#writing with my packer

[batmasc]

You're so excited to have a girlfriend, so excited when she asks you to stay the night. When you ask her if she's ever been with a girl, she looks at you funny, but you brush it off. She's gorgeous, you love touching her, but when you have sex with anyone, something always feels off. You don't think too much of it.

When you're finally asleep, her bedside table slides open. She slips on gloves and grins to herself as she fills a syringe with a dose of testosterone. She's been longing for this moment ever since you started dating. She pinches your soft skin ever so slightly and plunges the needle in, and kisses the spot after the injection. It's a good thing you're so tired out tonight.

A few weeks pass, you don't notice anything different at first. But you feel a bit sweatier, and hornier than you've ever been. One night you reach down to touch yourself and are perplexed. Instead of a small bundle of nerves there's a hard nub there. You wonder if you should see a doctor.

Next time you see your girlfriend, she looks at you knowingly and you're not sure why. She kisses you fervently and pulls you into bed, whispering "Come on, loverboy." Maybe It was just a slip of the tongue, something about it gives you goosebumps. "Let me see that cock-"

Before you can ask, she's got her lips wrapped around your growing appendage, making you cry out. "Hold on, I'm confused-"

"Take it like a big boy, baby" she murmurs against your molten skin. You don't have it in you to argue, you're mortified that she's about to make you orgasm. And then she kisses you, hard. "See how you taste now? Just like a man should. You're taking to treatment so quickly. "

"Treatment?"

"Just a little pinch every week and you're growing a nice cock for me, and I can smell your musk and desire. Soon you'll be my perfect boyfriend. I don't think you should go home in the morning. I want to see you change, every hour, every second. "

As if under a spell, you can't find it in yourself to deny her.

[whirlybirdwhat]

would be writing fic rn but my 130 lb dog is on my lap and i love him. forgive me world but some loves are greater than others and i must submit to their power

[nudibutch]

asking this as a fellow stone with some questions about where that comes from personally. are there things you like doing or imagining on your own but don’t like in practice, or are you stone in most of your fantasies, too? for me I only respond in a stone way when I’m with someone. on my own I like and imagine plenty that I can’t enjoy so don’t really want when I’m with a partner

more the former, like 60/40 or 75/25 (most of my fantasies involve things im not comfortable with with someone else, some of them are stone-specific). there are things i like fantasizing about on my own, but when it comes to in practice i am definitely not as comfortable with it. although i have capital D fully Divested with partners i trust, it takes a LONG time for me to get there (like well over a year), its usually a once-only or extremely rare event, and i havent let anyone touch me intimately or penetrate me in about 5 years (save for my pap smears, lol). i feel like with the right person i could explore that again, but it would take a monumental amount of trust. i think my brain is conditioned to "youre disappointing someone when you say no to this specifically" and i would need a lot of support if i ended up still not liking it.

i also think a lot of it is connected to the fact that ive only recently been touched or interacted with in a way that i DO like, so my body in general is extremely unpracticed/inexperienced with connecting my pleasure to my physicality. i dont think this is a cure-all by any means, but i have a feeling that if i got to a point of trust with someone to be able to do that more often, i think my body would respond very differently than it has in the past.

[discountbottom]

Oh god I think my egg cracked in a taco bell bathroom

[nolinno-art]

I've developed mathematics for a non-human mind, for my comic "The book written by tiny paws"

Sapient distant descendants of rats, known as packers, living on Earth millions of years after the extinction of humans, began to develop mathematics using cognitive mechanisms never intended for such tasks. Due to an evolutionary quirk, multiplication came more naturally to them than addition, and their mathematics reflects this.

Packers write numbers as shapes, with each number having a corresponding number of corners.

And they write large numbers as nested shapes. The number inside is multiplied by the number outside.

Examples of some numbers:

Packers haven't invented 0 yet. They haven't even invented 1! In fact, they don’t need the concept of "one" much in their system. There's no need to say "I ate one fish" when they can simply say "I ate fish".

Packers can't yet write large prime numbers, like 101 or 10,501, because they would have to draw a huge shape to represent them! Even writing 17 or 19 would be quite difficult if they only used convex shapes.

So packers use non-convex shapes too!

Many years later, some packer noticed that large prime numbers look suspiciously symmetric.

So this packer improved the notation system and made it clearer.

Later, another packer simplified this system even more, deciding that there was no point in writing the same shapes twice.

This packer was the first in their culture to declare that "a dot isolated from a number" should also be considered a number. The packer called this dot "the wonderful number that's less than two".

Many years later, another packer made an important innovation: the "dot isolation" could be repeated multiple times as long as the result remained odd. When the result became even, it could undergo a "two isolation" (division by two). The final result will be a series of dots and twos.

This invention led to the creation of a binary system based on one and two, which had a significant impact on the technological advancement of packers.

The comic "the book written by tiny paws" talks about all of this in more detail. There will be mistakes, debates, the invention of rational, irrational, multivariate numbers, and some other stuff. Some stuff will be very much like human math, and some will be different. After all, math is still math, only the point of view has changed.

[sortanonymous]

I wonder if any kids these days watching Sunday Night Football see the Walmart+ 4K SkyCam parts and think that it's not just sponsorship, but that you can actually buy a 4K SkyCam at Walmart through Walmart+ just like the one they use on NBC. Cue inevitable disappointment when they can't find them at the local Walmart, lack of subscription be darned.

[radiance1]

The Justice League gathered tips about how the cult of the Black Flame kidnapped people and was deciding to use them as a sacrifice to their deity in pursuit of their goals.

They burst through the door, hoping the people weren't killed yet.

They got there too late, however. The circle was already drawn, the magic power already circulating within it and the chanting already done, the group of sacrifices bound up off to the side.

Sweltering heat bloomed from the circle, easily enveloping the entire room and causing everyone to wince, even the likes of Superman and Wonder Woman.

A pillar of rotating, black flame expanded from the circle to the room of the warehouse, with small embers of black descending to the floor. Constantine shouted at the Justice League to get away from them, because even those small embers he could see were loaded with power that would bloody burn the unaware to a crisp.

(Not that he needed to warn them, Vlad has perfected his entrance in such a way where it's showy, dramatic and yet mostly harmless.)

Large, fiery wings slowly expanded from the pillar of fire, stretching slowly, as if moving through water, red eyes flashed from within the pillar of fire before the wings snapped to their full, impressive might. Exploding the pillar of fire in the process and scattering embers all throughout the room and leaving behind the creature that was contained within.

The creature, Duke of the Black Flame, slowly pulled its wings back to its body, before glancing over the people in the room, most shivered under his gaze, if they lacked the willpower to resist it. Before the entirety of said gaze was laid full on the, now trembling, cultist below.

"Servant." The Duke of the Black Flame said the word slowly, as if tasting the word along with the man's fear. "State your wish."

"Y-yes, my lord!" The cultist waved over at the cultist nearest to the group of sacrifices, practically whispering curses under his breath for him to hurry up and bring them over. He then looked back up at the duke, before bowing his head to escape from its narrowed gaze. "My lord, please accept this group of innocent souls in exchange for us to serve you as you cleanse this wretched world!"

A moment.

Everyone held their breaths as the silence dragged, the Duke of the Black Flame's gaze narrowed as he took his time in consideration, no one could tell what was going through the god's(?) mind before he spoke.

"Denied."

Shock ran through the cultists, the kidnapped group breathing out a sigh of relief. "B-but my lord! This is-"

"Does a mere servant dare to assume what I would want?" The duke asked calmly, head raised, and gaze narrowed, as if daring the cultist to continue speaking. The cultists hurriedly shook his head.

"I wouldn't dare my lord!"

The duke simply stared down at the cultist, before speaking once more. "Now, the requirement for wasting my time."

"Re-Requirements...?" A nearby cultist asked.

The duke tilted his head slightly, gazing homing in on the one who spook. "Yes, the requirement. For wasting my time, you do have it, do you not?"

The cultists broke out in a cold sweat from fear as the silence dragged spoke its answer. The duke's gaze narrowed intensely as the heat surrounding them practically doubled under his gaze.

"How disappointing." It was a simple sentence, but a sentence that held weight as from within the circle, black flames spilled from the circle, moving slowly as if it were in no rush, and surrounded the cultists- and by extension, the hostages.

"M-my lord!" The lead cultist shouted in fear, backing away from the flames that slowly closed in on them.

Batman stepped forward, Constantine moving to stop him before being silenced by a glare. Batman kept moving, walking across the room slowly, no fear visible in his body language as he passed through the flames and stepped in front of the otherworldly entity.

The duke tilted its head in the Dark Knight's direction, before fixing him with the full weight of his stare, to which the knight simply stared back.

The silence stretched, before Batman slowly reached for his utility belt, everyone else tensing in preparation for a fight to be enacted. But the Dark Knight surprised them as he instead held up something they couldn't see.

The duke bent down in curiosity, his height towering over the knight and making him seem like a child in comparison before, for the first time in this encounter, did his breath hitch.

"Is that...?" The Duke of the Black Flame probed with a hopeful glimmer in his voice.

Batman nodded. "It is."

The phoenix closed its eyes, before standing back up to its full height. "What is it you wish for, child of man?"

"Help us defend earth." The Dark Knight stated simply.

The duke stared at him in silence, causing everyone to tense under the silence.

"Of course, only with stuff we would actually need you for." Constantine chimed in, walking forward as well and stand next to the Dark Knight, who glanced at him, and Constantine sent a small scowl his direction in response.

The duke hummed, as a green vulture with a red fez on its head slowly molded itself from the summoning circle and stepped forward, holding out a wing to the Dark Knight.

The Dark Knight placed the item in the flame servant's hand, and Constantine stared incredulously at what was exchanged.

Seasonal passes to every Packers for what looked like thirty years.

The phoenix glared down at the vulture beneath it lightly. "Under that with the utmost of care that you are capable of, or so help me."

The vulture nodded, before dipping back to whence it came.

The phoenix's eyes that moved itself back to the two men and nodded. "Very well, I accept your request, and am most pleased with your sacrifice."

The phoenix raised its wings, the flames moving back within the circle and instead, rising in a pillar of flame that utterly consumed the being, a last flash of glowing red eyes before it disappeared.

Silence descended into the room, before everyone slowly turned to look at Batman.

"I know his nephew."

And that was the Dark Knight was willing to explain, before punching the cultist nearest to him.

There was a dragon in their fountain.

A giant eastern dragon in their fountain.

Most of its body is in the fountain, but a good portion of it is just resting on the ground.

Were they supposed to just, leave it there or make it shoo.

Tim didn't know, neither did Dick.

It was beautiful, scales a glowing white and a mane that looked incredibly soft, even from where they were standing.

Again, there was a dragon in their fountain. A beautiful dragon, but a dragon nonetheless.

Alfred, the unconcerned, professional, most unphased man, just, walked over to it, give it sass for growling at him, and then asked if it would like to soak in the pool instead.

And the damn thing agreed to it too.

--

Danny fucking hated the aftermath of his fights with Vlad, sure, the phoenix never tried to actually kill him or anything, but the heat just does not do it for him.

At least the fucker himself is gonna be uncomfortable from the cold.

Danny just wanted to navigate to the Far Frozen to recover from the heat, alright. Of course it would be too much to ask, because next them he knew he ran into a portal and plopped down onto some rich person's lawn.

And then took over said rich person's fountain, it was big enough for a good amount of his body at least, so he just went why the fuck not.

Then some butler came over to him, gave him of all people fucking sass, and asked him if he wanted to soak in the pool instead.

So of course, he got to the moving to said pool.

[willowsnook]

Let me in

Hi! Love your idea for a prompt list. Can I order: A turkey swiss on wheat bread, maybe mike’s way if you feel like it’s fitting for the sandwich?

Joe burrow x bsf!reader

Please don’t leave

—-----------------------------------------

Fall in Cincinnati was something that you loved. The trees changed colors, you could start leaving your windows open, and, of course, Bengals football. Now, you’d never claim that you were a die-hard fan, that was still reserved for your beloved Green Bay Packers, but after 5 years in the city, they were a solid 2nd favorite. Plus, being good friends with the starting quarterback meant you had to root for them. 

You met Joe at a charity event a year after you moved to Ohio. Working for a Cincinnati-specific lifestyle magazine, your recommendations and reviews had made you quite well known in the city. Your strategy was always finding small, hidden gem places, usually family-owned, to review and elevate. This fulfilled your need to make a difference and also get paid to eat food. 

While your job was so public and in the spotlight, you were pretty introverted, which surprised a lot of people. You didn’t necessarily enjoy being the center of attention, focusing more on making those around you shine. This meant that while you were appreciative of being recognized by the community, you hated going to big events; you’d much rather just be writing about them. 

So when the introverted star of Cincinnati joined you in the shadows of an event, the two of you hit it off. Knowing who you were, his PR team had noticed and pitched a content series involving Joe. You spent a whole day with him, going to places he recommended and giving instant reviews. Initially, you were worried about it being awkward because you didn’t know him well, but you both had a blast. Joe was easy to talk to, and he liked that you treated him like anyone else. 

After that, he’d invited you to hang out with his friends several times, and Ja’marr really liked you, insisting that you be added to the friend group. Since then, you’d spent the last couple of years being forced to go to every home Bengals game, but you could also easily force one of them to help you with some kind of content for work. A mutually beneficial friendship you thought. 

Midway through the week, you were back at your apartment, taking pictures of some cookies someone sent you to be considered for an upcoming article you were writing. You snapped the perfect picture just as your phone rang, and you looked over to see it was Joe calling. 

“What’s up?” You said, putting the phone on speaker. 

“I’m bored. Can I come hang?” He asked. 

“Yeah, I’m doing some work, but I’ll be done soon.”

“Okay, I’m on my way.” 

You were used to Joe calling you randomly to hang out, especially when the season was going poorly. One thing you learned in your years of friendship with him was that he didn’t like to be alone, mostly so he didn’t spiral thinking about everything. You were happy to be a friend he could lean on. 

15 minutes later, you heard your front door open and smiled as Joe wandered into the kitchen. He gave you a small squeeze from behind as you leaned over your laptop. 

“Are you doing anything with these?” He asked, and you looked over at the cookies. 

“No, I just got done. Have at it,” you replied, amused as he shoveled one into his mouth. 

“These are pretty good,” he said, swallowing. “But I’ve had better.”

“Hmm,” you thought. “What don’t you like about them?”

“Too grainy,” he said, and you agreed, unable to think of what you were feeling. 

“That’s a good point; I’m using that,” you said, typing it down in your notes. 

“Watch out, I’m going to steal your job,” he joked, and you smirked. 

“Does that mean I get yours?”

“You’d probably do a better job than me right now,” he said, and you frowned, shutting your laptop. 

“You are still a superstar, even when you lose,” you told him earnestly, getting a small smile from him. 

“I think I need you with a headset on to tell me that during the games,” he said, and you laughed. 

“Yeah yeah,” you replied, blushing. “Want to take a walk or something? I need to get out of the house.” 

“Yeah, let’s go.”

The two of you walked down the street and ventured towards the water, chatting about upcoming events and his family coming to visit. You started to get chilly and held your arms briefly before Joe noticed. He pulled his hoodie off with one hand and handed it to you, not even stopping what he was saying. You pulled it on, inhaled the lingering cologne, and sighed. 

“Will you come to dinner with us tomorrow night?” he asked, jolting you back to reality.

“With your parents?” you asked, and he nodded. “Would that not be a little weird?”

“Why would it be weird?” 

“I don't know. I just wouldn’t want them to think we were dating or anything,” you said, confused. Joe frowned at that, but you didn’t have time to analyze it. 

“Ja’marr is coming too,” he said. “You are both my best friends, so I’d like you to meet them.” 

“Okay, if it’s important to you,” you agreed, giving in. Dinner with Joe’s parents. Huh. Sometimes you really didn’t understand why he chose you as a best friend when many people were fighting over it. If only people knew how clingy Mr. Cool was. 

—---------------------------------------------------

Ja’Marr picked you up from your place the next night and the two of you headed to dinner. 

“You look nice,” he commented, and you smiled. You and Ja’Marr had a flirty relationship, but nothing had ever come of it. One time, when you were both very drunk in the offseason, you had made out but it didn’t last long with him backing out, saying that Joe was going to kill him. You had just assumed that Joe didn’t want anyone in the friend group dating in case it got messy, which was understandable. With Ja’marr, you were mostly just attracted to him vs. wanting something more. 

“I still feel weird about this whole thing,” you admitted to him and he gave you a lazy smirk. 

“Please, they’ll love you,” he assured you. 

“That’s not what I’m worried about; I’m amazing,” you said, causing him to laugh. “I just think it’s weird and intimate. Like if my parents were in town, yeah, maybe I wouldn’t mind them meeting you guys at the game or to celebrate in a group after. But I wouldn’t invite you for a small dinner.” 

Ja’Marr gave you a look you couldn’t decipher before laughing to himself. 

“I’ll try not to take offense to that,” he said and you rolled your eyes. 

The restaurant was a nicer one that you had been to before for work. Joe’s parents stood up as you approached the table and warmly greeted you. His mom pulled you into a tight hug, laughing about how excited she was to meet you finally. You shot Ja’Marr a look and found him trying not to laugh. You could tell Joe was embarrassed, which made the situation a little amusing. 

Sitting down beside him, he gave you an easy smile while handing you the drink menu. Joe’s dad jumped into conversation with Ja’Marr about the season while Robin asked you a ton of questions about your job and basically your whole life. You ended up loving his parents; they were the sweetest people. While you might have missed the way that Joe was looking at you the whole dinner, his parents definitely did not. 

“It was so good to meet you y/n,” Robin gushed. “I’m sure we’ll see much more of you in the future.” 

You smiled, confused, while Ja’Marr couldn’t hold back his laugh. Joe’s face turned bright red and his dad chuckled. 

—------------------------------------------------

If you had thought the season was going poorly before it was a million times worse now. It seemed like each week, your two friends were putting up superstar numbers but still losing. After watching them lose by just a point to the Ravens, you clicked the TV off and sighed. Reaching for your phone you texted him a white heart and watched him read it and not reply. He usually would, even after a loss, but this one was tough so you didn’t pay much mind to it. 

As the week went on, you started to feel Joe’s tension about the team bleed into your friendship. He wasn’t answering your calls and had replied to any text you had sent him with just one word. What had really pissed you off though, was that he was supposed to shoot a Thanksgiving promo with you about places that provided free food for those who needed it and he didn’t show. 

“I get that you’re having a tough time right now and while I can live with you being a bad friend I can’t live with you 1. making me look bad professionally and 2. disappointing people making a difference. So give me a call when you figure your shit out,” you ranted to his voicemail. 

You were supposed to fly out for the game this weekend but weren’t sure if you still should. Calling Ja’Marr, you complained about Joe being a dick and that you didn’t know what to do. He assured you that you should still come and that Joe was just hurting because of the season. The best thing you could do was be there for him, even in the shadows. 

The game started out horribly with it being 24-6 leading into halftime. But a different team came out in the third quarter, and you went crazy as the Bengals got ahead. But like the week before, no matter what Joe did, even throwing for over 350 yards, they still lost in the end. You lingered by the locker room after the game and smiled sadly as you saw Ja’Marr first. He wrapped you in a hug, and he was happy to have you there. Joe on the other hand, did not look happy to see you. 

“What are you doing here?” he said coldly, and both you and Ja’Marr flinched. His teammate gave him a weird look, but Joe was just staring at you blankly. 

“I’ve had these tickets since before the season, you know that,” you replied. 

“I didn’t want you to come,” he said and you tried to ignore the hurt you felt. “Did you not get the hint from me ignoring you all week?” 

“Oh, so is that why you stood up the charity?” You bit back. “So that I would ‘get the hint’?”

Joe didn’t say anything, clenching his jaw and Ja’Marr tried to step in. 

“I wanted her to come man,” he said and Joe snapped his head towards his friend. 

“Well just fuck her then and get over it,” he replied and your jaw dropped. Ja”Marr shoved him backward, yelling at him before security intervened. You recovered from your shock and turned around, abruptly leaving the stadium. You called an Uber to take you back to the hotel, and the massive traffic gave you a lot of time to process what had just happened. 

You could understand him being upset over the game, especially since it was so fresh in his mind. But it’s not like you went up to him; he came up to you. This man was supposed to be your best friend, and he basically just called you a whore to your face. This shit was ridiculous. 

30 minutes later, you were walking into the hotel. Ja’Marr had tried calling, but you declined. You called the airline you were flying with to see if there was any chance of flying out early, and you were lucky to snag a seat on the last flight out. You quickly packed up your stuff after changing into a comfier outfit and headed down to the lobby to check out and call a car. 

Turning to head out the door you stopped as you saw Joe walking in, his eyes trained on you. He looked miserable and he made his way towards you slowly. 

“Y/n..” he started, his eyes filling up with tears, but you stopped him from saying anything else. 

“I’m leaving,” you said emotionlessly. He tried to reach out to you, but you flinched back and pain flashed across his face. 

“I need to talk to you y/n,” he begged. “Please don’t leave.” 

“Why would I stay?” You asked softly. “Goodbye, Joe.” 

You left him standing there wondering why it felt like your own heart was breaking into two. 

—-----------------------------------------------

It had been two weeks since then, and you had successfully avoided Joe at all costs. He blew up your phone of course but you have yet to answer. Luckily he hadn’t tried coming to your apartment because he knew you well enough to know that it’d piss you off. 

You were on your way to hang out with Ja’Marr for a group movie night which he promised you that Joe would not be at. You don’t know why you even believed him; Joe’s car was parked in the front driveway and you almost reversed until you saw Ja’Marr waving his arms at you. Stepping out, you crossed your arms, waiting for him. 

“I knew you wouldn’t come if you knew he was here,” he started and you scoffed. 

“You were right.”

“I am miserable because he is y/n,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry but I will be selfish for a minute. He is being a dick at practice to everyone and isn’t throwing me good balls. He’s moody, won’t say a word to me, and won’t leave his house unless necessary. So please let him make it up to you. You two belong together.”

“He called me a whore Ja’Marr!” You exclaimed frustrated and gave you a sympathetic look. 

“I know he did, and that was terrible. I tried to fight him on your behalf,” he said, earning a small smile from you. “God I shouldn’t tell you this but he’s so in love with you it’s insane. He’s hurting and you’re hurting. Please just talk to him.”

“He’s not in love with me,” you said and he just rolled his eyes. 

“Believe what you want but get in there,” he said steering you towards the door. 

The good thing was that there were a few other people here from your friend group, so technically, you didn’t even have to talk to him. He was the first person you saw when you walked in so clearly, this was a coordinated effort between the two friends. 

Joe did look sad, and you wanted to be happy about it, but you couldn’t find it in yourself. He was dressed down in grey sweats and a black T-shirt, his hair looking like he had run his hands through it over and over. His eyes were puffy, and that made your heart clench. 

“Are we ready to start?” One of your other friends called from the living room and you started to walk towards the room but Joe gently grabbed you, pulling you closer to him and letting Ja’Marr pass. 

“Can we talk?” He mumbled quietly to you and you nodded, letting him pull you into the study. You stood with your arms crossed as you looked at him, waiting. 

“I’m sorry y/n. I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I was hurting so bad and I took it out on you. The one person who has always been there for me.” 

“Sorry isn’t going to cut it Joe,” you said, frustrated. “It’s not like it was just the comment; it was the week leading up to it, missing the event. I can’t be there for you when you don’t let me in.”

You had imagined how this conversation would go multiple times over the past few weeks. You expected an apology and another apology, but you did not expect Joe Burrow to start sobbing in front of you. 

He sunk against the wall and had his head in his hands while he was crying. Your shock wore off, and you knelt down in front of him, moving in between his legs. He looked up and your heart broke at his tear-stained face. 

“What is going on, Joe?” You asked softly, wiping some of his tears with your thumb. 

“I just don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “Everything is going wrong, and I don’t feel like I’m in control. I do everything I can, and it’s still not enough.” 

“Oh Joey,” you murmured, pulling his head into your shoulders. He held on to you tightly as he cried and you ran your hand through his hair gently. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I’m sorry I hurt you; I hated myself the second I said it.” 

“I forgive you Joe,” you told him, looking into his teary eyes. 

“I don’t deserve you; I’m not good enough for you,” he said. “I want to be enough for you.”

You cupped his face gently, making him look at you. Your own eyes started to water at the vulnerability he was showing.

"Joe, you’ve always been enough for me," you whispered. "You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me, not to anyone. I’m here for you, not for what you do or don’t achieve."

His brows furrowed, and he shook his head slightly, his hands moving to hold yours. "You don’t understand, y/n. I don’t just want to be your best friend—I want to be everything to you. And I’ve been so afraid of ruining our relationship that I pushed you away instead."

Your breath caught in your throat. "Joe..."

"I love you," he said, his voice breaking, but his gaze held steady. "I’ve been in love with you for so long, and I didn’t know how to tell you. But pushing you away hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt on the field. I can’t lose you."

For a moment, the weight of his words left you speechless. You searched his face, finding nothing but raw sincerity. Your heart ached, but in the best way, as if it were piecing itself together after being fractured.

"I love you too, Joe," you admitted to him and yourself, a soft smile breaking through the tears on your face. "But you have to let me in. No more shutting me out, no matter how hard things get. We figure it out together, okay?"

His hands tightened around yours, and he nodded, relief washing over his features. "Together. I promise."

You leaned forward, gently kissing his forehead before resting your own against it. The two of you walked out of the study and into the living room, where everyone else was already engrossed in the movie. Ja’Marr looked between the two of you and at your connected hands and gave you a wide smirk. Joe moved to the big armchair and pulled you down with him, and you snuggled into his lap. His arms wrapped around you, and you finally felt content. 

[st-dionysus]

(The Poem is named) Emetophobia CW

It’s 2024 and I’m in a 20 year old drag bar, watching the very first trans-masculine performer to compete on their stage, he gets second place even though he deserved first.

I show up to the men’s bathhouse on trans night to get free entry and get turned away at the door, and told it’s for transgirls only, bitch you could have put it on the flyer that transmen need not apply.

I’m doing a line of ketamine off the table, calling it stealing transfem valor.

I get banned from the camsite for listing myself as transgender when I don’t have a dick, I complain online and get told that the trans-masculine body is to grotesque to be fetishized and I should be grateful.

I wear a packer and hitch up a skirt, walk the street, get $20, calling it stealing transfem valor.

Cissie puts a TW #body-mutilation tag under my thirst trap. Tranny puts a TW #dysphoria tag under my thirst trap.

T-girl with a callout post pedojackets me, Enby with TME in bio pedojackets me, T-boy with a self-deprecating joke about men in his bio pedojackets me.

I do another line of ketamine off the table, calling it stealing transfem valor.

I am at the woman’s clinic, I am at the woman’s clinic, I am at the woman’s clinic wearing a mask – not cause I’m compromised (I am), just to hide my beard – avoiding making everyone uncomfortable.

I am getting re-diagnosed with BPD, which just means I have bitch disorder and no one trusts me.

I take my pills and throw them up. I drink my liquor before the beer and throw them up.

I am just 14 when the picture and videos go up. Remind me that I have it easy, they were only pictures and videos.

I am just 17 when the recording of my proof stops before it happens, my phone memory is full, I’m called a liar and now I can’t see buttered crackers, thanksgiving, or sriracha sauce without wanting to kill myself.

No one gets me therapy, but they still want to convert me, she puts her hands down my pants, at least I’m 19, to remind me I’m a woman – tell me how they love trans men again.

I do a third line of ketamine off the table, realize it doesn’t effect me, calling it stealing transfem valor.

I call myself a dog, I start biting my lovers and I have to hold back from ripping out a chunk of flesh, I don’t think I’d throw it up.

I am reading the statistics, 40% of BPD patients try and kill themselves. 1 in 2 transgender men try and kill themselves. I’m one of them. I’m 12 and I swallowed all the pills. I’m 14 and the gun is empty. I’m 17 and I put the box-opener against my throat. Therapist calls me a liar, there is no scar, and my words don’t count for anything.

I’m using he/him pronouns for Stormé DeLarverie, like the stonewall veteran association said to, and telling you he started the riot, calling it stealing transfem valor from a woman who told you she didn’t fucking do it.

I’m shoving my fingers down my throat in a fit of mania, convinced I can vomit up my uterus. She tells me I should be grateful, she’d do anything to be able to get pregnant.

My brother in the struggle gets bottom surgery without top, calling it stealing transfem valor to feel comfortable in his body.

It’s 2024 and I’m at trans pride, the announcers tells everyone to give a round of applause for trans woman, a round of applause for gender-queers, a round of applause for transfems, a round of applause for the enbies, a round of applause for trans-masculine people. You forgot someone. Did you know a trans man started the first ever transgender pride parade?

A book on queer history talks about gay men and lesbians and trans women and the women who dressed as men for better job opportunities. I’m reminded that my invisibility is a privilege, if you aren’t seen you don’t get bashed.

I’m 13 and they throw me in the girls bathroom, pin me down, beat me, and in black sharpie write “dyke”, write “tranny”, write “lesbo”, and pull my hair out the cap I shoved it in.

I’m 19 with D cups that a binder can’t hide and a beard I refuse to shave less I break the mirror and kill myself with the shards of glass I would swallow.

Man at the bus stop calls me tranny and tells me I’ll never be a woman. I’d laugh if he didn’t have his hand on my throat. Calling it stealing transfem valor.

I’m 21 and have to pull a taser on him, cause from the back, even with short hair and top surgery, I look rape-able.

I’m 23 and in the gay district when they chase me down the street, calling me faggot.

Make another forcemasc post, calling it stealing transfem valor.

Read an article about a trans man prostitute that kills himself and ends up another female statistic.

Read an article about a trans man shooter, they blame the HRT he didn’t have access too.

Going to read a callout about me, five pages on Google Docs, does this post make it on the list?

Do a final line of ketamine, write the final line of a poem that makes me want to die, calling it stealing transfem valor.

I puke and miss the toilet.

[birthanon]

I’m curious if you are going to write any more about births???

If you are I have a few ideas in mind for what you could use for prompts.

yes I do give your consent to use my prompts for your work.

Here is one of them

hidden pregnancy and the person is in a very serious meeting and they are having contractions they have to hide their pregnancy because the boss has a certain image and will fire them if they don’t comply with the guidelines.

P.s. if you do see this post I would love for the character to be male or ftm but it’s up to you 

Hi! Thanks so much for my first ask! I am definitely going to be writing more births. It's how I'm dealing with *gestures at America*. Thanks for this prompt! It kind of took on a life of its own, but I hope you like this little story.

Contains: trans mpreg, birth, extreme birth denial, clothing birth, public laboring, pushing the baby back in (multiple times). All my favorite stuff. Hopefully some of your favorite stuff too! (Story after cut)

Xander groaned, doubling over and clutching his stomach as yet another contraction struck. He’d lost his mucus plug the night before, and had been having contractions come and go throughout the night. Really, he knew the last thing he should be doing was going to work. But there was a very important meeting for a client today, and his boss had assigned him as the lead contact.

The elevator dinged to its destination, and Xander forced himself to straighten. He was already a fairly large man, so his baby bump passed as a beer belly. No one at the office, besides his boss, knew he was trans; and he was pretty sure no one at all knew he was pregnant.

Xander reached his desk and sat down with relief, stretching out his aching back. Just as he logged into his computer, someone tapped at the wall of his cubicle.

“Hello Xander,” his boss said, leaning against the wall. He was dressed immaculately; wavy brown hair, nicely tailored suit, shiny wing-tip shoes, classy golden watch. The man screamed wealth, and knew how to wear it. CEO of a successful tech company at a young age, John Wilson was practically a living embodiment of class. “ Are you ready for your presentation today?”

“I am,” Xander said, forcing a smile. “You can count on me, sir.”

John smiled. “Well then, stand up, give me a twirl.”

This was a normal action—Xander had been hired on as John’s assistant while he was still newly transitioned. One look at Xander’s scruffy facial hair and thrifted suit, and John had made Xander’s fashion choices his personal project. Still, it was harder today to get out of his chair and give the obligatory turn.

“You’ve gained some weight,” John observed. “You might need to make another trip to the tailors. And your packer’s in the wrong place. You look hard. Can’t have you hard in front of our client today. Here, put this on.” He tossed something to Xander, who caught it easily enough.

Xander glanced down at the fabric, and realized after some puzzling, that it was a pack strap. But it was strange. Instead of going around the thighs or sitting just around the waist it looked like some sort of very tight underwear with a hole for his packer. 

Obediently, Xander pocketed the strap and headed to the bathroom. Another strong contraction hit him while he was there, and he breathed hard through the building pressure. Something splattered into the toilet that wasn’t pee—or at least not only pee, and Xander groaned. Of course the baby would chose now of all times to decide to come, instead of last weekend when it was due.

Once the contraction was over, he cleaned up and put on the pack strap. It was very tight around his hips, and pressed firmly against his sensitive parts, but it did indeed manage to hold his packer at a more realistic angle. As he pulled on his boxers and pants and glanced down, he admired how natural it looked. No more bunching up, with this new strap.

Then Xander gasped as another contraction struck. Without the cushioning of his waters, the pain was much more acute. He was left panting as it passed. Not good. But it was his first baby, and a large one. Surely he could get through one more day of work. He didn’t have any more sick days available, not after how hard the morning sickness had got him earlier that year.

He came out of the bathroom, and spent about an hour going over his presentation, breathing through each contraction, feeling the baby slowly stretch him open inside. 

Then the alarm on his phone went off—time for the big meeting.

With a groan Xander got to his feet, bracing his back and shifting his weight carefully. While he’d been sitting and working, things had shifted. It felt almost as though the baby would fall right out of him if he moved wrong. Grabbing his things, he shuffled awkwardly to the meeting room on the next floor.

John was already on the elevator, and held the door open as Xander approached, breathing hard, face slightly red.

“Thanks,” Xander wheezed as he reached the elevator.

“Can’t have you late for the meeting,” John said with a smile. Some amount of alien tenderness came to his eyes. “Are you all right? You are looking a bit peckish.”

Xander’s chest fluttered—partly in fear that his secret would be discovered, partly from the tenderness of the attention. John wasn’t a tender man, not often. He ran a tight ship and expected perfection from his employees, and especially from Xander. But there had been once, about forty-two weeks ago, when they’d gone on a business trip together. John had gotten bad news, and they’d both drunk a lot. Xander had woken up the next morning in bed with a fast asleep John, completely naked, and sore between the legs. Panicked, Xander had quickly left the room and pretended it hadn’t happened. John had seemed too drunk to remember anything the night before and—well that’s why it was so crucial John didn’t find out. Xander had slept with no one else.

“Fine,” Xander replied once he’d gotten his breath back. “Just a bit nervous.”

To combat his assertion, the pain of another contraction wrapped around his belly. As he looked down, trying to breath away the pain, he swore he could see his stomach change shape with the strength of its force. Don’t push, don’t push, don’t push, Xander repeated to himself, pressing his legs close together as John watched.

Luckily, his boss didn’t seem to notice. He just patted Xander on the back, perhaps a bit harder than necessary. “You’ll do fine,” he said, then handed Xander a hanky. “But wipe your face off before you get up there. No need to look nervous. You are one of the most competent employees I have.”

Then the elevator had arrived, and the contraction was still going. Despite Xander’s reluctance to move or spread his feet apart, he had to get out before the elevator closed again. Under John’s careful eye, he took a shaky step out of the elevator. As soon as his legs spread, he could feel his baby’s head shift further down his canal. Forcing his face to casualness, he continued to walk forward as the contraction weakened and his stomach returned to its usual shape.

The client they were meeting with was rich, powerful, and—most importantly—a woman. John had picked Xander because of this last fact, citing Xander’s ability to interact with women without being sexist as a unique skill amongst the men in his business. This seemed a pathetic excuse to Xander, but wasn’t going to complain about the opportunity it gave him. If he succeeded in this, he was almost certainly due for a promotion. Which he needed—babies were expensive.

Stepping forward with a forced smile, Xander introduced himself to the client and to John, as well as a few other people there, and was in turn introduced to the client's team. With great relief, he took his seat as the meeting began. 

He did his best to focus, but his contractions had begun ramping up. It was harder and harder to disobey his body’s command to push, and the baby slipped deeper and deeper down his birth canal. He wrapped his shaking fingers tightly around the underside of the table to stabilize himself, crossed his legs hard enough he crushed his silicon dick between them, and did his best to ignore his body.

His tactics worked well for the first hour of the meeting, but then it was his turn to give a presentation. John and the client looked at him expectantly just as the strongest contraction yet seized his stomach. Xander forced himself to uncross his legs, which had practically glued themselves together with sweat, then slowly he stood. As he did, his core muscles engaged, and that was enough. The baby shot forward, down his canal, and his hole lit on fire.

He bit his lip in order to prevent a whimper of distress, disguising the whole thing by bending over and gathering his stuff until the contraction waned. As he took a step to the lectern, his hips ached, and his legs were forced awkwardly far apart, the bowling ball of a head lodged between them. 

Thus began his presentation, him standing behind the lectern, talking, legs spreading further and further apart as the baby spread his hole apart a bit more with each contraction. When he felt the pain coming, he’d pause his presentation to ask questions of his audience, ask them to talk amongst themselves. It was a bit like school, but it was interactive and kept them awake. Plus it gave him time to work through each contraction without it showing in his voice. For even the fluctuation of pain in his voice would have been a sign of failure in John’s eyes.

Finally, his part of the presentation wrapped up. He gathered his stuff, then waddled back to his chair. As he eased himself into it, he felt the baby’s crowning head press against the cushion, and then get shoved back inside of him. His eyes widened in pain, and he let out a little huff. He stifled it as soon as he noticed, then glanced around.

No one was looking at him, engaged in the next part of the meeting already. Xander sunk carefully back into his seat, his legs spread wide, his belly, much lower now, resting between them. 

As the others talked, he lost himself in the sensation of each contraction coming and going, of his baby stretching his hole little by little. The baby was large, and he couldn’t push much without drawing attention to himself, but still the fire was steadily, gradually increasing.

“Isn’t that right, Xander?”

Xander glanced up from his clasped hands, looking at his boss who’d addressed him. “Of course, sir,” he agreed instinctively, unsure of the context.

“Will the software development team be able to add the AI search feature before launch?” the client asked, likely a second time.

“They certainly could,” Xander replied. “We’ve got a great team, and they really know how to hit deadlines. It wouldn’t be a problem.”

Apparently satisfied, the client turned back to her team, as another contraction increased the fire in his crotch ten-fold.  He was just thinking he was going to have to excuse himself to go to the bathroom, when she reached out her hand. He took hers, and they shook. 

“We look forward to doing business.”

Relief shot through Xander, first because he had succeeded, and second because this hellish meeting was over and he could go back to his cubicle and at least groan through the contractions. There were still two hours left of the work day to get through.

Though he yearned to stay sitting right where he was, manners dictated he stand when she did and escort her from the room. As soon as he stood, gravity yanked the baby down further, and he couldn’t help but gasp at the sudden movement after hours of progress a millimeter at the time.

Luckily, John was talking to the client and she didn’t seem to notice as he hobbled awkwardly after them. They got on the elevator, and Xander waddled bow-legged to the bathroom. As soon as he was there, he stripped his pants, dropped everything, and sat on the toilet seat. A contraction came, and for the first time he pushed. He reached down, feeling the head grow into his palm until the crown filled nearly the whole thing. 

It felt so good to push after so long, to obey the desire of his screaming body. Then the contraction stopped, and horror filled him. He couldn’t give birth, not in the middle of the work day. He’d be fired. So very fired. John would never stand the scandal. 

With shaking hands, he pressed against the baby’s head and began to gently push it back up into his canal. It felt wrong. White hot pain shot through him, and he couldn’t help but cry out. But slowly, surely, his hole closed back around the baby’s head. He’d bought himself a bit more time. 

The new pack strap pressed painfully against his sore, stretched lips. It was stained with blood and birthing fluids, but not enough to soak through to his pants. Exhausted, but steeled for another two hours of work, he washed up, checked himself in the mirror, then headed back down.

John met him as he came out of the elevator, clapping him on the back. “You did very well. Just as I said you would. And I’ve got you a reward. Come with me.”

Xander didn’t want a reward, he wanted to go back to his desk, sit on his comfy chair, and to not give birth in peace. But John wasn’t one who could be denied. So he followed John, who led Xander to a small office. The walls were completely made of glass, giving him a million dollar view of the city below, but also giving John, whose office was next door, a perfectly good view of everything Xander did.

“Thank you, sir,” Xander managed. “I don’t know what—” he trailed off as he noticed the desk’s height. There was no seat in sight. His new desk was a walking desk.

“I noticed your weight gain,” John said. “Thought you might enjoy the exercise while you work. Great job again!” Then he patted Xander on his shoulder, his hand lingering for just a second too long, then he was gone.

Xander stared at the desk, glanced back through the glass walls to see John watching him from his own desk, then back at the desk. His things were already there, on top, waiting. He had no excuse to go back. With a groan, Xander went to his desk, pressing his legs together to keep the baby in, and powered on the computer. Immediately, the wide treadmill began to move, forcing Xander to spread his legs and walk.

His hips ached, and the baby shifted painfully in his hips with each step. His hole burned as it began to emerge once again. Contractions came and went, and God he needed to push, but he couldn’t stop walking or he’d get yanked away from his computer and end up sprawled awkwardly on the floor in front of his hot boss. Just keep walking, Just keep walking, he chanted as the baby moved further and further down.

He tried to work, but he got nothing productive done. Focused only on walking and the burning of his privates, increasing more and more with each step. At the next contraction, the burning increased past what it had before. This is it, Xander thought as he walked, the baby’s going to come out in my pants, right in front of my boss.

But it didn’t. The movement stopped, and as the contraction ended, something forced the baby back to where it had been before the latest contraction. Xander whimpered at the painful, wrong sensation.

The process repeated over and over with each of the following contractions. The packer holder, Xander realized. It was tight enough it was holding the baby in place. 

The two hours passed torturously. The baby sat in a permanent crown between his legs as he waddled awkwardly on the treadmill, unable to stop and push, unable to make any progress. Alone in his office, he at least could whimper and groan as necessary, but he couldn’t get off the treadmill, couldn’t stop and push, without John seeing. And John was always looking.

Finally, five pm rolled around. Xander had been in active labor for seven hours. He was exhausted. Blurry minded, sore everywhere. But he had done it. He would call a cab, go to the hospital, and give birth to his child. 

Not even bothering to gather his stuff he staggered, shaky-legged, out the door. Only to practically run into John. 

“Seems like that exercise did you good,” he noted. 

Xander panted, another contraction striking him. Finally standing still, he couldn’t help but spread his legs slightly, and push. “Just. . .  not. . . used to . .  it,” he panted.

“You did very well today. I’d like to take you out to dinner, to celebrate our new client.”

No, please, Xander thought, eyes widening. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t keep up this charade. The baby had been literally spreading him at his fullest for hours. He couldn’t do a dinner. But one didn’t say no to a dinner with John, not if they valued their job. So Xander nodded, and found himself waddling after John.

“I’ll drive you there, we can come back and pick up your car after,” John said. Xander considered protesting, but John, as the boss, had prime parking, and his own car was parked an intimidating distance away. Plus, he didn’t trust himself to drive in this state. So he agreed. With numb, shaking legs, he staggered after John, collapsing in the car.

It wasn’t until his butt hit the seat and the baby’s head was shoved back inside, causing Xander to cry out, that he remembered sitting would be a bad idea.

“Are you all right?” John asked.

“Fine,” Xander replied once he got his breath back. “Just. . . hit my head. . . on the frame.”

John talked as they drove, and Xander tried to pay attention, but he was lost in exhaustion, the now familiar mantra of don’t push filling his mind. He couldn’t keep his legs together anymore. They were spread wide, but with each contraction, Xander forced his crotch firmly against the nice car seat, keeping the head in place just behind his lips. After so long of the agonizing stretch of a crowning head, having it deeper inside him was a strange relief.

Dinner was agony. Xander ate little, though the food was worth his entire paycheck, he was too nauseous, too exhausted. But John talked with a gusto, drinking glass after glass of wine. As the night wore on, John became clearly drunk. The casual touches on Xander’s shoulders and arms and hands began to linger. His cheeks glowed, his eyes gleamed in the candle light of the table.

The contractions were increasing, nearly constant now, frustrated at their lack of progress. Xander couldn’t take it any more. He needed to give birth. “I’m sorry sir,” he gasped, his hand pressing against the bulge in his pants. “Its been a great night, but I have to go.”

John reached across the table, grabbing Xander’s free hand. “You don’t have to call me sir, we’re off duty,” he said, catching Xander’s eyes. Then he paused, his eyes going down to where he held Xander’s hand, and he withdrew, coughing a bit. “You can, of course, head home as you need. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask that you take me home, since you are sober.”

Xander groaned, another contraction peaking. Tears of pain and frustration leaked down his face. But he agreed. John got up, swaying. And Xander stood slowly, awkwardly, his baby crowned in his pants, pressing against his worn packer-holder. The bulge bigger, the stretch far more painful than it had been during work. The fabric was wearing, allowing the head further and further out.

Together, the two men stumbled out of the restaurant and back to the car. John at least, didn’t seem sober enough to notice Xander very obviously pushing each time they hit a red light. He couldn’t help but push any longer. The baby had to come out. He needed to give birth.

The boss didn’t live far. Xander pulled up, red faced and relieved. He stood from the car, noticing the way the seat gleamed with wetness. He was leaking. 

A contraction came, and he grabbed the hood of the car and crouched, giving in to the push. The baby’s head inched further out, fighting his clothes’ restraining tension and winning. He groaned in pain and relief.

Then, “What are you doing?” John had come around the car.

Xander straightened immediately, but he could feel his baby’s fully crowned head pressing against his thighs. He couldn’t give in now, not after everything. He was so close. He just had to get John inside, then he could strip and birth, there on the sidewalk if he needed to. It wouldn’t take long now. The baby’s head was practically out.

“Just stretching,” Xander lied. “A bit sore, from. . .” Another contraction peaked, cutting him off. He stretched somehow, more, as his baby’s nose passed through his hole. He wanted to scream, wanted to collapse, wanted to strip. Instead he managed to just whimper.

“You seem beat,” John said. “Come on in, I’ll call you a cab.”

Trapped, Xander, was forced to step forward, away from the car, his baby’s head brushing his wide-spread legs with each step. Inside, Xander didn’t dare sit down, He stood in the corner legs obviously spread. He didn’t care anymore, he couldn’t have closed them if his life depended on it.

John stepped out, supposedly to make a call, and Xander crouched and pushed and moaned. Time passed. John came back in, a bottle of wine and a deck of card in hand. “Want to play a game while you wait?” he asked.

Xander couldn’t say no to John, so he nodded, forcing himself somewhat upright. Surely, John knew. Surely, he could see the massive bulge in Xander’s pants, the baby out to its ears. No one could be this oblivious? Xander wasn’t even acting anymore, actively moaning with each contraction, his legs spread like a baby deer’s.

“We’ll play strip poker. Your cab will get here before we get too far, I’m sure.”

Xander sat carefully on the couch, keeping his legs spread, hips tilted so the baby wouldn't be forced in again. The contractions continued, the pain immense as John sat across from him, and dealt.

Xander couldn’t focus, and so began to strip, gratefully out of his tie, then out of his suit jacket, then slipped off his shoes and socks. The cab still didn’t come. Xander forced himself to focus and won the next two hands, John choosing to take off first his suit, then his collared shirt, slipping it off while keeping his tie on.

Staring at John’s perfectly sculpted body, his tie hanging between his pecs, pointing a line at his abs and the trail of dark hair that led to his boxers, Xander suddenly knew that John had not called a cab.

He lost the next hand, and still trying to forestall the inevitable, removed his shirt. His stomach was bright red beneath his hair, riddled with stretch marks and bruises. Without a shirt on, it was very clearly a pregnant belly. John and Xander watched together as it visibly contracted.

John licked his lips.

Locked in the inevitableness, they played another hand. Xander lost.

“I can’t take off more,” he admitted. He could not remove his pants, not without pushing the head back in. And he hadn’t the will to do that to himself, not again.

“Let me help you,” John said. He came around the table, pushed Xander back on the plush couch, oh so gently. His warm fingers slid over Xander’s swollen belly, and Xander couldn’t help but moan in relief at the contact. The fingers continued downward, cradling the massive bulge in Xander’s pants. 

Another contraction came, and Xander pushed, face turning red. The baby’s head strained against the seam of his pants, massive. Then the contraction ended, and the head slid just a bit further in. “Please,” Xander begged, voice tight with pain and exhaustion. “Get them off.”

With his verbal consent, John nodded. He leaned forward, his bare stomach brushing Xander’s, until his face was a mere inch away. One hand cupped Xander’s cheek, the other the massive bulge in Xander’s pants. Then he closed the distance, pressing his mouth against Xander’s in an earnest kiss as he shoved the baby all the way back in. 

Shocked, Xander tried to scream, choking instead on John’s tongue. It was heaven and hell, all bundled into one, and Xander didn’t know how to process it. 

John pulled away, leaving Xander in a fugue. Vaguely, he was aware of John quickly working to remove his pants, his boxers, and his strap, leaving Xander completely nude before his billionaire boss. Xander spread his legs wide, not caring any longer, revealing folds glistening with birthing fluid, red and swollen from the stress of his delayed birth. 

John reached out, caressing Xander’s cheek. “You’ve done so well, Xander. So well today. This was a test, to see if you had what it took to be my spouse and the co-owner of my company. And you passed with flying colors. So, if you’ll have me, I will be yours, on one condition.”

Xander stared, heart pounding. John’s shirt was off. His pants too, were gone, though Xander didn’t remember him removing them. His member stood rigid in his boxers as he sat between Xander’s spread legs, meeting his eyes. He was the father of Xander’s child, everything he’d wanted, despite this torture he’d put Xander through. Xander had let him do it, because he’d wanted it. Wanted him. “Yes,” Xander said. “Anything.”

“Let me watch you birth our child.”

John knew. He'd known the whole time. But Xander wasn’t surprised anymore. This whole thing seemed inevitable. Perfectly planned. John, seeming no longer drunk at all. 

A contraction came, and Xander pushed. For the first time, he was free. He pressed his head to his chest, curled around his stomach, spread his legs wide and pushed with all his might. The head crept forward, dark curly hair spreading him wide. Xander screamed with effort. Took a deep breath, then pushed again, his contractions coming at a frantic pace.

The head stretched him wide, growing with each push. John’s hand came out, cupping the head as it emerged, massaging Xander’s lips. He cooed with each push. Whispered, “You are doing so well, Xander, so well. Look at this head we have created together. Look, there are its little eyebrows, its little nose, it’s little mouth.”

Then with one last push, the head was out. Long-held fluids gushed with it, spraying both John and his very expensive couch. But John was unphased. He smiled, one hand holding the baby’s head, the other reached out, rubbing Xander’s stomach. “Almost done now. Breathe. Let the baby turn.”

But Xander was done breathing. He couldn’t control himself anymore, lost the glorious pain of pushing. He pushed and pushed, screaming with the effort. With each contraction, the head bulged forward, then went back. No progress. He wasn’t making progress anymore! Tears of panic leaked. “I can’t do it,” he sobbed, frantic. “It’s stuck! It’s stuck!”

John’s hand left his belly, slipping into his hole alongside his baby’s neck, sending a burning pain through Xander’s nethers. He screamed, and John hushed him, hand far inside, alongside the baby’s neck.

Something dislodged in Xander’s hip. John ordered him to push. Xander complied, and he was stretched again, impossibly wide, by first one shoulder, then finally then next.

Panting, he opened his eyes, to find John cradling the crying baby. 

“It’s a boy,” John announced, then paused, smiling. “Well at least at the moment. Stellar job, Xander. Doing all this. I’m so very proud.”

Panting, Xander just smiled. 

“Stay here,” John ordered. “I’ll get the baby cleaned up, then I’ll help you. I’ve got a nursery all set up, and I have told the office we won’t be in for at least a month. Once we get you cleaned up, you can rest as much as you like. I’ll take care of feeding the baby. Then we’ll raise him and our company together. As partners.”

[orphicsun]

hi cheyyy!!! do you have any writers in here you recommend? been looking for new content EVERYWHERE

of course:) i have some writers on here who i absolutely adore so I’ll tag them and who they write for. i feel so weird tagging people on tumblr like im committing a crime pls ignore me!!

@shouyuus check out her vi fics especially figure eights. she is one of the sweetest people on this app and posts cute drabbles n blurbs often!!

@undressrehearsal writes for ellie. i discovered her on ao3 from dare to be stupid which is god level tier fanfic

@uhlunaro their sevika fics are so yum i recommend feed me. i have reread it an embarrassing amount of times wow also their knowledge of the appalachian mountains is impressive just sayin..

@edenspoem writes for ellie(and a little bit of abby now?) but she is one of the first writers whose work i fell in love with on this app, before i was even writing on here tbh. my personal favs are infiltration and fuck and pretend. if you like creative tropes n good plot aestra is a genius

@s-4pphics also introduced me to ellie williams tumblr. i have lost a crazy amount of sleep reading sal’s series they are so emotionally provoking and i want to hang each of them up in a museum or something.

@meganegatari writes for tlou characters(abby, ellie, dina) i also read some of their fics before i became a writer on here. their most recent made me cry but it’s because i read angst knowing i’m a huge crybaby LMAO. also shoutout to @bloodstainedsapphic because i know she helped write that and i love her writing anyway.

@vifilms and @sinstear these two both write for tlou and arcane and i’m always sat when either post. i rayray’s series and eren has yummy drabbles if you like shorter stuff and a masterlist full of abby stuff that actually got me into abby no joke.

@powderpinkandsweeet writes for ellie and abby, i remember this 60s au she did that i had to reread over and over again because i love older time periods with lesbians its so rare to find in fanfiction. i also adore how realistic her writing feels.

@berritart writes shorter posts for abby, vi, ellie, and i’ve been obsessed with her blog when it comes to blurbs. she mentioned vi with a packer and i still think about that

@loaksky writes for various characters i believe, but i know she writes for ellie and vi. i am so obsessed with her fic come a little closer and anything she has written for ellie. i recommend the vi fic if you want something longer.

[wanderingnork]

with the news of NaNoWriMo shutting down for good, I want to make sure to preserve Lemony Snicket's 2010 pep talk. every time I feel down about my writing, for the last 15 years, I've returned to this talk as a reminder of why I write. it's easy, especially now, to wonder why we bother doing what we do. here's a reminder for us all.

-

Dear Cohort,

Struggling with your novel? Paralyzed by the fear that it’s nowhere near good enough? Feeling caught in a trap of your own devising? You should probably give up.

For one thing, writing is a dying form. One reads of this every day. Every magazine and newspaper, every hardcover and paperback, every website and most walls near the freeway trumpet the news that nobody reads anymore, and everyone has read these statements and felt their powerful effects. The authors of all those articles and editorials, all those manifestos and essays, all those exclamations and eulogies—what would they say if they knew you were writing something? They would urge you, in bold-faced print, to stop.

Clearly, the future is moving us proudly and zippily away from the written word, so writing a novel is actually interfering with the natural progress of modern society. It is old-fashioned and fuddy-duddy, a relic of a time when people took artistic expression seriously and found solace in a good story told well. We are in the process of disentangling ourselves from that kind of peace of mind, so it is rude for you to hinder the world by insisting on adhering to the beloved paradigms of the past. It is like sitting in a gondola, listening to the water carry you across the water, while everyone else is zooming over you in jetpacks, belching smoke into the sky. Stop it, is what the jet-packers would say to you. Stop it this instant, you in that beautiful craft of intricately-carved wood that is giving you such a pleasant journey.

Besides, there are already plenty of novels. There is no need for a new one. One could devote one’s entire life to reading the work of Henry James, for instance, and never touch another novel by any other author, and never be hungry for anything else, the way one could live on nothing but multivitamin tablets and pureed root vegetables and never find oneself craving wild mushroom soup or linguini with clam sauce or a plain roasted chicken with lemon-zested dandelion greens or strong black coffee or a perfectly ripe peach or chips and salsa or caramel ice cream on top of poppyseed cake or smoked salmon with capers or aged goat cheese or a gin gimlet or some other startling item sprung from the imagination of some unknown cook. In fact, think of the world of literature as an enormous meal, and your novel as some small piddling ingredient – the drawn butter, for example, served next to a large, boiled lobster. Who wants that? If it were brought to the table, surely most people would ask that it be removed post-haste.

Even if you insisted on finishing your novel, what for? Novels sit unpublished, or published but unsold, or sold but unread, or read but unreread, lonely on shelves and in drawers and under the legs of wobbly tables. They are like seashells on the beach. Not enough people marvel over them. They pick them up and put them down. Even your friends and associates will never appreciate your novel the way you want them to. In fact, there are likely just a handful of readers out in the world who are perfect for your book, who will take it to heart and feel its mighty ripples throughout their lives, and you will likely never meet them, at least under the proper circumstances. So who cares? Think of that secret favorite book of yours – not the one you tell people you like best, but that book so good that you refuse to share it with people because they’d never understand it. Perhaps it’s not even a whole book, just a tiny portion that you’ll never forget as long as you live. Nobody knows you feel this way about that tiny portion of literature, so what does it matter? The author of that small bright thing, that treasured whisper deep in your heart, never should have bothered.

Of course, it may well be that you are writing not for some perfect reader someplace, but for yourself, and that is the biggest folly of them all, because it will not work. You will not be happy all of the time. Unlike most things that most people make, your novel will not be perfect. It may well be considerably less than one-fourth perfect, and this will frustrate you and sadden you. This is why you should stop. Most people are not writing novels which is why there is so little frustration and sadness in the world, particularly as we zoom on past the novel in our smoky jet packs soon to be equipped with pureed food. The next time you find yourself in a group of people, stop and think to yourself, probably no one here is writing a novel. This is why everyone is so content, here at this bus stop or in line at the supermarket or standing around this baggage carousel or sitting around in this doctor’s waiting room or in seventh grade or in Johannesburg. Give up your novel, and join the crowd. Think of all the things you could do with your time instead of participating in a noble and storied art form. There are things in your cupboards that likely need to be moved around.

In short, quit. Writing a novel is a tiny candle in a dark, swirling world. It brings light and warmth and hope to the lucky few who, against insufferable odds and despite a juggernaut of irritations, find themselves in the right place to hold it. Blow it out, so our eyes will not be drawn to its power. Extinguish it so we can get some sleep. I plan to quit writing novels myself, sometime in the next hundred years.

Lemony Snicket

[charliemwrites]

Commission: Bastard's Bishop

Hello, hello!! It's been a minute, hasn't it? Here's a commission I did a couple weeks ago for my dear fishstick! I had a blast writing this and learning more about packers!

Please note that I've included some general content tags, specific warnings for intimacy, and lastly, some notes for terminology used for the reader character, Bishop, and his genitalia. All my love <3

Content: FTM reader, obsessive/possessive behavior, mild harassment, dub-con Dub-Con intimacy: thigh-riding, intercrural, unprotected PIV, semi-public, overstim, praise kink, mild dacryphilia, mild size kink Trans Man Reader terminology: cock/clit semi-interchangeably, cunt, hole, he/him pronouns and endearments, reader has a packer

divider by user: gildui

You narrow your eyes as your back twinges for the third time today, grip tightening on your mop handle.

It’s been like this all week, a tight pinch somewhere between your spine and your right hip. A deep ache that no amount of stretching or heat packs has soothed thanks to the demands of your job. Repeatedly stooping to pick up trash, move furniture, and clean floors tends to undo most of the rest and recovery you achieve in your off hours.

Still, after being out all of last week, your PTO is running a bit thin, and you can’t afford to take more. KorTac’s employment package is good – but not that good.

You pause long enough to take a deep breath, willing the muscles to relax.

The clock on the wall reads late afternoon – not much longer now. Just this last hallway (all admin offices and conference rooms) and you’ll be done. Most of the operators have left already at least. In and out of base early, leaving you to clean up after them, when you’re not at risk of hearing any confidential information.

You’re glad for the solitude today, not quite up for polite half-smiles you sometimes get when you accidentally make eye contact. You’d much rather just put your head down and do your job – the sooner you can crack open that bottle of paracetamol in your locker.

All around, it hasn’t even been a bad day, apart from your sore back. You got in on time, your boss is out with appendicitis, and the bane of your existence hasn’t made an appearance at all this week. Lisa in accounting mentioned he’s away on a mission, so hopefully you won’t have to deal with him for—

“Daydreaming on the job, Schatz?”

You jump at the gruff voice next to your ear, headphones slipping down to your collarbones. A startled curse mangled in your throat as you brain catches up, recognizing the gravel-on-stone accent rumbling too close for comfort.

Already scowling, you turn on your heel, face-to-mask with green netting and broad shoulders.

As always, Krueger’s obscured features bring you up a bit short, mouth popping open for a sharp remark your brain lags to provide. Bastard.

“I’m not daydreaming,” you end up huffing. Try to sound clipped, despite the thumping of your heart, but it comes out sullen. Close enough.

“It is okay, I will not tell anyone,” he leers, “as long as you were daydreaming about me.”

The worst part is that you kind of were. Maybe not the way he means – this time, anyway – but close enough to the truth that you feel your face growing warm despite yourself.

“You’re delusional,” you scoff, turning away. You scrub harder than necessary at the linoleum, trying to work out the frustrating mix of irritation and intrigue that Krueger inspires in you.

As always, he fails to take the hint.

“What, you did not miss me while I was gone?” he mocks.

From the corner of your eye, you can see him shifting closer. Too close. Far past politeness and skirting rude, damn near crowding.

It makes you all too aware of the slight angle you’re bent at, pushing your ass out. Thankfully, the baggy fit of your khakis obscures any suggestive shape, providing modesty you shouldn’t need while doing janitorial work.

“You were gone?” you reply, flat. As if you didn’t feel a conflicted pang in your chest when you realized you’d have a few peaceful, uninterrupted days.

He simpers, “I missed you last week. Where did you go, hm?”

His audacity almost coaxes a disbelieving laugh from your tongue. Intimidating and oddly charismatic as he can be, you’re not about to abide him being so blatantly nosy. You’ve already learned this lesson with Krueger – give an inch and he’ll take miles and miles before you even realize what you’ve done.

That’s how you ended up with him calling you “Schatz” so casually.

“None of your business,” you reply.

“You were sick, no?” he continues as if you haven’t spoken. His voice drops to a near purr, “You should have called, I would take such good care of you, Liebling.”

You stiffen, eyes tellingly wide. How the hell does he know that? And why?

It’s the one question that nips at your mind every time he interacts with you – the why of it all. You don’t get it. He’s one of KorTac’s best soldiers, dangerous and competent and funny for all he’s an arrogant prick. You’ve seen plenty of other KorTac employees flirting and checking him out. He’s not hurting for romantic or sexual prospects.

So why the fuck does he ever spend time on you? Teasing you, baiting you? You, the grumpiest of the janitors with chipped nail polish and the baggy clothes and the giant headphones that practically scream “leave me the fuck alone.” Why does he always seek you out?

You don’t trust the answer. It prods at uncomfortable, hurtful suspicions that you refuse to entertain, so you just try not to think about it at all.

Instead, you feel genuine irritation flare in your chest and clutch onto it, pushing away any fondness-born vulnerability aside. You dunk the mophead hard into the bucket, a soapy droplet landing on his scuffed black boots.

“I don’t need taking care of,” you snip back. “Especially not from you.”

It’s the sharpest you’ve ever been with him.

There’s a single, stony beat where you realize this is not the time or man to let your temper get the better of you.

You can feel his gaze boring into you through the netting. You’ve seen him without it before, know that his eyes are dark as obsidian shards and just as sharp. Can already imagine them narrowed, his jaw tense. You peer at him from the corner of your eye, feel your breath catch when his hand starts to reach for you…

“Hey, Bishop?”

You jolt once again. Know your eyes are way too big when you whip around, looking past Krueger to the doorway. One of your coworkers is there, poking their head around the frame and blissfully oblivious to the… well, to whatever this situation is.

“Would you mind helping me move a shelf? Someone dropped their coffee behind it.”

You damn near fling the mop aside, adrenaline buzzing through your veins as you realize just how alone you’ve been with Sebastian Krueger of all people.

“No problem,” you reply, eye twitching when your voice cracks a bit.

You don’t dare glance over your shoulder as you flee like a hunted rabbit. You already know Krueger will be staring after you.

You sigh as you swallow the last of your lukewarm water, easing the paracetamol tabs down your esophagus. Your locker is open just to your right, sparse and bland, but functional. Your casual clothes are waiting, half-folded on the little shelf inside. Mostly clean, still baggy, but a lot more comfortable than your khakis and polo.

Finally, you think, kicking your work shoes off to begin changing.

A flicker of movement is your only warning.

A hand darts past your head, slamming your locker shut with a clang that echoes in the empty lavatory. You yelp and spin around, only to be pushed back against cold, unforgiving metal. Krueger looms over you, nothing but a dark shadow beyond that green netting. Big and intimidating and here.

“What—”

He shushes you, quiet and drawling. Like he’s got all the time in the world. A shiver races down your spine and pools low in your gut.

“You seem to be using your words poorly today, Schatz,” he says, barely more than a rumble in his chest. “Perhaps you should stop using them, hm? Before I find a nicer use for your mouth.”

And you hate that your voice dries up, throat parched despite the half liter you chugged just a moment ago. He plants his other hand beside your head, caging you in. You’re dismayed to realize escape didn’t even occur to you before the option was revoked.

“We are friends, Bishop, no?”

You don’t dare answer. He doesn’t wait for one.

“As your friend, I worry that you work too much. This is why you were sick, you see? It is no good to work so hard all the time. No breaks, no rest.”

He speaks so casually, treating this like a normal conversation with an actual friend. But there’s no missing the edge in his voice, something predatory lurking between consonants and vowels. You heart claws at your ribcage, prey trying to escape a trap it can’t see.

“What is that English saying? ‘All work, no play,’ something like that?” He shrugs, and in doing so, sways closer.

He feels like a furnace without even touching you, making you flushed, sweaty. The scent of gunpowder peppers the heated sliver of air between your bodies, ready to ignite. You try to raise your hands, urge some distance. Overwhelmed by his proximity.

In one swift, yet almost lazy movement, he captures both of your wrists in one big, gloved hand. Pins them firmly over your head. You gasp and try to tug free, to no avail. While not painful, his grip is vicelike, unwavering. Tucking you neatly out of his way.

“Without proper rest, we become mean to our friends.” You shudder as his free hand begins tracing leisurely down your neck, over your bobbing throat. Even with the tactical glove on, his touch is deceptively light, almost ticklish. “You were so mean today, mein Prinz, when I was only trying to be a good friend.”

His fingers trail lower, down to the center of your chest, where he can surely feel your heart pounding. Your breath catches as his attention moves sideways and you realize his goal.

“Kreuger—”

He clicks his tongue as you start to squirm, as much a warning to you as part of his speech.

“Lucky for you, I am a very good friend.”

An embarrassed noise squeaks out of you as his index finger loops around your nipple, already tight and hard against the stiff fabric of your shirt. Little sparks of electricity crackle through your body, lighting up your nerves.

“I will take care of you as I should have when you were ill.”

This is his idea of sick care?! you think frantically, as mean fingers pinch your nipple through your shirt.

Another noise gets caught on the back of your tongue, a high-pitched whimper that you barely manage to swallow down.

“K-Krueger—” you cut yourself off with a whine as his tugs and then releases, swiping his thumb back and forth over the sensitive peak. The friction makes you tender in seconds, knees nearly buckling. “Th-this isn’t funny…”

He switches to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment until you’re throbbing in your boxers. You feel dizzy and needy, horrifically aroused and not even sure if you want to be. Your nipples are going to be sore if he doesn’t stop; they already ache just the way you like but somehow, maddeningly, he never crosses the line into rough.

“I am not laughing,” he replies, dead serious.

You want to say a million different platitudes – all those cheesy lines you usually snort at in romances. Knock it off, this isn’t a joke, you don’t scare me, you can drop the act.

Because you know he won’t, it isn’t, you are, and he’s not.

“Krue – ah!”

“What is my name, Liebling?” he nearly growls. You shudder, ducking your head. But he just follows, the hood brushing your flushed cheek. You’ve never felt more like prey. “You do not call your friends by their last names.”

“S-Sebastian…”

He practically purrs, drawing a heart around your areola with the tip of his thumb. “Good boy.”

You clench around nothing, hole aching, devastatingly empty. Arch into his touch before you realize you’re doing it, needing something, anything.

“You deserve a treat, hm?” he chuckles.

The hand on your chest disappears beneath his hood. Through the weave, you see a flash of white teeth. The rip of Velcro is loud in the otherwise empty locker room. You’re so, so lucky that you waited until the rest of your coworkers went home before changing – you don’t think Krueger would have a problem doing this in front of them…

That train of thought (that definitely doesn’t make your cock pulse) is cut off when Krueger’s hand slithers beneath your shirt. His bare hand.

You moan as his hot, rough palm smooths up your heaving ribs, right back to your sensitized nipples. He twists and pinches and plucks at them, ruthless and relentless. You didn’t think it could get any more intense, but it’s like he’s unravelling your self-control with those clever, cruel fingers. Every bitten off noise and aborted twitch of pleasure just spurs him on, a soldier on a mission.

A particularly sharp squeeze makes your hips jerk, banging back against the metal. You’ve tipped your hand again.

He bullies his thigh between yours and presses it tight against your slick, throbbing core. Your packer presses just right against your clit, sending pleasure rocketing up your spine. There’s no stopping you from rocking down against the thick muscle, chasing after more.

“There we go,” he coos, voice so deep now that it rattles in your cloudy head. “You just needed to be taken care of it, is that it?”

You bite your lip, but it doesn’t stop you from whining, horrified that you’re not more pissed off by his condescending tone. Worse, you’re getting off on it, humping his leg like a horny teenager.

“My sweet little Prinz,” he continues, “mein Shatz. Working so hard all the time.”

You whimper, trembling with the pleasure burning in your veins. Already close, that coil grows tight in your abdomen, pitching your voice up higher and higher, louder and louder. Don’t think you could pull yourself away now even if he let you, too focused on riding his thigh. Just that little bit harder, that little bit faster…

“Are you going to cum for me, Liebling?” he croons. “Do it, show me what a sweet boy you are.”

You fall over the edge with a shout, crumpling against his chest. Shuddering and twitching, panting into his shoulder. It feels like he’s everywhere, all you can see and smell and feel.

“S-stop,” you yelp when he tweaks your oversensitive nipple again. “Too much, Sebastian…”

He tuts sympathetically, giving your side a surprisingly comforting squeeze, before withdrawing his hand from beneath your shirt.

“There, are we feeling like a better friend now?” he hums, lowering your arms.

You take a deep breath, trying to assemble anything like coherent words from the scramble of your brain.

Before you can, the world spins. You blink, staring uncomprehendingly at the flaky grey paint of the locker you were just leaning against.

“Wha…?”

“Time to be a good friend in return, little one.”

You don’t even have a chance to wonder what he means. You can feel him pressing against your lower back, hot and thick and dripping. A pathetic noise eeks out from your throat as you brace your hands against the lockers.

“What are you going to…?”

You gasp again as he jerks your hips back sharply, a big hand between your shoulder blades to keep your chest pressed to the lockers. The cool sensation is heavenly on your sore nipples, but it doesn’t stop the nervous alarms ringing in your mind at the suggestive angle.

He hums, thumb caressing the dimples at the bottom of your spine.

“I have been stressed too, you know. My best friend was mean to me today.”

Your nails scrape against the metal as he tugs your pants and underwear halfway down your slick thighs. He whistles lowly, a satisfied noise in the back of his throat. You glance down and groan in mortification – the fabric of your boxers is absolutely drenched, clinging obscenely to your skin and the ridges of your packer.

“All this for me… such a good little Hase.”

You can tell he’s growing impatient now, though, because he doesn’t waste time teasing. You moan softly as his cock glides between the slick, sticky folds of your cunt. The bulbous tip skates along your own, still twitching with aftershocks and not at all prepared to be touched again so soon.

You whimper and try to jolt away but Krueger’s hands clamp down on your hips and rock you into the cradle of his own. He groans low and rough as he glides through your wetness, arching your spine to give himself a better angle to frot.

“So soft,” he mumbles, “such a good boy for me, I knew you would feel so good. Just had to show you how to behave. Shatz, my Shatz.”

You keen softly, find yourself squeezing your thighs together, giving him a tighter channel to fuck into. He’s so hot against you; you think you can feel drips of precum glossing your cock, the head of his dick catching on your hole when he pulls back too far. It’s tantalizing and thrilling, you don’t know if you want it or not anymore, and justify that he’s holding you too tight to escape anyway.

It shouldn’t be this easy, you think desperately as the flames of a new orgasm ignite from embers of the first. You’re too sensitive, too overstimulated, too—

“You’re going to cum for me again anyway,” he growls, and you realize you’ve been babbling all of that out loud.

Fuck.

It’s not a choice – it never was. He’s going to make you cum again and you’re drooling for it. You loosen your hips and spine, rock freely back into the urging of his hands. His hips pick up speed, settle into a rhythm better than any toy or vibrator you’ve ever played with (always thinking guiltily of him).

The next orgasm practically sneaks up on you. Building up until it’s spilling over all at once, ricocheting through you like a stray bullet. You damn near lock up with the shock and pleasure of it, but Krueger doesn’t let you, rubbing his cock against you until your knees buckle.

“No more games, Liebling,” he snarls.

He practically rips your pants and underwear the rest off the way off, leaving them in a puddle on the ground. A thick arm slithers around your waist, hauls you over to the locker room bench. Krueger drops onto it and drags you into his lap.

You catch yourself on his broad shoulders, staring wide-eyed at his cock jutting proudly between you two. It curves towards his stomach an angry red. Gleaming under the fluorescent lights with your slick, a pearl of it pooled right under the head, oozing down a pulsing vein.

Your mouth waters, but he doesn’t make good on his promise to use your mouth.

Instead, he scoops you up with a hand beneath your ass, the other wrapping around the wide base. Your fingers clench in the fabric of his shirt as you resist, whimpering nervously.

“It’s not going to fit, Sebastian!” you complain.

“It will, it will,” he soothes, “you are a big boy, you can take it…”

It’s not a choice, you think again, as he notches the fat head at your entrance.

You’re in no condition to hold yourself up in defiance. Not at your best, and not now when you’re already shaky and kitten weak on two orgasms, with even a fraction of Krueger’s considerable strength lowering you.

It stings.

You whimper and whine, bowing towards him, trying to relax. He coos and soothes with absent, sugary whispers until the head pops in. With his newly freed hand, he tugs the hood up to his nose and guides you into a wet, filthy kiss. You’re desperate for the distraction, licking the taste of iron and cigarette from his sharp canines.

With you distracted, you don’t notice his hand sneaking down again until his thumb is massaging your clit. You nearly jump out of your skin, only kept in place by his quick reflexes and unyielding strength.

“Hush, little one,” he murmurs against your jaw, “I am helping. Let me play with your pretty cock.”

You moan into his mouth as he works circles into that swollen bundle of nerves. It eases the discomfort of his cock sliding into you until you drop that last, mind-blowing inch and he’s bottomed out.

“Fuck, Schatz,” he groans, head tilting back, mouth parted.

You squeeze around him, so full it feels like he’s in your throat. He’s still rubbing your clit, making your walls pulse around him with every delicious swipe of his thumb.

“Come now, time to bounce, Hase.”

Despite his words, he’s the one bouncing you up and down, your legs barely able to support your weight. You could swear you feel every ridge and vein of the cock stretching you and it’s too much for your fucked out brain. All you can do is hold onto him, tears pricking your eyes. You’re not even upset when you feel his tongue licking them from your cheeks, can only shove your tongue in his mouth to get a taste.

He twitches up to meet your hips on the next thrust and you go cross-eyed at the angle – too good too goodtoogood.

You’re begging and whining, completely gone on ecstasy, grinding down on his lap every time you drop down. It’s loud and wet, something out of your dirtiest dreams. He’s fucking against your g-spot, bullying it, abusing it, and you can’t get enough, rolling your hips with each movement.

“I-I’m gonna, I’m gonna—”

“Milk my cock, scream for me, that’s it.”

And you do, shuddering and squeezing so tight around him that he makes a rough, punched out noise. He doesn’t stop as wave after wave washes over you, until you finally wail his name and go limp. Buried deep inside you, he cums without remorse in long, hot spurts against your walls.

In the aftermath, you’re panting and sweaty. Utterly ruined. Brain not quite online due to three back-to-back orgasms from a man who could probably kill you with two fingers. He’s mumbling in your ear, stroking your back. It’s almost pleasant. Maybe he isn’t so bad…

“Now, then. We will go to dinner like a proper couple.”

What happened to being friends?!

[sophiesbf]

perv!stalker!nat x reader

mdni // tmasc!nat, intox, noncon, every character on this post is 18 years old.

part 2.

part 3.

you both study at the same school on your last year, you have some classes together, but you've never been close.

ever since you did a chemistry project together (because the teacher chose it) you just greet each other at the school halls, nothing more than a "hi", but for Nat, it was much more.

of course, because you are so smart and beautiful, Nat begins to be fascinated by you.

you noticed how he look at you in class, but for you it wasn't a big deal, even though he kept staring at you throughout the entire class, fucking you up with his eyes.

and dawg, he needs to relieve himself, he always — like, every single day — ends up asking to go to the bathroom in the middle of class, he literally needs to touch himself thinking about you. he's completely addicted to you.

at a party where you were drinking alone, you were so drunk, Nat offered you a drink — which you didn't know he had put some drugs in —, and when you got so dumb, suddenly Nat started rubbing himself against you, how come no one was watching. but you didn't care, you were drunk, he probably wasn't doing it on purpose.

cute anonymous letters appearing on your locker, like: “you looked so beautiful today.”, “I hope you know how pretty you are.”, “you are mine and I will do whatever it takes to have you with me.”

he definitely thinks about you while listening to romantic songs.

he discovered your favorite flowers and had a student deliver them to you.

he followed you home for a whole week to find out your routine.

one day you were walking home from school alone, the streets were empty and suddenly he pushed you into an alley. he started taking off his pants and made you kneel down. “Nat, what are you doing?” “I’m making my dream come true, babe.” so he made you gag on his packer.

he made you swear that you wouldn't tell anyone about this incident, or that he would spread some secret of yours to everyone, that he found out because he was a fucking stalker.

after that day, he would appear throwing pebbles at your bedroom window every night, and you were forced to let him in.

at first you didn't like it, you thought he was a freak weirdo. but after a few weeks, you started to fall in love with him. he really did so many things just to have you by his side. <3

on those nights when he appeared in your room, you slept cuddling together, he always ended up rubbing himself against you, touching you inappropriately, but you got used to liking it.

modern au perv!stalker!nat

an unknown number sent you lots of love messages, you don't know who is that, but you couldn't care less, what could he do, after all? so you ended up not blocking it.

suddenly you started receiving nudes from this unknown number, and man, it was Nat, you found out when he sent you a boob pic showing his face. you don't know if it was intentional.

he took pictures of you while you were changing in your room.

he managed to put a tracker on your cell phone.

I'm sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language and it's my second writing here. hope y'all enjoy it.

[doiliedaze]

Constant Craving

Warnings: dry humping, vi is wearing a packer, marking, groping, vi’s nipples are sensitive and pierced, nipple sucking (v! receiving), cumming inside their underwear, messy makeout, vi licks your face, lip biting, spit transfer, vi rambles, reader squirts for the first time, reader gets fingered, thigh riding

Genre: smut

A/n: for anyone who doesn’t know what a packer is, it’s this !! They talk about it beyond a sexual use which I think is really important and I’m gonna input that into my stories because this is the second time I’ve mentioned packers/butch bulge and I don’t want to come off that I only view it sexually because I don’t.

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“Fuck” vi groans as she ruts against your clothed cunt. Straddling you and pushing her weight on you. The two of you haven’t seen each other in two days which is two years for y’all.

Your nails scrape her back as you lift her shirt. Her pierced nipples brush up against your top and she moans.

Already her humps were desperate, her voice wavering as she mutters about how much she loves your pussy. Your hands guides her hips as you near your first orgasm of the night.

“Need you babe—fuck” she moans and closes her eyes. “Where do you want me?” You whine knowing she wants you to toy with her tits. She straightens her posture so you have access to her.

A moan flowed out as the hotness of your mouth met the coolness of her piercing. Your plump lips attached themselves to her eager nipples. You tongue swirled and your teeth pulled. Heavenly whimpers left her swollen lips.

“Pleasepleaseplease” she babbles, her nails seeping into your skin. You moan against her breast as you feel your orgasm crash over you. Your hazy eyes look up at her blown out pupil’s. She lifts your face away from her nipple, a string of saliva follows. “Open your mouth.” She whispers as her humps got more aggressive. You could hear your wetness as her bulge presses against you.

You listen to her command and slowly a string of her spit drips down your throat. The view alone made vi cum.

Harshly she grabs your face to steady herself to lean down for a kiss. The kiss escalates as both of your second orgasms build. Her hand rips your shirt open, needing to touch you. Her wet nipples rub against your stiff ones. Vi pinches your nipples and pulls it drawling moans out of your hoarse throat.

She’s gotten so lost in the kiss that she licks your face. Your tongues slides against each other and she uses her free hand to hold your jaw and suck on your tongue. She bops her head up and down on your tongue. Her teeth sink into your tongue not enough to make it bleed but enough to make you grip her hips and moan.

Her body shudders as she moves her head into your neck biting down. Her teeth drag across the same areas till your skin turns a dark purple.

“Love ‘m pretty girl” she moans into your mouth as she moves back up to kiss you. Her hand sliding into your wet panties. “Fuck you feel so good” she pants as she positions herself to grind on your thigh. Eagerly she pushes two fingers in and it doesn’t take long for you to cum.

Wanting to push you, she thrusts her fingers faster and curls them to hit your g-spot. The speed and the movement had your back arching and your hips shaking. You kiss her, sliding your tongue against her, biting her lip and drool slipping down your chin.

Your third orgasm comes quicker than your last. A loud moan that could be compared to a scream ripped through you as you squirt against vi. The two of you stop and look at each other, “that’s new” vi laughs and you join her although your voice was shaky. “Let’s do it again.”

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A/n: This got me out my smut funk, I needed to write intimacy!

Taglist: @manfuckthisimout @bambishaven @femme-historian @furrytaesss @milanyas @highnfemme @5seos

Dividers- @dollywons

[fuctacles]

Congrats on 800 followers!

For the request thing…I would love to see something (smutty and/or fluffy) about Transmasc Eddie being comforted by cis Steve. Maybe after being misgendered in regard to their relationship?

I love your writing so much!

Thank you so much <3 I hope this works :3 800 wc for 800 698 followers, M rating | Ao3

"You can't bring your girlfriend into the bathroom, man."

"Excuse me?"

Just this is enough to put Steve into attack mode. He can feel Eddie's hand tighten around his in warning.

"Yeah, we have a no-bathroom-fucking policy after the last incident." The guy that stopped them has the decency to at least look bashful, rubbing his cheek awkwardly. Steve can almost sympathize, if stopping horny couples is a task he's supposed to do on the daily.

Almost.

"I'm sure me and my boyfriend can find a better place to fuck," he says dryly.

The guy's eyes widen, then flicker to the side, where Eddie is hovering awkwardly.

"Shit, dude, I'm so sorry—"

"So do you stop only hetero couples?" Steve interrupts him with a quirk of an eyebrow, bitch mode in full swing. "Or did your management just forget queer people exist?"

He opens his mouth, but closes it, rendered speechless.

"Or are they actually heterophobic and want only gay sex to happen in their bathrooms?" Steve cocks his head to the side.

"I don't—"

"So can me and my boyfriend go pee or...? We'll hold our hands while doing so," he raises their joined palms. "But nothing more, I promise."

"Just go," the man says tiredly, his expression pained.

"Thanks," Steve nods to him. "And consider simple no-fucking signs."

Finally free from the bar worker, Eddie pulls Steve towards the bathroom. Once inside and away from the loud music, he falls against the door with a sigh.

"Sorry," he says, hands hiding his face.

"What for?" Steve asks, latching the door closed.

"I don't know," Eddie groans in frustration. "For not cutting my hair, maybe? Maybe then I'd look like a man," he scoffs.

"Do I have to list off all the guys with long hair again?"

"I'm good, thanks."

"Ozzy Osbourne, Dio, Slash..." he starts listing on his fingers anyway.

"Steve."

Steve drops his hand.

"Listen, if that guy assumes every person with long hair is a girl, then clearly he's not listening to enough metal."

Eddie lets out an involuntary snort, and Steve grins at the sound.

"And should we believe what an uncultured philistine without taste has to say?"

"No," Eddie admits with a fond roll of his eyes.

"Good," Steve smiles and leans down to kiss him. "Because I love your hair."

"I love it too," Eddie groans, his frustration still not gone. "I just wish it didn't make me feel this way."

"I know, Eds. But it's okay to feel like this, it's normal that it hurts," Steve reminds him, wrapping him in a hug. "You're a man to those who matter, who know what good music is."

Eddie's laughs gets muffled against his shoulder.

"That's true."

"And you're not going to change things you like about yourself because of a stranger's opinion."

"Hell no."

They stay quiet, just enjoying the warmth and comfort of their embrace, until Eddie speaks up again.

"Thank you."

"I'm just reminding you your own words."

"Still."

"Well, in that case, you're welcome, baby."

"Okay, but now I really have to pee."

They disentangle themselves to reach the urinals, but not before Steve lands another peck on his lips.

Eddie always takes longer in the bathroom, considering the time it takes him to disentangle and adjust his packer, but once he's free, he sees movement in his periphery. Steve is holding out his hand.

With a laugh, he grabs it, so they can pee hand in hand.

Once at they are at the sinks, they meet each other's eyes in the mirror.

"I kind of wanna fuck in the bathroom now," Steve admits.

Eddie makes a face and looks pointedly around. It's not the worst bathroom he's been in, but it's still a bar bathroom.

"You're not fucking me here," he says decisively. Steve hums.

"No, but you could fuck me."

Now that's a thought. One Eddie didn't plan in advance.

"Sorry, left my dick at home."

"Babe, you can make me come on just your fingers," Steve reminds him, leaning sideways against the sink to properly look at him.

Eddie pulls a strand of hair over his mouth at the reminder.

"Well..."

"Or we can always make a show and pretend just for kicks." His boyfriend suggests with a mischievous smile.

That, makes Eddie's eyes sparkle.

"We absolutely can," he quickly agrees.

Steve throws himself at the door with a rough slam, and moans in his best impression of a cheesy porn star.

"Fuck, I love you so much," Eddie attacks his mouth with no less enthusiasm. He starts moving his hips against his leg and groan to the rhythm, Steve rattling the door and whimpering along. "I can still fuck you after, right?"

Steve moans again, now more genuinely from the mere thought.

"You'd try not to."

I suck at tags: @blasvemous @wheneverfeasible @phantomcat94