#mixed stances (system)

[snow-on-mtsilver]

i feel like system friendly discord servers should be required to state their stance on endos btw <3

[d33pwaterabyss]

Wishing every system, median, and ally a good and safe holidays

~💙

[atypi-cals]

Stop!!! recommending me!!! anti-endo posts!!! I'm sorry my follower tagged that endos dni but they did get blocked immediately

[strilonder]

(Got rid of all the colors and kept the text sizes WITH translations :V)

Shitty Blog Intro

[text reads: “Shitty Blog Intro” text ends.]

Hallo this is Timothy Simmons Rey and i will be creating this SHITTY AND LOW EFFORT introduction for our, uh, system?? I dunno, i dont really give a fuck. (/neutral) We have no collective pronouns/terms because half of us are the other half’s opposite gender and it’s sort of infuriating to try and decide what we all want to be called. Just ask for our fronter’s/s’ pronouns. Please? We use alters, parts, and headmates collectively—however, some are more into just saying parts.

Also if you have “18 & older” or “MDNI” in your bio/intro, please block us. We are bodily a minor and a vast majority of us are too. We don’t want to break your DNI because one of the adults in our system had followed you or we didn’t read your blog’s DNI.

>8< (cool little spider)

SMALL DISCLAIMER: Just because most or some or maybe even just one of us have an odd/differing opinion doesn’t mean we all have the same exact thought. We disagree and argue as much as every other System.

Our DNIs (even though we literally cant do shit about it in two whole different ways):

Most of our humans are uncomfortable interacting with proshippers, which includes two of our hosts. Our trolls don’t mind interacting with them while our (currently singular) pony does mind if they interact. You might wanna ask whoever’s fronting if they’re okay with you talking to them since our stances are very diverse. The last statement applies to every single discourse on tumblr actually. Whatever you are, you might wanna ask if we’re okay with it, whether it be radqueer, endogenic, whatever. We’ll usually say we arent okay with talking with you but there are occasional okay’s depending on the alter.

Since a lot of us are minors from universes where our adults weren’t the best, we won’t be directly talking (DMs, private group-chats, etc) to to people at and over 18. Our adult alters don’t mind interacting as long as you aren’t asking for anything suggestive or romantic (half of them are either happily taken and happily single).

On the topic of relationships: don’t be weird to us about what character you ship with our source. No, Dave doesn’t romantically like Karkat, Rose doesn’t romantically like Virgo (Maryam), Dirk doesn’t romantically like Jake, etc etc etc. Of course there are exceptions but those are rare (an eighth of our Parts are “popular” or at least “well known ships”). Don’t go poking us with your elbow saying “[Alter] is cute, arent they? winky face ;D” because it’s really uncomfortable to hear for literally everyone.

Our alters/parts have certain source characters that they are uncomfortable with (that also overlap into our system). Those of them that were directly stated are Beta Bro Strider, Alpha Bro Strider, possibly Vriska’s lusus, most definitely Dreamwastaken and Wilbursoot, and probably a bunch of more adult character sources. However, this isn’t the case for all and there are exceptions (such as our Beta Bro who never had Dave), you will just need to ask the alter personally.

We will block you if you concern more than half of the system or our protectors and gatekeeper.

[text reads: “We will block you if you concern more than half of the system or our protectors and gatekeeper.” text ends.]

On to our system info: (At this point, Timothy S. R had already Switched places with me, LZ. I am now in Front.)

Hello, travellers, most likely from the Homestuck fandom.. We are an untitled, (fictionally) Introject-heavy System under the handle “strilonder”, which you may use as a collective name for us! :3

Our Alter/Part count is currently unknown; 16 discovered and whispers of 40+ existing. (We have literally no idea.) That is an older statement. We are now nearing 50 Members. Fuck our life. As we stated beforehand—bodily, we are a minor. If you didn’t catch it before, the many Parts in our system that relate to the Body’s age group would not like to directly contact (via DMs, private group-chats, etc) with adults, so please ask us if any Middles/Littles are Fronting before conversing (this is for the others’ comfort and safety <3).

Since we are leaning low tolerant when Splitting/Forming new Parts and we currently have a massive hyperfixation, we have a lot of Homestuck Introjects. We have one DSMP/MCYT Introject (the aforementioned Timothy who goes by he/they/dee/dem/red pronouns) and one MLP:FiM Introject (Applejack, who goes by she/they/he pronouns). Please excuse us if we have no translations for any typing quirks, we forget a lot and people who don’t really care. x(

Unfortunately, when I (LZ) had first tried using tags for the System to use, it didn’t work at all due to people forgetting to tag or forgetting the tag/s even existed and it doesn’t help that all(?) of us have shit memory so we are gonna just stick to sign-offs/proxies or names in the tags to keep track of who posted what.

Hosts: (They will change over time.)

LZ (proxy -LZ), any & all pronouns : The Core of the System. (Despite how problematic the coined term “Core” is, we have all collectively agreed it doesn’t affect us. This is a personal term to differentiate the other hosts from the human child they had split from, primarily because the Core has most of the memories + experienced them. Of course, we will take offense to it if it’s used offensively/incorrectly.)

Karkat Vantas (proxy -CARCINOGENETICIST or -CG), he/him : The Gatekeeper of the System. He has been keeping track of the other Alters’ activity and roles.

Dirk Strider (proxy (🧢)), he/him : The second Part to Form/reveal himself and made it clear he was Formed to protect the System. Has been fronting ever since he went dormant.

Past Hosts:

None.

[charlotteking27]

Your Safe Space

Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: You and Max are polar opposites. You're shy, and he's... well...not. You listen, and he's Maxplaining. But despite all the differences, you are perfect for each other.

Warning: None

The celebration at the Dutch Grand Prix was intense, even by Formula 1 standards. The crowd of orange-clad fans cheered loudly as Max claimed another home win, their excitement palpable. You watched from the garage, feeling a mix of pride and underlying anxiety as he took his place on the podium.

"Time to head to the paddock," Christian Horner said with understanding, noticing your nervous fidgeting. He had become protective of you, realizing why his star driver was so careful about your comfort.

The real challenge began after Max finished his media duties. What started as a steady stream of well-wishers quickly turned into a chaotic rush of fans and journalists, all eager for a glimpse of the Dutch champion. You found yourself caught in it, gripping Max's race suit as camera flashes went off around you.

"Max! Can I have your autograph?" "Can we take a picture?" "Is this your girlfriend?" "Look this way!" "Just one question about the championship!"

The different voices merged into a deafening noise. Your breathing quickened as the world around you felt dizzy. Max sensed your grip tighten and immediately shifted from his relaxed post-race demeanor to a more protective stance.

"Enough," he said firmly, but kindly, cutting through the chaos. He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer. "Please step back."

But the crowd, electrified by their hero's success, pushed even closer. An eager photographer leaned in, his camera mere inches from your face. Max's expression hardened, and the competitive intensity he usually displayed on the track came through fully.

"BACK UP!" His voice carried the authority he used with his race engineer during tense moments. "NOW!"

His right arm created a barrier between you and the crowd while his left arm held you securely against him. You buried your face in his chest, grateful for the safety of his embrace, inhaling the familiar scent of champagne and racing fuel on his suit.

"Jos! Hannah!" Max called his father and PR manager, who were already moving to assist. "Make a path."

They quickly formed a human barrier. Max turned his body, shielding you from the cameras and reaching hands. You felt him start to move, guiding you through the chaos with the same precision he used on the track.

"Keep your eyes closed if you need to," he murmured against your hair. "I've got you. Just a few more meters."

The noise began to fade as security finally took control. Max didn't stop until you reached the private area behind the Red Bull hospitality suite, where it was quieter and protected by team security.

"I'm so sorry about that," he said softly, gently cupping your face and wiping away tears you hadn't realized were falling. "They shouldn't have gotten so close. Are you okay?"

You managed a shaky nod, still trying to steady your breathing. Max's eyes searched yours, filled with concern and a hint of anger—not at you, but at the situation.

"We can skip the team celebration," he offered right away. "I'll tell Christian—"

"No," you whispered, finding your voice. You didn't want to take this moment away from him. "Just… stay close?"

His expression softened, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Always. We’ll go through it together, alright? And if it feels overwhelming, we squeeze hands three times. That’s our signal, and we leave right away. No questions."

You nodded, grateful for his understanding and the small systems he put in place to help you navigate his world. Max pulled you into another hug, his heart beating steadily against your ear.

"You know," he said after a moment, a hint of pride in his voice, "you're braver than any driver on that grid. They only face the crowds when they're winning. You face them every day, just because you love me."

For the first time since the crowd incident, a small smile appeared on your lips. In moments like these, you understood why you could handle the chaos of his world—because at its center was this man who turned your silence into strength and your anxiety into courage, one protective embrace at a time.

Later that evening, in the quiet comfort of Max's driver's room, the world felt more manageable. You sat cross-legged on the leather couch, mostly hidden behind a Red Bull hoodie that was two sizes too big—Max's, of course. He paced in front of you, still buzzing with post-race energy as he relived important moments from the race.

"So going into Turn 3—" Max's hands moved through the air, mimicking the racing line. "Lewis was trying for the undercut, but I knew—" He spun around, excitedly gesturing. "I knew if I could just hold the inside line…"

You watched him closely, your chin resting on your knees. This was your favorite version of Max—unfiltered, passionate, and immersed in the technical details of racing. When new team members entered the room, you instinctively shifted further behind the couch's armrest, but Max continued with his explanation.

"Hey, GP," he nodded to his race engineer before turning back to you. "So anyway, the tire degradation was crucial here—" His hands spread wide, creating invisible graphs in the air. You couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm while trying to make yourself smaller in the presence of others.

Gianpiero, aware of your shy nature, simply dropped off some data sheets and left with a friendly smile. Max moved to stand between you and the door, unconsciously protecting your space as he dove deeper into the race analysis.

"The telemetry was incredible!" He grabbed the sheets and dropped onto the couch beside you. You nestled against his side, using his shoulder as a shield despite there being no one else in the room. It was now a habit—Max as your safety barrier against the world.

He repositioned himself to shelter you better, one arm draped protectively around your shoulders while the other pointed out numbers on the sheets. "See these spikes? That's where we found extra tenths in sector two."

You nodded, following the lines with your gaze. While some of the technical jargon flew over your head, you loved watching how his face lit up while explaining it. He never seemed to mind your mostly silent responses; he recognized your quiet enthusiasm in how you leaned closer to see the details.

When Lando Norris came in to congratulate Max, you instinctively ducked behind his back, peeking out just enough to offer a tiny wave. Max smoothly shifted to block Lando's view, giving you time to adjust.

"Thanks, mate! I was just showing the tire strategy—" Max resumed his explanation, using his body as a protective barrier while you gathered your courage. By the time Lando left, you'd managed to emerge slightly from behind Max, though your fingers still clung to the back of his shirt.

"You know," Max said softly once they were alone again, finding your hand, "I love how you listen. Everyone else just nods and moves on, but you… You care about understanding everything."

You squeezed his hand in response, and he smiled, understanding your silent language perfectly. Then he jumped up to demonstrate a wheel-to-wheel battle with Leclerc, spinning an imaginary steering wheel while you watched from your corner of the couch, completely absorbed in his joy.

This was your perfect moment—Max in his element, passionate and unguarded, while you could observe and love him from the safety of the shadows, knowing he'd never push you into the spotlight you weren't ready for.

[smokee78]

just in case. to the recent followers here, reminder that I am anti endo and anti endo-community. I don't feel like blocking people anymore but do realize I am, interact with, and make, anti endo posts and believe in that stance.

[yawnderu]

Continuation of Ghost getting painfully Brit when he's drunk bc you're not gonna look at this big fucker from Manchester and tell me he wasn't a roadman in his teenage years.

Part I

''Did man just exhale?'' Simon looked at Gaz with fake offense, gloved hand pointing towards you while you were... simply sitting there.

''I'm just breathing, Si.'' Maybe the mix of drunk idiots in your house wasn't a good idea, but it sure is fucking hilarious.

''Why you tryin' to use logic like I won't spark you, bruv?'' He's clearly messing around, playfully swatting your head out of the way as you walk past him. It earns him a sharp slap on the arm, making Gaz snicker.

''You 'aving a laugh, yeah?'' As if having two idiotic best friends isn't enough, the alcohol in their system does nothing but make them even more annoying.

''You wanna 'ave a go, mate?'' Gaz replies, eyebrows raised in amusement as he gets into a playful fighting stance, Simon following soon after but deciding against it after a second of consideration.

''Alright, calm, calm, calm.'' Simon finally sat down, clearly holding back his laughter. The giant Brit was way too fucking drunk to even think about sparring with anyone, let alone the man who holds the record in selection for the SAS.

''Say nothin', innit.'' They both settle down for once, only interrupted once Gaz lets out a sigh.

''Are you a lunatic, blud?'' Here he goes again.

[ghoulbrain]

Animal Instinct

18+ 3.5k ghoul x f!reader. graphic depictions of violence, wound tending, hurt/comfort, established relationship, feral/protective cooper, cannibalism, blood, dirty talk, vaginal fingering. gif credit. read on AO3. written as part of the Saddle Up, Sweetheart verse, but can be read as a stand-alone.

When you're both ambushed by raiders, Cooper comes to understand the lengths he'll go to keep you safe.

This never would have happened if Cooper was still traveling alone. He would have been more aware of his surroundings, he would have seen the signs of an ambush long before he stepped into it, and he wouldn’t have been so focused on you instead.

It’s lazy to blame you, though. The fault is his. Without preamble or flourish he draws his revolver and starts emptying shots into the spill of sorry sons of bitches that decided they would ruin his evening.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees you move forward, weapon drawn. His lip twitches. Your grip is good, but your stance is horse-shit. If this is going to become a thing–you taggin’ along like this–he’ll have to show you how to properly fire a gun.

He refocuses quickly, stepping forward to keep himself angled between them and you. The ambush isn’t anything special: just a bunch of jumpy junkies with twitchy trigger fingers looking for their next score. He takes a shot to the shoulder, another to the sternum. He doesn’t feel anything but the impact and pressure of irradiated flesh being forced apart around the bullets. There’s no pain, not so long his system is flooded with chemicals.

It’s your cry of pain that sets his nerves ablaze. He fires two more shots–dropping the men who hit him–before he whirls around, a hot rush of fire rolling through him at the sight of you with a man pressed up against your back, one arm fitted around your throat while he crushes your wrist in his other hand, squeezing hard, keeping your gun pointed at the ground as he chokes you out.

That’s when he sees the knife sunk into your thigh, blood soaking a wide crimson circle into your clothing around the knife’s hilt. In this infinitely long and horrible instant that your gaze meets his. The pain and fear in your eyes trigger something in him, and the whole world becomes both brighter and slower all at once.

Cooper aims, fires, but his revolver clicks emptily. He doesn’t reach to reload. Instead, he moves on pure animal instinct, bearing his teeth and charging with a guttural snarl.

Adrenaline mixes with the chemical cocktail in his veins and he moves faster than the man reacts, ripping his hands from you and throwing your assailant to the ground with such incredible force it dazes the man, his eyes glazing over. He roars in the raider’s face, spittle and yellow flecks coating his dirty skin, before he lunges, sinking his teeth into the pulsing jugular below.

He lends no thought to how natural it feels to bite into warm, living flesh.

Rearing up, mouth bloodied and full of viscera, Cooper winds his fist back and strikes the man in the face. His first blow hits his jaw. The next strikes his temple.

Straddling him, he doesn’t stop hitting. One fist after the other. He aims for the jaw, the temple, the high of his cheek. He misses and shatters his nose with a satisfying crunch, blood spewing from his nostrils to coat his knuckles. His jaw breaks with a pop. Broken teeth and bone slice flesh, mixing with gore and falling to the dirt in wet chunks.

The violence feels raw and good, like the first deep inhale of a vial or a hot wet fuck. He swallows the blood and meat lingering in his mouth and lets out a rough breath. Gritting his teeth he hits harder, driven on by the scent of blood and dirt. The gurgle of choked breaths. The slip of split flesh against his fists. It's all gasoline on the flames your peril sparked.

Cooper thinks of him stabbing you. Choking you. He thinks of your watery eyes, bright and terrified. He thinks of everyone he’s ever let down, ever failed to save, and he keeps hitting. Even when the man beneath him seizes. Even when he drowns in his blood.

Even when he dies.

Cooper is beating on a hunk of ruined flesh when he finally stops, drenched in the blowback of it.

Wheezing breaths saw from his lungs as he places one hand on the dirt road, lifting himself off of the mess of battered meat. He stares down at his knuckles where pain throbs with every heartbeat. It's a welcome sensation. Not because he deserves it, but because the raider did, and because he delivered. Destruction with his bare hands. Suffering where it’s meant to be found. He drags his tongue along the soaked leather of his glove and greedily swallows what collects on his tongue.

Heart thundering in his ears, Cooper stands, dipping briefly to pick up his gun. The grip slides around in his bloodied hand before he holsters it, cloudy eyes scanning for movement until his gaze lands on you. Down on the ground, clutching your wound, you look like a doe with a bum leg, your eyes blown wide and afraid. You look… irresistible. Not just as a woman, not just as his woman, but as an easy meal.

He takes a step forward, lips parted. The edges of you are blurry to his addled mind. The only part of you that’s in focus is the bright red of your wound seeping into your clothes. His memories of lapping the salt from your skin cross wires in his brain and all he can imagine is holding you safe and sound as he devours you.

“Cooper?”

The sound of your voice acts like a shock to his system that drags him back from the sweet coppery tang of warm, fresh blood in his mouth. He’s standing above you, closer than he realized he got. The sweetness in his mouth sours into putrid rot and he takes a step backwards, rasping out a cuss under his breath. He turns his head and spits, aggressively wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, smearing away blood and little chunks of flesh, abruptly and horribly aware of himself.

Shame blooms in his gut, unfurling all the way up to a tightness in his chest. He looks down at the mutilated body on the ground. There’s no head left, just wet gore soaking into the hungry dry earth below.

He completely lost control of himself. He spits, wipes, spits, wipes, rubs his mouth raw against his sleeve in an attempt to scrub away the taste and feel of it before he dares look at you again. He contemplates shoving a handful of dirt into his mouth just to chase away the lingering tang. He never wants to see you–to think of you–like that again. Like you’re just another hunk of meat.

Your touch makes him jerk away. He looks at you sharply, furious that you would come so close after what he’s done. What he could have done to you.

“Cooper–”

“M’not right,” he says roughly, taking hold of your wrist. You flinch and he realizes that he’s snatched the same wrist the motherfucker he beat into a paste had been crushing. He softens his grip, throat tight like there’s a hand squeezing it. “Fuck, would y’just–m’not right,” he says again, an edge of desperation in his emphasis.

“I know,” you say, voice tender, as if somehow he’s the one in need of gentleness. “I know. So come back. Don’t shut me out.” There’s more authority in your voice than you have any right to have in your position, shaking like a leaf while you touch his face, hushing him with such tenderness it fractures something in him that he thought long dead and buried under the weight of the last two hundred years.

Wish I could, he thinks, wiping his hand on his thigh. That you would look at him like that even now, as if he’s somehow still a man, eats at the very core of him. Makes him want to shy away, prove you wrong, and disappear into you all at once. He takes in a steadying breath before he clutches both of your arms, moving you to the ground. 

“Easy,” he says, voice barely above a rasp. “Y’bleedin’.”

You’re holding onto his elbows as he lowers you, gritting your teeth against the pain. He focuses on your discomfort, on the risk you face, fragile thing that you are, to keep his mind far away from the abyss he walked the edge of while maiming the body behind him.

His first priority is to stanch the bleeding. His movements become practiced, hands that of a soldier. He uses a strap from his pack to create a makeshift tourniquet, twisting it around a scrap rod. All the while he’s hyper aware of your gaze on him and the shallow huffs of your breath, the way it catches when he pulls the binding tight.

“Hurts,” you say tightly.

“I know,” he says, drawing his knife. He lifts your blood soaked pant leg–don’t pause, don’t think, don’t breathe it in–and slices open the fabric. “S’about t’hurt a whole lot more. Gimme a count, I’ll pull it on three,” he tells you, bracing one hand on your thigh, the other gripping the hilt of the knife.

“Okay, okay,” you say, sucking in a deep breath. “One–”

Cooper yanks the blade free, startling a yelp out of you that carries into a pained groan.

“What happened to three?!” You ask sharply, fingers digging into the dirt.

He hurriedly smothers the wound with the cleanest cloth he has before he works on tightly wrapping the wound. “S’better when y’don’t know it’s comin’.”

“Asshole,” you breathe.

The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth is reluctant, as if there’s an invisible string tugging at it against his will. “Can’t be that bad if y’still mouthin’ off.”

“It’ll take more than a measly stab wound to keep my mouth shut,” you say, familiar playfulness slipping in alongside the strain in your voice.

“Don’t I know it,” he grouses, glancing up at you. There’s nothing reluctant about your smile. It’s the opposite of his, earnest in a way he’s long forgotten how to be. You’re making an attempt at comforting him, he realizes, looking back down to finish his work, removing the tourniquet once he’s satisfied with the dressing.  “It’ll do for now. Y’need stitches.”

“I’ll be fine,” you say dismissively, shifting onto your knees.

He makes a skeptical noise in the back of his throat, sheathing his knife. “Would it kill y’not to be so damn contrary?”

“It might,” you say, catching the lapel of his jacket and pulling at him, bringing his attention back to you. He looks down at your hand, stained now with the crimson wetness spattered all over his coat. His clothes are soaked heavy with misery and blood, but it doesn’t dissuade you any. You touch his jaw with your other hand and lift his eyes to meet yours.

“Hey,” you whisper. You’re close enough that he should feel the ghost of your breath on his lips, but he can’t. Most of the subtleties of life are lost on a man so close to death. The only ghosts he knows now are those of his past. “You okay?”

Holding your gaze, he doesn’t answer you. Sometimes you feel like one of them, like another specter haunting him. The only difference is that you haven’t died yet.

Yet.

“Come back to me,” you murmur. His vision refocuses, finding you closer than you had been a second ago. The warm pressure of your lips grazing his cheek makes him falter, wanting the tenderness of your touch so viscerally it feels dangerous to admit even to himself. “Stay with me.”

Your hand lightly cups the back of his neck, holding him without caging him. You move closer, settling in his lap, grounding him with the weight of your body against his. He moves at that, grasping your hips and squeezing.

“Stay with me,” you say again, the words as fervent as prayer. His own lips parted, he can taste the breath of each word, sweet and warm, the way a distant part of him remembers things like love could be.

Why? He nearly asks. You won’t.

He had thought himself immune to this sickly feeling. This sense of grief for someone who isn’t yet gone, but you rip it out of him. The truth of the matter is that the Ghoul should never have entertained your company. He should have left you where he found you and been on his way without ever casting a backwards glance. The Ghoul would have.

It’s Cooper who didn’t. It’s Cooper’s hands sliding up your sides, squeezing your ribs and pulling you closer, deeper. He kisses you hungrily, craving you the way the Ghoul can’t. The way a man craves.

I ain’t dead yet.

And neither are you.

Two hundred years of surviving for tomorrow has eroded his ability to exist in the here and now, but your touches demand it of him. Your lips against his bring him into the moment as he lives it. As you live it with him.

“I ever look at you like that again,” he says gruffly, swiping his tongue along his bottom lip, catching yours in the process. He moves you back enough to lock eyes with you. “You put a bullet between my eyes.”

Your lips curve in a bittersweet kind of anguish. “Like you’re gonna eat me? Because right now–”

He gives you a sharp little shake. “Y’know what I mean,” he says, startling the smile off your face. From day one he’s liked your wit, the cavalier way you face life, but on this matter he needs you to hear him. “You ever look at me, and I’m not there, you promise you’ll put me down.”

The set of your mouth turns to a flat line, your gaze somber, and you nod. “I promise.”

Some of the tension in his haggard lungs eases and he kisses you again, need shooting up his spine like a hot geyser. “That’s my girl,” he breathes, leaning back and bringing you with him, saddling you properly astride his lap, his long legs stretched out behind you.

You kiss him back just as hungrily, heedless of the blood and gristle between your melding bodies, and he’s forced to remind himself that this is the only world you’ve ever known. There’s no time before this, not for you. Your life has always been full of horrors, and for reasons he’ll never fully comprehend, you’ve decided he’s one that you want close.

He slips his hands under your thighs and squeezes, hiking your legs around his waist until you’re seated closely enough to feel the growing ache between his legs. You don’t miss a beat, grinding down against him so fervently his breath breaks into a low groan. Not even he can deny his humanity in this. You turn his blood hot and shock the deadened thump of his heart into thunder. You make him feel alive.

He’ll return the favor. He’ll turn his spit to wine on your tongue and make your whole body fucking sing.

Breaking from your lips, he uses his teeth to tug his glove free, letting it fall to the ground. His mouth feels sandpaper dry, but your lips are plenty wet. 

“Open up for me, sweetheart,” he rumbles, parting your lips with the tips of his middle and index fingers. Your eager tongue slips molten wet between his fingers, your eyes hazy on his. He pumps his fingers slowly, cups the back of your head to keep you still while plunging all the way to his last knuckles before drawing them back. “That’s it… Get ‘em good and wet.”

It’s agonizing how easily you fall apart under his touch, and even more so how good you look doing it. Somewhat reluctantly, he withdraws his fingers from your mouth and with practiced ease maneuvers his hand down the front of your pants, curving his fingers to follow the contour of your pelvis until his fingertips slide through hot, wet arousal.

“Cooper,” you exhale, the pitch of your voice canary-sweet. If you have any care regarding the death that surrounds you or the blood between his body and yours, you don’t show it, nor pay it any heed. You’re focused entirely on him, lips parted on shallow breaths of pleasure. He strokes your clit in slow, deliberate circles, the rest of the world falling away the longer he watches your euphoria build.

Fuck, you’re goddamn beautiful. Why the hell you let a creature like him have you is beyond him, but he won’t let go. Not now. Not so long as you still look at him like this.

He swallows dryly, finally slipping his fingers into the welcoming heat of your pretty cunt. You’re soaked, his own personal oasis in the Wastes, velvet walls quivering around his toughened fingers. He angles the pad of his thumb against your clit and starts to finger fuck you in earnest, his cock throbbing beneath you. 

“Fuck,” you keen softly. Your hands braced on his shoulders, you meet every thrust of his hand, huffing divine little sounds while he fucks you with his fingers, crooking them until he feels you shudder.

“Yeah,” he breathes, enraptured. “That’s it. Got y’now, don’t I? Ah ah, don’t get shy on me,” he tsks when your eyes fall shut. “Eyes on me, darlin’. Eyes on me,” he says, voice frayed. You pry your eyes back open and hold his gaze, your own heavily lidded. “Good, s’good. Y’close now, ain’t’cha, sweetie?”

You nod fervently, moans bubbling up instead of words, your sweet features twisted in the exquisite agony that comes just before climax. You roll your palms against his shoulders, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his coat. He wishes he could feel the bite of your nails on his bare skin, wishes it were his cock sinking into you, but all that wistfulness is erased the second you cry out, your back arching, your cunt squeezing his fingers as you’re pitched forward into the throes of release.

Cooper grits his teeth, baring them like an animal as he fucks you through the tremors, grabbing hold of your jaw to keep you from collapsing, to keep your eyes on him. You slide your hands up and cup either side of his face, yanking him into a messy kiss. He falls into it easily, slowing the thrust of his fingers as the aftershocks of your orgasm settle until his hand is still against you, fingers pressed in deep, savoring the feel of you.

You kiss him leisurely with tongue, teeth and barely sated hunger. Your bliss slows you, and Cooper is content to simply feel. Even the lingering ache of his own need is a welcome sensation in a world he so often walks through feeling numb.

After a time, he slides his fingers from your pants, wiping them absently on his own before wrapping his arms around you. You sink into him in turn, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. The sun has almost disappeared completely, and the chill of night is beginning to nip the air. All of this carnage will attract predators soon, but he finds himself unable to rush the matter. His embrace tightens.

“I love you,” you murmur.

There was a time long before his heart became an open grave that he would have been eager to return the sentiment, but hearing those three little words turns his tongue to lead. They flood him with memories of an era where love came naturally–the way only violence does now–and shooting a man in the head was the most abhorrent act he could fathom for himself.

These days, a headshot is a kindness.

His stomach is tight, a bile-like burn creeping up his throat. He screws his eyes shut, swallowing it back. To his relief, you aren’t tense with anticipation. Instead, you pepper butterfly light kisses along the scarred column of his throat, paying special attention to the nicks and scars along the way to his jaw.

You kiss him. He takes your face in his hands and deepens it, pushing into you until your back arches. 

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispers against your lips, the words both a promise and a prayer. Not to God–He gave up on God a long time ago–this prayer is for you. It’s what he knows. It’s what he is. No matter the monster that threatens you, you’ll always have one of your own to bite back. You’ll always have him.

Strained, quieter yet, he says, “I swear.”

Or so help me, I’ll swallow the bullet myself.

“I know,” you say, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. There’s a blissful kind of sorrow in your expression, but so too is there understanding. He kisses you, closing his eyes against the dry burn of them. He’s not sure he’s even capable of tears anymore. He’s been worn down to the bone by sandstorms and bloodshed. Nothing goes untouched by the misery of the Wastes. No one goes through it unscathed.

What he does know is that he will do everything in his power to see that you’re never broken by it.

[brightside-brigade]

Alright. I'm probably gonna lose moots and followers for this. But I've kept quiet about it since I became host and I don't feel right not saying it for multiple reasons.

I, and this system and blog, support systems of all origins, including non traumagenic. We consider ourselves mixed origin, for multiple reasons. I know some (a lot) of you don't agree with or are uncomfortable with this stance, so if you need to unfollow for your own comfort, that's fine. But do not announce your departure unless you want us to unfollow as well.

I feel like by hiding this, I've been lying to all of you and hindering our own ability to talk about our experiences. Overall, I cannot in good conscious keep it quiet.

This is not an invitation for debate. I hate syscourse and always will, especially with our previous hosts involvement.

If this is where we part ways, then farewell and I wish you the best. And I'm sorry I couldn't be honest sooner.

Plurals of all origins, you are safe with The Brightside Brigade

[glitter-stained]

Ngl it really peeves me when the debate about Jason's ethics regarding killing in the batfam mixes up the question of him being a moral character in regards to sticking to his own philosophy (aka compromising with what he thinks is right to salvage relationships, but also exploding trains to evade capture, killing random goons in a gang war, etc) and the question of him being a moral character in regards to whether his philosophy is right. And even with regards to his philosophy there is his philosophy on politics, crime control and harm reduction, and his ethical philosophy itself (utilitarianism, aka focusing on intended positive consequences of actions for the greater good rather than the action being fundamentally moral or immoral in itself). Those are different things. Those require different debates and should not be conflated together. I'm not even saying Jason is right! I think utilitarianism and deontology both suck and fail at providing sufficient guidelines for moral behaviour. ("Everybody still loses" like the nihilist clown says. The symbolism of that one scene is pretty cool on that regard.)

And I think some people at dc would very much like for you to make the connection that because Jason is harming civilians/killing unnamed goons, he is a bad person, and as such you don't need to examine the way his stance on moral philosophy (utilitarianism) opposes Batman's. But that's not right, they don't get to wiggle out of the fact that utilitarianism vs deontology is a complicated debate that has been going on for ages, that there is no clear-cut answer where Batman fundamentally comes out on top, they don't get to use the fact that Jason (in the era currently discussed) is a villain to saddle us with a false dichotomy of "well jason is wrong about stuff so batman has to be right" to avoid addressing the actual question. The traits of the people being tied on the tracks do not change the shape of the trolley problem. The traits of the person deciding to pull the lever do not change the shape of the trolley problem. It's still one lever, three people tied on one track, one on the other, do you pull the lever. That's it. Yes, bending the metaphor to address other questions (such as "who keeps tying people to the tracks" to question systemic violence or "how does my bias, my prejudice and empathy impact my decision to pull the lever depending on who is on the tracks") are interesting but that's not what the debate is about. If I wrote an essay about the trolley problem in high school and focused primarily on the nature of the people being tied on the tracks, I'd get a big fat zero with "off-topic" written in red all over my essay, so I'm not inclined to allow DC comics to get away with it.

[formidablefangs]

Let's talk about Sysboxes.

[Let's talk about sysboxes]

Disclaimer:

This is just an awareness post, not meant for fighting and whatever you chose to do with this information DO NOT HARASS ANYONE MENTIONED.

Dont go harassing the blog or any of the mods. You can block them or what have you just do not spam them with asks or messages or anything of the sort. If they ask to be left alone then leave them be otherwise that is harassment. Thank you.

Now as many might be aware already, sysboxes is a userbox blog for systems that claims to be anti endo yet has quite a bit of controversy around that and there mods, one mod to be specific though more mods are included.

If you are unaware, this blog has stated they are anti endo, but their mods dont all align with what the blog is supposed to be. A handful of their mods are neutral but there is one that is a pro endo mod.

The problem with this is because if you're claiming to create a safe space for systems excluding endos and then have mods running the blog who themselves violate that claim, you are not creating a safe space and you are going against your own stance by allowing someone to invade.

Below we have screenshots a user sent our partner including their own statements. Apologies for the lack of ids. I hope it's in order.

If sysboxes has not yet taken responsibility for allowing an ableist pro endo "mixed origin" system to be a mod in a space meant to be anti endo then they seriously need to. They are not a victim they are putting victims, that had horrible experiences with endos and follow them, in danger.

But until then here are some blogs that you can follow and support instead that are more transparent about actually being anti endo:

those mentioned are perfectly welcome to ask to be untagged or removed from the list entirely.

@sysboxed , @systiveboxes , @disabledsysboxes , @antiendosysboxes , @sysboxesforsystems , @antiendouserboxes , @systemuserboxes , @sys-army-knife, @foxboxes

[fireya-x]

AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist

John Price x Reader

Your husband, Captain John Price, insists on teaching you how to shoot at the range. But you soon realize that his instructions involve a lot more than just handling a gun.

[4k+ words]

cw: piv sex, spanking, light dom/sub

“Remember what I just told you,” John said, and your grip around the cool material of the gun you held grew tighter. It was a foreign object in your hands, and even though you’d just received detailed instructions on how to hold and handle it, it didn’t feel right. You’d hesitantly taken it from his hands, and felt something unexpected, as if accepting a dangerous secret from him. It felt intimate, like a shared moment of vulnerability. He entrusted you with this part of himself, this dangerous expertise, never doubting for a second that you would accept it.

Then there you were, in the middle of a shooting range, and John was moving through the facility as comfortable as he was moving through your own living room. You’d been to the base a few times, of course, meeting teammates and other partners, but never with the intention to hold a weapon.

You’d told him, more than once, that you wanted no part in this side of his life. That ignorance was your safe haven, your way of pretending that the man you loved could leave the battlefield behind. But deep down, you knew it was a lie. John Price, for all his tenderness, for all the quiet moments of domesticity you’d built a life around, was a soldier to his very core. He breathed and lived it as long as his heart pumped blood through his veins.

It was in the way he moved, precise and controlled, and it was in the way he touched you – possessive, protective, as if you were the most precious weapon in his arsenal.

He insisted it was for your own safety. “You need to be able to protect yourself, love,” he’d said. But you saw right through it. This wasn't about you. It was about him. About the nightmares that lingered in his eyes, the enemies he'd made in a life you couldn't begin to comprehend. This was his way of ensuring that no matter what happened, no matter how far apart duty tore you, he could rest easy knowing you had a fighting chance. It bordered on paranoid, the lengths he’d go to protect you – the home security systems, the calls to his former teammates, the subtle checks whenever you were out alone. But beneath all that, you saw the love, and you wouldn’t deny him this. You’d never shied away from his darkness, the stories he’d told that both terrified and fascinated you.

It was all part of the complex man that was John Price: both a trained, lethal weapon and a caring, loving husband.

Gentle but ruthless. Controlled, but capable of destruction. Dangerous in ways you probably never could even begin to understand, but you felt safer with him than you ever had alone.

He was a walking oxymoron.

“I’ve never even held a gun before, John.” You admitted, your words echoing through the vastness of the range, uncertain how to explain the weird mix of emotions you were feeling.

“I know,” he said, his lips curving into that half-smile. “And I can see you hesitating, and that’s the correct first step, love. Respect is most important.”

He’d guided you to a secluded booth, the table stocked with more ammunition than you’d ever expected to see outside a warzone. He’d shown you how to hold the pistol, how to check the chamber, reload the magazine and how to disable security. He’d shown you the stance, the subtle shift of weight so that the recoil wouldn’t punch you in the gut, and told you that it’s best to use both hands to aim, to steady yourself.

“Finger off the trigger, sweetheart,” he suddenly instructed, his tone serious. You hadn’t even realized you’d moved it, your finger was hovering over the trigger with reckless curiosity, and you couldn't quite explain why. "Only put it on there if you really mean to take a shot.”

He put his hands above yours on the grip of the pistol, then chuckled lightly. “Loosen up a little. Don’t make that a habit.” He then grabbed your elbow and lifted it up a little, so gentle, it was a weird contradiction to how controlled he moved around the shooting range like he was never meant to be anywhere else.

He stepped back, giving you just enough space to breathe, to remember you weren’t his soldier to command. But he could tell you still weren’t sure about your stance.

“Want me to show you?” He gestured to the target at the end of the range – a silhouette that seemed eerily human-shaped in the dim light.

You nodded, surrendering the weapon and retreating to a safe distance as John stepped forward, his movements fluid, almost graceful, belying the lethality he embodied.

He pushed the safety lever off with a sharp click. You could almost feel the energy in the air shift. You saw his hand gripping the weapon as it became more serious and alive, like not just a tool, but an extension of him.

John raised the gun. You were captivated, your gaze tracing the line of his arm, the flex of his bicep beneath the fabric of his shirt. It shouldn’t have been so mesmerizing, watching him handle a weapon clearly meant to kill, and yet, you couldn't tear your eyes away.

His stance was relaxed, almost casual. He didn't even flinch as he pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed in the silence, sharp and startling. You flinched involuntarily at the sound. It wasn’t that you weren’t expecting it – but there was something different, something almost intimate, about watching him handle a weapon with such lethal grace, such unflinching control.

There was no time to feel anything but awe as John lowered the weapon, his eyes fixed on you. The air was thick, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

“Now you,” he said as he clicked the safety back on and stepped aside. He didn’t need to say anything more. You were ready, he had made sure of that, and he was waiting to see if you would rise to the challenge.

“Downrange, safety off,” you muttered to yourself, remembering his words. Your finger found the safety, disengaging it with a soft click that felt overly loud in the quiet space. You tried to replicate the stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, a slight bend in your knees that made your thighs ache. Taking a deep breath, you raised the pistol, lined the sights up on the target at the far end of the range, ignoring the tremor in your arms, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot caught you completely off guard. The recoil was sharper, more violent than you'd expected. It jolted your entire body, throwing you off balance. You stumbled back, a startled yelp escaping your throat before you could help yourself, the heavy weight of the gun almost slipping from your grasp.

You missed the target entirely.

“Easy, love, easy,” John's voice, calm and steady, was right beside your ear. You hadn’t even registered his approach, your senses still reeling from the gunshot, the adrenaline that spiked through you sharp and bitter on your tongue.

You hadn't realized you'd stopped breathing until his hand settled on your waist, his touch firm yet reassuring through the fabric of your shirt, steadying you. Your body leaned into his warmth, seeking comfort, and found it in the solid presence that had always been your haven in the storm.

“Don't fight it,” he murmured. “It’s not about forcing the shot. You need to work with it. Let it flow.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, but you didn’t try to pull away. His closeness was more reassuring than you wanted to admit, the solid weight of him a stark contrast to the unexpected power of the gun. You’d felt this way before, countless times: small beside his strength, intimidated but inexplicably drawn to the same danger that made you feel so vulnerable.

“Again,” he commanded softly, ignoring your remark, as his hand tightened momentarily on your hip. You couldn’t disobey, even if you’d wanted to. His other hand covered yours on the gun.

You tried to recall the stance he’d demonstrated, to feel more confident, but it felt awkward. Your body was tense, and you cursed the way your heart hammered against your ribs.

“You have to relax, darling,” John murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

He leaned closer, his chest a wall of heat at your back as his hand moved from your hip to settle on the small of your back. “Don't let that little gun take all the control,” he whispered, his fingers splaying against your spine as he adjusted your posture, holding you steady. “It's not about brute strength. Lean into it, find the balance.”

His heat seeped into you, chasing away the chill of the shooting range and replacing it with a heat that centred between your legs, a yearning you hadn't anticipated. His touch was doing things to your senses, sending a jolt of something hot and reckless straight through you.

You could feel his fingers, calloused and rough, brushing against yours as he made you hold the gun right.

“See, like that – now, the grip –” You could hear the amusement in his voice, the way he seemed to savour your discomfort. He wasn’t going to make this easy for you, and something in you – something wild and hungry – revelled in the challenge. His fingers traced a searing path down your arm, his touch lingering for a heartbeat on your wrist as he guided your hand.

“Use your wrist – just like that –” You shivered as his breath ghosted across your ear. “That’s it. That’s how you hold it. It's all about control.” He pressed closer, your bodies moulding together.

His hand covered yours on the gun again, overlapping it as you held the weapon together. This different kind of intimacy touch sent a spark down your spine, scorching away every last thought, as you tried to focus on the instructions. “Now pull the trigger.”

You did. And this time, you hit the target. The bullet tore through the paper silhouette, a testament to his guidance, his control.

It was impossible to ignore how close he was. His fingers grazed your back, sending a shiver through you, and then – oh, God – you felt it, the insistent pressure of his knee between your thighs, adjusting your stance, bracing you.

“Feet apart, love,” he murmured, his voice husky as his knee nudged you wider, his hand a steady pressure on the small of your back. You felt like a toy in his hands.

You fired again. This time, it was a little closer to the target, but still far away from the bullseye.

“That’s better,” he murmured, but there was an edge to his amusement now, something heated. You tried to ignore the pressure of him against you.

“Look at that target, focus on the sights, love.” He shifted, his lips finding the delicate skin beneath your ear, and you sucked in a breath. He was doing this deliberately now, pushing your buttons, testing your limits, and the worst part was that he knew you were powerless to resist. 

You fired again. Same corner.

“That’s not good enough.” His lips hovered over your pulse. “Hit the target and you’ll be rewarded. Hmm? How’s that sound?”

A familiar heat built in your belly. The knee that was still holding your stance steady felt way too prominent. This position did nothing to hide his arousal, either.

You focused on the sights, tried lining it up with the middle of the target. The shockwave was not completely absorbed by John’s strength as he held you, and you were shoved back against his chest. You hit the target's neck.

“Good girl,” he said. “You’re a fast learner.”

Every time he’d utter that phrase, every time he brushed his fingers against your hand as he guided you, it was like a surge of heat coursing through your veins. You were flustered, struggling to keeop your focus.

“Stop it,” you pleaded. “You’re distracting me.”

You aimed again, after he’d adjusted your stance, his breath ghosting over your neck as he leaned close to make a correction. “Yes, just like that.”

That was your undoing, each word he said was laced with a playful, knowing intent. His hands guided you, but it wasn’t about the gun, or the lessons, it was all about the feel of him close to you.

You fumbled, almost dropping the gun.

“What’s wrong?” He laughed.

Your cheeks burned. “I –I can’t concentrate.”

You were so lost in showing him that you could do this, you didn’t realize what he started to do. Lips on your neck, and his hand suddenly slowly snaked below the waistband of your gym shorts.

You froze. “John! Isn’t this place covered in cameras?”

“Made sure they’re out of order tonight.” He leans in a little closer as if to whisper it in your ear, his breath warmer than the summer air. “It would take so much paperwork to have you here otherwise. Besides, my wife deserves a private lesson from her husband.”

You shuddered at the words, at the implied claim in them. You aimed again, but missed.

A sharp sting on your backside made you gasp, a sound that morphed into a startled moan as you registered what had just happened. He'd spanked you. It shouldn't have been arousing, not here, not now, yet a thrill shot through you as much at the audacity of it as the sensation itself.

“Do I have to punish you for missing shots?” He sounded so deceptively soft, sending a shiver down to the place where his knee still pressed insistent between your thighs. He was fully aroused, you realized, a thrill shooting through you at the knowledge, the feeling of it a branding iron against your overheated skin. 

“Wasting ammo like that?” He punctuated the question with another swat, harder this time, his hand lingering on your ass, his fingers flexing as though torn between wanting to punish you further and pulling you impossibly closer.

It was impossible to think straight, let alone concentrate on lining up the damn shot.

“J-John,” you stammered, hating the way your voice sounded – breathless, needy – even as you pressed back against him, seeking out the heat that radiated off him in waves, making your head spin. You were caught in a delicious, dangerous game, and the only way to win was to surrender completely.

But you weren’t quite there yet. You needed to hit this damn shot. Pride warred with something hotter, wilder, as you struggled to ignore the insistent pressure of his erection against your backside.

Just as you thought you could regain some semblance of focus, his other hand, the one that had rested so innocently below the waistband of your shorts, began to descend further. It was a slow, deliberate movement, and then you felt it – a finger, rough-tipped and insistent, slipping between your folds.

Pleasure shot through you like a bullet, so unexpected and potent that your entire body went rigid. You bit back a moan, the sound dying in your throat as you clenched around his intruding digit, the ache that bloomed low in your belly a thousand times more distracting than any recoil. 

“Again,” he commanded, his voice low and hot against your ear, as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening, as if his fingers weren’t actively attacking your most sensitive flesh, driving you to the edge of madness. He held all the cards in this game he'd initiated. And you were a willing participant, your body already betraying you, arching unconsciously against his touch, seeking out the friction he so expertly offered even as you tried to focus on the task at hand.

You lined up the sights again, his scent filling your senses, so distracting and so dangerously addictive that it had you clinging to him, desperate for something you couldn't quite name. The barrel wavered as a tremor ran through you, and you swore you heard his breath hitch as your hips moved against him.

“Close,” John breathed, and you felt as his fingers snaked further along your folds. You gasped as a finger slowly pushed into you. “Good girl.” His other hand had a tight grip on your hip, his fingers digging into the flesh as though he’d hold you there forever, trapped between pleasure and denial. “But not there yet, love. Again.”

The shot, when it came, was pathetic. The recoil almost knocked the gun from your grasp. The bullet ricocheted off somewhere, you weren't even sure where it landed. It hardly mattered. 

Another sharp swat of John’s hand against your ass. It should’ve stung, but all you felt was the heat of him, the pressure of his body against yours. His other hand, the one driving you wild with each deliberate stroke, didn't stop even as you whimpered, your hips rocking back instinctively against his touch, seeking relief, release.

“Concentrate, love,” he growled.

But how could you? How could you possibly focus on anything but the insistent ache that throbbed between your legs? 

“John, please,” you breathed, arching against his touch, shamelessly seeking more. “Just – just let me –” The words dissolved into a whimper as his fingers found that sensitive bud of flesh and squeezed, not cruelly, not yet, but with enough force to make you gasp, your inner thighs clenching involuntarily.

“Then hit the bloody mark, love,” he commanded, his voice rough with an emotion you couldn’t quite place, a tremor running through his words as though he were fighting for control just as hard as you were.

You squeezed your eyes shut against the wave of frustration – no, need – that pulsed low in your belly. The pressure of his erection against your backside was a constant torment, a promise of a release he seemed determined to deny you.

“Again,” John barked, his control finally snapping as his hips twitched against you. His touch, the way he moved against you, fuelled a fire in your veins hotter than anything you'd ever experienced. It was intoxicating, terrifying, and utterly addictive. 

You were a moth drawn to his flame, even knowing you were destined to be burned.

You squeezed your eyes shut as his touch sent another jolt through you. “Please, just –”

“Hit. The. Mark.” He growled, teeth clenched, while moving his hips against you, seeking friction for his own arousal. 

You wanted to scream, to sob, to demand he touch you properly, to take what you were aching for. But some primal instinct – some deep-seated need to please him – had you straightening, lifting the pistol with shaking hands.

You tried to concentrate, blocking out the burning heat of his hands, the feel of his erection hard and demanding against your backside, the way his every ragged breath whispered against your ear, fuelling the fire he'd ignited within you. Your mind was a fog of need, your senses overloaded, but the promise of release, that sweet reward only he held the power to give - it was a drug more potent than anything you'd ever imagined.

Lining up the pistol again, you forced your vision to clear, found the target through the haze of arousal, and squeezed the trigger. 

The sound of the gunshot, the feel of the recoil, your own ragged gasp of surprise - it all blended into one overwhelming sensation as time slowed, distorted. And then strong hands were on you, urging you forward with a force that stole your breath, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when the need to be touched, to feel him everywhere, was an inferno consuming every other thought.

You hadn’t even registered what had happened until you caught a glimpse of the target -

Headshot.

You'd hit the mark.

You barely had time to process your victory before the gun was taken from your hands and safely put away - then you were tumbling forward, the world tilting, the cool surface of the table a shock against your heated skin as John's weight pressed you down, his chest a solid wall at your back.

The clatter of the spare ammo as it scattered across the floor was the only warning you got before he moved. You gasped, the sound muffled against the cold metal, your senses reeling as he yanked your shorts and panties down in one swift, brutal motion, baring you to the cool air, to his gaze, which you could feel burning into you.

He didn't waste his breath on anything but a low growl as he shifted, the sudden sound of a belt buckle ringing in your ears. His weight was pressing you deeper into the table, his erection, hard and insistent, nudging at your entrance. And then, in one swift, possessive thrust, he filled you, the force of it stealing what was left of your sanity, chasing away everything but the all-consuming need to feel him move, to feel him claim you as his.

The world shrunk to the feel of him: him anchoring you to the table, the possessive grip of his hand on your hip, holding you still as he moved within you. His thrusts were deep, powerful, each one a delicious torment that had you arching into him, crying out his name against the cold metal of the table.

“That's it, love,” he growled, his voice thick and primal, something that went far beyond the controlled man you thought you knew. 

You suddenly felt his entire weight hovering above your back, slowing pressing your full body into the table. The angle changed, and his movements became more intense. You felt his teeth graze your earlobe, and then he murmured against your skin. “You’re mine. All mine. Say it .”

“Yours,” you gasped, the word a broken plea. The hand on your hip felt like a hot brand against your skin, as if it was marking you, claiming you in a way that went far beyond reason. “Please, John –”

“Please what, darling?” He chuckled, a low, rough sound against your ear, but his hips never stuttered, never slowed their relentless rhythm. “Tell me. What do you need?”

“You ,” you sobbed, the need, raw and desperate, clawing its way out of you with every thrust.

As if he sensed you nearing the precipice, the edge of control he’d deliberately pushed you towards, John shifted. The pressure of his chest eased, but before you could mourn the loss of his warmth, his free hand shot out, fingers closing around the back of your neck, not cruelly, but with an unquestionable force that demanded obedience.

He lifted you from the table, and then his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, not with your bodies angled as they were, but it was possessive, desperate. The scrape of his beard against your cheek was a delicious torment, and you couldn't help but press closer, seeking more, needing to be closer still.

“I’m yours, my love,” he rasped, his breath hot and uneven against your cheek. “You have me.”

You met his gaze, those ice-blue eyes were smoldering with a need that mirrored your own, and something reckless, almost feral, took hold of you. 

“Then fuck me like you own me,” you breathed.

The effect was instantaneous. He didn't just snap, he shattered. The control that was as much a part of him as his own skin, gone. Vaporized. The growl that ripped from his throat had no semblance of human restraint left in it, the sound raw, feral, echoing dangerously in the silence of the range. You might have been his wife, but at that moment, you were something far more elemental: his to claim, his to conquer, his to brand so deeply with pleasure and pain that you'd never forget who you belonged to.

And he moved like it too: a rough shove pressed you back against the table, his hands grabbed yours, pulling them back, restraining you.

Your whole body trembled as his cock thrust so deep, so utterly possessing, that you cried out.

“John!�� – a plea, a prayer, you weren’t sure.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” The words were a gasped groan, torn from him as his hips moved against yours, stroking a spot deep inside you that throbbed with desperate need. You whimpered, and your hands clenched into fists against your back as pleasure shot through you.

You instinctively began to meet his thrusts, your hips rocking back against him, seeking out the friction that sent sparks of need through your overloaded senses. It earned you a growl of approval.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, the words a litany against your ear. He sounded like a man possessed.

“Please, John,” you whimpered, grinding your hips against him, desperate for that friction, that release. But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. You needed more, needed his hands, needed him. “Touch me, I –”

You didn’t need to finish the plea. He heard it. He felt it, the tremor in your voice, the way your slick heat tightened around him, urging him closer to the edge.

His fingers were tracing the curve of your waist, reaching around below your belly and slowly started to pry apart your folds. His fingers were on your clit again, and a sound that was both a cry and a sigh left your lips. You were drowning in sensation, and it was glorious.

“Mmm, that’s it, love,” he rasped, the words a broken groan as his fingers stroked, circled, teased. “Come on my cock. For me.”

You felt it then, with the help of his touch – that sweet, white-hot bliss that washed over you, causing your legs to tremble and your cunt to contract around his cock. He groaned, so deep and primal it shook you to your core. Your orgasm shattered every last bit of control in him, the feeling of you losing yourself pushed him over the edge, too. You felt that familiar throb in your pussy, the way he painted your walls with his come, hot and thick. His fingers dug so deep into your skin you were sure they'd leave marks.

And you wouldn’t mind. You were his, after all.

He finally released you, his hands leaving yours. “Nice shot, love. You just needed the right motivation.” He chuckled, and you felt as he pulled up your panties and put your pants back into their place. His hand ghost over your pussy through the fabric. “Keep me in there,” he whispered. “Consider it your reward.”

You slowly straightened your back as you stood, your gaze meeting his, and you shook your head in disbelief, a smirk playing on your lips. “Is that an order from a captain? Or a request from my husband?”

“Both.” He grunted, as he finished buckling his belt.

You tilted your head slightly, stepping closer to him. “Well, then. If this is shooting training, we need to do that more often.”

He froze, his eyes shooting to meet yours. “Don't make me have to explain why so much footage from the security feed is missing.” His expression sobered, that playful glint fading as he added, voice low and serious, “But seriously, love, you did good. We'll keep practising, alright?”

You nodded, and then he closed the distance between you. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb gently brushing away some smudged lipstick at the corner of your mouth. “I'm proud of you, you know,” he whispered, and before you could reply, he leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was surprisingly tender. There was no demanding heat this time, no desperate urgency - just the taste of him, and the lingering warmth where his come pooled between your thighs, a silent, undeniable reminder of exactly who you belonged to.

[angxl-k9]

I have a sincere and genuine question (one which you are free to ignore)

But I wanted to ask about why you’re pro endogenic/willogenic/nontraumagenic etc.?

I dont ask to stir controversy, but rather because i think I want to understand more about it all and am reaching out to see others experiences in why they believe/see the world how they do

In my early exposure to/learning about systemhood I was taught a lot by those who don’t really like/believe the nontraumagenic claims. As I see more and more of the community and its variations- I find myself more unsure about what is or isn’t true. I ask here instead of consulting the internet because finding clear research on the topic has been increasingly difficult for me and I find I’m not sure exactly where or how to look

Obviously you are probably not the information god of this subject, but i guess I’m looking mostly for your outlook/view on things to just really hear from others in the community on a subject I’m struggling with

hey anon. the biggest reason i’m pro-endo is because i’m part of a mixed origins system. but, i see that that probably isn’t a satisfactory answer to most people wanting to learn more hahaha

the second biggest reason is, well, i am not anyone else nor am i in their brain, so i cannot tell if someone is telling the truth about their experiences or not. therefore, i have to take what people say at face value. if they say they’re a system, i have no right to tell them no, they’re not. that right only belongs to them, and to some extent their psychiatrist/psychologist/therapist.

another reason: the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. just because there is little research into endogenic systems doesnt mean they’re not real. there’s not much undeniable evidence of aliens yet people still believe that they exist. why? because like the human brain, the universe is infinitely complex and we just don’t have the time, money or equipment to study every single aspect of it, especially if those aspects don’t pose an immediate threat on us as humans. endogenic systems themselves aren’t being hurt by their plurality, unlike with did/osdd systems who face severe symptoms with their disorder. in a medical perspective, there’s not much point researching something that isn’t harmful. did and osdd need research so that the systems with those disorders can actually function. endogenic systems with disorders, if they have them, usually have disorders that are already being researched all the time, such as autism, adhd, ocd, bpd, (c)ptsd, etc. so there are already people trained in dealing with those disorders that can help endogenic systems with them, as they would help anyone with them.

however, in saying all that, there actually IS research on endogenic systems, just not as much perhaps as disordered systems. i’ve found some research papers that i like and think are unbiased and fair, so i’m going to make a google doc with links to them, or to where you can download them, and that will be at the bottom of this post. i do think these papers do a lot of help for the endogenic community, especially against sysmedicalists and anti-endos who rely solely on medical evidence and research in order to believe in something (which i absolutely disagree with, i believe we should take what people say about their identity and just believe it without needing ten medical papers to back it up).

i hope this brings a little clarity to my stance on endogenic plurality, and obviously this is just my stance. there are many other systems out there who have different and perhaps better reasons for believing in endogenic plurality. if you’re on reddit at all, i highly highly encourage you to go to r/plural and have a look around there. the people there are so lovely and many of them would love to give you even more resources.

anyway, i hope you have a great day anon, and i hope you find the answers you want about endogenic plurality!

here is the document

and another link to a spreadsheet of more resources

[allgarbo]

According to Sven Borg, who studied drama in Stockholm and was Garbo’s interpreter during her first years in Hollywood, it was common knowledge in Stockholm theater circles that Stiller was looking for a beautiful female puppet through which to express himself. After Stiller made Erotikon, according to Victor Seastrom, he was obsessed with this idea. He had suggested his scheme to several Swedish actresses, but they turned him down. When he cast Greta in Gösta Berling, she was more than twenty years younger than he, and while he was famous, she was unknown; surely, he could mold her. To become the clone of a teacher violated the Delsarte system, but Greta was overwhelmed by her swift promotion from a neophyte to the world’s greatest actress, which was what Stiller promised her she would become as his protégée. He also wanted to mold her into a version of his female self. Stiller was masculine and tough, but he had a feminine side. Since he wasn’t willing to represent it himself, which might reveal his homosexuality, he decided to create a woman in his image. According to Victor Seastrom, Stiller wanted his ideal woman to be sophisticated, scornful, and superior, but humanely warm, like Tora Teje, with the deep emotion and mysticism that Mary Johnson displayed in Sir Arne’s Treasure. In using these words, Seastrom described not only the mature Greta Garbo but also the ideal beauty of Garbo’s era: sophisticated, scornful, and superior, but humanely warm, and deeply emotional and mysterious—in other words, “glamorous,” which was Hollywood’s watchword in the 1930s. In coaching Greta, Stiller acted out her scenes for her, and then, when she did them, he praised her extravagantly one minute and criticized her severely the next, to break her down and reshape her. During the filming of The Saga of Gösta Berling, he put her through many retakes. Garbo said that she went through Gethsemane in making that film—a reference to Christ’s dark hour in the garden of Gethsemane before the crucifixion. Sometimes Greta broke down, calling Stiller names and crying, until he put his arms around her and soothed her. “Moje knows what is best for you,” he would say. (“Moje” was his nickname.) When he was displeased with anyone, Stiller would say, “I think I go home now,” meaning where he lived. Nils Asther, who studied with Stiller and serviced him sexually, stated that “Stiller had demonic control over all of us.” Silent film star Emil Jannings called him “the Stanislavski of the cinema.” In the Stanislavski method, actors go deep into their memory to use their past experiences to create the characters they play. Konstantin Stanislavski was a director at the Moscow Art Theatre, not that far from Stockholm; Stiller must have known about his technique. Garbo identified with Stiller. While they were in Stockholm, he taught her how to dress, to wear makeup, to walk and talk. He took her to fine restaurants and introduced her to his friends, who were surprised by how much she copied him. She went with Stiller in his roadster to towns and villages around Stockholm, buying antiques for the manor houses in The Saga of Gösta Berling. It was Stiller who first said, “I think I go home.” That phrase, rendered in dialect as “I t’ink I go home,” became a famous “Garboism,” the silly sayings American journalists attributed to her. Stiller refused to give interviews about his past or his private life, and Garbo eventually adopted that stance, too. She picked up “his pixie sense of humor, mixed with a dead-pan appreciation of the ridiculous,” as well as his perfectionism and his ironic attitude toward life. Yet, her identification with Stiller was never complete. When filming The Torrent, her first MGM film, she wrote to Mimi Pollak that she couldn’t stand having anyone control her, although she added that she felt as though she was married to Stiller—or she was his unmarried widow, a confused explanation of their complex relationship. Greta Garbo in The Saga of Gösta Berling (1924) directed by Mauritz Stiller

[meeb-motes]

emojis we haven’t made actual posts for yet,

Mixed origins / Multigenic, But, and Hang emojis !!

no syscourse on this post please !! Even if you are anti-endo please try and recognize it’s still important for AAC users to have emojis to talk about these concepts !! <3!!

( this blog is a safe space for ALL systems of ALL origins and syscourse stances , everyone deserves access to communication !! )

-Vee( wrote the post ) ( Grian drew the symbols )

Multigenic: systemhood and/or plurality thats creation/origin was caused by more than one thing/factor.

[imagine-lcorp]

Perfect Sense (Part II)

A/N: Helo my beautiful beans, always lovely to come back. You know I'm not gone, there's still so much to write, and thank you all for your patience, i love you and appreciate you like you have no idea. Here's part 2 of this fic, enjoy and let me know what you think :)

Lena Luthor x  R//Word Count: 2,355

Part I - Part II - Part III

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

People in National City were used to seeing many things and, after a couple of alien invasions, they should have been less impressed by you, a giant werewolf running along the streets. However, people erupted in screams and cries as you moved along the streets, disoriented and overwhelmed.

The sounds of traffic, the constant honking of cars, screams and loud conversations. The strong smells of gasoline, smoke and trash, all mixed. The bright colors of the lights blinding you and bringing you sour memories. A frustrated growl escaped you, everything too much as you wandered without knowing where to go, and things didn't get better as you heard a new burst of screams behind you. Black vans moved within the traffic of the city, rushing to catch up to you, leaving more chaos behind. You soon realized you were once again a target and turned around, running as fast as you could.

With desperation building inside of you, you jumped to the side of a building, digging your claws into concrete walls, crawling your way up to the rooftop. Adrenaline started to pump into your system once the first shots at you were fired. Bullets impacted on the walls, a few flying too close to you. But you didn't dare stop or look back, concentrating instead on reaching the top of the building. That's why you didn't see the blur of red and blue that flew around and managed to overturn a couple of the black vans and was now headed in your direction.

It hit you before your hand could reach the edge of the rooftop and it knocked the air out of your lungs as it sent you flying across the street. In a few seconds, you fell on top of a parked car, crushing it as you then landed on the floor among shattered crystal. It took a second for your instincts to take over, making you take a defensive stance as you got up. You couldn't think as you looked frantically around for any clues of what had hit you.

"Going somewhere?" You head a voice and your eyes landed on a blonde woman, dressed in red and blue, standing a few meters away from you.

Behind her were the remains of the few vans that had been following you. You growled in response, showing your sharp teeth. If she was a friend or foe you couldn't say, and you were not going to stay to find out. Two took a step backwards, thinking the best way to make your exit, but she seemed to notice it.

"Be a good pup and stay where you are, alright?" She took a step forward. You didn't move but growled once again, your claws poking out enough for her to see. Then she raised both hands, trying to ease you with the gesture. "Easy, we don't have to fight."

You understood indedd there was no need to fight but you also understood this woman, whoever she was, had no intention to let you escape. So you stood there for a moment, debating what to do to when you caught it. You raised your nose and sniffled the air, the scent so subtle you would have lost it if you had left. With a deep breath, you inhaled it. Sweet and fresh, just like you had smell it on the fabric Dr. Jeremiah had given you. The scent. It was coming from that woman.

But it wasn't her.

The alarms went off in you head as you imagined this being a trap. A carefully crafted setting to test you outside the rooms you already knew, facing a new opponent designed to stand against you. It was a dreadful thought, that your only chance at being free was nothing but the definite test, to prove yourself one last time.

And if that was the case, you swore, she wasn't going to stop you and you were not going back.

The blond woman raised her brows, impressed as . She heard the sound of cracking bones u

The blond woman was ready for retaliation and raised her brows, impressed as she watched your claws and teeth get bigger. She didn't even flinch when your bones cracked under your skin, making you grew in size, revealing yourself as the dreadful beast that would have made your makers proud. Your dug your claws into the asphalt like knives on butter and your pitch black eyes were set on her you as you sprinted in her direction. She was confident it would be easy to deal with you and waited patiently for you. However, she was surprised when, instead of charging against her, you leaped high over her head to land and continue running behind her.

She followed your movements, rolling her neck and turning around to see where you were headed. She knew it would be impossible for you to outrun her if that was your plan but she started to truly worry when a black car stopped in the middle of the street, right behind where police officers were now gathering to help. From one of the back doors, a woman was getting out of the car, someone she recognized instantly.

Lena had been a few blocks away, heading to her apartment when she heard the commotion in the streets. She guessed Kara was dealing with something and it just took her a few minutes to reach her location, ready to help her friend. Although she never expected to come face to face with such a creature once she put a foot out of her car.

It was there. You ran. The scent. You kept running. Sweet and fresh, strong and clear.

All your will to fight against the blond girl was replaced by the urgency of following the scent. As soon as it had hit your nose you felt like it was a miracle, one of those improbable things Dr. Jeremiah used to talk about with you. Run and don't stop. Not until you find her, he had said and you were holding into that for dear life. Supergirl, didn't see this as a good sign, seeing as you were now three times your size, and that you still had that wild frantic stare.

Lena gasped at your figure fast approaching towards her and Kara used her superspeed to drag you away from her. She stood near her car as you were tossed away on the street like you were a giant scary plushie. You went back on your feet and looked at them both, growling and showing all your teeth. Particularly at Kara who looked back at you, surprised at how fast you seemed to recover from her punches.

"What is that?" Lena asked as Kara came to her side.

"I don't know. Werewolf?" Kara frowned confused.

Neither of them got the chance to further speculate as a line of big black cargo vans gathered in the distance. The heavy artillery was coming and Lena noted the way you turned around with a resemblance of panic in your furry face. The vans stopped, their rooftops opened and men with seemingly hunting rifles erupted from inside them, aiming their scopes at you, but also at Kara and Lena.

Chaos ensued as the first bullets flew. Kara felt one hit her shoulder as she shielded Lena, sending her a step back. With a horrified look Lena realized Kara was bleeding and she held Kara as her legs seemed to falter. Lena quickly tried to move them to her car, it was blinded so it would give them time to figure out what to do. Kara held her cape over them with her other arm, providing whatever protection she could as Lena opened the door. On the backseats they heard more shots but Lena ignored them as she closed the door and checked Kara's wound. It was superficial but the bullet had managed to tear through her suit and skin. With a deeper look at it, she discovered a few tiny green particles glowing at the edges of Kara's suit.

"Kryptonite." Lena whispered but Kara could still hear her.

"How do they got kryptonite?" Kara winced as Lena grabbed her arm.

"My mother…" Lena mused. "She's the only one that could have access to it. They must be from Cadmus, the creature too."

More bullets impacted against the car and they turned their heads to see little cracks forming on the windows. The Cadmus vans were approaching slowly, their shooters aiming confidently at them. Whatever kind of bullets they had, besides the kryptonite ones, they were going to reach them in no time. And adding to it, Lena caught sight of you running towards her car.

She noticed then a couple of shooters following your movements, pointing their guns at you as you ran in zigzag along the street. She wondered if they were trying to hunt you too and, if so, why would Cadmus hunt it's own creature. But Lena couldn't keep up with her musings as another round of bullets finally shattered the windows.

She covered herself with her arm and pushed Kara to the side so they wouldn't get hit by the broken crystal. It wasn't looking good for them, with Kara without her powers and Lena without a real plan of action, their last safe space had been breached. When she turned around again Lena could see the way the shooters prepared their weapons, the way you kept running towards them. They had get out of there.

Lena hurried Kara to get out through the other door, determined to keep her friend away from further danger. They were barely out when they heard more shots. Lena flinched, pushing Kara down to cover her and expecting to feel the sting of a bullet. When it didn't come, Lena turned around. Her jaw almost dropped when she found your enormous figure standing in front of the car, covering it.

You had sprinted again a second before the Cadmus goons started to shot, jumping left and right along the street, trying to get closer to her. Bullets flew but only a couple managed to hit you and you didn't even feel them as you rushed towards the car. Only when you reached the car and stood in front of it you felt a whole round on you. If you were hurt, Lena couldn't tell. You stood your ground, covering what you could with your body. You were protecting them, she realized with some confusion.

"What's going on?" Kara asked as she turned for a moment.

"Just keep moving." Lena held Kara as she turned again to watch out her own steps. "We need to get away from them."

You heard her and looked briefly at them, or rather at her, the black haired woman whose scent you had to follow. She pushed through the chaos of the streets helping the blond woman who was struggling with her steps now. They look on their faces told you they were worried and maybe a bit scared, something you understood too well. As you heard the shooters preparing another round you knew you had to do something to keep both women safe. So you turned around and did the only thing you had always known to do best. Fight them.

Kara and Lena found shelter around a corner. Despite Kara's initial protests, Lena convinced her of waiting for back up, and she seized the opportunity to look at you from a safe distance. Poking her head our from behind the corner and the line of parked cars in front of them, she watched as you ran back to the attackers. However, her suspicions became clearer as your stance turned more agressive. She saw you leap and charge against them, growling and showing more teeth she had ever seen in any animal. She saw you take out with ease the shooters from the roofs of the vans with your giant jaws, tossing them to the ground and chewing what you could to incapacitate them. Even as the target of more and more bullets, with your body you shoved the van against each other or overturned them. The men that managed to get out of them received the same treatment of your jaws and teeth. You were done soon enough. So quickly in fact that the calvary, Alex and the DEO teams, arrived only to witness what was left of it.

Lena grabbed Kara, trying to ignore for a moment your omnious presence, to take her to her sister. They needed to take the kryptonite out of her. Meanwhile, DEO teams were mobilizing around you but their movement alerted you and, before they could figure out what to do, you ran again.

You ran towards Lena.

Kara's instincts kicked in as she saw you. She took a step forward, standing between you and Lena, because even without her powers she wasn't going to let you attack her best friend. But then Lena moved too, pulling Kara behind her as she took a step forward. She stood her ground, placing herself in front of Kara as you charged against them.

"Stop!" Lena screamed at the top of her lungs.

You didn't know if it had been the order itself, after years of conditioning, or the way she had commanded you to do so, but your whole body immediately froze. Almost comically, you stretched your four legs and skidded a few meters, your claws leaving long marks on the concrete before coming to a halt in front of both of them. You lowered your butt and sat in front of them like a well trained dog, leaving whoever was near to see it speechless.

Kara watched surprised and confused as you tried to catch your breath. Blood poured out of your mouth and from the holes the bullets had left on your skin, which were now healing with incredible speed.

"How did you do it?" Kara asked letting out a breath.

"I don't really know." Lena kept looking at you, her mind racing to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. "But I'm going to find out."