#too bad it was only a dream job

[northersouth]

Had a dream where I was serving an incredibly rude customer and her husband.

She asks “what’s your normal diet... minestrone soup?” and she’s all smug about it but I’m just relieved that she’s finally maybe going to order something. Then someone else explains to me that asking about someone’s diet is an old fashioned way of talking about their sexual preferences and by “minestrone soup” she’s implying I’m a lesbian so I tell her to go fuck herself.

Anyways, Happy Pride Month I guess?

[platypusisnotonfire]

well.

I'm 30.

[stinkrascal]

kinda tempted to reinstall the sims, i hope that one anon that was annoyed about me posting bg3 content all month is clapping right now

[rucow]

pisces placements rly are the most "you'll never know how i really feel about you" sign.......... the image we show u depends entirely on *you*. on how you treat us, how trustworthy we feel that u are.... we mirror ur energy back at u. if ur superficial and don't have any sort of emotional depth, neither will we. if all u talk about are ur emotional troubles and how sad u are, we'll be there to empathise and relate to u. you wouldn't know that we actually don't even like u. water is a reflective surface after all

[eggmeralda]

listening to my february-june 2022 playlist which led to ⬇️

[willowfey]

.

[cetoddle]

my wrist has been hurting really bad for like three weeks now and it is not getting better at all i think it’s getting worse and i really wanna go see a dr but i’m worried they’ll want to do x-rays or some other kind of scan which i simply can’t afford right now. or if they want to send me to some form of physical therapy i can’t afford that either

[theladygazingatemptiness]

.

[itsalwaysdark]

and also it doesnt even matter if i miraculously get a job tmrw bc we don't have a car . and im too out of shape to walk anywhere bc everything is far away . so i genuinely dont jnow what to do

[aria0fgold]

I was thinking like, Halcyon sure is a lot put together despite his whole situation and then I thought bout a scenario and realized that oh... He's actually REALLY FRAGILE. He's as well put together as a kintsugi without the gold keeping everything in place, which is basically, TERRIBLY.

[star-ocean-peahen]

After watching Cinderella (the original animated movie, which was my favorite as a child), it strikes me how it solves many common problems people have with this fairy tale. Like:

Why did they try to identify the mystery girl using her shoe size? Because the bullheaded king's only clue to her identity was the shoe the Grand Duke picked up off the steps.

Why didn't the prince recognize her by her face? Because his father wouldn't involve him in the process at all, and wasn't the one going around trying to find her.

Why did the prince want to marry a lady he only met that night? Because his father was going to force him to marry someone, and he genuinely liked this woman.

Why did Cinderella want to marry a man she only met that night? Because marriage was her best and most secure way to freedom. Fucked up, but you can't say it's unrealistic for the setting of a fairy tale. She also genuinely liked him.

If they're using the slipper to find her, wouldn't it be more sensible to search for the person with the other slipper? Yes. The King is purposefully nonsensical and the Duke is purposefully terrified enough of him to carry out his orders to the letter. Furthermore, they end up doing that in the end anyway, because the Duke's glass slipper is shattered, and Cinderella brings out the one she has to prove her identity.

Why didn't the stepmother and stepsisters recognize Cinderella at the ball? Because they were dancing too far away, and then left the party to dance in private, which was possible because the King wanted very badly for his son to hit it off with someone and tried to arrange the best conditions for that to happen.

Why didn't Cinderella save herself? Because in real life, abuse victims should not have to shoulder that responsibility, and usually can't. In real life, you need and deserve an external support system. Asking for help, in this kind of situation, is very important. She is saved by others because she is loved. Because she is not alone. Because she has friends who love her, and want her to be happy and safe and free. Because in real life, people who want to help someone who is suffering are like the mice. We can't pull out miracle solutions, but we can provide companionship and if we're in the right place at the right time, we can help the person find a better life.

Why didn't the fairy godmother save Cinderella from her abusive household, or try to help her sooner? Because she's magic, and magic can't solve your problems. Quote: "Like all dreams, well, I'm afraid it can't last forever." This (and Cinderella's dream of going to the ball) is a metaphor for pleasurable things in bad circumstances. An ice cream won't get rid of your depression, but it will provide you with momentary happiness to bolster you, as well as the reminder that happiness in general is still possible for you. Cinderella doesn't want to go to the ball so she can get away from her stepmother and stepsisters, or so she can meet someone to marry and leave with. She wants to go to the ball to remind herself that she can still have things she wants. That her desires matter. This is important because the movie does a very good job of illustrating Lady Tremaine's subtle abuse tactics, all of which invisibly press the message that Cinderella doesn't matter. While going to the ball and fulfilling her dreams may not be a victory in the material sense, it is still a victory against Lady Tremaine's efforts.

Why is Cinderella's choice to be kind and obedient framed as a good thing, when you are not obligated to be kind to your abuser? This one walks a very fine line, but I think the movie still makes it make sense. Lady Tremaine never acknowledges her cruelty. She always frames her punishments of Cinderella as Cinderella's fault. Cinderella is interrupting, Cinderella is shirking her duties, Cinderella is playing vicious practical jokes. Cinderella is still a member of the family, of course she can go to the ball, provided she meet these impossible conditions. Lady Tremaine's tactics are designed to make Cinderella feel like she must always be in the wrong and her stepmother must always be in the right. If Cinderella calls her stepmother out on her cruelty, or attempts to fight back, Lady Tremaine can frame that as Cinderella being ungrateful, cruel, broken, evil, etc. If Cinderella responds to her stepmother's cruelty defiantly (in the way she's justified to), she's not taking control out of Lady Tremaine's hands. Disobedience can be spun back into her stepmother's control. She wants Cinderella to be angry and sad and show how much she's hurting. So since Cinderella is adapting to her situation, she chooses to be kind. Not only because she naturally wants to be and it's part of her personality, but because it is a form of defiance in its own way, and it allows her to keep a reminder of her agency and value. Her choice to be kind is her chance to keep her own narrative alive: she is not obeying because her stepmother wants her to and she has to do what her stepmother does, but because she wants to. It's a small distinction, but one that makes all the difference in terms of keeping her hope and identity. (Fuck, I wrote a whole paragraph about how this doesn't mean you can't be angry at people who hurt you or that you need to be kind to deserve help, and then deleted it by accident. Uh. Try again.) Expressing anger and pain is an important part of regaining autonomy and healing. Although it is commendable to be kind while you are suffering, it is NOT required for you to get help or be worthy of help. If Cinderella's recovery was explored beyond "happily ever after" she would need to let herself be angry and sad to heal. Cinderella is not only kind because it comes naturally to her, but because it's her defense against the abuse she's suffering. Everyone's story and experiences are different, and one does not invalidate the other.

Bonus round for answers that aren't part of the movie:

Why didn't Cinderella run away? Where would she go? Genuinely, in hundreds-of-years-ago France, where would she go if she snuck out of the window with a change of clothes? With her step-family, she's miserable and abused, but she's fed, clothed, and in no danger of dying or being taken advantage of by anyone other than her stepmother and stepsisters. Even if she escapes and manages to find financial security, her stepmother might be able to find her and get her back.

Why didn't Cinderella burn the house down with them inside it/slit their throats in the night/poison their food/etc.? Because that's a revenge fantasy, and this story is a fantasy about being saved. There's nothing wrong with making Cinderella into a revenge fantasy. That's perfectly fine, as long as you acknowledge that the other type of fantasy is also a valid interpretation. (I mean, the original fairy tale features the stepsisters getting their feet mutilated and all three of them getting their eyes pecked out, so go for it.)

Why isn't Cinderella more proactive in general? Because she's a child who has been abused for the back half of her life, who has had to be focused on survival because. you know. she's an abused kid.

How did she dance in glass slippers? Gotta agree with you there man, that's weird.

[queeniewithabeanie]

The Dreamcatcher

Dpxdc Prompt #26

All vigilantes get bad dreams. Of the ones they couldn't save, the criminals that got away, even of their fellow heroes dying. When you take up the cape you are practically signing an agreement for nightmares to haunt your sleep.

It's apart of the job, no matter how terrible.

One night after a long patrol, when the Bats were all dreading sleep, it was Steph that brought it up.

"We should get dreamcatchers. Hang em up on our doors, they'd help."

No one responded immediately, every single one of them knew that was a pipedream, including Steph.

"If it makes you feel better, go for it Steph." Dick finally obliged, after a too-long awkward silence.

When the intricate dreamcatchers appeared on the doors to their bedrooms a week later no one took them down. They all had ways to cope and if Steph giving all of them dreamcatchers gave her comfort who were they to deny it? Plus it was nice to have a bit of hope, no matter how fragile.

They didn't expect the dreamcatchers to actually work.

Danny had been dragged, beaten, and broken beyond repair by the GIW. He barely escaped their clutches with his half-life still intact and ran off to the closest city he could find, Gotham.

He built a life there, and slowly but surely the threat of the GIW only appeared as a background thought of his waking mind. It was a different story, however, when he was asleep.

They still hurt him every night, only difference was they weren't there to document it and look at him like guinea pig.

So Danny, like the problem-solver he was, made his own solution. After a few too many close calls with Nocturn he had found a way to infuse dreamcatchers with just enough ectoplasm to make them actually work. If they could repel an ancient ghost what was a few bad nightmares? He didn't have money to spare to buy one so he made his own and hung it up by his door.

He started sleeping better, with no nightmares of his own to haunt him, but that didn't mean his nights stopped being interrupted by screams. Not his own, no, apparently living in a city with so much crime and grime could lead to it's own traumatic experiences.

His neighbor's daughter had been kidnapped and trafficked, only recently brought back into his custody. She was 5 and Danny's heart broke every time he woke up to her shrieking.

So he made her a dreamcatcher too.

And then she told some of her friends who had also been hurt by someone, because who in Gotham hadn't, and they requested some dreamcatchers from him as well.

Word spread and soon Danny had a suitably profitable business on his hands.

He didn't charge much, most of his clientele could barely afford food, but he still needed to eat too.

Then the vigilante Spoiler came up to him and asked if he did custom orders.

Danny could see the hope behind the white eyes of her domino, desperation from years of built of pain and suffering.

"No usually, no, but if it's for the heroes of Gotham I can make an exception."

[nereidprinc3ss]

you know the killer doesn't understand

in which spencer is so terrified he's going to hurt you after he gets out of prison that he can barely touch you. an argument ensues.

angst (+ comfort) warnings/tags: established relationship, fem!reader, mentions of violent intrusive thoughts (non-specific), arguing, yelling, use of the word rape, nightmares, happyish ending, mention of showering together, it's a bad time but it's also a good time for us woo i love angsty angst a/n: i miss posting for real so bad i dug up this draft which was mostly finished and polished it up. i think i really like this one and it was based on a request but i lost it:( i hope u guys enjoy this, pls lmk<3

Spencer is by no means happy with his sudden fear of touching you—it makes everything in his life significantly harder and less convenient and he hates that he’s constantly afraid he’s going to break you. He hates watching you hold back from attacking him with a hug when he enters a room like you used to, and he feels terrible every time you ball up on the opposite side of the couch as he reads, waiting for an invitation into his lap but too scared to ask for one (he’ll always hold out his arm for you, though—he’s not cruel.)

You’re adorable in the way you stand at the foot of the bed in your pajamas, arms behind your back like it’s not your bed too, but it makes him feel terrible. This isn’t at all what he wanted for you, and in all honestly he’s thought about ending the relationship because he knows he’s being an absolutely awful partner—but he just can’t bring himself to. Instead, he gestures for you to get into bed, and you curl up under the covers close to him but not against him, and he’ll play with your hair and read for a while because he can’t sleep very well. Eventually he’ll assume the position of sleep, but some sick part of him doesn’t know what to do with the sounds of the city and the fan instead of the sounds of a hundred men rolling and sniffing and shuffling around their echoey cells. He doesn’t understand warmth anymore, or softness, or nice pajamas or fluffy pillows. He’s starting to think he doesn’t understand you. And that’s the worst thought of all. 

So he essentially dozes for the first week, on and off, always exhausted in the mornings but what’s new. When he can’t sleep, he turns his head to watch you breathe—some beautiful, sweet creature dreaming in his bed, unwaveringly loyal to him even though he can hardly stand to touch you for fuck’s sake. You’re beautiful, and it makes him feel better to watch you, even if he can’t touch you. Not now that he knows what he is capable of doing to another person. What if he has some sort of PTSD—PTSS, thank you, Luke Alvez—induced dream and does something terrible to you in his sleep? It’s not like you’re tiny, but he’s stronger, he knows he is, and lately every time you get too close he remembers exactly what it feels like to exert the full force of that strength, and what it feels like when someone else unleashes their own onto him. 

They’re just intrusive thoughts, and in them he doesn’t hurt you intentionally, but he always feels a little bit sick now. He is so, so sick. A bull in a China shop. Spencer knows exactly how breakable humans are—it’s his job to know. If he left so much as one red mark on you by accident, he’s quite sure he’d drill down to a previously unknown rock bottom. And if he reaches that point, he doesn’t know if he’d ever deserve to come back. 

Every day it seems to become clearer that the only humane thing to do is break up with you. But for now he’ll watch you sleep—the delicate rising and falling of your chest, the way you curl in on yourself because you can’t curl into him. In sleep you look so peaceful and content. You never look that way awake, anymore. Not when he’s around, which is pretty much always. At least he can’t disappoint you while you’re asleep. 

Or so he’d like to think. 

Until one night, about a week and a half after he gets home; you whimper in your sleep. It’s so quiet he could’ve missed it, but he doesn’t, and then he watches your smooth brow furrow with worry and he knows you’re having a nightmare immediately. 

Spencer panics—before, he would have woken you up and held you and comforted you until you fell back asleep and it would have been so simple. Now he’s frozen, afraid to touch you but not sure if he can just lie there watching you so afraid and not do a thing about it. 

In the end, you choose for him—and it only takes a few moments. You’re close enough to him that it’s easy for you to close the few inches even in sleep, and maybe you’re slightly conscious but not enough to remember you’re not supposed to touch him. 

He stops breathing as you fold yourself against him, muttering worried nonsense—he catches his name, once—nestling against his chest, one searching arm gently draping over his waist. Every muscle in his body is rigid, and his thoughts—his mind goes… completely fucking blank. 

Suddenly, all he’s known, all he’s ever known, is the smell of your hair, the warmth of you seeping through layers of clothing, and the weight of your arm over him. Everything he ever was ceases to exist, and he’s just this, right now. The person you’d turned to unconsciously for comfort, so sure, so trusting that he would keep you safe. He can feel your breath for the first time in months. Slowly every tense muscle unspools. For the first time in a long time he doesn’t feel dangerous. He doesn’t feel like his entire body is spring loaded and ready to attack at the slightest provocation. Spencer allows himself to hold you, and part of it feels like betrayal because he knows how badly you need this from him while you’re awake but mostly he feels like he could cry. His thumb rubs circles into the middle of your back and your head tucks so perfectly under his chin while he studies the rumpled sheets where you’d been lying a moment ago. He almost feels like sticking his tongue out to gloat at your half of the mattress—haha, look who gets to hold her now—but instead he sighs, shakily, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

You don’t make another sound for hours. 

He’s reluctant to let you go when you begin to stir around six AM, but forcibly holding onto you is so far from what he wants to do that he manages. You roll back over to your own side of the bed, and he continues admiring you from afar until he falls asleep. It’s the best three hours of sleep he’s had in a very long time. 

Of course, you don’t remember it. When you wake up your sadness resumes, and so does the pretending like you’re not sad, but you’re a very good sport—and it helps that he’s feeling much better this morning than he has since he got back. 

“Good morning,” you whisper faintly, still blinking as you watch him longingly from your spot. 

Spencer pushes himself up onto an elbow, and you watch with big eyes as he leans over you, stroking your cheek with his free hand. 

“Good morning. You sleep okay?”

Your brow flickers, and he realizes it’s not a question he asks every morning, and you’re probably distracted by this overt display of affection, but you answer it obediently anyway. 

“I think so. I had weird dreams.”

He hums. 

“About what?”

It’s quiet for a moment as he takes in the exact spattering of microscopically fractured pigment over your irises. Your voice is small when you finally speak. 

“Do I have to tell you?”

That hurts. 

“No. But it might help.”

Coming from him? Ironic doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

You acknowledge him with a small hum of your own, studying him with soft, mistrustful eyes. 

He can’t help it anymore—Spencer leans down and gently kisses you, so tenderly, so chastely, it makes his own head spin. He hasn’t kissed you like that since you picked him up from Milburn. It’s long overdue. 

Which is why he’s not expecting you to start crying. He pulls back immediately, not far, just enough to assess your expression. 

“What’s this? What’s wrong, angel?” He frowns. Your lip quivers in a way that feels like a blow to the chest. 

“That’s not… you’re…”

“What? What is it?”

A fat tear finally traces a path down your cheek and when you speak your voice breaks in the most fragile, devastating way. 

“You’re not being fair.”

He has no neat question to summarize all the bafflement your accusation inspires in his lately cloudy head, but the wildly confused look on his face must be prompt enough.

“I’m trying really hard to respect your space and boundaries and not upset you but my feelings are hurt, Spencer, I don’t know how they couldn’t be. I feel like you don’t even like me anymore. I’m embarrassed around you because I feel like I care about you so much more than you care about me. And then you—and then you wake up one morning and you think it’s okay to act like you love me again but I can’t—I c—” you stop, obviously frustrated—now crying in earnest and lacking the words. “You can’t be mean to me. I know you’ve been through a lot and I’m sorry but you can’t treat me like that. I’m a person, too.”

His chest aches and he swallows down barbed wire.

“I’m not acting like I love you. I do love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything in my life. That’s not an act.”

It’s not an adequate response, but your words are still spinning in his head until he can’t keep up with them. He’s not used to this, anymore. The language you two had developed is so foreign now. 

Maybe he just doesn’t know how to talk to you. 

Resignation—a too-calm recognition softens the stormy look that has brewed on your face. As soon as it’s gone, and you’re looking at him placidly, he realizes he’s afraid. 

“Well, that’s not enough,” you whisper. 

Spencer feels like he’s been shot as you push the covers aside and slip out of bed. And he knows what that feels like. 

“Where are you going?” And then louder, when you don’t hear him because you’ve already left the room, “Where are you going?”

He follows you through the apartment as you march purposefully for the door, slipping shoes on and grabbing your keys and coat. 

You barely look over your shoulder as you leave, slamming the front door behind you. Things shake from the impact. A mini earthquake. 

Spencer is too stunned to follow you. 

It’s not until a few minutes later when he goes to call you that he realizes your phone is still sitting on your bedside table. He stares at it, tasting metal, because he has absolutely no way to reach you or guarantee your safety. There’s no way for you to call him, or anyone, if you get in trouble—and he fears that you’ll retaliate against him by doing something stupid and dangerous. 

He only just manages to stop himself from calling the police and asking them to start looking for you. Only just recognizes it to be an overreaction. 

Besides, he’s not feeling particularly fond of the criminal justice institution these days. If it came down to it, he’d trust himself and his team over the cops any day.

The team. They’re always a resource. If worst comes to worst, he thinks, robotically making coffee as he tries to talk himself down, and she doesn’t come home before dark, I’ll call all of her closest friends. If she doesn’t come home before the morning—the thought makes him feel sick—I’ll deploy every fucking resource at my disposal. 

Maybe that’s an overreaction, too, but he has to find a way to self-soothe somehow. Planning makes him feel better. Being prepared for the things you never see coming makes him feel better. It’s impossible, of course—but the illusion of control is stubborn and so seductive. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that. 

At around 2 PM, he receives a couple of texts from Garcia that are a massive relief. 

Penelope: She’s at my apartment

Penelope: BE NICER TO YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!

The series of emojis that follow (including an octopus?), he doesn’t even try to decipher. He simply drops his phone and sighs deeply into his hands, releasing an extreme amount of paranoid tension that had been tying him into knots. Lately, he’s had this sense that everything is fleeting—that the things he takes for granted are painfully, violently impermanent. It doesn’t take anyone with a degree to figure out why he’s been feeling that way, but it’s so all-consuming he’s not sure how to cope with it. Just a few days ago, he’d been wondering how to break up with you. Now he’s asking himself how the fuck he thought he’d be able to do that when he’s barely functioning after a few hours without you.

It’s a question he still hasn’t answered by the time the front door opens at 10 PM. It’s clear by the deer-in-headlights look on your face that you hadn’t been expecting him like this—leaning over the counter, half-empty mug by his hand, staring at nothing in particular and waiting for you to come home. Neither of you have changed clothing since this morning—not that you could—but you look apprehensive as you close it behind you, never facing away from him. The whole thing is like a teenager being caught sneaking back in by a weary parent. 

For a moment the silent confrontation stretches into the horizon, a non-specific point as neither of you seem inclined to be the first to talk. You just watch him watching you—leaning against the door rigidly as if you can’t get far enough away. But he’s too tired for this. Too worn out. 

“How’d you get home?”

You swallow. 

“Penelope.”

Spencer nods slowly, rolling his bottom lip between teeth and finally looking away. 

“You really should have brought your phone.”

You scoff, peeling yourself from the door. 

“Of course that’s what you’re worried about.”

It’s the same situation as this morning, but in reverse—him following after you down the hall as you storm toward the bedroom. 

“Wh—should I not have been? You scared me—” he says your name, barely catching the door before it can slam in his face. “I was worried about you.”

“Why?” you face him, laughing bewilderedly as if the situation were at all funny. A kind of manic energy crackles from the surface of your skin and in your eyes that renders him unable to think of a reply. “Because you thought I would get raped and murdered and then you’d be sad?”

“Yes!” Spencer yells, eyes widening as he fails to contain his frustration any longer. “That is fucking exactly why I was scared!”

You step forward, getting in his space. It jars him, momentarily—he wants to get away from you. Being angry and so close to you is terrifying. What if he lashes out? What if he hurts you? He’s seen crimes of passion. His blood is freezing in his veins. 

“Of course you didn’t give one single fuck that I left you. You didn’t think for one fucking second that I might be tired of this. That wasn’t what you were scared of at all.” For every inch you near, he backs away. Another scorned, bitter laugh from you that feels like poison coursing through his entire circulatory system. You notice everything, eyeing him up and down as he cowers from you. “What is this, Spencer? If you hate being near me that much, just fucking break up with me.”

You’re close enough that he can see the tears welling in your eyes, but he’d know they were there even if he couldn’t observe them. He would hear it in your voice. He would feel it. But he can’t do anything about it. Right now, he’s paralyzed. 

“If the only thing holding you back is wanting to spare my feelings, just fucking do it. This isn’t better. I don’t give a fuck if it’s hard for you. It’s hard for me, too, but I’m not just going to ignore it anymore.”

There’s no more room. The wall is at is back. 

“Honey, please back up,” Spencer breathes. Last time his back was to a wall, he’d been gagged and beaten. Don’t lash out. She never hurt you. It wasn’t her. 

“Don’t tell me what to do!” you shout, as tears begin to spill over your cheeks. “Either break up with me or stop telling me to go away!”

At that moment, as you break down and your words become muddled with sobs, you raise your fist. 

Spencer watches it approach his shoulder as if in slow-motion. 

On instinct, he catches your wrist.

There’s a lull as he waits for something to explode, for something to go terribly, deeply wrong—

But it doesn’t. 

He realizes his grip is gentle. He realizes you’d never actually hurt him like that. He realizes how little resistance he’d found when he stopped what was sure to be nothing more than a petulant, petty bump against his shoulder—a maneuver that wouldn’t have hurt in the slightest. It was nothing more than a desolate, childlike display of feelings bigger than you know what to do with. 

In the second that it takes him to realize all of this, to realize he is not endangering you in the slightest, nor you him, you’ve begun to truly sob. Standing just inches from him, head angled down as he holds your wrist carefully, you are the picture of a girl who has been running on empty for a very long time and has nothing left to give. Spencer twines his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin and slowly rubbing your back like he’d never forgotten how to hold you. It stuns you, and the tears pause for just a second—before you’re wrapping desperate, weakened arms around him and sobbing even harder, albeit silently, into his shirt. 

“I don’t want to break up,” he whispers, his own voice shaky with understated emotion. “I’m sorry. Please don’t say that. I don’t want that.”

“What’s wrong with you?” You cry, a desperate plead caught between sobs that wrack your body against his against the wall. And he knows it’s not an accusation. It’s not an insult. It’s a question borne of confusion and fear. It’s what a child might ask a sick dog while tears stream down feverish cheeks. And it’s completely appropriate, considering he never tells you anything anymore and he’s only just realizing how scary that must be. Spencer is back from prison but you may as well still be living alone for all that you know about him. He tangles a hand in your hair and holds you against his chest, breathing you like nitrous oxide. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers. The room beyond blurs as he stares at nothing, focused only on the tingly euphoria of feeling you under his hands clashing with the ever-present and crushing shame that he couldn't do it sooner. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you—to be sorry.” Shuddering breaths and gasps still cleave your sentences in half, and Spencer listens so intently he thinks there might be harmonics hidden in the layers of your voice. He clings to every syllable like you’re wielding the word of god in a five-foot-something body. “I just miss you so m—much. I want you to—to love me.”

“I do,” he promises immediately, lips pressing to your ear. “I do love you. So much. So much.”

When you don’t respond, he’s not exactly surprised. He almost asks what he can do, what you need—but is quite sure that’s not the right move. Instead he doesn’t say a thing. Only holds you.

Later, you’ll pull back and he’ll swim in your teary gaze, and then kiss you. He’ll trace silent apologies into every inch of your skin under the torrent of the shower, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make you understand. But for now, for the first time in months, you’re holding each other, and that’s all either of you need.  

[rafey-baby]

stepdad!rafe being gross about his stepdaughter…

c/w: stepcest, kinda angsty, slight somnophilia & some dubcon fingering, use of dad, 18+ mdni!

wc: 880

if this is something u don’t like, scroll & read something else xx 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Her relationship with her stepdad has always been rather strange.  

But she’s never really minded, because it felt nice to have someone fill that hollow pit inside her, the one that’s always been there, haunting her ever since her father left when she was just a little girl. An itch she could never quite scratch.  

It didn’t help that her mother was never exactly present in her life either— always too busy with work or looking for solace from the bottom of a wine bottle or blaming her for everything wrong in her life.

She was sixteen when her mom brought Rafe home for the first time. And she never quite understood why he had married the woman in the first place— why he filed for divorce only after she’d moved out for uni, and not the moment he found out his wife wasn’t spending all those late nights in the office, but instead in the bed of a stranger.

However, she didn’t much care for his reasons because he’d always been more of a parent to her than the people who were supposed to. She always secretly wished he would’ve been her real dad— not just someone she assumed felt obligated to take her under his wing when he found out how horribly she’d been treated all her life.  

That’s why she never really paid too much attention to his lingering touches or the borderline controlling tendencies that always seemed to fizzle to the surface whenever she’d do something he deemed bad. She was just happy that she finally had someone who made her feel safe, protected. What more could she really ask for? 

It felt nice when someone cared. 

And now, even if she’s legally an adult and capable of making her own decisions, she prefers when Rafe makes them for her. After all, is it so wrong to just want to be taken care of?  

Because university was a lot. And the never-ending deadlines, assignments and all the late nights she spent trying to understand something she just couldn’t, had grown into this hurricane inside of her. It swallowed up everything that once made life beautiful and worth living; hiding them away from her, until she was crying to her phone nearly every night with her daddy on the other end, trying to calm her down, but to no avail.  

And she could only take it for so long until one day, she was knocking on the door of Rafe’s brand new house with tear-soaked eyes and a suitcase— his strong arms wrapped tightly around her the only thing able to placate her in months because with him, everything felt secure.  

And she liked spending time with him and living on the island, had even gotten a weekend job at a surf shop (despite his protests) because she wanted to do something useful, something other than loitering around the house that felt more like a spooky mansion whenever he was at work.  

The empty hallways and her spacious bedroom were especially unsettling at night when she’d had a bad dream— more often than not making her tiptoe over to Rafe’s bedroom with a pout, asking if she could sleep there instead. ‘Of course you can, sweetheart’ he’d always murmur; voice gravelly with sleep and already making space for her under the covers…

Then one night, as she’s peacefully snoozing off in his warm embrace, his fingertips slip past the waistband of her fleecy pajama bottoms— merely grazing at the smooth skin of her lower tummy, telling himself he’s just trying to do something with his hands so sleep could find him faster.

That’s until he notices she’s not wearing any panties, getting an insatiable urge to tuck his fingers between her soft thighs— already meeting a sticky mess there. After all, he only has so much self-control around the innocent little angel he swears was sent from heaven just for him to taint; to ruin.  

And it’s not like she seems to mind with the way she snuggles closer to him in her sweet slumber; the round of her ass pressing closer and closer against his crotch with every unconscious shift of her hips.  

Only when he begins mindlessly thumbing at her clit, does she stir— drowsy voice panicky when she mumbles out something inaudible.  

“Shh. S’just me, relax, yeah?” he hushes her, wet fingertips rubbing lazy circles over her weepy cunt when she whines— a complaint already blossoming on her tongue, something about him being gross, no doubt.  

“Is dad not makin’ you feel nice?” he coos, other hand dragging her closer with a grip on her thigh when she tries to pull away.  

“This is— you shouldn’t…” she stumbles over her words, trying to wriggle away from his overwhelming touch.   

“Shh, what do I always tell you, hm?” he clicks his tongue, his hold firm as he coaxes her to tell him what he wants to hear.  

Momentarily, she gets distracted from squirming around as she searches through her fuzzy brain before whispering out the answer. “…dad knows what’s best.” 

“There you go, that’s m’girl,” he breathes out, pressing a gentle kiss to the apple of her cheek as a reward— smiling against the skin when she lets out a muffled whimper, because his hands do feel nice.

[lovegasmic]

HOT MILF NEXT DOOR

──── Kento, Toji, Sukuna x f!reader.

cw. age gap ( all characters are 25-29 and reader around 44-46 ) , creampie , breeding kink , trophy wife cheating on your husband with a younger plumber Toji ( Megumi doesn't exist ), oral, rough sex with Sukuna ( you babysit Yuuji ) uncle Sukuna.

original full post in the title, I had to re post this bit because I deleted the original reblog by accident. this is mostly just to back up

hot dilf next door out now 𖥔 satoru, suguru, choso version 𖥔 genshin version

KENTO !

the faint mark of a ring around your finger, the soft thud of boxes being left on the sidewalk, all leading to the moment your youngest child finally moves to college, sharing teary goodbyes and hugs as you wave them one last time. so, you’re finally alone...

Kento is not a creep, nor does he intend to sneak his way into your heart the moment you’re finally alone, no, he wants to offer nothing but support.

he walks to your home with easy steps, casual and unconsciously wearing his best suit, not that he wants to impress you, it’s just a coincidence.

“you’re so mature for your age” is what you say, and everyone does, to be honest, but somehow coming from you is not that bad anymore, does that mean you could actually give him a chance?

a tray of freshly baked cookies is placed upon your kitchen counter, a gift from Kento that’s now long forgotten, too busy listening to your complaints with no ill intentions behind them, just sharing how though life has gotten, but don’t worry, Kento has promised to stick with you.

you’re such a pretty woman to cry, each one of your tears tugging at his heartstrings, and his rough and large hands are the perfect comfort for your aching heart.

none of you actually notice when the atmosphere changes, when your soft sighing against his neck turned into whimpers of pleasure by having two of the man’s fingers knuckle deep in your cunt, rapidly dragging the tips across your fluttering inner walls and palm eagerly rubbing your swollen, needy clit.

“that’s it, gorgeous, you’re doing so well” all you need is some relief, of your burdens and sexual tension building up from so long, Kento is more than happy to help, gently scissoring his fingers into your pussy, a bit more stretch so you can accommodate his cock next. you look much better when you’re crying in pleasure, pawing on his shoulders while guiding the thick head of his cock to push past the slight resistance of your pussy, every little vein throbbing and massaging the ache inside.

gushing pussy, welcoming every inch into the depths of your body, almost immediately starting to suck on the girth, squishing your soft breasts against the toned and smooth expanse of Kento’s chest, each muscle rubbing on your nipples so addictively sweet your pussy pulses even more.

the blonde has often mentally slapped himself for lewdly thinking how you’d look fucked, although the image in his head could not compare to the real thing, forcing his load to blow as deep as possible into your sweet pussy, hands on your soft hips, grinding you down until you squeak and cum, creating a bigger white-ish mess on your laps with the diluted semen seeping out of you.

instead of sulking in your sadness, you should ride his cock more often.

TOJI !

working several jobs at once was never an easy chore, but the black haired managed, one had to do whatever it took for some money. and the fancy apartment building you lived was something he could only dream about, compared to his shabby room where he just slept and jerked off to the thought of you.

“where is the leak?” his rough voice echoes, contrasting with the way too fancy and perfect state of your penthouse, fixing his thick denim pants with a tool belt attached, attempting to hide the bulging erection at the sight of you on that flimsy robe you loved to wear.

you’re so soft, with gorgeous curves as you guide him into the kitchen, are you swinging your hips just for him, or is it his lust clouded imagination?

“would you like something to drink?” you offer so sweetly, already grabbing a glass while Toji slides under the kitchen sink, checking the... perfectly maintained pipelines.

with a raised brow, he stays there, pretending to fix a non existent leak, “a lemonade would be good, thank you, doll” he tries, hoping that little nickname will bring him good luck later. the way his thighs spread when he hears you around is definitely made on purpose, can you see how hard he is for you?

once the... job was done, Toji sips on his cooling drink, eyes scanning the adjacent living room where a framed picture of you and your husband hangs, he’s too old, and you’re clearly a trophy wife.

“how much do I owe you?” you bat your eyelashes, and the flutter mimics the pulsing of his cock.

“don’t worry about it, doll, is not a big deal” Toji attempts to play his cards, hitting on your heart first with a closer step, checking your reactions.

“oh, please, Toji...” it’s a low purr and you’re doing it on purpose, “at least let me thank you for your help”

what a little minx, with soft manicured hands on his broad chest, eyes cute and filled with lust while staring up at him, a pretty thing like you needs to get fucked, and it seemed like you needed it bad.

the framed family picture smiles down at your bent over form, robe flipped open, panties pooling around one of your ankles and Toji’s thick cock plunging into your soaked hole, earning a very slight spank on a jiggling ass cheek, “take it, doll, fuckin’ take this cock in your gorgeous pussy”

a mewl seeps past your lips like the string of drool pooling on the kitchen island, pussy fluttering around the girth, desperate to pull deeper, to suck as much as your hole could possibly take.

it doesn’t take long for you to cream his cock, having it abusing the deepest part with perfectly angled hips was quite easy to send you over the edge, your toys were good, but fuck, Toji knows what he’s doing.

a thumb hooks on the side of your cheek, pulling your soft folds open to stare down at the flutter, at the way you’re spread and speared on his cock, at his mercy. “that’s it, doll, take my cum” he grunts, balls pulsing and squished against your clit while his thick semen fills your womb.

“that um, pipe might break soon, call me again” he winks, now fully dressed and with a fat wad of bills you tucked in his shirt pocket.

SUKUNA !

“do I have to do it?” Sukuna groans in annoyance, gripping the phone where his brother spoke through.

“i don’t have anyone else to pick Yuuji, just do it once”

with another groan he agrees, hanging up the call while shrugging the girl clinging on his arm, the frat party is as annoying as ever, his life as boring as ever.

hands shoved in his pockets he waits for you to open the door, impatiently tapping on the floor as if he had something better to do than take care of his little nephew until Jin came out of work. he’s damn tired, almost about to knock again until you open, angelically smiling at him with a little Yuuji perched on your hip.

“hello, you must be Sukuna”

he wants to knock you up.

in a blink, that cocky smirk is again in place, “that’s me, i’ll take the brat now” then he’s pulling Yuuji onto his side much against the small boy grumbling.

what a good brother and uncle is Sukuna, offering to pick up Yuuji from now on, what a kind soul, making you open up to him more and more until he’s comfortably sitting on your couch, baby Yuuji sleeping upstairs and a warm, flirty laugh echoes through the living room. Sukuna knows you’re aware of his advances, and who you are to refuse a cute, ripped and younger boy’s attention.

and that dick was to die for.

“fuck, sweetheart, you’re a pro” he grins, licking across his teeth while you slobber all over his cock, tongue and lips caressing the fat girth, saliva dripping to coat his full and heavy balls slapping against your chin, “made for take my cock down your tight throat, fuck!”

you can feel your juices dripping down your thighs, pooling on the wooden floor, while you feast on Sukuna’s thick musky scent, adding to the soft pulse and slight salty taste of the tip hitting the back of your throat.

thank fuck he does not keep you waiting, “come here, get on your knees, I need to cum in your cunt”

who are you to refuse such a sensual order? shakily climbing on the leather couch that squeaks under your knees, fingers twisting around the armrest while Sukuna pushes into, “is that how you fuck your classmates?” oh, baby, you’re screwed.

Sukuna takes that as a challenge, arching your back, spreading your asscheeks and pounding into your hole, adoring the slapping sound of his balls slapping your wet flesh, soaking in your warmth, “i’ll show you how I fuck a gorgeous woman like you” and he does, trying to prove you how he’s more than a cocky, pretty face, having you squeaking his name, begging to be creampied until next week.

his eyes are hooded, strangely overwhelmed by your pussy, by the easy glide that welcomes more and more into your depths, begging, craving, crying for his cock, to be pounded into oblivion. “i need to keep you full of me, smelling like me” each word is accentuated by a thrust, ignoring the way his balls clench in a signal that he is about to cum.

“ah, u-ungh... Sukuna, ah, you feel so good, love” why does the tenderness in your voice make his tip twitch and splurt another wave of pre?

“yeah, sweetheart? you like it? you love how I pound your creamy pussy?” almost breathless, panting in attempts to hold back a strong orgasm, needing to drive you insane first, to have you gushing, squirting all over his thick cock before he finally, finally gets to claim that sweet release inside your willing, still very much fertile body.

[ayukas]

18+ mdni

dry humping w/ nct dream 𖦹ࡇ𖦹

mark

dry humping with mark often starts when he's too tired to fully engage but still wants to satisfy you. he's stretched thin from schedules and late-night recordings, so his usual energy is depleted. you can't help but take advantage of his exhaustion though, wanting to please him in return for all the nights he's worshipped you. you carefully climb onto his lap, grinding against him while he lazily leans back, hands weakly gripping your hips. "fuck baby, i can't... too tired..." he mumbles, only to let out a gutteral groan when you press against him just right. the way his breathing turns ragged is so addictive, and soon he's thanking you in between pants, his fatigue melting into the pleasure you're giving him.

"fuuuck, needed this so bad. you're so good to me."

renjun

with renjun, it's the unspoken tension during quiet, intimate moments that get to you both. movie nights are his favourite way to unwind, but when his hand starts to idly roam up your thigh, you know it's only a matter of time. it's subtle at first—his lips casually brushing against your ear under the guise of a comment about the movie, or the way his soft fingers play around the hem of your shirt. before you know it, he's pulling you onto his lap, his voice low and filled with a mix of affection and need. "fuck—we're not even halfway through with the movie," he murmurs, breath warm against your ear as his hips push up to meet yours,

"but i just can't wait any longer."

jeno

for jeno, dry humping is an impatient, messy ordeal. it's unrestrained and raw, with sweat beading on both your foreheads as he grips your waist with bruising strength. the friction builds too fast, too strong, and within minutes, he's already trembling beneath you, gasping for air. "baby, please... can't take it anymore," he whines, voice breaking as he pleads to feel you fully. his desperation is palpable, and even though he tries his best to hold back, it never lasts long. the second he feels you grinding just right, your swollen clit grazing over his tip, he's begging with wide, lust-filled eyes,

"can i put it in, please? fuck, just the tip—i swear it'll feel so good..."

hyuck

dry humping with haechan always starts off as a battle of wills. he's glued to his computer, headset on, shouting profanities at his screen, but it's just so hot that you can't help but want to distract him. you straddle him quickly, blocking his view, and his whiny protests quickly morph into high-pitched moans when you starting grinding your heat against him. "baby, i was in the middle of a game!" he complains, though his hands immediately grab your hips to guide your movements, his hips jerking up to gain more friction. he's loud, burying his face in your neck as he lets out the most sinful noises. "fuuuck, you feel so fucking good," he groans, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs.

"you win, baby—ahh—just don't stop… fuck—please."

jaemin

jaemin is the king of control. he knows exactly how to drive you crazy. he's so smug and cocky, leaning back as he watches you struggle to keep your composure while grinding against him. it should piss you off, how he seems to be so unaffected while you're desperately trying to chase your high. "is this all you've got?" he teases, his tone dripping with mockery. he refuses to give in until you're utterly desperate, using the friction between your thin silk panties and his rough jeans to bring yourself to the brink while staying frustratingly composed himself. "c'mon baby, you can do better than this..." he taunts, his grip on your hips tightening just enough to make you shiver. and when you finally push him over the edge, his smirk only grows wider as he coos,

"good job baby, now lets see how much more desperate you can get for nana, hm?"

chenle

for chenle, the thrill is half the fun. he's all about the risk, pulling you into the backseat of his car even when your friends have only stepped away to grab some snacks at the petrol station. the mere idea of someone catching the two of you only spurs him on, getting him harder than ever. after all, he's just a whore for exhibitionism. "shh, you don't want our friends to see you like this, do you?" he whispers with a mischievous grin, though his own breathing is uneven as he grinds against you. his hands roam everywhere, tugging at your clothes just enough to make you squirm. the tension is electrifying, and he can’t hide the satisfied smirk when he feels you trembling above him.

"see? told you it'd be worth it."

jisung

jisung is so needy, it's overwhelming. just being near you has him worked up, but he's too shy to articulate exactly what he wants from you. instead, he opts to cling onto you, his big, veiny hands wandering all over your body shamelessly as he presses his hips against yours with little control. "need you s'bad, please..." he stammers out, face flushed as he buries it against your shoulder. it's sweet in its desperation, his inexperience making him all the more endearing. he's a mess of shaky hands and ragged breaths, and when he finally lets go, he's holding onto you like you're his lifelife, whispering pleas while trembling as ropes of his release stain the inside of his boxers.

"ahh fuuuck, you're amazing."