat. Your moan will become my trademark,” he reasons, and as always—master of persuasion, at least with you. “One time. And it’ll just be between us, okay? Or mostly for me, I love hearing you.” 

You decided in a quick second that you’d do it—all Joost has ever done is protect you, and even with your easily overthinking mind, this sounds fun as all hell to the little devil in your mind that wants everyone to know that he’s yours, you're his. No one else’s. Being possessive doesn’t come naturally in any other part of your life other than Joost. 

“Okay,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder, holding his hand in yours. “Let’s do it, Joosti.” 

“Wahhh—I love you!!!” Joost exclaimed, pressing a kiss to your forehead and going back to happily looking out the window. 

“Mijn meisje,” he says softly, and it makes your stomach turn, the smooth glide of his voice as you lie back onto your pillows. You imagine how it’ll sound in the mp3 file. “Thank you for doing this for me.” 

“It’s not a big deal,” you say, shaking your head. “We would’ve had sex anyway—why not make something of it?” 

“It’s a big deal to me.” 

You nod, “I can imagine.” Joost fiddles with a dial on the side of the microphone, presses a button somewhere else, tidies the wires. “What do you think it’ll sound like?” 

Joost snickers a little to himself before starting— “Agh! Joost! Fuck me harder!” he whines, high pitched and teasing. “Urgh, Joosti, you’re so huge inside of me!” 

“I do not fucking sound like that,” you laugh, slapping him on the shoulder to his barking laughter. “Schat, you’re so tight, I think I’ll cum in three seconds!” 

“Hey!” Joost says, laughing as he leans to you for a kiss. “Okay, it might be the truth but I think it’ll sound good. As long as it’s you, we should win a Dutch Grammy for this.”

Outside the window, it’s rainy; the roof is pelted with the droplets of water of an autumn in Amsterdam, loud and incessant and comforting. Your room in this old house is humid with the moisture, but you’re sure it’s mostly just the two of you and your warmth making it feel so stuffy. 

“We haven’t even made it yet and you want a Grammy?” 

“Why not? I know we’ll get one, don't doubt us,” he grins, slinking off the bed and crouching in front of his computer. Joost’s customary wired earphones are plugged into it and he places a bud in his ear. “Mic check, 1, 2, 3,” he says, Joost Klein style, the sound waves appearing on the screen. “This issssss me and my baby’s recording session number one—“

“Number 1? The only one, Joost.” 

“Okay, okay. Recording 1 of 1. Our ears only.” Pausing a little, Joost gets that expression on his face that lets you know he’s about to say something strange and he does: “Do you think we can make ASMR mouth sounds from this? Dutch kissing ASMR or something?”

“I think we can make more than mouth sounds when it comes down to it.” 

Joost laughs, lifting his computer and placing it on the corner of the table behind the mic; gets up close to it, whispering and tapping on the wood of your bedside table like the people in the ASMR videos you both watch at his behest before bed, “Explain to them what we are going to do, schat,” you laugh and he shushes you, “This is very serious work, we have to be quiet, shhhh.” 

“Uhm…” you say quietly, stifling back a snicker as you get close to the mic from the side. “We’re going to record us fucking—“

“Bad word, schat,” Joost whispers, shaking his head at you disappointedly, “Think about the advertisers.” 

Tapping on the metal body of the microphone, you roll your eyes and start again, “We’re going to have s-word—“

“That’s better.”

“And record the sound from it so Joosti can put it in a song,” you whisper and he nods, mouthing, “Good job!” and giving a thumbs up before he brushes aside your hair to put the other half of his wired earphones in your ear. 

Immediately, you’re met with the sounds of your shared soft breathing and Joost’s hollow tippy taps on the base of the mic. When he goes quiet, the pitter patter of the raindrops upon your roof are loud enough to hear clearly. “I turned up the sensitivity so we don’t have to move it around while we’re recording,” he says, and you nod. 

“I can hear that.” Every single sound and movement you make for the coming hours will be captured on this little waveform. Your voice echoes back to you in your ears, and you scrunch up your face. “I hate my voice.”

“I love your voice, mijn schat,” he says, getting on the bed in front of you. “Sounds even better when you’re saying my name.” Smiling at him, you settle back against your pillows in your prettiest pajama set, a camisole and a pair of loose shorts, both printed with small blue flowers all over. Joost takes the ribbed fabric of your shorts between his fingers, tickling your thigh, “This one is my favorite one.” 

“Every one is your favorite one,” you counter as you open your legs for Joost to sit between.

“As long as you are wearing it, schat—of course,” Joost says, sighing wistfully as he takes the earphones out from both your ears and drapes them on the nightstand. “Are you sure you don’t want to film? You’re so pretty.” 

You roll your eyes as he laughs—it was definitely a topic of conversation after the fact, recording video of it like you have a few times before, just isolating the sound after. You argued that the sound from a real microphone would be better, and he argued, “Why not both?” 

You shut it down, telling him that your room would just become your own personal porn studio if he did both and would never go back to normal, and he died of laughter as the old lady on the train gave you a shocked look and moved away.

No filming. At least not today. 

“Do you want your song, or do you want a video?” 

“That is an extremely hard decision, baby.” 

“Make it before I make it for you.” 

“I want my song,” Joost says, simply and finally, and you nod. 

“You’ll get your song.” 

Joost lies down on top of you and the weight is comfortable as he holds himself up with one hand and cups your face in the other. 

He hasn’t shaved in a few days, his stubble scratchy against your chin as he comes forward and kisses you, soft lips against yours, his body warm and heavy and already grinding his crotch against your center as he slides his hand up your side, bringing up the hem of your camisole. 

You’re hyperfocusing on all the sounds; you’re both quieter than normal, just the smack of your lips against each others, the licking of his tongue into your mouth; the sound of fabric against fabric as he grinds his hips into yours and groans, half-hard already; the shifting of Joost lifting your tank top and exposing your tits to his dilating blue eyes, getting back up off you on his knees. 

Joost runs his knuckles down the curve of your breast and over to the other, making your nipples pebble in the already cooling air, your muscles jumping and leaping with how sensitive you are. “How cute,” he murmurs, and your cheeks burn. There’s something different about him today—if you think about it, if you were a music artist and your girlfriend let you record audio of how good the sex is, you’d be cocky too. 

The confidence looks good on him, a small smirk on his lips as you gaze up at him through your eyelashes and take off your shirt completely, tossing it to the side and lying back again. 

Joost tugs on your shorts and you shimmy them down as he rolls one of your nipples between his fingers, the sensation tying a knot in your stomach with want for him. “Why aren’t you taking off your clothes?” you ask, tilting your head to the side as he lies atop you again. 

“Just want to try something,” he says, placing a kiss between your breasts before he moves over to your nipple, taking it in his mouth and kneading the other breast in his hand. 

Grazing it lightly with his teeth, you let out a small hiss at the sensation before he closes his lips around it and sucks; your mouth drops open watching him as he does it, intent and content with his place on you. You just got him back after a month and a half away in Berlin working on music nonstop—you have an inkling that you both feel like this is where he belongs.

For a while, you both lie there as he mindlessly suckles at your tits, as you play with his hair and pretend like there isn’t a pool in your panties waiting to be addressed further than this—you don’t want to rush him. “Art can’t be rushed,” or whatever he says when he’s too busy editing visuals or tweaking his tracks in progress. 

Stifling back a sigh, you tug at the short hair on the nape of his neck, his tongue swirling around the stiff peak of your nipple. A tiny little mewl lets itself out of your mouth as he laps at it. Pulling back with a pop, nipping at the skin next to it—“Dude…” he starts. “You’re being… so quiet. Is someone a little shy, schat?” Joost grins, kissing you. 

You furrow your brows. You are but you’re not going to get called out by the most outgoing person you know like this. “No, I’m not.” 

“I think you are, you haven’t said a word.” 

“I’m not,” you insist, smiling once you realize that you have the perfect comeback. “You’re just not doing enough to make me say anything.” 

Joost’s entire face changes, falling completely flat with his eyes narrowed at you and you grin. “Oh, I haven’t done enough? Is that what you said, lieverd?” 

“I don’t wanna say it’s not enough. But definitely not enough to give you your Dutch Grammy award-winning sound bite. The pace you're moving, we’ll get a participation trophy at best.” 

“I’m not doing enough—I am lying on your tummy letting you berate me while I suck your boobs, don’t think I forgot about the last month!!!” he exclaims, voice rough and accusatory and silly, smile so wide as he jabs his finger in your face. “Don’t think I forgot!!!” 

“You’re still on that?” you laugh, squishing his cheeks, getting his hair out of his eyes. 

“Duh,” he grumbles. “It’s half the reason why I wanted to do this.” 

“Forgive me, then.” 

There’s been no time for you to call or Facetime him in this past month; only texting and one-sided voice messages from Joost pleading for you to send him a voice memo back but you’ve refused, either willingly or unwillingly. You’ve been so tired, your voice and energy all going to talking to clients and people in real life that you just couldn’t muster the strength to send him back any after a long day—Joost couldn’t call for long either, too occupied with the final touches on the album. 

He asked you one night, sleepy voice rasping about how he just wanted to hear you, and he sounded so hot—you texted back that you couldn’t sound sexy and all he said was that he didn’t care if you sounded sexy. He just wanted you. 

Still, you couldn’t let it happen.

Joost whined all the way up until his train home got to the station; all the way home in the car as you drove him and asked about his work; all the way up to now, pouting with his prickly chin on your bare chest and his arms wrapped around your waist. 

“If that isn’t enough, how far can I go to get my audio clip, then?” Joost asks. 

The both of you are competitive as can be with each other. 

So long ago, you bet him he couldn’t make you cum just from internal stimulation alone—he proved you wrong and then some. He bet you last year (and every year before that you’ve been together) that he could last all of November not cumming—you manage to prove him wrong anywhere from 2-5 days before his birthday on the 10th. Everything is a competition, everything is a game for you two, that’s what makes the relationship so fun. 

If you give Joost an inch, he’ll take a mile, and you know that better than anyone. 

“As far as you think it takes, Joosti.” 

Wordlessly, he gets up off from you and sits on the side of the bed facing the wall, in front of the mirror that’s there now—obtained at a swap meet somewhere in the city and hauled back by you both; standing against your wall, the top rounded in an arch, used mostly for outfit checks and Joost to try on a million different clothing pieces before he decides on things he wears all the time. 

“Sit between my legs, baby.” 

“Why should I do that for you?” 

“Because I want you to do it for me,” he says, looking back at you and patting his lap. “Here. Sit down or none of this will happen.” 

Usually, Joost is never so commanding—he’d rather ask you, sweetly and nicely to please do something for him. There isn’t a demanding bone in his body. And yet…

You take the seat between his legs and look at yourself as he hooks his fingers in the white and lacy waistband of your panties and pulls them down your thighs, down your calves. His lips ghost over the nape of your neck as he watches you in the mirror—Joost is always intense, always strong-willed, but it’s as if he’s come back a changed man.

“I want you to watch me do enough.” 

He hooks his hand under your right knee; you let him bring your leg up and drape it over his, spread wider than you’re used to. The same is done to the other leg; if you tried to close them, you’d be unable to. 

“I’ll get those sounds out of you if it kills me, lieverd.”

The cotton of his shorts, Tears as always; your shared necklaces resting on the chest hair that pokes out of the neckline of his wifebeater—they rub against your backside as you adjust your position on him, Joost’s warm and clothed body making your naked skin feel piping hot. 

He places his hands on your inner thighs, squeezing lightly. There is the feel; of his rough fingertips gliding against your silky skin, dancing across the jumpy nerves of the junction between your leg and the beginnings of the most sensitive parts of you.

“Do you know how hard it was for me not to hear your voice for so long, lieverd?” 

With his gentle hands, Joost spreads you open, exposing the most private part of you to both of your eyes, his chin hooked on your shoulder and looking down directly at it. You almost shrink into yourself, bringing you closer to his chest against your back, rising and falling steadily. In contrast, your breathing is so erratic, you feel as if your lungs might tire. 

The microphone will pick up your labored breathing, as much as you’re trying not to make a single sound; the mirror reflects your furrowed brow back at you as he dips his fingers inside, light and gentle, bringing the wetness back up to circle your clit slowly. 

“Mooi,” Joost murmurs, gazing intensely down at your form in his hands, putty in and between his fingers. “Look at you, hm?” 

You’ve done this so many times—watched as he’s fucked you, in the mirror or when you watch your bodies meeting, over and over again when he fucks into you, cock reaching your deepest parts. But today is something different, you can’t tell why, but it brings hot heat to your chest and cheeks, to see it so clearly. 

You can’t deny it—it’s you in that mirror, it’s you with your legs spread for him, it’s you. 

It’s Joost behind you, a mess of blonde hair, no glasses on today, his rough chin against your shoulder as he pets you slowly. 1982 exposing you, 1983 doing the rest of the work. 

“Als een mooie bloem, mijn lief,” he murmurs, two fingers spreading your lips, another rubbing your clit so gingerly you want to swear at him to go faster, harder, but you know he’ll just do the opposite of your wishes in this mood he’s in. 

“A flower?” you breathe out, and Joost smiles at you in the reflection. Still though, you know your words aren’t what he wants at the moment. 

“Pretty flower,” he says, and the smile is gone. 

The sound—the sound of his fingers rubbing tight circles on your clit, the wetness from your pussy all he needs to do so, not spit or lube or anything else. Just the slickness of the back and forth of his hands on you. 

The rain beats down on your roof, louder now, the backdrop for those filthy sounds coming from you. “You’re still so quiet, I think the mic will capture the rain more than you,” he mumbles into your neck, kissing and nipping at it. ”The quieter you are, the longer we have to do this.” 

“Is that really an issue?” you say, labored through the consistent circles of your clit. You turn away, looking at the side of his face—“Ah, my god,” you whisper, moaning softly as he brings his hand up to your nipple, rolling it between his fingers and kneading your breast. 

“Not really, but I question how much you can take.” 

“I can take a lot, you know that.” 

“If you can take a lot—why are you looking away?” 

He moves your chin gently so you're looking at yourself in the mirror again, and he’s looking at you so intently, pupils so blown out you'd almost think his irises were black. You look down at your pussy to avoid how burning his gaze is; watch as he pets at your entrance, and slides his two middle fingers inside, the stretch warm and all you’ve needed the past several minutes. 

Still you hold it back, chomping down on your bottom lip not to let any sound close to a real moan out—you’ve made the rules for yourself: not loud enough to be usable, the least amount of sounds possible, and the biggest one, proving to be the hardest as he continues…don’t say “Joost.” 

When Joost starts curling his fingers inside of you, pace slow as ever and he grinds the heel of his hand against your clit—you have to stifle a whimper, both at the sound, and the appearance of it, his fingers disappeared inside of you. “You’re really going to do this, lieverd?”

“I never said I’d make getting your song easy.” 

“I like a challenge.” Joost gives you a kiss to your temple and you smile even as he ceases his fingers moving.  “That's why you’re my girlfriend.” 

“Hey,” you giggle, and then stop giggling when he moves his fingers faster and it makes a truly blushworthy squelching noise come from inside you. He does it again—why would he stop, seeing the way your face screws up in pleasure in the mirror at the pads of his fingers on your g-spot? 

For some reason, you expected him to be nice about it, let you have a little break—but two can play this game, you know that well. 

Your wetness is louder than even the rain, his rhythm making the sound almost incessant. “Do you think we could make that the beat?” he thinks out loud and you give him a bewildered expression.

“You…no. One day I’ll understand your thought processes.”

“What do you mean? You already do.” 

You never realized how loud it could be to do any of this. Can people hear you so clearly all the time? Your neighbours, your roommates, strangers. 

The countless times you’ve fucked in backstage dressing rooms, club bathrooms, the backyard—this is what it sounds like? There is no mistaking it. On the audio recording, it’ll be even clearer. Your voice, high pitched and breathy. Joost’s voice, deep and low and rumbling against your neck. 

“How many people do you think, schat? How many have heard us?…I think they would like it, how it sounds when I’m inside you.” You shake your head, heat rushing to your cheeks and the tension in your chest rising at the same time at his words. 

“You're so wet, my baby, and this is only the beginning—what about when you cum? How loud do you think you are then? What will my fans think when they hear this, hm?” 

“Jo—mmm, fuck,” you sigh, stopping yourself from saying his name. 

This shame and arousal growing inside of you—they’re like two sides of the same coin for you, and they accompany that tightening in your stomach, so close to cumming. The impish and petulant devil on your shoulder tells you not to do it so quickly, not to let Joost get what he wants after you agreed so eagerly to this entire thing.  

You screw your face up, thinking of… paperwork and saying bye to Joost at the airport and sad kittens in animal shelters—you have never actively avoided an orgasm in your life, but this is working quite well, and it seems to be obvious. 

“Schat, are you serious right now?” You open your eyes to see yourself and Joost behind you, his lips a straight line, no amusement to be found on his normally jovial face. “What are you doing?” 

“Being a challenge, I thought you knew,” you say, voice more wavering than strong—your eyebrows furrow, a sheen of sweat on your forehead as Joost continues crooking his fingers right into your g-spot. Almost immediately, you lose your focus on keeping your climax away, melting into the pleasure of his thick fingers fucking you open. 

“Say my name, baby, that’s all I want from you.” 

“No,” you say softly, turning your head and resting it back on his shoulder—he knows what you want, and he can’t resist you. “Please?”

Joost looks at you, blue eyes so warm you almost think he’ll give you what you’re asking—a kiss, his lips on yours, but he only gets so close that your noses brush, that all you can do is breathe into his mouth and hope he gets closer. 

You try to adjust yourself, but he holds you in place with his forearms, still thrusting his fingers inside of you, your face contorting in pleasure with every single move he makes closer and closer to your face, tipping you right over the edge, right where your climax is and then—

Nothing. 

As quickly as he moved them, Joost takes his fingers out of you, resting them wet on your thigh as you tense with what you thought was going to be an orgasm, a tidal wave of bliss flowing through you. In reality, the waves subside quicker than usual without him fucking you through it, and the sensation is ruined—almost completely.

Pathetically, you let out a whimper, can’t even let out the moan or the gasp of his name he wants so badly, that’s how miserable it feels. Joost’s never done that with you before—he’s always gotten you to the peak and rode down with you through it, kissing and licking and petting you through it and even past that point, mischievous and pushing your buttons when you swear at him to give you a break from all the bliss. 

“Joost,” you pout, eyebrows furrowed and mouth downturned. “Fuck you.” 

“Fuck me? You weren’t doing what I wanted, schat, why should you get a good one out of that?” Joost scoffs, and though he doesn’t seem too serious, breathing heavily against your back with you, you can’t help but feel like you did something so wrong. “You’re playing too much.”

It makes sense now—he asked you for one thing—one thing. 

Wasn’t much to ask, either. Microphone and equipment straight from his yet to be unpacked suitcase. Joost’s one reprieve from album mode until he’d take the train back for him and Tantu to do a final once over on every single track. This stage in the process takes weeks, sometimes even months—pushing too many buttons on the control panel, their soundboards and computers and plans all prodded and poked and pushed to the limit until the project is the amalgamation of their creative vision and perfection.

This time, you pushed too many buttons; through all of this, you’ve forgotten that Joost has been at home less than 24 hours, that the train ride from Berlin to Amsterdam was 6 hours long with no stops, no wi-fi, no you to soothe his worries, only album preparations far past his self-imposed deadlines and his own thoughts. 

You’re both workaholics—it’s why you get along so well, but it means that you know better than anyone that the last thing you’d want to be after so long is annoyed, and annoyed on purpose at that. 

When he’s as petulant as you’ve been so far, you know that you can get annoyed as well, asking him to just—stop. And he does, but you couldn’t do that for him. Joost has gotten frustrated with you before, sure, it happens enough that you’re not so affected by it anymore. 

But he’s never been so frustrated before that he’s ruined your orgasm. For some reason, the expression on Joost’s face, the heat of the moment, the dull pulse between your legs at both your immense need for him and the emptiness you feel at such a clipped climax has you emotional and overanalyzing the last half hour, every bratty quip of yours, every response from him. 

“I’m really sorry, I know you had a long few days, I shouldn’t have—” Water lines your eyes, and you try to blink it away when you ask in a weak voice, “Are you mad at me?” You feel terrible. Embarrassed. 

Joost meets your eyes in the mirror, eyes widening in surprise at your emotions strung so tight; you break, a tear running down your cheek which you quickly wipe away because you feel like you're making a big deal out of things and it’s just—aghhh!!!!

“No, my baby, of course not,” he smiles, face sympathetic, lips pouting at his baby being so emotional. Such a reaction would usually make you roll your eyes at him, but he’s so sweet, you have to nuzzle closer to him. “Come here,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and letting you curl up in his lap. “You’re so cute, mijn schat,” he coos, giving you a wet kiss on the cheek as he hugs you tight. 

Joost is so kind to you, it makes you feel a bit silly—not in a bad way, just one where you’d never think you’d be sitting on his lap, naked, being comforted about having your orgasm ruined by him. Almost five years of this kindness, you’re not sure you’ll ever be used to it. 

“I just got a little frustrated that’s all, none of it was serious, okay? I thought it would be a little fun for us to try something new like that, but I should’ve talked about it with you before—I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, wiping your eyes a little. “Just don’t look so serious next time, I really thought you were angry.” 

“I got too in the moment, I guess.” Joost moves your hair aside and kisses you on the lips, tender and sweet. “I’ll make up for it, I promise you.” 

With that, you nod, letting him kiss you, letting him suck your lower lip in his mouth and then lick into yours, touch so devastatingly slow it almost makes you whine again with anticipation. Joost places a gentle hand over your throat, giving it a small squeeze, and he laughs when you moan, quiet and stifled into his mouth at the pressure. “You know, you’re very pretty when you’re desperate,” he says softly when he pulls away, and your cheeks burn. 

“I could say the same about you, Joosti.” He noses at the side of your face, and you melt at the feeling of his skin on yours. “Am I not pretty all the time?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t start, schatje. Gorgeous, beautiful angel—is that what you want me to say? Lie down and hold your legs back.” 

Quickly, you get off of him and lie back down on the bed on your mountain of pillows, and he takes his place sitting between your legs, wet fingers running through your folds as he takes a look at you, all of you. “Aren’t you pretty?” 

He takes your left hand, kisses your palm then your fingers, then he places it firmly on the back of your left knee. He does the same for your right side, then lies in between your open legs, staring, examining. One finger down your slit, collecting your wetness on the tip—Joost leaves a bite on the meat of your ass, trailing kisses all the way until he kisses over your entrance, over your clit. 

You breathe heavily with anticipation, but still, you find it in you to tease. “Doing a lot of silent things for an audio recording, Joosti.” 

“Not silent—all of it is important, every second.” He shakes his head to 

“Defeats the whole purpose of the audio? Doesn't it?” You smile, flexing your ankles, feeling your muscles stretch as Joost teases your clit with his index finger, makes you open your legs wider. “The whole point is to record how good you make me feel, right?” 

“You want to be silent so badly for me, you want to play around so much—why are you calling me out for it? That I want us to have fun?” Joost rolls his eyes, but then smiles at you, trying to soothe the burn. “I like when you play,” he murmurs, then spits on your pussy, making you full body shiver when you do. “Play even more, let’s make this recording go hours.”

“And I’ll cum all I want?” 

“Careful what you wish for.” Joost rubs the spit over your bud, spreading you with two fingers and petting at it with another. “Als een prinses, schatje. Spoiled.” 

“Spoiled,” you mock, and he shakes his head at you, grinning. 

You probably shouldn’t rile Joost up so much—it’s too late for you to save yourself when he dives in, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard. The spit and silky softness of his tongue make you keen, how good it feels to have him on you, his lips sucking so much, so good, so wet. 

The slide of Joost’s finger inside of you surprises you, how gently he pets against your spot internally as he laps at your pussy; you sigh, having to close your mouth on purpose to not make any sound. He sucks your clit between his lips, tightening, loosening, several seconds passing as he continues the pattern, making you groan with the feeling of him eating you out so well. It’s too much; you cry out when it hits what feels like 10 minutes with his tongue on you, but is really only 20 seconds at most. 

Too much, so good—bucking your hips up, you squirm, futile against his strong hands holding you down by the backs of your knees folded almost to your chest as he drinks you in, the wet sound of his mouth smacking against you so humiliatingly wonderful you could cry. How are you supposed to stay silent now? 

“I’ll never get enough of this, lieverd,” he says before diving back in, lips wrapped around your clit as you moan out at the suction, whining as you hold onto his arms for support, because pushing against him is no use—either way, who are you kidding? The last thing you want is for him to stop, especially after that first “orgasm”. Completely breathless, you stop trying, tired hips back on the damp bed sheets. 

“Good girl, baby,” Joost praises at your defeat, your finally being subdued. The nickname makes you shudder, arousal pooling deep in your stomach, and you squeeze at his arms for some sort of comfort in response. 

Joost nips at the thin and sensitive skin of your inner thigh and it makes you yelp, then he comes back and licks through you again, fucking his tongue inside of you. 

There’s no sense of organization or pattern anymore with what he’s trying to do—he’s lost it. He’s lost it. 

Your climax hits you like a freight train, your stomach and thigh muscles spasming, any control you had—lost. “Mmmf…fuck!” you exclaim, throwing your head back on your pillows as Joost keeps sucking your clit through your orgasm, white on the edges of your vision at how intense he’s doing it. “Ugh… shit!” you cry, panting out when he keeps going.

“It’s only a matter of time until you give me what I want, schatje,” he says in a quiet, sing-song voice, then attaches himself back to you. Your clit is practically numb with pleasure now, and yet, the waves are rolling through you, erratic and wonderfully uncomfortable. 

You laugh out, tears at the edges of your eyes at how intense your nerves feel, how fried they are—“Joost, enough!” and he lets up off you. He sits back up and pouts at you, lips and cheeks wet with your arousal. 

“‘Jooooooost!!!’” He laments, cursing at the sky in jest, and you laugh at how dramatic he is. “The line is ‘Joost!!’ Lieverd! Joost!!!” he says his own name in a weird, breathy moan that you’re half sure really will make it to a final draft of a song of his. 

Holding yourself up, legs open and so wet between them, you purse your lips for a kiss, which Joost gives you. “You said we can make the recording go hours—I’m sure I’ll say it one of these times.” 

“Okay, I’m glad I say the recording can go long—I will need a minute.” As Joost pulls back, you tilt your head to the side; he sounds… strange. Embarrassed, almost, and his cheeks are pink, and he can’t look you in the eye anymore, completely different from your ravenous and intimidating boyfriend from 45 minutes ago.  “I think I came in my pants.” 

“You’re kidding,” you scoff, throwing your head back and laughing.

Joost gets back up off the bed, stands. “Do I look like I'm kidding?” he says, pointing down to the wet spot on his crotch—he must’ve ground against the bed too much, how cute. 

“You haven’t done that since we started dating,” you laugh, watching as he strips off his shorts and his underwear looks just as bad. 

“Well, I did it again. Your fault. This sucks.” Joost shimmies down his boxers, picking them up and throwing them in the hamper; it hangs on the rim, he’s already soft, and he looks at you so dejectedly, then at the ground. You start to say ‘aww’ —he’s so cute and pathetic this way, but he wags a finger at you, saying,  “Do not say ‘aww’ at my dick, you’re annoying,” and it makes you laugh harder until he’s laughing too, climbing on the bed and kissing you sweetly, pulling back only to take off his shirt and then immediately come back to you. 

Laying atop you, he wraps his lips around your nipple, pulling at it gently with his teeth as you wince in the pain and the pleasure. Joost lays his tongue flat against it, laps at it, switches to the other one. 

“I just love you,” he sighs, latching onto you again immediately after, and it makes you smile—insatiable, truly. 

A few moments of this—letting Joost lave over your skin, the stiff peaks of your breasts, sucking hickeys into the meat of them—and he’s ready to sit back against the headboard together. 

Your legs are open and his hand is between them in an instant, running his fingers along your skin. It feels strangely electric…not his fingers on you, but his arm against yours, the side of his sweat-sheened body against your hip, what it feels like to see “Thanks for today” on his collarbone and your name and lipstick mark tattooed on the other side of his neck forever. 

Your thoughts are interrupted by Joost’s voice—“Why aren’t you saying my name, hm?” he says, gazing at your lips, his nose brushing against yours. You press a chaste kiss to his chin as he circles your clit, spreading your wetness around with his fingers. “It’s mean. It is sinister, what you’re doing.” 

“You’re gonna have to work for it, I’m serious.” 

“I will work overtime, I’ll be just like you,” he smirks, and shuts you up when he attaches his lips to yours, slips his middle fingers inside of you, grinds the heel of his hand on your clit as you gasp into his mouth, let him move down and suck at your jaw, your pulse point. 

The concentration it takes not to lose it makes your eyebrows knit together. He murmurs, “Do you hear that, my love? Do you hear how wet I make you?” says it into your open and mewling mouth, the sound of it all—the squelch of your wetness at the behest of his fingers fucking your pussy. You’re beholden to him, and he enjoys it so much. The person you are at work and in life; normally so collected, preferring the comfortable quiet of your life together, now so bold to let him do this. 

“Wat een mooi geluid, mijn meisje. You have me under your spell—what will happen when everyone hears this? Your siren song, hm? Is that what you want? Everyone to know how good I make you feel?” 

The surprise on everyone’s faces that you could sound like this, all because of Joost—goofy, grinning, laughing Joost. Serious as ever about coaxing these sounds out of you as he kisses you slowly, tongue so languid on yours, tempting you, seducing you into giving him what he wants. 

You’re almost delirious, the bubbling of laughter rising in your body as you grip onto his arm, so big, three of Joost’s thick fingers nestled inside of you and curling against your spot, stroking it with no abandon. You’re stretched thin around him, squirming and twitching with the rising peak coming to a head in your body. 

He doesn’t even thrust his middle fingers in and out of you; only keeps them there, deep and to the knuckle inside of your pussy as he curls his fingers inside of you again and again, petting and petting and petting at the most sensitive part inside of you. At the same time, he circles your clit with his thumb—you could almost pass out with how good it feels, how hot you are in this room, rain beating on your roof, his mouth on yours and receiving every single moan and breath you put out. 

The only thing absent is a crackling fire and a bottle of wine to fit the mood, but you can’t really complain. 

“Happy?” he asks, smiling. 

“Joost,” you choke out, eyebrows furrowing as you gaze at him, then close your eyes, touching your forehead to his, clutching his bicep, the challenge to yourself not to say his name all but forgotten. 

“Yeah, baby?” Joost grins—in the pursuit of his craft, your boyfriend has turned evil. 

“I feel like…” you start, face screwed in pleasure, words stolen from you by his curling fingers, confused at this feeling inside of you you’ve never felt before. “I just feel…” 

“What is it, baby?” Joost teases, fucking into you, devilish. “Can you tell me? Can you use your words, like I’ve been asking you to?” 

“I’m gonna…” 

Burning hot and building up and up and up inside of you, in your stomach, in your chest, your tired thighs tensing the knot in your stomach tightens and tightens and tightens until it snaps, hard and fast; you don’t even realize the curses and almost chanting of his name tumbling out of your mouth as you look down and see—

Clear liquid runs down from your pussy, down your ass as you groan out, a punched out moan tumbling from your lips. The wet squelch around his still moving fingers even louder now—oh my god? There’s wetness beneath you now, a small laugh of disbelief coming from Joost as you gush all over his fingers and hand and writhe with your powerful climax, the bed under you wet, the comforter wet, everything wet, and all because of Joost. 

You whine and he nods, smiling at you. “Schatje…I didn’t think it would work…”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, half laughing and half embarrassed at the mess you’ve made, panting and completely out of breath. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?! Mijn schat, that’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, I think.” He takes his fingers out of you with a sound that makes you cringe, and holds his hand in the air, fingertips dripping with your wetness, shiny and slick. You had no idea you could even do that, let alone feel whatever white hot pleasure was ripping through you while you did, and you laugh at his amazement with your hands over your mouth. 

“We’ll have to change the sheets again,” you pout once you realize—you just changed them yesterday before he got here, and the other set of sheets is dirty. Ughhhhh. 

“I’ll wash the other sheets—I would change them a million times over if it meant you doing that again.”

“We’ll run out of sheets before that happens, Joost.” He hates changing the sheets, but he’s so desperate for it, obviously. 

“I’ll make new ones,” Joost says proudly, then kisses you. “Please don’t worry about the bed. I’ll take care of it, and to be honest, I would like you to mess it up even more.” Kiss on your lips. Your worries have melted away with it. “You were so good to me, yet I still didn’t get my song. Tell me, why is that, mijn schat? You want me to torture you for longer?” he says softly, kissing you on the lips. 

“It’s not torture,” you breathe out and Joost laughs. “I said your name, what more do you want from me?” 

“It’s not torture? Is that right?” he asks, and you nod, coming up to kiss him again,  “I want to be inside you, lieverd, that’s what I want.” 

Only now do you notice that he’s hard again—the same hand he used to finger you wrapped around his cock, your wetness his lubrication alongside the precum drooling from his tip. “That’s what you’ll get, then,” you say, sweet and smiling and so ready for it even after Joost has had his way with you for what feels like hours now. 

It’s your wetness that’s darkened Joost’s arm hair and the hair on his stomach; your wetness facilitating his sharp sighs as he pleasures himself to the sight of you, the thought of you, the sound of you. 

Beaming, Joost turns away to the side. “If it isn’t obvious to you, the audience,” he says into the microphone in a silly voice. “This is the first time I’ve made her squirt, and she still wants me so bad!! What the fuck!! I am sooo so lucky!!! What amazing sight, wow. Shoutout lieverd, for real!!” Your laugh is sure to be captured in the background, your small “Shoutout Joosti!” too. Joost turns back to you—”My one in a trillion, baby,” a kiss to your lips, your body being laid on the damp sheets again and your legs opening in response. 

“mijn_schatje_loml_voor_altijd_TANTUPLSDONOTLISTEN.mp3” has been running for 1 hour, 33 minutes, 8 seconds, 3 milliseconds—feels like so much longer. Joost lies between your legs again on his stomach, his cheek on your thigh, his calves in the air swinging and happy and him batting his eyelashes at you “innocently.” “Dickhead,” you laugh, knowing he wants to put his tongue on you again, and he laughs too. 

“Your favourite one, though, right?” 

“Yes, my favourite one.” You roll your eyes at his giggles but smile nonetheless at him. “I want you inside me, Joosti, don’t make me wait, please.” 

Joost holds up a finger—“One criticism—”

“Already?!” you exclaim. “What is it?” 

Joost gets up off of you and goes to the dresser to the side of your bed. You tilt your head in confusion—there isn’t much in there he could need for the rest of this, but he seems to be determined. “I think it’s the cutest thing when you call me Joosti and I never want you to stop doing that,” he starts, rummaging through the drawer. “But I think for the sake of the song, or your part in it, it would be better if you just said ‘Joost.’ Can you do that?” 

“I can do that, Joost,” you tease, your perfectionist musician of a boyfriend coming out in full force. 

“Good, good, schat. Now can you say it while I’m using this on you?” 

Joost turns around holding…Ole Reliable, the name you both call a taupe vibrating wand that was your best friend before you two started dating, is your best friend when he’s gone for longer than a month or two and your fingers aren’t enough when you two are FaceTiming…to Joost’s absolute displeasure. When he’s home, it hides in your underwear drawer—but trust, he knows where it is. 

“Be serious, Joost,” you laugh in disbelief. There’s no way that Ole Reliable will be part of this with how much lighthearted vitriol Joost has treated it in the past, calling it his “mortal enemy,” his “biggest competition.” This isn’t real. 

“It takes you like, 3 hours to cum after I’ve made you cum so many times, this will help,” he shrugs, and he’s right. You’re so overstimulated at this point that he’d have to fuck you for longer to get you over the edge, but the vibrator is a bit overkill—it’s powerful, and you’ve made your own legs shake with it countless times, with or without Joost. 

“I think I’ll end up…squirting—ew, I hate that word—even more if you use it.”

“It’s not so bad of a word, mijn schat. And either way—bed is already dirty. Why not go all out so we don’t have to clean up again?” 

Joost makes a good point, and you know he’ll want to see more of your newfound ability later on—minimizing the cleanup later sounds good, so you lie back, open your legs, run your fingers through your wet folds as his eyes widen at your eagerness. “Let’s go all out,” you giggle and he flops on top of you, exclaiming, “Yayyyyy!!!” 

It’s slow, the way he hooks your legs over his thighs, long presses the button of the vibrator, presses it again once so it turns on completely, and then recoils in surprise when he presses the largest button again and again. “Whaaattt the fuck, I didn’t know there were so many patterns in it. That is crazy. You use this?! What is ‘thumping feature.’ There are so many buttons. What…” Joost looks at it in wonder, the vibrations sure to be going through his entire forearm—that thing is strong, and you know it. 

“There are only 2 buttons, Joost.”

“That is a lot to me.”

Cycling it back to the lowest, most tame setting, he places the head on your clit, gentle; you hiss at the waves coming through you, even at the lowest rate it could possibly go. “Do you like that, baby?” he asks, voice low, other hand coming down to slip a finger in your pussy. “You look like you love it.” 

Nodding, Joost takes your hand and wraps it around the handle of the wand, and you hold it against yourself as he jerks his cock between your legs, enveloping the warm head of it in your entrance. It slips in so nice—you’ve been ready for it for hours now, you'd be surprised if it didn’t just slide in. Your eyes roll back, the back of your head hitting the wire frame of your bed, the vibrations coursing through you and his big cock parting your slit. 

“Oh, fuckkk, schat,” Joost moans as he sinks into your soaking wet pussy. “So fucking wet, baby, you feel so good.” 

Breathless, you nod, as Joost glides right in; he’s thick, but you're so wet. Three orgasms and counting for you, it’s so easy now. Angling the vibrator, you move it so you can see it all—how messy it is when he pulls his hips back to adjust how he’s thrusting into you, his pubes and happy trail wet with your juices, the hair on his thighs wet as well. What a mess you’ve made. 

“Oh my god—“ he says, rolling his neck back in pleasure once he finally bottoms out inside of you, the wand pressed against his pelvis just as much as it’s pressed against yours.  Joost bites his lip, shaking his head. Not so much of a mortal enemy, after all, is it? “How do I compete with this thing…” 

“This thing could never be you, Joost,” you breathe, and it’s true. So tired, so happy, you’re a little emotional about it for some reason. 

How he holds you so warm and safe and tight, always, never a question on if he wants and loves you—he always does and always will. In bed together like this, sheltered from the rain in your home together, your cats scratching at the door and a whole life ahead of you; on the train giggling with each other about the middle-aged and elderly side-eyeing his barking and boisterous laughter; in club bathrooms and snow covered curbs and swimming pools in your backyard and the couch downstairs. 

The rest of the world should be envious about what you have, who you hold. Joost, this house, that audio recording, and you, forever. 

“Hehe!” Joost leans over to the microphone and gloats into it, “Me—1! Vibrator—zeroooo! Hahahahah!” 

You laugh—and this, forever. You could never trade this in. 

Pulling Joost in, you kiss him sweet and slow, little thrusts of him inside of you as he moans into your mouth incessantly, every breath of his a whimper, it must feel so good—buried balls deep in your pussy, vibrator against your clit and pressed against the few centimeters of shaft that can’t fit in you when he begins thrusting inside of you sloppily, the hollow clap of his hips against you filthy as you moan out his name against the humming backdrop of the toy you're using together. 

Every nerve in your body winds itself tight around the coil in your stomach as he fucks into you, a smooth and steady rhythm that makes you lose yourself, trying to wrap yourself around him, wanting to devour him whole, wanting to make it so it’s just you and him and no one else in the world, no one outside these walls, no one else. With Joost breathing into your mouth, his sweaty bangs tickling your forehead, the taste of his tongue on yours—there might as well be no one on this earth except you and him. 

“I can't do it, Joost, it’s too much,” you whine as he keeps driving into you—god, you want it so badly, but three and a half orgasms later and you’re entirely spent, letting him do all the work as you moan loudly, no control over yourself or your body. The vibrator is pressed flush against your clit and gets you to the precipice faster than you’d like right now. 

“You can do it, baby,” he coos, and you know there’s no way to get out of this. Either way, you wouldn’t want to, legs wrapped around him, the buzzing of the vibrator such music to your ears, the feeling of his cock driving into you and Joost, a warm and heavy and perfect weight atop you. As you claw at his shoulders, his back, he holds you open with his strong hands, your squirming no match for his strength with every deep seat of his cock inside of you. “I know you can, you can do it.” 

When he says it, you believe it; you have to bite and suck at his neck in order to focus on keeping it together long enough for him to cum, apologizing to Lola in your head at your treatment of her, how she’ll be blooming purple and red by the time the sun rises tomorrow. Joost ruts into you, pressing the vibrator hard to your clit and it’s so…it’s so much, the mattress squeaks with how spirited his hips are against you, loud slaps of skin against skin and your name, his name, intertwined on this wavelength, on this track for everyone to hear. 

“Joost…fuck, Joost!” you cry out again and again, tears coming to your eyes with how hard and fast your orgasm rips through you, repeating Joost’s name like a prayer, an oath, gushing around him and too fucked out to kiss back properly when he licks into your mouth, grounding you back to this bed even as you sob out in pleasure, fat tears rolling down your cheeks at how amazing he’s making you feel. “I love you,” you breathe, blissed and fucked out tears streaming down your cheeks at how good it feels, all open and airy. 

“Why are you all sappy, baby? ‘Cause I’m fucking you so well?” Joost teases, pressing wet kisses to your tear stained cheeks, your mouth bitten red with his nips, his kisses all throughout this. 

“Yes, I love you, Joost,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck, bringing him closer even if it means the vibrator gets pushed even harder against your aching clit. 

He laughs, continuing his feverish thrusting as he finally gives you the kiss you want. “I love you too, mijn hart.” 

You don’t notice him fumbling around on the side table as he kisses you, bringing the wired earphone from the nightstand back to your ear, your eyes widening in surprise. 

“Do you hear that, mijn schat?” The feedback, his voice, doubled and almost echoing as you hear it in real life and it plays out in your ears, delayed. You have to try and dampen the rest of your senses to focus on what you’re hearing. The slopping of his hips against your ass, the low pitched vibrations of the wand, his voice. 

Joost’s voice that distracts you until you’re snapped out of it by him pulling out, stroking his cock and panting heavily, cheeks and chest and neck pink with exertion, skin shining with sweat. “What are you doing?” you mumble. 

“You’ve already done so much, schat,” Joost breathes, and you shake your head, looking up at him through wet eyelashes. 

“Finish what we started, I want it all.” 

Obediently, Joost nods, inching himself back inside you again; it sounds so wet in your ears, the microphone capturing every gritty detail, every squelch of yours and his. 

“Schat, I wanna…fuck, I wanna cum inside you so bad,” he whines, erratic thrusting with every word, losing it again, losing the practiced, methodical musician that you know so well. Even with his whining, his voice is deep, needy, chanting your name like you moaned his. “Wanna…fuck, I wanna fuck it in you ‘til it takes, I want everyone to hear it, see it, know you’re mine…mine, mine, mine…”

“Yeah, baby?” you smile, his cheek laid against your tits as he grinds against you, then goes back for long, deep strokes inside of you. Joost groans so loud against your skin, spit and sweat on the softness of your breasts; so overwhelmed, he takes your nipple in his mouth and sucks, nipping at you through his own orgasm, stuttering his hips into your pussy.

Warm ribbons of Joost’s cum paint your insides and fill you up so well, your moans finally joining his as he comes down from his high, moaning and sobbing out your name, lieverd, schat, collapsing on your chest and heaving for his breath again as you catch yours once more, satisfied with your recording together. 

“That a good enough song for you, Joost?” you smile, eyes already closing with the bliss of such a good recording session together. 

“Dutch Grammy worthy, mijn meisje,” Joost breathes, and you laugh as he reaches to the side and shuts his laptop, ending your recording. “How about another recording session later?” 

—

A month later and you’re carrying a paper bag of takeout from a few blocks down, earphones blasting a new demo from Joost and Tantu, using the spare key under Tantu’s doormat to get into his apartment from the cold. You set down the bag on the counter of his tiny kitchen, place the key back under the doormat, get three bowls together to split the takeout between, get utensils and glasses of water and what have you before you enter the bedroom studio. 

The takeout fights you tooth and nail; cheap food spilling everywhere, oil and sauce and vegetables on the counter and the rims of the bowls that you have to wipe up with the one (1. ONE!) paper towel left on the roll in the kitchen. Is this what happens when Ruby isn’t in town and they’re in album mode? You figure it must.  

You manage to wrestle it all together precariously, using every square centimeter of the one paper towel you have in your arsenal before picking up all three bowls—two of them nestled in your left arm, one of them held in your right hand. 

The door to the bedroom is closed shut—your arms are full, and you spend a few moments fussing about how to get in without having to go back into the kitchen and set down the food, but you hear Tantu and Joost’s muffled voices through the door. 

“Oh my god, I shouldn’t have skipped ahead—“

“You should've never played it, Tantu!”

“Well, you shouldn’t have kept it on your desktop for anyone to see! With my name on it!” 

You tilt your head in confusion, and then knock on the door with your foot; in an instant, Tantu opens it for you, and you hear, loud and clear: “I wanna fuck it in you ‘til it takes, I w—” before Joost slams the laptop shut and says, “Baby, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I—”

2 fics in a few weeks!! lfg!!! i hope you enjoyed!! <3 thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, reblogs always so so appreciated <3 : ) they keep me writing!! askbox anon on hereeee - juno

[dropoutconfessions]

this is for the owner of this blog. why tf did you reblog plaidos. do you even know who she is and the kind of damage she's had on the trans community? she answered an anon about someone clearly pretending to be a trans woman working for dropout (because they use the language "members" (proven that dropout cast doesn't refer to themselves as that) and mentions a "dropout show" (... dropout is not a show. it's a host of multiple shows)) who had 0 proof. she's so reactionary and her logic is easily dismantled, she contradicts herself all the time (the post you reblogged she goes on about how "trans women aren't marketable" which is why they're not in dropout. there are so many other trans people in dropout, but in the comments of another plaidos post she said "persephone was so popular when she was in d20". literally took me 2 minutes to find the contradiction. not to mention the graph she reblogs with an elusive "tme vs tma rep in dropout" with no stats and no classification of what tme and tma means, no clear answer on where the many appearances and shows specifically made for and by drag queens, and then complained that lumping every genderqueer person who likely came out after being hired equaled to more than one subset of trans people.

i'm so disappointed. so much for this being a safe, apolitical space. plaidos has done irreperable harm to me and my transmasc brothers and to see a DROPOUT GIMMICK BLOG reblogging her baseless and clearly incorrect accusations proven by literally just KNOWING about dropout. but instead, you've made your blog an unsafe place for anyone who isn't a white transfem by showing you're in agreeance with plaidos.

you want links to posts? go to her blog and search the #dropout tag. there's your links.

Okay so I just would like to say a few things in response to this. first, I reblogged like, one post, and not even directly from her. I do not do an insane amount of research into people I reblog from to check if everything is kosher, which I assume no one else does.

If y'all expect me to check that much, stop sending me asks about how I haven't posted your asks yet. I know everyone assumes its because I dislike their post personally. It's not. It's cause i have a really really busy life rn. I mean this with all the kindness in my heart, I do not give enough of a fuck to block most of your opinions from making the stage short of you using slurs or straight up lying.

Regardless, she passes the tests. She's not anti-trans mascs and I feel like this is the result of bad faith readings and people assuming trans women are the enemy. Also taking any mention of oppression that doesn't apply to you as a personal attack.

I looked her up and the first thing i saw complaining about her called her a slur, so not a great start gotta say. If any of y'all use this word as an insult, stop, it's categorically not okay.

Also, there can be a lack of trans women, and also you can like persephone valentine. 3 trans women on a network with like a fuck ton of other queer people is also not very many, when you take into the fact that twice as many TME trans people have been on multiple episodes of dropout shows, that's not a contradiction. You can be popular and also unmarketable, that's like every remotely famous TMA, and honestly trans people in general have a harder time. That's not contradiction, that's us going "yippee a single fucking crumb of transfem rep" in 2021 and then being drip fed with game changer, um actually, and dirty laundry occasional appearances for the next 3 years.

If you want a definition for TMA and TME, like a formal one, not just what the acronyms mean, do your research on it. You wanna know how I learned about the fact that they refer to specifically institutional transmisogyny? FROM PLAIDOS'S BLOG. Do you actually, like, look at her posts? or just the ones cherrypicked to make her seem anti-transmasc because of bad faith interpretations? She's very clearly aware of the oppression trans mascs face, it's called transphobia. Transmisogyny is specifically the oppression trans women face given the fact we are seen as a subhuman third gender on an institutional level.

so much for this being a safe apolitical space

I never said it would be apolitical. In fact, safe and apolitical are contradictory. We're trans. Our very existence and identity and lives have been made political, and will be political for the entirety of our lifespans. I'm not going to lie down and pretend otherwise for the comfort of the world and I am honestly disappointed that you, as a fellow trans person, are encouraging that behavior in any way.

The entire "not an ask" tag, is for me to talk. It's mine. My space. You cannot divorce this blog from my influence because it's my goddamn blog. I am not a jukebox or a puppet for you to get your fandom stuff. I am a woman with her own damn opinions and a large enough follower count for my push for trans rights to largely get slightly less ignored than they do on main.

I have been following dropout / collegehumor since the All Nighters. The only subject I am more knowledgeable about is probably Alpharad or Paper Mario. I know dropout. I know statistics, I'm majoring in it. I've known about this issue for years now. But until this blog, until very recently, I didn't have a platform for it, so I just shut the fuck up. I'm not doing that this time. I'm going to be a very jaded women because some of the men who are supposed to be my brothers are acting like this. Like we need to shut up and not complain. No. Fuck that.

I do not think Dropout is the bad guy here. As of now, I'm holding out hope. I personally, am not boycotting them (yet). I am holding out hope that they respond, and then I'll wait a few months because I know things are recorded in advance and hiring and vetting processes take time. But I would like a change. Because outside of a spike in 2021 (when the seven was released), transfem appearances on dropout hasn't really changed for the better, at all.

but instead, you've made your blog an unsafe place for anyone who isn't a white transfem

Oh damn I guess I gotta leave, since my blog isn't safe for me. Since yk. I'm not white. I'm a stone cold desi bitch and I will live and die that way. Thanks for assuming I'm white tho, really showing that "white people are the default" world view you've got going there.

Do you want to know why, everyone assumes only white transfems have this take? Because so few of you, actually listen to transfems, ofc you don't notice, that transfems of color, have the same fucking opinion.

I want it to be clear. I love trans mascs. My partner is transmasc. Some of my best friends are transmascs. I don't hate trans mascs. I don't even hate you. I just kinda hate talking to you. And everyone, regardless of gender, like you. The type of people who heard, that transfems are oppressed in a way transmascs aren't, a way cis women aren't, and somehow turned that into a personal attack. You took a single fucking critic against Dropout, and decided to be guided by hatred.

This is my problem with the fandom. Transfems bring up one little thing: they'd like to be more represented. Nothing about Dropout being evil, nothing against Sam Reich or Brennan Lee Mulligan, just the fact that they are cis white men in positions of power being a valid part of the data. And you started attacking us. We're receiving death threats because people are whiteknighting a comedy company that is visibly entirely unaffected by our actions.

I have one question for all of you. Why aren't you in the comments and reblogs of all the confessions tagged negative dropout post? You want to defend this company, I better see an uptick in notes on those posts. Otherwise shut the fuck and let us beg for a bit more representation in peace.

If you have a problem with that. Leave. I don't want you following my blog if you so desperately need me to be silent on the matters that affect me and the people I love. And that includes you. The day the world comes for your throat, I'll be there. I have come to accept that I won't get that same treatment. But don't you fucking tell me not to stand up for myself. Cause I'm standing up for the both of us when any of us need it.

[princess-charlie-of-hell]

Why does the fandom acts like Charlastor/Radiobelle is the worst ship in existence?

(This post is going to be pro Charlastor and contains anti Radioapple if you have a problem with it please either stop reading or at least stay respectful)

This is something which annoys me for a long time because the hate this ship gets is so over exaggerated in my opinion.

I am not saying that you are not allowed to dislike or hate this ship because i am myself someone who dislikes a ship sometimes for the silliest reason. But every time i see "what is the worst Hazbin Hotel and why is it Charlastor" or anything similar to it, I just can't take it serious anymore

This is why I am making this post to argue against some points which people always make against Radiobelle

"Alastor and Charlie have a Father-Daughter bond"

I already made a post why I dislike this whole trope but i write it here again because some people think this is Canon despite Alastor just acting like her father to annoy Lucifer. Because we only see Alastor acting like this in Dad beats dad and never before or after this again and Vivziepop even said it.

"Shipping Charlie and Alastor is WLW erasure and Charlie is with Vaggie"

This seems to be one of the main reason people are against Radiobelle but i think that something like this shouldn't be a problem because 1. Charlie is canonically Bi and so there shouldn't be a problem shipping her with a man and 2. Just because something is shipped in Fanon doesn't mean that the Canon ship is no longer Canon. Chaggie is Canon and I am happy about it because I love this ship too.

"That ship would be Toxic"

I have bad news to tell people but let's face it almost all Alastor ships are somehow toxic except maybe Radiorose. Alastor is not a good person and he would manipulate probably every person he mainly gets ship it like Lucifer or Vox, so I find it stupid to complain about this with only Charlastor

"The Age gap between the two are too huge, Alastor is too old for her"

This always make me roll my eyes because 1. Both are adults so who cares and 2. Charlie is canonically older than Alastor. For me this is always fandoms confusing naivity with being Childish.

"Alastor is canonically Ace"

Ace people can have romantic relationship too but if you don't feel comfortable with shipping him with others I won't say anything against it, I just dislike it when it gets comments it under fan art of any ship posts

This last part is just my opinion but I can't help thinking that this ship would be much more popular and wouldn't get that much hate if Charlie were a man or Alastor a woman. Image this whole scene

but with a male Charlie or any other male character. The fandom would have gone crazy and say how Alastor tried to seduce Charlie or tag it with "toxic yaoi". I already saw this whole scene redraw with Lucifer instead of Charlie and it was posted as Radioapple. I even think that if Alastor would be a woman she would be called a ace lesbian because Alastor in Canon dislikes men.

(Here starts the main anti Radioapple part so be warned)

Like I said I saw a pair scene redraw with Lucifer instead of Charlie with scenes between Charlie and Alastor and they often got posted under Radioapple and the fans loved it, so I wonder that Maybe people actually see romantic undertones between Charlie and Alastor but they just dislike Radiobelle or maybe just M/F ships so they just take Lucifer and swap him with Charlie so that they can have a M/M version

This post got longer than expected ups.

This was mostly a post for me to vent because I see sometimes people saying Charlastor is as bad as V*angel and it drives me crazy. Radiobelle isn't everyone cups of tea and that is OK but sometimes I see someone write under Charlie/Alastor fanart "I am just going to image it is Radioapple" or that what I hate at most when somebody makes fanchildren of them and shippers of radioapple use them for their ship and it makes my blood boil because for me this so disrespectful to the artist who put time and work in them.

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV S2 Ep8 Musings - Lestat & Gender: "I am she, she is me."

Scrolling the tags and sighing, cuz I just KNEW people were gonna take this line out of context, as proof that Lestat's the woman/wife/mother/femme-fatale (which @dwreader had to explain cuz folks just don't get it X X), blahblahblah. I've already said my whole bit on Lestat as the patriarchal father/husband, and the dandified matador/killer (a la Bruce). But I just wanna remind y'all that THE SAINT IS NOT A CITY.

Either the fandom's got a bunch of new Lestans posting who missed the discourse from S1 about the meaning behind Les's monologues from the books; or y'all just have frightfully short memories.

He's NOT talking about stupid effing New Orleans; and he's NOT calling himself a woman. He's talking about LOUIS. Louis' motherland! Louis' culture! Louis' ancestor's bones! Louis' grave soil! Louis's HOME--Louis' back at home, and Louis IS his home.

But here y'all go, always centering everything on Lestat's yaasification, and ignoring the Louis-shaped elephant in the room.

Lestat's been talking about Louis to his nameless Millennial Fledgling this whole time. Everyone knows who Louis is--and what he means to Lestat. This is CRUCIAL for Loustat going forward in TVC, when Lou's held as collateral against Lest by Akasha and Rhoshamandes.

But for some reason Lestans are hella quick to separate Lestat's identity from Louis every chance y'all get, then wanna whine & complain about the QotD movie pairing Lestat with Jesse, or AR tryna pair Les with Tom, Dick & Harry.

And YES, I will die on the hill that this whole anti-feminine discourse about AMC!Louis is couched in racial prejudice and biases--a trap that even Black fans who are pro-Louis fall into, while ignoring the struggles of effeminate/feminized gay Black men in their own effing community (X X X X).

But this is BY FAR more endemic in spaces predominately occupied by straight white women, who utterly fail to relate to their direct antithesis: gay Black men (X X). So of course they'll leap on every chance they get to glom onto long-haired blonde white drama queen Lestat as their spirit animal, even when he's LITERALLY TELLING Y'ALL that he himself identifies himself with LOUIS.

(Lestat's toxic color blindness is a whole 'nother conversation, omg. X X X)

Lestat says "she" because it's conventional speech to refer to places--especially continents, countries, and cities--as female, denoting motherhood and wives--places as people that take care of their own, as a mother would her children and/or spouse; a la the Statue of Liberty, personified virtues, and most abstract concepts we've inherited from Greco-Roman gender inequality about women as home-makers (HOUSEWIVES) being barefoot & pregnant in the kitchen. It's not even an exclusively English phenomenon. NOLA, like any city, is referred to as a "she."

So yes, to an extent, Lestat is channeling LOUIS; waiting at home for his spouse to come back and TAKE CARE OF HIM again. But Lestat is NOT a home-maker. He's living in a nasty AF shack, with only his music for company (and we know his tour's all about TVL & Akasha & Marius & Claudia & Louis). He treats his own Millennial Fledgling (his BLOOD CHILD) like trash; setting him on fire "IN LOUIS' HONOR" and not even knowing his name--he's NOT tryna be no one's MOTHER. He couldn't even bring himself to be Claudia's effing FATHER when she was literally burning alive two feet away from him, FFS.

But it's not about the brick & mortar or the PLACE itself--it's about the PERSON it's attached to--cuz Lestat always knew that Louis would eventually come back to NOLA--come back HOME--and FIND LESTAT WAITING FOR HIM THERE.

EVERYTHING & ANYTHING FOR LOUIS.

But AMC leaves it deliberately open-ended and ambiguous what Louis says to Lestat during their hug, and we don't see Lestat in Dubai, or any implication that Loustat is remarried/a couple again. Louis' putting down the torch, to stop accepting everyone's effing dregs; "your tired, your poor, your huddled masses...the wretched refuse of your teeming shore." Cuz Lou's decided to finally start learning how to live on his own for the first time in his entire life; for himself, not other people--AND realize that he doesn't need to rely on his husbands to fight his battles for him. "I own the night!"

[igotanidea]

Dating Sam Winchester headcanons.

Requested: I was wondering if you could write something supernatural with Sam Winchester, what kind of boyfriend would Sam be? Thank you anon, made that as expanded headcanons starting from meeting and going further in the relationship.

A little NSFW in point 16.

***

1.Bookshops dates

I mean come on, all things considered I am pretty sure you would meet him in the library rather than any place else. And even if you weren’t actually reaching for mythological monsters encyclopaedia or the yearbook of the city from 1456, you were bound to meet at the counter. It wasn’t that big bookshop after all and Sam, with his tall, muscular silhouette was definitely filling most of the space, forcing you to sneak under his arm to get what you were aiming for. Not that you complained, cause he does smell good.

2. Soul longing – as silly as that may sound. Ok listen up. He had women, that’s for sure. But one night stands is only good for so long. And unlike Dean he needed stability from the beginning. Sam is not a player nor a playboy. And as for you? You’re not just gonna jump into the bed of a very handsome, tall and broad shouldered man you met briefly while buying a book, right?

Even if you can imagine so many things he could do with those hands….

Even if you can tell just by looking at him that he’s got enough experience and skills to keep you up all night and –

“Miss? Miss are you all right?”

Damn, seem like you just spaced out in front of the guy who’s been currently eyeing you with those deep eyes piercing right into your soul.

Impossible to forget and even more impossible to let go.

3. Cliché scenario – you actually became a part of team free will after getting into a demon related accident serving the part of a lady in distress perfectly. Got hurt so bad the boys Sam felt guilty enough to look for you for a couple weeks while getting too attached.

4. Obviously wanting to keep you out of the family business. Too bad he got himself a persistent badass, who refused to sit cases out. You may not be a hunter, but you’re a girl. And who’s better than a woman when it comes to making scenes and getting man to mansplain to the poor, innocent soul that knows nothing? The first time you faked cried he fell for it all the way and never questioned your skills again.

5. Probably making you get an anti-possession tattoo. Just for safety, of course. And holding your hand all time while getting it done, caressing your palm in that special reassuring way. And then kissing it better after, regardless of the place it was inked on.  

6. Funny thing he was hesitant to put a tag on your relationship. At first. Can’t blame him given all that happened to his mother and Jess. But his emotional side finally took over and he blurted something in the middle of an argument.

“You’re staying here tonight.”

“The hell I am, Sam.”

“I’m not asking.”

‘You’re not my boss.”

“Well I am your boyfriend!”

“Did you just-? Sam? Sam, did you just - ?”

You never got to finish that sentence. And just that one time you stayed behind.

Behind being on the backseat, no further.

7. Bantering over silly stuff while making Dean crazy, cause since you two got together there’s no one to bring him pie.  

8. Knowledge duels – as long as you pick the theme, cause no way you’re going against him in history or demonology.  It is however possible to beat him in popculture or modern cinematography.

“How am I supposed to know all those –“

“Educate yourself Sammy.”

“Oh I will educate you on something –“

9. Merciless teasing from Dean about stuff that should not ever be his business.

“Hey, whose underwear is that?”

“Brought you two some protection.”

“Hey maybe we can get a threesome?”

“Is that a hickey on your neck Y/N? God, girl, you are loud.”

(but we all know that’s the way Dean’s inner soft side is showing)

10. Doing research while laying head on his chest, tracing patterns on his skin. (making him distracted and locked up in another room until you start to behave.)

11. Doing research in the various libraries. You have no idea but he raises his gaze from the book way too often to actually comprehend any of the text. The way you are frowning, scrunching your nose and the way your eyes shine every time you come upon a clue or a helpful fact seem to be more interesting.

12. Fights – oh, damn, it was bound to happen right?

Arguing with Sam is impossible. He always keeps his cool, not letting the blood boil no matter how many needles you gives him. Sometimes it feels like he’s wearing that stupid armour turning into stone just to infuriate you.

But not for long, cause Sammy can’t stand to see you hurt or broken. That’s not him. It doesn’t matter if you started the fight (you’re being reckless, you’re gonna get killed, you need some rest) or he was the part to initiate it (you’re not the hunter, I know better, I’ll handle it) he’ll be all up for communication. Talking through.

Being a Winchester comes with toughness and roughness sometimes, but Sam doesn’t deny having feelings he want to work on. With you.

It’s not a perfect relationship but you’re patching it up with all the best and most resistant fabric.

13. Subtle hand holding while driving on a hunt. You may be in the backseat while both brothers take the front ones, but who cares. The blank between the driver and shotgun is for something, right? And who cares about the gearbox?

14. Forehead kisses and cuddling – you have actually seen Sam right? If that’s not a giant teddy bear than I don’t know who is. Definition of safety and warmth. Just imagine nuzzling into him with those strong arms around you keeping you safe from any demon, angel, witch, wendigo, shapeshifter or whatever else monster might come for you.

15. Steamy make out session in the impala just to get some privacy. Honestly I believe at some point this would be used as a threat for alone time.

"Get out Dean.”

“ Mmm. Nope. Not happening. I got stuff to do here.”

“I said get out.”

“Make me.”

“Well I think you should go and check on your car before I take care of the backseat.”

Wide eyes, rushing out and not getting back for hours.

Mission completed.

16. Getting intimate with Sam is indescribable. You don’t even need words and yet he seems to understand everything your body tries to convey. Soft, slow, sensual and tender love making while looking into your eyes, refusing to let your gaze drop? Tracing your body and kissing all over your soft skin? Making you feel fragile, small and delicate no matter your size?

All done.

I see Sam as a soft dom. He could break your boundaries easily and probably would, but never to the point of hurting you.

Rough play, BDSM, kinks, making love on any flat surface possible? Not exactly his style.

Stretching you out, wrapping your legs around his waist, pressing you into the mattress, marking you? Absolutely.

He’s fine with pleasuring you, getting to know what turns you on (hitting and finding all the sensitive spots that makes you mewl and rake nails down his body), never failing to make you see stars.

He may not be talking too much and not use a lot of dirty talk, but hey, a few thrusts, a few flicks of his tongue, his muscles flexing under your fingersand the feel of him so freaking deep and you forget something such as words exist.

17. Getting just the right amount of aftercare cuddles, kisses and hugs. Duties are calling and Sam may be a bit of a workaholic, but you’re on top of the “to-do-list.” Taking just the right amount of time to help you get back to reality, getting your floating soul back into your thoroughly loved out body by caresses, kisses, touches, strokes. Whatever you need.

He loves you.

[evilbeepthemeep]

You know after watching James Somerton's dog shit Killing Stalking vid, I don't know how people didn't notice the racism.

He literally just analysed it from a western culture lens and divorced it from the culture it did come from.

As well as refusing to do any research into why it's classed as a romance. Pretending that straight women and the publishers were behind the categorisation of it as a romance. When it was marketed as a Boy's Love manhwa in its native country of South Korea. Meaning the whole point was you are meant to ship the characters together. Plus Boy's Love is a genre for a majority female audience. Who are mostly queer in some way.

He also complained about the sex scenes. Like the sex is there for people to get off to. Because even porn can have artistic merit and be a horror story. Sex and horror go hand in hand after all.

The most egregious thing was him bringing up an interview Koogi did in 2018 while KS was still being serialised to prove it wasn't a love story. Completely ignoring a different interview she did in 2019 once the story was over to confirm Sangwoo loved Bum.

Throughout that god-forsaken video he kept mispronouncing the characters names. Like he kept calling Bum things like bomb and balm while also always calling him Yoonbum, when Yoon is actually his family name and Bum is given name. And forever saying Sangwo instead of Sangwoo unless I'm wrong about that but I doubt it.

His anti Asian racism is so fucking blatant the only reason people didn't fucking say anything because it was hating on a comic that they disliked for being queer in the wrong way.

So if you did like James Somerton and didn't notice the racism, please check your biases. Talk to those of us who are into BL as a genre and actually listen to us when we say it's not straight girls fetishising gay men. It's usually queer people who enjoy our media to be different from what the West has to offer. Most of us aren't white either.

And if you liked the Untamed, I'm sad to break it to you but that was also a BL novel written by a woman who wrote kinky gay sex.

[olderthannetfic]

One of my favourite instances of "if A then B; B therefore A" was in a thread where the first post was a woman complaining that men think women aren't horny. The next few pages were other women agreeing with the first poster, and men occasionally popping in to offer sympathy and support or to say they did think this but were glad to have learned their mistake.

And then one guy barged in to pick a fight with the sympathetic men in the thread and angrily inform them that men are way hornier than women and any woman who claims otherwise is actually a man catfishing.

His logic was that men are horny, therefore any horny person is a man.

It's impossible to point to the rest of the thread full of horny women to prove him wrong, because he's already decided that becaused they're horny that means they're men.

Antis fall into that loop a lot, too. It's why they're convinced the internet is brimming full of open pedos.

--

[jewish-vents]

I’ve complained about this before, but every time I take a glance over my dad’s shoulder, I see another anti “Zionist” far-left tweet he’s reading. Today’s is some guy saying that it’s entirely Netanyahu’s fault that the hostages were murdered, that if Netanyahu would just give Hamas what they wanted (which is… all of his citizens dead?) then the hostages would have been returned.

By no means am I a Netanyahu fan, but in what fucking world is that his fault, and not the fault of the terrorists who kidnapped, abused, and executed these people?

I just don’t understand how a man who I’ve always thought borderline brilliant, who I (stupidly) assumed couldn’t hold any antisemitic beliefs because he married a Jewish woman, how can he be involved in this sort of talk?

.

[kitkatopinions]

Guess who saw another rwby Stan in the rwde tag again complaining about how rwde are using the block evasion just to freely "complain everything about the show" and how tumblr needs to fo better.

You mean like how the recent "complaint" about rwby was stans harassing a queer black woman because she criticized bumblee and many rwby stans here on tumblr were celebrating their victory of removing her video and even blocking her channel because if that criticism?

Bro, "Tumblr needs to do better?"

This is why people say that anti-rwde posters feel like a cult. What is Tumblr going to do? Posting criticism of RWBY is not hate speech or bullying lol, and that's what these guys don't understand. Yes, some rwde posters occasionally get into bullying and hate speech when they do things like say people should die or use slurs or make homophobic comments, all of which I've seen and condemned from RWDE posters AND RWBY fans (so if all rwde posters are condemned over the actions a few, so should all RWBY fans.) But the act of criticizing RWBY in any form (which is what "rwde" is) is not that, it's not the same thing no matter how many times these obsessive overly sensitive people say it is. To them, saying "I don't like RWBY" is the same as saying "I hate women" and saying "I think the romance writing for Bumbleby is forced" is the same as saying "I hate queer people," and saying "I think this show has bad and sometimes bigoted writing" is basically saying "nobody should be allowed to like this show and I'm going to do everything in my power to ensure it burns in the fiery ashes of Hell." I know this, because you can do things as simple as say "the merch in the stores isn't good" or "I'm interested in a creative re-write" or "I think Bumbleby I'd over-hyped" and you'll be sent death threats and harassed and told to stop watching and stop posting and that you've laid down with the dogs and 'fallen' and are now 'rwde' and therefore an enemy that must be purged.

Every fandom has groups of critics, every fandom gets roasted, much better pieces of media than RWBY have been dragged to Hell and back. People have to learn that no one is obligated to like or go easy on their favorite show, and disliking it or something in it is not automatically a sign of some darker bigotry lol, especially considering what company made it and that Miles Luna has a history of bigotry. Like

Tumblr isn't going to make 'don't post rwde' part of the community guidelines or stop rwde posters from blocking people so that we can be harassed. Once again, I used to be VERY choosy over who I blocked until I realized that the majority of the people who debated any of my posts weren't even sort of using logic or reality.

They're just mad that it's harder to bully us. The thing is that I would debate any anti-rwde poster that came at me but wasn't irrational and would actually address my points, but I'm not here to debate. I'm perfectly happy letting the people that enjoy RWBY and want good vibes and just like talking about how good they think the show is CONTINUE to do that. We disagree, but I'm happy they can find enjoyment in it. But they're NOT happy just enjoying the show and letting us be over here in our little corner talking about how we don't like this or that in RWBY, the fact that people are ALLOWED to criticize something they like is angering to them and something they're just and right to bully people over, because they think their show is above criticism and that they're the poor martyred heroes out here doing the Lord's work lol.

[the-cpu-system]

May I ask that you share your Bennister propaganda. I'm curious on what the hype is about ;0?

OK SO.

In the actual story there's really only 2 people that actually seem to care for Benny, right? Ellen and Gorrister. While Ellen is talked about more with interacting with Benny, Gorrister still does like a pretty decent amount !! Like he literally tells him a story thas so cute

Like of course Gorrister is apathetic and doesn't exactly seem thrilled to repeat AM's story but he still does, and with minimal complaining- and it's said this is a thing that happens several times, and I feel like that's just really cute tbh . Cus anyone of the group could tell the story but still Gorrister does each time. So like. Gorrister tells Benny stories. That's rlly sweet .

There's always that scene right before everyone else's death that doesn't exactly lend anything to my pro Bennister propaganda but like . It exists and I feel like I gotta mention it so. That happens but shh. Jus means they're a lil complicated/silly

They have these nice contrasts and similarities as well that I think are nice as a dynamic. Benny and Gorrister are both made as parodies of their former selves . Benny in the game was a war general, while Gorrister was anti-war, which also honestly can lend to something with Gorrister expressing that wish of joining the military so maybe he could've died like the rest and Benny (in some way) comforting him .

Leaning more into inferences and headcanons now, Benny was of very high regard before AM messed him up. Like, he was hot and really smart and had a lot going for him. If he had any bit of himself left (which it seems like there's at least a sliver of his original self in there with the fact he can have favorite stories, which are kind of a sign that your brain can still sort things out) I feel like he'd be absolutely humiliated about what he's become. I mean it is talked about briefly in his psychodrama. But Ellen probably just makes him uncomfortable. Like, there's no doubt he appreciates her, yeah. But I mean one he's forced to sleep with a woman, which probably has uncomfortability that seeps over into everyday life, and her help and friendship is a lot more humiliating and comes off as pity. I mean like a man of such high regard being spoken like he's a kid ?? Guh

But then there's Gorrister . He's someone who obviously does care for Benny some bit, despite the apathy. But, the apathy lend to a.more casual way of interacting with Benny and treating him normally bc he literally does not fucking care

I just think . They are very neat . :3. They have an interesting dynamic- and honestly it doesn't irk me like how Ted x Ellen does or kinda AM x Ted . Like aside from the whole.. cannibalism part.. they're generally unproblematic together and yea

Anyways Bennister :3

[urproblematicfav-arsonk]

With the reveal of Abel now outside of leaks, unless people are right about the crackship idea that Lucifer knocked/got knocked up by Adam and is the secret father, I feel like the implication is that Eve is white.

Lilith, Adam, Eve, Abel and Lucifer are all white. All of the first humans are white. All of the royals are white, all of the people in power are white. Excluding a few characters, like Sara and Emily(who are still gray, and not black btw), almost the entire governing systems are white people.

I don't understand why Viv acts like her being Latina is the reason people don't like her work, or that hating on a successful Latina woman is all anyone is ever doing, when her representation is terrible???

I'm not special for saying this, cuz this has been a problem since day one and plenty of people complain about it. But every brown/black isn't ya know.......BROWN. Velvette is the only character I can think of thats actually black.

Alastor, Val, Vaggie, Carmilla are all either gray or purple. And Alastor doesn't even have a good excuse like Val or Vaggie have with being bugs. Deer are usually brown anyway, and he's the most humanoid of all the furry characters so him having a more human skin tone wouldn't be that odd of a design choice.

I'm probably missing some other characters because Viv is awful at conveying that a character isn't white. Husk doesn't count, he's only black because Keith David is playing him, he was never intentionally written to be black. (And neither was Alastor so, ¯\_(:/)_/¯) Niffty is only Asian because her pilot VA could speak Japanese, and Viv was like "yeah sure, whatever. she can be Japanese" without any further thought being put into what that could mean for her character. Vassago may or may not have been originally intended to be Latino, idk, but again he's still being played by a irl Latino so it could just be the same problem with Husk.

There's nothing necessarily wrong with the first humans all being white, but there's also nothing wrong with stopping to ask yourself "Why is it that my first instinct is to make Adam and Eve white? Is it my own bias? Is it because this is what society pushes as biblical canon?"

Almost everyone has racist or uncomfortable biases. It's normal when you live in a racist society. You grow up hearing things or absorbing information from your peers and the people around you. The best way to avoid that, is to sincerely question and understand why you feel and think the way that you do. Asking, "Why is it that when I want to convey that this character is evil and scary, my first instinct is to use symbols and words from a foreign religion? Is it because I'm genuinely interested in this religion, and want to explore it? Or is it because I've been taught to think that foreign cultures, especially black cultures, are inherently more scary and monstrous?" Is how you actually figure out if what you're doing is something to be concerned over, and if it's something that's hurtful or mean and thus should be corrected.

But Viv doesn't ask these questions. She uses being Latina to deflect her racism, or claim that people engaging with her art in a way she doesn't like is just them being the racist ones.

(Or homophobia, or hating SA victims, or just being mean to her for no reason. And I get it to a certain extent. She's been dealing with anti's and people fucking with her over being a furry FOR AWHILE NOW LMAO. Sometimes its hard to tell when something is a REAL genuine critique or complaint, and who's just bitching again because they can't handle a pop song about SA, or a bathtub of snakes, or the fact that valangel exists at all. Some people are out to be actually fucking awful for no real reason, but she tends to lump everyone who doesn't like her work as the same when thats not the case. People are also stupid, and genuinely in their very, very dumb hearts think that Snakes In A Bathtub is on the same level as like, racist appropriation and will treat Both with the same Severity because they're stupid)

She panics, and doubles down instead of actually thinking about what she's doing. "Uh, uh, uh, HE'S ACTUALLY MIXED. SO ITS FINE." Isn't helpful. That wasn't the problem. She treats race like its a toy that she doesn't even want to use. There's no sincerity behind anyones design or backstories. It's literally not relevant to her.

Anyway, rant tim. Viv needs therapy. She's definitely too mentally ill and immature to be handling this shit on her own. She is in soooo far over her head and it not only results in a bad show, but probably isn't good for her either.

[tommykinard6]

I don't mean to pile onto your bad day but I've been seeing a lot of creators on tiktok complain/compare the bucktommy and henren tags/fic count on ao3 because there's almost more bucktommy fics then there are henren fics. The number one claim is always that bucktommy writers are racist because we don't write for henren. But like, that's not correct at all? People can write fanfiction for whatever they want to. If they want to see more henren stuff then they can write it on their own.

We can coexist without fighting each other. I'm just tired of people screaming about how bucktommy is anti this or anti that, when we're just vibing by ourselves and don't want the drama but the drama finds us anyway because Sucky People are loud and get heard the most.

You’re good, anon. It actually gave me something to think about during work.

As a quick disclaimer, before we begin, I’m not a POC. I am not speaking for anyone in the Black community and am not attempting to speak over them. My following thoughts are as a queer woman-ish who is also a writer.

I think it must be noted that Hen and Karen have been overlooked since day one. The fact that Buck coming out made it the “gay firefighter show” when we’ve had a beautiful canonical lesbian couple since the very beginning? Is only proof. Is this proof of racism in the fandom? Maybe. Quite possibly. I would argue that it comes from a misogynistic point as well.

If you look in any fandom, regardless of the color of their skin, any wlw ship is horribly overlooked. I’ve done some tag searching on ao3. Straight and mlm ships battle for dominance while there are canonical and fanonical wlw ships that have a drastic difference in numbers. This isn’t a good thing. But it’s an experience that spans fandoms.

I find it sad that BuckTommy has almost more fics, with only two episodes under their belt, than Henren with 7 seasons. However, this isn’t a reason to hate on BuckTommy. The ship didn’t do anything wrong. Comparison is the thief of joy and it’s also rage bait. I think that some creators simply are using anything they can to hate on BuckTommy. Which that makes it sadder, that they aren’t concerned about Henren other than pushing their own agenda.

This isn’t to say all creators who are speaking about this are doing this, but I guarantee some are.

Now, let me speak as a writer.

As someone with 62 published fics on ao3, I write almost exclusively mlm ships. This isn’t because I hate women. And as a queer woman-ish, don’t even start about homophobia. But for some reason, I find it so much easier to write men than I do to write women. This is true for straight and wlw ships and also just in general. I love Henren, but I don’t have the faintest idea about how to write them.

It’s hard enough to write as it is and I’m already writing on ships that are easy for me. I try to write women and it just hasn’t come out right. I want to challenge myself, branch out, and maybe I’ll write for Henren to do that. But I say all this to point out that for some people like me, writing some ships and demographics of ships are just a little more difficult.

That leads me into something else.

I, as a white person, worry about accidentally writing non-white characters wrong. And this was reinforced not too long ago when we had that whole thing on ao3 with deliberate racism in 9-1-1 fics. If anyone has resources or advice for writing non-white characters, I would love to hear that! The last thing I want to do is cause any harm.

I feel like I’ve spoken a lot about me, but that’s because I can’t really speak for anyone else. I can only speak from my experience.

We already have a ship war between BuckTommy and Buddie. We don’t need to pit more people against each other. I think we can love BuckTommy while agreeing that Henren needs to be seen and appreciated and treated equally.

End note to say: I tried to speak as delicately and as sensitively as I could, but if anything came out wrong, please feel free to point it out (kindly). Again, I speak for no one but my very little section of the world. I’m interested to hear what people of other backgrounds have to add!

[starblightbindery]

Editor's Note from The Black Sands of Socorro by Patricia A. Jackson

While researching Patricia A. Jackson’s entire body of Star Wars work for a short story anthology, I came across the West End Games sourcebook Star Wars: The Black Sands of Socorro (1997.) It’s a crucial work of Star Wars ephemera: The first creator of color writing for Star Wars in an official capacity, writing not just about individual characters of color, but centering entire cultures populated by non-white characters. A young Black woman in the 1990s wrote science fiction for Star Wars, worldbuilding with concepts like antislavery, indigeneity, linguistic divergence, and settler colonialism...while Disney-Lucasfilm in the 2020s ineffectually positions Star Wars as a post-racial fantasy.

I non-hyperbolically refer to Patricia A. Jackson as the “Octavia Butler of Star Wars,” not because fans of color need to be officially sanctioned by Lucasfilm to create Star Wars content, but because of how difficult it is to carve out anti-racist space in a transmedia storytelling empire. Challenging even in transformational fandom spaces (e.g. fan works), to broach race in affirmational fandom spaces—or while writing content for the property holder—is to be unflinchingly subversive.

And Jackson did it first. In an interview with Rob Wolf in 2022, Jackson described her experience writing race into Star Wars in the 1990s as an “experiment.” The planet, peoples, and cultures of Socorro were a way for Jackson to obliquely, yet concretely, center Blackness and racial justice into Star Wars, pushing the racial allegory constrained by the original trilogy to its limits.

Since it’s inception, Star Wars has spent much of it’s storytelling on the fringes of the galaxy (whether it’s Tatooine or Jakku, Nevarro or Ajan Kloss.) The Black Sands of Socorro is an extension of that trope, but where the Star Wars films used indigeneity as set dressing (eg. “Sand People”, Ewoks, Gungans, etc.) Jackson creates a vivid world where indigenous culture and settler colonists collide; where characters are coded with dark skin and central to the action. The planet Socorro is distinct as a Star Wars setting. As one of the only places in the galaxy where slavery is eradicated with a vengeance, Socorro refuses to let go of a plot line Star Wars media often leaves behind. Socorro is a haven from Imperial fascism, a space where readers are invited to imagine a story that does not center around occupation.

When I learned that Patricia A. Jackson no longer has a physical copy of The Black Sands of Socorro, I realized that I had the materials and the means to create a fanbound hard copy for her home library (well, and also for my own home library.) While this handmade book is not an exact reproduction of the RPG supplement, I hope my renvisioning of the supplement as an in-universe travel guide lives up to the original work.

As the idea of creating a travel guidebook based on the original material percolated, I reflected on the State of Race in Star Wars in the year since I compiled Designs of Fate, an anthology of my favorite Patricia A. Jackson short stories. In May 2022, actress Moses Ingram debuted as Inquisitor Reva Sevander, the deuteragonist in the Dinsey+ streaming Obi-Wan Kenobi series. As predicted by Lucasfilm—and any fan sick of alt-right Star Wars related “whitelash”—Ingram was promptly subjected to a firehose of racialized harassment and misogynoir.

Yep, fascist self-proclaimed fanboys complained about a Black woman Inquisitor in 2022, having no idea (or deliberately whitewashing) that one of creators of the entire freakin’ concept of Inquisitors was a Black woman writing for the Star Wars Adventure Journal three decades ago.

Then, a public facing Star Wars account (@StarWars on Twitter) broke precedent and slapped back at the trolls. Lead actor Ewan McGregor filmed a video retort, posted on @StarWars, stating “racism has no place in this world” and telling off the racist bullies: “you’re no Star Wars fan in my mind.” A few months later, Disney+ debuted it’s second flagship Star Wars streaming series of the year, starring a Latino actor as the protagonist. In the opening episode of Andor, a police chief describes Diego Luna’s eponymous lead as a “dark-featured human,” perhaps the closest the franchise has ever gotten to acknowledging out-of-universe constructions of race, to date. The series explored aspects of imperialism with more depth than Star Wars had previously done on screen, such as the Empire’s treatment of the native people of Aldhani. And, in November, the The Acolyte, a Disney+ series co-developed by Rayne Roberts, announced Amandla Stenberg and Korean actor Lee Jung-jae as its top-billed leads. Stenberg will be the first Gen Z, mixed race, Black, Inuit, queer, and non-binary actor to lead a major Star Wars series.

On the Patricia A. Jackson Star Wars front, in 2022, Jackson’s character Fable Astin was an easter egg in the Obi-Wan Kenobi series. Jackson will again write for Star Wars in an official capacity in From a Certain Point of View: Return of the Jedi, due for publication in Fall 2023. A series about Lando Calrissian, the galaxy’s most famous Socorran, is still in production, so I have my fingers crossed that we may soon see Socorro on camera.

I wonder if this past year will have been a fulcrum year for BIPOC fandom. Maybe Disney has finally realized it’s bad for business that the alt-right uses social media algorithms and Star Wars fan spaces as a soft recruiting ground to radicalize young white men? Maybe Star Wars as a franchise will continue to loudly disavow fan whitelash and firmly position performers of color in true leading roles? I really hope so. On the other hand, as much as I am in favor of increased representation in Star Wars storytelling, I am also troubled by Disney-Lucasfilm’s framing of the Galaxy Far, Far Away (GFFA) as “colorblind.” Recently, Star Wars fans have been asked to accept that in the (a long time ago) sci-fi futurepast GFFA, humans have always been post-racial, and it’s just a coincidence that racialized people were not caught on camera the way white characters have been for years. The galaxy is post-racial and it’s just acoincidence that the movers and shakers of the galaxy have largely been depicted as white men for the past 40 years of media.

For example, in the decade since Disney rebooted the expanded universe, fans have learned that Star Wars’s biggest galactic war criminal to never be depicted on screen is Admiral Rae Sloane, a bisexual Black woman who was the leader of Imperial remnant forces, one of the architects of the First Order, and personal mentor to General Hux. Under Disney-Lucasfilm’s post-racial retcon of the Star Wars universe, the allegorical fascists are intersectional equal opportunity employers (at least in expanded universe content like animation, video games, and novels.) Along those lines, several of the franchise’s newly introduced, prominent women of color have been part of the Empire: Imperial loyalist Cienna Ree (Lost Stars), Inferno Squad leader Iden Versio (Star Wars: Battlefront II) former stormtrooper Jannah (Episode IX), First Order pilot Tamara Ryvora (Star Wars: Resistance), Inquisitor Trilla Sundari (Jedi: Fallen Order), Captain Terisa Kerrill (Star Wars: Squadron) and, most recently, Inquisitor Reva Sevander. Once the sole purview of stodgy, very white and very British men (demonstrably so even in the sequel trilogy movies,) now anyone can be a stooge of the Empire.

That’s not to say that marginalized people can’t collude with fascism, or that there haven’t been heroic characters of color introduced in recent years. Rather, I posit that in order to sell audiences on the post-racial/colorblind GFFA, fascist-of-color characters like Rae Sloane or Giancarlo Esposito’s Moff Gideon (The Mandalorian) are created by necessity. The franchise wants to at once be racially inclusive and yet never directly address race. In Star Wars, real world oppression is primarily explored through allegory—such as Solo (2018)’s bit on droid rights, the clone army, or the myriad of non-human alien bodies that nonetheless are coded with racial stereotypes. A lot has been said about how allegory in sci-fi allows audiences to grapple with inequality from a comfortable distance, and not enough has been said about which audience is being prioritized for comfort.

What does it mean when race is supposedly a non-issue for humans in the GFFA, but creators and actors with marginalized identities cannot participate in Star Wars in any capacity without experiencing identity-targeted harassment? In the past ten years, this has been true even for white women like Kathleen Kennedy and Daisy Ridley, but the vitriol has been most strongly directed towards Black women like Lucasfilm Story Group lead Kiri Hart, author Justina Ireland and The High Republic Show host Krystina Arielle. Can the Galaxy Far, Far Away truly be “colorblind” or “post-racial” (never-racial?) if the narrative continually centers white characters and replicates all the common racial inequities seen in commercialized Hollywood storytelling? Upon the release of The Force Awakens in 2015, critic Andre Seewood aptly described Finn’s positioning in the story as “hyper-⁠tokenism,” even presciently predicting that Finn would continue to be hyper-⁠tokenized in Episodes VIII and IX. As the narrative veered away from Finn, it also left unrealized a stormtrooper rebellion plot line where Finn could have been, in effect, a Black abolitionist. Actor John Boyega’s critique of his experience in the sequel trilogy aligns with Seewald’s assessment: “Do not bring out a Black character, market them to be much more important to the franchise than they are and then have them pushed to the side.”

Published in 1997, The Black Sands of Socorro came before Finn, before Mace Windu, back when all the melanin of Star Wars could be found in Billy Dee Williams’s singular swagger and James Earl Jones’s distinctive voice. Back then, the most prominent Black actress in the original trilogy was dancer Femi Taylor, who played Oola, the hypersexualized green twi’lek fed to the rancor in Return of the Jedi. Bantam Spectra, the publisher that held the license for Star Wars from 1991 to 1999, had no leading characters of color in its’ Expanded Universe. The first full length Star Wars novel by a writer of color, Steven Barnes’s The Cestus Deception15, would not be published until 2004. Even though the book featured two protagonists of color, they would not be depicted on the cover. At Comic-Con in 2010, I spoke with Tom Taylor, a white Australian comic book writer who tried to make the lead family in Star Wars: Invasion (2009) a Black one, but was shut down during the creative process. The comic instead depicts a family of blondes, because the publishers did not think fans would embrace leads of color. All this to say, the inclusion of melanated characters in Star Wars has been so, so hard fought. It���s incredible The Black Sands of Socorro exists at all. It’s more than worthy of celebration, and I’m floored that more attention has not been brought to it.

Patricia A. Jackson is a smuggler.

This sourcebook was explicitly written to assist fans in telling their own Star Wars stories, and in it Patricia A. Jackson smuggled in emphatic allusions to the Black Panther movement and the trans-Atlantic slave trade, smuggled in commentary on indigeneity and settler colonialism, and smuggled in multiple ways for fans to envision characters of color. Her writing has consistently added richness to the GFFA, and in The Black Sands of Socorro she envisions multiple histories for multiple cultures coded as non-white. She ensured the existence of not mere tokens, but flourishing societies of people of color in Star Wars.

The coda for The Last Jedi again shows how perilously close to tokenization characters of color, particularly Black characters, are in modern day Star Wars. In this film, the franchise returns to itsprevious exploration of slavery with the depiction of enslaved children on Canto Bight. The last speaking lines of the film are from Oniho Zaya (played by Josiah Oniha, a young Black British actor) who recounts Luke Skywalker’s heroic exploits to the other children. The film then closes out by showing that one of the downtrodden children is Force-sensitive—a future hero in the Star Wars mythos. In a film where every single Force-user depicted is white, the next generation kid with the potential is, again, a young white boy. Once again, the Black character can only serve the narrative in a supporting role. A franchise depicting a colorblind fantasy continually reifies racial and gender hierarchies in America. With The Acolyte, scheduled for release in 2024, it’s possible the franchise may finally be shifting past hyper-tokenism. In the meantime, fans of color and our erstwhile allies will continue doodling in the margins.

In the end, the sequel trilogy left the Canto Bight plot line (and the overarching slavery plot line started in Episode I) unresolved. I’d like to think the Black Bha’lir strafed Canto Bight and grabbed those kids. It seems like something they would do. Out among the stars, Oniho Zaya is adventuring with Drake Paulsen, and his story does not bracket another characters’; he is central. The Black Sands of Socorro is a launching pad for stories like that. It represents how fans of color have always carved out pieces of Star Wars for ourselves.

[nrilliree]

It's hilarious to see the antis losing their minds over Daemyra's HBO video called Love Story. They keep repeating that this is grooming and that the relationship should not be romanticized and glorified. It's frankly worrying to see all these people throwing around such a serious word so seriously when they probably don't know the definition. Book or show, Daemyra is not grooming. And these people make me laugh. They complain about seeing Daemyra as a romance when that's what it is. It's not because there is an age difference and incest that the relationship is toxic, open a history book for pity's sake people... A bit of culture. The toxic elements of the show don't even exist in the book. Like Daemon's delirium taking Rhaenyra to the brothel in episode 4 (and even if it has a toxic aspect, not only that, it's also a liberating scene for Rhaenyra's character. It's a complex scene. Gray. Not black or white) Or even when he strangles her in episode 10. (which many people point out elsewhere to counter the video, while once again, in the book it does not exist, and this scene has already been criticized a lot for its inconsistency...) Even if also, I don't know in what world these people live, but they are aware that a romance can have problematic aspects in fiction? This is nothing new. Especially in fantasy universes. This tendency to associate love with a situation only deemed pure is also worrying. Especially in a fictional format made for entertainment. Also, worst comment: "Everyone forgets what Emma D'Arcy says about Dameyra?!!!!!!!" As gospel. Let's be clear, Emma D'Arcy is a human being who can and does say stupid things, exactly like calling Daemyra grooming. Especially since in the same interview where she talked about it, she was completely wrong about Rhaenyra's age! But hey, since it's a trend in this fandom to rejuvenate Rhaenyra to make her appear underage in episode 4, I imagine that people don't care about this detail. Plus, for what it's worth, she's also spoken highly of Dameyra in different interviews and even said she would read fanfiction of them. 😂 So frankly, it makes me gently laugh at those who promote Emma D'Arcy's words as the ultimate truth. Worse, there are even people who don't like Rhaenicent and claim that it's a better romance than Daemyra. In what ? In the show, apart from the completely occ strangling scene we can't say that Daemon actually did anything bad to Rhaenyra. While I recall that Alicent, not only in addition to having injured Rhaenyra, giving her a lifelong scar by having tried to take Lucerys' eye, well she harassed her and her children for 10 whole years, threatening peacefully the lives of his children. Not to mention that she then usurped him, while hiding the death of Viserys while she crowned Aegon II. But I guess a woman can't do any harm so all that doesn't count...

I stick to the principle that actors are only actors, the same people as you and me, and their words are not prophetic revealed truth. They can be smart, or they can be completely stupid. In fact, an actor is a tool to bring the writer's and director's vision to life, so just because an actor says X doesn't mean the writer will be wrong when he says Y. People ALWAYS have a problem with character relationships in books and movies. Sometimes these problems make sense, and sometimes they come out of nowhere. I would understand that people have a problem with Daemyra because they think that incest is wrong and there should be no exceptions even for a culture where it is normal. Or that they think there is too much of an age difference between them. People have this right. It was similar, for example, with Darklina. When people said "I think that Alina and Aleksander shouldn't be together because he is much older than her, so they have too much of a generation difference" it was okay, it was their right. But when they said "he is a pedophile because he wants to have a relationship with a teenager!!!1" it was already wrong and untrue. And it's exactly the same with Darklina. People do not focus on what could be a problem, but invent their own problems, using big words that they do not know the meaning of. They throw around "pedophile" and "grooming" left and right, even if the situation does not fit the definition of this meaning in any way. I do not understand this. If you don't have any real, valid arguments as to why something is bad, why would you want to argue that it is?