#where the fuck are you getting that info from

[ciceroprofacto]

Few additions as someone who struggled with this in undergrad because I was disorganized:

Yes, start with your bibliography. if you see a good source and wanna jump right into it- either because you're already focused or you're not sure if you'll use it and don't wanna waste time, it's enough to get the author's name or a key word of the title down. Just slap it at the end in parenthesis and highlight it to fix later. You don't need to do a perfect citation on the first draft, but you need something that will trigger your memory to where you found it.

In academia, you need a source for every idea, even if you had it on your own. Even if it seems really obvious. (I know- this one got me too). Think about it this way- sources aren't just a demonstration of where you found info, they're also a demonstration that the info is coming from multiple reputable places. It's either "I got this from here" or "these people think so too". Never these are my thoughts. That's not a thing. Your thesis might be the one thing you claim, and even then, it shouldn't seem like it's coming from you. It should be the conclusion your reader draws from the arguments you're presenting. If you're doing it right, you might not even have to say it. Erase the idea of 'State your thesis' and think about it as 'Argue your thesis' because you're not saying what you think, you're presenting evidence of why you think it.

ALWAYS always always make it as easy as possible to find your sources even if you think you're done using them. Use bookmarks and folders in your browser or download and drop them somewhere contained on your desktop as soon as you find them. If you can afford a writing software like Scrivner, those can be used to organize your schoolwork too. Different software have different advantages and disadvantages, but some of these programs even let you highlight and write on pdfs now.

It's always better to fuck up your format than it is to not cite something. If you end up in a time crunch and aren't able to make your citations perfect, STILL DO THEM. An academic review board that's checking for plagiarism is going to regard an attempt to cite with incorrect formatting a lot more kindly than no attempt at all.

in re plagiarism and citation and people not knowing how to do it

in the capstone class of my MASTER's degree, I had to do a group paper with fellow students who had all done 6+ years of collegiate study to get there

we shared drafts of our portions and they had no citations and i was like???? and they were like "it's a draft i'll put the citations in at the end" and i was like ???????

because by the time you're done writing the thing you're not going to remember what you got where and whether you synthesized information together! this is how "i thought i thought of it" plagiarism cases occur!!!!

anyway i told them at the bare minimum any time they referenced a numerical figure they needed to cite it, and since it was a paper on accounting fraud that mostly worked out. but i could tell they were citing stuff simply because i'd told them to cite where numbers came from, because they didn't bother to cite some non-numerical things that definitely needed it.

anyway this is why when you have classes that have multiple assignments for a paper to teach you how to write it, annotated bibliography comes before drafting. because you're supposed to have your sources and know what's in them when you start writing.

to current college students: PLEASE put the citations in as you're writing not as you're editing. i know it seems like a pita especially if you don't know the formatting well, but that's what tools like Purdue Owl are for. Tell it what citation format you're supposed to use, what kind of source you have, fill in the fields and it will format the citation for you.

[cadaveerie]

cw: child abuse and non-sexual grooming

VEILGUARD SPOILERS (from lucanis' writing, a mission towards the ending and a little general)

About Lucanis and the Antivan Crows...

after finishing datv, I can finally say for sure that despite the fact that i find this game was overall fine, there are several things about it that have disappointed me. one of those things is about lucanis (and it's not even the only thing about lucanis that bothers me, but we'll leave that discussion for another time, because there's a lot to say about the writing).

in this game, Caterina Dellamorte (lucanis and illario's grandmother) is portrayed as a woman that's cold and demanding. not particularly nice, lucanis fully acknowledges that she's not exactly the loving type, and it's easy to assume things about her and about their relationship based on that... but for some reason it's never addressed that she abused lucanis when he was a child, by beating him and starving him. this is something that you can read in lucanis' story in tevinter nights, the wigmaker job, which was lucanis' introduction.

"Memories of sweat-filled days without food or water came unbidden Lucanis’s back tingled from where his grandmother’s cane had bruised his flesh for letting his guard down or fumbling his footwork. For years, he’d hated her. But his time as a Master taught Lucanis that Caterina’s cruelty was her way he was prepared for this life—that he survived."

I was waiting to finish the game before I said it, because I expected him to mention at some point but... no, nothing. I don't know if there's anything in a codex or something specific I missed, but even if that's the case, I expected it to be significant at all. it wasn't.

i'm not even going to get into what lucanis should feel about this. before the game came out i talked about some of my hopes for him based on the info we had about him, and imo there was not even half of that level of depth to his character. but i wouldnt have minded if the game went in another direction, or if lucanis simply just wasnt open to discuss it, or if he came to the conclusion that it was fine. i won't get into how "problematic" thinking that is, because i could understand that he tells himself that, and as a fucking assassin, i understand that he's come to terms with it because otherwise he probably wouldnt have survived in such a dangerous enviroment. i won't get into it bc as i said, i can understand it. my problem is that lucanis never says it. he never tells rook or anyone else that caterina abused him, or that the crows overall are very abusive and that they do this to children and break their minds basically in order to become emotionless living weapons. and if this is said in any banter, then i missed it in my 91h of gameplay, and i had lucanis in my party every single time we went outside. or it might be in a codex entry, idk. the point is that even if that's the case, that's not a great way to tell this info, especially when in the story theres no other way to learn anything like this about the crows. ppl that i talked to that didnt read tevinter nights didnt know this fact abt caterina and lucanis' past, they simply didnt cause how could they. I just wanted to say this because I think it's important to know if you like lucanis, or the antivan crows, and it's never even actually implied.

I also have many other issues with his writing, but the antivan crows are unfortunately also whitewashed. at least if you've played dragon age origins you know this, but our first antivan crow companion, zevran, talks about how he was taken as a child by the antivan crows. how he was literally bought by them as an orphan, and forced to become an assassin, and when he tries to flee, they attempt to murder him throughout the game. he even talks about how apparently some crows even made their members go through blood magic rituals to acquire abilities (SOUND FAMILIAR? IT'S LITERALLY WHAT ZARA DOES TO LUCANIS, ISN'T IT. HOW FUCKED UP). i think it's so disrespectful to dragon age's worldbuilding and so appalling that they simply... ignored all of this. I'm very upset that this was completely whitewashed. i wont get into it, but i assume they didn't show the crows being awful because, well... they have to be the good alternative for government in antiva. the bad guys are the antaam, and that's it. but one of the things i always loved about dragon age is how they treat these sort of political things. as i said, in origins the crows were more of an antagonistic figure, but at least it made them feel more real and serious. and people loved the crows like they were, fucked up assassins. in this game... idk, am i supposed to believe the assassin guys are nice? why hide the ugly? of course it's gonna be there, and it's ok. irl it happens a lot that oppressed people have to rely on groups that are less than ideal for their liberation, and a lot of times citizens are kinda ok w it bc no one else will stand up for them, so they have to work w what they have, and they're just relieved theres someone there for them. and it also shows that people are not perfect victims. if you're putting ppl in a corner, at some point ppl are rarely gonna care about being "good", and it's only human. and im not even gonna get into being an antivan crow rook because... sigh, it's more of the same. just disappointing. rook even mentions that theyre an orphan. and im pretty sure in the final mission about treviso, at least if you helped jacobus, he is like "i'll take in orphans and give them a chance". oh man, yeah. cool. please tell me how you'll raise them to be, im so curious to see how you won't groom children and abuse them into becoming mindless cold soldiers. that's fucking insane. this feels like fucking US army levels of propaganda and grooming. i love when we normalize child soldiers that's so fucking awesome i love this "woke" game when it's pro-military and anti-fucking-questioning-anything-a-military-force-does.

i even wondered if all of this has been retconned or simply ignored. i dont have a problem w retconning overall, and it's only natural it would happen in a franchise that's as old as DA, but the thing is... why would you do it. it literally just makes them flatter, it doesn't make any fucking sense.

so yes. im VERY disappointed in this game and the writing. this is one of the many things in the writing that disappointed me. the antivan crows are an organization that bring hope, and im perfectly fine with them being portrayed as "saviors", but im not ok with them conveniently not addressing any of their very bad issues. it's unrealistic. it's disrespectful to our intelligence, to dragon age fans and to dragon age origins. it's disrespectful to characters like zevran, who got into an insane war with them for a fucking reason. it's disrespectful to every antivan crow character to be honest. and im sorry, i dont even think this is insane to ask from them. like.... im literally just asking for consistency. they had it already, i dont understand why they did this. i had faith in them, but perhaps that's on me. im so heartbroken.

and i promise i actually think the game overall is ok. it was fun. definitely one of my least favorite games, if not my least favorite, but still. i appreciate it, and LOVED. LOVEEED some scenes. in fact, it might have at the very least one of my favorite scenes from the whole franchise. i think this game has very low points, and very high points, so it's hard to say what i think about it in few words.... but there are so many things like this in the writing, and it's just SO upsetting and disrespectful. im sorry. im truly sorry, you don't know how much i wanted to love this game and the writing. you have no idea. but i have self respect, and i don't lie to myself when i see something i dont like. it feels like they're whitewashing the crows cause we'd be too stupid to understand complex political issues. i thought this game was mature and could handle mature themes, but it doesnt seem like it's the case anymore. perhaps bioware is dead. i still want to believe they can come back from this but......... the post credit scene doesnt reassure me AT ALL. sigh. im just upset and sad. and as i said, this is only one of my many issues. i'll talk about the rest in the future, but im writing all of it down and i need time for that. i hope you understand that this comes from a place of genuine love. sorry i can't be happy about this game, but some of the stuff i see just ruins the rest for me.

edit: someone told me that apparently theres a banter when you go to dellamorte's villa and lucanis *implies* that he was beat by his grandmother (at least to another antivan crow rook). this whole post still stands though. i think that should have not been a banter that i (and im sure others) missed. and again, it also ties to how i think the crows as an organization and their methods were whitewashed. even if it's not particularly a lucanis problem, it could have been to some extent addressed by him.

[3vergr3en]

Kissin’ and hope they caught us!

Part two | spotify playlist

PAIRING (📖) . loser!collegeau!jake x fem!college!reader

A/N (🖊️) . I'm crazy over loser Jake (he's so cute 😕) my obsession with the headcanon abt Jake being a loser trapped in a hot man's body is concerning in the name of feminism. he has me gripping my hair like im going insane or smth

ADDITIONAL INFO (💻) . W/C is 2.2k! porn with little plot. Reader is smitten with Jake!! Jake is a little oblivious but it's okay, his geek charm makes up for it (and for the fact that he's PACKING). These two are FREAKS and PERVS. No p in v, oral (male received), Jake cant help himself from cumming inside, public sex!! everything about this fic is just so filthy and nasty 🫣

You recalled all the times when you dreaded going to college. It would be a new chapter of your life and you didn't know if it would turn out well.

But that would change as soon as you stepped into your campus's library and laid eyes on such a greek god of a man who sat at a table surrounded by books. Looking past the round frame of his glasses, you can see his big doe eyes that held a blend of curiosity and intellect. But that innocent look to him would only fuel your desire as you take in his features. His plump, soft pink lips curling up into a warm smile complimented his chiseled jawline. You don't know how a man could look so handsome yet so cute but you knew right then that college would be the best time of your life.

Midterms were nearing and what does a studious girl like you do during these times?

Eye-fuck your best friend who's taking the time out of his day to help you study.

"Y/n?" His soft-like-butter voice brought you out of your daze. "Do you understand this?" Jake asks, bringing your attention to the section in your notebook where his.. long, slender fingers are pointing.

You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, biting back the whimper that threatened to slip out when you watch him pick up your pen and skillfully swing it around his middle finger till it sits perfectly on his ring finger. You can only imagine how his fingers could feel inside of you. Curling just enough to reach that spot that makes you see stars. Yeah... he's getting it tonight.

“I uhm— I don’t understand, sorry.” You reply with a lack of sincerity. You knew damn well what you were doing. You like to say that hearing it from Jaeyun would make studying fun.

Jake grins, letting out a soft chuckle. Who’s he to turn you down when you’re seeking his help. Because in reality, he’s had an eye on you for a while. He will never forget the day when he first met you.

It was a Tuesday, and Heeseung came literally begging (almost on his knees too) him to do his paper that he forgot was due at 11:59 PM that same day. And what does sweet, caring Jake do? You guessed it, he manages to cram a 6-page essay into his already busy schedule. He remembers sitting at a table in the library, books about whatever Heeseung was researching were scattered around him. He was on the brink of calling it quits and letting his friend fail (which was most likely not gonna happen) and quite literally started praying for a sign of some sort to encourage him to continue on.

And as if he had his own personal angel watching over him to hear his prayers, the sound of your boots clicking against the smooth, wooden floorboards drew his attention from the book sprawled out in front of him. There you were, strutting through the double doors with a smile. The confidence that oozed out of you had reached him even when he was across the room. He watched you talk to the lady at the front desk, in awe when you tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear as you focused on something. You were like a shot of espresso and he drank in the sight of you. You were everything he had ever dreamt of in a girl. From the hair to the way you dressed, hell, even your smile. He was too lost in his thoughts to realize you were walking up to him. It wasn't till you spoke that snapped him back into reality, "Hey, is this seat taken?" You ask, pointing at the empty seat next to him.

He just stares.

Holy shit. You were talking to him. Holy shit. Holy fuck. shitshitshit. C'mon, Jake. Say something.

His voice slightly cracks when he mutters a quick, "No."

You bite your bottom lip, smiling at his reaction. "Great. I'm Y/n, you are..?" You ask, sitting down in the chair beside him.

His eyes dart around the empty seats surrounding the two of you. Why would you want to sit directly next to him? Do you think he's cute? Well, you're definitely cute. You're really hot. Drop-dead gorgeous even. Wait. Why are you staring at him like that? Did he- OH-

"Jaeyun! Sim Jaeyun!" He almost barks out, cringing into his seat when he gets shh'ed at by a random student.

You giggle quietly, slouching down to match his level. "Nice to meet you, Jaeyun. I hope we can be friends."

Friends... Yeah.. I can do friends! (he def cannot do friends and neither can you)

"Hey Jake," You calling his name startles him. "Hm?" He really needs to stop dozing off in front of you.

"There's this book that I couldn't reach earlier. Could you help me with that?" You chuckle, giving a moment for the boy to process. And as if on cue, his head perks up to look at you. There he goes.

You guide him towards the very far back of the library, specifically a corner that had students unlikely to come by. It was shielded off by another shelf of books, allowing for you two to go unnoticed.

"Where was it again?" Jaeyun asks, his height easily granting him access to the tallest shelf.

"Right.." You point at some random book, "There."

Jake, too immersed in his determination to find the said book, fails to notice you sinking down onto your knees right next to him. "Y/n? What's the title of the book? I can't really..." He finally goes to look at you. But he's confused when he's met with an empty space that was once occupied by you. He looks around until his gaze travels downwards where he sees you looking up at him with a smile.

"Y-Y/n! Wh-What are you doing?" Oh god. He can feel himself twitching inside his sweats. This is a very dangerous sight to see you in.

"I wanted to repay you for helping me, Jaeyun." You calmly explain, batting your eyelashes at him.

He's dreaming. He has to be.

"You're such a sweet guy y'know..." Your hands snake up his legs, "And I was thinking 'How could I ever repay him' but then," You lean in to plant a kiss on his prominent bulge, "This idea popped in my head not too long ago."

Jake could only lean against the shelves of books to steady himself. His hand glued to his mouth to muffle any sounds that slipped out while you pulled down the waistband of his pants.

This is exactly like his wet dream but so much fucking better.

"Y/n— oh fuck.." He moans into his hand when he feels you pulling his cock out from its confines. The cold air hitting his warm dick makes him hiss.

"Holy fuck, Jake. You're huge." You gawk, staring at his cock that you were lazily stroking. It was average in length, but fuck, the girth makes up for it.

"Fuck. Please, Y/n." The way he moaned your name sent waves of heat straight to your core. You swore you could feel your slick seeping through your panties.

Your hand feels so much better than his by a long shot. It's so soft, so warm. If it feels this good in your hand, he wonders how it would feel to be buried inside of you.

As pre-cum oozes out from his tip, you couldn't help but circle your thumb around the head of his cock. This must've been a sensitive spot for him by the way he abruptly thrusts his hips forward. "F-Fuck. I need to feel more, please." He begs almost pathetically, eyes hooded in need. Need to feel your mouth around his dick.

"You have to stay quiet, Jaeyun. Don't want people to find out what we're doing back here, do we?" You question, giving his cock a tug that makes him whimper.

You're so hot when you're manhandling him like this. So so hot. "No." He answers shakily, his chest heaving up and down.

You smile at him. So obedient. So cute.

You flattened out your tongue, slapping his head on the pink muscle. He tilts his head back, jaw slacked and mouth open, but no sounds come out. Only heavy breaths and quiet whimpers. Your warm breath fanning over his cock feels so good. But nothing will prepare him when he then feels you licking up a long stripe from the base of his dick to the very tip. If it weren't for the shelves supporting him, he'd be on the floor right now.

You moan before lapping your tongue at his tip, collecting his pre-cum. "You taste so good, Jakey."

You felt daring all of a sudden. Having the man of your desires stand here, letting you suck his dick was hotter than any fantasy you had. You relaxed your throat, giving yourself a moment to prepare for what you're about to do.

Jake could sense something coming from you. The way you looked up at him, he can see in your eyes what you're thinking about. He didn't really know exactly what to expect, but he brought one hand to cover his mouth just in case.

A guttural moan rips out from Jake when you suddenly try to take him whole into your mouth. His eyes widen as he realizes that he was louder than he anticipated it to be. He just prays that no one comes snooping around. Especially not when he has his dick down your throat because not only would that be petrifying, but he can not let you stop. Now now. Not when he had spent countless nights fucking his hand, hoping that it'd be your mouth one day. Now that it's happening, he can't let a second go to waste.

You gagged around his length, feeling the head of his dick hit the deepest parts of your throat. And what's crazy is how he isn't even fully in your mouth. There was still a couple inches left. That fact alone was you clenching around nothing. You could only imagine how he'd feel inside of you. He'd make you feel so full, so stuffed. You moan at the thought, sending vibrations into his dick that makes the boy rolls his eyes to the back of his head.

Jake, on the other hand, was reeling in the pleasure of having your warm, wet mouth around his cock. He moans into his palm, teeth sinking into the flesh to the point where he almost draws blood. It's surreal how your mouth makes him go fucking crazy. His head feels so light yet so heavy.

Your hands gripped the back of his thigh to steady yourself while pushing more of his dick down your throat for merely a couple of seconds before pulling away. You're gasping for air, perhaps you overestimated how much you could take him.

Jake nearly cums at the sight. Your chin is glistening while a string of saliva connects your lips to his raging red tip. He isn't sure what came over him at the moment, but he needed to feel your mouth around him again. He finds himself sliding a hand into your hair, grabbing a handful of it before shoving his dick past your swollen, pink lips and down your throat. "Fucking take it. Holy shit." He groans, mouth open with a mantra of your name spilling out.

You're blinking away the tears that pooled in your eyes, trying to focus on breathing through your nose while your best friend manhandles your mouth. This was a total 180 of how he usually is, and you loved it.

Everything about this was so lewd. The sounds of you gagging around his dick mixed with Jake moaning was music to your ears. You look up at him through your lashes, taking in how cute he looked in his specs while moaning your name.

"This mouth feels.. fuck. Feels so fucking good." Jake mutters, hips snapping against your face as he feels his high nearing. "G-Gonna cum down your throat. Sh-Shit, you're gonna take all of my fucking cum." He's just rambling now. Mind is too fucked to even think about anything else but cumming down your pretty little throat.

With one final thrust, his pelvis is flush against your face as he feels himself emptying his load down your throat. "Holy fuuuck.. Oh my god, Y/n."

You could only sit there and swallow everything he gave you. This is your way of repaying him.

He doesn't pull out till he feels himself going soft in your mouth. And he's quick to start apologizing once he does, "I-I'm so sorry, Y/n. I didn't even ask where you wanted me to cu–"

You're swatting your hands around, shaking your head as you swallow hard. "It's okay. I wanted it." Your voice is hoarse due to his assault on your throat. But you loved the result of it.

He helps you stand up before combing out the knot in your hair that he caused. "Well, the library is about to close for the night. We should get—"

"Do you want to come over to my place, Jakey?" You ask, holding his hands in yours.

He nearly chokes on his own saliva. "Uh,, y-yeah! We can!" He agrees, nodding almost frantically.

"I need help with biology. Specifically anatomy." You smile, trailing your finger down his chest.

"Yeah... I-I can help you." He whispers out.

"Yeah?" You giggle, pecking the corner of his mouth.

He'll help you with whatever it is if it means you'll repay him by giving him head.

[ghostofbriggiesmalls]

And to quell dissent, the post 9/11 media (i.e. movies and tv shows - think 24) facilitated this. This is undoubtedly due to influence by the Department of Defense - they pour MILLIONS into funding movies and TV shows every year and give access to military equipment, provide consulting, etc.

They wanted what they were doing to look unpalatable but necessary. And the reality is that MOST people, the military included, bought into that idea. Fuck, I would say even people who should know that shit doesn’t work who were doing the actual torturing probably deluded themselves into believing it does.

Study after study in the post 9/11 world, however, has shown that people will say whateverthefuck under duress just to make the torture stop. Does it make them confess? You’re goddamn right it does. They’ll confess to murdering that guy. And their mom. And to having faked the moon landing. And to having shot JFK. And to being secretly 3 raccoons in a trench coat. Whatever you want just to make it stop. And, for clarity, when people are being enhanced interrogated tortured, it’s not like the detainee is saying “ok, you waterboarded me enough so here’s the plan…” They’re being asked simple questions like, “were you at the meeting” or “do you know Steve” and are being tortured until the torturer gets the desired response. “No” and “I don’t know” aren’t the right answers and result in more torture. So you say “yes” to make it stop.

The FBI was the only US security agency to actually get relevant information from adversaries in the post 9/11 era because they’ve been running interrogations of people for fucking ever and they know how to do it. ACAB. They established a relationship, got the person talking, then got relevant info. ACAB. That’s a normal part of law enforcement. ACAB. Fuck the cops forever but at least they got that right. ACAB.

Interestingly, this is where the movie Zero Dark Thirty is kind of a wild case. When it came out if got MASSIVE blowback for its torture scenes. People were saying it was pro-torture because they show these scenes where a character is being tortured and he ends up giving up information. And the characters in the movie are like, “yeah this is unsavory, but look at how effective it is.”

But, and this is critical, the information they get is wrong and useless. It’s not until one of the characters takes the prisoner out of the cell, starts talking to him, feeds him, and basically treats him like a person, that they get actual useful information. Sure the characters who are ostensibly the protagonists are pro-torture, but the plot shows that it’s actually bullshit and they’re wrong.

All that to say, yeah, torture doesn’t work irl and pretending like it does in media is irresponsible and dangerous because it helps all of us pretend like it does and just keeps us doing more torture.

Things that work in fiction but not real life

torture getting reliable information out of people

knocking someone out to harmlessly incapacitate them for like an hour

jumping into water from staggering heights and surviving the fall completely intact

calling the police to deescalate a situation

rafting your way off a desert island

correctly profiling total strangers based on vibes

effectively operating every computer by typing and nothing else

ripping an IV out of your arm without consequences

heterosexual cowboy

[toxintouch]

Started out as an elaborate “draw me like one of your French girls” joke and spiraled outta control from there... @lu-dao-writes posted the same scenario in their Kinktober 2024 and they were kind enough to give me their blessing to post my take! Please check out their fics as well!  If this scenario in particular interests you, I rec you this post! :3

Further details below the cut so that the above the cut stays safe for anyone who is just scrolling through!

18+ Content MDNI || VERE x AIS x Reader

PROMPT/KINK(S): Dom!Vere, Dacryphilia (Tears)* + Cockwarming + Size Difference + Consensual Voyeurism. Power Play. (Some feral monsterfucking spice sprinkled v lightly on top.) [*original challenge prompt, randomizer used.]

OTHER INFO: “You” pronouns used for MC/Reader. Unspecified genitalia for both POV Character and Vere but Ais has a dick. Reader is the receiving partner in penetrative sex.

“Hmm, hold that pose,” Vere purrs.

Ais huffs a hot breath into your face as he freezes above you.  His brows furrow, mouth twisting into a determined grimace as he grits his teeth.  His forearms tense hard where they are resting on either side of you, fingers flexing against the silken sheets.

You can feel him pulsing inside of you.  A hot, insistent ache.

You try to relax, try to breathe through it but the lack of movement makes you hyper aware of every inch, the raw feeling of him stretching you open, the way your body twitches so sickly-sweet with the effort.  You inhale a slow, shaking breath, chest trembling, and shut your eyes in an attempt to block out some of the sensations—the clawing need gnawing at your core.

“Eyes open, darling,” Vere corrects you, tone somewhere firmly between scolding and teasing.  “And turn your face back towards Ais.  I’m trying to capture the moment .”  Your heart is pounding in your ears but you can hear Vere’s smooth, sly voice with perfect clarity.  Ais is an overwhelming force but Vere is a magnetic presence; no matter how caught up in each other you and Ais can get, Vere will always command attention without effort.

You turn your chin as requested, only to be caught in Ais’ gaze

(Caught and breathless–the same way you were when he was bullying his thick length into your hole, thrusting sharply and sighing in satisfaction, his fingers still at work massaging and pressing and stroking as he sunk into you inch by inch; he'd prepared you until your entrance was puffy and swollen, sopping with thick, medicinal smelling lube and he still had to take his time.  Fucking you slowly until you could take all of him.  And then, the moment you finally could...)

“Hmm, that's better.  Stay just like that.  Let me see those pretty expressions.”  You hear Vere adjusting his heavy vellum paper.  The glide of quick, clever lines being drawn.

You maintain eye contact with Ais, drunk off his breath, his body, the very essence of him, hovering so close above you, and are utterly unprepared to meet his intensity.  The way he looks at you like he’s seconds from devouring you, barely held in check by the challenge that Vere has laid before him.  Before both of you.

You bite into your lower lip as you shift involuntarily, oversensitive nerves still riding the throbbing of Ais’ dick.  He’s so fucking thick and girthy that he presses at the soft spot inside you without even trying. The angry pulse of him is a gratifying thrum, stoking your aching heat by way of mere burgeoning contact.

His cock gives another strong twitch and your insides clench around him.  He feels so fucking good–you almost think you might be able to come like this, if you can get your body to keep on clenching like that. 

—Almost.

Your next breath comes out as a sob.  There’s a high pitched whine building at the base of your throat and your lashes are wet when you blink.

A monstrous snarl escapes Ais’ lips, one that you can feel even more than you can hear, the vibration of it echoing through your body everywhere you're pressed against him.  The pinnacle between your thighs pulses with it, and your toes curl involuntarily as an errant tear runs down your cheek.  Ais is shaking, sweat dampening his face, his pupils expanding and contracting rapidly, his eyes locked on you as he barely holds himself back.  “Sparrow,” he says, gravel in his tone. 

You say his name in return, your head tipping involuntarily, bearing the softness of your throat, faded marks from both your lovers decorating your skin.  You hear the sheets rip below you, torn into shreds where Ais’ nails have dug into them.

Vere sighs pointedly.  You hear him stop his work, tap his charcoal against the paper as if he’s not entirely satisfied with the scene in front of him.  He pauses for a long time, leaving you both in limbo.

When he moves, it’s to stand.  To saunter over to you both.  You’re pinned beneath Ais, unable to look away, but you can feel Vere’s shadow fall over you just before his hand touches your face, forcing your eyes to his as he catches a crystalline tear with his index finger.

“Shame,” he says, dipping his fingers into his mouth, his tongue lapping up the taste of your tears, lavishing the digits with his tongue.  You whine out a desperate, quiet note just from watching his tongue at work and he basks knowingly in the attention.  “I really thought I could get you both crying.”  He smiles dangerously once his fingers have left his mouth. 

He uses them to drag a wet path down Ais' spine.  “Oh, but the night is still young.  Perhaps I may still think of something that will do the trick...”

18+ Master List | SFW Master List ✦"Kinktober Speedrun & Other Gratuitous (TOUCHSTARVED) Smut" on Ao3

[gottalovetumbler]

𝓓𝓪𝔂 12

ᵖʳⁱᶜᵉ/ᵍᵃᶻ/ᵏʳᵘᵉᵍᵃʳ/ᵃˡᵉʲᵃⁿᵈʳᵒ ˣ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

Info: cussing (as always), short

——— 🛏️ 🍳 ———

The pounding in your head drags you up from the depths of sleep. Black tendrils try to hold on, try to pull you back under. Warm blankets and soft sheets whisper false promises of you staying forever. Bright and sharp pain cuts through the dark.

An amused scoff answers your groan of pain as you roll onto your stomach. Knuckles tap your shoulder before turning and opening, reveling two white pills.

Nails accidentally scratch the outstretched palm and you send an apologetic sound to the owner of it. A cup of water is shoved into your vision as the attempt to dry swallow the pills ends in you sitting up and nearly choking.

’𝕋𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕄𝕚𝕛𝕒. 𝕀 𝕕𝕠𝕟𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕕𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℍ𝕖𝕚𝕞𝕝𝕚𝕔𝕙 𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕦𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕒𝕥 𝟠𝕒𝕞.’

Swallowing roughly, your eyes slightly tear up from the water hitting your dry throat. The dark blue light filtering the room from the curtains is enough to tell you, this isn’t your room. That’s confirmed by the large and soft king sized bed, not your thin twin sized. And the plush carpet instead of cold concrete.

‘Ale? Where am I?’

‘𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕚𝕟 𝕥he ℂ𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕤 𝕓𝕖𝕕 ℂ𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕠. 𝔻𝕠𝕔𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕤 𝕤𝕒𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕙𝕒𝕕 𝕒 𝕓𝕒𝕕 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕞𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕔𝕚𝕟𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕘𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕟. 𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕞𝕚𝕩𝕖𝕕 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕤𝕠 𝕤𝕠𝕠𝕟 𝕞𝕒𝕕𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒 𝕓𝕚𝕥...... 𝕠𝕕𝕕.’

’Odd? What do you mean by odd? Did I do something bad?’

‘ℕ𝕠𝕥 𝕓𝕒𝕕 𝕓𝕦𝕥 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕. 𝕀𝕕 𝕤𝕒𝕪 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕓𝕦𝕥 𝕚 𝕨𝕒𝕤𝕟𝕥 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕤𝕖𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕠𝕗 𝕞𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙.’

The idea of dwelling on that new fact was tempting but the pain in your bladder won the battle for your attention. Your legs feel like jello as you try to stand, after some back and forth Ale finally helps you to the bathroom. He’s chuckles at your flushed cheeks and quiet thanks while closing the door.

You emerge a few minutes later after successfully getting the feeling back in your legs. Instead of going left and back to the bedroom you head right, towards the noise of life. Cutlery scratching against porcelain dishes makes your face scratch and ears ring.

‘Mornin Luv, how’d ya sleep?’ Gaz greets from his perch at the bar. A plate of eggs and bacon in-front of him.

‘Slept fine,’ you rub your dry eyes and yawn. ‘what happened and why am I here?’

‘You passed out while serving soup at lunch a few days ago. Graves and Velikan were the first to notice other than your little friend. We were going to bring you back to your dorm but doctors say you need to be monitored and so, you’re here instead.’

‘I don’t need to be monitored. I’m a fully grown adult.’

‘Yes Las you do and don’t try to fight us on it.’ The boom of Prices voice makes you wince as you tune to face him.

‘No I don’t-‘

‘You called Soaps car an animal last night. You also convinced yourself that this,’ he gestures to the air, ‘is actually the main kitchen, just renovated by ninjas. Including the bedroom and the whole base also.’

‘Oh…’

‘Yea, oh…. is right. Till we deem you fit to survive on your own, you’re staying here being monitored. It’ll be like the hospital, you’re either here or there’s at-least 1 trusted adult with you at all times.’

‘A trusted adult? Are you actually being serious? I can’t tell with the accent.’

‘Dead. Today your on full bed rest, no getting up except for the bathroom. Your trusted adult will bring any food or anything you’ll need otherwise.’

‘How long will this go on? I have stuff to do. Also, aren’t you guys busy with some big mission? How are any of you going to have the time to spend watching me?’

‘We are busy but not all at the same time. Majority of it is paper work anyway so even if whoever’s here has stuff to do, they can do it on a laptop easily.’

Arguments try to fester in your mind. You can take care of yourself just fine, no need for some trusted fucking adult. Maybe you could lie that missing too many days might get you sent back to your home base. Or maybe you can go Prices boss. They might be able to make the captain let you work or at the very least, heal alone. Maybe you can-

You must have hard core zoned out seeing as Price and Gaz are gone, leaving the kitchen empty. The sound of the front door creaking open and them talking to someone fills the silence.

‘You good to watch her? Don’t let her out of your sight, at-least not today. She’ll definitely try to run.’

‘ꪗꫀᜣ ꪖꪶꪶ ᧁꪮꪮᦔ ꫝꫀ᥅ꫀ. ﺃꪶꪶ ᛕꫀꫀᜣ ꪖꪀ ꫀꪗꫀ ꪮꪀ ꫝꫀ᥅, ᛕꫀꫀᜣ ꫝꫀ᥅ ꪮꪊꪻ ꪮᠻ ꪻ᥅ꪮꪊ᥇ꪶꫀ.’

Dammit of course the one trusted adult is the fucking shed man. Maybe you will stay in bed all day, then you won’t need to struggle with understanding the walking mesh bags voice.

——— 🛏️ 🍳 ———

[fromville-divorce-lawyer]

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Thoughts on 3.08.

Julie: Girl, it's objectively a terrible idea to take a child out to the place that Randall was afraid of, but it progressed the story, so as a member of the audience, I’m not mad at ya.

Henry & Jade: “Who the fuck are you?” I love that this show doesn’t forget who’s met who, and we get to see random introductions like this.

Victor, Sara, & Tabitha: It was nice to see Tabitha and Sara being calming and patient with Victor. It's also bittersweet, because it brings to mind how much poor Victor has been deprived of affection.

Jade: Glad he set that bottle aside. It now seems like more than a coincidence that Jade completely lost his shit it at the same time Tabitha disappeared, and that since he’s been spending time with her again, he’s decided to get it together. (Sure, in 3.01 he was bothered by seeing the freaky kids and the root symbol, but that was also the exact same time Tabitha disappeared.) Even though he never said it, I think Jade was majorly affected by the loss of the only other person who understood what he was going through.

Jim: Bro, you are trying to make it hard to like you. Last episode, I thought he was growing by not getting all possessive and flipping out on Jade. Turns out I gave him too much credit. He just saved it for later. – Though in my preferred headcanon where it ends in a throuple, Jim is actually pissed because he’s jealous that Tabitha is stealing Jade. Jim doesn’t know how to personally deal with being attracted to a man yet, so he’s taking it out on Jade. 

Jade & Tabitha: I’m now convinced that Jade is falling hard for Tabitha. We’ve never seen Jade as angry as he was in response to Jim implying Tabitha wasn’t fully capable of making her own decisions. (Sure, part of it was Jim holding his collar, and the closest Jade has ever gotten to that angry was when Boyd dragged him away from the funeral or when Victor withheld info about the symbol. But neither time was this intense.) Jade was more angry about how Jim talked about Tabitha than when he was insulting Jade.

Jade’s hair: It looked so silky and soft this episode!

[skzdarlings]

content info: the much requested follow-up. the dynamic is the same as earlier. they've been sleeping together for a week so assume safe sex is handled if not mentioned. making love, light dirty talk, nervous but excited reader. explicit sexual content. word count: 2000 words.

enjoy <3

-

Minho crosses the finish line seconds before you. 

He emerges from his vehicle without much pomp.  His expression is stoic as ever, only the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.  He draws a leather jacket over his shoulders as his little entourage congratulates him, jumping up and down like the over-hyper groupies they are.

You sit in your car, tightly gripping your steering wheel.  You are still hot from the thunder of the race, heart still pounding with adrenaline, and a new sensation throbbing under your skin.  

The crowd believes this is about money and status.  In the week since your quasi-truce, that is all you have bet out loud.  Between you, the stakes are very different.

If you win, we fuck, Minho said that night.  And if I win, we make love.  Is that correct?

You told him there was no difference, then he put you on your knees and made you admit otherwise. 

You tied that first race and he conceded to your whim.  You have won every race since and not because he let you.  After all, he freely admitted you were the better racer.  This isn’t about that anymore.

You look out your window.  He is surrounded by people but looking at you, that smirk strengthening when he meets your gaze.  You feel a punch of heat that has nothing to do with car engines, a skip of the heart that has nothing to do with racing. 

You get out of your car.  Minho says nothing, simply holds out his hand for the cash winnings.  You put the money in his hands.

You refuse to look at him.  You are not scared you will accidentally reveal the truth to the crowd.  You’re not even scared you will reveal the true depth of your feelings to him. 

You are scared that looking in his eyes will force you to see the truth – that you want this, want him, in this way and so much more. 

“Until the next race,” he says, winking and clicking his tongue. 

Ugh.  You want to claw him to pieces – preferably up and down his backside as he fucks you. 

But that’s just it, isn’t it?  He isn’t going to fuck you tonight.  He isn’t going to bend you over the hood of his car or put you on your knees and yank your hair while fucking your mouth.  He isn’t going to keep his hand between your thighs until you’re sobbing and begging for reprieve and he isn’t going to tear through your clothes and mark your skin with his teeth. 

What are we doing? he asked that first night.  His fingers were on your tongue and his eyes were on you.  He looked at you like you were the only prize that ever meant anything to him.  

Making love, you said. 

The words were unfamiliar, not suited to your fast lifestyle. 

The words somehow came naturally with him. 

When the night draws to a natural close, he approaches where you are leaning against your car.  Your arms are crossed defensively over your chest and his hands are in his pockets.  His canter is nonchalant, his smirk subtle, but his eyes intense. 

“Your place?” you ask.  You are desperate to speak first, as if that might hide your nerves – more importantly, that it might hide your excitement.

“Mmm, no,” he says, crinkling his nose.  He tips his head and that smirk gets even meaner.  “Your place.  You drive.  I’ll follow.”

He walks to his car before you can retort. 

The last two nights, you went back to his apartment, and that already felt like a major concession on your part.  Backseats and the night sky is more your style.  You like liminal, empty spaces, a no-man’s-land, a place that can easily be left behind.  Agreeing to go to his place was daunting.  Even before he laid you out and made you come an easy dozen times, you knew it would feel different, feel more. 

Now you are going to your home.  There will truly be no escaping him. 

It is terrifying how much you don’t want to race away. 

You pull up outside the apartment building.  He follows you inside, hands in his pockets, still so casual.  You stand on opposite sides of the elevator, staring at each other in the silence as the floors tick and tick one by one, higher and higher.

The elevator doors open and he smiles. You are out of smart remarks.  

You walk quickly but he keeps pace behind you.  He is the only one who could ever keep up with you. 

When he brought you back to his place, he wasted no time.  He pressed you against the door and tore through buttons, working you up right there in the hall.  It was fast and dirty, just like always. 

He keeps his hands in his pockets tonight.  You can feel him looking at you, his eyes burning on your backside while you fumble uncharacteristically with your key.   It would be easier if he just shoved his way inside and took what he wanted and left again. 

But that’s the other thing – he doesn’t want fast, does he?  He’s a good man, much to your chagrin, and he has been happy to let you take the lead, to do what makes you more comfortable.  But he wants this, every breath loud between you, every heartbeat counted in the long moments, aching with anticipation.

It feels like forever before you get your door open.  The apartment is small, a bathroom on the immediate left, a little kitchen ahead of that, then the main studio.  You don’t spend much time in here, really just for sleeping, so the walls are landlord special white and the bed is plain and neat.  Everything is functional and necessary.  You are not one for indulgence.  You are always racing onto the next thing.

“Well,” you say, flipping on the light.  “This is me.” 

He turns off the light.  The windows are tall and there is plenty of moonlight but it still startles you. 

He touches your waist and you lose your breath.  How is that even possible?  You have raced and run and dashed headlong through faster fucking and it never winded you.  Now, he holds your waist, pulls you back against him, fits his whole body behind yours, and you can hardly breathe. 

“Easy,” he says.  His other hand comes around you, cups your throat lightly.  It is not mean, not nasty, not hard choking or demanding dominance.  It’s soft, just a quiet request. 

Your body answers, softening against him.  You whisper his name.

He kisses your exposed neck.  It’s a soft press of his lips, over and over, and it leaves you shuddering. 

“Is this it?” you say, aiming for snark but landing shakily.  “Making love is just slower fucking?”

“It can be,” Minho says, his voice unexpectedly gentle and light.  “It can be like this—”  He bites your neck but it feels different than usual, not mean for the sake of it, but like a claiming.  You feel yourself get tight, every muscle clenching, a gasp bursting out of you.   “If that’s what you like,” he finishes, punctuating with an amused little giggle like the menace he is. 

“And if…”  You take a breath.  “If I don’t know what I like?” 

He pauses.  His hands fall away.  You hear the shuffle of leather as his jacket hits the floor.  Then his hands are back on your waist and he turns you around. 

You have seen a range of expressions from this man.  You know his exasperation, his anger, his sarcasm, his laughter.  The look he gives you now is devastatingly tender, even with a sparkle in his eye that is so distinctly Lee Minho. 

He flicks his thumb over his bottom lip and winks. 

“Then we better find out,” he says. 

At first, it’s not so different.  Minho kisses you breathless and strips you slowly.  You stumble to the bed and sprawl across the sheets, on your back, holding his face as he makes his way down your body. 

He is not slow here, no doubt feeling the tension in your thighs as he puts them over his shoulders.  You are keyed up and ready, desperately bucking towards his mouth.  He is thorough, finding a circling rhythm with his tongue that never speeds or slows. 

You are careening over the edge of climax in a matter of moments.  It is almost embarrassingly fast, but he never gloats or teases, at least not about this.  It just makes him moan into the skin of your thighs, his wet mouth moving across your skin.  He climbs up your body and kisses every inch of you on the way. 

Now, now, it’s all different.   Now his eyes are dark and intense, staring down at you while he gets his jeans off.  You touch his bare chest, feeling more exposed when he stares into your eyes than when he looks at your body. 

You close your eyes, instinctively squirming when he pulls your leg around his hips. 

“No, no, no escaping,” he says, pinning you in place, not just with his hands but with a push of his hips.

Hip to hip, his cock nestled inside your pussy, you are aching for him to move or come or do something.  He just looks at you, kisses you a few times, and lets the reality of every inch of him settle inside your mind as much as your body.

“Minho,” you say, in a whimpering voice you hardly recognize as yourself.  “Please.” 

“Tell me,” he says, finally, slowly rolling his hips against yours.  “Tell me how it feels.”

“Good.  Good.” 

“Just good?” he asks, those rolling thrusts a little sharper, his skin against yours, chests touching, mouths close.  “Tell me you love it,” he says.  “Tell me you need it.”

“I need it,” you say.  “I love – I love it.”

You almost say I love you, which is insane and impossible.  You obviously don’t love him.   You definitely don’t hate him anymore, but love is a foreign word.

You start to understand it, just a little, with your legs around his waist and his whole body snug against yours.  He feels deeper than usual somehow, or maybe you just feel it more, as he takes his time, as he drags his cock slowly in and out of your throbbing wet heat. 

“That’s it,” he says, so infuriatingly precise with his hip movements.  

No matter how extreme fucking got, you always kept your wits, perpetually armed even then.  Now, you feel like all your usual weapons have disintegrated.  You are vulnerable and open and you just want more, especially when he sighs so sweetly, especially when he moans into your skin, when he is as uncharacteristically soft and loving as you are. 

Of course he is.  Your depths run as deep as your hearts run fast. 

“You’re going to come,” he says, holding your gaze, his hand between your bodies.  “Baby,” he says, voice breaking with his own need. 

It makes you gasp, squeezing him, your hands pressing into his shoulders as he makes you see stars. 

“Yes, yes, baby,” he says.  “Get so tight for me when you’re so sweet.  Come for me.  You want it.  You love it.  You need it.  Show me.”

You do, clinging to him when you come, calling out his name.  It seems to last longer than usual, one crest rolling into the next, extended by the relentless rocking of his hips.  He chases his own pleasure inside you, looking at you then kissing you.  He comes with his mouth on yours, tongues touching, wet and messy and hot. 

After, he lays on top of you, both of you catching your breath.  You run your fingers through his hair without thinking.  You are about to stop when his whole body seems to get soft, a breath leaving his lips, his head pillowed on your chest. 

“Not bad,” you eventually say. 

He laughs, lifting his head to look down at you.  You can’t help but smile back, though you also force an eye-roll because that’s just how you are. 

Then he kisses you, soft, taking his time, like he has nowhere else to be tonight, like he intends on staying forever. 

You surprise you both by kissing back as softly.

You don’t know about forever, not yet, but you want him to stay right now. 

You roll over together, kissing and tangled up, hearts pounding against each other, and ready for another race to the next adventure. 

bets and situations ; skz ; minho x reader

original ask: requested by anonymous: minho and “is that how you usually get out of these situations? by fucking your way out of them?” please

pairing: lee minho/reader content info: rivals to lovers. street racing. stubborn!reader. placing bets, betting sex (still explicit consent), fucking vs making love. outdoor sex. sex on a car. explicit sexual content. word count: 3400 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy! <3

-

Sure, you are a little insufferable. 

But Lee Minho is worse. 

He carries himself with an elitist pomposity, like he is above the other drivers just because he once raced professionally.  Trophies or not, he is out here with the rest of you, illegally racing cars down desert roads, placing bets in the dead of night. 

You were content until this fucker came along.  Lee Minho and the stupid pretty face that won him fan clubs and brand deals.  Ugh.  You hate him for having that life and for giving it up when it is a fantasy for you.  The world of professional racing is notoriously hostile to women.  You admit there is a tinge of bitterness on your side of every interaction, but he goads you like an asshole.    

He arrives with his usual entourage.  A couple of them are racers, though not professionals, and a couple just spectate and mind his vehicle.  He has a nice car, almost as pretty as him.

You whistle as he approaches.  He looks at you with his usual exasperation, delicate features pinched with annoyance.  His hair was a vibrant red in his racing days, quite the act of showmanship, but it’s a natural dark brown now, framing his mean, stupid, handsome face.

“Hey, pretty boy,” you say.  “Finally gonna grow a pair and race me?”

His scowl turns to a bitchy little sneer.  He laughs sarcastically. 

“Not worth the mileage,” he says.  He shoulders past you, his leather jacket against your denim.  “Winning against a little girl does nothing for my massive ego.”  He says this with a sarcastic flourish, mocking your derision of him. 

You know the comment is a deliberately cheap shot.  Unfortunately, in reality, Minho is the least chauvinist racer you have ever met, treating the women here with the same basic dignity as the men.

It’s just you he hates, because you hate him too.   It was inevitable.  You were hostile when first meeting.  You challenged him to a few too many personal races.  You were a sore loser and even worse winner.  What started as an effort to prove something spiralled into a rivalry. 

You won the last couple races.  You gloated a little too hard and now he is refusing to race you again. 

“Sure,” you say.  “Sounds to me like you’re scared to lose for the third time in a row.” 

He just keeps walking, ignoring you, which is so much more infuriating than when he snaps back. 

You decide to keep your distance tonight.  If you continue to agitate yourself, you are going to develop a stress aneurysm.   So you keep to your own group, race your own races, and collect your own winnings. 

But, ugh.

He is right there. 

Just in the corner of your eye, just skirting the periphery of your space, just breathing the same night air.  When you are looking at him, he captivates you.  When you look away, he is like an impossible itch, begging for your attention again.  You constantly catch him looking at you too, which does not help matters. 

By the end of the night, you feel like a live wire, all electricity and unbound energy.  Not a single race has satisfied you.  You won three of four, making way more money than you lost, but it is not enough.  It is never enough.  You already know how good you are.  You know you can beat most of these guys blindfolded. 

Your only perfect match is Lee Minho.  The only victory that matters is that one. 

As the crowd disperses and everyone departs, you march towards him.  He is saying goodbye to his crewmates, his back to you, but his buddy cracks a grin when he sees you coming.  He smacks Minho on the shoulder before turning away. 

Minho turns around with a befuddled look on his face.  When he sees you, it slackens to that unamused vexation.  He pockets his hands in his leather jacket and slouches against his car.  He shakes his head as you stomp up to him. 

“One race,” you say. 

“No,” he replies, without missing a beat. 

“Why not?”

“Because I said so,” is his insufferable reply.

“That’s not an answer,” you say.

“That’s too bad.”  He gives you a final shrug then turns, opening his car door, preparing to leave. 

“Wait,” you say. 

You heart is racing.  Somehow, you feel like tonight is different from every other night.  Maybe it is the perfect crispness on the breeze, the remarkably clear sky, or maybe just the way those jeans seem to hug his thighs.  Stupid hottie.  You will have him and his attention.  You will get the better of him, one way or another.  It was all leading to this. 

“One race,” you say.  “A bet worth the mileage.” 

“I don’t need your money,” he says.

“I’m not offering money,” you reply. 

Finally, he closes the car door.  He sighs, a very loud and dramatic sigh, like you are the biggest inconvenience on earth. 

“What are you offering?” he says, facing you.  The disinterest in his tone is betrayed by the curious sweep of his gaze, an up-and-down perusal like he expects to find his prize somewhere on your body. 

Oh.

You feel flushed inside, realizing that it exactly what he is thinking.  Looking at you with a hungry, lecherous gaze, anticipating you are about to offer up yourself as a potential prize. 

It makes your heart stutter and your lips do the same, your next words all tangled up on your tongue.  It did not even occur to you to offer such a thing.  You hate him, so of course you would never think about him that way.  But now that he is looking at you like that, his expression coloured with interest and suggestion, you find yourself too shocked to even parse your feelings. 

The only thing that is obvious, abundantly obvious, is the punch of heat in your gut.  No, lower.  Heat that curls up inside you and makes you second guess.  Heat that is curious about the look in his eye. 

Then you shake your head.  You resist the urge to smack him for throwing you off.  You were in control and now you are flustered. 

“Not me,” you snap. 

His eyes, which have made their way down your whole body, follow the same path up.  He meets your gaze eventually.  Then he says nothing, because he is the worst, and just lifts an eyebrow at you. 

“My car,” you say, with no-nonsense finality.  “I bet my car.” 

He blinks at you.  Long, slow blinks like a cat.   It takes him a second to find a sentence. 

“Your car,” he says.  He tilts his head and squints, looking at you with scrutiny, like he is trying to see through your ploy.  “And what do you want if you win?” 

“Admit I’m the better driver once and for all,” you say.  The words feel a little foolish leaving your mouth.  You have been chasing the high of that confession, aggravated every time he dodged it, but saying it out loud makes you feel needy.  You clear your throat and stand straight like you are unbothered.  “That’s all I want,” you say.

He rubs a hand across his jaw, laughs incredulously, then swings his arms out at his sides. 

“Fine,” he says.

By now, everyone else has gone.  It is just you and him under the streetlights, the long empty road stretched across the dunes ahead.   You stare at one another, like there is no road and no sky, no world at all outside each other.  It is intense and all-consuming.   

You hold out a hand.  He takes it and yanks you closer to him.

“I would have told you that for free,” he says.  “Since it’s the truth.  You just had to ask.”

Now it is your turn to blink, looking at him with shock.  You would have been less stupefied if he called you a tirade of rude names, or tried to weave doubts in your mind.  Instead, he smiles at you, and it is not half as smarmy as usual.  He drops your hand and turns away, leaving you gawking at the air as he ducks into his car. 

He honks the horn, snapping you to attention. 

The heat rushes back in a hurry.  You swallow, then walk to your car on suddenly shaky legs. 

-

He wins.

Of course he wins.

You were distracted by his parting words.  You and him are so closely matched in skill that a fleeting weakness is all it takes for one to overtake the other.  You were faring well at the start, but his engine revved and your attention strayed.  Your prize was somewhat nullified by his confession, your behaviour embarrassing in hindsight.  You bet your car.  What were you thinking?

You weren’t.  And it was all his fault.   

Your car skids to a screaming halt just seconds after him.  You smack the steering wheel with frustration. 

Maybe I should have just bet my body, you think to yourself, a thought that has you shivering from something other than adrenaline.  Thoughts like that are not like you.  And Lee Minho is the last man on earth you could ever want.  Even though he is simultaneously the only man you want, or at least the only one with an opinion that matters, the only man whose attention you ever want.  He is always the highlight of your night. 

Oh god, you think with a nervous twist in your gut, I like that arrogant loser. 

Facing him is hard and it has nothing to do with losing your car. 

He is not gloating because he is not the type.  He is just leaning against his vehicle with his arms crossed, watching your nerves and passion get the better of you.  He does not flinch when you get right in his face, huffing from exertion.

“Do-over,” you say.

“Absolutely not,” he replies. 

“You got in my head on purpose.” 

“I can only do that if you let me in,” he says, looking smug.

“One more race,” you insist. 

“You have nothing left to bet.”

“Me,” you blurt.  “I bet myself.” 

You feel some satisfaction at the flicker of surprise that creases his brow, but then he is just staring and blinking again.  Your heart still thinks it is in a race, stampeding so far ahead that your whole body is awash with heat. 

“You,” he finally says.  His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, then he tilts his head in that studious way. “What does that mean?” 

You feel so hot it is making you a little woozy.  It’s just aftershocks from the race, you tell yourself, even though that heat comes from somewhere much more intimate. 

You cross your arms stubbornly.  You look away.  You even stomp your foot. 

“You know what I fucking mean,” you snap. 

“Is that how you usually get out of these situations?” he asks in a teasing tone.  “By fucking your way out of them?”

You refuse to answer.  You arms are still crossed, your face still turned.   

He touches your chin, a painfully delicate touch.  Whenever you do fuck someone, it is hard and fast, like everything else you enjoy.  Your greatest rival should be touching you with the roughest touch of all, but it is the very opposite.   It is a suggestion of a touch, little more than a caress as he turns your face to his.  You swallow until the intense focus of his sharp eyes. 

“I don’t fuck like that,” he says.  He bats his pretty eyelashes while smirking like a devil.  “I don’t have to make bets.  I make love to people because they want it.  Sorry.”  He rolls his eyes and turns away, wiggling his fingers in a sarcastic good-bye wave as he slides into his driver seat.  “You can keep your car.  I don’t want or need it.  Good night.” 

You put yourself between the door and car, stopping him from closing it.  He looks at you, eyes narrowed more intensely. 

“Now, now,” he says. 

“I’m a big girl,” you snap.  “I don’t need you protecting my honour.  I wouldn’t offer to let you fuck me if I didn’t mean it.” 

He stares at you, contemplative behind those dark eyes.  He has just returned your vehicle so you have no reason to make another bet, other than to prove the veracity of your previous offer: that you do want to fuck him, even if you don’t want to admit it.

“I told you that you can keep your car,” he says. 

You are amazed smoke is not blowing out of your ears, considering how hot your face feels. 

“I heard you,” you say. 

He gets out of the car slowly, holding your gaze the entire time.  You take a step back. 

Then he walks at you, which forces you to take another backwards step.  Step by step across the tarmac.  The breeze tousles a bit of his hair, but nothing stops his stride and his eyes never leave yours. 

You find it difficult to catch your breath.  Garnering this man’s undivided attention has been your only goal for months, and the reality of it is heady.  He is intoxicating. 

It seems the feeling is reciprocated, given how he looks at you, which just makes you stumble in your backwards trek.  He catches your wrist, tugging you upright, yanking you closer.  You collide with his chest, disoriented from so little. 

“So,” he says.  “If you win, we fuck.  And if I win, we make love.  Is that correct?” 

“Whatever, there’s no difference,” you say.  You are instinctively combative when flustered, redirecting the source of your embarrassment to confrontation. 

It seemingly works.  His attention diverts and he says, “Yes, there is.”

“No, there isn’t.” 

“Yes, there—”  He stops himself from retaliating with the same childish rejoinder.  He props his hands on his hips, shaking his head at himself as he stares up at the stars.   

Eventually he huffs, rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, then looks at you. 

“Fine,” he says.  “We’ll race.” 

Your heart is already revving like an engine.  You take another couple steps back to smirk at him triumphantly.  You walk right into your car, that smug face dropping in surprise.  It gives him the opportunity to crowd you against it, planting his hands on either side of your head.  You hold your breath. 

“You have to pass my test first,” he says. 

“Excuse me!”  Your own incredulity resounds.  You smack his chest but he does not move. 

“It’s just two questions,” he says.  “You’re a smart girl.  You’ll figure it out.” 

He is tormenting you.  You hate him.  You hope he never stops. 

“Fine,” you snap.  His smirk makes your whole belly swoop with anticipation. 

“Good,” he says, then stands back. 

You hold his stare, refusing to show any weakness.  At least you can catch your breath in the space between you. 

Then he says, “Get on your knees.” 

Your legs are already shaky – from nerves, from the dwindling adrenaline of your race.  There are a lot of reasons your knees buckle.  Plenty of explanations for why you do not hesitate, sinking to your knees right there on the road. 

Your gaze drops, flustered by his demand and your response.  You look at his shoes, all black, well-worn, scuffing the tarmac as he steps towards you. 

“Now tell me,” he says, then gathers a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back.  He meets your gaze as he says, “Is this fucking or making love?”

Then his fingers are in your mouth.  You let him in without any hesitation, like your whole body is instinctively attuned to his.  His grip is firm, his fingers relentless, undoubtedly fucking your mouth with the sloppy, mean thrust you would expect from an enemy.  Still, it feels good, unbelievably so, your mouth wet and hot and his fingers sliding over your tongue, the soft suction of your lips making his eyes blaze and his throat bob as he swallows. 

When he slides out, a trail of spit connects his fingers to your lips.  Your lips quiver with a shuddering breath. 

“Well?” he says. 

You swallow, but eventually manage a weak, “Fucking.” 

“Good,” he says, grinning that wicked grin.  “That’s one out of two.  How about this one?” 

He drops to his knees.  You are face-to-face now, kneeling on the road in the dead of night.  There are no witnesses to this scene except maybe the stars, the clear night revealing all your secrets. 

His face is as open, his expression suddenly so devastatingly soft and vulnerable.   Your breath stutters before he even moves.  He cups your cheeks with both hands and draws you to him.

Your eyes close when your lips touch.  He strokes his thumbs across your cheeks and licks into your mouth with decadent slowness, like he wants to savour every second of your taste.  Your mouths move together like they were made for each other, never racing too far ahead. A perfect give-and-take. 

When he stops, you feel dizzy and bereft, but only for a second.   He cups your jaw and tilts your face just so, then his fingers are parting your tender lips and the taste of him is on your tongue once more.  Your eyes close and you moan thoughtlessly, bobbing your head to the gentle rhythm he sets. 

“This,” he says in a feathery-light voice.

You shiver as he slowly withdraws his fingers.  He wipes his thumb across your lips to clean you.  You let him cup your chin and tilt your face, this time so he can look you in the eye. 

“Tell me what we’re doing,” he says.   

The suggestion makes you throb.  You are hot and aching when you admit, “Making love.”

“Good,” he says, then pecks your lips before rolling onto the balls of his feet and shooting upright.  “Now we can race.” 

-

It is a perfect draw. 

You are both distracted.  When you slam on the brakes in the same place at the same moment, it is with a singular purpose in mind. 

Doors slam.  You meet in the space between your vehicles. 

“I won,” you say, just to be argumentative. 

He is shrugging out of his jacket.  It his the ground.  He does not break his stride, already going for his belt.  Your knees nearly buckle again. 

“Fine,” he replies.  “Then get over here.  I’m fucking you on the hood of my car.” 

Fucking you is exactly what he does.  It is not making love.  He strips you methodically, your jacket and shirt and bra.  Your jeans get shoved down past your knees and he bends you over the hood, still warm from the purring engine.  You are hot and frantic, cheek pressed to the hood of your rival’s car while he works you open and shoves himself inside you. 

You make a sharp sound then a low moan, hands plastered to the hot hood.  He fucks you like he races you, without holding anything back because he knows you can take him. 

It feels as primal as a race, the animal instinct that conquers you in a rush of adrenaline.  It is your singular focus, the steady thud of him inside you.  You do not care about appearances, about seeming ridiculous, meeting every thrust and moan with your own.  He sounds good and feels better, your bodies in harmony, chasing each other to the finish line. 

He yanks you up, your back arching as he turns your head for a kiss.  It puts you over, clenching hard around him, setting him off.  He makes a soft sound then groans with pleasure.  He stays there for a minute, both of you breathing hard.

“I want you to keep your car,” he finally speaks, “because I need you to come back tomorrow and race me again.” 

You gasp when his hand moves between your legs, working you up again, slowly but surely.   

“Because next time I’ll win,” he says.  “You sounded so good getting fucked.  I want to see your face when you come on my cock again and again from making love.”

“Won’t happen,” you say, even while your on the cusp of doing just that. 

“Mm,” he says, then laughs that light, evil laugh as you come all over his hand.  He kisses the side of your head and says, “Wanna bet?” 

[chaos-of-the-abyss]

This is what I mean when I say this fandom has an incredible Noldor bias and insists on twisting everything so the Feanorians come out looking as charitable as possible, because the accusations that Thingol/Dior/Elwing knew they'd be condemning the Feanorians to the Void to keep the Silmaril and it was therefore justified that the Feanorians attacked Doriath and Sirion rely on some truly nonsense assumptions. How would those three know about the oath? Even if they did hear that it was a thing, how would they have the information that the Feanorians believe they'll be sent to super hell if they don't get the Silmarils back? AND even if they somehow did have this info, the oath literally says the Feanorians will come for whoever comes in contact with the Silmaril, regardless of what they do with it afterwards. On top of all that, I've seen people claim that the Feanorians "begged" Thingol/Dior/Elwing to give them the Silmaril, which, lmfao. These people read Tumblr metas and decided that counted as reading the Silm.

i don't have much to add here anon, just a resounding "yeah." i mean, maybe thingol has heard about the oath through some hearsay from beren, who received vague tidbits from finrod, but regardless, that eternal damnation business is definitely not something he'd be aware of. doubtful that finrod, or anyone outside of the feanorians themselves and their followers, know about that. and it's even more nonsense to say that dior or elwing would have any way of hearing the details of the oath. and!!! like you said! i don't usually find myself including this in my arguments because, as i've said, thingol and dior and elwing wouldn't know what exactly the oath stipulates anyway -- but it quite literally says "neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not doom itself, shall defend him from feanor, and feanor's kin, whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a silmaril." it doesn't matter what this person does afterward -- whether they keep or cast away a silmaril once they have it, the feanorians are going to go after them.

and as for that third point specifically -- that's the most egregious, imo. it's always hilarious to see people act like the feanorians were any iota of polite or diplomatic, let alone humbled themselves and begged, when dealing with thingol, or dior, or elwing. seriously, the way the word "unreasonable" is hurled at those three specifically is something else considering for whose defense the accusation is made in the first place. on the feanorians' part -- zero attempts at reparations made for the murder, kidnapping, and attempted rape. zero indications that they give a fraction of a fuck about any of the teleri. and from the perspective of the iathrim/inhabitants of sirion, zero indications that they are even decent enough people who would honor their own terms and leave doriath/sirion alone if the silmaril is surrendered. as per the text, straight up negative indications that they ever, lmfao, acted with any type of respect towards thingol or dior or elwing, all people whose family they have sorely wronged. towards thingol we get that they "reminded him of haughty words of their claim," and that their words were "proud and threatening." to dior we don't get specifics, but the text does say explicitly that they "sent to him to claim their own," which certainly doesn't make it sound like they were being tactful about it. to elwing and sirion they send messages "of friendship and yet of stern demand." begging? begging where? diplomacy where? attempts to acknowledge their wrongs and make even the barest offer of amends where? yet thingol and dior and elwing, the ones whose families were their victims -- the ones whose kin were murdered, kidnapped, and/or almost raped by them -- are the unreasonable and unfair ones. they are the ones who should have acted differently, and upon whom every bit of blame and culpability lies. the poor sad feanorians are tormented and tragic as they're forced to *checks notes* make good on their own oath to murder innocents which they chose to swear long before anyone other than morgoth was in possession of the silmarils. they tried sooo hard (except no they did not) but those big mean bigoted bullies thingol, dior, and elwing were just too mean and bigoted to listen to them and they had no other choice. they were forced to commit mass murder. boohoo.

so yeah, anon. "relies on some truly nonsense assumptions" is an accurate way to put it. nah, i'd say it's even a nice way to put it, because fucking stupid is what it is

[james-stark-the-writer]

rewatching The Conjuring series for the first time since like 2019 (when Annabelle Comes Homes released in theaters i binged the whole series and it's probably on my twitter archive if you go scrolling back enough, but i haven't seen any of these movies since) bc i honestly do not remember most of what happened in the movies, and Alanda Parker just started getting into the series so figured i might as well get a refresher. and i'm just getting to the title card for the first The Conjuring movie and like i had forgotten how good the title card itself was just as a piece of typography and how it felt to see like it's a great title card, but also just how desperate the opening was to get you scared. like even Insidious let us breathe with the characters a little bit, like The Conjuring is so desperate to get you scared from the first second, it even plays loud sounds in the opening studio credits, and it's only partly effective as an opener bc it's James Wan behind the camera, but the framing really doesn't help it shdhsdhsbd, and the whole opener is just such an odd structural choice and such a weird way to open the movie.

so much of this opening 6 minutes is just exposition after exposition that's completely irrelevant to the rest of the movie, and only really matters as an introduction to Ed and Lorraine — which could have been done better with like actual introduction to them as people, see the second movie — and the idea that demons only possess people, for that third act "twist," and the rest of the sequence really is pretty meaningless to the rest of the movie, if i remember correctly. it's interesting worldbuilding but Insidious did it way better. like it's just strange that it's really barely even an interesting or important opening bc those two things are really the only relevant part of that entire sequence because the rest of the information is just in the text crawl that comes before the title card. fuck, the text crawl gives you more info about Ed and Lorraine than the fucking scene does bc it doesn't give you much of their dynamic. it's a fine tone-setter ig but i'd rather see the actual relevant stuff, or get a longer scene of the actual talk, instead of it being weirdly mediated through the video, which has the same framing as the fucking movie bc it does a match cut to outside the video so i'm confused on why the hell the Warrens would ever put so much emphasis on the doll's face (and where the camera is bc we don't even see it in any frame like when Ed leans forward like shouldn't the diegetic camera be visible? like it's the 60s, that shit would be huge and clearly visible. but then the placement of it would make it an odd choice in-world too since, wouldn't you want to capture the actual faces of the people since they're giving the testimony? like the whole framing and reveal that it's an actual video just raises more questions than necessary imo) bc like. she's not even sitting across from them. also, ngl, Vera's dialogue delivery... oh she was completely checked out.

sigh. anyway, now that movie's actually started, excited to see what Wan was cooking.

[pleasestayawayidonotlikeyou]

if it's ok can you do a bad sanses x scp child reader. where nightmare find them in her negative universe all alone trying to survive (since she lost her father and friends) cause something bad happened and takes them in as their healer (cause the child doesn't want to kill). nightmare found her when she was 7/8 years old, nightmare would see a bit of his passive self in her, and the child would be neutral with the whole situation given they have seen crazier things from where their from (and just wanted to escape their situation from their world). but is a good kid and despite not wanting to hurt anyone she would rather get themselves hurt to protect those she cares for (would literally take a hit from anyone who tries to hurt dadmare, killer, horror and dust because of their past trauma and defend them with her telekinesis). their drawbacks of their abilities is if she gets extremely hurt or looses a limb when having zero energy she can't regenerate until her stamina is helped (energy like full sleep and have food or beverage basically having good stamina) but still can't die. (this is based off an oc of mine so here is more info with a pic to help) she sometime would have her breakdowns like the others from past trauma (also her soul would be perseverance) I'm sorry for the long read i hope your ok with this and if you have any questions I'm happy to answer :3

Holy shit this took too long to write-

Featuring: Nightmare, Killer, Dust and Ted.

Masterlist

Nightmare

Ah yes. Another dumb kid for him to add to the collection.

Since you were quite useful with your healing powers and all, he took you in. Big mistake.

Nightmare now finds himself caring for another kid (the other kids are the Killer Dust and Ted), oh well.

Is very impressed with your ability to regenerate limbs.. it's... Fascinating..

His grumpy self turns into one a bit more content.

You're like a memory of himself in the past, the voice that always keeps ticking in his mind, except you are real. "I am too.."

Didn't find out about Killer bringing you into missions until Ted came furiously to him demanding to know why would his boss let a child go to mass murderer missions.

Spoiler alert, he didn't know and quickly became enraged, that's his kid, how dare Killer bring you to missions without his knowledge!?

Nightmare finds it adorable when you try to protect him, he's already a god silly, he can't die!

Dust

Stay still, he wants to study you.

He may or may not like SCPs...

Holds a notebook and pen, writing down any information he can get out of you.

Impressed with your powers, but not surprised, he knows Nightmare wouldn't take in a healer who can't defend themselves.

Watches in the shadows, if you need him just call his name.

Finds Killer's idea of bringing you to missions dumb, but there's nothing he can do can he?

You two may have time alone, and he uses that time to gossip about Killer's dumbass.

On really really rare occasions, he'll vent about his past, about the guilt he feels about his actions.

Killer

Another one to be influenced by him.

Nightmare doesn't let you near killer without supervision, that's a big no no.

He doesn't want to wake up hearing laughter with his face painted with permanent marker again.

Killer likes having someone around, especially because you can

He finds it cute when you try to protect him, you're not even to his waist! How are you going to fight a fucking god like dream?

Well, his jaw is on the ground now. "HOLY SHIT NIGHTMARE WHAT KIND OF POWERS DOES THIS KID HAVE???"

Yep, he's bringing you in missions now.

Also Killer named a cat after you.

Ted

The fact that you need to be healthy to be able to regenerate is the perfect excuse for him to cook more food.

He repays you when you heal him he makes your favorite dessert.

Ted thinks you're too naive and innocent for battle, and gets pretty annoyed every time you go in missions with them.

Even knowing you can regenerate and defend yourself it still keeps him worried, what if you run out of energy?

Also blames Killer for any scratch you get, he's the one who made you go with them so he's the one to blame.

He's the one who's with you almost 24/7, acts like an actual big brother, may even apresent you to his Papyrus.

When you defend him in an argument, he feels so fucking special, no he doesn't have tears on his eyes you're just hallucinating.

[crowcryptid]

the disinformation that went on in the past 24 hours is why we now have programs and websites that say “oops the rats are chewing up the servers again :(“ instead of anything useful

We have got to make owning a home computer widespread again. We have got to get rid of the tablets and put Linux on those school chromebooks so the children do not get scared of the command line.

Genuinely so many issues could be fixed if people were willing to look up how something works before saying shit, and if the people answering these questions were less stuck up their asses and used less jargon. <- this advice applies to tech issues in general, though the situation that happened today can’t be fixed by the average person because it requires administrator rights to fix. Unless you happened to get lucky and rebooting over and over fixed it for you.

[redvelvetwishtree]

[artkaninchenbau]

People keep on asking for more Baby Robin and Papadile so here is more Baby Robin and Papadile. Now never ask anything from me ever again

[divineandmajesticinone]

4 MINUTES (2024) I 1.02 "Do the police normally do house check-ins."

[cecoeur]

How do you sleep at night? No one to hide behind Betrayed every alibi you had You had every chance to make amends instead you got drunk on bitterness And you still claim that you're innocent, it's sad