#and voltaire of course

[bunnnaraa]

I heard there's a petition going around for season 2 of mixte1963 however I feel pretty satisfied with the ending we got, it was ambiguous but we get what would mostly happen; girls wouldn't comeback to Voltaire high, Simone would probably go back to Algiers and finish her studies there, Sabiani would pursue a modeling career due to her inability to continue her studies, Michelle and Laubrec would struggle to live in a foreign city (Laubrac does have his internship yes but not Michelle and she can't live with him) Jean Pierre would probably fail his bacaloreate exam the first time (too much going on) as for Paul and Camille they'd probably have an affair since Paul wouldn't divorce his wife

[midnightsun-if]

Sorry if this sounds rude, but I have some things I need to get off my chest. Frankly, the whole Scarlett situation kind of sucks, and the way you’re handling things is not exactly helping matters. I get you have a specific vision for her character, and as a fellow author I would never suggest you compromise that to appease a bunch of sexist, entitled fans, but you’ve given so much attention to her character that it honestly comes as no surprise that people wouldn’t respect her sexuality, as bad as that is to say.

I’ve personally sent numerous asks in the past, and you haven’t answered a single one, so either you’re intentionally ignoring them, or tumblr ate them. If it’s the later, then I’m sorry for accusing you. You’re obviously not under any obligation to answer asks you don’t want to, but I admit it does sting a bit to see Scarlet Ask #523759690 on my feed when I have yet to see a single one of mine. You may not think you have a favorite character, but from an outside perspective, you 100% do.

The amount of attention Scarlett receives compared to the rest of the cast (seriously, when was the last time Caden got an ask dedicated to them?) is truly astounding. Fans will naturally have their favorites, but as an author you should remain impartial… which you really haven’t. In fact, it seems like you actively encourage the Scarlett attention. It’s like you keep showing off a fancy car that only a few people can actually buy, then get upset when people complain they can’t buy the car as well.

Anyways, I’m sorry for this rant, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. I wish you luck on your writing journey, and hope you have a happy holiday (if you’re in a country that celebrates any upcoming holidays)!

I truly don’t know what to say other than the fact that I haven’t seen your asks and that I’m trying to avoid Scarlett asks when it specifically involves the discourse with her sexuality— which also may contribute to the possibility on why I haven’t seen them, if that’s what they involved— as I mentioned in my one-and-done post about it… I don’t want to keep this as a reoccurring theme on the blog as I know that many people will grow tired of it just like I have.

I answer Scarlett centric asks, barring when I answer scenario asks about the family and/or the ROs, mainly due to the fact that she’s the one people single out— if someone sends me an ask about C, or Blake, or anyone else, I’ll answer it… It just happens to be that Scarlett gets the most asks when it comes to that sort of thing— and those asks are typically much easier/faster to answer than the all-in-one asks— I’d be more than happy to answer singular asks about any number of my characters. And I have in the past when someone sends something in.

All I can truly say? If not being able to romance Scarlett is this big of an issue, and I truly am saying this as nicely as I can… I don’t think Midnight Sun is the right IF for you. I believe I know a couple more IFs with an Ice Queen type RO, or adjacent RO, that may suit you better if you’d like to me share them!

And, I’d just like to make this small point, I get upset, or am starting to, because it’s a point I’ve brought up over and over again— Scarlett isn’t a lesbian to create an inconvenience for the player… She’s a lesbian because it’s part of who she is. Sending me asks saying “I can change her” or “Give us Scarlett and the F!MCs Koda” (among other things) is absolutely abhorrent in the best case scenario. There are 7 other ROs for you to choose from— all of which offer their own unique routes and experiences within Midnight Sun.

Scarlett isn’t changing, I’m standing firm with this. I’m not going to ever change my mind about it— I’m sorry if that upsets anyone, but it’s not something I’m backing down on.

[le0sulfurous]

So I'm on the net, right, and I stumble upon a sentence along the lines of this:

"'Adulting' is such a cringe word to use at thirty, grow up"

And I think- Wait a minute. Wait a minute. This whole time, when I was watching the big people call their daily endeavours 'adulting', it was all just a made up noun-verb word?

Because this ENTIRE time I had believed it to be a legitimate term for the full-time job of being an adult and had held it to the same sort of respect as the word 'parenting'. And you're telling me that apparently it's been a bad dumb word that I'm supposed to be cringing at all along??

What the fuck

[gayestcowboy]

new ref sheet for an old dnd character!!

[arthurrlester]

“Oh your queer? What’s your favorite music artist and don’t say *lists a bunch of music artists that have been stereotyped with the queer community*”

IM GOING TO RUN THROUGH DRYWALL YOUR EXPERIENCES ARE NOT UNIVERSAL-

[chaotic-history]

Okay

[d'Alembert had asked V if he had any anecdotes he wanted to send to be included in d'Olivet's eulogy]

[i-cast-zone-of-truth]

U know what that post about the princess bride reminded me of tristram shandy because it’s also got that playful authorial I Do What I Want, and i want you to know that.

I feel like that book has like no reputation at all, not even like dostoyevsky’s reputation of being Hard Russian Novels About Hardship (which is not at all adequate either the stuff in there about faith love and humanism is so good), so i feel like everyone (me before reading it included) thinks it’s like this 18th c novel like Voltaire or sth and yes 18th century but IT’S NOT AT ALL LIKE VOLTAIRE OKAY it wont be to everyones taste but it’s —

Like okay youre a guy with adhd but no one knows what that is so you’re just Eccentric and you go to write your autobiography but the catch is that you cannot get rid of or edit anything you put down and also you’re the funniest bitch alive. That’s Tristram Shandy.

Obviously, you start with your birth and then backtrack to talk about your parents’ sexual habits and then draw a little diagram of the narrative of a biography and then—

[mooningningg]

notes, I feel like after all that tension ya'll deserve action, ty anon for requesting.

★ Roommate!Sukuna kisses you.

It started with a bet.

Because of course it did.

“You’re bluffing,” you snorted, arms crossed as you leaned against the kitchen counter. “You talk a big game, Sukuna, but you wouldn’t last five minutes in my lecture hall.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You think I give a fuck about Western Civ? I could pass that class with a hangover and one eye open.”

You arched a brow. “Oh yeah? Name me one Enlightenment philosopher.”

He blinked. “...Voltaggio.”

“Voltaire, dumbass.”

He scoffed. “Same shit.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly exited your body. “Okay, bet. You fail the next quiz in my class, you'll do my laundry for a week.”

His grin was instant, sharp. “Fine. But if I do—”

“You won’t,” you interjected.

“—then you gotta kiss me.”

Your laugh choked in your throat. “What?!”

He shrugged, completely casual, like he hadn’t just dropped a full grenade into your afternoon. “Scared you’ll like it?”

You scoffed. “No. Scared you’ll start writing my name in cursive after.”

“Bold of you to assume I know cursive.”

You threw a kitchen towel at his head. He caught it. You hated him.

You forgot about the bet.

Sukuna didn’t.

Three days later, he slapped a graded quiz onto the coffee table in front of you, looking like a smug devil in sweats.

A B+. You squinted. “How—”

“I cheated off the nerd in the front row,” he said proudly.

You stared at the paper, then at him. “You don’t deserve this kiss.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t about deserving it, babe.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Pucker up.”

“Ew. Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh, I’m the one making it weird?”

He just smirked. “Let’s get it over with, princess.”

So you leaned in.

Fully intending to do a stupid, quick, no-emotion peck. Something harmless. Forgettable.

But then… something happened.

Maybe it was the way he leaned forward too, just a second before you met him. Or how his hand came to rest against your jaw like muscle memory. Or the way his lips pressed too slowly, too firmly, like he wasn’t planning to stop anytime soon.

And maybe—maybe it was the heat that surged between you two like the air itself changed.

Your chest brushed his. He tilted his head. You kissed back.

Harder.

You didn’t mean to. That’s the worst part.

You didn’t mean for your hands to find the fabric of his hoodie or for him to press you into the back of the couch like gravity lost its damn mind. It just happened.

You both broke apart a breath later, stunned. Breathing fast. Too close.

Your eyes were wide. “...That wasn’t part of the deal.”

Sukuna stared at you. His lips were red. Voice low.

“I’m not fuckin’ complaining.”

You blinked. “You liked it.”

He scowled. “You liked it.”

“You’re still leaning in.”

He jerked back like you burned him. “Shut up.”

You grinned, a little breathless. “You liked it so bad.”

He stood up, flustered, grabbing his phone. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“You’re gonna write my name in your diary.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re gonna start calling me baby on accident.”

He was halfway down the hall now. “This is why I should’ve just failed.”

You sat back on the couch, fingers still tingling from where you grabbed his hoodie.

…You liked it, too. Worst of all.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh. @beaniesayshi @levifiance @rinofcike @fushiguroooozzz @gojoscumslut @bellsoftheball @kunascutie. @after-laughter-come-tears

[cobbled-peach]

˗ˏˋ જ⁀➴ The JJ Issue

when Spencer has to work late on a case with JJ, you find yourself spiralling with jealousy. And now, you're determined to make him remember exactly what he's been missing.

cw: 18+ Spencer reid x jealous!fem!reader. NSFW content. Mildly insecure reader, explicit language, alcohol use, mentions of masturbation, heavy making out, slightly toxic relationship and emotional manipulation if you really really look a/n: so this was a request, but I'm technologically inept and deleted it when trying to copy it to my word doc. ANYWAY, I feel like I veered slightly off topic, but I present my take on jealous!reader and some dumb bitch-ish Spencer™ for you mwah mwah please feel free to send in more requests i am happy to take whatever!!! wc: 3k

The clock flicks to 11:00 PM.

You watch the numbers change with quiet contempt, the harsh glow of the display slicing through the darkness. The sheets beside you remain cold and untouched. Empty. Too still and too silent.

Still no Spencer.

It’s the third night this week. The third night of cold pillows and even colder silence. The third night of laying in a bed made for two and wondering if your boyfriend was going to crawl in before the sun came up – or if he’d even bother returning home at all. 

He’d been busier at work in the past month, his absence only being amplified by the newest case.

You’d tried to follow along when he explained it. Something about Montclair, Virginia. Weird geographical patterns, overlapping jurisdictions, unusual victims. Apparently, it was the kind of bureaucratic mess that kept the BAU tangled in an endless supply of paperwork.

But all you’d really heard – what had stuck and started looping in your head – was JJ.

JJ.

JJ and Spencer. Working late nights in close quarters.

Beautiful, capable JJ. With her glossy hair and understanding eyes. Who could read a room in seconds and had helped Spencer through numerous cases. JJ, who had history with him. Real, lived-in history. She probably understood the way his brain worked in ways you hadn’t even discovered yet.

JJ. Who had the privilege of seeing him more often than you did lately, while you were stuck eating leftovers and watching the clock tick toward midnight.

You tried not to be the jealous girlfriend.

Tried so hard.

But it’s easier said than done when you’re alone in a dark apartment, with your texts left on read since 12:23 PM.

You can picture it too clearly – Spencer and JJ tucked away in some dim conference room, heads bowed over maps and files, shoulders brushing. JJ laughing softly. Spencer glancing up from his notes with that boyish smile that he reserves for only his favorite people. A room of shared trauma and comfort, of inside jokes and a history you can’t compete with.

You hate how vivid the image is. 

You hate how much it turns your stomach even more.

Your fingers curl around your phone, thumb hovering for a beat before you start to type:

Any idea when you’ll be home? x

You stare. Waiting.

The dot-dot-dot appears almost instantly. He’s always fast, when he can be.

No, this case is a mess. JJ and I are still trying to determine the geographical patterning. I’ll be home when I can.

That’s it.

That’s it?

No “I miss you.” No “Sorry for the late night.” No acknowledgement that its eleven-fucking-o’clock and you’re still alone, curled up in his shirt, half-hoping for the sound of him returning to break you out of this fog. Just plain, clipped Spencer-speak. Cold. Factual. Like he’s updating Hotch, not the person who shares his bed.

“JJ and I.”

Of course.

Your jaw tenses and you type again:

Should I leave the door unlocked, or is your work wife walking you home tonight?

No response. Probably back to his files. Or worse – laughing with her about something brilliant he said. You picture her touching his arm. Picture him not pulling away.

Two minutes pass, and you try again:

Let me know if she likes it when you quote Voltaire.

Maybe she even moans when you pull out statistics too.

Still nothing.

You throw your phone to the end of the bed with a dull thud, resisting the urge to follow it with your wine glass. You’re not drunk – not quite – but your veins are warm and the wine bottle is getting low. Almost as low as your patience.

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face.

It’s not that your insecure.

But it’s been a long week. And you’re tired. And lonely. And a little more than marginally horny.

And all that serves to make a deadly combination.

You glance at the wine bottle on your nightstand, dragged in here from when the living room started to feel too big. Half-empty now, or maybe half-full, but you don't feel like looking on the bright side today. Your fingers wrap around the stem of the glass like a lifeline, and you take a slow sip.

The taste of sour grapefruit and poor decisions.

It doesn’t take long for you to start wondering things you shouldn’t be wondering.

Like if JJ’s ever seen Spencer shirtless, skin flushed from an adrenaline-fueled takedown. Like if she notices the way his lashes flutter when he gets focused, and the subtle tick in his jaw when he’s trying to hold back a dirty comment. Like if she’s ever heard the quiet, shaky sound he makes when you touch him just right – a sound you haven’t heard in what feels like forever.

You huff, irritated with yourself.

This is not the kind of spiral you want to be in.

But how are you supposed to feel okay when the man you love has spent more nights with someone else this week than with you?

Someone brilliant and bright and right beside him.

Your mind drifts – dangerously, again – to what he might be doing if he was here. What you wish he was doing. Your hand plays absently with the hem of his shirt, sliding a little higher up your thigh, feeling the fabric brush over bare skin. Skin and air and silence.

You wonder if he’d even notice you were awake if he walked in right now.

Or if he’d still be thinking about JJ and her smiles.

Your stomach twists again.

You set the wine glass down, staring into the dark, heat curling beneath your skin like a storm on the verge of breaking.

You’re not proud of the jealousy. Or the spite. But tonight?

You’re not sure you care.

It’s 1:00 AM when you hear the door open.

You’ve migrated back to the couch now. Curled up like a forgotten thing in the quiet throb of the living room. A blanket is pulled tight around your shoulders, forging a cocoon of spite and cheap Sauvignon Blanc. The bottle on the coffee table is empty. There’s half a glass still in your hand, warmed by your palm. Your fingers are molded around the stem like its something keeping you grounded.

The door shuts gently.

Spencer enters the apartment the way he always does when he knows it’s late. Softly. Cautiously. The guilt doesn’t show on is face right away, but seeps in to the little things. The way he trades his leather shoes for worn slippers like they might squeak loud enough to wake you up. The careful way he sets his keys down, not with the usual absentminded clatter, but softly, like he might disturb you.

You hear the rustle of his cardigan being shrugged off and flung over the back of a chair. He moves through the apartment with the measured care of someone navigating a crime scene. Almost like a ghost; present, but not where you need him to be.

The bedroom door creaks. A pause. Then a soft, confused hum, like he’s surprised the bed is cold and vacant. 

You don’t move.

His footsteps return, still soft and hesitant, and then the living room light clicks on. It’s not bright, just enough to paint his face in a warm gold shadow. When he sees you, wrapped up and still, his features settle somewhere between relief and worry.

‘There you are,’ he says gently. ‘I didn’t think you’d still be up.’

His voice is warm. Too warm. Like he’s dealing with a wounded animal, already prepared for a potential fallout.

You don’t answer right away. Just lift the glass and sip what’s left of the wine. It brought warmth before, but now just feels thin and useless as it settles in your stomach. A comfort that has already faded.

Spencer looks like he always does after a long day – exhausted. Shirt untucked and wrinkled at the collar. His hair is tousled like he’s raked his hands through it a dozen times. His lips are parted, already searching for the right apology.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ you say. The words land flat and cold. Sharper than you intended, but not enough to make you regret it.

His brow furrows as he takes a tentative step forward. ‘Oh no. Are you okay?’

‘Oh, just peachy.’ You flash him a malicious smile and tilt your head. ‘How’s JJ?’

‘JJ?’ he repeats. ‘She’s… fine?’

‘I bet.’

You see it in him. The subtle shift. His brain starts ticking, trying to process the change in tone, piece together context clues. His hands twitch slightly at his sides. You’ve seen it before, when he’s dealt with a particularly messy profile. It’s how he acts when trying to decode erratic behavior.

But this time, you’re the chaos.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks, slower this time. Careful.

You finally meet his eyes, steady and level. ‘You’ve spent more time with her this week than you have with me.’

He exhales and crosses his arms. Not intentionally defensive, but it comes across that way. Just the subtle shift of someone bracin against a growing storm.

‘Me and JJ? We’re working the same case,’ he offers. Not patronising, just explaining. ‘That’s how assignments work.’

A rational answer. Reasonable. Sensible. And completely useless to the part of you that’s been sitting in silence every night, nursing bitterness like it’s a glass of wine.

‘That’s not what I said,’ you reply.

You toss off the blanket and stand, wanting to be level with him.

His gaze drops, almost instinctively, to your bare thighs peeking out from beneath his shirt. Snaps it back to your face instantly. Like he caught himself doing something inappropriate, even if it wasn’t.

‘She get’s your attention,’ you say softly. ‘Your thoughts. Your little facts. Your laughter. Your time.’

His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You keep going. Getting closer enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. 

‘And I get cold sheets and texts left on delivered.’

‘I didn’t mean to ignore you–’

‘She gets to share your space. Share your mind. Is that what gets you off now? Criminal profiling and shared trauma? Is that your kink, Doctor?’

His cheeks go red immediately.

‘She’s married,’ he points out, like that’ll resolve the tension.

‘Married women flirt too, Spencer.’

He’s still red, sputtering slightly now. ‘I don’t—I don’t think of JJ like that. I never have.’

‘Do you think of me like that?’ you challenge. ‘Or have I been bumped down your priority list below paperwork and tactical briefings? Do I need to start talking about blood spatter patterns during foreplay? Or maybe I need to join the FBI just so you’ll remember me.’

He swallows visibly, jaw tightening. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘No,’ you snap. ‘What’s not fair is me touching myself alone in our bed to the sound of your voice in some old Quantico press briefing because it’s the only version of you I could get this week.’

His eyes widen slightly. His breath catches. 

‘I think about you constantly,’ he says, almost desperate. 

You scoff. ‘Sure. Right after filing case summaries.’

‘No,’ he says, firmer now. ‘I do think about you. I just—I hyperfocus. And when I hyperfocus, my brain sort of queues everything else. It’s not about priority or importance. It’s about sequence. You’re just… waiting in line.’

‘Great,’ you say flatly. ‘I’m a fucking deli number.’

He winces. ‘That came out wrong.’

You look at him, taking a breath. Run a hand through your hair.

‘Do you think I’m crazy?’

‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘I think you’re angry and hurt. And I think you’re trying to make me angry and hurt too. Like earlier, your messages were mean. That’s why I ignored them... Now, you’re just sort of scaring me.’

That stops you. Not because you’re insulted, but because he looks genuinely lost. Innocent.

‘I’m not trying to scare you,’ you say quietly. You deflate slightly, some of the heat leaving your voice. ‘I’m just… trying to remind you that I’m still here. Wanting you. Waiting for you.’

There’s a silence.

Then–

‘I didn’t realise it was this bad. I thought you just wanted some space.'

You nod. Not spitefully, just confirming the truth.

‘Do you even remember what it was like?’ you ask. ‘When you used to come home and fuck me like you were starving. Like you couldn’t stand being apart from me. Like the space between us physically hurt you.’

He doesn’t answer. But you see the recognition in the way his jaw ticks, the way his hands clench at his sides. 

‘I miss that,’ you say. ‘I miss you.’

That look returns to his face, unsure if this is a test. If you’re being serious. If you’re going to snap at him for misreading your cues.

So you lean in – slow – until your lips are just inches from his. ‘You say you think about me constantly… prove it.’

He hesitates. Blinks. ‘You mean like—right now?’

‘Preferably in a way that makes me forget I’m mad.’

He pauses. ‘...Sexually?’

‘That would be ideal.’

He clears his throat. ‘I just want to make sure. Because sometimes when you’re upset, you use sarcasm to—’

You lift your hand, cutting him off. ‘No sarcasm now, Doctor.’

He shifts his weight, brows still drawn a little.

‘Right, okay.’ Another pause. ‘So, just to clarify – you’re asking me to have sex with you. Now. Because you want to stop being angry. Or is the sex part of the anger expression?’

You stare at him.

He continues. 

‘Because if you’re just using me to release emotional frustrations, that’s fine, I want to have sex with you, but I’d just like to know in advance so I can—’

You step in and kiss him. 

Not sweetly or softly. 

It’s the kind of kiss used to shut him up. Open mouthed and hard, tongue sweeping across his lower lip before he’s even realised your lips are touching his. For a moment, he’s caught between instinct and hesitation. Trying to figure out if this is you just getting back at him.

Then you feel him give in. His hands grip your waist, grounding himself, allowing his mouth to move with yours in a way that’s messy and uncoordinated – like he’s catching up with weeks of missed makeout sessions.

When you finally pull back, his pupils are blown wide, his lips flushed and slightly parted.

‘I’m not asking you to give me a therapeutic exercise,’ you state. ‘I’m asking you to stop thinking and touch me.’

He nods, too quickly. ‘Right. Touching… now?’

‘No. In another three days,’ you say sarcastically, grabbing his hand and sliding it beneath the hem of your shirt – his shirt – until his fingers are splayed across your ribs. 

His palm is warm. Touch a little tentative.

‘Do you even remember what touching me feels like?’ you ask, breath brushing against his cheek.

Spencer exhales sharply, the memory hitting him and punching the breath from his lungs.

‘I think about it all the time,’ he whispers.

‘Then why are you still just standing there like this is a goddamn team-building exercise?’

He snaps into focus. ‘I’m sorry. You’re just—when you’re mad, and basically half-naked, it’s hard to follow all the emotional subtext and my working memory has lost it’s buffer—’

You roll your eyes, pushing him backward until his knees hit the couch. He drops onto the cushions with a surprised noise. Part yelp, part breathless laugh.

His hands instinctively settle on your thighs as you straddle him. He stares up at you like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he doesn’t deserve for it to be happening.

You place your palm on his shoulder, playing with the soft cotton of his shirt.

‘Spencer.’

‘Yes?’

‘Please stop thinking.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘Try harder.’

You lean down and kiss him again. Slower, this time. Deeper. He responds instantly now, hands sliding to your waist, then up your back, holding you close to him. His mouth moves with less hesitation, more purpose.

‘I missed you,’ he murmurs between kisses. ‘Missed you so much. I’m sorry—I didn’t know what to say without it sounding like I was making excuses before.’

You shift your hips against him, just enough to feel him getting harder beneath you. 

‘I don’t want an apology,’ you say.

‘You don’t?’

‘No.’ You grind down again, a little harder. ‘I want you to make it up to me.’

He moans softly, head tipping back against the couch cushions. He nods in understanding, taking a moment to catch his breath before pressing his lips to your jaw, trailing them down to your throat, feeling your pulse fluttering beneath his tongue.

‘You’re so…’ he pauses for another kiss to your skin. ‘I mean, you always look good, but—God, you’re so, so pretty. I missed you.’

His fingers dig into your hips, and then his mouth is back on yours, rougher now. He’s kissing to make up for all the nights you went to bed alone, all the hours he spent at work while you touched yourself to a crackly echo of his voice. 

His hands slide up beneath your shirt again. Tracing your skin. He gets to your breasts, and gasps softly, like he’s surprised.

‘You’re not wearing anything under this.’

You roll your eyes at his astute observation.

‘You want to keep narrating?’ you ask, a little breathless. ‘Or do you want to do something about it?’

‘Doing something. Yes.’

He lifts the shirt off your body. Slow and tentative, like you’re something delicate. It’s a sight he’s seen numerous times before, bit his eyes still go wide as he takes you in. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares.

‘Jesus, Spence,’ you say, nudging his shoulder, getting impatient.

‘Sorry. You’re just gorgeous. And naked. And still angry. And you—’ he pauses, runs his hand up your ribs again. ‘—feel like something I shouldn’t be able to touch.’

‘Well I’m letting you touch me.’

You grab his wrist, guiding your hand to press between your legs. He sucks in a breath, still looking up at your face.

‘This is how mad I was,’ you whisper.

His brain seems to short-circuit again. ‘I have… no response to that.’

You push your hips down against his hands. 

‘Then shut up, and make me come.’

a/n: i ummed and ahhed about putting an aftermath scene but decided not to because I lowkey like 'em toxic >:) We also do NOT hate JJ in this house, she was just convienient. I also (can you tell I like to yap?) don't know what era of Spencer Reid I pictured for this. Somewhere in the earlier seasons, maybe? But idk. You choose. I have a taglist now! Please comment if you want to be added, or go to this post here. I've decided not to put tags on my 18+ fics, just as I don't want any minor interactions with them Also, to the person who requested this: if it did not align with your request I'm so sorry and I can do if you really really want xxxx

[ikeukiss]

〔 𝒾 〕 Your rival should not have his hands on your body or you pressed in a random closet like you both don't normally hate each other's guts. It's not supposed to be this way, so why does it feel so good?

𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗌 ── 𝙎𝙀𝙉𝘿 𝘼 𝙃𝘼𝙍𝘿 𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙐𝙂𝙃𝙏

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝓍 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 314 ⋮ 18+ ⋮ smut, rivalry to romance au, semi-hate sex, marking, unprotected sex, dirty talk

"I like it when you bite me," Sunghoon whispers as you tug his bottom lip between your teeth. His neck and collarbone are littered with marks to prove you like it too, although you'll never admit it. "Proves you actually like me just a little."

"Shut the fuck up and keep going," you mutter before Sunghoon sharply thrusts, your words of resentment and disdain dying on your tongue.

"No way to talk to me when my cock's still buried in your tight little cunt, don't you think?"

Even during sex, the guy you supposedly can't stand reminds you exactly why he's a pain ninety-five percent of the time. Your rival has no problem throwing barbs and retorts constantly in your direction, arguing with you over the smallest conjectures about Voltaire or Socrates' ideology when he's sitting right next to you during collaborative discussion.

It's bad enough he challenges you so frequently, but he has to do it with a beautiful face at the same time. And of course, you gave in to it eventually, committing to the idea it would be one excursion of stress relief and nothing more.

Yet here you are, smashed in between brooms and mops of a closet to get a fix of what you hope you'll regret later. But you never do, and Sunghoon knows it.

"That's it, take all of me, baby," Sunghoon grunts, slamming his hips against yours as he fills you up over and over.

The ridges and veins of his cock slide beautifully between your walls. He keeps going, and you know you're fucked for anyone else, even if the one who's claimed you for his own is an asshole on an average day.

Ninety-five percent isn't a hundred, and that remaining five may just be worth disregarding his usual sarcastically intellectual demeanor to have more of him and his beautiful body whenever you want.

── .✦ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 (𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘):

@lovetaroandtaemin @filmnings @innocygnet @jaylaxies @xylatox @xomakara @gyubookeries @tinycatharsis @prkhaven @hannieoftheyear @frenchkisstheabyss @seungsoftly @lovenha7

© 𝗜𝗞𝗘𝗨𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌!

[rjavenuru]

I wanna know what he's talking about. Also, why the sunglasses inside? Wondering if that bottle might be for what we call trimming, i.e. ""adjusting course"" 😝😝

[togglesbloggle]

Voltaire's Prayer

“I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: Oh Lord, make my enemies ridiculous. And God granted it." -Volaire’s letter to Étienne Noël Damilaville, 16 May 1767

I’m inordinately fond of sex, in the political sense.  It’s saved us so often from the worst parts of ourselves.

As far as anti-authoritarian elements of the human experience go, sex is right up there with curiosity and the search for truth- maybe even more so.  When a new tyrant comes to town, shutting down the universities and the libraries is only the second thing they try.  The first thing is to regulate human sexuality to within an inch of its life.  Rules for marriage, rules for courtship, rules for which genitals may touch and where they may touch and when they may touch.  Rules for who and rules for whom.  Rules for which kinds of sex must doom characters in literature, rules for which things may be described as sexy, rules for which things may be described in a sexy way.

Of course they do!  If you’re trying to bind a large polity together under a common ideological narrative, to render people predictable enough to quash dissent and legible enough to exert power through them, the last thing you need is a bunch of folks running around being horny about stuff without permission.  Nature gifted us with a great capacity for reason and community; we have the innate opportunity to learn about ourselves and our neighbors, and to form complex societies based on that understanding.  It was Aristotle who first called us the political animal, and the fruits of that extraordinary capacity will always be within our reach, if only we can come together within a shared understanding.  The invention of the city is the great triumph of our species, and with it we conquer the universe.

But also this extraordinary, reasoning mind has been sculpted from the raw clay of a biology that’s anchored in sexual reproduction, and this ends up being very, very funny.

The problem isn’t so much that the sex instinct exists, per se.  It’s how it’s implemented.  Like most biological forms, the full complement of 86 billion(!) neurons in your brain aren’t encoded in a particular configuration; the brain is much too complex to be described so precisely in the only ~725 megabytes or so of human DNA.  The particular shape of your brain is in there somewhere- the lobes and subregions responsible for vision, memory, cognition, all that- but only up to a point.  The genius and fundamental limitation of genetics is that, below a certain level, the genes instead describe a process for the production and reproduction of specialized cells, and simply constructs them in such a way that they can be relied upon to order themselves as they go.

This is all well and good when we’re talking about kidneys and livers, but the fact that you can encode any kind of specific behavioral instinct in a brain this way is nothing short of a minor miracle.  Think about it!  Spiders don’t have a ‘spider web’ gene, the gene is for ‘proteins that come together in self-assembling electrochemically sensitive gelatin tissue which, when complete, encodes patterns that operate organ systems such as legs and spinnerets in such a way as to reliably create silk webs.’  This is absurdly impressive, and also completely insane.

What I’m getting at is, powerful behavioral instincts in a complex animal aren’t precise instruction manuals by which we pursue evolutionarily advantageous behaviors.  Sex and eros are prior to logic or language, let alone strategy.  Sex is a double-thick electrical wire discharging lightning bolts right through the middle of our cognitive centers, installed in the brain by a surgeon wearing mittens.  It’s an untethered firehose whipping chaotically through the cathedral, unpredictably spraying golden reliquaries with substances unmentionable.  It’s the first and greatest anarchist.

I really can’t overstate my gratitude for this.

Obviously this results in any number of deeply goofy outcomes by way of kinks and odd sexual practices- it gets tangled with pain centers, with random bits of anatomy and proprioception, with our taboos and aversions, with our greatest terrors or our greatest yearnings or just arbitrary stimuli from adolescence, and of course it gets enmeshed so often with our notions of power and submission.  It imbues these things with a fascination and potency out of all proportion with their mundane meanings.  And ultimately, you end up with human pleasures and human values that diverge so far from banal evolutionary imperatives as to be all but unrecognizable.

Even when this process somehow manages to propagate through the brain in such a way as to drive behaviors that are legibly aligned towards some adaptive constraint- e.g. heterosexual mating practices resulting in biological reproduction and careful childrearing- it’s still madness.  Love and sex penetrate deeply across tribal and national and racial boundaries, across economic interests, across battle-lines and enmities.  We become traitors, apostates, emigrants, and artists.  Declare a law, and in short order some hot-headed young people come along to break it in the name of sexual passions you could not possibly have seen coming.  Divide your neighborhood into us and them, and by the time the ink is dry on your proclamation there will be a forbidden relationship across the fence.  There is no social order, no ethical system, no theory of human nature that can entirely withstand contact with the full spectrum of human sexuality, because sex and eros are always going to be exactly as bonkers as the complexity of the human mind and culture will allow, plus a little extra just to be sure.

This isn’t always a delight, of course.  Many prohibitions exist for a very good reason, and the chaos of human sexuality makes no exemptions for true evil.  Some of us end up really, truly victims of this process.  But for all the dangers, the chaos at the root of all this isn’t oriented towards evil.  Chaos just means chaos, essentially arbitrary and hence absurd in character.

And in the grand analysis, we are so lucky to have this thing moving through our communities, this ridiculous madness that guarantees that there will be cracks in every wall and slips exploding cigars in the pockets of the powerful few.  Not in everybody as individuals, of course, and not everybody the same amount; asexuality is certainly one of the outcomes that all this mad gallivanting through our brains can produce.  Sexuality would never be so predictable as to guarantee its own existence, after all.  That’s part of what makes the joke so funny.

But all of us, regardless of sexuality, get to live in a world where the grand anarchy of sex is constantly driving home this lesson that no category is inviolate and no law is perfect.  That we should not and cannot take ourselves too seriously, or forget that we’re animals.  That we don’t exist only for the sake of others, or within their understanding.  That cities are made of cooperation, grace, and forbearance- not conformity or mere compliance.

People sometimes worry about immortality.  In the political sense, I mean.  They worry about eternal dictatorships and unconquerable gerontocracies.  This fear isn’t entirely unjustified; death has often played a role in progress and liberation.  But as long as enough of us are still getting horny without permission, still falling in love in stupid ways, I think we’ll be okay.  Romeo and Juliet don’t have to die at the end to make a difference in the world, as long as they’re brave enough to get weird with it.

[midnightsun-if]

However, they’re happy to proclaim that they’re fluent in: Na’vi, Sindarin, and Quenya.

Ok you won now I HAVE to romance R

R is the biggest fantasy/sci-fi/etc. nerd ever (a trait they’ve gotten from me, I admit). It’s something I’m so excited to explore further (especially since they’re living part of their nerdy dreams by being at Aurelian). I can’t wait for the moment that Scarlett let’s R meet Balerion… It’s a sweet moment. (Plus Scar is fluent in a fantasy language too, which is something R is going to immediately want to learn so they can have ��secret” conversations.)

I just have a lot of fun stuff involved with R… Like having them try to wrangle the dorm into playing D&D.

[simplylena-9]

Amour et espoir

Chapter one — New life new you

Summary: Having to move isn't great, leaving out behind everyone and everything you love for a new life and country is challenging and nerve wracking,but trying to find friendships and even love is even harder.

Sure,moving out of your childhood home isn't the best — it takes a while to adjust that you are indeed leaving something you grew,you once loved and cherished to be left behind,the realization hitting harder than it needed.

There you were,in the car, taking the dead pan of the time, that you are, indeed leaving your childhood house,your friends,you everything — isn't that the best huh?

Y'know,maybe it's a nice change of pace and space, y'know,with new places,new opportunities and new chances,new ways of finding out how to speak to you math teacher because you just need one more point to pass the class but she wouldn't for fucks sakes give it to you. Maybe it's a new way to meet someone new,maybe fall in love,maybe make friendships that last. Yeah,maybe like that,you tried convincing yourself, looking out the window of the car...yeah...maybe.

"Soo,how are we feeling about this moving? Is this exciting?" Your mother said, grinning widely. Yeah,very,so much to the point I want to jump and be excited I'll go to a new school,have to meet new people and build up friendships, just amazing! You thought to yourself,as you silently nodded and agreed with your mom,not entirely content with the whole ordeal.

"You know you're going to that amazing school, Voltaire, doesn't it sound nice? I'm sure you'll get friends. Plus,if it makes you feel any better, just this year they're adding girls into an all boys school!" Oh yeah. Great. Are they as annoying as the smelly, pubescent teen boys my brother had in his class who sell porn magazines the schools bathroom? You sighed, feeling bored and tired. But hey,maybe. just maybe. A tinsy insty bit this will come out great. I mean you're not embarrassing yourself by coming in the middle of the year or something right?? And the girls will be as lost as you right?? Maybe, just maybe you'll make amazing friends,besides your other two,and y'know what, you'll, you'll send letters and calls with your childhood friend's! You'll keep in contact! Yes! Of course!

Hey...maybe moving is not so bad.

Morning of Monday — 1963, the sun shined bright outside your winow,the half open window you had the night before ent warm waves of air from outside, you're, Fluffy, looking out of the window at the bird trough the half open curtains. You're eyes fluttered open, getting used to the warm light that hugs the room. Stretching,you sat up,looking around. Great,the first day of school at Voiltaire, how bad can it be? You sat up yawning as you looked around at the still packed boxes in your room filled with diferent objects,from your clothes to the different jewelry and objects you've collected troughout the years. You sat up,petting Fluffy and going towards the bathroom. Getting in the shower, then doing you're normal routine of washing your face and styling your hair,then going and picking up the said school outfit. It was something simple,a white blouse with short sleeves,a plain black skirt,white stockings and Mary Janes. Nothing too etravagant,just school appropiate outfit,then heading down to eat.

" Look at you, rise and shine darling!" Your mother said,smilling widelyas she put a plate down for you,you're father as he normaly did,reading the newspaper and drinking what you've guessed cofee,as the youngest,you're brother sat quietly and ate his breakfast. You nodded, taking a seat, and looking at what you're put on the plate. An egg,a saussage and some tea,not bad way of waking up. '' Thank you,'' You said,still into your own thoughts,taking a bite as she smiled at you,you're father looking at both you and you're brother,then his eyes going back to the newspaper. ''So,first day of school huh? How exciting!'' She asked you and your brother,then her eyes darting between you and him and then you father. You nodded and took a bite of your egg,damn,she seemed more excited than you. ''I don't think it'll be as bad as you think it is.'' Your father said taking a sip of his coffee as you're brother smiled at him and nodding,at least he was more optimistic about this whole thing. ''Yeah,it won't be,you're not going to be the only girl.'' You brother added taking a sip of his tea,you're mother humming in agreement,and you couldn't help but nodd also in agreement,trying to be as optimistic as him. Their right,it's not going to be that bad will it?

You finished you're food, thanking and saying you're goodbyes as you took your schoolbag,heading out, getting yourself hyped up to go and take everything like an champ.

The walk to school was awkard,walking alone as you silently looked at ground,thoughts swriling trough your head. Besides that,it was quite the quiet time, only a few people glacing your way because you were new, or the birds chirping around.

Looking towards the entrance of the school,you took a look at it. It was huge,with thick bricked walls and the entrance being out of metal bars connected to each other. Male students passed by, looking at you,with either confused or straight up glaring as the walked in. You took a deep breath. This is going to be a new chapter of your life,and you'll make the most out of it. Walking trough the entrance,the eyes didn't stop,more than a few boys looked at you, trying to make logic in why you are here. There were a few guys...well more than a few,some sat on the benches,some talked with their friends as some ran to meet they're other close colleagues. There was a boy,who pointed your way,on some the said benches, laughing at you with his colleagues. From what have you seen from a first glance,he had light brown hair and glasses,wearing the uniform. Whatever they talked about was definitely great per say huh,he must be a ray of sunshine to be around. Biting the inside of your cheek and getting yourself hyped,you started walking again,not taking the staring much more than something mere.

Seiing another two girls,looking just as lost and as nervous as you,walking over to them. New life,new me, you resaid in you're head for the one thousand time,walking over to them,eating your nerves.

Introducing yourself,you saw that they looked just as relieved as you did.

''I'm MIchelle and this is Simone.'' The golden haired girl said turning her eyes at the brown haired bob the girl next to her had,as she grinned at you back.

''We really thought we were the only girls,it was mind wrechking.'' She said,as her friend nodded.

''I was just as nervous as you both,amazing shoes Michelle,how did your mom let you wear those?'' You said,looking at them,you wouldve been dead if you've got caught in that by you're mom.

''Don't know,i was feeling like i'd get lectured on wearing them,but my mom somehow left me to pass'' She said smilling,Simone being just as amazed as you.

As you stayed in the campus of the school you've got pretty aquatainted with the girls,them both being a great company. You payed no attetion to the students that passed by,as more and more girls have started to enter the schools gate.

This felt like a good thing,have new found frineds,new found confidence and being in new surroundings felt like an amazing thing.

Maybe this will be as promising as it looks.

[incinerator-deluxe]

(In alphabetical order) (some of these are more … industrial-adjacent, maybe) (I’m new to Tumblr so idk whether to comment or reblog / what’ll give you the notification, but commenting apparently has a character limit, so I’m here now)

1 800 PAIN would mayyyyybe count? Power noise + industrial hip hop; definitely scratches the industrial itch in my brain but idk if it’s what you’re looking for

Ayria if you want danceable industrial pop

Black Dresses for much newer industrial rock

Cabaret Voltaire (I like Red Mecca!) is pretty similar to some of the atmospheres of Skinny Puppy, imo. Music you can both vibe to and/or fall asleep to.

Crash Course in Science are super underrated, with lots of bleak, sorta proto-electroclash textures!!!

Alles ist Gut by DAF is like … (allegedly, because I don’t speak German) horny gay EBM?

Halber Mensch by Einstürzende Neubauten is classic + wonderful!! I also recommend Tabula Rasa, but it was taken off of streaming

Tactical Neural Implant by Front Line Assembly is somewhat similar to Skinny Puppy

This is probably already on that playlist tbh, but Streetcleaner by Godflesh seems to be a staple for people who particularly love industrial metal

HEALTH is good modern industrial pop

Hocico (specifically Sangre Hirviente) makes super fun aggrotech / industrial dance music

Lana Del Rabies has some power noise and some death industrial, though that may not be what you’re looking for

Dogsbody by Model/Actriz is a fun + gay industrial rock album from this year

That Total Age by Nitzer Ebb is a staple for people who are super into EBM

Ada Rook’s album from last year, UGLY DEATH NO REDEMPTION ANGEL CURSE I LOVE YOU, is more metal- and dance-oriented, and enjoyable all the way through

I think that’s all I’m going to include here for now —hopefully this is a good/helpful list, but in filtering my library to industrial music, I realized how broad the genre has become over time. There are definitely subgenres I’ve gravitated towards and subgenres I’ve steered away from over time, but I’m hoping I included enough variety here. :)

im also pissed off cuz ive been listening to this random industrial playlist while running errands and like jesus it's rough out here. why does everyone insist on forcing me to listen to marilyn manson and 900 nin clones

[chaotic-history]

V for the character bingo?

@iron--and--blood

he's the original girlfailure<3