#I want to know if this is a me problem or if others experience this

[aajxs]

✷ and i promise, i'll be yours ft. lewis hamilton !

👑 જ⁀➴ you weren’t meant to matter this much to lewis. but somehow, between long calls, quiet coffees, and the way you never flinch under his gaze, something unspoken takes shape. he tells himself it’s harmless. that the line between you isn’t blurred, it’s just not there anymore. and maybe, that’s the problem. ( 6k / proofread and edited )

pairings ✷ lewis hamilton x fem!photographer!reader

contents ✷ age gap (40 and 24) / 18+ mdni / porn with plot / indirect workplace-adjacent power dynamics (freelancer x public figure) / oral (f receiving) / very lowkey praise kink / softdom!lewis / internal moral conflict is mentioned a few times (lewis) / couch sex / p in v / unprotected sex (wrap it up everybody)

authors note ✷ unfort this was completely self indulgent and was made solely because i was horny the other night and there is a lack of sir lewis hamilton smut, so i have taken matters into my own hands. enjoy and please thank casey for indirectly convincing me to write this

i recommend listening to. . . stay down by brent faiyaz . . .whilst reading for the best experience

masterlist / navigation

LEWIS ISN'T sure when the line, the one that separated you and him into two different worlds and deliberately warned him to keep away from you with an obvious ‘do not cross’ illuminated in bright red, became completely invisible. 

At some point, he had to have stopped caring.

It could've been a long time ago, before he had the courage to just do something about it. Or maybe it was only recently, when fleeting touches that he's sure you never meant to let linger, started becoming the highlight of his days.

You make him feel like a teenager, and there's a sort of embarrassment that surrounds him in that sense. Because Lewis is a little more than fifteen years your senior, head full to the brim with knowledge about the world you've only barely gotten to experience yet, and he's stuck thinking about how you'd feel warming his bed at night like a boy.

Lewis has never been a particularly nervous man. He's well known for being calm and collected and sure, rarely letting the frustration show. And you? You are a mess in motion.

He knew it from the first time he saw you that you were a walking hurricane, too many months ago to count when you first stomped into that Mercedes hospitality room with twitching fingers that itch to be of use and scuffed sneakers you probably don't care to replace, demanding answers from a PR intern who clearly didn’t know how to handle you in the heat of the moment. 

A photographer. Freelancing your way through his world with a confident mouth and a camera he's can tell you saved for years to afford, and too many opinions that he agrees with in the silence of his head because, unlike you, he has an image to uphold. Lewis has never known anyone who says no as often as you do, and it's not even out of rebellion. It's out of principle.

You mean every word, and you never think twice before speaking your mind. You wear what you want, out-dressing half the grid and nearly stealing the show without realizing it. You laugh too loudly, and Lewis sometimes hates that he lets it simmer. You make friendly jabs and poke at his defenses, crawling under his skin without trying too hard.

And Lord help him, he loves it.

There’s an edge to you that’s magnetic, and he's begun to let himself be alright with being the opposite pole that you tug in. You don’t defer to him like most people do; you treat him like he's achingly normal.

You tease him for little things like meditating and correcting people gently, but that doesn't stop you from listening. From watching him like you're memorizing him, noticing the things others don't, and painstakingly reassuring him when it becomes a little too much.

And it takes a while, but you let him in. You tell him you do other things, like paint and write and all the different creative stuff he imagines you're amazing at. You let him learn about you, and in turn, he tells you about the him he tries to keep far from racing. 

You become something unspoken over decaf between busy meetings and tired conversations on the phone when you're both tucked into your beds and fighting sleep. The bond between you and him isn't exactly romantic, much to his dismay, but it's a little more intimate than simply friends. 

Sometimes, when he's a little more aware and a lot less desperate, he finds himself deeming that as enough. 

And Lewis really tries to stay respectful, he does.

He tells himself that you’re younger. That you’re still in college and figuring it all out. That you're at the age where everything burns fast and bright before it fizzles out, and while he's not particularly old, he’s lived long enough to know that chasing fire like that always ends in smoke.

But you're you.

Dropping voice notes at two in the morning when inspiration hits and you're on the way over. Showing up in his life in scattered, brilliant bursts that remind him of the fireworks that crackle when he wins. Talking about fucking light and contrast like it’s the most interesting thing in the universe, then telling him that the lens feels different depending on what you’re shooting that day.

There’s a kind of certainty in you that makes him ache because he's deemed you as something he can't have. You don't have everything figured out, and you don’t pretend to like most people your age. You move through the world unpolished and unfiltered because being raw means surviving, and something about how real you are makes him want you more.

And somewhere along the line, Lewis starts craving you like he craves wins in Silverstone. Letting the thought of you eat at him like every loss or mistake he nearly brushed over.

He tells himself you don’t see him like that. That you never really will. But it comes to a point where he can't ignore it anymore, and the deference he's so carefully tried to maintain starts unpeeling at the seams.

It’s not nothing. He thinks maybe it should be. 

A fleeting moment in a quiet room. He’s at your flat for the millionth time this week, courtesy of the winter off-season. He likes your place more, a little less performative and much cozier than his. Lewis is somewhere across from you pretending to read, but instead of basking in the pages of his book he secretly basks in you through the curtain his curls cast over his eyes.

You're in the middle of editing a shoot that's likely due tomorrow, bare legs folded on the couch he's slept on too many times to count with your laptop propped against your knees and Roscoe, who you insisted he bring along every time he comes over, snoring at your side. You’re wearing one of his old sweatshirts, a throwaway one that's too faded for him to miss very much, and you’ve got your hair pulled out of your face to show off that focused look you get when you're in your element. It's maddening.

Everything about him being here, so comfortably in your presence, feels right. And that thought, quiet, natural, and a little dangerous, is what undoes him more than anything else. 

You glance up briefly, brows drawn in concentration, then look back down at your screen. “Does this color grade look off to you?”

The question beckons him over, and he crosses the room slowly. His socked feet pad against the carpet softly, uncuffed sweats sweeping the floor as he treks over. 

Lewis leans into the arm of the couch to get a good look at your screen, absentmindedly reaching past you to scratch Roscoe's head before drawing his inked hand back and clasping both of his hands together, like he's afraid of what might happen if they're free.

You're close enough to feel the heat radiating off of each other, but not quite touching. He pretends not to notice the proximity.

The image on your screen is sharp. Golden hues with shadows pulled in tight, your subject mid-laugh. He gives you a low hum of approval.

You nod once, distracted eyes flicking between layers. 

He should get up. Give you space and find his spot across the room again. But he lingers, his own gaze flicking between your bare thighs and his sweatshirt pooling around your torso and the way the winter sun peeks through your broken blinds and catches the curve of your nose perfectly. You're tearing him apart, and you don't even know it.

Or maybe you do.

Because you glance over at him again, a little slower this time. Your head tilts like you're seeing something new, or maybe you’ve finally decided to acknowledge what’s been there the whole time.

“You alright?” you ask, lips twitching into a half-smile.

He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, his own little grin threatening the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, jus’ tired. Hit arms this morning before my run.”

You hum, like maybe you accept that answer, and let your gaze sit on him for a few more moments.

Then, softly, without taking your eyes off him, you ask, “When are you gonna stop looking at me like that?” It’s not accusatory. It’s not teasing, either. Just knowing.

Lewis blinks because there's no denying he's been caught. But he can play. “Like what?”

Jesus, he really is turning into a teenager again.

You, on the other hand, are not playing. Your brows cinch together softly, “You know what.” You reply, tone all too serious.

Silence pulls at the edges of your small living room, like it's listening in.

Lewis doesn't say anything, at least not right away. He studies you for a few moments too long, eyes scanning your face and memorizing it because, for some reason, he feels like if this conversation goes wrong, that maybe he won't see this side of you again. The domestic side that doesn't deflect or tease through a lens and instead watches him with the kind of steadiness he's alright with letting disarm him. The side that makes him breakfast and absentmindedly rubs out the tension in his shoulder blades after back day hits a little too hard.

Then, suddenly, his voice still soft regardless of how thick the knot in his throat has become, he mutters a low, “It's hard not to.” 

His eyes don't leave yours, big and brown and bright enough that they remind you a bit of a doe.

That draws something nearly unnoticeable across your face. It's not quite a smile, not surprise, either. Just a quiet acknowledgment of what you already knew. You shift in your spot, and Roscoe stirs in his sleep with a sigh before hopping off the couch, scurrying to find somewhere a little quieter to continue his nap.

“It's not just you,” You admit, almost apologetically, “If that helps.” You add with a shrug. You avert your gaze when his becomes too much, eyes finding your computer screen again. 

It helps for a split second, and then it doesn't. Because now, the thread of morality he's been white-knuckling for months tugs even harder.

Lewis doesn’t shift. He stays perched over the armrest, still leaning in close, still pretending like this proximity hasn’t rewired his nervous system. His fingers are locked tightly together, elbows pressed into the cushion where you sit a little too close. His knees are threatening to buckle under him for no reason at all, maybe just because you smell of cashmere and pine like the rest of your apartment. 

You’re just beneath him, sunk into the couch with your legs curled under you and the stretched neckline of his sweatshirt slipping down your collarbone, entirely unbothered while he feels like he’s clinging to the edge of a cliff with his fucking pinky finger.

And now you’ve said it, that it’s not just him feeling this way, the admission already having settled somewhere deep in his bones. And you already seem ready to move on from the words you just uttered so simply to him.

He doesn’t respond right away. Lets the quiet ring around you both long enough for you to start getting comfortable in it again.

His voice, when it finally cuts through the silence, is rough around the edges. “I’ve been trying to keep it clean.”

You look up at him, watching as he rises from where he once leaned into your dainty couch. “You think this is messy?” You ask gently.

“No,” he says immediately, but then breathes out a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “Maybe. Not in a bad way.”

Lewis makes his way into the spot next to you, slow and calculated like he's afraid to move too fast, and you absentmindedly lean into him the moment he sits. He leans into his knees, hands still linked and elbows on his legs. The distance narrows on its own. Your knee presses into his strong thigh, shoulders touching like they always do when you sit closer than you should.

“I didn’t want to make you think I only come around for one thing,” he says as you finally discard your computer. His eyes flicker over to the laptop as you let it clatter softly onto the glass coffee table, then back to you. “Didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You haven’t,” you say, surely. “You won’t.”

You’re not fidgeting, not trying to make the moment easier. You’re just letting it be.

“I don’t want to cross a line,” Lewis adds, still hovering over the precipice.

You scoff out a laugh, “We are well past that.”

You say it so casually, with that unmistakable hint of dry humor you wear like second skin, but Lewis hears the truth in it. You’re right. You are well past that. You were probably past it the first time he woke up on this very couch, Roscoe curled up next to him, and your half-empty cups from the night before still on the coffee table.

His lips twitch upward, like he’s weighing the consequences of grinning. “Suppose we are.”

You don’t say anything to that. You just tilt your head, eyes on him again. Really on him. You’re sitting so close he can feel the breath you pull in, and maybe you’re the one who’s suddenly nervous now, but you don’t move away. Not an inch.

And Lewis, finally, lets go of the pretense.

He unlaces his fingers slowly, shifts his weight just enough to face you without fully turning, testing the waters between you both. His eyes drop once, to your lips, then flick back up, then back down a few times.

You watch all of it happen in real time. And then, with a slight pull at the corner of your mouth, you amusedly say just above a whisper, “You can kiss me, you know.”

He lets out a breath, short and sharp, that sounds like relief and disbelief tangled together. “Yeah?” Lewis asks.

You nod, already leaning in like you don’t want to give him the chance to overthink it like he does with everything else. “Yeah.”

So he does.

Your lips meet halfway tentatively. Soft and careful like he's afraid you might run away if he's too eager. Your hands bury themselves in his T-shirt, but Lewis doesn't let his hands wander, not yet. Just lets a big hand hover over your bare thigh, enough to feel the heat radiating off your body, but not ready to let it land.

Where Lewis is hesitant, you're confident, and suddenly you're climbing into his lap and straddling his thighs like you belong on top of him. You lean in a little further, lips parting with a small, eager noise that barely leaves the back of your throat before he swallows it.

It's then that the thread he was trying so hard to protect snaps completely, and suddenly where his touch was once afraid to land, it now wanders. 

A hand trails up to cup your face, and he lets his thumb stroke your cheek softly, like he's trying to sculpt you. His thumb brushes your jaw, tracing where it meets your neck, and that alone earns him the quietest gasp against his mouth. His other, the one that hovered just over your thigh, smooths over you slowly before finally bracing against your skin, like maybe he needs the grounding it gives. His fingers dig in just slightly, the way they might wrap around the wheel before a hard turn, firm and steady.

Lewis kisses you like he's been dying to, no more hesitation or lingering fear of rules and the heavy weight of expectations. You kiss him back like it's second nature, like maybe this was building in you for a while, too.

Your work is long forgotten, the laptop shut on the table behind you. The room hums with undeniable urgency, but neither of you is willing to go too fast. You pull away just barely, trying to find your breath. His mouth chases yours for a split second, and he breathes only because he has to.

Lewis murmurs your name, just under his breath as his eyes search yours. It's both a question and a warning. And you, still a little breathless and barely thinking about how this is a walking HR violation, nod like the answer has always been yes.

You pull him even closer by his shirt, not clumsy or rushed, just sure. Always sure. You tug him until his fingers are sliding up the hem of the sweatshirt you stole from him, fingertips grazing the soft skin of your waist. 

He tries not to seem pathetic, but a little grunt leaves his plump lips when he feels just how warm you are underneath the fabric. The realness of the moment finally hits him as he lets his hands glide across your ribs.

And when you say his name, this time lower, a little shakier, it’s the last permission Lewis needs.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for centuries.

The way you whisper his name, it’s not demanding. It’s not even really asking. It’s soft. It’s real. It’s you, right here, on top of him, letting him have what he’s spent too long aching for.

Lewis tilts his head, kissing you again with more weight now, but with purpose in his movements. You’ve officially given him the green light, and he regrets waiting this long for you. Your fingers curl at the nape of his neck, and when your fingers pull softly at his coils of hair, he groans low in his throat, the sound pulled from somewhere deep and starved.

You shift in his lap, and his hands fly to your hips to still you, shaky and firm. He’s holding you there, grounding himself with the weight of your body under his palms.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice dipped in warning and all the things he’s been dreaming of doing to you for months now, “You’re not making this easy.”

You smile against his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip enough to make his pretty fingers flex. “Wasn’t trying to.”

Lewis lets out a soft curse, the kind he only mutters when patience finally wears thin. He moves his hands, lets them roam a little more freely now. Up the curve of your thighs, under the oversized sweatshirt adorning your torso, across the bare stretch of your back. You lean into his touch because it’s something you’ve been craving just as long as he has.

Your legs tighten around his hips. His lips move to your jaw, then just under your ear, then to the edge of your neck, where he lets his mouth linger. You shiver, pressing closer. His stubble scrapes soft against your skin, and you feel him smile, wicked and pleased.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” he asks against your throat. 

You laugh under your breath. Not mockingly or amusedly, “Not really,” you murmur honestly, your voice threading soft against his skin as your fingers brush along the nape of his neck, “but I know I want it anyway.”

Lewis pulls back enough to get a good look at you. Not far enough to create any distance, especially not when he is this close to something that he thinks is dangerous enough to be his undoing but addicting enough to bring him some relief after the time he’s spent imagining this situation. His eyes search yours, and as much as he wants to ask again, to make sure that you’re in this, the words can’t seem to leave his mouth. 

Your hands cup his jaw, fingers cradling him full of certainty, like you’ve already made your mind up and he’s the one with catching up to do. Your thumbs sweep softly along the edge of his stubble, and Lewis swears you could kill him and he would say thank you.

“Unless you don’t-”

“I do,” he cuts in quickly, quiet and firm. “God, I do.”

You smile, soft and bright and wholeheartedly pleased. You look like the one thing in this world he wants to be his.

You kiss again, like maybe your lips still haven’t gotten used to it, and Lewis sinks into you. Your hands slip under his shirt now, fingers skating across warm skin and toned muscle, and Lewis swears under his breath again. His hips roll without meaning to, pulling you closer into the cradle of his lap, like gravity is conspiring on his behalf.

He kisses down your jaw, across the hollow of your throat, leaving heat and promise in his wake.

Your breath stutters again, throat vibrating with a satisfied hum before you quickly stammer, “If we do this...” You trail off when Lewis looks up at you.

His thumbs brush against the waistband of your shorts. “It won’t be just once.”

You blink at him. “I’m not gonna be able to let this go after,” he clarifies. “Not interested in pretending it didn’t happen.”

Something about the way he says it, so completely confident, makes your heart do a dangerous stutter in your chest. You nod. “Good,” you say quietly. “Because I don’t want to pretend, either.”

Lewis lets his forehead rest against yours for a solid second, centering himself before crossing the threshold. Then he shifts, and suddenly you're beneath him with your head tilted back into the couch cushions and his strong arms braced on either side of your body, like he’s shielding you from the entire world and cocooning you into this moment. 

The couch creaks under both of you, definitely not built for this, but neither of you can find it in you to care. You’re still in his hoodie and nothing underneath except a pair of dangerously cut shorts that he’s been thinking about ripping off you for the past hour. 

Your fingers, once carefully wrapped around his nap, trail over his broad shoulders and curl into the back of his shirt. Your thighs bracket his hips, and whatever part of him was still holding out gives in completely.

Lewis finally lowers himself properly onto the couch, knees digging into the cushion that dips under the added weight of both of you and hips rolling into yours absentmindedly as his lips trail down your neck. Your body moves under him like you’ve both done this a thousand times already, like this is where it was always supposed to be.

He eyes you from where his lips are on your collarbone, chestnut gaze dragging over your flushed face and your kiss-bitten mouth, the sweatshirt that’s slipped enough off one shoulder to reveal the slope of your collarbone and nothing beneath, and Lewis feels his stomach tighten.

“You look…” He trails off, shaking his head, like even now, after feeling your skin and tasting you on his lips, he still can’t believe this is real. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, “Bit dramatic, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious,” he murmurs, leaning in again, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then another to your neck. “You don’t even know.”

You tilt your head a little further back into the armrest and stare down your nose at Lewis, fingers tangling themselves in his hair again before pulling him back into you with a gentle tug. His lips are warm and wet on your throat, nipping softly and leaving marks you won’t have the decency to cover up tomorrow.

You arch into his touch, his hoodie riding up just enough for him to catch a glimpse of bare skin above your low-rise shorts. His breath catches, and as if to anchor himself, his fingers dig into your waist where the skin is exposed.

“Lewis,” you moan, barely above a whisper, but it's enough. The sound of his name from your lips, ready and wanting, nearly undoes him on the spot.

He slides one hand along your side, under the fabric this time, slow and reverent. His fingers map the curve of your waist and the pattern of your ribcage, and for a moment, he’s learning you by feel alone. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says into your skin, voice hoarse.

You shake your head, “Don’t,” You reply quickly, “Please, don’t.”

He hums, deep and satisfied, and shifts to sit back just enough to pull the sweatshirt over your head. His eyes drag over you like he’s seeing you for the first time, every inch of newly exposed skin greeted with awe. Your chest rising and falling, goosebumps breaking out under the coldness of the room and the steely weight of his gaze. Before he can lean back down, you tug his shirt over his head, evening the field with a little grin.

His palms slide up your thighs, parting them gently as he settles back between them. His mouth finds your sternum, then lower, kissing a line down the center of you deliberately. It’s not hurried. None of this is. There’s a patience in him you wouldn’t expect, but maybe you should have. Lewis has never been the type to rush anything he cares about, regardless of the fast life he lives. 

And right now, in this moment, he’s never been more patient.

“You’re driving me mad,” he mutters into your sternum, thumbs brushing over the hard perk of your nipples, “lounging around for weeks in my clothes, looking at me like I’m the goddamn problem.”

You gasp when his teeth graze just below your breast. “I noticed,” Lewis groans. “Every fucking time.”

Your fingers card through his hair again, and he leans into the touch because it’s something he’s been craving longer than he’ll admit, and you’re finally in reach. Then his hands are at your waistband, and he pauses, lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes.

A part of him thinks that this is a really bad idea. There is a slightly twisted part of him that feels a little bit like he’s taking advantage of you, that he’s absentmindedly pressuring you into this. The sane part of him knows he’s not, and by the way you just muttered, “Please,” you want this just as much as he does. 

But the thought lingers, so he asks anyway, “Are you-”

You cut him off, “Lewis, if you don’t do something, I’m going to fucking blue-ball you.” You blurt sternly, your grip tightening in his hair like a promise. His lips upturn into a spit-slick grin, and he gets right to work.

“As you wish, my love.” The words leave his mouth so naturally that you nearly come undone then and there at just how easy they slip out.

His fingers loop softly over your shorts, then dig into your hip at the seam of your underwear. Lewis looks up at you briefly, catches a glint of frustration in your eyes, and he smiles as he hooks his finger over the band and slowly begins to tug both your undergarments and your shorts down your legs. He treats it like opening a present, similar to unwrapping something precious. 

When they hit the floor, he takes a second. Just one, but it feels like everything. Lewis breathes out hard, like the sight of you like this may have knocked something loose in his chest.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, not even meaning to say it out loud but not caring that he does.

Then his hands, the tatted ones you’ve dreamt of too many times to count, are padding against your inner thigh. They leave a trail of heat and long-forgotten reverence in their wake, the light touch of his fingertips keeping you steady even as you tremble almost unnoticeably under him. Your hips lift involuntarily when they ghost over the one place you want him, and Lewis chuckles softly, deep in his throat.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, voice low. “I’ve got you.”

The words fumble out the second he lets his thumb rub softly on your clit, eliciting the sweetest moan from you. He lowers himself slowly, like he’s savoring the moment, like if he moves too fast he might miss something important. His mouth replaces his fingers, kissing the inside of your thigh, bordering on devotion, teeth grazing lightly just to feel you jolt beneath him.

And then, finally, his tongue flicks over you. It’s gentle at first, testing. Teasing, maybe. A low, broken sound escapes your throat, legs tightening instinctively around his upper body. Lewis hums like that’s exactly the reaction he wanted from you.

His tongue moves with practiced control, slow strokes that build and build until you’re arching off the couch cushions and panting his name through clenched teeth. Your hands find his curls again, anchoring yourself, tugging him closer as if there’s any part of him that would ever consider pulling away.

“Lewis, fuck- don’t stop,” you gasp, voice unraveling thread by thread.

He groans against you, deep and satisfied. The vibration punches straight through you.

“Not goin’ anywhere,” he murmurs, mouth still working you open. “Told you, didn’t I? I’ve got you.”

Your eyes flutter shut at the words, your head tipping back and your chest rising and falling unevenly. You’ve been with people before, but nothing has ever made you feel so completely bare. Lewis knows exactly what to give and where to hold back, and your pleasure is the one thing driving him right now. 

When his fingers join his mouth, thick and gentle, scissoring into you and curling just right, you know it’s game over. You fall apart around him with a loud, stuttering cry, your thighs tightening and hips lifting and your body begging him right there. He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, sensitive, and breathless, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you can seem to remember.

He finally pulls back, lips wet and swollen, beard a little damp against his chin. You blink down at him, dazed and flushed and utterly ruined. Lewis stares at you like he’s just witnessed a miracle.

Then, in practiced motion, he shifts back up to kiss you, deep and achingly slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue like a selfish claim. You wrap your arms around his neck and instinctively pull him closer, like you’re afraid the moment might end if he drifts too far.

“I told you,” he whispers between kisses. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

And the way you’re looking at him now, soft and certain and so completely his, he thinks already halfway there.

You’re still trembling when he moves back down your body, kissing along your collarbone and pausing between your breasts, just to plant a chaste kiss on your sternum. He nips and bites and teases, the heat of his mouth warming you in the winter cold.

Your breath catches when he pauses just below your chest, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“Can I?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, but there’s something weighted in it. He wants all of you, but only if you’ll let him.

You tilt your head a little, a lazy smile playing at your lips, “Lewis, you just ate me out, and you’re asking if you can suck my tits?”

He shakes his head, smiling to himself before leaning back. He stares at you like you’re art, taking you in like he didn’t do a good enough job the first time. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re unreal.” He mutters, running his thumb just beneath the swell of your breast.

Then he bends down and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling warm and slow, and your body jerks in response. You gasp sharply, fingers digging into his shoulders, steadying yourself as he litters your breasts with attention. His other hand kneads your opposite breast, rough palm dragging over soft skin, and the contrast has your thighs squeezing tight around his hips.

“Fuck, Lewis,” you breathe, the heat returning full-force, need curling low in your stomach once again.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “Just let me take care of you.”

And he does. He kisses his way down your torso again, pausing at your hipbone and kissing the sensitive spot there before slowly, fucking finally, sliding his sweats down low enough to free himself. You suck in a breath at the sight of him. Thick and heavy, a little flushed at the tip where pre-cum leaks. 

“Still good?” he checks in, voice strained and held together by sheer will.

You reach up and cup his jaw again, dragging him into a kiss that’s sloppy and deep and full of promise. “Better than good,” you whisper against his lips, his forehead against yours, eyes closed in ecstasy. That’s all it takes.

He lines up with your entrance, gaze flicking between your impatient face and where you’re sopping wet and ready under him, and he pushes in slowly. Inch by inch, he watches you like a man obsessed. Like he's afraid to miss even a second of how you fall apart beneath him.

You gasp, legs wrapping around him tighter because even though you’ve made it this far, there's no saying he won’t run away. Lewis just swears filthily against your mouth. 

He curses as he slides his cock into you, “You feel so good, baby.” Lewis grits.

He stills when he’s fully inside of you, and you stay like that for a beat. Hearts pounding in synchrony as your chests rise and fall in tandem. “Better than I ever imagined,” Lewis shudders, kissing your jaw. His first movement catches you by surprise, him sitting back into the couch and pulling you atop of him, taking a moment to get comfortable in what was your original position. Your legs straddle his hips tightly, and his head drops into the crook of your neck where he leaves soft kisses and lets ragged breaths warm your skin. 

You move first, thighs burning as you lift yourself up and then sink back down onto him with the softest noise leaving your throat. Lewis’s hands fly to your hips, eyes searching yours as he asks, “What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you do all the work?”

Your lips upturn into a lazy smile, “How courteous.” You joke in response. 

Lewis rolls his hips, lifting you in the process before thrusting back into you softly. It catches you off-guard enough that you wrap your arms around his strong body, using his shoulders as leverage. His arms find their way around you, too. One hand sits firm on your hip, and the other pushes you closer to him from where it sits on your back.

The rhythm of his thrusts is slow and calculated, but they hit deep enough to bruise. Lewis presses the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth, breathing in the moans leaving your lips when he pounds into you in the right place. Then another to your jaw, right on the corner where it's curved and slack in bliss. And another just beneath your ear, letting his lips linger there as he whispers sweet nothings while his skin hits yours. 

“You’re doing so well, my love, such a good girl for me,” He groans once. Or maybe twice, he’s too lost in you to be sure. 

You tell him, “Right there, Lewis,” in between cries, and then see stars as one just moments later.

His advances slow into occasional drives as you come undone for a second time, whimpers sliding off your tongue like chirps from a songbird. Music to his ears. 

Somewhere in the moment when you’re too lost in coming down from the pleasure to notice, Roscoe pads back into the room with a low huff, circling once before collapsing into his usual spot by the couch. The dog regards you with a judgmental look, and you and Lewis share a fucked-out laugh.

You glance down at Lewis, taking him in like this could be the last time. He smells like something familiar, arms wrapped around you. You’re in his lap, still stuffed full and dripping a mix of your liquids and his onto his halfway pulled-down sweatpants. Your bodies are bare, but there’s no rush to cover up or pull away. No guilt or lingering doubts.

Just you, just him, and the warmth of your bodies pressed into each other.

“Stay?” you ask, almost hesitantly.

Lewis doesn’t even hesitate before muttering a soft, “Always,” into the supple skin of your neck.

© 𝗔𝗔𝗝𝗫𝗦

[hyperfixationthingss]

C h e m i c a l s

Writer’s Month - August 1st

Prompt: Chemistry Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Synopsis: A lab explosion leads to you and Bucky suffering the side effects of the chemicals—your version of sex pollen.  Tags/Warnings: Bucky/Fem!Reader, pining, NSFW, shower sex, getting together.  Word Count: 2585 Notes: Starting Writer’s month with a bang (literally). This is my longest fic so far. It wasn’t meant to be an NSFW one, but that’s what my brain decided it wanted. Consider this my version of a sex pollen fic. It is long, but I hope you enjoy it!

Find Logan's Day 1 here - Shachi/Reader/Penguin, Anniversary Prank

That... shouldn't have happened. The thought flashes through your mind as you watch the remnants of your chemical mixture dispersing into the air. Your hand rushes to cover your mouth and nose, but you know it's too late. You've already inhaled some of it. Though not lethal—which is somewhat reassuring—the real problem is that you have no idea what effects these chemicals might have on you.

You had been experimenting—against everyone's warnings—to discover how the supersoldier serum worked. Not to recreate it, but out of pure curiosity because of Bucky. While you claimed your interest stemmed from the chemical aspects, how it had altered his DNA to transform his body, deep down, you knew you were doing it to learn more about him.

Bucky was always there with you—training, watching movies, sharing midnight snacks when he found you awake at night. You had learned that he rarely slept, and when he did, nightmares would wake him. Sometimes you would stay with him after he dozed off during a movie or show. You didn't know if your company helped him sleep better, but you hoped it did.

You two were close, but a part of you ached for even more closeness. These feelings sometimes kept you from getting closer to him, as you didn't want to risk heartbreak—not when you needed to stay focused on the missions assigned to all of you.

The mask that should've been on your face sat on the table behind you, and you now regretted not wearing it. Thankfully, you were alone in the lab; the risk of exposure for others was zero—or so you thought until you saw the laboratory door open.

Your hand left your face in a quick attempt to yell, "Do not breathe in!" But it was too late. Bucky was already inside and right next to you, breathing in the compounds that lingered in the air.

"I heard an explosion. Are you okay?" He looked at you with worried eyes, trying to see if you had been hurt, ignoring your warning about not breathing in.

"I'm okay. It was just some chemicals, which we shouldn't be breathing in," you reminded him again, but it was too late. You both had been exposed to them already, consequences unknown.

Instead of covering his face, Bucky's hand moved to cover yours. It was bigger than your hand that had been over your mouth before, and it felt warmer.

"That was not what I meant," you mumbled against his hand. He needed to protect himself, too.

"I'm sure it won't affect me, but what if it affects you?" His question showed genuine concern. He wanted to protect you, but you wanted to tell him that being a super soldier didn't mean he was immune to everything.

"You have to go and change clothes. Let's go."

Before you could even reply, Bucky was rushing you out of the laboratory. "I need to clean before anyone else enters," he said. Finally, outside, he removed his hand from your face, and you could speak clearly.

"You change. I'll clean it." Bucky nodded as if it was the most logical solution, but you worried. He wasn't a lab guy. And you really didn't know what effects the mist could have on both of you.

You had been analyzing DNA and its effects on hormone enhancements. Adrenaline, oxytocin, dopamine... you'd probably be okay.

He was pulling you to your room, checking on you as you both walked—or more like, ran.

Inside your room, he checked on you once more before he left to go clean. "Get rid of those clothes. You need to change. What if your skin starts turning red?" Bucky had no clue about the things you did in the laboratory, especially when it related to studying his enhancement. You wanted to explain that it was unlikely to happen, and that even if it did, you both had inhaled enough that it would affect more than just your skin.

That was a thought you didn't want to entertain.

Bucky had left you to go back to your lab. Inside, he could see dust particles floating in the air, though the atmosphere had settled compared to when he first arrived. He grabbed one of the masks and put it on before starting to clean—knowing you'd be upset if he hadn't taken this precaution.

Cleaning was straightforward: wiping down the floors and counters. He expected to finish quickly, but suddenly his entire body began warming up.

It was strange; he'd been fine just moments ago. Sweat trickled down his back. When he wiped his forehead, his skin felt like it was burning.

He tried to focus on his task, ignoring how his body seemed to be on fire. Worried it might be from the chemicals you both had inhaled, his thoughts turned to you—were you experiencing the same reaction?

The thought of you brought more than just concern. It unleashed something he'd buried deep inside himself for so long—something he could no longer contain. Longing. Desire. His mind drifted to your touch against his skin, your body pressed against his, his metal arm pulling you closer—he wanted you. He wanted you so desperately he felt he might explode.

His pants tightened uncomfortably, making his breathing quicken. Thinking about you only intensified his condition; his cock pulsed beneath his jeans, and he craved nothing more than to be buried inside you.

His mind fought against these feelings, but Bucky was losing the battle with himself. He wanted to regain control, to push these thoughts back where they belonged—at the edges of his consciousness—but he couldn't. He considered relieving himself right there, but anyone could walk into the lab.

He was in agony, with no clear solution.

It didn't take long for the chemicals to affect you too. As you removed your clothes, you felt your body burning.

Maybe Bucky was right, you thought—perhaps it could burn your skin. But this thought vanished when you noticed your racing heart and your nipples—now exposed to the air—becoming hard and sensitive.

Being a scientist, part of you understood what was happening, but you couldn't focus. All you could think about was the sensation overwhelming you, and Bucky.

Bucky. Was he experiencing the same effects?

You wanted to ask him, but getting dressed and walking to the lab seemed impossible. Instead, you grabbed your phone, dialed his number, and left the call open as you headed for the shower.

Logically, calling him and abandoning the phone made no sense, but logic had abandoned you. All that remained was heat and need.

With each step toward the shower, you felt yourself growing wetter, the friction of your thighs rubbing together made your breathing heavy and uneven.

A phone call distracted him enough to focus on something other than his intense desire for you. Then he realized who was calling.

"I'm still cleaning," Bucky tried to speak normally, too embarrassed to mention what he was feeling.

There was no answer, just the sound of running water. He figured you might be showering and had called by mistake—until he heard your voice.

"B-Bucky," it was soft and distant, but it was enough to make him abandon the laboratory like a man possessed. You had called his name in a way that would be etched in his memory forever. The phone call was forgotten by the time he reached your bedroom.

He should have knocked or announced himself as he entered your room, the bathroom door wide open. But he couldn't. Following your voice into the bathroom, the sight of you nearly brought him to his knees.

You were naked, bracing yourself against the wall, fingers moving desperately against your clit. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Your eyes were closed—Bucky wasn't sure if you'd heard him enter—but then you called his name again. A broken moan that he longed to hear from closer.

Bucky kicked off his shoes before stepping into the shower, still fully clothed—not that he cared about that now.

It was only then that you realized he had entered the room. In any other circumstance, you might have covered yourself or shied away—especially from him—but as he entered the shower, his clothes clinging to his body, your need for him only deepened.

Your fingers moved faster against your clit, craving as much friction as possible. Your eyes locked on the man before you. He looked different—like a predator who had finally cornered prey he'd been hunting for ages. His hands were clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. You could see him struggling for control, but control wasn't what you wanted. Not now.

"Bucky," you called louder this time, reaching for him with your free hand and pulling him closer. His chest pressed against your nipples as you guided his hand to replace your fingers. You needed him; he was the only thing that would satisfy you. "P-please."

Something broke inside Bucky when he felt your body against his. The last thread of his self-control snapped. He couldn't take it anymore—his cock throbbing painfully, desperate to be freed.

"Are you sure?" he asked while sliding his fingers through your slick folds, gliding easily through your wetness. "Fuck—you're so wet." Bucky wanted to wait for your answer, but his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. "Yes—yes, please, Bucky. I want you." You begged, grinding your hips against his hand, urging him to touch you more. The way his fingers moved against your skin sent shivers down your spine. "Kiss me."

Everything about you was driving Bucky closer to the edge, and when you finally said yes and asked him to kiss you, he couldn't wait any longer.

He moved you so quickly it left you dizzy. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, lifting you in one swift motion. Your legs encircled his waist, arms clinging to his shoulders before moving around his neck. Before you could think or speak, he kissed you. His mouth opened yours, his tongue seeking entry. He wanted to taste you, to feel all of you.

You moaned against his lips, returning his kiss with equal fervor. The shower surrounding you was forgotten as he consumed your senses. Your hips ground against him, seeking friction. Instinctively, you pressed against his hardness, whimpering at the contact—even through his clothes.

That slight touch had Bucky seeing stars. The pressure of his water-soaked clothes against his skin was unbearable, and feeling you against him only made it worse. "Fuck, doll, you're driving me crazy."

"Fuck me, Bucky." You needed it and couldn't wait any longer. If he made you wait, you felt you might explode. One hand moved to his pants, trying to unbutton them while still grinding against him. You couldn't get enough.

Bucky lifted you higher for a moment to help, yanking his pants and underwear down in one quick motion. It was your first time seeing him like this—naked, or half-naked—and hard. For you. He was impressively large, making you wonder if he would fit, but you desperately wanted to try. He was hard and ready; you imagined that without the water cascading over you both, he would be glistening with pre-cum.

His grip on your waist was firm, but you still struggled against it, trying to lower your hips to feel him against you. "Sweetheart—" Bucky began, somehow finding words despite his foggy mind, "I'm trying to control myself. I don't want to hurt you, but all I want to do is pin you down and fuck you."

A whimper escaped your lips at his words. They made you burn hotter, your core clenching around nothing. Everything felt simultaneously too much and not enough.

"Bucky. Fuck me. Make me yours," was all you could say. Finally, something shifted in his eyes. His metal arm moved you effortlessly, pressing you against the wall as he lined himself up and thrust into you with one swift movement.

You cried out—but not from pain. He felt perfect inside you, even though you weren't used to his size. Your body welcomed him as if made for him alone.

"Bucky!" Your nails dug into his back as he began thrusting relentlessly. You could only try to match his rhythm. He was stronger, and his grip barely allowed you to move.

Nothing had ever felt so good. Every touch scorched your skin, every thrust hit that perfect spot inside you—and all you could do was take it. With his pace, you knew you wouldn't last long. "Fuck, you feel so good," he praised between moans and grunts. Tension built in your core as he continued driving into you. "Bucky, I'm going to—" Your words were cut off by the wave of pleasure crashing over you. Another cry tore from your throat at its intensity. Bucky didn't stop, your walls clenching around him as he rode out your orgasm until he finally released inside you. "Fuck—" he groaned, his thrusts slowing but not stopping as he filled you, warming you from the inside out. You felt complete and blissful, yet something within you still craved more. Your hips moved against him again as you pulled back to look at his face, finding the same lingering need in his expression.

"What have you done to me?" he whispered, leaning to kiss you—softly this time. The desperation remained but was now controlled. "Technically, it was a mix of chemicals that—" You giggled as he kissed you again, cutting off your explanation of what you were sure was happening to both of you.

He reached to turn off the shower and kicked his wet clothes aside before carrying you to the bedroom, still inside you. The small movements as he walked were enough to keep him hard. He knew he would need more than one round to satisfy the feelings overtaking him.

When he reached the bed, he withdrew briefly, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. You could feel his release dripping from you, making your cheeks flush. Bucky didn't give you much time to think before he was above you again, sinking back inside. "So good. You take me so well." With one hand, he removed his soaked—now nearly transparent—white shirt. You reached for his dog tags, pulling him closer. "I'm yours. Make me yours," you begged, your mind clouded by sensation and the thrill of finally kissing him, being with him. You loved him.

"My needy girl," he murmured against your mouth, though he was just as desperate—not that he needed to admit it. He simply enjoyed knowing how much you wanted him.

Each moment you shared that night felt better than the last. Even as the chemical effects began to fade, neither of you could get enough. It was as if your bodies were making up for all those months of silent longing.

You weren't sure how much time had passed, but now you lay wrapped in Bucky's arms, eyes closed, head resting on his chest. You had never felt as content as you did in that moment, your heart full and cherished.

"Who would've thought that all I needed to get you to want me was a bunch of chemicals exploding in my lab," you joked, not bothering to look up. You were too comfortable to move. "Darling, I've wanted you for so long before this. The chemicals only gave me the courage to risk everything to have you," he replied, and you knew he wasn't joking.

"God, I love chemistry, and you."

Tag list: @loganwritesprobably @skullfacedlady @fanaticsnail @mermaniaa @decaffeinatedscreaming

If anyone would like to join my tag list for any fandom, let me know. And if you enjoyed it, you can also let me know!

[kpiuniverse]

The One where the Justice League assume #1

To Dick’s everlasting despair, Clark has been camped outside the medbay door for what feels like forever.

Despite a lifetime of knowing the man (even if Clark hasn’t quite figured out that the new vigilante invited to join the Justice League months ago is the same one he used to take flying—mocked and real — when he was a kid, there are moments when Dick loathes Superman’s golden retriever tendencies around Batman.

This is one of those moments.

Bruce—Batman—has been sealed away in the medical wing for hours now, and Clark is standing guard like a silent sentinel in front of the door, unmoving and unrelenting.

And Dick… Well, saying they "get along" would be a generous exaggeration. But they’ve managed to work together this long, even if it’s mostly under the disapproving eyes of their so-called colleagues. That has to count for something, right?

So, yes. He’s worried. Sue him.

He has every right to be. Batman is only human, after all, and having an entire building collapse on top of you isn’t exactly a gentle massage. Dick would know.

And worries while Bruce is undergoing surgery. As competent as the Watchtower’s medical team is, Dick won’t be reassured until he sees Bruce’s heartbeat with his own two eyes.

Which brings him to his problem.

The League may have invited him in, but they invited Nightwing, the new vigilante from Blüdhaven. A blank slate. No prior experience, no attachments. Certainly no ties to one of their founding members—especially the one who treats the term "secret identity" like a sacred vow written in blood.

Which means.

That Clark will absolutely not let him through that door—not while he’s guarding one of his best friends’ most closely kept secrets.

And it’s not like Dick and Bruce meant to hide their relationship from the League. The others just… assumed. And in the beginning, they weren’t in a place to correct them. Then, when things got better, well—it felt too late to bring it up.

Wasn’t that what Dick always wanted anyway? To be seen for his own merit, and not as Batman’s sidekick?

So he let the joke run long. Never imagined it might bite him back one day.

Joke's on him, apparently.

At this point, the only way through is literally forward.

So.

He exhales softly and melts out of the shadows, where he’s been vainly hoping Clark would wander off so he could slip inside unnoticed. His steps are quiet but purposeful as he heads straight toward the sealed medbay door.

Clark startles at his sudden appearance from the corridor, but regains composure quickly.

"Nightwing," he says, polite but firm. "I’m sorry, I can’t let you in."

Dick doesn’t respond. Just places his hand on the scanner. To Clark’s stunned silence, the screen flashes green.

Of course it does. Because Bruce, naturally, gave Dick top-level access to the Watchtower without telling anyone. Dick sighs internally.

Before he can step inside, Clark places a solid palm in the center of his chest. Dick stops himself from flipping him off—barely—only out of sheer patience and a lingering fondness for the alien who used to drop him midair to "teach him reflexes," much to Bruce’s horror.

"I can’t let you in," Clark says. "His secret identity could be—"

"Bruce Wayne."

Clark freezes. His jaw works for a second, then he glances around in panic, as if anyone else would be loitering in this isolated wing. Which, please. Dick is not an amateur.

"What?"

Dick is done. So, so done.

"Bruce. Wayne. Now let me through, Uncle Clark."

Clark blinks, the title hitting like a delayed punch. Realization creeps across his face as he mentally rewinds months of Nightwing and Batman’s smooth coordination, the timeline of Blüdhaven’s new protector's appearance, and the uncanny familiarity that should have triggered something much sooner.

"Rob—"

Dick doesn’t wait. He walks straight through the door and toward the cot where Bruce lies—out of costume, wrapped in heavy bandages, barely conscious.

He pauses, just long enough to wonder how Clark is going to explain this to the other founding members.

Not my problem, he thinks.

He is wrong.

[odalismus]

Yep. Because what no one talks about is the hostility detransitioners who did so because they realized it was insane and mentally damaging face

That was me and NO ONE wanted to accept my reasons. They were fine with me detransitioning, but when they asked me why and I told them the truth (usually in a diplomatically toned-down way, too, because I already knew how they'd react), they lost their shit. They're fine if you detransition as long as you swear you're accepting of and encouraging of trans ideology for other people. I had MULTIPLE people get AGGRESSIVELY hostile for me truthfully answering a question THEY asked about my own reasons and lived experience and most of these weren't even trans people.

I didn't plan on talking about this on this blog because tbh I hugely regret having been caught up in it in the first place but I think people deserve to know the flip side of these "statistics." One of my friends said "oh, did you do it because you feared for your life?" When I said no, she persisted, and I told her I thought it was unhealthy to see your body as wrong in that way and I can no longer support it. That made her very angry and demanded that I say trans people are valid and I said no, I said what I said and I think it's unhealthy, and I am not out there getting in people's faces telling them what to do but I cannot endorse that. She didn't like that answer. My friend would rather believe I was forced to change my life against my will because I feared for my life than to accept that I just didn't believe in the rhetoric anymore and couldn't in good conscience go along with it.

Now, ironically, because I have masculinized traits, people assume I'm trans NOW. Arguably I'm in much more danger from transphobes now than I was, just because they assume this. But when people make these assumptions, it's annoying, of course, and a frustrating reminder of a terrible mistake, but it does not threaten my identity, because I know I'm female whether they believe it or not. And I think it's extremely telling that these trans people and their defenders are so fragile in their "identities" that even knowing that someone out there does not agree with the house of cards their ideology is dependent on threatens them so much they can't bear it. They know, deep down, they are not really what they say they are.

Unfortunately for me, I have no support, because people either want me to declare that I am pro-trans anyway or else they're radfems I disagree with for other reasons. It would have been much easier to stay transitioned and THAT is not talked about AT ALL. I passed perfectly well and all my documents were changed. I'm 6 feet tall. No one knew. But I could not do it, because it was wrong. I can't even change some of my documents back to my birth sex because Trump's poorly-written law saying that federal documents must reflect birth sex was ACTUALLY written in such a manner that no markers can be changed for any reason and so the markers that had been changed can now not be changed back. It would have been a hundred times easier to stay as I was. No one is interested in my conscience or my reasons or my experience or in supporting me. They are only interested in the same thing they always were, which is gratifying their own fragile mental illness.

I see many of these people as victims but they also manipulated me when I was vulnerable and I hate that. So many people were so much happier to tell me I was "born in the wrong body" and ought to change myself dramatically and NONE of them, not a single one of them, helped or even acknowledged the reasons I had those problems in the first place, the trauma and all of the shit that was actually wrong in my life. I accept my own responsibility for my own choices (which is much more than they can do) but it infuriates me that talking points like this go around without it even crossing anyone's mind that it isn't true. It's evil and self-serving and I wish the people who spread this would go to jail for the harm they do to vulnerable and impressionable people. And that's not even getting into the consequences like health and fertility. It's not a coincidence so many of the women sterilizing themselves (which I never did, fortunately) are white women who have been made to feel their problems don't matter and they don't "count" because they're white. It's evil that we are telling lonely men that they ought to become women rather than getting to the root of why so many feel emotionally unfulfilled in the first place, and why so many women have experienced sexual trauma and sexism that they feel it would be easier to become men. It's evil and demented and narcissistic that we allow these people to tell children it's possible to be "born in the wrong body," or that because they like things stereotypically associated with the opposite sex that they must BE that sex, just to gratify their own delusions. I think the people facilitating this should be prosecuted. I think they should be fucking shot. This is a cancer.

It's funny how every evidence-based study finds this exact same result. Where is the flood of detransitioners we were promised years ago? Where are the whistleblowers of doctors "forcing" teens to transition? That's right, they don't exist.

[saltcxrcle]

a lazy morning ── . ✶ l. lane

summary: kissing lois was always your favorite past time in the mornings

pairing: lois lane x gn!reader, lois lane x afab!readerノ wc: 1.1k warnings: no use of 'y/n', none really, reader refers to themself as lois's girlfriend but there's no use of any pronouns, fluff!, lois not being a morning person, making out, slightly suggestive but not really, kinda edited; all mistakes are my own a/n: wrote this short and sweet one shot in an haze from 1:40 to 2:50 AM this morning bc i got inspired by this post and needed to write it for lois bc im so gay for her!! and lois is 100% a girl kisser in this movie you cannot tell me otherwise! lois lane masterlist

YOU LOVED HAVING LAZY DAYS. 

It was rare when Lois decided to have a day where she just took the time to slow down and relax. Being a workaholic was something that was burned into her veins. There was always a new story to report on and evidence to gather on a new exposé she was writing for her job. 

But this morning was different. Lois finished the final edits on her new story last night and would take it to Perry tomorrow morning for approval, leaving Sunday free for the two of you to do whatever you wanted. You thanked whatever higher power was out there that your girlfriend managed to finish her article so she could actually spend time with you. 

Lois had a problem shutting out the rest of the world when working on something big. You knew it from first-hand experience when she locked herself in her apartment over the weekend when you first started dating. You almost broke into her place when she wouldn’t respond to your texts asking if the two of you could go on a date, or respond to your ‘are you okay?’ texts. 

Nonetheless, you were delighted by the fact that she could finally sleep in for once and not worry about a deadline or the final edits to the draft she was working on. 

You woke up before her, which was unusual for the pair of you. She would usually rise first and get out of bed carefully to work, but since she didn’t have anything to do, Lois was able to sleep in. Her face was nestled in the crook of your neck, her slow breaths fanning over your skin as she slept soundly. 

The two of you found each other in your sleep last night, having been on opposite sides of the bed, but slowly migrated to the middle. And now you were wrapped up in each other, not necessarily knowing whose limb was whose, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

You were content in staying there forever, letting Lois catch up on much-needed sleep, but the sharp intake of breath let you know that she was starting to stir. It was almost like she could sense that you were awake, and her body began to wake up. 

Lois pressed a lazy kiss to the hollow of your throat before pulling away to meet your eyes. 

“Morning.” She murmured, eyes still hazy from her deep slumber, as Lois blinked away the remnants of fatigue lining her gaze and limbs. 

“Morning babe.” You whispered back, a small smile on your face as you took in the relaxed face of your girlfriend. 

Lois raised her head up, glancing at the alarm clock behind you before her head fell—Lois’s forehead hitting your collarbone. 

“Ugh.” She groaned.

You couldn’t help but smile and pet the back of her head, smoothing down some of the flyaways of her bedhead. “What time is it?” 

“Too early.” Lois grunted out, her face finding itself back in the crook of your neck. 

She let out an indignant noise when you craned your neck to see the time. It was nearing noon. 

You let out a gentle laugh. “S’ not early honey, we slept in. It’s almost noon.”  

“Then why am I still tired?” She grumbled as she pulled you tighter against her. 

“Maybe because you’re a chronic overworker and stayed up later than you were supposed to instead of sleeping in bed with your darling girlfriend?” 

Lois huffed but said nothing in retaliation, burying her face further into your neck. If her brain was working any faster, she would have come up with a snappy retort, but it was lagging behind due to just waking up (and she would rather have a building fall on her with Superman not there to save her than admit that you were right). 

You let out a soft chuckle before shuffling down your pillow, meeting Lois’s tired but bright blue eyes. Your hand moved to push a wayward strand behind her ear before cradling her cheek, your thumb caressing her sun-warmed skin. 

The two of you stared at each other, faces unknowingly leaning toward each other like two magnets coming together. Before either of you knew it, lips were pressed against each other in a warm caress. 

Neither you nor Lois cared about the morning breath that both of you had. You were too focused on how soft Lois’s lips were against yours, how they slotted against your own perfectly like two puzzle pieces, and how you could taste the lingering remnants of the vanilla lip balm you and she applied just before the pair of you went to bed. 

Your mouths moved together in sync—a familiar and choreographed dance that you and Lois did frequently whenever you kissed each other. Kissing Lois came to you naturally—it was as easy as breathing. You never had to think too hard about it; you just did it.

A familiar warmth started to spread throughout your body, slowly burning in your core—but you did nothing to turn the kiss passionate. Each kiss was slow and deliberate. Filled with nothing but love and devotion with each other, the two of you savored the sensual press of lips against one another. 

Hands slowly started to roam over shirts and thin pajama pants, the pair of you were wearing, not daring to slip underneath to feel skin, but the touches weren’t hesitant—they were grounding and reverent as you and Lois lost yourselves in each other. 

Tongue was slowly introduced, swirling around each other, and suckled on slowly. Not daring to change the pace of the rhythm, the two of you were content to kiss. It was perfect for this Sunday morning. If you had it your way, you’d spend every waking moment doing only this with Lois. 

Your hands eventually made their way into her raven-colored hair, pulling lightly at the strands of hair at the nape of her neck, making a soft moan spill against your lips. You couldn’t help the smile that grew against her own lips before nipping at the plush skin of her bottom lip. She retaliated with her own little nip before kissing you again, a little more forceful than intended, but still held a tenderness behind it. 

Swiping your tongue against hers one last time, you pulled away. Your lips were slick with spit and slightly swollen from the kisses you traded with your girlfriend. You brushed your nose against hers in an Eskimo kiss before your forehead rested against hers. You breathed each other in, smelling like clean linen and sunlight as the two of you stayed wrapped in each other’s arms. 

Neither of you was keen on moving, so you didn’t—the bubble the two of you were in was built with love, warmth, and blankets as you guys stayed in bed, content on having a lazy day doing nothing but relaxing, cooking, and kissing. 

[muffinrecord]

If you want, could you tell us about your project a little? I remember seeing some of your ideas - that may or may not be not connected to this one, but! - they were really fun!

🥺 ;_; Thank youuu for showing interest aw ;_; I am kicking my feet and happy ;_;

It is so scary to share things like this, because this is a story very important and near and dear to my heart... and what if it's cringe!! what if it's bad!!! But I'll never make it if I stay afraid, so thank you for asking and I will be brave in return and share some info!!!! Thank you!!!

Let's see here... My project is a webcomic that is tentatively named "World's Nail". The story is set during 1990s Alaska and is inspired by the magical girl genre with reincarnating stars called Celestials. The protagonist is 26-year-old Nicoe Dijkstra, the Celestial Polaris!

Polaris is one of the most important northern stars but Nicoe herself is a very weak Celestial, giving her many problems with defending her territory and often sending her into a deep depression. Her Celestial peers don't respect her and her constellation is at risk with the upcoming celestial civil war-- and that's not to mention the creepy Dead Moon cult trying to fuck shit up in the background. All Nicoe wants to do is help people and change into her ideal self but she's terrified she'll instead just stay the same as she is right now... forever.

The story is an exploration of my experiences with depression and suicide and will probably be rated 'M'. Ideally this will be a story about finding hope in despair, but I do want to take a peek into that despair very thoroughly. It will probably be edgy bullshit, but it will be MY edgy bullshit.

I've been stuck in the research phase for about two-to-three years now, haha. I'm reading not only about star mythology but also about emergency response, surviving in the wilds, medical bullshit, Alaska stuff, and cult stuff. I still feel like I don't know very much at all... I don't want my magical girl series to feel like "space cops" and am trying to base them off of firefighters instead. They don't fight people, they fight monsters. Nicoe is actually a former EMT so some of her medical knowledge comes in handy. But she can only be as smart as I am so I want to make sure my girl doesn't come across as a dumb fuck, you know? She deserves better.

Oh yeah, there's also a disease going around called "lunacy" that is basically fucked-up-weird-symptoms-disease that gives me an excuse to inflict body horror on people. Even so, lunatics aren't fought so much as they are cured. I've been looking into different histories on diseases and addictions to try and ground some of lunacy in reality at least when it comes to how people react to it. I really can't stress enough how much I want this to feel like magical girl space firefighters and not magical girl space cops.

Also Nicoe is super gay. I mean, how can you not be when you have a name like Dijkstra (sorry Nicoe). She has a girlfriend roommate who works as an artificer, and the duo are working together to try and reduce the number of monsters in the area with lunar technology instead of only relying on poor struggling Nicoe's Celestial powers. (The lunar tech sort of functions like a disability aid).

I'm not going to say that their relationship is toxic, but I will say that it's not very healthy and the two are just as likely to hurt each other as they are to help each other. A lot of the story is them learning how to communicate and be in love properly. Neither of them know what they're doing, just that they love each other and also that connection is scary.

The comic will be in black/white/gray and I'm thinking that instead of doing a standard two/three-pages-per-week, I'll try instead to do one chapter every two/three months. Chapters will be between 30-90 pages long. I'm not sure how doable this schedule is, so I'd like to get chapters 1-5 made before I start uploading things online? I dunno.

But yeah, I'm starting to transition out of the research phase (SCARY) and into actual planning stage. I've remade the rough draft a billion times but I feel confident this time around that I'm not only in the right direction, but heading towards endgame. Everything is mostly planned out for the arcs and chapters, it's just the details and inner filler and trimmings that need to be worked on-- aka the important parts haha. I recently fixed a huge plot problem so things are falling into place very nicely for myself. It is super exciting right now!! I've still got my depressive episodes but I wake up every day wanting to get to work. It feels amazing!

Originally I wanted to only finish the rough outline before my trip to Alaska at the end of August, but I'm going to finish that waaay ahead of schedule so I think now I'd like to try and get the first two arcs finished in rough draft stage before that point. A comic is a long project to work on when compared to prose, and if I am in top peak performance for posting then I'll realistically be at this for about 20 years. I'd like to plan as much as I can while still leaving room for change in the future. It's scary!

I have a side blog called malicemuffin where I post progress and stuff, buuuut I wouldn't encourage folks to follow it if you aren't interested. I mostly just talk about what research I'm doing and post shitty sketches and what I'm up to. It is straight up terrifying still to put the things that are in my head down into a place where people can read and judge them, and I'm slowly becoming more and more comfortable sharing things ;_;

Thank you for asking!! I hope this was interesting and not boring. This lil project is what I'm devoting all my time to right now. It feels really good to work on my dream, despite how scary it is. Every day this feels more and more like something that can actually exist. I think in comic panels and I see the comic pages when I close my eyes, but it was always some sort of vague thing-- now it feels real. Something a person could actually hold in their hands. How terrifying! How exciting!

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

a Take that has stuck with me in my personal Bad Takes hall of fame was a post on a feminist blog that by this point i was definitely already only checking in on to hateread where the blogger was saying something to the effect of, "men coming on women's faces is inherently degrading, and if you're into that, that's fine, but you have to be honest and say that you're into it because you're into being degraded, because otherwise the guy who's coming on your face might not recognize that what he's doing is degrading and therefore might not understand why another woman he sleeps with doesn't want to do it."

and... i mean... the reason this has stuck with me is because there are Layers, here. like, tbh i have no personal strong feelings towards or associations with the sex act in question, but i can certainly imagine that while i am sure some people do find it pleasurably degrading there might be people who are into it for other reasons (a passion for body fluids, a sense of intimacy, whatever). and i think it's kinda wild to go around assuming that you know why people are into the things they're into, given the complexities and frankly deep weirdness of human sexuality. like it's pretty wild to be like, "i don't care what YOU say, I know what it is that gets you off about this thing that gets you off." and it is my understanding that there is a fair amount of pornographic material out there that portrays it in this manner, and i can certainly understand how the preponderance of such material would make it hard to trust a guy who says he's into it but not for that reason, and also i can understand if any individual person is like, well i personally would find this gross and degrading, either because of cultural associations with it or Just Because, and i think that's valid. like, i don't think anybody ever owes it to anyone to unlearn their discomfort when it comes to sex acts they are doing with their own body. (if you want to, cool! but... it's always optional.) but i just don't think that the emotional valence of, like... any sex act... can really be assumed to be set in stone universally across the species in this manner. (i mean... even the experience of getting off on being sexually degraded... doesn't mean the same thing to different people who are into it!)

anyway. but none of that is actually IMO the biggest problem with the Take, which is the real reason it has rattled around my brain so long: it is so so so crazy to see a PROFESSIONAL FEMINIST turn around and blame women for men's refusal to respect women's sexual boundaries!!!!!!!!!! like WHAT!!!!!! i am, genuinely, sorry this person seems to have had a bad experience with a guy who sounds really terrible and evil and who disrespected her by pushing against her sexual boundaries [it's been 500 years and i literally can't remember if she said this in the post or if it just seemed really obvious that this was where it was coming from]. that really sucks. but the problem here IS NOT THAT HE TOOK HIS EX-GIRLFRIEND'S (or whoever's) WORD FOR IT WHEN SHE TALKED ABOUT WHAT SHE LIKED IN BED! (like, if said ex-girlfriend or whoever who loved it when he came on her face even existed, why are we even taking at face value the word of a guy who would be such a dick about someone not wanting him to come on her face...) that is crazy logic, it's ANTIFEMINIST logic, it remains amazing to me after all these years that a person could devote herself professionally to talking about feminism and women's issues and not see the way that she was like... embodying the most 101 tropes about how the problem of men's uncontrollable sexuality can obviously be solved by women learning to behave themselves. like, no!!!! the problem here was that this guy or any guy who behaves in such a matter sucks a lot and is a bad sexual partner! there is no amount of women internalizing and communicating the Correct way to talk about their own sexuality that is ever going to prevent that situation from happening. if your sexual partner is saying "i don't want to do that, it's degrading," it shouldn't matter that some other lady said "i don't find this degrading, it's fun." it's not an understandable mistake to try to talk your sexual partner out of their sexual boundaries BY COMPARING THEM TO PREVIOUS SEXUAL PARTNERS like my god again i'm really sincere about my empathy for this experience because this guy really sucks! but it's not his ex-girlfriend's fault that he sucks! anyone old enough to be having sex should have learned not to do that! you can't solve this problem by asking everyone in the world to agree with you about what it feels like emotionally to have a dude come on your face!

anyway. i've been thinking about this, out of all possible reasons, because of the reverse gaylor chappell truthers who are really really mad at this lady (whom you may remember i: Do Not Like lmao) for the eventual future-crime of dating a man which they all believe is inevitable even the ones who think she's bi. they're like really mad at her for calling herself a lesbian and in the future (which hasn't happened yet) dating a man, because it will further the cultural narrative around lesbians needing to find the right guy. and this is obviously insane for many reasons such as, don't go around inventing stuff celebrities haven't even done yet to get mad about, that's deranged. but i also just want to be like... it does happen in life that people identify as one thing and then are like oh hm actually,,,,,. it happens to like every possible category of gender and sexuality, in all kinds of ways, at all stages of life. and yet despite the fact that this is a real observable phenomenon, it's still shitty to treat any individual person's sexuality as, like, "pending revision." and, of course, it's specifically quite hateful and lesbophobic and rooted in deep misogyny to do this with lesbians particularly. but that's not because no one in the entire history of time has ever identified as a lesbian until Something Happened. and, conversely, it's not the fault of anybody who has ever identified as one thing and then another that people act this way about lesbians... it's the fault of homophobia and patriarchy... you can't, like, concede the idea that the two things have anything to do with each other. IMO. if chappell roan did start dating a guy that would not be "the reason" that people think lesbians just haven't met the right man, or even "an example of the reason"... the reason people believe that has nothing to do with the behavior of actual lesbians/women/whoever! if it never ever ever happened again that someone identified as a lesbian and then later as something else, i personally think the impact that would have on the prevalence of this belief would be literally zero, because it's not a belief in any way related to the actions of actual people in the actual world. and the willingness to use the occasional odd example as representative justification for a nonsense belief is itself a facet of bias... not evidence that if we just STOPPED having ANY EXCEPTIONS out here in the realm of HUMANS FIGURING OUT THEIR RELATIONSHIPS TO SEXUAL DESIRE, then nobody would ever be confused about it again.

[obsessivefangirl]

I do think children can't have full bodily autonomy for their own good + because they don't understand the full consequences of actions.

A child needs to be forced to take their shots, or else they and others will get sick. But a child wouldn't consent to shots.

Kids' taste buds are something to keep in mind but many kids would be eating things they shouldn't. Try to find vegetables and fruits and lean meats and good carbs they like, but eating only processed fat and sugar isn't okay.

Full bodily autonomy of children would be abuse. Having a child succumb to rabies, having a child stuffing their face full of trash and suffering from malnutrition, having a child grow up to know nothing, that's neglect.

Not to try and disagree with you on the other stuff! I'm pretty sure you already thought the previously mentioned was bad but i just wanted to chirp in on the bodily autonomy part. Kids absolutely should be allowed to change hairstyles and stuff.

Also a lot of people have an irrational view of children as parasites and burdens. If you said "I hate children" many people wouldn't bat an eye. If you say "I hate x" and x is a different group of people, you would be in hot water.

I actually told this to my ex and he said that was stupid, but i think that shows how we don't treat children the best. I remember as a kid I was always pushed around and refused answers and told not to question authority even if they were doing something wrong! Instead of telling me why or entertaining me for a moment, I was considered as a child with a problem with authority figures. But I don't think I changed that much. My questions and observations are treated (usually) like something to explain.

I still question authority. But I don't get told I'm being bad and doing it wrong. I get told why this usually incorrect thing is correct in this case. They listen to me when I explain why they're doing it wrong.

Children can be insufferable, but they're tiny and navigating this world without the skills and experience we have. Be kind to children. Treat them like sapient beings. Please.

kids deserve so much more respect and it turns out that saying that is a great way to locate the horrible people in any community <3

[askanaroace]

A freind of mine is struggling with understanding how it might be distasteful or wrong to say his character as 'become aroace' because of a tragic loss of a romantic partner in the past, I was wondering if you could explain it a bit better than I could?

Disclaimer that I'm probably not gonna start this ask off in the way you're looking for, but bear with me.

So, I am personally caedromantic, meaning I did become aromantic due to outside circumstances. I'm also a believer of using labels however helps you. While aros can date and aces can have sex, for many, the connotation of being aro/ace will come with the connotation of not participating in those things, and so people may identify as aspec specifically because they feel it will better communicate their relationship goals at that point in time. I have, in fact, personally encouraged people on this very blog to identify as aromantic or asexual if they don't want a romantic/sexual relationship and ID'ing as aro/ace helps them communicate that more than identifying as something else. I have regularly defined aro and ace as little, rare, or no attraction; attraction only in specific circumstances; and/or general disinterest in romantic/sexual activities and/or relationships. These terms mean a lot of things to a lot of different people, and all of that is valid.

So, I am not specifically against someone identifying as aroace after a tragic loss of a partner. That is 100% a thing that could happen. I will fight to the death for people's right to identify as whatever they want for whatever reason. And grief fucking sucks. It changes people, and it may indeed change someone's orientation.

That said. There's always a way that terms tend to get used that rather bastardize what they represent. Such as people going "oh teehee, I'm so OCD because I like a clean kitchen!" or "ugh, I'm so bipolar because I had a negative reaction to an upsetting situation, why can't I control myself". You know your friend. I don't. I am going to guess that's the kind of situation that you feel is happening here. From here on out, I'm going to address this specifically to your friend to discuss this use of aroace.

Dear anon's friend -

First off, thanks for acknowledging and recognizing aro/ace people! If you're writing aro/ace rep, that's awesome! Tell me more about it. =)

However, I have to wonder how much education you've received about aro/ace people. Have you listened to what aro/ace people have to say on our experiences? Have you sought this out for yourself, something not only important for supporting the aro/ace people now or who could be in your life in your future, but also incredibly important if you want to represent us?

I have recently taken the stance of: I don't super care if people write "bad" rep! Our problem isn't really good versus bad rep. It's lack of choices! There's tons of "bad rep" out there for perisex cishet white characters. It's balanced out by the choices they have. No rep is going to ring for every person of that identity, nor does it have to. I don't think it's possible for you, even if you identified as aroace, to accurately and deeply represent every aspect of the aroace experience simply because there is not one cohesive aroace experience that exists to represent.

But! That doesn't mean I think you should disregard all care and sensitivity for your representation. You should do a basic amount of research in learning about the thing you're trying to write about. That is simply a part of the writing process. And honestly, it's good for us as people! It's not only an important life skill that will be beneficial in multiple aspects of our lives, but you will also learn things and expand your perspective! And that's something we all constantly need to be challenged with. We are not the only person that exists. Our experience isn't the only one that exists. Other people exist, and they deserve our care.

So, to get more specifically to the representation here... Whether you are personally queer or not, we need to start with the fact that being aro/ace is to be queer. It is to be other. It is to be unaccepted on the outskirts of society. It is scary to choose. Whether you are personally queer or not, you can understand the depths of choosing to identify as queer, right? If you are queer, you probably have firsthand experience with a lot of denial and shame around not being who you're expected to be and not conforming to how you're going to be expected to act. This was likely solidified not only by media around you (that you either never saw yourself in or only ever saw yourself being represented as the villain), but by the people around you. The people around you who may have used slurs, who may have said derogatory and mean things about people who didn't fit in. The people around you who may have meant well but still made it clear that queer people, while to be tolerated, were not genuinely accepted or respected. The people around you who seemed accepting, but even then, only if you were a certain type of queer - otherwise, you were somehow the reason that queer people had to fight for respect and rights. The people around you who were accepting and faced near constant pushback and microaggressions for their openness. And if you are not queer, then certainly, you have a gut reaction to the idea of suddenly calling yourself queer, yes? And I am not judging you for that or saying it is bad! I just explained how queer people have to work through that same exact feeling, except turning our backs on doing that work only hurts us more than if you decide to walk away from confronting that feeling.

Have you taken into account that when your character calls themself aroace after this, they are deliberately choosing to walk into a life of marginalization and not just by association or inaction, but by openly aligning themselves as Other, as Not Normal, as Somehow Inexplicably Wrong? Maybe your character started off as queer! I don't know! But not all queer people have the same experience, and coming out as a more visible identity is loads different than coming out as an unknown and invisible identity. It involves a lot of questions and some of them will be reasonable (but still exhausting to receive every. single. time. you come out) but many of them will be invasive and inappropriate. It involves people no longer thinking you have a right to privacy. Suddenly, everything is open game for them, including questioning your genitals and sex life and your childhood and your trauma. It may involve people just straight up not listening to you at all since they don't know what your identity means and deciding "that's not a thing, they're just straight".

Is your character prepared to face both their grief and their loss of privacy and respect? Especially as someone who is identifying as aromantic due to outside clauses (which, if you didn't read the intro, I have personal experience with!), people are not going to accept that you're aroace. Your character is going to get a lot of flak for needing mental health help. People are going to say they're in denial. People are going to use them to invalidate every single other aromantic and asexual there is. Is your character prepared to live with their grief, deal with their new loss of privacy and respect, and learn how to advocate for the aspec communities as well as their own personal reasons for identifying as aroace? Because if that's how they feel, they 100% have a right to identify as aroace. I am aromantic due to trauma, and that is 100% valid. The aro community has never made me feel ashamed about that. But I have legitimately never identified that way out loud because I know how other people will take it, and I don't know if I can bear the responsibility of saying "yes, I am traumatized, but yes I am happier as an aromantic than I ever was allo, but not all aros are aro due to trauma, and all of us are valid". Because, honestly, a lot of people don't want to have conversations with that kind of nuance.

Your character can ID as aroace. But. Are they ready for that? People aren't going to accept that, especially if they know your character's history. They're not going to respect it. They're going to suddenly forget your character is a grieving human being and start treating your character like a problem to be solved. And regardless of if you feel like you're a broken person who needs fixing - that's never a comforting way to be treated by others. It's demeaning, demoralizing, patronizing, and condescending. It's infantalizing. It's enraging.

Is your character ready to face the new struggles that being openly aroace are going to open them to? Because a lot of us take years, if ever, to come to that point. We get to that point because it hurts not to get to be yourself. But god is it terrifying. Knowing you could lose family. Friends. Reputation. Relationships. Opportunity. There is a lot to be gained by coming out, but there's also a hell of a lot to lose that most of us have to actively grieve before we can open up and come out.

Is your character prepared for that? Are they in a place to deal with what coming out is going to mean for how they are seen in treated? Because honestly, coming out of a capital-T Trauma, I stayed closeted for another seven years or so because trying to work through that and facing trying to be authentic and vulnerable with other people was damn hard and scary work.

Is your character identifying as aroace in a reactionary way? Or are they identifying as aroace because they find that comforting and safe, even in the face of all the casual bigotry it opens them up to?

Identifying as aroace isn't simple. It's just words in the way that your story is just words.

They're just words that you mean to evoke emotion, to draw people in and make them feel something. Having your character come out as aroace impacts the story. Not just because they're hurting after this tragedy, but because this is an alteration of your character's perspective and maybe even of their entire worldview. Is that something you are exploring or is it something you've thrown at the audience and refused to deal with? This has likely changed your character's entire future plans. Possibly their financial stability. Are these impacts you're being honest about in your story? Are you exploring what aroace means to your character or are you using it because you're telling and not showing that "my character's grief is so heavy they're swearing off relationships to protect themself"?

Just like casually calling yourself OCD for cleaning your room or ADHD for getting distracted in the middle of a task, you need to look at: are you minimizing what aromantic and asexual means in this society? If you go through my blog, you'll see dozens upon dozens of times where I tell people "identity labels are just communication tools; break them and bend them and use them to suit your needs - don't bend and break yourself to conform to some rigid definition". But it's just like being able to break the rules of writing/grammar after you know them. If you break them without knowing them, then you're not doing it with purpose. You're just writing poorly. But once you understand the rules, you can break them with purpose to communicate in greater depth with your audience. First, you must understand the basic meaning and history of our terms to understand how to conform the terms around your needs. You must understand your own feelings (or your character's) and what it is you want to communicate with others, knowing that you're only ever communicating a basic idea to them.

Have you done this work? Have you read any of our literature? Are you using aroace because you think it's easier OR because you understand the depth of that choice and believe it adds more to your story? Because being aroace isn't easier. It's like a woman telling a man she's a lesbian to try and get him to stop hitting on her, when that's most likely going to accomplish him fetishing and sexualizing her in a different way instead of suddenly respecting her.

Aspecs deserve more than being a convenience in your story. While what you are writing is fiction, my life is not fiction. I am real. I exist. And being aroace means something to me. And a lot of what it means is that I'm generally misunderstood by everyone I'm surrounded with on a daily basis, and while I'm happy with my identity, many people think it's their business to tell me why I shouldn't be.

If you want to write a character with a complicated, messy, or even "offensive" aspec identity, that's AWESOME. But I just want to check: are you writing a character with a complicated identity? Or are you using that as a placeholder because you don't know how else to describe your character's heartbreak and loss to the audience? Because if it's the second, not only do aspecs deserve better - so does your audience. If you want to write your character as someone who becomes aroace due to tragedy, then do it! But dig into that and have it impact your character, the perspective, and the story overall.

Your friend submitted this so I could talk to you, but if you have any questions or want to interact based on this response at all, please do! I'm very open to dialogue. I am asking you genuine questions here because that's how we get to understand each other. I would love to hear from you if you're interested.

[funnylilfics]

You need a teacher.

John Murphy x Reader.

Warning: None at all (Just Murphy being the rat bastard that he is)

Summary: You were the most innocent one out of the 100. You were mostly quiet and shy preferring to keep to yourself than join in on the chaos. One thing was bothering you though you hadn’t had your first kiss yet and you were determined to make it happen. Only problem every time you get close to making it happen one John Murphy is usually right there to fuck it up.

You weren’t like the other delinquents in the 100. Your crime organizing a protest to get answers about the ark you just knew the Chancellor was hiding. When that protest turned not so peaceful they got you for inciting a riot. From day one on earth you decided to stay to yourself mostly hunting, fishing and foraging alone. You had already made your mind up that you weren’t like the other delinquents ready to cause chaos at a moment noticed.

A big part of you long for the same experience though. Your innocent ran deep never even kissing a boy before. You were determined to change that now that you were on earth. Anytime you approach one of the boys they make up some type of excuse not to hang around you. You start to think maybe something was wrong with you until you noticed one John Murphy hanging around you a bit more.

Whether it be on watches, or hunting and forging for food even protecting you from one of the grounders attacks Murphy was always there. You knew of Murphy reputation so you did your best to avoid him. You were special to Murphy different from the other seeing the good in most people. All he wanted was for you to see the good in him.

You decided to give it one last try for your first kiss. You and Jasper going for a walk into the woods find a quiet spot to sit. Jasper was a sweet guy a little awkward maybe not your ideal guy for your first kiss but he’d do. You both slowly leaned forward when a knife glided past your heads sticking in a tree. You turned seeing one John Murphy smirking leaning against a tree. Jasper ran off and you sighed “what is your problem Murphy?” “It feels like anytime I even attempt to have my first kiss you always seem to show up to ruin it!”

Murphy took a step a closer to you looking you in your eyes. “If you truly want to have your first kiss, you need a teacher not some love sick puppy.” He smirk tilting your chin up as he leaned down pressing his lips to yours. He kissed you like you were the only thing that matters to him. It was sweet yet intense. It made you light headed and your stomach do flips. You slowly pulled back looking him in his eyes. “You know what Murphy you’re a pretty damn good teacher.”

( A/N: Being hard on myself again cause I can’t decide if I like this or not I might edit and repost it later. Let me know what you guys think.)



[aakoo7]

Thank you for sharing your experience. That sounds awful and I'm glad you seem to be in a better place.

I think there's a really strong connotation around the word addiction, so I think it's worthwhile for me to define what I mean by it. This is also more or less the psychiatric definition of an addiction.

An addiction is a consistent and ongoing habit that has become damaging to a person's life and wellbeing. That's it. It doesn't have to be a lifelong thing. It doesn't have to impact your physical health specifically. It can be things other than drugs or alcohol. I believe video game addiction to be a genuine problem that should be addressed, and I have the same belief around porn.

And while it's up to you to categorize your own experiences, to me what you wrote sounds exactly like an addiction.

Now, I absolutely agree that most (if not all) addictions are a reflection of some internal problem. Often, they are used as a coping mechanism that then becomes harmful with prolongued use.

I suppose the difference in opinion here is that I would not consider porn particularly blameless or harmless in this regard. Porn gives you a rush of dopamine, as do many addictive substances. So do video games, or anything else that can have a positive impact on someone's wellbeing if properly regulated.

We know that teens are generally more susceptible to addiction. Because of the intense dopamine rush, I would consider porn to have an addictive quality. I'm not saying no teen is capable of having a healthy relationship with porn, but I am saying that a large enough subset has shared my experience that we should be concerned about it.

As always, the solution here is education and increased understanding of how addiction works. Schooling, etc. But I think porn should be included in that discussion along with video games as something that can potentially become maladaptive.

I understand that this is a hotly debated issue right now what with the video game censorship at the moment, so I want to clarify I am in no way supportive of censorship in any form. However – and I'm not accusing you of this – a lot of the discourse I've seen online is akin to blocking your ears and shouting that porn cannot do wrong under any circumstances, despite evidence on the contrary. While it's a very human reaction, I don't think it's the right thing to do for such a nuanced topic. It just leads to bipartisan thinking.

Much love <3

sad that its political suicide to say things like "i don't actually think teenagers watching porn is bad"

[temporarywelcome]

Roller Skates - Leon Kennedy

Summary: in a world where the government didn't scoop up Leon after the Raccoon City incident, and he did what most people would do in the situation... disappear. he just wanted to be left alone, but one girl refused to allow that.

Warnings/Notes: language, poor Leon is bitter. Reader is in uni, so can or can not be slightly younger than Leon depending on level of education! Fem!reader, slight injury mention. set about a yr after re2

________

Words: 2.3k

Leon Kennedy wanted to be left the fuck alone. 

Sorry, when you go through such a traumatic experience as, y’know, a zombie virus outbreak, you desire your peace. You also start to fucking hate everyone. 

Maybe it was resentment. All these people living normal lives, while he still had the trauma of his past. Of fighting for survival. Of losing everything. Saving Sherry just for her to be taken from him.

These people just had mundane problems. Did Jerry cheat on Sue? Lisa’s friends were treating her like shit. Whereas every time Leon closed his eyes, he saw death. The dead eating the living. 

Maybe he was just being bitter. He wasn’t sure. He just knew these people had it easy. He heard everything. Taking on the grumpy old man role in the small town of Woodbury at the ripe age of 22 had its perks. For example, people gossiped in his vicinity all the time, knowing he had no one to relay the gossip back to. People stayed clear of him, meaning the line at the deli was always much smaller when he entered. 

Like right now. 

He entered the deli and everyone cleared out, suddenly in search of a different cheese or admiring the new Ganoa salami prices. So he went up front and asked for some yellow American and deluxe ham, waiting with his usual grumpy face. 

And then he began to hear the gossip. For a small town, everyone had something to say about everyone. Jerry didn’t cheat on Sue, she actually cheated on him and lied about it. Lisa was kicked out of the friend group because she wasn’t cool enough, poor thing. And the L/N family was expecting their daughter home from college for the Summer soon. That last one seemed like happy gossip.

Leon has heard quite a lot of good things about Y/N L/N. She was bubbly and sweet, always helping her parents on their farm when she was back for school breaks. Always baking treats and giving them out to the neighbors. He had seen her a bit during her Christmas break when she came to his place and he told her to go away. 

And on her Spring break.

Now she had a whole season to bother him. 

“Ya think she got a boyfriend up in that university?” asked one of the gossipers, a middle-aged man who was holding onto what hair he had left for dear life. His name was Ronny and he was always eyeing the young women. Leon didn’t like him at all and has made it known (with a fist fight after catching Ronny bothering a poor lady). 

“Oh, I sure hope not,” said Ralph, the town’s other Certified Creep. Obviously it just made sense for these two to be friends. “I think she’d look rather nice next to me, wouldn’t she?”

Leon couldn’t help but chuckle loudly, grabbing his food from the deli worker. He said a gruff thank you (you can still be both a grump and polite!), turning to Ronny and Ralph, “As if she’d want either of you creeps,”

Ralph’s bug eyes narrowed into a glare, “Mind your business, Kennedy. What? You think you can get the pretty lady?”

He chuckled again, shaking his head, “I don’t have to want the girl in order to defend her. That’s something you two should learn for your own moral compass.” he then left the deli, on his way back to his beat-up pickup truck. 

Y/N L/N was a pretty girl. From the few times Leon has seen her, he could tell she was very pretty. Of course, the town creeps would oggle over her. She was both pretty and had an innocent look to her, everything they would desire. He also knew, from what he’s heard, that she was very smart as well. She must know how to avoid perverted advances. But they weren’t going to stop. And if anything, if the town creeps can’t have her, they still sure can talk about her.

So Leon knew she had returned to Woodbury when he went to the grocery store a few days later, hearing Ronny talking about her again. She had gone to his trailer with a basket of brownies, handing him one. Ronny took that as a sign she was into his old ass, despite the fact she was making her rounds to multiple houses today. He had tried flirting with her, and she had groaned out something like, “you never change, Ronny!” The creep was already fantasizing what she meant by that, as if that was a compliment. But yeah, Y/N was back, and Ronny and Ralph weren’t the only ones talking about her. 

Which made Leon groan. She would show up at his place next. Not like he had much of a place. He worked as a stablehand for a ranch, getting a pretty crappy pay. It wasn’t that bad, to be honest. He had a loft in the barn and the family frequently invited him for dinner. They didn’t expect him to talk much, and just spoke to each other while he silently ate with them, adding in his own opinions on rare occasions. 

A few hours after Leon got back to his home, he did some work tidying up the barn. Going from the city life to the countryside was an incredibly hard thing for him to do, a big change, but he was learning to get used to it. The horses he was so afraid of were kind to him, the large creatures suddenly so fascinating now that he got to see them up close. 

He was leaving the barn when he saw her. Y/N L/N. Holding a basket as she roller-skated up the long driveway towards the main house. She always looked so happy and bubbly, with that big smile on her face as she moved gracefully. 

Then she tripped. 

Now, Leon may be a grouch now, but he was still a gentleman. Within seconds, he was next to her. Silently, grabbing her arm and looking at the scrape on her elbow, before eyeing the steady stream of blood dripping down her leg from her knee. 

“You need to wear elbow and knee pads,” he said simply, helping her up. “C’mon, I’ll patch you up,” 

“Leon!” she exclaimed, a big shit-eating grin forming on her face as he led her off to the main house. “It’s so good to see you! I’m honestly so used to you just kicking me out; this is such a surprise!” 

“Mhm,” To be fair, he only kicked her out when she approached the loft, not the family’s house. He wasn’t exactly allowed to kick her out right now.

“What were you up to anyway? You’re always working so hard, so I brought you two brownies! Gotta keep up that calorie intake!” she babbled, snatching up the basket from the ground as he dragged her. “You seem a bit bigger since last time I saw you! N-Not saying you got chubby or anything! There’s nothing wrong with that either! I’m just saying, y-you got bigger muscle-wise!” she paused, “So I guess you get enough calories in-”

“Oh, hush,” he scowled.

She groaned, a pout forming on her lips. “You’re such a grump! You barely ever talk to me when I’m here!” 

“Because I don’t want to,” Because Y/N was still in her skates, the two of them kept stumbling, so he just grunted and scooped her up, making her squeal in shock. 

“Why don’t you want to talk to me?” she huffed out after the shock of being lifted so easily. 

“Because I don’t want to talk to anyone,” he sat her down on the counter of one of the guest bathrooms, opening up the cabinet and pulling out the first aid kit. 

Y/N tilted her head to the side, looking at him as he searched through the small box. His eyebrows were furrowed cutely, lips pressed into a straight line. He was big, getting more and more buff, always with a scary expression on his face, but for some reason, Y/N found him adorable. 

And so she reached out, and booped his nose. “Boop,”

“What the hell?” Leon swatted her hand away, and she giggled. 

“You’re cute, Leon,” 

“No, I’m not,” he began cleaning up her elbow with disinfectant. 

“Yes you are,” she booped his nose again, “Stop being so serious. Don’t you get headaches with your brow all scrunched up like that?” she then pressed two fingers between his eyebrows, rubbing small circles there.

“Ugh, stop it,” Though, it did feel good, so he didn’t push her hand away. “Are you this touchy with everyone?”

She hummed, nodding, “Yep. Unless they’re a weirdo. Like Ronny,”

“And Ralph?” he mused. 

“Yeah, they’re weird. I think Ralph tried to touch my ass once, but I moved just in time before he was able to.” 

Now he was rolling his eyes, “Sadly, I can’t be surprised.” He carefully opened up a bandaid, brows furrowing again, as he placed the bandaid onto her wound. 

“You’re all serious again,”

“I’m always serious,” he knelt down, beginning to disinfect her knee’s wound next. 

“Why?”

Leon just shrugged, dabbing at the gash gently, “Bad past.”

She nodded, taking that as a hint to drop the subject. He obviously didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m sorry,”

Now that was surprising to him. He kind of just expected Chatterbox Y/N to be nosy and dig deeper. But she didn’t. Instead, she just smiled down at him, hesitantly reaching out, and brushing some hair from his face. 

And now she was surprised too, seeing his cheeks instantly darken into a ruby red, his pretty eyes darting away. His hand even faltered, frozen over her knee as his brain short-circuited. It made Y/N giggle, her fingernails gently scratching his scalp. 

Oh what the fuck. 

His mind went completely blank, head leaning against her touch as if it was instinct. Like a fucking puppy. She just continued petting his hair, fingers easing through the soft strands. After a few moments, she finally said, “Yeah, you’re cute, Leon.”

He blushed harder, finally snapping out of it. “N-No, I’m not,” he stuttered out, grabbing a bigger bandaid for this wound. “I’m just me,” he placed the bandaid, taking the time to wipe off the blood that dripped down her leg. 

“Hm, I like you,” she replied with a soft giggle, hand going from his hair to his cheek, pinching it.

“You’re a menace,” he said, swatting her hand away, finishing up with the cleaning. “There, done.” Despite his tone being back to the gruff sound he was so used to, he still gently took her hand (the one he literally just swatted away), pressing his lips against her knuckles. “Please be safe and watch where you’re going,” 

Y/N giggled, nodding. He was perfection, holding her hand with his cheek practically pressed against her thigh as he looked up at her with those big baby blues. “I know, I’ll be careful!” Her smile grew as he stood up, lifting her off the counter. It was only a second till her feet touched the wooden floor, but her arms still went around his neck as he placed her down. He didn’t push her away this time, his hands still placed lightly on her hips. This whole time, he touched her as if she were fragile. “Are you busy tomorrow evening?”

“No ma’am,” he replied, tilting his head to the side in curiosity. 

Her eyes brightened, “There’s a line dancing event at the diner. You should go with me!” 

He chuckled at that, “What makes you think I’d want to go line dancing?”

“Because it’s fun to try something new, “Y/N huffed, “Especially when a cute girl is asking you too!” 

Well, she got him there. 

He bit his bottom lip, dropping his hands from her hips when he realized they were still placed there, “Um… I suppose I can go…” he scratched the back of his neck, gazing away from her, “I can pick you up,”

“No no no, the correct way to say it is ‘I WILL pick you up’ !” Y/N responded with a grin. 

And that made him smile a bit as well, meeting her eyes, “Yes. I will pick you up. Tomorrow. For line dancing.”

“Mhm. Wear that one blue polo. The navy one,”

“You have my closet memorized?” What the hell did this girl do to him? He was already teasing her and joking around? She actually made him smile! 

“No, but you wore it once during my last break from uni,” she replied with a small shrug, “I’ve always thought you were cute, Leon. I remember a lot of things about you.”

And now he was blushing again. “...really?”

“Mhm! Why do you think I’m always bothering you?” she rolled her eyes playfully, “You were too busy being a grump for me to get a date with you!”

“So this is a date tomorrow, hm?” he asked cheekily, “This line dancing event? It’s gonna be a date?”

“Well,” Y/N immediately went sheepish, looking at her feet, “I was hoping it would be one,” 

To her shock, and honestly his own, he reached out, tilting her chin up gently, “The correct way to say it is ‘it WILL be one’.” 

And so Y/N rollerskated down the street with the biggest smile on her face, Leon watching with a brownie in his hand and a large grin to match hers.

____

part 2?

[cosmiikx]

oh my god i wasnt gonna make a post dedicated to race changing because i dont want to add to an already oversaturated conversation topic but you people are ANNNOYYYYINGGGGG.

every other fucking thing you people talk about is race changing. yet not a single one of you, especially white people, care this much about whats going on around you in this reality. yall care so so much about playing dress up, its half of what you talk about. idk who needs to hear this but its weird.

constantly rehashing this conversation, basically telling every single person of color who is uncomfortable by you and what you do that you dont care about them or their perspective. which makes your weak ass argument that you just "want to experience other things" even weaker.

you wanna experience what we go through? (i know the answer but lets pretend yall are being sincere lol) how about you talk to people. how about you read. how about you learn something. HERE. the same fucking place you feel the need to tell people theyre limited for thinking race changing is fucking weird. "shifttok misinformation" oh so being uncomfortable is misinformation! im sure the poc who feel that way feel super welcome in the community n like our opinions mean something! or,,,do yall not gaf if we do? cuz its sounding like the latter.

shiftblr likes to act like theyre above everything. a lot of yall have fetishizing and racism problems you need to address but you dont want to. you wanna go be korean in another reality and come back to this one, the one you consider your main reality and youre not permashifting from, and act like youre the same as korean people here. you wanna make your whole account look like youre not the race you are HERE and cosplay those people HERE. yall wanna act like race changing within this reality and shifting to be another race are completely different and they arent. and i hope you feel weird for it cuz you should. not even talking about the over and misuse of aave in this community while simultaneously spitting on black people.

yall would so genuinely rather script insensitive shit instead of just. doing literally anything else. every "what if" scenario yall bring up can easily be fixed by yall saying no one cares but no, you dont, why? cuz cosplaying means a whole lot more to you lol. you guys know that no continent is 100% homogeneous right? black white and every other race exist EVERYWHERE. and its weird to me that you wanna shift to an homogenous state where your race doesnt exist but surely youre not ready for that convo if you cant even handle people disagreeing with you on this one.

and no, no ones limited for thinking its fucking weird. i think you can do whatever the fuck you want, i cant stop you n no one else can either. i can, however, look at you sideways. and i will! yall the same people being like "ew murder dr" "ew scientology dr" and then tell people they cant not like race changing. when the same stupid arguments could be applied to these other things too lol. are we limited for that or????? is it just the stuff you wanna do that you gaf abt defending? right,,,right,,,,

idc if this makes people mad. maybe instead of begging other people to validate you doing weird shit in your dr that you havent even shifted to, you should shut up and keep it to yourself.

every tumblr community (honestly any community anywhere) seems to have a racism problem they dont wanna address and want poc to just put up with, great to know.

and remember, if it doesnt apply to you you dont need to make it about you 🙏 i block very liberally. im not making another post abt this i just really needed to get it off my chest cuz damn do yall not care about other people ☠️ "i wanna be xyz race in another reality and youre limited if you dont support me >:(" maaaannn shut the fuck up. shift to a reality where youre not insufferable.

tl;dr race changing is entirely unnecessary so dont be shocked people dont like it LMFAO and stop talking about it every 3 to 5 business hours your breath stinks. n if youre gonna come defend yourself just know i may or may not respond but 110% you will end up blocked regardless 🙂‍↕️

[violetdisasterzone]

it's kind of sad to say but sometimes I think I'm not cut out for fandom. I've always been more of a lurker than a contributor anyway, but even then I feel like I might just be too much of a canon purist to really be part of them. so much of being on the internet is about curating your own experience, but fanon (mis)interpretations/characterizations are so rampant in some spaces, treated as canon to such an extent that some people literally believe they ARE, that they're often hard to avoid completely.

the point of fandom isn't supposed to be nitpicking every little thing for accuracy, obviously. I like talking with people about my favorite things, and seeing how my thoughts and interpretations match up with theirs. I don't expect everyone's experience with whatever media to be the same. but I think a lot of people view canon as something separate, as something they get to play around with and take the parts they like and change what they don't. and that's fine, but I don't really get it, not entirely. I like playing around with hypotheticals and what-ifs and stuff, but to me canon is always going to be superior/unchangeable. and it's even worse when people will try to use canon to explain that their blatantly fanon-based interpretations are, in fact, canon somehow. and it gets even WORSE when it turns into actual discourse, and suddenly people are claiming that not following their fanon interpretation means something about your real-life values.

it's just kind of exhausting sometimes. I love a lot of y'all on here and it can be so fun to be a part of things, even mostly from the sidelines. but sometimes all I want is to close social media forever and reread my novels in peace

[krakeninajar]

"trans men experience the highest rates of sa" is a myth, taken from a small number of cherrypicked studies that did a poor job with including transfems, in which transmascs reported higher rates.

even in studies done better tho, the vast majority of sexual violence against transfems goes unreported. often because we're forced into survival sex work, and it wouldnt be safe to report, often because transfems (Black transfems and other transfems of color especially) are murdered after we're raped, and obviously cant report it. and often just because reporting it or talking about it with any tme person often just ends up being a vector of retraumatization

every. single. transfem. i know. has been raped. less than a quarter have, to my knowledge, ever reported it in any way. the sexual violence the rest of us have faced is not reflected in any studies, because the only people it's safe to talk about with are each other.

and fucking hell, fuck off with that "it's hurtful to claim that transmascs are rapists". stop raping transfems then, if you dont want us to point it out! you're intelligent enough to write an entirely too long bad-faith reading, you're smart enough to figure out that we dont mean "all transmascs are inherently rapists" when we say it.

we mean a significant percentage of the sexual violence transfems face comes from people in your community, and that is an issue that is specific to transmascs and its something y'all need to fucking work on and fix!

you claim you know what misogyny is and what it's like, fucking prove those aren't just empty words! stop reacting the same way cis men do, by closing ranks and deflecting with "(trans) men are raped to!" fucking confront the problems in your community and fix shit!

transandrophobic violence doesnt exist. y'all face violence, absolutely, but it's transphobic violence. hatred/fear of men does not exist on a systemic level, men are rewarded for being men, this includes marginalized men like trans men. the rewards y'all get are less than cis men, but still very much real

transmisogyny does not target transmascs. whether or not you've been mistaken for a tranny like me is irrelevant, because when that happens, it is a mistake. you do not have to face systemic transmisogyny every minute of every day, this is what we mean when we say transmisogyny-affected/transmisogyny-exempt.

gonna be honest, a big part of the reason transmascs describing"transandrophobia" as experiences unique to them bugs me is because they always include rape or corrective rape and sexual assault, directly implying that transfems dont experience these things which is just. not only about as wrong as you can get, but also just incredibly disrespectful

[creekfiend]

I get why you didn’t want to respond to that anon but as someone who was also genuinely confused in the past and genuinely solidified my opinion based on someone actually answering my questions, I could do a good faith response if you so choose to post it:

@anon the “gut feeling” you are mentioning as an option is genuinely different than something you or maybe me or maybe other people who aren’t trans feel. We have empirical evidence to support this not just from personal anecdotes but also studies that show that detransition rates are very low. Basically it’s one of those “is the blue of the sky that you see the same as the blue I see?” philosophical questions where the answer is “yeah, they’re seeing a different sky.”

this is very kind of you but I would also say

1. it really doesn't matter if you understand or not. what is important is that you recognize that trans people are a group of people who are incredibly incredibly marginalized and mistreated in our society and you should fucking care about that

2. demanding that trans people explain to you how it is that they are not actually the ones perpetuating gender essentialism is transphobia and you should not do it!

3. people can do whatever they want forever

I hope that this helps everyone and also would love to remind a different anonymous who has been sending me some hateful messages that I can see your username and block you :))) have the day you deserve!