#every fucking artist under the sun does that

[idekwtf-is-happening]

Seeing people on Twitter trying to hate on Taylor swift is so funny like, she’s living in their heads rent free as they scramble for reasons to hate her

[kiestrokes]

astringe | NSFW

Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x Reader/You/Yn Rating: NSFW! Mature (18+) Minors DNI. Word Count: 2516 Genre: smut, porn without plot, friends to casual lovers. Warnings: artsy undercut Hyunjin from the last month + 2023 VMA's, college, art school, a variety of kissing, handholding, Hyunjin is confident, mentions of a fantasy book featuring a blood mage which is a nod to @chans-room and a lovely fic they are crafting up.

Sexually Explicit Content: consented choking (this is the main focus of this fic DO NOT read if you don't enjoy choking in theory or real life), sexual intercourse (penis in vagina) cowgirl, missionary, some breast play but not really, mutual orgasms. let me know if I missed anything!

Summary: Things get a little tense in the library when your best friend innocently discovers your secret asphyxiation kink. He just wanted a better angle of your neck, but now that he's found it, how could he not toy with you a little?

🗝️ Note: sooo this brain rot had consumed me all of my workday yesterday and was only intensified after that undercut reveal at the VMA's. Hyunjin has been a fucking menace lately and I just needed to yeet this my from my brain. So yea, enjoy 🙏🏼thank you to B for their lovely beta read 🖤

Disclaimers: This is a work of fiction; I do not own any of the idols depicted in this story.

Read it on Ao3!

You’re tucked away into what is arguably your favorite place on campus- a window alcove nestled between two rows of bookshelves stocked with the full collection of Oxford dictionaries that nobody ever uses anymore. Thanks to the invention of smartphones.

Your best friend, sketching away on the window sill across from you as the sun descends into twilight. 

Hyunjin looks every part the troubled artist; a black sweater draped over his broad shoulders, dark hair pulled back nonchalantly, displaying his freshly shaved undercut, silver-rimmed glasses glinting under the fading halogen bulbs, a singular black nail pinching a bit of oil crayon as it glides across the thick paper of his sketchbook and rambling about how he needs to work on specific body parts more. 

You’re immersed in your fantasy novel, humming along, without the notion that you are his current subject or what he is saying at this point. The handsome blood mage has captured the warrior princess and is taking her back to his- 

Hyunjin’s hands are suddenly around your throat and your brain doesn't have time to stop the strangled moan that leaves your lips. Your book topples to the carpeted floor with a soft thud, announcing the loss of your place. You regain enough awareness to fight off your body's natural response to this type of touch. How you want to close your eyes, to sink into the hand cupping your neck, and relinquish control. 

Hyunjin’s observant gaze catches it and a mischievous smirk marks his beautiful lips. Slowly he begins to toy with your neck, turning you at angles with a slight flex of his fingers and jut of his thumb into your jawbone. Pretending to sketch the slopes and hollows of your throat, his interest already elsewhere. He grasps the column suddenly and your spine snaps arching your chest forward with a moan, your own hands clawing helplessly at the denim of your pants.  

“Shhh, you don’t want anyone to hear you.” His tongue toys with his top lip as he strokes your throat firmly with his thumb. 

“Hyun-” 

Hyunjin squeezes again, his gaze cutting to yours, the intensity of his eyes causing a whine to get caught in your chest.

He abandons the sketchbook and slips up next to you, his large thigh pressing into yours. His arm comes to rest between your breasts, rising and falling with your rapid breathing. 

“Does this turn you on?” 

You nod subtly. Head kicking back as he gifts you with another squeeze for answering his question honestly, biting your lip hard to keep all sounds locked behind your teeth. 

“Why aren’t you stopping me?” He looks at you from under his brow, smiling almost wickedly. 

Your lip slips from your teeth and a whimper escapes, Hyunjin rewards you with a firm press to the sides of your neck. You can feel your pulse thrumming against the tips of his fingers, and your eyes close in an attempt to calm your breathing.

“Do you want me?” Hyunjin’s cool breath fans across your lashes.

“Yes,” You whisper.

Hyunjin’s hand slips up to cup your jaw, his thumb caressing your lip before tugging it down. Your eyes snap open to find his gaze focused on his hand, and your lips. Then he's standing suddenly, like nothing had just occurred between the two of you. Calmly collecting his things, and slipping them into his bag along with your book he retrieves from the floor. 

Not a word is spoken until he looks down at you expectantly, “Let's go then.”  

You stand up shakily and Hyunjin wraps your hand in his, tucking you into his side and turning the two of you toward the exit. Hyunjin smiles politely at the librarians as they wave goodbye on your way out. His other fingers interlocked with yours as he guides you toward the elevators.

Hyunjin had lucked out in having a solo artist suite above the library, your second favorite place on campus.

Inside the elevator, you watch him in the tin reflection. Hyunjin smirks back at you, slipping your hand into the pocket of his baggy pants, and pressing the tips of your fingers into his erection. You gasp and turn to look at him, but he’s already watching you. An unspoken acknowledgment that he wants you too.

Hyunjin’s eyes only intensified behind the magnification of his circular glasses. With all the metal surrounding you, you’re all too aware of the charged energy behind Hyunjin’s gaze. As if you were to reach out and touch the wall of the rattling lift, you would be electrocuted.

The elevator dings and you tear your eyes away from him. Hyunjin removes your hand from his pocket and pulls you out of the elevator, toward his room. He punches the code in with his free hand and gestures you inside, finally releasing your hand from his firm grasp. Inside, the room is the same as it always is; dimly lit by a single lamp by the bed, bathing everything in a buttery glow that softens the sharp edges of Hyunjin’s drawing desk and stacks of sketchbooks.

You slip your sandals off and pad unsurely over to the bed, toes pinching into the soft checkered rug at the foot of his bed. The heat of Hyunjin’s body alerts you that he has moved on from removing his shoes and hanging up his bag at the door. 

You tilt your head to look up at him, just as his eyes meet yours his hand is on your throat again, stroking up before spreading firmly across your larynx.

Hyunjin’s lip's part when you press into his hand, asking for more, consenting to be choked. His lashes flutter in a soft laugh when you moan at the squeeze he bestows. He presses his front to your back, his other hand slipping under your sweater, across the soft skin of your stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“What a lovely little secret you kept from your best friend,” His lips ghost yours as he squeezes again, a groan erupting from your throat.

Hyunjin breathes a laugh as he shuffles you over to the bed, the front of his thighs pressing into the backs of yours as if you are a doll, marionetting you exactly where he wants.

Your knees bump into the end of the bed and Hyunjin’s hand slips from your throat, turning you around to face him and tossing you down on your back with a soft push. Your hands fist the soft gray fleece of his bedding, anchoring yourself to something, solidifying yourself in this moment.

He wastes no time ridding himself of his clothing, tugging off the sweater, dropping his pants and boxers to be shamelessly nude before you.

You gulp, gaze bouncing across the chiseled body of your best friend. Hyunjin smiles knowingly, everyone reacts to him this way, he just didn’t expect that switch to be so easily flipped on in you. He rakes a hand through his hair, tugging out the tie and allowing his dark locks freedom. While his other hand rises to remove the glasses.

“No-”

He stops and shoots you a quizzical look, one that is punctuated with a paradoxically cute tilt of his head.

“Leave them on.” 

He grins, “another kink.” 

Hyunjin rolls his tongue between his lips, as he bends to tug you down the bed by your thighs. The squeak that escapes your mouth earns you an affectionate chuckle from him and you relax at the familiar sound.

This is your best friend, he’s not some inexperienced man pretending to be a dominant. Hyunjin smiles at you as he feels your muscles release underneath his hands.

The urgency with how he undressed himself is the polar opposite of how he unclothes you. His slim fingers slowly unbutton your pants, methodologically like he’s molding your body like clay.

Committing each touch to memory to draw later, each feeling, each sound. The snap of your button, the zip of your pants, you watch his eyes observing every subtlety.

He bites his bottom lip at the tilt of your hips, his eyes tracing how the light casts shadows over the mound of your cunt.

The darkened valleys that your hip bones create as he shifts the denim down your thighs. He tosses them off to accompany his discarded clothing, absently tracing the malleolus of your ankle as he nestles himself between your open thighs. 

You move to sit up, thinking your shirt is next, but Hyunjin is quick- he pins you to the bed by your throat and the moan that escapes you is raw.

Hyunjin huffs at you, eyes lidding as the sound impacts him. With his hand firm on your throat, his other fingers dip into the band of your panties, middle finger diving into your slit. He moans himself, eyes closing in pleasure at discovering how wet you are. 

Hyunjin releases you altogether, bending over to grab a condom from the crystal ashtray on his nightstand. He rolls it over his length, and everything picks up speed.

Suddenly your panties are gone and Hyunjin spears open your lower lips with one hand, slapping the head of his cock on your swollen clit. You writhe, crying out at the sensation as he circles it with his tip. 

“Choking you makes you this wet?” Hyunjin’s eyes are on your face and you blink yours open at him, nodding. “Can you come from it?” 

“I don’t know, no one has ever tried. Most guys get too lost in-” You break off and he tilts his head, eyebrows rising slyly.

His tip breaks your entrance, “-this pussy?”

You arch off the bed when he thrusts into your bowed body causing you both to moan loudly.

Hyunjin climbs onto the bed, thighs slipping under yours as he presses your pelvis together.

“Oh fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight,” He heaves out in half moan, half laugh.

“Hyunjin-” you grasp at his arms on your hips and his fierce gaze meets yours as one hand takes its place on your throat, thrusting in and out a few times.

“Squeezing me just like this-shit” his hand on your throat tightens in a way that makes your eyes roll back.

Combined with the sensation of his dick rubbing snuggly into the front wall of your core. He has you panting and whimpering from both.

Hyunjin’s eyes burn into yours as he snaps his hips hard a few times before backing off of you entirely, his chest heaving slightly. You chase after him, legs sprawled open, and tug his mouth to yours with a fistful of his silken hair. 

He grins against your mouth, “That's it, show me what you want.” 

He slips back onto the bed, guiding you into his lap, and you comply, eagerly. Slowly sinking onto his length, only Hyunjin doesn’t want that, he slams you down by your hips and you both cry out at the stretch and clench of your cunt.

His hands drift up your sides, snatching the hem of your sweater, followed by a one-handed snap of your bra, before both are tossed off into the void of his darkened room. 

Hyunjin reclines back against the pillows fluffed up against the headboard, hands trailing down your chest. His right hand, the one that seems to be permanently tinted with oil crayon and kohl smudges your nipples as he grazes them. His pupils spread as he watches you, as you roll your hips forward just a little, to test how he feels in this position.

“It's not too deep for you?” He rolls up into you, bathing in your reaction as you arc forward, breasts thrust towards his face.

He does it again, this time his hand grasping your throat firmly as you shudder against him.

“No,” you moan, rubbing yourself shamelessly into his base.

Hyunjin’s lips part as you continue your gyrations, his hand on your throat constricts in response. You start to pant, your arousal beginning to climb again.

“Fuck” Hyunjin curses.

His pelvis tucking into the bed, away from you as you tighten around him. His other hand rocks your hips encouraging you to keep moving, and you do.

Your eyes lidded as you stare down at your beautiful best friend, his dark hair splayed across the pillows, metal rims of his glasses catching in the light.

Hyunjin smiles at you fondly, his own arousal flaming under your heated gaze. He squeezes your throat again, both of you moaning as you tremble around him. You start to rock, and Hyunjin’s head kicks back as you draw him out and your pussy sucks him back in with urgent strokes.

“Harder,” he bites between clenched teeth, and you slam your ass back, your hands grasping the arm linked to your throat for balance.

You’re not sure who is more lost in the sensation, you or Hyunjin. He lets out a suppressed moan, each time you sink fully into his lap. While you moan and pant unabashedly, gasping for breath as his fingertips alternate long squeezes with short tight ones against the column of your throat.

The coil of your climax sends your nipples into tight buds as it slips across your body, sinking into every muscle.

“Hyun-” you start, and he sits up smashing your lips to his, plush lips parting and tongue diving inside to swallow every moan you release.

With a firm hand on your throat, his hips match your pace, drilling up into you and no longer hiding his vocalization.

Hyunjin’s fingers squeeze tight and hold firm, causing you to burst around him. Overwhelmed not just from the asphyxiation but by his tongue tracing figure eights across yours and the swell of his cock stroking along your sensitive walls.

Arousal gushes out of you, wetting Hyunjin’s lap so that each thrust is announced with an undeniably intimate squelch.  You cry a strangled version of his name into his mouth, his lips still working yours until you’re bowing away from him, your spine curving you back. 

Hyunjin follows right behind you, fisting your throat one last time before his fingers splay open as he comes apart groaning your name. His head tossed back, hips shaking with effort as you continue to seize around him.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he whispers as he collapses back against the headboard, “Mmm.”

Hyunjin rubs your thighs affectionately, rolling his hips into you one final time before pulling you down to lay on his chest.

The two of you lay there in near silence, the only sounds are your labored breaths returning to a normal pattern. Hyunjin idly draws lines along your spine, with the tips of his slender fingers as you come down from your high.

“Hyunjin,” you mumble against the valley of his clavicle.

“Hmmm?” He returns sleepily.

“This doesn’t change anything between us, right?” You lift your head to look at his face.

His eyes are closed, and he looks like a Grecian carved work of art. Full lips glistening with your exchanged saliva, cheekbones dewy from sweat. 

His hand on your back stills briefly, before flattened palms rub up your rib cage and his eyelashes flutter open to meet your anxious stare.

“A couple of fucks won’t change what's between us, honey.” He says firmly and you smile in relief pressing your forehead to his, he wastes no time in sealing his lips to yours.

© COPYRIGHT 2023 by kiestrokes All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced without written permission from the author. This includes translations.

[withonly-sweetheart]

Back to the Sea

The mysterious stranger on the boat happens to be your roommate and you can't help but wonder who he is. Something about him captivates you, but what happens when an artist loses his brush?

a/n: so... this is all @chesue00's fault. dont get me wrong ilysm pookie but i cannot tell you how much this was going through my head the entire day like i wanted to get home so badly and write this i almost told my teach to fuck off... but thank u ur so talented it hurts like that inspired me sm and thats what art should do! ty! <333

tw: angst?? bc its not my fic unless its got angst (hopefully...) uhm mentions of like illnesses and the flu and stuff but idk help

wc: 5.2k - yes im not even kidding i wrote this all tdy and its not even grammar checked will do that later hehehehehe <333

As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a warm golden hue across the vast expanse of the ocean, you sit at the edge of the ship, gaze fixed on the endless waves stretching out before her. The gentle sway of the ship beneath you, the salty sea air mingling with the haunting cries of the seagulls soaring overhead; it all served as a reminder of sorrow and loss that clings to you like a heavy shroud.

You take it between your fingers, as if you can feel the harsh, unforgiving ivory material form under your hand, and wrap it around yourself tighter, cherishing the small bursts of warmth you get from sitting up here.

Each wave that laps against the side of the ship fails to cover the whispers of the crowd steadily disappearing around you, pointing fingers shamelessly, wondering why a girl your age is sitting, all alone, staring wistfully out at the cerulean abyss.

Someone clears their throat behind you. The last thing you want is to be bothered, so you twist over your shoulder to dismiss them, but somewhere up your throat, the words clump together into a soft gasp.

You have seen him around the ship, when you were first boarding, but you didn’t get the best look at him. Now that you do, you know one thing as true as the sky is blue.

He’s breathtaking. His eyes, reflecting the azure of the ocean, flash with lightning quick irritation, as if your presence inconveniences him. The curve of his lips set in a straight line, tightening almost imperceptibly, jaw clenching ever so slightly.

If you weren’t looking so hard, you could’ve missed it all. 

But how could you miss anything he does, when each ripple of his feature is like a brushstroke? An artist’s slow, deliberate intentions, painting the man in front of you.

“You are taking up the seat,” he mumbles, so quietly you almost don’t catch it. “Apologies,” you respond, shifting to make room for him. The dip between his eyebrows deepens and you find yourself frowning back. “Is something wrong?”

His gaze clouds, turning a muffled shade of gray. “No.”

You hum in response before turning back to the ocean. The heavy silence writhes between them, its unseen grip tightening with each breath. Your mind churns, sensing dark depths his haunted eyes warn away.

So you stand and stroll away, not sparing a glance at the brooding figure. You don’t wish to descend into his sorrow. You have enough of your own, and the tension crackling between you is nearly tangible. 

You know well that behind every handsome man, there is a troubled mind.

And the windows to those thoughts are the eyes.

<><><><>

“If the brothe bee to sweete, put in the more wine, or els a litle vineger.” 

You recall this line from a cookbook your mother once owned as you stare down at the barely distinguishable liquid in a bowl in front of you. Chips of wood flake off and dissolve into the mess of what you think are minced vegetables pooling at the bottom. Though the bubbles of oil faintly remind you of home, nothing else is the same.

You can’t remember the last time you had traditional soup, from the homeland, where everyone's the same as you and food is plentiful, rich in the scent of tangy spices and fresh vegetables and ripe fruit, where the forest birds sing sweet melodies in your ear.

But you are no longer there. It will, as all things do, fade with time, resolving as just a landscape drawn in your head, reduced to nothing but scribbles.

With a sigh far too troubled for your age, you gingerly push the bowl away, careful not to slosh any of it over the edge. You know you are being picky; food is food, and starvation will slowly creep up on you when you least expect it.

But it is better to starve than throw yourself from the starboard, letting the choppy waves consume you. Hunger takes time, crescendoing pain and ache until you cannot bear it. Suffering will suffice, at this moment.

And across the dining hall, the small room housing yet a few late night eaters, you spot him saunter in. Long, black trench coat brushing his ankles, a hat you did not see that now casts shadows upon his chiseled face.

His overalls strain with effort and crumple into wrinkles as he sits a few tables away, raising a hand, wordlessly summoning a bowl of soup that carries from tentative hands. He waves the aged woman away, and perhaps he does not catch the longing look in her eyes.

She has not seen a man so divine in years. Her time at sea has clouded her judgment. This is yet another reason why you must traverse the ocean blue, to prevent the jobs piling up at what you thought was your home, near the port, where the docks carry back the ashes of your family.

You used to love the ocean, the beach, the shores. When the sea hurt you, your father would kiss the tears away, murmuring soft assurance in the shell of your small ear. Although she was nearly a decade older, your sister would never decline an offer of yours to hunt for the little creatures that popped up from the swirling sand, watching them disappear underneath your slow hands.

You miss them. Influenza never failed to take, take, take; the greedy fingers latched on to your family before you could arrive home that day to sick corpses so pale you could not recognize them.

The doctor had suggested a traditional burial,but you knew there was one more thing the sea needed. You lit the pyres, watched their souls mingle with the smoke that gasped for the clouds, and waited.

When all that was left of your loved ones was charred, ivory dust that seemed to sparkle back at you, unaware of its fate, you gathered it into a pot that your grandmother gifted you.

The ocean rejected your offering, at first. It veered away, pulling water from the shore lines, but you stood fast. And it came back, gathered what was already gone, and took it away from you.

The sea never fails to remind you of what you’ve lost.

But here, on the ship, a marvel of engineering, keeping you afloat, you are not truly with the sea. You will not make yourself mold to the pitiful, lonely girl everyone expects you to be. 

With that resolve, you cradle the soup back to your chest, staring it down with defiant eyes. The ocean will not have another victim, you will make sure of that.

It burns your throat all the way down, saltier than the sea. Bile raises to combat it but you force spoon after spoon into your stomach. All that remains from your battle is the wood, which you tried your best to separate from the soup, but you are sure that you definitely swallowed at least some of it.

As the thinnest definition of dinner warms your insides against the cold that threatens to seep in, your eyes find him across the galley. He sits alone, as always, nursing a tin cup and gazing into its contents as if answers lay within.

You recall your chance encounter in the night, the rare moments of grace amid tumult never far from his eyes. Though he often keeps away from the streams of people, you have the feeling it has less to do with aloofness than wounds not easily unveiled.

As if finally sensing your gaze, his eyes lift and meet yours across the dusty space. There seems to be no cracks in his steely expression, his stormcloud eyes, but there is a flicker of emotion - curiosity, or perhaps kinship's first stirrings. 

You offer the barest nod before returning focus to your meager meal. Yet all the while, currents stronger than the sea pull at your thoughts, drawing them ever back towards that quiet figure and mysteries that beg to be revealed. You tilt your head to the side, rubbing fingers down your neck, feeling your pulse race underneath your skin. Massaging the area, you force yourself to relax.

You force yourself to believe that those eyes haven’t jarred your thoughts.

<><><><>

“I must… have the wrong room.” Those same eyes stare back at you, hands trembling slightly around parchment yellowing at the edges, swirling with confusion. “I apologize.”

“It wouldn’t, by chance, be 930, would it?” you ask. 

“Er… yes,” he admits with a dip of his head, looking almost embarrassed by the situation. “I suppose I’ll go request another-”

“It’s quite alright,” you race to say before you can stop yourself. “I do not mind.”

A small corner of his mouth lifts, if only for a second, and when his expression goes back to being neutral, you find yourself wanting to coax more emotions from him. 

You help him get settled in, telling him he could take the bed on the right. When he’s finished fussing with the sheets, you sit on your respective mattresses, awkwardly staring down at your hands.

"I... thank you," he finally replies, his voice soft. "I did not expect to find understanding here."

“Your name, sir?”

“Leon. Your name, I already know.”

“How fascinating.”

“You are a… popular subject of gossip upon this vessel.”

“Why are you traveling to England?” you ask, finding yourself making small talk to switch the topic. “Are you simply traveling?”

“Yes.” 

“Where is your hometown?” His eyes glaze over with the familiar homesickness you can recognize.

"My home lies in a small village far from here," he replies, gazing into memories only he could see. "A quiet place, surrounded by green countryside and simple folks." His eyes find yours with rare openness. "And you? What brings one so young to cross the sea alone?"

“I’m paying my lovely aunt a visit,” you say vaguely, trying to make your voice light. But he must hear the undertones of it, because he cocks his head to the side, arching a golden eyebrow.

“Is that so?” he muses. “I hope you enjoy your trip.”

“I’ve noticed you carry that briefcase around quite a bit,” you say, quickly changing the subject. “Is it dear to you?”

He laughs, a warm, rich tone that sparks something in your heart. 

Maybe… just… maybe?

“Not so,” he explains. He leans over to grab the case resting on the nightstand and clicks it open. “This is the reason I am traveling, you see.”

You peer over the top of the rusty case to reveal… pencils?

“You are… an artist?” you ask, slightly confused. You hadn’t taken him for a participant of the fine arts, but at your query, his eyes seem to light with an inspiration not previously there.

“I have lost my flame,” he says slowly, cautiously, as if placing his words carefully. “I thought England would fix… the problem… but perhaps… you could help me?” At your face, he bites his lip. "A smooth sea never makes a skilled sailor, as they say."

“Who has ever said that, and who am I to decline a stranger in need?” You chuckle, and his grin seems to usurp his entire expression. 

“You need not do anything,” he rushes to say, hands flurrying to unpack the materials carefully stowed away in the briefcase. The determined, set look on his face is enough to convince you, and even if it hadn’t, realistically, would you be able to say no?

He stills suddenly, observing you, sweeping over you, drinking in everything, as if to absorb your being. When his gaze meets yours, he smiles and it truly reaches his previously emotionless eyes.

“You are… perfect,” he whispers. He holds his pencil up, bottom lip disappearing as he frowns, grumbling in frustration. “But this lighting is… not quite correct.”

Leon eyes the room, then stands suddenly. You watch him, watch him drag a chair from the small writing desk over to the foot of his bed, planting it firmly. He points a finger to the empty space, gesturing for you to sit there.

“What exactly are you planning?” You ask with a smile.

The one he returns matches your curiosity. “We shall see.”

And that is exactly how, a few minutes later, you sit with your legs crossed, hands folded over one another in your lap, with a soft smile decorating your face.

“You must stay still,” he chastises, gazing at you with a languid look in his eyes, voice dreamy, as if he sees something in you that you can’t.

“You have not yet answered my question.” You ignore the red blooming up your neck at his fluttering gaze. He lounges further into the bed, hiding more of himself away, spinning the pencil between his fingers.

He looks almost thoughtful as he scribbles away, muttering to himself, lost in a trance. You lean against the dresser, resting your body weight on it, feeling yourself relax.

His eyes move back to you, and he jolts, like something drastic has changed. His hands fly rapidly across the paper, gaze locked onto you. He smudges something with his finger, erases something here and there, and eventually, he huffs a sigh and leans back, looking somewhat satisfied with the paper.

Intrigued, you stand from your position, stretching your stiff joints. “May I see?”

Leon snorts a laugh. “Of course not.”

“It is my portrait, no?” You grin. “Show me.” Without another word, you lean over the foot of the bed, over the elaborate carvings of wood, and try to sneak a peek at the paper.

He lets out what you can only describe as a boyish squeal, and yanks the pad away from you, clutching it to his chest. “I said no!”

Leon tries his best to play-keep away from your hands, folding the paper carefully in half as he stuffs it into an inner pocket of his shirt. When you try to reach for it, instinctively, he flushes a red hue that matches the crimson of your bedsheets.

“Apologies,” you whisper.

“It’s alright,” he whispers back.

The air has gone back to tense, anguish, as if you are both hurtling towards something you cannot stop, racing towards a finish line in a race you do not wish to compete in. When he climbs into bed, wordlessly, you wonder what you did to deserve this torture, to have a masterpiece sleeping a few feet away. 

He purses his lips and blows out the flame in the lantern standing proud on your nightstand, murmuring a quick goodbye.

As your eyes adjust to the absence of light, you watch the blanket blow out around him, creeping over his body, hugging him tightly. His snores come quickly, gentle and quiet, not bothersome.

You sigh and close your eyes, wishing for the relief of sleep to come as fast as his.

<><><><>

Strangely enough, someone rouses you from your sleep, something you didn’t expect. Breakfast calls were a luxury reserved for those with money, but you weren’t going to complain. Missing the first meal of the day had serious consequences in your household.

This isn’t your household, though. These aren’t your rules.

And that definitely isn’t a handkeep’s fingers clutched around your arm.

“Leon?” you murmur, rubbing your eyes, savoring the fuzzy corners before every comes into focus with sudden clarity. He stands beside your bed, gaze darting here and there. 

“Oh… you are awake,” he says as he isn’t the reason it is so.

“You woke me,” you state blankly, blinking up at him.

“I suppose… well,” he mutters, then sighs, shaking his head. “Never mind that.”

“How often does this happen?” you ask quietly, sitting up. “Are you plagued by night horrors?”

“I am not a child!” he snaps, then immediately softens, regret pooling in his eyes. “It is just… I thought you had left…”

“Yet I am here, no?” you say, slightly bemused. The tips of Leon’s ears turn a salmon pink as he lets out a shuddering breath, nodding. 

“I see that,” he says with a small smile, sitting beside you, leaving enough space to respect your privacy. You return one with just as much carefully measured emotion, not wanting to scare him away, wanting him to open up.

As gray dawn spreads its thin wings slowly over calm waters, he recollects himself. He tells you fragments of his past, picking up pieces of his past until it fits into a puzzle perfectly. An orphan, talent stripped from him by the urge to survive.

You faintly think that he should also be a writer, because the way he tells his story is akin to the way an author paints a scene with just words. You can see his parents in the shadows, echoing in his laugh, in the slant of his nose, the pucker of his chin. 

He shrugs, twisting to face you. “I almost died, there, on the streets.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

His eyes meet yours, “So am I.”

Seeing him in such a vulnerable state, you can’t help but feel inclined to share what truly happened to you as well.

“I’m not… just visiting my aunt.”

A ghost of a smile graces his lips. “I was thinking as much. Tell me, what is the true purpose of your visit.”

“My family recently passed from influenza. Only sorrow trails me in the States. Perhaps returning to my hometown will provide… solace?” You offer a dry laugh, but Leon’s expression goes stony as he takes your hands into his.

“I… did not know,” he says, sounding as sincere as you’ve ever heard him. “I made such a joke without understanding the full context… I apologize.”

“It is really nothing,” you rush to assure him, but more so because the crestfallen look on his face is something you do not wish to bring upon. “I forgive you.”

“You are still tired,” he says with another sigh. “I will wake you for breakfast. Sleep.”

He’s right. Too sleepy to protest, you clutch the blankets around you and shut out not only the slowly growing beams of sunlight from the window, but also the relief that emanates from Leon’s very being, flooding over you, bringing you the peace that lets you drift off.

<><><><>

You wake to frigid air seeping through cracks in the ship's walls, clouds hiding the sun’s bright smile. Throwing off your thin blankets, you grasp the warmth, hoping it still lingers. But your hand meets only cold, empty fabric. 

Panic rises in my throat as you rush from the sleeping quarters. Out on the icy deck, figures hustle to and fro under a pale, stormy sky. Your eyes scan for one in particular, relief flooding through you as you spot his lean form near the rail, gaze lost to the sea. 

"Leon," you call softly so as not to wake the other sleeping passengers. When he turns, worry is etched into his brows. You brush it off with a shaky smile. "I had feared the night's dangers had claimed you at last." 

“At last?” His lips turn up in return, reassuring you with his movement. But you can see the shadow neither of you could outrun, not with Death stalking your decks in his grim dance. 

Drawing near, you trace his stare to the horizon, limitless and cold. You stand in front of him as he lingers behind, hesitating, arms outstretched. 

“I wish to fly, one day,” you say jokingly. “But I suppose for now, swimming will do.”

“I cannot swim,” he admits quietly. “I never will.”

“Of course you can,” you insist. “Anyone can-”

“Not everyone has lost their brother to the sea.”

 The answer burns, searing your back in the way he delivers it, venom in his voice. But eventually, he sighs, as if giving in, and you can feel him get closer.

“May I?” You admire that he asks before anything, and when you nod, he wraps his arms around your waist, pushing you gently against the railing that you clutch tightly. He rests his head on your shoulder, craning his neck to stand comfortably.

Then he speaks again. “My deepest apologies. As you can tell… I miss him.”

"Then we'll face such fears together," you say with such finality you believe it yourself. "None are meant to wander depths of sadness all alone. But your brother's memory lives on you - a gift more precious than any sea could claim. I know this. And what are you doing now?”

Slowly, you can feel his lips curl upwards against your neck, sparking at your words, growing into that smile you’ve come to cherish. 

“You wish to fly? This is as close as I can get you, beloved.”

With a grin of your own spreading across your face, you outstretch your arms, leaning into the wind, wanting to let it carry you both away. Your fingers trace the sharp line of his jaw, coming to rest on his beating pulse that lives on despite all the world has tried to steal away.

You don’t know what overtakes you, the immense feeling of admiration you feel for him, that might be what spurs you to lean in. And, much to your surprise and pleasure, as soft morning light limns sea and sky in a hopeful blend of blue, your lips meet in a kiss - brief, chaste, yet speaking everything you need to hear. 

“At least I’ll have you,” he says, melting back into your embrace, tightening his arms around your hips. “One thing the sea will never take.”

But you should’ve known.

The waters are never done taking.

<><><><>

You do not know when the screams started. All you know is that they came with the rough tides, crashing against the boat, with the crackle of thunder and smoke hissing in the air. Everyone rushes to cram into the sleeping quarters, but living near the port all your life, you know better. You know exactly what is happening.

The boat is sinking.

And strangely enough, your first thought is to find Leon. He had asked you to wait a quiet moment on the deck, and you had both dismissed the rolling clouds, steadily creeping towards you while he disappeared below the deck.

You had been hoping that he would show you his art. Now you hope that you can get him out in time. But before you can scrunch up your dress and scramble into the quarters, someone grabs your arm.

You do not see the face. You know it is not Leon, he is infinitely calmer and more gentle than the rough fingers of whoever your captor is. As you struggle to look up at the face, you are tossed into a boat that hangs on the side of the ship.

“Women and children first!” a gruff voice calls out, presumably the one that just manhandled you. You try to protest, saying you need to go back, but the small boat fills up quicker than you expect, and eventually you are being slowly lowered down onto the choppy waves.

You stand on tiptoe, trying to make out any sign of Leon on the ship, hoping he makes it out okay. The people rowing the boat harshly yank you down before pushing away from the boat. Every stroke they make takes you farther and farther away, until the dense fog shrouds the entire ship from your view.

And the unexpected happens. You hear a loud crack and the boat immediately splinters into two. The women and their children huddle to one side, the bigger side, while you and some other girls stay put, eyes fixed on where you last saw the ship.

With no one to steer, you veer back towards it and it comes into view, only this time, it is on fire. Flames lick the sides, hissing where it meets the salty sea, climbing up the ship. And you see the mess of blond hair that you so desperately recognize.

“Leon!” You shout, screaming for his attention. His eyes snap to your general direction, scanning the area with a wide, panicked expression before landing on you. Almost immediately his face softens before it returns to its stony, default look.

You are confused for a moment before he quickly surveys the area. A raft hangs from the side, unused, calling his name, and you realize with shame that your boat is starting to sink, dipping into the water.

You and the other girls lean to the other side, pleading for help. Summoning all fading strength, you yell his name once more as waves close over your head. Darkness swallows your cries, drowning them in the murky ocean depths, yet in your fleeting consciousness, your trust for him remains like the anchor you wish him to be.

Breathless, gasping, you break the surface amid a sea of shrieks and sinking debris. There through the smoke a ragged shape appears, slicing swift as any bird towards you. Strong hands grasp and haul you aboard the makeshift raft, lying there to cling and spend your remaining prayers in thanks to Leon as he attends each soul amid the roiling deep, ferrying them from the ocean’s inky grasp with steady hands and calmer gaze.

“Are you alright, dear?” he calls to you after the third and final girl is pulled to safety, gasping for breath. “I did not expect this situation whatsoever.”

“Neither did I,” you murmur, spitting the remnants of the salt in your throat back into the sea, like returning a gift. “I suppose we will be alright now.”

Leon’s face crumples. “I’m afraid not.”

You groan. “What is it now? Is it the sharks from the depths? I will fight them with my bare hands, just you watch!”

You watch his expression flash through amusement, then back to pain. “We… I…”

“What troubles you so?”

He gestures a hand to the sea around you, to the drenched figures, far too many for the raft to carry. You realize this with the drop of your heart.

“There are too many of us,” he says apologetically, like he’s only hurting you. “One of us must leave.” 

For a second, you consider pushing one of the girls off. Anything to keep him. But you realize that your selfish thoughts should not take control. You grab his hands, clutching them tightly, holding them to your chest.

“Then it shall be me.”

Leon offers a weak smile. “No.”

“No?” you sputter. “What- it was not a question!”

“It will not be the answer either, my love,” he says gently, prying his hands from yours. “I will be the last. Please make sure of that.”

And before you can plead for him to stay, his weight shifts and you can feel the raft rising again. He casts one more, sorrowful look at you before he glides into the water, descending effortlessly. You reach for him, and your fingers brush his knuckles before he disappears forever.

Before he is gone. 

Yet another loved one.

Lost to the sea.

<><><><>

You wait for an indeterminate amount of time, waiting for the news to arrive one day at your aunt’s doorstep, that he is still alive, awaiting your arrival in some uncharted region. But no such idea comes. And eventually, the denial washes away and you are left with the loss that nothing can fix.

You rock in the chair of your living room, the smell of your aunt’s soup no longer bringing saliva to your mouth, but tears to your eyes, because now everything reminds you of Leon.

The bell rings outside and you can’t bring yourself to rise and answer the door with puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Your aunt knows this, so without sparing you another look, allowing you your privacy, opens the door just a smidge.

She makes conversation with the person standing outside before turning back to you with a soft smile. She hands you an envelope, and you cannot lie when your heart races up to the sky, finding purchase in the fluffy clouds.

You cannot find the words to thank her, but she knows this as well, and walks away without another word. When she disappears behind the kitchen corner, you rush to open the letter.

The first words send your heart plummeting back to where it was, perhaps even crashing through the layer of obsidian and burrowing itself in a place where it will never return. But upon scanning the rest of the thoughtful, heartfelt message, there is a tug that forces you to check the rest of the envelope.

And when you unfurl a piece of paper, long since forgotten in your brain, you muffle a cry with the back of your hand, the parchment trembling in your five, shaky fingers.

It is the portrait Leon drew of you. It made its way back to you.

You know, after seeing this, there is one thing you must do. You lie the paper down on the round table beside you, careful to preserve it.

You wash up, put on a dress your aunt lent to you, a blue, rippling thing that seems to reflect the ocean waves back at you. You tie your hair up, wanting to look somewhat presentable. 

And you call out a goodbye to your aunt, who’s smile you can hear in her voice, evident as she waves from the kitchen, ecstatic to see you out and about. But there is only one place you must go. One thing you must do to find the closure you are aching for.

Back to where it all started.

<><><><>

Tears that are the crystals of salt found in the ocean's depths stream down your face, as unnatural as the mixture of saltwater and freshwater, where one stops, another begins.

In the ocean, you slip from your skin, thoughts descending down a mad spiral, the spirits watching as you mingle with the essence of saltwater stinging your sunburned skin. The night air does little to nothing to cool your thoughts.

Is he there? In the droplets that cradle the back of your hands, trickling from the pool cupped in your palms. You can see him standing, just a few feet away, knee deep in the water, as constant as the waves and as calm as the tides.

Leon’s hair waves in the moonlight, a silent greeting to you, cerulean bathing his face in a ghastly blue, making him seem more and more like the ghost he is.

You raise a hand, out of instinct, choking back a sob. 

A smile curves those salty, timeless lips.

“You left me too,” you whisper through tears, crystals disappearing under the crescents of water brushing against your shorts. “Why can life not just be… easy? Simple?”

Leon chuckles, face softening in sympathy. “Did you forget what I told you already?”

You lift your head, rubbing granules of sand against your nose to muffle your sniffling. “What?” His grin is somehow both brighter than the moon and darker than the water you can’t see through.

“A smooth sea never makes a skilled sailor.”

[penncilkid]

Been thinking about my experiences as a POC within fandom while also being an artist and how much that sucks sometimes. This is primarily in regards to the Redacted fandom, but could be applied to any other fandom honestly.

Proper "fussing" under the cut (for those who would rather not see):

Sometimes, I really stop and think about what it must be like to be a white person in fandom, especially when you're an artist. To see yourself reflected in the spaces you exist in all the time. There are some exceptions to this, of course. For example, lack of body diversity is just as much of a problem in my opinion (Like fat people exist. Disabled people exist. Fat, disabled people exist. You can draw them, y'know? /rhet) But generally speaking, it's not difficult to find designs that probably look like you. There will be blondes, brunettes, redheads even— It's everywhere you look.

I don't think most people realize how isolating that ends up feeling though.

Because it's not just the fact that most of the art/designs you'll stumble upon won't resemble you. It's the fact that the prevalence dictates how everyone else interacts with fandom too.

Do you know how much it sucks seeing a post saying "So we all agree that Asher's blonde, right?" and knowing that most people are thinking of a white guy and nothing else?

Or noticing how Alexis, a generally "hated" character in the fandom, is the only vampire most people are willing to make visibly brown?

How about the fact that Gavin, the "thrilling" and "sexy" incubus, has so many black and brown designs— But I can count the non-white Lasko designs I've come across on my hand?

People can do whatever they want. I've said it before, and I'll continue to repeat it when I make these rambles. If you want to make every single design you have varying shades of white and never stray from that, that's your prerogative. But for the love of god, I wish I didn't feel like I was fucking crazy for talking about how much that shit sucks to see as a person of color.

On top of that, do you know how frustrating it is to watch white artists get praised for generic diversity when POC artists have been consistently bringing forth such compelling, stunning designs to table? Like I see the kind of shit that gets praised in this fandom and what doesn't. Racial ambiguity or the slightest addition of a curl gets treated like it's revolutionary— And that's only if it's the "correct" character. It has to "make sense", right? The same way Sam has to have sun-kissed, golden skin even after he's been turned, or the way Guy has to be white because there's no way someone with that personality could be anything but.

Do you know what it's like to be filled with such a sense of joy because someone made a design where a character had your skin tone or hair texture or facial feature? Like, I genuinely have a strong reaction whenever I find a black or brown design in this fandom because they're so rare in comparison to everything else. And when I really stop to think about that, I realize how fucked up of a phenomenon that is.

I love the designs that I've made, but I've also noticed which ones "do better" comparably. I don't change much of anything with how I go about posting or promoting them. The only difference is that some of them fit what is considered widely "canon" in fandom. And the others... don't. I go out of my way to make every design POC in some regard, and you can usually tell visually even without the addition of colors. I'm not gonna stop doing that because I know why I started in the first place. But fuck, it does start to hurt seeing white artists with the same general white designs get hyped up endlessly while I internally debate if I should even make another character look like me or not. If it'll even matter to anyone but me.

Some days, I just really wish it didn't feel like shit being black in this fandom. I hate knowing that I'm gonna post this, and I'll probably get responses for other people of color primarily.

But maybe putting this out will help that pill get easier to swallow.

[1dcommunityficrecs]

Rec List: Short Fics!

This month, I asked you for your favourite fics under 5,000 words -- and y'all showed up! We have eighteen amazing quick reads for your perusing pleasure, including four rarepairs and one girl direction. We've got hot smut, we've got aliens, we've got two different soulmate goose fics? I didn't know those were a trope but I love it already.

Please join me in reading, kudosing, commenting, reblogging, and celebrating all these lovely authors capturing so much emotion and story and description in just a few entrancing pages.

Talk Body All Night by Anonymous (3005, Explicit, Niall Horan/Zayn Malik/Liam Payne/Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) Warnings: Use of safeword to stop a scene

Hot OT5 smut with Niall as pov. Niall is new to BDSM and he ends up tapping out. He feels frustrated with himself, but his boyfriends are all 110% supportive of his needs and desires.

Reccer says: Excellent handling of D/S dynamics, it deals really well with someone overwhelmed with multiple partners

Louis and the no good, very bad day by haztobegood (4537, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

Louis collapses back into the bed with a groan. Just when he thought his day couldn’t get any worse, there’s a fucking goose stuck on his balcony.

Reccer says: Absolutely love the soulmate goose concept! This fic was so silly and so much fun to read!

That’s the way love goes by bella28 (4202, Teen, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

In a world, where soulmate geese are sent to the people who can’t figure out who their soulmate is, Harry finds himself stuck with a goose when he is attending a concert of his favourite artist Louis Tomlinson.

Reccer says: This is the first soulmate goose fic in our fandom! And it was an utter delight to read! Thankful to this writer for bringing the concept to us!

Hot to Go! by allwaswell16 (2353, Teen, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

When Harry does something weird at the barricade, he leaves Louis’ show devastated and hoping he can somehow make things right.

Reccer says: Absolutely hilarious and charming!

Stray by haztobegood (1713, Explicit, Zayn Malik/Harry Styles) – fic post

Zayn and Harry hook up at a club before Zayn returns him to Louis.

Reccer says: So so hot and dreamy and kinky

Soup, Sex, and Sun Salutations by littleroverlouis (2315, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

Louis is bribed with the promise of brownies to spend the summer solstice with Harry in his backyard. Between the special ingredient taking effect and Harry dancing in the sunshine, Louis is overwhelmed in the best way.

Reccer says: This fic somehow makes you feel high without taking any substances. Warm and wonderful.

someday, girl, we’re gonna get to that place by yeah_alright (2912, Teen, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

Harry's been drawn to pantyhose since he was a kid. If only he could stop taking every snag and run personally.

Reccer says: It's so soft and comforting!

a night like this by momentofclarity (3915, Mature, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

Meeting Louis made Harry sure she likes girls. Harry's nervous to see her again.

Reccer says: I don't remember the specifics unfortunately I just remember loving it so much!

see or touch or use by jishler (3733, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

He gathered Harry’s hands in his own. “Good boy,” said Louis. He kissed a knuckle and looked up at Harry, who seemed to be drifting somewhere between a haze of tenderness and the kind of arousal that made him shudder, gag, beg for more. Exactly where Louis liked to keep him. He gave Harry’s hands back to him, placing them at his sides.

Reccer says: tender and gentle and HOOOO so hot!

Like You Did Before, Sing a New Song by larenthood (4700, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

Louis motorboats Harry on a drunken dare. Harry really wants to do it again.

Reccer says: Intimate and loving!

Feel Your Way by kingsofeverything (3445, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

Louis Tomlinson tries to meet some colleagues for drinks and winds up meeting Harry Styles instead. Harry Styles: famous singer, songwriter, and actor, as well as the source material for the folder of wanking fodder entitled “hiddies” that Louis keeps hidden on his laptop.

Reccer says: Great mix of flirting and hotness and humor and surprise

Let's get physical by Kerasines (3500, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

Alien!Harry tries to adapt to the strange aspects of the human form.

Reccer says: wonderful exploration of desire

Thesis Management by LadyLondonderry (2600, Teen, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

Harry's got an assignment due and it's the full moon.

Reccer says: Funny and charming!

Use You As A Warning Sign by jiksa (2200, Mature, Nick Grimshaw/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

Nick and Louis get trapped in a closet for seven minutes in heaven/hell.

Reccer says: Such great tension and dynamics!

Take Care by everysingleday (4900, Mature, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

Harry’s exhausted and needy and Louis loves him entirely too much to ever say no.

Reccer says: Tender kink!

Us, Me, We by homosociallyyours (2300, Explicit, Harry Styles/Harry Styles) – fic post

High on shrooms, Harry has an encounter with someone who looks a lot like him, and it opens him up a lot of new perspectives. They're very pretty.

Reccer says: It's a beautiful, sensual self exploration!

Watermelon Sugar High by rosemarianthyme (2200, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

Resting right between his legs, the long slice open and juicy and red and his fingers pressed just so, it looked to his wine-hazy brain like a cunt. Like it could be /his/ cunt. (In which Harry Styles fingers a watermelon.)

Reccer says: So visceral and unbelievably hot

To Be Real by Throwthemflowers (3900, Mature, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

Inspired by The Velveteen Rabbit

Reccer says: Incredibly moving. So much beauty and hurt and tenderness packed in.

[abiiors]

thinking ab teasing ross all night long and him having enough so the second the front door shuts hes got her on his shoulders and is eating that thang like a man starved. holding her cunt tight against his face pressing her back into the wall not stopping till she squirts all over his face 😇

(mdni, 18+ only // female reader)

okay before i get into this...

now onto the blurb --

you know you've been an absolute menace today.

it's been like this all day, you--sitting on his lap in your tiny little dress that barely covers anything, grinding on him till he wraps his hand around your waist to keep you still. and yet you press down on him and whisper filthy things in his ear when no one's looking.

you've had fun riling him up knowing you're backstage at a festival. this is not one of their shows, there are no green rooms and little secluded spots for you to fuck in. oh no... there's a tonne of people backstage--other artists and their crew, organisers of the festival, technicians and security and practically everyone under the sun.

not like he hasn't tried. every few minutes you feel his fingers creep up your thigh and inch between your legs. you hear him groan his displeasure in your ear. you hear him growling at you to be. fucking. still.

but you're determined to test the limits.

it's been a while, after all, since you've been a real brat to him. and something about his new hair has you feeling all kinds of way.

you snicker when he has to adjust himself before going on stage. the set is really short--barely thirty minutes but it feels like hours without having him here to keep you warm. without feeling his breath down your neck and chest, feeling his fluttery, sneaky kisses and wandering fingers.

the whole time he's on stage his eyes are trained on you, on your legs and thighs and the deep neckline of your dress. oh he looks pissed... and the thought makes you rub your thighs together. an involuntary whimper slips out of you and you quickly bite your lip to keep it in. on stage, ross messes up a chord.

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

not even two minutes after they walk off stage, you feel a hand around your wrist. you almost yelp, mouth partially open, eyes wide but he's faster. the sound's cut short by ross capturing your mouth in a hungry kiss. 

"you're having fun, aren't you?" he tsks and trails more kisses down your jaw and neck.

"don't know what you mean, baby." you shrug and his hold on your waist tightens. your voice is breathier than you expected but his fingers trail higher up your thigh and all thoughts go out the window.

the car ride back to the hotel room is simply torturous. within seconds, he pulls you on his lap, reckless and uncaring that someone might see you. fuck the driver might see you but now his hands have free reign to touch and tease you however he pleases. and oh, does he take full advantage of it...

"you haven't been very good today..." he mumbles continues to suck at the sweet spot on your neck.  

fuck…the hickeys are going to be so noticeable tomorrow…

but that's tomorrow's problem.

right now you're hyperaware of the tingles going down your spine, of his fingers tracing the edge of your underwear, so tantalisingly close, that you can't help the pathetic whine that slips out of you. 

"ross, please…" foolishly, you grab his hand and try to place it exactly where you want it but he swats your hand away without a second thought. 

"greedy, baby," he mocks and places his hand on your throat, gently applying pressure till your vision goes blurry, till your ears ring and wetness floods between your legs. "looks like i’m gonna have to punish you after all."

you know he wants it just as much as you do, the rock hard evidence is right there, digging in your ass. but ross isn't going to give up control that easily, not after you've been such a relentless tease. your back is pressed to his chest, maybe he can even feel your thudding heartbeat but the car finally takes a turn and slows down.

and here you are now, inside the hotel lift after fifteen excruciatingly long minutes giggling at the way he has to hide his very obvious boner.

his jaw ticks at the sound and you know he's not going to go easy on you whatsoever.

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

the second the door closes behind him, ross swings you up on his shoulder, completely ignoring your surprised shriek, and makes his way to the plush white bed. 

"what’s so funny, huh?" a sting blooms on your ass, humiliation courses through your body--humiliation and desire and anticipation and before you know it, your back's hitting the bed. before you know it, his massive frame hovers over you, golden chain dangling in front of you, almost touching your collarbone.

"no-nothing."

with all these sensations, it's getting difficult to focus on words. difficult to focus on anything that's not him. your body goes slack at his touch, completely giving up control as he pulls the dress over your head and pulls down your underwear leaving you fully naked and at his mercy.

you reach out a hand, about to pull his shirt over his head but for the second time that night, ross swats your hand away. for the second time that night, he wraps his hand around your throat.

"did i say you could touch me?"

you shake your head no and gasp when ross slides his belt off with one hand.

a tendril of fear laced with lust zings through your body.

"hold your hands in front of me," he commands, voice an octave lower than before, gravelly and deep. voice that skitters down your bones. "can’t have you touching me without my permission now can we?"

you whine in response when the belt encircles your wrists and he clicks his tongue. 

"answer me, darling. use your words for me." 

"won’t touch you without your permission, p-please...’ and then the belt tightens around your wrists, effectively turning your words into a moan

"good girl," he smirks. "now..."

his gaze trails shameless over your body, eyes hungrily taking in everything you have to offer---peaked nipples and bound hands, your dripping cunt that he lingers on and it almost makes your want to close your legs out of sudden shyness but he's faster. next thing you know, his hands are on your knees, spreading your legs wider, putting you fully on display.

"don't be shy now," he mocks, "what happened to my brat?"

"i wasn't---"

"ah!" a click of his tongue, "wasn't asking you, darling."  

your head spins when he lowers his mouth between your legs, biting and sucking at every inch of exposed skin. he doesn't care about the marks he's going to leave behind, he doesn't care about the beard burn. right now he cares about tasting you, about hearing you scream his name as you fall apart on his tongue over and over again.

you mewl each time he bites the inside of your thigh and licks away the sting, slowly making way to your dripping cunt until you feel him sucking on your clit hard and without warning.

your hands fidget, dying to touch him, dying to push his face down between your thighs but the most you can do is squeeze his head between your legs and grind against his face. every lick of his tongue, every bite and graze and kiss makes your spine feel like jelly, makes your eyes roll back in pleasure.

the feel of his tongue lapping up at you, flicking through your folds has drool pooling in your mouth. tears fall down your cheeks, making a mess and leaving black mascara streaks behind. your mind goes blissfully blank as ross continues his movements, occasionally adding his fingers, pinching your clit between his fingers, eating you out like a starved man until your knees are almost touching your shoulders and your back pushes into the mattress. and all of this feels like fucking heaven.

the burn of all his bites, the tightness of the leather belt, the bruises his fingers leave behind, the strain on your thighs and the knot building in your stomach, you want to savour it all. you whining and moaning his name just spurs him on more. his fingers snake up you hips, gripping your hips in a grip that’s almost too tight. the bitemarks and fingerprints he leaves behind everywhere are for people to see, so everyone knows you're his.

every time you manage to open your eyes, you're met with the sight of his head disappearing between your legs, of messy hair and glistening beard. every time he looks at you, you see how fucked out he looks with his dilated pupils and hooded eyes.

and all of it brings you closer to the edge.

"feel so-so fucking g-good," you moan as the knot tightens more. your legs feel like jelly, fuck your entire body feels like jelly, so malleable in his hands.

his fingers splay on your stomach holding you down just as you try to arch your back, try to grind onto him harder but you cry out at being pushed down. electricity runs wild beneath your skin and for a moment your brain goes completely blank, completely cut off from the rest of your body.

a second later you feel the wetness pooling under your ass and you open your eyes to see his shocked, drenched face.

"did you just--" he releases a shaky breath. "fuck..."

the world goes white as you gasp and catch you breath and try to focus on him again.

"ross..."

"baby that was so hot," he breathes, lowering his mouth between your legs again, placing a kiss on the inside of your thigh again.

his face is almost soaked, so is the collar of his shirt. the bed feels drenched and then it finally dawns on you.

"did i j-just squirt?"

"jesus christ, baby. yeah... fuck i wasn't expecting it."

you giggle a little seeing him so speechless but he's still busy looking at you with complete awe on his face.

"just for me. so fucking perfect, just for me."

"just for you," you echo already feeling the familiar heat curling in your stomach again. insatiable when it comes to him. always hungry for more.

this time when he bends down, it's to kiss you hard until all you can taste is your own release on his tongue.

"made a complete fucking mess," he growls and gives your makeshift cuffs a tug. "

your head spins at the thought of doing all that again, of having him buried balls deep inside you until you're soaking his cock and screaming his neck. ross clocks those thoughts instantly.

"still want more?" he smirks.

you bite your lip and take him in--his messy hair and wet mouth. then you reach up for another kiss. "always want more."

[cleolinda]

Here's another song I had wanted to write about: Hozier's "Movement." It is a fact of my existence that I get into a musical artist/band about 10 years after everyone else does, and then they become 30% of my personality (see also: Florence and the Machine). So I didn't really get with the program until Wasteland, Baby, and even then, it was for an unusual reason.

When did this album come out, spring of 2019? I had spinal surgery in early 2018. A discectomy, L4/L5; the disc had gradually become herniated due to a fall I'd had at a convention. My surgeon was required to warn me that surgery would come with a (low) chance of paralysis; it was my choice to make. After two weeks of seizing up in pain every hour or so, confined to my bed—hydrocodone did nothing—I chose the scalpel. Even then, it was another four weeks before he could work me into the operating schedule. Trust me when I say, no matter how I'm doing now, I do not regret having that surgery.

But he also told me, "You will always be a person who has had spinal surgery." Since anything was better than screaming every time I moved, I didn't fully understand what he meant until a year or so later, when I was still in pain—a chronic but lower-grade pain that came and went depending on how much activity I dared try that particular day. It was infinitely better than before. And, but, yet, I still deal with that chronic pain today. I will always be that person.

"Walk," he told me. I had a packet of therapy exercises to do, sure, but he was firm on this point. "That's the main exercise you need. Just walking." Which I couldn't do at first—I didn't have to learn to walk again or anything, but I was in a wheelchair early on, then on a wheeled walker for a couple of months. I also have inherited neuropathy in my feet, which was exacerbated by electrically painful sciatic nerve damage down my right leg while I waited for my slot in the surgery calendar. (I swear to God I will start talking about music soon.) I only walk across the longest side of my backyard. I don't leave it and walk around the neighborhood, because I generally have about two minutes upright to get back to the house once my feet start hurting.

So I had been struggling with my walking assignment for about a year when "Movement" came out. Of course it's literally about physically moving (and emotionally being moved), but that wasn't what captured me. The song starts out slow and reflective; it was a gentle tempo for a time when I couldn't walk very fast, and I still use it as a warm-up today. But there are two other things I love about it. One, the willow tree in the chorus, as I was walking my little runway back and forth under a canopy of wild water oak draped with wisteria, looking up into the sun through the leaves and snowflake flowers of an overgrown cherry laurel. Sound met landscape.

But the other thing is how—generous? accepting?—the words are of the "you" of the song. This person, the lyrics say, does not have to be a virtuoso dancer like Fred Astaire or Sergei Polunin (who's in the video up there). Instead, "you're Atlas in his sleeping, and when you move, I'm moved." My absolute favorite part is,

Move like grey skies Move like a bird of paradise Move like an odd sight come out at night

What the fuck even are these lyrics. I can't. That's so good. You ever sit there as a writer and think, I'm so mad I didn't come up with that? Just the pure unexpectedness, "I'm telling you how earthshakingly amazing this person is. Like a beautiful willow, like a rare bird, like some weird-ass cryptid in the night, I don't even know what that was about but I love it." What even. So good.

And I was for sure an odd sight shambling back and forth across the back of my yard: five minutes at first. Then ten the next week, working my way up to thirty, still in a dull roar of constant pain a year into my recovery. But this is a song that says, your efforts to move are moving, whatever movement is natural for you; you may be sleeping just now, you may be moving without moving, but you are wonderful not in spite of being strange in your movements, but because of it. The song always feels like a friend walking along with me, no matter how many setbacks I have, or how slow I have to go.

Anyway, Unreal Unearth comes out next Friday. The five songs Hozier's put out so far are ridiculously good, and I've scheduled a couple of months to be completely feral about it. When the weather is less dangerously hot, we'll find out which songs are good to move to.

[twopoppies]

"I would like Harry to be remembered for his great songwriting skills, his voice and the great performer he is, but everything is so overshadowed by the rest that in 20, 30 years I don't know if he will be remembered as one of the greatest of our generation (and he deserves it so much). I just think there's too much noise overshadowing his music"

I'm the say ranting anon as yesterday and I was gonna leave it at that but I saw this and I think is an interesting topic so I'm gonna rant a little bit more (sorry in advance).

It's impossible for anyone to know how is Harry gonna be remembered 30 years from now but what we can do is trying to compare him with the artist we consider legends today.

Lets take Elton John, Freddy Mercury, Prince, George Michael, Madonna, Whitney Houston and David Bowie for example... Each and every single one of them is considered a legend, the most successful in their field, the ones current artist use as inspiration and what they aspire to be. You know what else they have in common? Careers full of rumors, cheating scandals, drugs scandals, gay scandals, failed marriages, fake marriages, money problems, etc, etc, etc.

But those are no the things they're remember for, at the end their music and their art is soo good and made such an impact that all the "noise" sorrounding their careers just take a passive role.

I mean, as a fan, leaving through the rumors and all the nonsense is annoying as fuck and I would love if when I spoke about Harry people ONLY asked me about his music because he is so much more than his supposed girlfriends but what can I do?

And of course it is possible to be successful in the industry without playing the game, I wasn't trying to imply Zayn isn't but there's levels to that success, at least in the eyes of the general public.

Like let's be honest, all 5 of the boys has had a successful solo career so far but which one of them is more likely to achieve the legend status your anon is talking about??? Everyone under the sun knows the answer is Harry.

And why is that? It's not because he's has a powerful voice or because he's an excellent lyricist or because he's and incredible performer. Of course he's all that. But the reason he has achieved so much and is probably get the legend status someday is because how his team has marketed him. I'm sorry but without Columbia and the azzoffs Harry wouldn't be where he is today 🤷‍♀️ They're horrible people but they sure as hell know what they're doing and Harry is happy with their job and where his career is going so...

Yep. Marketing really does make a difference.

There’s something unquantifiable about the artists you mention, though. Take Madonna, for example. Cyndi Lauper came out at the same time. She had a much better voice. Her singles were huge. She had a great look. She definitely had fans (still does), but Madonna had that extra something that drew the masses in and kept them there (and oh my god did she have scandals and gossip galore—some of them very purposely manufactured).

And I agree with you about the Azoffs/Sony/Harry’s team. They’re taking him where he wants to go.

In reference to this

[luvtonique]

I have an irrational fear (actually no start over)

I have a completely rational fear of meeting new people, especially artists. I say it's completely rational because I have, literally over 10 times now, drawn fan art for an artist and showed it to them, only for them to get angry and tell me to fuck off and call me every single buzzword under the fucking sun.

I'm gonna be real, I don't get it.

I don't get how a person who has literally never met me, no no not just me, anyone.

A person who has never met someone, ever, meets that person for the first time, and that person literally hands them a gift and does something nice. A little "I really like your art and I wanted to draw one of your characters" or "I was inspired by one of your characters to make one of my own that's similar" or "Your art inspired me to learn how to make art that's somewhat similar in style" or something.

And the artist, never EVER having talked to this stranger literally ever, has already pre-built an unfathomable hatred for them.

How?

Like, how is that even possible?

How could your literal only interaction with someone, literally ever, LITERALLY EVER, be "They walked up to me, said I'm a huge inspiration to them, and handed me gift art" and your response is "And I told them to go fuck themselves and then made multiple tweets/posts about how much of a shithead they are."

And yet those people

Those artists who have done that to me

Are extremely popular and extremely beloved

And I'm sitting over here like "OKAY FUCKING REALLY"

"WHAT DID I FUCKING DO???"

[trigger-happy-in-red]

Name: Red Hood

Pronouns: He/Him

Sexuality: Unlabeled Queer. Pan is the closest label.

Age: 22

Meta: idk

Lives In: The Alley

Occupation: Alleged Crime Lord

Vices: Smokes if he’s extremely stressed

I work with @the-only-nightwing and @the-coolest-red-robin (they’re brothers your honor)

@the-second-boy-wonder is my little brother (ahem. His brother-son)

@cant-have-shit-in-gotham is one of my henchmen (the same ooc runs both accounts)

@shakespeares-favorite-goon is one of my goons

@stitches-stitches-stitches is my newest henchman. He lives with me.

@back-in-blood works for me (legally)

@flying-graysons-fan and @number1-red-robin-stan are squatting in my favorite safehouse

@super-duper-superboy is from metropolis. He got into my safehouse and won’t leave.

This is an RP Account!

[Interaction rules below the cut, at the very bottom, just above my various tags]

Appearance:

Under the helmet: (specific scars not shown here: small chunk missing in upper right ear, big-ass batarang scar across his throat, palm scar from brotherhood oath) He’s about 6’4.

I have no artistic skill. I did not draw those. Credit goes to the actual artists.

What’s Canon for This Jason?

-Orphaned at (barely) 8

-Taken in by B at (almost) 11

-Adopted by B at 13 (Name change to Todd-Wayne)

-Saved Wil from a gang at 14 (W is 12)

-Killed at (barely) 15

-Buried next to shelia (gravestone reads Jason Peter Todd)

-Revived 6mo later (kinda braindead)

-Talia found him a few weeks after that

-He was put in charge of protecting Damian, Talia tried to get him to heal naturally (D is 2)

-Ra’s got impatient

-Talia bargained for use of the Pits

-Damian and Jason swear an oath of brotherhood

-eventually Jason goes back to Gotham (J is 17)

-Takes over crime and drugs and shit (D is supposed to be sent over just as J gets control. He’s trying to make it safer for his brother)

-NO FUCKING TITANS TOWER INCIDENT

-well ok, he goes there and tries to scare Tim out of being Robin, but it’s 99% posturing and “warnings” and 1% punching a hole in a wall (Tim does not get hurt, and Jason does not try to hurt him. Because I said so)

-Meets and hires Wil at 18 (W is 16)

-The batarang-throat incident did happen. His goons had to peel him off the cement and take him to Doc Thompkins. Jason flatlined three times. (Wil was among them) (J is 19, W is 17)

-Goons are now super protective of him btw. Esp the ones that were there.

-Talia decides not to send D to B when she hears.

-Yk that time when Batman drugged Jason with something so that every time his adrenaline got going he’d get pumped full of fear? that ALMOST happened here. The needle was to his neck when the other birds interrupted.

Also canon are

-Jason is some kind of mixed heritage of vaguely Spanish-speaking descent. Passes for white in Gotham (where there’s no sun) but if he tans at all he doesn’t anymore.

-Jason speaks. So Many languages.

-Jason Al Ghul

-GoodMom!Talia who couldn’t do enough to help her sons

-BadParent!Bruce who gets better with each kid (so, bad for dick, barely better for jason, slightly better for tim, decent for cass and duke) but the previous kids don’t reap the rewards (so still bad for dick and jason, slightly better for tim, etc)

-GoodBrother!Dick

-Jason loves Wonder Woman

He has PTSD! Woooo! (Btw shamelessly stealing “Proper Gotham Parent” (making it proper family tho) and the “PTSD-attack-make-him-think-he’s-bleeding-out(from batarang)-again” from Alley Business by thetiniestteapot on Ao3

The trigger list may change over time

He’s also got claustrophobia (worsened if it’s dark)

main triggers are: the feel of silk (esp purple/red), manic laughter, batarangs/similar weapons flying towards him, the joker, being called a monster and doing/saying/someone thinks he did ‘monstrous’ things

minor triggers are: the smell of mahogany, constant beeping/ticking, Batman’s disappointed-pleading-angry voice, the smell of stale-wet dirt (esp mixed with blood)

(Also- I don’t have ptsd, so if I fuck something up, tell me and I’ll fix it)

Who Does he Consider Family?

Alfred- Grandfather. will admit it, has admit it.

Talia- Mom. likes to reference her vaguely as his Mom or T

Catherine- she may be dead, but she was his Ma.

Dick- older brother, but only admits it to Dick or other family. Has admit it to Dick.

Cass- sort-of-twin sister, also wouldn’t outright admit it, but she Knows.

Tim- little brother. will only admit it to people who are very close to Jason or very close to Tim. has admit it.

Damian- little brother. will admit it, hasl admit it to. calls him habibi and ahki.

Jay Todd, Robin- his son. will admit it, has admit it. calls him Little Red

Morel- his kid.

To a lesser extent:

Steph, Duke, and Babs, as family-of-my-family

His goons, in a distant sort of way

The Alley kids, in a distant sort of way

Not even remotely:

Shelia, Bruce, Ra’s

(I don’t speak any language other than English. I’m using Google translate and fanfics. Please correct me.)

Rules for Interacting:

1) Please talk to me. I am cripplingly lonely.

2) Cussing, NSFW, etc. is fine

3) Dont ship this Jason with anyone. I’ve got plot to do. (Jokes are fine, just not incestual/psudo iscestual, r@pe/non con, or outside of his age group)

4) My brain can be a little funky sometimes—dm me before you send me an (unprompted) rp ask. This is to give me an idea of what’s going on. (N & Z are exempt) I have the right to not rp with you if my brain isn’t vibing with it.

Plot tags:

Welcome to Gotham Arlo - back-in-blood centered

Part X of my Tragic Backstory - cant-have-shitin-gotham centered

batfam without the bat - centered around Hood’s family (or not-family)

red hood’s goons - centered around or includes Jason's goons.

Character interaction tags:

fuck you b - chain includes the original (bad) Bruce/Batman, directly or as a major theme

batdad ftw - chain includes the new (good) Bruce/Batman, directly or as a major theme

pushing my mobwife Wil propaganda - chain includes my oc Wilbur “Wil” “Greenie” Jacobs, directly or as a major theme. This is also mostly under “#600000k word slowburn” until I fix it.

big wing and little wing - chain includes Dick/N, directly or as a major theme

gotham’s bookclub - chain includes E, directly or as a major theme

stitching together a family - chain includes Stitches, directly or as a major theme

daddy issues (billionaire edition) - chain includes Kon/Superboy, directly or as a major theme

one r two r red r blue r - chain includes Tim/RR, directly or as a major theme

they can cook! - chain includes Bernard, directly or as a major theme

robin hood? in dc? - chain includes Damian/R5, directly or as a major theme

little red and big red - chain includes Jay/R2, directly or as a major theme

dad the squeakquel - chain includes Morel, directly or as a major theme

[ofmermaidstories]

(This is all about ''Something (just like this'' :], i apolagize in advance)

Theres an auther (you, i'm thinking of you) that has given sutch weight to the simple human pains everyone has, let them cary a greaf in every breath they're mentioned, i can't help but ache with the mc as one because i get it, i understand and even if i handn't felt the same pain that crushes your hope of ever being loved in the same way you do, if i hadn't though myself cynical and bitter the way she does i still think i'd get it.

I still think i'd be able to see myself cradle my heart like an infant, even though it's an old ugly, terrable creature.

The plots so ritch it's unbalivable that i get to read your works for free, like i knew it was her bestfried the second our artist glaced over her sholder and saw her drawing kids with guns in masks. But it was her best-fucking-fried, who dies without answering her livid questioning.

It's her constant self awair bitternes to the person she is that just-

Chefs fucking kiss.

Like the way she views herself and everyone else she thinks threatens the few things she sees as good in her with a sort of cynicalnes, but through herself that is bloody perfect.

Shes insane for the shit she pulls, Gods i love her.

I cannot expres enough of my love for the way you craft your words, the story and the way you put so mutch care into it makes me ill.

Izuku is caprured so well, his whole being being intertwined with Katsukies-....i am going feral as we speak.

Also her being an artist so acuretly presented, it's insane, the way she is about her skill, her talents, her works and her instuments and the way there are these little moments she wants to capture is so stupidly accurate to how i see the world as a creative. Always hungry and always craving to make, even when im no where near a peace of paper or even the shittiest of pens.

Im grinning and in fucking tears. (As i was writing all of this in my notes i wasn t even that far into the last chapter.)

Holy fuck, god i fucking despise Hana. And i get why, and im amazed at how her resoning, her pain and anger dosn't justify(?) shit when i've seen a lot of things where someones inhumane actions get swept under the rug cus they were hurting quietly, or something.

She was like a quirk nazi. Nothing redeams(?) that, y'know?

Auther i am shaking you by the sholders, and im sorry if my nails dig in too deep but holy fuck. Breathings hard, fic so good my rib cage has started to feel too small for my heart, and my lungs, and the hole your story has carved inbetween all of it.

Fic so good i haven't even gotten to the end and i want to thank you for, for all this has done to me. I'm shit with fics where there are a lot of words, no matter how mutch i love the characters and yet, and yet somehow this is one of the 100k + fanfics i have enjoyed every gut wrenching second of.

I feel like vomiting

In fact

I might.

They all need therapy after this, methinks.

(I know this is long and loopy, and my english (my second language) is not great, and that ultametly i kinda said nothing but i needed you to see (at least a little bit of) how insanely wonderful your craft is)

Anywho, i still haven't finished, and that was a lot of words, but i hope you have a lovely 24 h, i wish you the best with all of your future works. "Something (just like this)" has...given me brain damadge i'm guessing.

Blue, there is nothing to apologise for, I think you are wonderful. 🥺 You said everything. 🥺 From this message alone—from you taking the time to write it, and send it, I can tell you that there’s nothing about your heart that’s old or ugly or terrible. If anything, I think it’s golden—like the afternoon sun, reflecting all that good light back until it’s too much to hold. 🥹🫀✨

But okay, lemme try and do the thoughtfulness of this ask some justice. 🥹💕 God, to be honest I kinda worried about Hana, and her place in the story. Like—knowing how it was going to end. I think a lot of us will end up parting ways with people in our life that were important—and some, unfortunately, for ugly reasons. Hana’s betrayal is like, so extreme, so dramatic and terrible. And it doesn’t just hurt Reader, it hurt other people, kids. Like sure, Hana was hurt—but then she turned around and hurt others, willingly. And there’s no justice for the ones she directly affects. You’re right, Blue. You can’t redeem that—you can only pick up the pieces around it.

Tbh, I think Reader’s bitterness would’ve made building a life after it all that much harder, if it weren’t for other people. 🥹 Like—Scribbles cynical nature was such a fun part of writing the fic, lmao, and it absolutely would’ve made life that much harder for her in the aftermath if she didn’t have support. 🥹 I think someone like Scribbles, who barely trusts themselves, was a good match/contrast for Izuku who—like, even in canon is learning to overcome the worst of his most fear-driven habits. It gives him the ability to see Scribbles in a way that—that she needed. 🥺

Bluey!!! You’re an artist too??? Like our Reader. 🥹 The need to document everything is so real lmao. Like—it’s constant!! An insatiable way of looking at the world. 🥹 How do I capture this, how can I do this. I literally just had that feeling the other night, driving home under a perfectly straight trail of cloud like a comet’s tail. The sky was that perfect, indigo glow, and there was a single star alongside of it and it genuinely looked like the trail of a meteorite streaking over the sky and I wanted to remember everything about it. I wanted to draw it, write it, anything to keep it.

Blue, you have said so many kind things about my writing. 🥺 Either in this ask or in the tags of other things. And!!! It means so much to me, every time. 🥺 This is what I mean when I say you have a reflective, golden heart. 🥹💛🌿 I’m always going to be glad that like, I could write something that made you wanna reach out and say hello, lmao, but mostly I’m just glad you’re here. ☀️

(Also, as an aside—you mentioned a song, in the tags of one post a little while ago. I wanted you to know that I immediately ran to spotify to try and find it, lmao, and listen to it and like, now it lives in my likes and every time I listen to it I think of you and also of maybe trying to write a Bakugou worthy of the association, lmao. It’s such a sweet song, Blue, thank-you for the new music 🌷)

[crispytoastyt]

Why Musk is Censoring Artists on Twitter

Elon Musk is really screwing artists around by censoring their commissions. The reason is that he thinks that every artist on Twitter are liberals and leftist and all because we were expressing our visual creativity and empathy. Meanwhile, he is in for AI Art, which is the reason why we are getting thrown under the bus for.

If we come up to Elon Musk in the first, go up to his desk, slam both the pencil and paper on the desk, look at him, intimidate him, and tell him to "draw." It does not matter if we tell him to draw a dog, a tree, a car, or even a sun - we just order him to draw.

But of course, we can expect him to not draw anything or just scribble like a stupid toddler that he is right now.

Oh, and another reason why he does not want people to buy art commissions from artists? He wants people to waste their money on Twitter Blue because Twitter is rapidly losing its value. He is nothing but a miserable old manbaby who owned a car company that cost dozens of innocent lives AND wants to go to Mars so he can be there alone and can fuck a martian. And people think he is going to be the hero by solving world hunger and all that crap.

He is no hero.

He is not an engineer.

He is not even a damn artist let alone sucking at it.

He is the biggest loser in the world.

[cookinguptales]

I would just like to state again, for the record, that freaking no one does opening paragraphs like Shirley Jackson does opening paragraphs.

Like everyone knows The Haunting of Hill House, but it bears repeating:

“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against the hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.”

And that is incredible enough, that is already one of the best openings to a novel in history, but THEN.

Then we have We Have Always Lived In The Castle!!!

"My name is Mary Katherine Blackwood. I am eighteen years old, and I live with my sister Constance. I have often thought that with any luck at all I could have been born a werewolf, because the two middle fingers on both my hands are the same length, but I have had to be content with what I had. I dislike washing myself, and dogs, and noise. I like my sister Constance, and Richard Plantagenet, and Amanita phalloides, the death-cup mushroom. Everyone else in my family is dead."

Has any opening paragraph ever made me want to know more about a character? No! I don't think so! I am fucking obsessed with Merricat and I want to put her in a jar and study her like a bug!

Like I'm always impressed with Jackson's craft, but opening paragraphs are so hard. They are so hard! And she always seems to craft one that draws you right into the web of horror that she's creating in that book. You're always pulled right into that house, whether it's lurking the halls of Hill House, not sane, or the incestuously isolated Blackwood residence. You're drawn into that madness instantly, and instantly you understand these characters who will not be understood by those around them.

I love the way she can draw you into the POV of protagonists who simply do not interact with reality to the point where you become comfortable living in their version of reality, too. You get them even as it fascinates and horrifies you. I feel like that's one reason why her books are so effective.

Every mind can break, but every mind does so in such a specific way. And it's the specificity of the madness and the ability to convey it in a way that makes you feel it, too, y'know? You come to realize that these women could never have been anything else, could never have been sane, because they live in homes that are... well, not sane. Their world is not sane, so how could they be? How could any of us be?

So you get pulled into this whirlpool of reality-shifting madness and deeply unreliable narrators and when you finally free yourself at the end of the book, you feel like you're walking back out into the sun squinting, dazed. Confused to find yourself back in a reality that makes some semblance of sense, but unable now to ignore the seams in it.

Goddamn, what an artist.

[practically-an-x-man]

what are your OCs WORST pickup lines? lol

LMAOOOO bold of you to assume ANY of my OCs know how to flirt in the slightest. This'll be fun (and yes they're horrible, I don't know how to flirt either lmao)

Rae: Omg you know she'd try the "did it hurt when you fell from heaven" trick and holy hell would it annoy the fuck out of Warren (can you guess how many times he's heard that one?)

Robin: "You must be tired from running through my mind all night" (get it? cause Peter's a speedster? haha funny right? lmao)

Madison: "You know how people say there's plenty more fish in the sea? Well, here I am. Don't throw me back ;)"

Ophelia: "It's a good thing I'm a scientist... because I can see a lot of chemistry between us"

Jasper: "Any chance you've got an extra heart? Mine's been stolen..."

Katherine: "You're an artist, aren't you? Because you've been drawing me in."

Kestrel: Barely knows what a pickup line is, but would sketch up a quick mock diagram in their journal, labeled "A Wild Cutie" or something equally cheesy, and present it like "hey, look what I found!"

Quinn: "I'll give you three chances to sweep me off my feet."

Eris: Does not flirt (but Rick tries every cheesy pickup line under the sun to make them laugh)

Nikoletta: "I did a reading into your future and all I saw was me and you."

[ax3-e0ns]

Okay so I've admittedly been quiet in regards to the shit that's happened in this niche online space, but this in particular feels important to spread the word on. Because this online community in particular has had a track record of being predatory to minors (in every way under the sun) for over a decade and I don't want this getting swept under the rug. This is the bed the Slideshow Commentary Community/Art Commentary Community has made for themselves, now they have to lie in it.

(It’s a longer watch at 1 hour and 45 minutes, but god does it show problems with this circle.)

The experience Chuuli brings up isn't the only one, it's not even the earliest. But that doesn't remove how the SCC/ACC has harmed so many people and have done so for years.

I wasn't joking when I said that this is a pattern that's been happening for a decade. I'll also link this other video highlighting the earliest members of the SCC/ACC doing this to artists over on DeviantArt back during the mid 2010's and continuing to do so to this day.

(This one's way longer at 5 hours and 30 minutes, so I advise to watch this on at least 1.5x speed and jump around to different parts because this group has done a lot of fucked shit)

Never join this community, not even to try fixing it from the inside. This community will be comfortable with doxxing you, blackmailing you, actively isolate you and harass you, and stalk you. Coming from someone who had been following this community since I was 15, this community is not at all safe for... really anybody, if I'm gonna be honest.

[puckpocketed]

Hi! Sorry if this is weird but do you have song/video recs? I have enjoyed what you recommended in the past. Please ignore this if you want, I know this isn't really a hockey ask :')

so does everyone else have a playlist where they store all their favourite essays/documentaries miscellaneous vids. or is that just me?? anon i hope u like hearing from me, if u wanted short answers u came to the wrong person. here are various faves from over the years:

Dawn from Pride and Prejudice (2005). i think about it often. it's a beautiful piece. i listen to this song and experience the movie all over again. the mud on elizabeth's skirt. dancing at parties. lovely potatoes. darcy and his cleavage. the mist in the morning. "you have bewitched me, body and soul. and i love, i love, i love you." the sun rising as she kisses his hand. HELLO!!!!

minesweeper is literally causing me health issues by i am error. a harrowing look at addiction through the lens of a minesweeper fixation. very funny and warm video.

The Best Food Movie Scenes Supercut by William Adiguna. fascinated by this. also i have used it for painting study reference.

How J Dilla's Timefeel ACTUALLY Works by Digging The Greats. right so. i know everyone's been making posts about black artists in the wake of the Kendrick-Drake beef and white tumblr subsequently figuring out that rap exists outside of Hamilton and music as a whole exists outside of uhhhh taylor swift. I don't think I've seen anyone mention J Dilla in my circles yet so here's a small essay about how he changed music history forever and you should absolutely listen to him. we lost him too fucking early, but his legacy lives on in the beat!!

The Lincoln Highway: Across America on the First Transcontinental Motor Route by Noah Caldwell-Gervais. this is a 7 and 1/2 hour travelogue by one of my favourite writers of all time. he has shorter videos about games and travel, but this one is an all-timer for me. I admire him so much. His writing voice is so lush and intentional, he weaves narrative with every sentence, and yet nothing feels superfluous. i have listened to this video multiple times and always find something new to think about.

Savestate vs Armada - The Quest for the Frozen Turnip by Melee Stats. if you made it this far down the list we are either best friends or you are super bored and want something to watch. here's the sell: Armada is one of the 5 Gods of Super Smash Bros. Melee, Savestate is this weirdo who does speedruns and loves to break the game. they go head to head at a tournament, super smash con. the frozen turnip is a bug that sort of breaks the game. chaos ensues <3

Stylish Academic Writing a lecture by Helen Sword (Harvard University). I think about this video a lot. As someone who writes a lot of academic essays and For Fun essays, this lecture was formative.

Time and Again - How to Write and Understand Time Loops by Replay Value. dissecting and categorising time loops, and teaching you how to write them in the process. excellent video even if you aren't a writer or don't have an interest in writing sci-fi/time travel!

With Love by Harbour. this song makes me so happy. i will dance to it with my future wife in our kitchen. i will sing this to her under under our pink lights. that kinda vibe <3

thank you for dropping by!! <3 and giving me an excuse to inflict a bunch of recs onto my followers!! hit me up for more recs any time ig??