#this is the most i’ve ever posted on tumblr in a day

[velvetvexations]

Since we're talking about forcefem, here're most of the forcefem-related asks I've had in my inbox, some of which are a few days old on account of technically going in the vexatious tag if not exactly kink asks. I wanted to answer one from today on it's own which I'll get to later but I wanted to get to the older ones and also get to a few of the others from today while I was at it.

i just saw a post where a trans guy was showing some messages where someone was (unconsensually) basically roleplaying forcefemming him. despite him telling them that he did not want that and that it was very much transphobic, and he atill got a message boiling down to "you're not a man, silly, you're a girl :D" and. to be honest. this was the thing that stopped the brainworms of "what if the whole concept of transandrophobia is actually transmisogynistic and i am entirely wrong" bc at least some of these people will just say the most bog standard transphobic shit to trans guys and not register it as transphobia. so why the fuck would they be right about anything transmascs experience also on that note thank you for being so outspoken in favour of transmascs getting to discuss their oppression. it's really helpful to see trans women stand with us here, especially when it comes to aforementioned brainworms

congratulations to that transphobe for creating a new transandrobro

the 'forcemasc isnt revolutionary' shit is the most annoying iteration of stupid tumblr discourse. like im going through the tag trying to read some horny shit and oh look. theres someone being stupid and hypocritical. in my horny tag.

people are getting tribalist about kinks and it's depressing

Every time people are saying that trans men & mascs cannot possibly fathom being objectified & fetishized, I think on all of the posts I’ve seen that did that exact same thing. And yeah, some of it might have been kink, so no hate no judgement I dabble in that tag too, but I’ve also seen “get in the dress” type posts that seem to be genuinely calling for trans men to be more feminine, untagged & in the wild, enough where I’m like — am I just imagining this? Like am I crazy? Am I missing something, or was that extremely detailed post about why I MUST stay feminine — or become more — for someone else’s benefit being 100% serious? And, again — if it’s kink, all the power to them, I love that for them, I even occasionally love that for me. But I have encountered enough people who were dead serious that I sometimes want no one but trusted friends & advisors to ever witness me again. And then I look at statistics & feel genuinely ill. And yeah, I’m gnc — and there’s the rub, because while I feel genuine joy being fem as well as masc, I want it to be a Choice, not something forced upon me.

people need to be fucking normal

Yh like ik a lot of shitposts don't have any tags but people have. Really gotta tag forcefem. I've blocked a large amount of people making these jokes + filtered their names n I still see it

I'm sorry, anon. <3

Fuck thank you so much for talking so openly about forcemasc. I’m so dumb I thought there wasn’t a name for that kink that I’ve been into for years, albeit my version is way more weirder. It would be like a… forcemascfem??? Like first it’s forcemasc and then it turns into forcefem and then right back to forcemasc…. And then back to- Idk my gender is weird and my kinky fantasy for that is weird

Cross as many boundries as you want, that sounds rad. Forcefem has a lot of infrastructure to jump off of.

“I’m doing a kink in a non kink way so it’s not kink blog!” Sorry this pisses me off It’s still a kink. Like. If someone made an I-suggest-BDSM blog and tried to claim it wasn’t a kink blog I’m sure more people would see how silly this is but because it’s the transfem approved virtuous forcefem they just let it slide??? Like. You are engaging in a kink and thats fine. You can say there won’t be anything explicitly sexual! But it will still be a kink blog because it’s a blog about a kink! A kink blog if you will! It doesn’t matter if you’re not getting off to it, it’s still a kink! That you are participating in! On your blog about that kink!

It SHOULD piss you off! It's extremely fucking scummy!

what the hell? for like one solid minute(longer than that but i like saying it this way) all the forcefem on my dash was tagged and i could blissfully not have to see it every other post and then just today i had to unfollow a buncha people for an assload of untagged forcefem :/ like im transmasc i think its understandable that i do not wish to see that anyway hope your day is goin well miss velvet

yeah it's praxis to not tag kink anymore

trfs are perfectly aware what the "force" bit means when forcemasc comes up in conversation

strange how that works

[luminouslotuses]

no context, just them

[canon-gabriel-quotes]

I saw Gianni retweet your art on Twitter and I was like "I wonder if he knows...?"

I don’t think so >:3

Trick people into reposting gabe ass with one simple trick! Click here to find out how.

I didn’t even notice that happened cause I turned off all my notifications everywhere a few days ago for peace and quiet

[reikunrei]

y’all fr just want someone to be mad at who will actually see it

y’all know you can’t get mad at the duffers in a way that they’ll see and listen to, so you decide to deride and belittle someone in a fandom space, minding their own business, doing stuff in their own little corner, bc it makes you feel good

you can “get away with” being nasty bc you’re on anon and you won’t “get in trouble.” you’re bullies hiding behind a self-victimizing facade because “i’m being hurt by this person i’m not forced to interact with bc they’re talking about things i don’t like in a space i had to find my way to on my own :(” literally just walk away. just walk away

how much free time do you have to have in your day to feel justified in sending paragraphs-long anonymous messages to a random person on the internet, spreading lies and rumors, deliberately trying to make them feel like shit? you couldn’t waterboard that behavior out of me. go do something worthwhile. there’s actual issues to be mad about that your energy would be better-suited for

if you can’t be bothered to cater your own space, to ignore things you don’t like, to stay in your lane and focus on what you enjoy rather than what you hate, then i fear you shouldn’t be allowed on the internet. or in public spaces in general. bc you make your problems everyone else’s problems simply because you feel superior in every way. and that’s no way to behave

[merevide]

hiiiii i have returned from the depths of the underworld (self imposed hiatus) (3 week break that felt like 3 years)

[anthonycrowley]

i know things about the blogger with the diverseracist fic that Could set a powder keg in the middle of spnblr to this day is the thing like the context it gives is stunning

[reflectionsofgalaxies]

having a normal one over here

[mara-and-its-the-same]

so you’re telling me,,,that in one year from now i won’t have my mom telling me « goodnight i love you every night?????

nope i’m out

[aceofstars121]

Weather forecast? What are you casting? Spells? You witch?!

[likedbyuarmyhope]

i’ve really been an army for over six years huh. i’ve been an army for almost a third of my life

[willowfey]

a year and one day ago, one of my favourite people in the world, my kindred spirit, my uncle chris, died of a heart attack. he was a kind sensitive gay man who loved to read and travel and make people laugh and wake you up in the middle of the night to go out for ice cream if he was lonely. he had a peculiar interest in clowns and circuses and trains. he loved dogs more than people and people more than anything else in the world. i never got the chance to talk to him about being autistic but i’m almost 99% sure he was.

i couldn’t say anything about him on the day because i was absolutely inconsolable. i sat on the shower floor until it went cold and sobbed for hours so hard i threw up and then didn’t speak the rest of the day. and then, late at night, i went out for ice cream and was served by an old queen covered in pride pins who was around his age, and he reminded me of him, and it helped a microscopic amount. my mom told him we lost our uncle and he looked at me and i wanted to tell him “you remind me of him” because i know he would’ve understood, but i couldn’t make any words come out, so we just looked at each other a moment. i don’t remember anything else about that night. except that it rained really hard for a long time. i still go there for ice cream occasionally and he serves us every single time and he talks as if we’re good friends, even though i never do much of the talking.

anyway. i went back to look at his obituary today and it feels like it just happened. or like it didn’t happen at all. idk. but the thing that’s getting me the most is i’m looking through his photo gallery and there’s pictures of him in his teens and 20s and like��.. we would’ve been friends. i just know we would have. despite how quiet i was in school, despite how quiet HE was in school, he would’ve seen me one day and said smth to make me smile like he always did and we would’ve been best friends from then on. but i was born 30 years too late and instead of befriending me first he befriended my grandmother and mother, and instead of going to school with him every day he called me nearly every day to do animal impressions. mr. cow says hello. mr. sheep says good morning. mr. horse is passing the phone to silly chris now. we grew up calling him silly chris. that was just his name. one word. sillychris.

idk where i’m going with this post but i just wanted the world to know that i miss him, and that when my nephew is finally big enough to use the phone he’ll have to speak to my secretary mrs. horse

[valleydoli]

𐙚 Ao3 Fics I’ve read and love 𐙚

𐙚 infidelity by @tawus (completed)

gojo x fem reader

Your marriage to Gojo Satoru lost its initial excitement, since your husband spent all his time either at Jujutsu Tech or on exorcism missions across the world. To ease your loneliness, you picked up your favorite pastime from your student years — clubbing — behind his back. Too bad that on Satoru’s most recent mission he spots his wife dancing in a nightclub with a bunch of guys in the skimpiest dress he has ever seen on her…

𐙚 desert rose by @sadistic-kiss (on going)

all jjk men x fem reader 😭

Toji Fushiguro finds you during one of his hitman jobs. With no idea what to do with you he decides to bring you home to his house of misfits. They weren’t picture perfect but neither were you.

𐙚 mascara by @/softstellars (on going)

geto x fem reader

You've never been a particularly good person, you're self-aware enough to know it. It's your only flaw, and recently you've actually been working to better yourself. For example: paying for a 30-dollar Uber so you can take your friend home only for her to ditch you for some guy when it comes down to it. Although you’re pissed, you decide to try and make the best of it instead of get into a screaming match with her. It's an easy thing to do when Getou Suguru is offering you everything to do just that. Everything a party entails: liquor, weed, and sex with a perfect stranger. And Getou knows perfectly well you have a boyfriend, so it's not like he'll want anything serious.

𐙚 a pearl by @lemonlover1110 (completed and posted on tumblr!)

toji x fem reader

The Fushiguros needed a nanny, and the pay was too good to not apply, especially since your family needed financial help. You were the perfect nanny for the kids, they loved you as if you were their own mother. Slowly, you built up the perfect relationship with the family. Especially with Mr. Fushiguro. A man who would constantly visit you after dark. A man who you thought had sincere intentions but at the end of the day didn't care about you. A selfish man who just saw you as a tool to make his wife mad. A man who didn't care about you but didn't want you with anyone else. A man that took away your ability to know what a healthy relationship was. You couldn't speak up about it since all the fault would fall at your feet and would be deemed as the "homewrecker".

𐙚 you, my angel and my saint by @lemonlover1110 (completed and posted on tumblr!)

toji x fem reader

sequel to a pearl!

After having an affair with your boss, you're left to deal with the consequences, those being: two exhausting new jobs and a child. A child that he never got to know the existence of. Now all you had to do was keep her hidden, which should be an easy task, right?

𐙚 rings by @/bungeemum (on going)

toji x fem reader

you divorced the man in front of you for a reason. so why was he standing on your doorstep, guilt plastered on his face, and eyes glinting with hope?

𐙚 a dangerous game by @/anaoyuo (completed)

gojo x fem reader

geto x fem reader

Both men agreed to a game about who fucks you first, but they didn't play their cards right. Gojo and Geto changed the course of the game when they decided to keep you around for way longer than intended, making you fall for their sweet way to deprave you, and now you have to face the consequences in a gamble that they call their life.

𐙚 fate’s gamble by @/anaoyuo (on going)

gojo x fem reader

geto x fem reader

sequel to a dangerous game

缘分— a story about predestined affinity, set in a world where the intoxicating thrills of wealth intertwine with amorality.

𐙚 him & i by @pharixden (on going)

gojo x fem reader

toji x fem reader

sukuna x fem reader

A cheating husband, a widowed bodyguard and a malevolent fling of the past who owes a favour isn’t a combination for the faint of heart, but not every girl is a damsel in distress.

𐙚 changes by @lemonlover1110 (on going also on tumblr!)

gojo x fem reader

From childhood friends to lovers to mere strangers. Your love story with Satoru Gojo was one from a fairy tail, until it wasn't. When you were twenty-one, Satoru left you without an explanation. Five years later, you meet again but nothing is quite the same. Too many things need to be explained, especially the fact that there's another Gojo that Satoru has yet to meet.

𐙚 the man in apartment 381 by @lemonlover1110 (completed also on tumblr!)

toji x fem reader

Looking for a new beginning after the death of your husband, you move away from town. That's when you meet him, Toji Fushiguro, a widower with a three-year-old son. You two understand each other, which draws you close. Except you two don't realize that feelings would eventually develop, and neither of you want that. Feelings are the last thing you two want after finding out the great damage that they can cause. When you two discover this, it's too late.

𐙚 4th avenue viewing by @/softstellars (completed)

nanami x fem reader

Nanami Kento is intelligent, serious, reserved and can easily catch someone in a lie. It's his job to do just that, he's renowned for it. So when he comes to your university to offer up an internship, it's quite the opportunity. Anyone would jump at the chance, except for you. But no, you just had to be the one caught in a lie.

𐙚 forgotten souls by @/killerpoultry & @/bebobopobo (completed)

sukuna x fem reader

You and Sukuna have been married for years. Even though he is brash, mean, and sadistic, you love him more than anything. While he may not show it much, he truly loves you too. One day you get into a terrible car accident and lose all your memories. You learn to live once more while Sukuna must now get you to fall in love with him all over again.

𐙚 love kills by @/sourome (on going)

i actually don’t know 😭 i think toji x fem reader

The wealthy and successful Zenin family, well respected and seemingly perfect. But all that glitters is not gold. Toji Zenin, CEO and face of the Zenin Group acts like a gentleman but is a vile creature that has ruined many lives, such as yours. That married man dared to play with your mother’s heart many years ago, destroying her sanity and her life and ultimately killing her. Now years later and being all grown up you decide to seek revenge, he deserves to suffer that same destiny and die of love. With the help of a few friends you plan to become a part of his life and his every thought but you didn't take into account his son, that man had the potential to turn your plans upside down.

𐙚 the black swan by @uselesslydamaged (completed)

sukuna x fem reader

Loving someone is easy, but experiencing it is harder.

𐙚 bodyguard by @/succybuss (on going)

toji x fem reader

Your Grandfather, a man involved in unsavory businesses that has taken you under his wing, has informed you that you will be under the care of a full-time Bodyguard. Unhappy with your grandfather's decision, you decide to go out for a night of drinking for your last night of freedom. There, you encounter a man you planned on taking home, but life had other plans in store for you...

𐙚 violet lights by @septembersummer (completed)

gojo x fem reader

In which you're at a party that you should've skipped when you capture the attention of a boy who looks like an angel and grins like the devil. He looks beautiful in the neon lights, and maybe you just want to make your ex-boyfriend jealous, but trouble with a tongue ring does sound like fun, just for tonight. What's the worst that could happen, you know?

𐙚 starboy by @septembersummer (completed)

gojo x fem reader

sequel to violet lights

After your ex-boyfriend gets arrested on national television, you find yourself realizing that you really didn’t know much at all about Gojo Satoru. Well, he’s better known in the Yakuza as The Six Eyes, not that he ever told you that.

𐙚 sweet little lies by @/mooglepaws (on going)

toji x fem reader

Megumi Fushiguro is the perfect Fiancé. Caring, loyal, successful, devastatingly handsome and crazy in love with you. So how and why do you end up fucking his Dad? As your wedding looms and the consequences of your affair unfold, you have to make a choice between the Fushiguro men.

This is a Toji x Reader x Megumi but the smut is almost exclusively Toji x Reader focusing on their affair.

𐙚 the twist of a knife by @darkcat23 (on going)

gojo x fem reader

This world is dull, colourless in your eyes. You are just trying to keep going with your life, not bothering anyone, trying to support your mother and yourself. So what happens when you agree to help your ex one night? And what if you catch the attention of a certain white haired assassin? And he shows you just how colourful this world truly is. or, a story of a girl with a violent mind and a boy with violent tendencies, finding each other, intertwining, and feeding off one another. perhaps it is fate that has brought them together. or perhaps it's something more sinister, something more cold.

𐙚 untameable waves by @/circedemedici

(unknown i guess hopefully i can let you know)

has been taken down i dont know if it’ll come back but if it does i’ll link it! but i’m leaving it here because it was most definitely my favourite :(

please let me know any other fics you’ve read because i love reading fics with a LOT of plot and also let me know if you end up reading any and you enjoy them as much as i did! :3

i think i used every tag known to man LOL 𐙚

[sunnibits]

also that reminds me I forgot to comment at the time but @gingerteaonthetardis @saecookie I fucking love y’all lmaooo

work sucked balls today but I doodled some nines because I miss him

[vatelixx]

On the concept of ‘want’,

Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader (written with early-ish seasons Spencer in mind)

SMUT!! (and fluff, and aftercare because im not a total hedonist), allusions to both Spencer and Reader being switches (but he’s mostly just down bad), autistic Spencer (the way it should be), mean reader (to everyone but him), reader has a very very high IQ when it comes to everything but a pretty genius— Spencer just wants that cookie so fucking bad.

Warnings: sub spencer (but also not entirely; he talks about human anatomy as he destroys her), maaaaaybe slight corruption kink (what? who wrote that there???), mentions of prior bullying and insecurity, first time (for Spencer, yess devirgin that hot nerd!!— do you think the BAU will get him a cake after?), brief mentions of past hypersexuality for reader, kinda rlly domestic. Some undertones of degradation but predominantly praise. Begging, crying (pussy so good he cried), etc etc

w.c: 5k (I feed)

a/n: Spencer’s first time getting fucked, my first time writing smut (we’re both going through it here). I’ve been watching too much Criminal Minds recently, so i’ve reverted back to my tumblr roots (im home i’m home). This is a new acc so like…. hi!!!

────────────

Right person, right time. It’s a concept that Spencer Reid is more than aware of. Define luck, at surface level, it’s a made-up hypothesis, idealistic, fantastical. Conjured up to aid the desperate (or the delusional). It’s something he refused to humour, obstinate to the notion, well, that was until you came spitballing into his life, sharp features, sharper tongue. You could cut with your words alone, a weapon to the BAU, jagged and fast-thinking, and so entirely unattainable. Rorschach tests, and an endless sea of profilers, it doesn’t matter— he’s not sure anyone is ever capable of truly pinpointing you.

Rocky start— after you became a permanent member to the team, it took months to coerce you into dropping your guard. A year and 14 days, to be exact.

But, it was possible. Hardened words and blunt comments shifted into something more with time. A gravitational pull, perhaps, that led to evolution— you, softer with him, more tender than you’ve ever showcased before.

Maybe it was that night when he told you about highschool, about what they did to him, boys like him, who were too intellectual for their own good. Different, in every sense of the word. Bullying at such a young, impressionable age can have prominent effects, chronic stress inflicted on an underdeveloped brain, they tied him to goal posts, stripped him naked, endless torment that he still carries with him now. Maybe that’s why you lowered your defenses. Put down the sword.

And sure, he never expected anything, nor asked for anything. He was definite that he wouldn’t get to experience cliche-dating. Longing glances and anticipated moments. It’s not like he was ever the most appealing candidate, too nervous, too neurodivergent. It’s hard to grow out of the mentality that no, everyone isn’t making fun of you, not when it consumed the entirety of his adolescence. That you can walk into a room, and not be seen, targeted, as an outcast. He’s just different. But he’s also human, and the chemicals in his brain do make him want.

You apparently. Because, you looked at him softly once, and he was done. Ruined. Gone for good. Or, in Morgan’s personal opinion, whipped.

And illogically, you wanted him too. That wasn’t ever part of the equation.

But theres a pattern now— dates every weekend. Movies, cafes, museums, an endless onslaught of you. Because somehow, thanks to luck, you reciprocated. He’ll never understand why, you’re too beautiful (it’s a hazard), but he tries. He tries.

──────────────────

December. A haze of christmas markets and blanketing coldness. You kiss him outside and he thinks he might be dying. You make him burn cold. He’s a logical person, so obviously he’s aware that he’s only freezing because your hands are shoved in his pockets, a desperate bid to seek warmth, but regardless, it’s more than he ever expected.

He laughs against your lips, fingers gripping the front of your coat as he draws you backwards so that you’re resting against a wall. “Mm..” he hums, “You should kiss me more often.”

Everyone knows. The entire team is aware of this, an unspoken agreement that your lingering moments and aimless touching are not platonic in the slightest. You work with profilers, secrets are never quite effective. Everyone knows, but it’s taboo, something that needs to be left undisturbed. Do they expect you to break him? Does he? Maybe, maybe it would be worth it— to hurt for you, because it’s always been you. He’ll take anything, he’s not greedy. He’ll live off scraps if he has to, anything to satiate this want that burns solely for you.

“Actually.. you should just always be kissing me,” he suggests, tone soft, “Every day of the week. All the time. And—“ he laughs, “You should also stop stealing body warmth. It’s rude. Hypothermia usually occurs when body temperature dips to around 95F, oh oh but there are so many factors to consider—“

“Is this you trying to imply you’re cold?” you ask.

“Perhaps. Or maybe i’m implying you should be working harder to warm me up.”

You’ve grown soft, he thinks. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this level of affection. But its okay, you justify, mostly because it’s him. Spencer, and his pretty smile, and strange habits (sitting cross legged on tables, drinking coffee with excessive sugar, endless facts and a plethora of soft yearning glances at you when you’re interrogating— as if you’re not tearing an unsub to pieces). It’s terrifying, constant eggshells, because you can’t hurt him. Not like the others, distant fragments of your past.

You laugh in response to his comment, admiring the sight of him: flushed, with swollen lips and dilated eyes. He deserves to be like this, so thoroughly assured that despite all odds, you’re invested. All cards on the table. “You have a lot of requests, boy genius.”

He smiles boyishly. You’re hard lines, sure, a blade that can draw blood, but somehow, somehow, he’s always left unscathed. “Alright,” he answers, “You want requests? Here’s one, stay the night. Come over, stay over, i’ll cook breakfast and try not to burn it— and, and you can have the good side of the bed.”

“Spence,” you mutter, because of course there’s an underlying intention to ‘staying over’ and you're trying to be good here. To not let this fall into your past mistakes of sex and inevitable self-inflicted disgust. A cyclical cycle that clings to your skin. Everything is so new to him, the intimacy, the affection, and it’s nice being able to witness it— to see his reactions to innocuous touches, always disbelieving that he’s capable of this.

Fresh-eyes, so untainted to the sharpness of modern ‘love’.

You cup his face, god, under the dim shadows of the streetlight he’s beautiful. It’s a little alarming to be honest. More so disheartening really, because despite how much you remind him, he never believes you— obstinately refusing your compliments, as if you’d ever mock him. No, he’s different. He’s tender and disarming, and sometimes it feels unholy to touch him with calloused hands.

But, to Spencer, there is nothing unholy to this; the second you touch him, the entire universe crashes down into a singular moment.

“Just stay the night,” he reaffirms. It’s taken him over a month to get to this point, to be able to voice his wants, to comprehend his wants. Now, his thumb traces its way down the side of your face, tangible, real. “And tomorrow morning, there’ll be coffee and pancakes and—“ he laughs, “And there won’t be any regrets. I promise.”

You’re looking at him, wide-eyed and slightly disbelieving (because he’s somehow stumbled through the minefield of you without any consequences). He leans forward, his forehead resting against yours. “Don’t make me beg. I will beg.”

──────────────────

To confirm, he makes you incautious, irrational, willing to blatantly disregard any sort of control. Of course you end up at his apartment; the moment he mentioned begging, you were already half-way down the street.

Spencer’s place is… well, it’s everything you’d expect of him. Scattered novels adorning the floor, a mess of untidy thoughts, neglected papers on science, endless open textbooks left half-abandoned for other pursuits. It’s so him, clean but discombobulated.

He wants to apologize, make excuses for the lack of order, he probably should. He doesn’t do that though. He only crosses the room, stopping when he’s standing right in front of you, just gazing down. He has no idea what’s to come— for once, there are no patterns, no statistics he can reference.

So, he reaches for you, fingers tugging at the edges of your jacket. “Arms. Up,” he instructs and god, it’s a stupid order, but you follow it without any protest. He folds it over the couch, abandoned. Putting it back on alludes to leaving, and he’s hopeless enough to never want you to leave.

His hands then gravitate back to you and he starts to tug aimlessly at the material of your shirt. It’s been raining, and the fabric is soaked. “Hm,” he hums, “Off. Take it off.”

You laugh at that. Straight to the point. You don’t follow his orders, because one was certainly enough, and you’ve never been the type to obey blindly. Instead, you grip his waist, drive him back towards the nearest surface. An end table, some books go clattering, light damage, they’ll survive. His response is a gasp, a hitch of the breath.

“I was promised the good side of the bed, breakfast, pancakes. But sex? Hm, did you invite me over just to get in my pants? I’m wounded, Reid.” you mutter, pressing a series of soft kisses along the curvature of his jaw.

“No! No,” he retorts, breathless, “I was going to get you some comfortable clothes to change into. Damp clothes breed bacteria. You made this dirty,” Adding, “And not in the way I was concerned about.” under his breath.

You roll your eyes, “Oh, here we go—“ sure, you have the experience he lacks, but you’ve been on your best behavior. Dirty? That’s an insult to the exhausting self-restraint you’ve upheld recently.

“Yes— i’m the dirty one here, clearly.” you scoff, “Just casually corrupting you,” You tug him away from the end-table because you don’t want him bruised in any way, shape or form (it’s actually distressing; when you’re working, you seem hellbent on making sure no one even thinks about laying a hand on him. Unsubs be damned.)

Ego-centric, completely independent, individualistic until he came along.

You push him back against the couch, watching as he stumbles, as he falls. For a minute he just lies there, looking up at you with hazy eyes— pupils dilated and lips parted on a half-pained gasp.

And it’s a sight to see, the brilliant prodigy, the young genius, his normally-composed features now twisted into something stricken. His hands tighten around the material of the couch and he lets out a sound that’s a cross between a whine and a groan.

“Oh—“ that’s just a clear-cut moan, “You can definitely definitely keep corrupting me, in fact I endorse it. Completely.”

“3 PHDS, 2 B.A’s and you’re currently asking me to corrupt you? I don’t know, Doctor Reid, that’s certainly very forward,” you say, moving to sit on his lap, aware that you really should entertain this spot more often, even if you’re at severe risk of deflating.

Deflating. God. When did it come to this?

He laughs, “You’re the only person in this entire world that makes me act without a single coherent thought,” IQ abolished. “So yeah,” he murmurs, fingers tracing mindless patterns across the exposed strip of skin above your waistline. “Defini-definitively corrupt me.”

It’s taken so much to get to this point. So much to unpack, to understand, from Spencer’s perspective. There’s a lifetime of bullying that he has to dismantle, and sometimes he still anticipates the punchline when you kiss him— the biting laughs, not entirely dissimilar to school, when someone would belittle him, fake being his friend just for entertainment value.

So, when you stumble into the bedroom, when you remove his shirt, he knows this is improvement. He’s fighting this internal battle, unsure on how he should act: coy or defiant. Both, really. He wants to cover himself up, to pretend like you don’t disarm him, to fight and fight until you make him bleed. Anything, he’ll take anything from you.

“You are so so pretty,” you mutter when he’s sprawled out across the bed. You’ve never been someone to resort to praise; sex had always been cold and clinical, something to relieve stress, to undermine the burden of work, and the endless weight of sanguinary. But now? If he is the eye of the storm, then you’ll happily commit to the chaos of this.

“Careful, you’ll make me inherit a disorder here.” he mutters. Narcism— he’s the least likely to ever develop such symptoms. “Or cry. I could cry, it’s a potential. Maybe break-down?”

“Or,” he adds, his hands tracing up towards your shoulder blades. “All of the above. The trifecta of issues. It’s very likely.”

He rolls over on top, you’re down to just your lingerie now, pretty lace contrasting against your skin. Removing your clothes had been a whole ordeal, he’s fairly certain he almost died; you’re the epitome of beautiful, and he’s not sure how he ended up with everything when he was so resolute, silently accepting, he would always obtain nothing.

“I want to kiss you, but I don’t know, I feel like my body has lost the ability to function at the moment.” he breathes out.

“You should definitely kiss me,” you confirm, posing it as a choice, one that he has any say over— when in reality, youre already tugging him closer. Lips meeting lips. It’s not sane how the world fades into a nebulous haze the moment your mouths connect; time remains constant, logistically, nothing has changed. But it’s just so much that for a moment you doubt the concept of existence, doubt everything but him.

Genius falling for genius. Only you could laugh when he traces molecules into your skin. Spelling out words with elements: Livermorium, Uranium. LV U, it might not be an exact replica of the three worded phrase, but it certainly gets the point across.

“Spence—“ you bite into his lip, tugging the soft tissue between your teeth.

He groans, whimpers, pulls you closer, eliminating every infinitesimal distance between, slotting his hips against yours. He draws away from your mouth, lips leaving a trail of kisses down your neck as he reaches for your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours and pinning it against the bed. His free one is now wandering, slipping beneath your panties to touch.

“Do you know how much I studied about human anatomy after you first kissed me?”

“Weeks.” he answers when you respond with a muffled groan. Your hands are on his back now, tracing the journey of his spine. He’s in over his head, but there’s so much want, so much he wants to do but never thought he would be capable of. And oh, when he begins to draw circles against your clit, slow experimental halos, those soft touches of yours evolve into grasping, gripping. By the time he’s got a finger slotted inside, he’s fairly certain he’s being scratched. Nail indents and faint white lines, souvenirs.

“I know about every erogenous zone the human body possesses, every single one.” He says, because whilst he might lack in physical experience, he has enough intellect to memorize placement, biology. Plus, he’s a fast learner. His finger bends, and both of you moan.

“Spence— fuck, feels good.” you gasp, tangled hands clutching tighter, tighter again until your knuckles are white and you’re trembling.

The human body is something of a fascination to him; the way it reacts, how each nerve and ligament can respond to even the most tentative of touches. But you aren’t every human, you are you, and he has an insatiable desire to discover and catalog every single response your body gives.

He adds another finger, slowly, eyes fixed on your face, gauging the reaction. When he curls both digits, a sharp exhale is your response. “I’m convinced I’ve discovered new anatomy facts in the last few months, just because of you.”

Maybe it’s not fair that he’s so good. First times are supposed to be fumbling and awkward, a mess of hormones and inexperience. To say you haven’t been touched like this before is a severe understatement. The meaningless sex, the onslaught of bodies doesn’t measure up to him, the way he’s so focused on how you respond, on what your body enjoys— it would be endearing (and it is!), but you're currently too preoccupied to voice such a notion.

“Doing so good, holy shit—“ you mutter, blissed out beyond comprehension. You're making art on his back, only vaguely aware of the pain. Though when you realize you’ve scarred his skin, you're drawing away, moving to tangle your hand in his hair instead. But Spencer doesn’t even care, doesn’t even register the inflictions; he likes the physical marks you leave behind, a tangible remnant of all you do to him.

And sure, he’d laugh, usually, at your responses. But it’s hard to laugh, when his own ability to form any coherent sound has been completely destroyed. He’s a mess, his breathing shaky, and his brain is a constant buzz of fragmented musings consisting of you, you, you.

He draws his fingers out, earning a discernible groan, maybe a fuck you (which he does intend to do). But right now, he’s already slotting his face between your thighs, removing those soaked, ruined, panties of yours. He doesn’t have a single thing to compare it to. But he already knows this is his favorite place to be, and he’s fairly certain he’ll be spending most nights between your thighs, learning and memorizing every reaction and noise, each movement, and the ways to repeat them.

He runs his tongue along your clit, savoring just how wet you are, a mess that he can bury his face into. You’re looking down at him with something akin to shock now, and he can only laugh, blow air against your clit, then drag his tongue back over the sensitive bud, drawing it into his mouth to suck.

His movements are tentative at first, unpractised, but soon gaining confidence. He doesnt need to do this, you're aware— you could take him now. And yet, hes here, between your thighs for no reason other than want. Your reaction is visceral, because it’s always been about efficiency in the past, quick touches to get you there before the other person can derive their own pleasure from the act.

He’s not like that. God, hes not like that at all.

“Oh,” is all you can say, gripping his hair down to the root, instructing each movement until he gains incentive, finding repeat patterns that your body reacts to. Then, you can only arch and moan, noises filtered out into the air. He’s back to opening you up now, two deft fingers pressed inside, working diligently to tear you apart.

“Oh? That’s all you have to say to me? Oh?” he retorts.

“Shut up,” you huff, “Put that mouth of yours to work.”

“Mhm— I plan to. God, you’re so perfect.” he mutters, voice distorted, muffled. “That’s it—“ he fights the urge to explain exactly what’s occurring in your body every time his fingers abuse that spot. Instead, he keeps his mouth busy.

He’s certain he’s memorized most areas of your body from years of pining, and that’s what brings him an unrepentant sense of satisfaction. Because he was memorizing your body, you, long before he even got the chance to touch or taste you.

“Wanna stay here,” he says, and he’s being petulant now, because there’s something so good about being reduced to movements. To follow the pattern, to take care of your body, mindless to anything else but you. Pussy-drunk, to put it less eloquently.

“Shit,” you buck up against his mouth, watching as he buries his face entirely into you, as he replaces his fingers with his tongue, nose bumping bumping your clit, consuming his senses entirely.

“Use my face, yeah. ‘M all yours anyway.”

“Fuck, fuck fuck— Spence. Gonna cum—“

When you fall apart, inevitable, he doesn’t stop— not until you’re boneless and spent beneath him. Back arching, stars burning through closed eyes. Pretty constellations that have you blissed out beyond belief. The pleasure is white-hot, feverish in intensity.

And then he’s moving, shifting his body back over you. He’s all soft touches and languid kisses against your mouth, not bothering to break contact as he settles himself fully over you, the weight of his hips pressing into yours. He’s hard, dick pushing up against his boxers, his sexual libido had always been low until you came into his life. Now, his wants seem to fight for release constantly.

“My turn, I believe.” he grins, pressing a kiss to your jaw, “Not that you have to, of course. It’s not an obligation, uh— more so a beg?”

“Of course it’s an obligation,” he goes to protest, to say you don’t owe him anything, so you sigh. “A thankyou, maybe?”

Fumbling hands, still shaky from pleasure, undo buttons. Unclasping his belt, removing loose fabric until he's bare before you. There’s something nervous to his gaze, something unspoken, lingering in the air. “Hey, hey. I’ve got you, yeah? You’re okay,” you promise, before your eyes shamelessly look down. He’s straining, pre-cum lingering at his tip, dick pressed up against his stomach now. “Fuck, okay— yeah. Good. Great even.” first time you've ever stumbled over a sentence in your life.

There’s so much to be concerned about. The fact he’s naked, that you could destroy everything with a few serrated words, years and years of rebuilding, reconstructing. But you don’t— and he can’t help but laugh nervously. “Glad to be up to your standards. I’d uh, hate to disappoint.”

“Always the over-achiever,” you respond, shifting away from him— there’s amusement to your expression when he groans, pitifully, when he rolls onto his back, draping an arm over his face.

Predictable. Condoms in his bedside table. At least he's prepared. You open the wrapper with your teeth, discarding it somewhere amongst the tangle of limbs and sheets, too hellbent on finding him again.

Oh, in this position, you have full, unrestricted view of his body. Endless planes of skin, begging to be marked, sentenced indefinitely to your touch. By the time you straddle his hips, hes a flushed mess beneath you. “I— um, you look really really pretty right now.” he stumbles, idiot.

His dilated eyes take you in. Every contour and curve, the way your hair hangs over your face, eyes up eyes up eyes up. He fails when you run your hand across his dick, thumb brushing against the tip. By the time you’ve slipped the condom over him, hes gone. Bucking and moaning, and so so much better than his hand could ever be.

He wants to be inside of you, but it’s hard to think right now, let alone vocalize the words. I want, he thinks, I want everything, with you.

Your name is on his tongue, muttered and repeated, a reverent prayer of sorts. He needs to gain back his control here, to return to equal footing.

“Yeah—“ he breathes out, “So much of an overachiever, considering I had you making all of those noises—“ his words falter, die out, when you sink down. When you take him. Wrapped around, tight. Warm heat that sets alight every nerve in his overstimulated body. He has half the mind to apologize for his comment because you’re about to ruin him, he knows.

“I thought you wanted me to corrupt you, hm?” you retort. The pace is slow, mostly for his own sanity. Though, the feel of him, the way he slots into you, warm skin pressed against warm skin is intoxicating, and it’s a battle to keep your composure. To not just fall apart under the weight of him.

“What’s that, pretty boy? Struggling? Because you were so egotistical a few seconds ago? Where’s all that ego gone? Straight between your legs, I think.”

A whimper. It’s a whimper, a pained thing ripped straight from his throat. He’s making indiscernible noises now, messy sounds pooling from his swollen lips. The praise, the strained undertones of degradation? It’s too much. But god does he love you for it, because that’s you through and through. Sharp, and brittle to everyone but him, he wants to look, he does, albeit he has to turn his head to the side, bury half of his face in a pillow because he’s gone. At this point, he can only take it.

“I— um, mhm. Yeah,” he slurs. He’s almost incoherent at this point; he’s been reduced to nothing, just a mass of skin, bone, and flesh at your disposal, to own and use and he can’t find it in himself to feel humiliated about it, not when it’s you.

“Can’t— um, I was wrong, you’re— oh god,” the sounds of your body hitting his, back arching as your pace picks up. “Oh, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry —baby, can’t, can’t take it. That’s…”

It’s a lot for his first time, that’s for certain.

“Yes, you you can. I know you can, Spence.” you mutter, interlocking your fingers, letting them hang near your hips. “You feel so good— so so fucking good. Look at you, so brain dead for me. Taking it all so well, love.”

Love?— oh he wants to be buried with that one. He’s a mindless disaster, impenetrably devoted to you alone.

He doesn’t even know how he’s saying words at this point, it’s as if his brain-to-mouth connection has been severed by your very presence itself. It’s not possible to form a coherent thought when you’re riding him like this, taking him so deep that he’s seeing stars. There’s tears pooling in his eyes, he looks pretty when he cries. Especially when it’s derived from pleasure, when he can let go of the burdens, everything he’s endured, when it’s just sensation. Nothing more, no more thoughts.

There’s safety here, an element of home, home home bliss, that has him keening. He wants to stay buried here forever, where nothing can ever hurt him again. When it’s just you, and your pretty words, and your exploitative power to destroy him. You never do, anyway. Even when you could, you restrain.

“Can’t, ’m gonna…, Please, please, don’t stop.” he whines, “Pleasepleaseplease— oh, can’t— I can’t.”

He grips you tight, rolls you over, mostly so he can feel you closer. The sight of you riding him was excruciating, but this is worse because now there’s no gap separating you. Now, he can bury his face into the crook of your neck, burn himself in the warmth of your touch.

“Spence..” you mutter.

“I know. I know—“ hes ruined, sloppy thrusts, whimpers catching against the stifling air. “Feels s’good.”

He doesn’t know what to do, how to breathe, so he just runs his thumb over your clit, watching your prominent reaction, watching as you gasp, moan— oh, and then you’re clenching around him, tightening the pleasure, and yesyesyes.

You’re too gone, moving still, and he can only cant his hips forwards, buck and squirm until he’s sobbing under the weight of your ministrations, releasing so hard that he can barely remember his name, no cognitive function, in the haze of his orgasm.

“There’s my boy— so pretty for me.” he can vaguely hear you saying, and if you’re talking him through it, he can only hear snippets of praise now anyway.

“Mhm— mhm. Yours, yeah.” he mumbles, body sinking against the sheets, a few little whimpers escaping his lips as you milk the rest of his pleasure from him.

Tangled limbs and sweat-stained skin. “You okay?” you ask in the aftermath.

“So okay,” he agrees, shifting closer, back pressed against your torso— sue him for being little spoon.

──────────────────

The next morning, you wake to an absence of Spencer. It’s unsettling, to say the least. So, you're quick to fumble over the buttons of one of his shirts, fabric creased, matching the tousled nature of your hair, disheveled, remnants of the ruination of last night.

For a moment, you consider that he might’ve left — but there he is, in the kitchen, attempting to make breakfast.

“Hey,” you mutter, leaning against the counter to watch.

Scratches adorn his back, indent marks from your nails, crescent reminders, stain his waist, and he’s content to wear them. If anything, he can’t wait to add to the budding collection.

Pancakes. The good side of the bed. Coffee. All of his promises from last night are being thoroughly met, even if he’s burning the food, and shit, he didn’t realize the coffee would be finished so soon. For all his calculations, he’s fairly off-center today.

And then, you come padding across his kitchen, embellished in only his shirt, unbuttoned near the top to expose your collarbone, and he’s fairly certain the last remainders of his IQ disappear.

“Hi! Hi,” he says, wide-eyed, “Um, making.. breakfast. You look, wow yeah.”

Breakfast lays forgotten.

[rowanhoney]

I think curating my dash to exclude the majority of fandom and depth of the net bred discourse has saved me, personally

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

On David Tennant and Aging

So, I’ve seen a lot of posts in response to Tumblr users’ habit of affectionately calling their favorite middle aged dudes “old men”, David Tennant in particular, saying things like “clearly you’ve never met an actual old person”, “omg you talk about these guys like they’re 80”, “please be normal about people aging”, etc. And on one hand, all of these statements are objectively right and true! But as someone who’s always been really fascinated by and found a lot of beauty in getting older (which I’ve explored in some of my writing on A03 because nobody else is going to do it for me), I’d like to provide a bit more nuance on how I think this label applies to David in particular.

David, obviously, in literal terms, is not “old”, at least not to me- I don’t personally consider people old until they get past 60. 52 is middle aged, simple as that. And yet, when I see David stuck with the “old man” label, it still somehow feels weirdly right, for a number of reasons.

It annoys me so much when people say David “hasn’t aged a day since Doctor Who”, because, well…

He clearly has. A lot. He’s got forehead creases, deep crows’ feet and eyebags, and I think that post-Fourteen we’re gonna see him rocking the grey temples a LOT more. He also has the voice of an older man now, his upper range is still there but the default is much more deep and rich, with a gravelly, rumbling quality that just goes straight through you. I personally think Broadchurch was when David finally started to embrace looking his age- Alec Hardy just wouldn’t have been served by Ten’s fresh-faced boyishness.

Obviously, these are the kinds of changes you’d expect any 52-year-old man to have, but something about David just makes it all seem a bit more… intense? The expressiveness of his face combined with his almost gaunt frame makes his wrinkles very prominent, and when he works his voice to its emotional extremes, his lower register can sound positively ancient, to devastating effect.

David, I think, is someone with an old soul- I don’t think he could be as good as he is at playing ancient characters like Crowley and The Doctor if he weren’t. He has lived so many lives, given so much of himself to so many characters, often incredibly tragic ones, and I think it wears on him. David also has five kids. FIVE. Do you know how exhausting it is to be one of the hardest working actors alive and be a present, loving father to even ONE child? But David somehow does it anyway! Nowadays I see him and my heart breaks because he looks so tired, so weary and fragile. But he’s all the more beautiful for it to me because I know that that is because he is kind. He’s a deeply empathetic person who feels and lives to the absolute fullest, and that story is written so clearly on his face, along with every other story he has ever been a part of.

There’s other things about David that make the label endearingly fitting- his utter hopelessness when it comes to technology, for instance. And he’s just got that warm, wise, grandpa energy too sometimes- look at that above Fourteen picture and tell me I’m wrong!

I once showed my friend who’d only seen David in Doctor Who and Harry Potter a picture of David from Around The World in 80 Days. It was a particularly emotional scene, and his face had just the most beautiful expression of compassion and sadness, every wrinkle on full display. And she said, in a less than complimentary fashion, “he looks so old!” Which, of course, offended me quite a bit at first. But to me, referring to David as old almost feels like a badge of honor, something he’s earned by living fully and selflessly, working hard and being wise and compassionate beyond his years. I think David himself is secretly more than a little insecure about the fact that he’s getting older. There’s sadness behind every jovially self-depreciating remark he’s made about his age in the past year, particularly in comparing himself to Ncuti Gatwa. I know how much David struggles with his impostor syndrome and how people perceive him, and I can clearly see in his eyes the fear of being discarded, the anxiety he feels about if he’ll still be as loved as he was back in 2007 now that he’s closer in age to King Lear than he is to Romeo. So I hope David knows it’s a privilege to watch him grow older, to watch his soul and talents deepen with the crinkles around his eyes. If I, in my silly goofy tumblr girl-ness, call David Tennant an old man, it’s because it’s a label that suits him beautifully- even if it isn’t TECHNICALLY an accurate one yet.