#want to be steamrolled by a tire

[vse-kar-vem]

12+ hour flight and im finally home urgajhghh im so glad i get to draw again

[eggbagelz]

Me: hey based off what hes told us abt his experiences and what he refers to himself as and how he says he feels alienated from every community he's part of it'd be better and more respectful to call pete wentz mixed than to decide what racial group he Belongs to for him

Americans who think the word mixed is a slur: into the pit with you

[mookybear12404]

Hate hate hate that burnout and mental exhaustion correlate to physical exhaustion.

[arcenergy]

my nobody asked for opinion on contest mode crota's end is that it was very good

[bunflora]

RAF SECOND BOND UNLOCKED LETS GOOOOO

[moondirti]

imagine being the poor soul assigned to work a serial murder investigation under detective john mactavish.

you're good at your job. analytical, committed, discrete. possessing an eye for detail that turns the most convoluted problems simple, and a mental stamina to sustain you through the more gruesome aspects of your work. but with the explosive nature of this case, in particular — the crimes perfectly suited to garner media attention, victims offed too fast and sporadically for authorities to keep up, stirring an uproar by people who feel as though you are not doing enough — your captain sees it best to place someone… better liked, at the forefront. an agent able to empathise, communicate, reassure, and flash a comforting smile for the public.

charm, you think, makes for a lot of things. the rogue scot proves to you that it does not help make a good sleuth.

his investigation strategies are inelegant. the only thing he manages to do effectively upon processing every emergency call is waste department resources. by the time you arrive on scene — because being supplanted as head has its unfortunate effect on when you get notified — technicians are overwhelmed collecting trace materials he's deemed vital (though they're clearly not); pathologists have been given information conflicting with the results of their examinations, skewing results; and there's absolutely no sign of the profiler working on branching the series of murders to one suspect.

it's like that, day in and day out. the patterns you were slowly starting to uncover come apart quick. mactavish overwrites your list of suspects, trashes 'trivial' witness statements, takes informants off payroll to reallocate discretionary funds towards surveillance tools no one is trained to handle, and is an overall nuisance when you take up your complains with him. you know this case like the back of your hand, have worked on it for months now. if he could just heed your advice and think about what he's doing before he does it, then your combined efforts could crack things open sooner rather than later.

charming. reckless. he also seems especially gifted at steamrolling your complaints—

take it up wi' the boss, lamb. there's a reason ah got pit in charge—ye need tae stop worryin' yer wee heid aboot these things. jist look at ma track record. speaks for itself, i think. say, how aboot ah treat ye tae dinner an' a private massage this week'nd, help ye unwind? ye're a bonnie thing under that issued jacket o' yours. gotta learn tae take it off, sometimes.

it's your antisocial nature that shuts you up. or that's what you like to believe, anyway — the closest thing you can attribute an overactive stomach to. in your own time, you test the integrity of his word and pull some strings to access his history. a near perfect case clearance rate, go figure, accompanied by glowing recommendations from every captain he's ever served. described as clever, crafty, tenacious.

words and numbers don't exactly do much to ease your conscious. you need evidence, a lead, a testimony, an arrest, to believe all the praise — especially with a growing list of families whose grief doesn't get easier.

still, you're quiet. more pliant, afterwards.

johnny takes a liking to your attitude shift.

if not a shaky starting trust, it just means that you don't complain when he bullies you into his car to kickstart a canvass. or as he reaches over to fasten your seatbelt for you, or when he pinches your cheek with some cheery encouragement on the tip of his tongue. you're obviously tired, still suspicious, but you let him do what he wants with little to say about it; driving from street to street, knocking on doors and asking random citizens if they've seen or heard anything suspicious.

and really, it's the final test when, by dusk, he gets nothing more than a you still haven't found my stolen car.

he waits to see if you have something witty to say about what a waste of time it all was. a comment to really grind at his gears, muttered under your breath like all the other foul doubts you think he hasn't heard.

(driving to the last house on his list, the sky deepening from pink to purple to black. everyone at the office should have retired by now, and will have expected you to have done so yourself. it's really a wonder he managed to get you out here. you must have put sense on the back burner to miss the purpose this excursion lacks. the fact that neighbourhood canvasses are only done after a fresh crime scene. never like this, mid-week, for no reason at all.)

only you stay silent.

he's glad you can learn to listen.

home is a comfort after such a long, tricky day.

johnny lets you knock on the door this time, standing two steps behind so he can properly absorb his handiwork. when simon answers, nursing a cigarette with a mean, cruel twist of his lips, he feels his heart strain a little between his ribs.

"good work, mutt." a large fist hooks under the collar of your jacket. before you know it, you're being slammed into the doorframe, knocked unconscious, and hauled into the foyer. "this one's pretty. might jus' keep 'er."

"aye, sir. easy tae break too, ah reckon."

[alchemistc]

He's drunk when he sends it. Pissed because Buck won't just let this die. Tired of seeing his name flash across his screen, texts full of anger and sadness and hurt.

I suspect you've already met your last and it's not me he sends, and then turns off his phone and reaches for the bottle of whiskey on his top shelf.

---

If he'd been sober he would have known better. It's not even like it's been a pervasive thought - just an inkling at the start of things that seemed to be completely off base once he got to know everyone better, but looking back... He can see it. The built in life. The steadfast support. The knowledge that they'd always, always have each other's back. The kid who hero worshipped him.

The thing is he's fielding texts from Eddie, too, checking in and then circling around to being so goddamn judgmental that it's like they've coordinated their attacks to give Tommy no room to breathe.

He ended it to save himself from slipping so far under the surface he wouldn't make it back.

The fact that he's lost them both to his own fear is icing on the cake for the demon on his shoulder that keeps trying to remind him that once upon a time he'd fully thought Eddie and Buck were amicable exes.

---

He has to blink to figure out who's standing on his doorstep. The mustache is gone.

"If you meant who I think you mean, you're dumber than you look," Eddie says, and shoulders past Tommy before Tommy can even muster an affronted expression.

Tommy wanders after Eddie into his own kitchen, immediately annoyed that he looks more at home there than Tommy has felt in weeks. He'd gotten used to the loft - the space, the echoes, the lights of the city. The smell of his own aftershave on Buck's pillow.

They never spent much time here. The loft was closer - to Harbor, to the 118, to all the things in the city that tempted them out for a night. And staying at the loft meant he wouldn't have the echoes of Buck in every room, around every corner. (The echoes are in him, instead, and he still feels the absence like a lanced wound.) Tommy has always been good at making other people think he's good at putting distance between himself and them.

Eddie digs in a drawer, pulls out the bottle opener shaped like a cow and pops two tops. Holds one out for Tommy and scowls when Tommy wrinkles his nose at the Corona.

"Absolutely screw you if you think I'm driving halfway across town for you just to get the ones you like, right now."

Tommy can't argue that. He takes a drag and swallows. Stares. Is everyone else experiencing whiplash seeing him without the mustache? It looks fine but it'd taken so much fucking work to get used to it and now it's just gone. Clean shaven, an acre of skin he hasn't seen in months.

Tommy blinked and the entire world was different. Tommy freaked and the world changed.

"What are you doing here?"

Eddie's eyebrows both lift, a frank Are You Fucking Serious look on his face that makes Tommy want to take him to the mats and have it out in the garage instead of over beers.

"Buck may be spinning his wheels trying to figure out what the fuck you meant but I know damn well what you were implying."

That seems unlikely. Eddie always seems to be the last person to have a single clue what was going on, with Buck scraping in just before him. It's a tight race.

He used to find it charming.

(He absolutely does not still find it charming, he tells his heart, and wonders if he could hire some tiny asshole gnome to go stomp around in an atrium or two and get it to stop doing what it's doing. Fucking traitor.)

"Do you actually believe that, or is it some dumb excuse because you're terrified of being happy?"

Oh, that's fucking rich.

Tommy opens his mouth to tell him exactly that but Eddie just steamrolls right by him. "You don't have to point out the hypocrisy, jackass. I'm well aware of my own issues. Thing is - you're like, almost right. Buck does make me happy. Next to Chris there's no one else in the world I'd rather have by my side, rain or shine, good or bad. I love him. He's my person."

Tommy rolls his jaw. It's not a vindication to hear it.

"Except I'm not gay, Tommy. And I don't want that. I never have. And neither does Buck, just in case that argument was about to hit the airwaves."

"How do you know?"

Something sparks in the back of Eddie's eyes. Understanding. Triumph.

"You want an itemized list or a demonstration?"

Which is when Tommy knows he's stepped into an absolute minefield. No markers. Just free balling his way through a conversation that could explode with even the slightest pressure.

Eddie's got his phone out.

None of this is ideal.

When he looks up, his eyes land squarely on Tommy, who would like in this moment to be able to curl so far in on himself he gets sucked clean through the other side. "First of all, Buck may have just been improvising his entire journey of sexuality but for once I was trying to get ahead of the curve so that whole starry-eyed newly not straight vision you have of Buck is bullshit. You let him pull you along by the shirt strings for months without pressing pause and then you freak out when he thinks his speed and your speed are the same speed?"

This is feeling a whole lot like an ambush, now.

"Did you ever even try to slow him down?"

Tommy has some choice words that aren't remotely appropriate to say to someone who is at least tangentially still his friend, so he takes another swig of shitty beer. God, this shit is awful.

"You wanna know how I know I'm not his one? How I know he's not mine?"

Tommy really, really doesn't. Honestly he'd like to kick him out.

"Because he went at our friendship at the same warp speed pace he took your relationship and it never fucking scared me."

Proof in the pudding, for Tommy. He's not the sort of jackass who actually thinks he can make a different judgement call on someone else's sexuality than the one they've made themselves, but come on.

"Shannon's been dead for half a decade," Eddie says, voice dropping so suddenly Tommy feels it like an icy draft. "And maybe one day I'll make my peace with that. Maybe one day I'll get out from under it. The point is I've lost them both and the loss wasn't the goddamn same."

"Buck came back," Tommy argues.

Eddie scoffs. Wrinkles his nose. "Jeez, he wasn't kidding about how weird that sounds." His phone buzzes on the countertop, and Tommy wonders what the hell that look on his face means. "Don't change the subject. I'm not here to talk you into anything. I'm just here to drink a beer with you and tell you how goddamn stupid it is to think that an uncertain future with Evan Buckley isn't worth every second of terror it causes you."

"You don't know me as well as you think you do."

Eddie tips the bottle against his lips. Swallows. God, why hadn't Tommy just pursued the self-proclaimed straight guy for a couple weeks before he scratched the itch somewhere else and kept a friend, instead?

"Maybe." Eddie tips his head. "Maybe I do, though. Maybe in the months and months you were invited to all my mopey nights in with Buck and all the crazy crap we end up involved in at the station and all the times you couldn't shut up about him when he wasn't around and all the times I got to see you falling ass over teakettle for my best friend, I learned a fucking thing or two about Tommy Kinard." He wags his head back and forth. "Maybe."

"Is there a point to this?"

Eddie tips his eyes to his phone, and it's probably too late at this point for the suspicion to begin to creep in.

"I mostly just came to confront you about your completely off base bullshit excuses, but there's actually a pretty simple solution to at least one of your multitude of issues, so. Now we're waiting."

Tommy doesn't like the sound of that at all.

"Chris is mad at you, by the way."

It's a distraction. It's fully a - "Why is he mad at me?"

"I should actually thank you, because it's the first time he's actively talked to me in months," Eddie continues, like Tommy hadn't asked a question. "He's pissed because Buck is sad and there's literally nothing in the world that gets a rise out of the Diaz boys like sad Buck."

"You can just say you're pissed at me and go, Eddie."

"Oh I'm angry. Don't think I'm not. Mostly I'm just sad for you. You had six months to get to know Buck and never thought to yourself 'hes going to love me and it's going to hurt' until he skipped too far ahead in the program."

And that's - kind of the final straw. He's let Eddie get his licks in. He deserves it, he knows he does. Honestly it's a little cathartic to hear - to know exactly what Buck has spent his time dissecting post-Tommy. "That's all I ever thought about. Do you think I didn't know going in? I tried to put a stop to it before it even started and he just doubled down! Do you think for a second I wasn't viscously aware that I was setting myself up for -."

No. He's not gonna say it. He's not giving that to Eddie when he couldn't even give it to Ev-Buck. When he couldn't give it to Buck.

Eddie looks victorious anyway.

"And for six months you thought it was worth it."

"For six months I was too much of a coward to stop thinking about it."

Eddie drains the rest of his beer. "I'm not gonna lie. You screwed up pretty bad. Like. Astronomically bad. Giving up your location in a firefight bad."

Tommy does everything he can not to wince.

"It's salvageable, though. If you want it to be. If there's anything I know about Buck it's that second chances are his bread and butter." He's been dancing around saying anything of substance about Buck's feelings, in all of this, but the hints are there. As if the bouts of angry-depressive texts from Buck weren't clue enough.

"And what if it's not what I want?"

Eddie's eyes dart to his phone one more time. "Then you can make it a clean break in about ... three and a half minutes."

Tommy nearly tosses his beer across the room.

[luveline]

Girl pls pls write stripper reader and Spencer where she thinks he would never date her bc she’s a stripper and just a sprinkle of angst with lots of comforting fluff and Spencer reassuring

thank u for requesting! ♡ fem, 1.5k

cw mentioned past domestic/workplace abuse, unhealthy eating habits

Someone broke into my apartment. 9:14AM

Spencer reads the message under the table but forgoes discretion when he registers what it says and who it's from. He excuses himself from the round table, something he isn't even sure he's allowed to do, and hurries out onto the landing. 

You answer on the second dial. "Hey, did you see my text?" you ask. 

"Are you okay?" He squeezes his phone. 

"I'm not sure. I'm fine, but my lock is busted and the door won't stay shut." 

"Where are you?" 

If you're surprised that he's steamrolling, you don't show it. Spencer leaves work to meet you at the coffee shop you've chosen for refuge, your eyes tired, a small bag of your most important possessions hanging on a slumped shoulder. He hugs you straight away. 

"I'm fine," you say into his neck. 

He hugs you tighter. "That's good," he says, feeling useless, fingers stroking little paths into your shoulders. He pictured the worst from your text, and seeing you in person is the only true mitigator. You'll talk down bruises and black eyes —you have in the past. 

He pulls the story from you as you walk back to his apartment, shoulder to shoulder in the cold street. "It was open when I got home, the door, but I did what you asked me to." 

"You didn't go in?" he confirms proudly. 

"Not at first." 

"You really won't call the police?" 

"I texted you." 

Spencer takes the strap of your bag from you and throws it over his own. "I'm not that kind of cop. I'm not really a cop at all." 

"No, you're a fed, which is worse. The girls at work told me to stay away from you." You wipe under your eyes sluggishly. Sleep clings to you like a shadow trailing behind you, ever-present. 

He puts his hand behind your back, worried you'll fall up the steps to his apartment building. "They think I'll what, extort you?" 

You shake your head, something sad in the slow side to side. "Girls like me have no business around guys like you." 

"You probably get too much business from guys like me." 

You laugh, but you both know it's not what you meant. Spencers noticed it more and more lately, nothing so obvious until now, this dead set belief you hold that he's one type of person and you're another. He gets that your work isn't what you wanted for yourself when you were growing up. He knows it isn't easy, even on your 'good' nights. It takes a toll to be seen as you are, nothing left private. But you've always said you liked stripping as much as anyone should like their job. "It's a job," you'd said, having barely known him, tired and hungry, curled up on his couch with nowhere else to go. "Only the luckiest get to really enjoy work. S'why it's called work." 

He'd hoped, perhaps in a self-absorbed way, that  having more support might make you feel better about yourself; he wanted his friendship to give you some confidence, basically. Before you met Spencer there was no one else you could depend on. It's why you stayed working for a man who broke your wrist until Spencer weaselled his way into your life and made you a bed in his living room for the time it took to get you out. His credentials helped, of course, but you survived it because you're resilient. You're awesome. You've done everything you can with what you have and you don't think it's enough. 

You and Spencer take the elevator to his floor, and for the twenty seconds it takes to get there, you let your cheek rest on his shoulder. He's just about to drop his head on top of yours when the doors open, and the slice of quiet you'd both savoured slips like sand between his fingers. 

"I can go back and get some of your stuff," he offers, guiding you the short walk to his door. He passes you the key rather than struggle with the lock himself. 

Your hand shakes as you push down the handle. "There's nothing worth going back for." 

"Don't say that, you have all your clothes there, your couch. You have things. I'll take my car." 

"You hate driving." 

"I'd hate someone robbing you even more." 

"Robbing me again," you correct, holding the door for him. 

You didn't have anything worth the trouble, it seems. You keep your savings in a locked box hidden in the bathroom that they couldn't find, and though your apartment is clean and bigger than the one you lived in before Spencer met you, it's mostly empty. You don't have a TV, you're not a collector. They took the radio off of the refrigerator, your microwave oven, and a box of cosmetic jewellery worth chapel change. 

"But it's your stuff. You deserve to have stuff." Spencer drops your bag gently and his with less care by the door. 

"It's only until the locksmith can come tomorrow," you say with a yawn. "Let the junkies lavish in my stuff for the next twenty hours." 

"That's not a problem for you?" 

"I don't have the luxury of that being a problem for me, Spence. What am I supposed to do? The locksmith can't come–" 

"There are a hundred locksmiths." 

"Not that I can afford." You shrug out of your jacket. "Spence, listen to me. It's okay. I can't ask you to do that, anyways. You've done more than enough for me already," you say, sitting on the couch. You perch for a moment like you're trying to be polite until fatigue overtakes you, and you sink into the cushions with a relieved sigh. 

Spencer crosses the space between you and kneels by your feet to untie your shoelaces. 

"Don't do that," you mumble, hand over your mouth as a second yawn in as many minutes catches you. 

"Why not?" He slips your shoes off, letting his hand rest on your ankle. "Wanna watch that weird cooking show–" 

"Why aren't you at work?" 

He climbs onto the couch next to you, unafraid to sit shoulder to shoulder. "You were having an emergency." 

You rub your face with both hand. "I knew I shouldn't have called you. You can't just leave work because of me, Spencer, what if you get in trouble?" 

"Someone I care about needed my help, and Hotch understands that." Spencer puts on his big boy pants with a wince. "Do you get that?" 

"I don't really… I don't…" You falter. "We're never going to work. You'll never…" 

"I'll never what?" he asks insistently, voice lilting up with a little incredulity. He can't help it.

You refuse to answer, turning your face from his. 

Spencer knows what you're going to say. He's bad with girls but he's good at recognising human emotion; he sees the same insecurity in himself as he does in you. He knows the feeling. 

You're not right, is the thing. 

Spencer would kiss you if he thought that would change your mind. But tired as you are, angry with yourself, defeated, he knows it's not a good idea. He takes your hand instead, sewing your fingers together with a deliberate slowness. He brings his other hand to them and strokes the back of your index finger with his thumb, careful not to disrupt your press on nails. He knows they have a tendency to come off with too much pressure, and you're always losing your glue. 

"If they really need me to go, they'll call me. But I'm staying here." His thumb moves down to your knuckle. You have little calluses and cuts and bruises everywhere from dancing. He's seen the contusions that line your thighs on a semi permanent basis. "When was the last time you had something to eat?"

"Spencer," you murmur. 

"Let me take care of you, please," he says, hand curling around your wrist with extreme gentleness. "You need to eat. You need to sleep. Let me worry about everything else for once, I want to." 

You still don't look at him, but you sink down an inch at a time until your cheek is on his shoulder again, like it had been in the elevator. Hesitant, you wrap your arm around his stomach. 

"I'm so stupid," you say. 

He wonders if that's a placeholder for what you really want to say. You think so little of yourself sometimes, but it's like you've told him before. Not everyone has the luxury of enjoying their job. 

"You're amazing." Spencer feels like he's on fire everywhere that your skin touches him. Is he saying the right things? "You are. You're the only person who doesn't see that." 

"The only person here, maybe." 

"You should always be here, then. With me. That way I can remind you." 

You sound more like yourself when you answer, though tiredness lines every word, "Thank you, Spencer. I don't deserve you." 

"Yes, you do."

Spencer rubs your hand until you fall asleep, and then he buys you a new toaster oven on his phone, and an industrial security lock. He doesn't know what it'll take to convince you that you deserve him, you deserve better, but he's gonna try. 

He presses his cheek to your temple and focuses on the softness of your skin where it touches his.  

[itshype]

Mansplain Yourself (DC x DP)

Danny decides that attending college and defending the entirety of Earth from ghosts is too hard to maintain alongside a job. He should just get paid to do his hero work!

He shows up on the watchtower with a PowerPoint and printed portfolio proving he's been doing hero work for years. He fought a king from another dimension. He wants some of their money.

"We don't really have a budget? We can't really pay you." Says Superman.

"I am standing in space right now. That guy has a bat-themed submarine, private jet and fleet of automobiles. If you guys aren't rolling in that sweet, sweet USA defence budget cash, how are you affording all of this?"

"Uh, okay, we'll pay you." Says Batman (It's Nightwing subbing in for Bruce tonight and he panics!)

Constantine is cranky. This is a ghost. Ghosts are dead. Why the fuck would he need human money?

Danny's first paycheck clears. He moves out of his parents house and it's all good!

And this is when the trouble begins. Real Batman has noticed the money moving, and questions about the paperwork for the Justice League's 'new employee'.

Constantine is still crank though, and when Danny comes in for a skills assessment he steamrolls the poor guy. Talking over him, correcting him etc.

Danny is tired, he has a paper due before midnight and he doesn't even know what this guy's problem is. So, Danny lets him mansplain his own powers to the Justice League.

The Justice League paperwork for Phantom the Infinite Realms Ghost reads like this:

Senses others of his kind (see appendix 5a)

Intangibility

Self-sustained flight

Knowledge about Infinite Realms (see general database - dimensions, subsection 52), and it's inhabitants.

Danny figures he'll get payback for all his colleges listening to this cigarette-smoking hack over him the first time any of them see him actually fight. But the first fight he's in with them is an easy one, he only really needs to fly and lift some heavy-ish stuff. Then the next one is a false alarm. Then they keep giving the hard jobs to Superman.

Then, about 6 months in - Danny's file now has Super Strength (see appendix 12f) - added. Kal-el goes down. Hard. A single, brutal hit.

…And Wonder Woman takes his place in the plan with ease.

How long is it going to take before Danny gets to (legitimately) show off for once?! He can't wait.

[robo-writing]

NSFW Alphabet - Bi-Han Edition

Pairing: Bi-Han/Reader Authors Note: I look at this man and I can’t decide if I want him to choke me with his biceps or put him on his knees and make him call me mommy 🫠

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Bi-Han becomes extremely tender after sex, almost as if he’s a different person. When it’s just you two, bodies intertwined beneath the sheets, your head resting on his chest as you both slowly catch your breath, he can’t find it in himself to deny your beauty.

Your favorite moments are these, when the room is quiet save for the sound of the night and the rumble in his chest, when nothing matters except for you and Bi-Han. You live for these moments, revel in the way he softly strokes your hair and leaves kisses at your temple, the faintest smile gracing his normally stoic features.

The responsibility of Grandmaster is a tiring one, what you would give to be spoiled like this every day, to wake up and know that your boyfriend is waiting for you each morning, but perhaps that’s selfish to think about. For now, you can rest easy knowing that if nothing else, you can indulge in Bi-Han’s embrace now.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Bi-Han would be a liar if he said the sight of your ass in a nice pair of pants didn’t draw his attention. He sometimes thinks you do it on purpose, the way your hips sway when you walk past, enticing not only him but any man who becomes witness to your antics. It’s a point of pride to know that all they can do is watch and imagine while he is the only one in the world allowed to touch you, but it doesn’t still the jealousy within him when he knows the sight of you is enough to bring the attention of others. Perhaps he’ll teach you a lesson once he’s finished with his duties.

As for himself, it’s his hands. Hands that were trained for battle, hands that were trained to kill, he is very proud of his abilities. Recently his pride has been inflated when you mentioned you like his hands, not for their skill but for their size. Large enough to hold your close, or to press you further into the mattress.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Possibly his most favorite feeling in the world is being able to cum inside you, watch the mess that slides from between your folds and onto the bed in a messy puddle. The sight of you fucked out and delirious, his own seed staining the sheets is enough to drive him mad. More often than not it inspires him to fuck you harder.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He secretly loves that you’re feisty, that you give him a hard time and you’re quick to disagree with him. He grew up as the first born son and because of that he’s been surrounded by those who simply take his words at face value. It’s led to a very boring life, but then you steamrolled through it, stubborn thing that you are; You don’t hesitate to talk back, make it a point of interest to call him out when he’s being an asshole, and in his eyes it only makes him love you even more. He hates the idea of a partner who just listens to him like the other Lin Kuei do, so your attitude is very refreshing.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Bi-Han’s had sex before, but solely for the pleasure of it, not because of any romantic inclination. In his mind he needed to fulfill an urge, and once he had his fill the lady of his choice would leave; a purely transactional exchange. 

That being said, he is at the very least grateful for his previous encounters as they allow him to use what he’s learned on you.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) 

It depends on his mood that night. If he’s feeling more romantic he’ll take his time with some missionary, letting every last inch of him sink into your needy cunt, his deep groans loud in your ears. Bi-Han has never been one for mindless praise, so when the only thing that leaves his mouth is pure adoration you know in your heart he means every word.

However, if you’ve been acting like a brat? He’s teaching you a lesson, a master of discipline as the Lin Kuei’s Grandmaster. Face down, ass up, back arched, and it’s going to stay that way until he’s certain you’ve learned your lesson or until your legs give out, to which he’ll drape himself over you and fuck you until it hurts to breathe.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

While he might be more relaxed when it’s just the two of you, he is definitely not making jokes during sex, it’s almost scary how serious he is about your pleasure. He doesn’t understand the need for comedy with such an intimate affair and he might even take offense.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) 

He is extremely groomed, from his face to his pubes. He has a regular grooming schedule and it’s a common sight to see him in the bathroom with a razor in hand. 

“Bi-Han?” You call out sleepily, unaware of your husband’s whereabouts.

A hum, and a quiet “In here.” Is enough to give you an idea. Your feet slowly paddled across the floor, and in the bathroom you see him slowly going over his face with a razor.

You enjoy the moment for what it is before speaking. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with facial hair.”

“It is easier to wear a mask without hair in the way,” he says bluntly. You agree with him, but can’t help but tease him a bit more.

“If it matters, I think you’d look good with a beard.”

His hands stop just for a second before moving again, the faintest smile on his lips. “I will keep that in mind.”

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

You wouldn’t expect it, but he is surprisingly romantic during the deed. Sex is a private occasion, unlike what happens outside your bedroom Bi-Han allows himself to be vulnerable, to let his emotions run rampant. It often results in a very intimate affair where he can finally express himself to you without any fear of judgement, where he can kiss you to his hearts content and admire your beauty up close without the weight of Grandmaster on his shoulders.

If you told anyone they’d have a hard time believing it, but Grandmaster Bi-Han is secretly a softy, at least where you’re concerned. Even if he seems standoffish in public, you know better.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Before you two were dating he would find himself dreaming of you in various compromising positions to the point that he felt angry at both himself for indulging in those thoughts, and you for occupying them.

There would always be a pang of guilt that ran through him knowing that he just touched himself to the thought of you, but he truly couldn’t help himself—you were just too much of a distraction.

After you two become a couple he’s become far more accepting of his needs, but even so he’d prefer you were there to assist him, so he can wait for a while.

The entire day has been trying, from morning to night Bi-Han hasn’t had a moments peace, not as long as you were around.

He thinks maybe you are a witch, that you’ve casted some kind of spell on him, a vile magic that makes his heart beat faster and his tongue turn to lead. Racing thoughts of you and only you.

Your words, your touch, your body—it’s enough to distract him, and nothing distracts him.

The entire day is trying, so when he falls to the bed and thinks of you again, his hands immediately falls towards his cock to rectify the issue.

He curses his weakness, his shirt sandwiched between his teeth, a feeble attempt to stifle his moans. He curses you in the same breath, you and your haunting figure. Faster and faster does his hand move against his hard cock, until his racing mind is filled with thoughts of you milking him for all he’s worth.

Before he’s awash with pleasure, trembling with satisfaction, the last thing he curses is himself for being too cowardly to admit his desire for you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Breeding: He wants kids, he wants you to know he wants kids, and he wants you to know how good you would look with a belly full of them. Even if you’re not ready for kids or you’re taking birth control it’s not going to stop him from coming inside you, his idea of aftercare is running two fingers between your dripping cunt, stuffing you full of them and kissing your tears away.

“I know you’re sensitive dear, but it’s necessary, we need to make sure not to waste a single drop.”

Brat taming: If you’re a brat, enjoy yourself. He loves your attitude but when you push him too far he won’t hesitate to force you on your knees and remind you exactly who’s in charge in this relationship.

“It would have been easier for you to admit your need,” he groans, his heavy cock slapping against your open mouth, the taste of salt on your tongue. “But you had to make this difficult. Perhaps I’ve been too lenient with you.”

Marking: he’s more conservative about marks on himself but on you it’s free real estate. His favorite ones are the scratches you leave on his back.

You’ve fallen asleep minutes ago, but Bi-Han is still awake, stretching his back and reveling in the familiar ache that stings his skin. Your nails are sure to leave a mark, a trophy he’ll admire in the mirror when he gets dressed tomorrow.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

His bedroom mainly. You’d have to really rile him up to convince him to fuck you in public, and even then it’s a risky affair. He enjoys when you moan for him, but times like this call for stealth, something you lack when you’re being fucked.

His solution for this is gagging you. His fingers get the job done, or he’ll muffle your lips with his own.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You pretending as if you don’t know the effect you have on him, when you brush against him in public, when you bend over just a bit too much to be innocent. The front is amusing, but what’s more amusing is how easily it crumbles apart when you’re put on your knees.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Sharing you with anyone else, you’re his and his only. He also wouldn’t draw blood on you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Preference in receiving rather than giving, but when his thoughts get too loud and he needs a moment of peace and quiet the first place he’ll settle is between your legs.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Rough, possessive even—long, deep strokes that punch the air out of your lungs and make you see stars. He wants the world to know who you belong to, which is evident from the amount of hickeys and bruises left on your person after the fact. If you leave some on him he won’t mind, even if he is technically supposed to hide them it’s unsurprising to see the faintest little purple mark peeking out beneath his collar, a not-so-subtle reminder.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He doesn’t like them, flat out. He knows a quickie is not enough to satisfy his appetite of you, he’d sooner wait until he’s certain neither of you have any prior obligations to devour you as he sees fit.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Surprisingly open to experimentation. It’s almost like training in his mind, a game of figuring out what makes you tick, what makes you see stars and cry out for him. Needless to say he’s very proficient at this game.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) 

God bless that Lin Kuei training; hours, although he is aware of your own limits and will gladly let you take a break should you need one. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

I feel like you would have to own them yourself or you would have to introduce them to him. He might take offense to the idea of having anything that isn’t him bring you pleasure but you showed him the joys of using one and now he’s more open to the idea.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Oh he’s fucking evil, for such a stoic man you would never expect it but he gets off to seeing you wanting him, needing him. There’s always a plan brewing in that head of his.

Remember when I said you introduced him to the idea of toys in the bedroom? He may or may not force you to sit on a vibrator when you’re being bratty as a form of punishment while he leaves you tied to the bed. Only when he’s certain you’ve learned your lesson will he turn it off, but by then you’re a shaky, sweaty pile of your former self. Be careful what you wish for.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Groaner, deep growls in an even deeper tone, you can feel the rumble of him in his chest like an engine. He gets so breathy when he’s close too, it’s a sight to behold.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Secretly wants to be dominated, but will never say it out loud, you’ve got to figure that out yourself. When you finally do don’t expect him to make it easy for you either, he’ll fight you on every command and order until you either tie him down or gag him (He actually enjoys the thrill of the fight, he’s kind of a brat in that way.)

“I never thought the Grandmaster would enjoy being so exposed,” you giggle, admiring how the crimson rope compliments his skin, nearly the same shade as the blush that runs from his face down to his neck.

He tugs at his restraints, once, twice, before groaning at the feeling of your hands around his cock. It’s far too slow for his taste, he needs more and you know it, his head falling back when you squeeze his shaft and watch enamored as pre-cum dribbles down your fingers.

“Damn you,” he says, groaning when you respond with another firm grip. He takes a shuddering breath, cursing your name, and then begging for more in the same breath. All bark and no bite.

“You sure look like you’re enjoying yourself,” you muse, swiping your thumb against his leaking slit. “Look at that, making a mess of yourself.”

There’s a feral edge to the smile on his face, enjoying this little game. “These bonds cannot hold me for long. You know that, don’t you?”

Your eyebrow raises at that. “Course I do. But you’re not going to leave, are you Bi-Han?”

The air is filled with tension, and with his silence you have your answer, your hand moving faster as his hips desperately try to meet your rhythm.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) 

6.3 inches, circumsized, veiny at the base. My man is THICK, it’s heavy when you hold it in your hands and almost makes you wonder how he can walk straight, and his tip turns a pretty shade of rose when he’s aroused, reaching down to his shaft as if his cock is blushing. That thing should be registered as a weapon.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

If he could he’d have you pressed into the bed all day, but responsibilities come first. He can deceive you with how much self control he has but trust and believe he is almost always ready to go.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) 

Not quick at all, he revels in taking his time with you and refuses to sleep until he knows you’re taken care of. It’s a rule of his to watch you and make sure you’re safe before he succumbs himself, he’ll say it’s because of his life as an assassin but in reality he just enjoys seeing your blissful state.

Graphics by @cafekitsune and @saradika-graphics

[meredithgran]

About Newspaper Comics

An ask cross-posted from Cohost, which is not long for this world.

Anonymous User asked: I would like to know your opinions about newspaper comics

This is a very choose your own adventure kind of question. Am I meant to speak about the art or the business of newspaper strips? The current state of newspaper comics or their century-spanning history? Stream of consciousness it is.

Newspaper comics were the original dream for me before all other dreams. I fell in love with Garfield and the story of its success, and wanted to make a syndicated strip at an early age. Later, I fell in love with Calvin and Hobbes - itself a lesson in craft, history and business - and abandoned the syndication dream for “art by any means necessary”, and dove into webcomics. (There were a few more steps along the way, but that’s the basic trajectory and not uncommon for my age.)

In the 80s and 90s when I was dreaming Garfield dreams, syndicated newspaper strips were already dying. They’d been jam packed so tightly into rectangles in the comics section that no room for great cartooning remained. The schedules were brutal, the audience was broad and apt to complain, and the aging comics legends were phoning in or delegating their work, so even the full-page Sunday strips were gridded and lifeless. Even fresh new artists (rare as they were) were hammered creatively into the shape of the paper. The death of most major newspapers from the late 00s onward spelled the end of Garfield Meredith's dream.

The thing is, Garfield Meredith would be very pleased with the present day. Comics are bountiful, they're free to read online, and they're all accessible from a single app. Even better, the creators interact with their audiences day and night. In comics we have safely returned to the late-stage newspaper syndication model, after a brief "art by any means" era, with 24/7 access to the creators as a bonus. It goes without saying that most of the money these comics generate goes to the platform. As more people discover online comics, the memory of any other model has faded. Comics is a pushover industry, easily steamrolled by detached parties with money.

So what do we do? I'm afraid that's not what this post is about. Mom's tired. My heads is not really in the comics game anymore, and big tech & our rotting internet is a problem everywhere. But I think discussions about our history as cartoonists and comics appreciators - and an acknowledgment of what is disappearing - is important. It's no surprise that Bill Watterson's stubborn refusal to license, adapt, or needlessly continue his creation past its prime shocked me and many others onto a different path. I think it is useful to be a high-functioning crank in your own age: to fully accept the now without forgetting past possibilities or drawing a border around the future.

And of course, we mustn't let current trends tame our wild imaginations or our command of the craft. We have been given the tools to create beauty and make sense of life, and these creations - not the platforms that indiscriminately corral them - are worth sharing.

[koolades-world]

Hellooo! I've been thinking about this for so long. Can you write the demon bros with a little sister reader ( around the teenage year maybe)? She's the 8th of the family. I think it would be really cute since she's the only girl in the family. Everyone will be protective of her and love her so much that Lucifer will have a soft spot for her even though she likes to annoy him. And what if she and Mammon are so close that they would together annoy Lucifer? Then Satan would be her tutor and Asmo would do a self-care routine with her. Okay, I think I'm babbling too much but that's it.

hello! yes haha this is such a cute idea. i have so many ideas!!

i did say sister in the title since it was requested, but it could also be read as gn or male!

enjoy <3

Demons brothers with a younger sister reader

you are lucifer's unspoken favorite! he'll invite you to eat lunch with himself, diavolo and barbatos from time to time, and the way he glows when you're around is so obvious to the other two, almost so that they feel like they're intruding on your moment

anytime you basically waltz into his room while he's working for whatever reason, he won't mind

you're the baby of the family, and he'd do anything for you, and you both know it

oh i just know mammon would SPOILLL you

i can already imagine all of the shopping days together simply because he wanted to treat you

he really really enjoys being your older brother and just loves you in general. he melts when you turn to him for everything, big and small, and he knows even the biggest of fights would never keep you apart

you can count on levi buying you any game you'd ever wished for, and of course he's going to either play them with you or be by your side while you do

don't worry, he'll always be there to back you up and if there's ever anyone bothering you in game, he'll steamroll them for you <3

he knows how hard talking about things can be, so if you ever need, his room is open if you need to catch your breath and relax

for anything school related, satan is the brother you can go to, and he hopes it's very clear

whether it's homework help or there's some pushy demons on your back for whatever reason, he's got your back

he's always looking out for you, even in the most unlikely of places. if you ever find that pencil you thought you lost last week on your desk, or a snack you were seriously craving is sitting on your bed when you get back from RAD, you might find satan in the background somewhere with a small smile <3

asmo is your number one fan! anytime, anywhere, he’ll be there to support and cheer you on

fashion emergency? no worries! he's got you covered no matter what. he's always carrying everything he things you might need and if he doesn't for whatever reason, he will find a way to get it for you

omg self care nights together <33 i can totally picture the two of you sitting on his bed together with face masks on and animatedly talking about your love lives together haha

if you thought lucifer was protective, wait until you see beel. he's not one to jump to conclusions, but if he even thinks someone is bothering you, he will bring it up with you and make sure you're alright

lots of late night snack runs together! he knows your favorite snacks at your favorite stores, so if you're too tired to go, he'll go and get it for you

when he gets back, the two of you secretly munch away together, occasionally joined by belphie

belphie might still act like he’s the youngest, but he’s fiercely protective of you just like his twin

so many sibling squabbles haha. the ones where you’re screaming at each other and then ten minutes later, you’re best friends again are the most common

together, you often team up to plead with lucifer for whatever you might want that day. he can’t resist two sets of puppy dog eyes at the same time haha

[dustykneed]

ohhhh you want to send me mcspirk/spones/mckirk asks so bad.... Do it ...... Hand them over..... hand em over NEOW

(translation: being steamrolled by work & too tired to draw my own silly little comic ideas. Feel free to suggest aus or ask me about my own aus/fic ideas etc im just. eepy. tored af & need a bit of motivation lol

i should sleep but i have so many things to say about this scribble so like. the context in my head is this is spirk to mcspirk slowburn in spirit. And this is bones' first time asking to kiss spock of his own accord? like when they first get together bones is really skittish and nervous because he's so scared he'll fuck it up somehow and he's too anxious to ask for affection even though he's been wanting it for so long. And spirk has to make a point of asking to give him that affection because they just want him to know they care for him so much. so this is a big moment for them! and jim being sandwiched between his favourite people in the whole universe smiling up at them because they're his whole wide world...... (OH god i feel some kind of fic coming on. i cant do this i have so many wips already (⁠´⁠-⁠﹏⁠-⁠`⁠；⁠)

[chenouttachen]

i'm back to be angry at episode 5 alan before i steamroll ahead to eps 6 and 7. picking up straight after the world's worst staff meeting, alan follows jeff out of the garage. and leads with THIS!

after having the audacity to grab a (rightfully) livid jeff, alan tells him to let the others apologise without even apologising HIMSELF.

jeff doesn't say 'they don't trust me', it's 'everyone', and alan is included in that. i've said it before, but jeff just opened up to alan, trusted him, and had that trust thrown back in his face.

and alan keeps putting his foot in it. he tries so hard to be on everyone's side that he doesn't recognise that he keeps choosing the worst dialogue options each time. what he should have said is 'i trust you, i want you to keep working here'. instead he rationalises the other's actions, which wouldn't be a bad thing if he also told jeff that he understands his side. but he doesn't.

jeff continues to stand up for himself; he's not going to apologise to this man for doing his job. this entire situation is unfair and he's not going to pull any punches making sure alan understands that. he rightfully points out the biases and prejudices of the x-hunter team (because that was a setup through and through).

alan knows he's losing jeff in this moment. he's getting desperate to make him stay, but he has no idea how to do that. he thinks that dean and way are the problem, that if they apologise it will be enough. but he still hasn't done that himself.

and it breaks my heart, because jeff is ready to turn around and hear alan out. he's almost willing to overlook alan's lack of apology. but then alan keeps talking. and it doesn't come from a malicious place; alan wants jeff to understand the other's perspectives. but it cuts deeper than he intends to. by blaming jeff and his introverted nature, he conveys to jeff that there's something wrong with him, that he can't be trusted purely because he doesn't operate with the same boundless energy as the rest of x-hunter. and as his words sink in, we see jeff accept them and shut down.

it hurts jeff to realise that the one person who has made an effort to get to know him... doesn't know him at all. we know that jeff cares deeply about people - he loves charlie and is going through with this plan because he's tired of seeing people get hurt. but the wall that he's had to put up because of his past and his power hurts him too. to know that alan (unknowingly) condemns him for protecting himself, it's too much.

jeff has been so strong this entire time, clear in his knowledge that he's done nothing wrong. he's refused to apologise or stoop to way's level, but he can't do that anymore. because he isn't strong in his belief in himself. yes, he knows his skills and his worth as a worker, but as a person? he's lived his whole life as cattle being raised for profit, and he doesn't know how to reconcile with that, or how to speak about it. he's only just learning how to function in society with a power that keeps him inherently isolated. he's pushed himself so far out of his comfort zone in his short time in the garage, trying to protect these people, but in jeff's eyes they cannot accept him. not because he's a bad worker, but because of who he is as a person. and all he can do in the face of that is apologise.

but it is like that. alan has failed to step up for jeff in his time of need, and has still failed to apologise. jeff realises in this moment, that alan won't. and he can't take any further disappointments.

when jeff leaves, it physically pains alan. there's a part of him, one he can't acknowledge yet, that wants to do right by jeff, wants to protect and support him. and in one evening he's done more harm than he could have thought possible.

[gardenofnoah]

katsuki hates to be placated.

it stems from his childhood (because of course it does)—there was no getting through or around his abrasiveness, so the next best thing was to pin him with that tired smile. the look of resignation that was always the same, no matter who wore it. to agree to every retort, even if he was being so horribly unreasonable. to choose—overtly—the quickest way to end the argument and flee from him.

he hated it. he hated it, and he could never understand—why was he the only one who ever had any backbone? he saw his challenges and rose to them every time. he came out on top, every time. it wasn’t as if he was being purposefully combative. he just…didn’t know how else to be.

to finally understand that he himself was the challenge, and one not worth seeing through—well.

that just hurt.

so he did the only thing a child so young could think to do—he became more. more volatile, more prone to outbursts. more unpredictable and, looking back on it now, scary. but that was what made sense to him—if he was made to see those barely-veiled expressions of intolerance either way—he’d at least have control over why.

as an adult, he has a better grasp on himself and his emotions, but he wouldn’t be katsuki without that hair trigger temper and his smart ass mouth. and he feels lucky—really lucky—that he has you, because you aren’t afraid of his challenge. you meet him head on and you give it right back.

so he can’t understand why you’re standing in front of him—not even looking at him—wearing that same, appeasing grimace tonight. he doesn’t understand, and suddenly he’s 11 again—small and made to feel so, so insignificant by the way you sigh like you can’t bear to speak another word to him. by the way your lips can barely turn up at the corners, and your strained little “nothing, kat” when he asks you what your problem is.

he had only answered your questions. it might’ve been the case that his answers came through gritted teeth as he heaved himself through the door to your home. it might be true that the adrenaline from his shift still pumping hard through his veins had him a little on edge, still feeling vigilant for any outward threat. and the way you’re postured away from him, like you can’t stand another second in the same room with him, feels as threatening as any villain.

“so why the fuck are you mad at me?”

you pause, hand halfway to dropping the tea bag into the steaming mug on the counter as you turn to look at him, expression both concerned and very tired.

“mad at you?”

he balks, because he hadn’t anticipated having to actually elaborate on that, and now he feels foolish as he tries to formulate his complaint. but the anger wins out, like it always does, and his explanation comes out clipped through gritted teeth.

“you’re fuckin’—turned away from me like i’m a little pest,” he seethes, only spurred on by the way you step forward, reaching for him like you mean to pacify a child mid-tantrum.

he doesn’t even see you anymore, not really—just every other face projected over yours, until he sees red. it’s always the same—no matter how hard he tries, he is too much—

“y’think i can’t tell how bad you don’t want to be here right now? i can practically hear ya thinking of all the ways to leave this—”

“katsuki.”

you’re facing him fully now, arms crossed over your chest with a look that can only be interpreted as one of annoyance, aimed right at him.

and that gives him pause, because at least you’re honest. he just…doesn’t know what to do with that.

“what on earth are you talking about?”

and of course he can’t say it. he tries to deflect, because the walls close in and the only way out is to steamroll over you. “you—you—”

and he just wishes you’d cut him off—tell him some horrible and likely true thing about himself so he can let go of all of the venom he’s been carrying around for over a decade—but instead you wait for him to tell you what he’s thinking. he can’t bear to tell you that the only thing in his head right now is his fear.

fear that he’s too much for you, too.

“you’re actin’ like you don’t want to talk to me,” he grits out, mirroring your posture with a huff and glaring at the tile by your feet. it sounds childish when it leaves him, like he ought to have stomped his foot to end the sentence, and the shame curls up in his chest.

you’re silent for what feels like an eternity. he feels the anger burn him up when he hears you snort.

before he can snap at you, you’re wrapped around his midsection. he wants to thrash until you let go, but he’s subdued in a way that feels different. even so, his petulance remains, and he holds his arms out from his sides like you’ve got fleas.

“i’m not mad at you, you big baby,” you murmur, and he can hear the smile in your voice, even muffled by his costume. “i’m just tired, kat. i was like, 99% asleep until a minute ago. i thought we were just gonna go to bed. ”

he feels himself fight against the way he wants to deflate at your words, and this time the anger is only directed at himself. he doesn’t understand why everything has to feel so fucking hard. why every tiny shift in your body language has him feeling nauseous, or why his mind drops him at the worst case scenario and leaves him there, stranded.

“i don’t want to leave,” you answer his earlier comment, head butting him lightly in the sternum. he feels no control over his arms when they loop around your shoulders to pull you closer.

“it’s 1am and i want to sleep,” you look up to shoot him a pointed glare, but there’s no real heat behind it, “so can you shower so we can do that?”

he can only blink at you. after a long moment, your words filter down far enough for him to understand.

“i—uh. yeah.”

your lips twitch up at the corners as you pull away from him. he feels so raw that he’s unable to move, unsure how to proceed and unwilling to let you out of his sight in case it’ll be the last time he sees you.

“go on,” you say, expression softer, “i’ll be in bed when you’re done. maybe i’ll cuddle you if you’re done yelling at me.”

“‘m sorry,” he can’t manage anything louder than a whisper, and when you reach out to rest your palm over his heart, it’s far more painful than any withdrawal could have been.

“we’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?”

“…okay.”

[ask-the-crimson-king]

can i just say how tiring it is to see constant posts about asexual or aromantic characters being thrown into ships and explicit fics and everything and see constant "and i KNOW that SOME aces have sex" in there.

hi. im an ace who has never had sex and, so long as i have the power to prevent it, never will. i am not interested in it whatsoever, never have been, never will be. i am not aromantic so i wont speak on the aromantic aspects of this qualm.

i would like to see more aces allowed to be sex-repulsed in general. i would like to see more aces allowed to be sex-free and happy without the necessary "BUT ACES WHO ENJOY SEX DO INDEED EXIST! WE AREN'T ALL SEXLESS FREAKS!" constantly being applied everywhere.

i would like to see more aces allowed to be uncomfortable in explicit conversations. i would like to see more aces allowed to exist without the 10 million qualifiers.

and i would like to see alloromantic aces who don't have to compromise for their partners, or alloromantic aces who dont even care about having partners because they know most people wont be willing to have sexless relationships.

do not pigeonhole sex-repulsion to just aroaces. also, have more diverse aro and ace representation then just aroaces. allromantic aces and allosexual aromantics exist. id like to see them a bit more often too. allow them to also be sex-repulsed.

basically i guess this boils down to "please stop apologizing for wanting sex-repulsed aces to exist in media" or "please stop qualifying a want for aces to not be immediately shipped or put into sexual situations by saying 'but i know aces can have sex and enjoy sex'." we know aces can have or want sex. asexuality is a spectrum, its why aspec is a thing.

this is very rambly and im writing it between being stressed for exams and other life things. this will probably get deleted later. im just tired of it, man. it makes me feel like i have to apologize for being sex-repulsed or wanting some good representation that doesnt get immediately steamrolled by "BUT NOT ALL ACES ARE-" shut up. i know. but what about for those of us who are? we're not all aroace. some of us are alloace/aro. let us exist too.