#i hate editing my stuff and tagging things

[yeyinde]

I know this would be terribly inaccurate and morally wrong, but it's taking too much space up in my brain and I can't write NSFW to save my life and I'll stop rambling and get to the point about this random hoe ass dream I had the other night about Bear (Graves).

But that table in the middle of their storage area room thing (with the cages)? Imagine getting railed on that table. Horrible consequences if you're caught, but in the moment that doesn't matter.

I didn't even really clock the morally wrong portion of this until just now—I just immediately started writing it.

Warnings: MATURE | 18+ — pseudo exhibition kink, corruption (as in, MC does everything possible to break Bear), risk-seeking behaviour; light smut Word Count: 2,2k Notes: it's been so long since I wrote smut that I kinda forgot how. alsoooooooo. it's deffo early season 2 Bear. With the beard and the unhinged madness and tragic angst. Okay? Okay.

It's a whim. 

One of those terrible ideas you sometimes get—like the insatiable curiosity to know what it would feel like to snuff out an open flame between your thumb and forefinger, or lick the anode and cathode of a 9V battery just for the thrill of it. The electric hum of recklessness that surges through your veins, pitched right between the accompanying high of a short-lived adrenaline rush. An addictive sense of danger that isn't really dangerous. 

It isn't enough to kill you, or cause any severe injuries—no. You're not stupid. It's just one of those passing no good, bad, and very terrible ideas that leak from that place inside your head where madness and idiocy spool. 

Sometimes, it doesn't even hurt. 

(But you've always liked it better when it does.)

This, then, must be that. 

This, of course, being: 

Bear—so austere, so stalwart—bracing his thick fingers against the back of your neck, palm so wide it swallows you whole. Clipped nails pinching your skin when he digs in tight, holding on to you as he fucks you stupid, fucks you senseless against a metal table, perfectly perched in the middle of the room like an altar. 

His nails cut a scratch on your hip when he pulls you back by the bone to meet his heavy, hurried thrusts, growling low in his throat at the madness of this all. The danger. The recklessness. 

Eyes oscillating between the open doorway split into three possible entry points where anyone—Chase, Trevor, Buddha, Caulder—could walk in and see, catching Bear fucking you over a table; and you—

Bent over, fingers scratching at the linoleum beneath your hands, keening desperately for more. 

It's more brutal than you'd expect him to be considering where you are, where he is, but there's a weight to the way he pounds into you, a palpable sense of urgency, and need. Rapacious, you think, and wonder if it's the tantalising aspect of exhibitionism, the fear of getting caught, that brims white-hot in the balmy air between you, or if it's the setting alone that threatens to undo him. 

Fucking out in the open—with a man who yelped when you tried to ride him on the bed of his stupid pickup truck under the stars; vanilla incarnate, all American apple pie left to cool on an open windowsill in the heartland—is probably as close to true trouble as a man like him, the one bent over you now, has come before. You wonder if this is his Saddam. If he scents brimstone in the air when he curls over you, staining your skin with droplets of sweat that pools down from his brow, drips off his temples. 

It was that same sweat that started it all. 

Anger carved canyons into his forehead, ploughing five neat, little lines through tanned skin—flushed slightly pink near his hairline, and bleeding down across the bridge of his nose, the patch of skin between his lash line and beard, undoubtedly from standing on the sun-beaten shores of Virginia Beach all morning. The sweat that beaded across his skin was patchy, drying into patches of congealed salt above his brow, but dripping down his temples in rivulets of exertion, and cutting a clear path to his jaw, where it fell, pooling like a lagoon in the dips of his collarbones. 

You wanted to lick it off. 

An odd thought considering the arched reprimand he was in the middle of doling out. Sharp, slurred words of can't be here, and reckless, all undercut with an air of something balmy, something hot that simmers below the surface. 

His eyes flashed, cool blue to cobalt, when you lifted your shoulder in a lazy, half-hearted shrug, shirt slipping down, exposing skin to his irritated gaze, and, oh. Oh. 

The scorching heat you felt wafting off of him in puffs of humid air had little to do with temperature, with anger. 

The words, then, took on a new meaning. 

Can't be here, can't do this here. Reckless. 

And so, you leaned up on the tips of your toes, and flicked your tongue across his skin, eyes lidded and heavy as the briny tang of sweat and seawater flooded your senses. 

It was surprising that he let you. That after some more growling protests about shame, and public decency, he quieted fairly quickly when you slipped your hand into his trousers, letting the heft of him fill your palm. 

An incorruptible man, corrupted.

Opposites attract, you think, and then bite the notion in half when he slides in as deep as he can go, husking out a muted fuck, fuck, fuck, feels so fuckin' good into your shoulder. Opposites, maybe. But something about the way he grabs you hard enough to leave marks on your bones, drags you back into his harsh ruts, his frantic pace, makes you think something reckless, something damning, lives inside him, too. 

(He never would have let you tug his trousers down over his hips, let you arch over the table for him, if he didn't, after all.)

"This is—" his breath is humid on your skin, hands spasming over your flesh. You taste clarity in his words. Cognisance bleeds into them, spilling panic, and frenzied worry over your flesh. "This is stupid. We're gonna get caught—"

He huffs, and the rough scratch of his beard skates over your skin when he mouths against the curve of your bone. 

There is a moment when you think he might pull away. Where the urge, the drive, to be proper and pious, prim and good, brim up through the overwhelming dizziness of cacoëthes that spindles through your marrow, but you arch into him until you're pressed taut to his hips, full and gasping from having big Bear inside of you this deep, and tuck it back into the box it snuck out of. 

There's no place for decency when he has you bent over a table where anyone can wander past and see how good you take him. 

So, you push back against him, taking him in as deep as you can, and then deeper still when his hips stutter at the sudden push. It edges into too much when he's pressed flush against the soft curve of your ass, but you swallow down the whimper, and rock back on your heels, swaying against him until all you see is hazy gunmetal swimming in front of your eyes. 

It's always on that uneven edge of pain with Bear—dual sensations of too much intermixed with a heady thrum of pleasure that buffers out everything. A test of your mettle. He quizzes you on the limits of your resolve when he bucks his hips, sliding inside as deeply as he can go. Eking out a place within you that you might have been untouched, undiscovered, until him. 

Where his tests are physical—pushing into you as deep as he can, until you swallow him whole—you excel in destruction. The erosion of propriety. His self-control. 

(He shatters so prettily in your hands, like a supernova scattering across the inky black sky.)

This, then, is his test. 

And he clues into it almost as quickly as the plan formed inside your head, spooling fast and recklessly in that place that convinces you that adrenaline is your friend, and that climbing higher is always the goal. The spot inside that makes you always pick dare instead of truth. 

Bear knows—knew—of your plans when you pressed your lips to his, and still let you. A quick glance to the open doorway as you slide your tongue against his. The press of his fingers on the bow of your lips, a firm admonishment not to be too loud. 

You could take it as: 

Don't let us get caught. 

And you do. But you also hear the unsaid words murmured into your ear when he fucked you harder, hips pistoning into you as if daring you to make a sound:

Don't let this end too soon. 

"You're so bad, Bear," you coo, words tangled in pleasure as the blunt head of his cock batters into that spot behind your navel that never fails to make you sing. It rises. A quick flash of heat roiling in your belly; the whine of a coil being pulled too tight. Liquid bliss in red-hot agony. "Fucking me like this. I bet you want them to see. I bet you want them to watch you fuck me, don't you?"

The hiccup in your voice belies the accusations in your words. A tremulous, teasing warble that is met with his sharp, heady groan. 

"Oh, f–fuck—"

He's close. You feel him swell. Hear the rumble in chest as he loses that mechanical rhythm; a stutter of his breath, his hips. The bones in your hip ache when he digs in tight, holding you still as he pounds you with a fury unmatched by anyone else you'd ever known. He takes you like he's working out a problem. Like he's on the opposite lines of an allegiance, and is trying to fuck you stupid enough to ramble out the answers to the questions he asks. It disintegrates into madness. Desperation. His measured thrusts grow sloppy. His breaths ragged. 

The implosion of his self-control is almost more euphoric than the flood of molten pleasure blooming in your core. Your release offset by the unignorable crumbling of his resolve. 

"Come for me, Bear," you pant, your breath whitening the gunmetal table with plumes of condensation. "Come for me—"

His hand presses against the smooth slope of your neck, pushing your cheek into the slick table. His thick fingers spasm as he grows frantic, desperately chasing his own end in your spasming body, ready to follow you—quick and reckless—over the edge of a precipice, filled with an adrenaline-rush spiking through the pleasure. 

Things just feel better when it's dangerous, after all. 

Bear comes with a groan he can bare smother, pulling your hips back into his as he spends himself inside of you, the punchy grunts of a well-earned victory tumbling from his lips. The sound bounces off the condensation-slick walls, renting the air in two. His heavy breaths are magnified in the sudden absence of silence that always seems to follow a loud sound. 

His misery-filled groan is muffled by the back of your crown when he tips forward, and buries his face into your hair. In his defeat, you victory. A sweet damnation that you relish as he struggles to regain footing after losing control. His brassbound resolve is still in tatters, and spilled across the back of the table he'll use tomorrow with everyone else, haunted by the images of you spread out and willing as he tries to pretend he doesn't know what it feels like to grip the end of the table and fuck you senseless in a room designed to amplify all sound. 

You grin into the metal when he husks out a mangled fuck into your sweat-slicked hair. It reeks of resignation. Of a man who stood so long on the crown of propriety slinking down to the depths of hedonism and bliss. Breaking the rules feels almost as good as fucking on top of them, and your mind races with all the ways you can break him again. 

And Bear, as usual, has a tap into that place inside that leaks bad ideas, and can only shake his head with a huff. 

He doesn't even bother saying no. 

(Caulder owes you ten bucks. It seems you can teach an old, pious seal new tricks.)

Your legs are still shaking like a newborn fawn. You feel him inside you still, and the phantom stretch of him touching places and pieces of yourself he really shouldn't makes you quiver. The ache in your thighs is the good kind, though. The lasting impression of success after obtaining exactly what you set out to do. 

Climbing a mountain. Running five miles. Fucking Bear Graves in the locker room with everyone else just a breath away. 

(Check, check, and check—)

He helps you into the truck, eyes sweeping over your shoulder to look for anyone else in the parking lot who might ask questions. Solid, reasonable ones like why do you stink like sex? and did you just fuck them in the locker room, Bear?

You could try and reassure him that it's empty. That no one cares. That it's all in his head. 

But you like the clench of his jaw, the flash of teeth when you giggle at him. Once the high of his release comes down, anger will follow. The kind that makes him loom. He'll lecture you about safety and decorum and not to sneak into his work to fuck him—

He'll wind himself up. Get himself nice and heated. He'll see it as a question to his authority. A tremor in his self-control. 

And to regain the footing he lost—

Well. 

It'll be a good night for you. 

"You're a bad influence," he mumbles into your jaw, words muffled by his heavy breath he buckles you in. 

You count each line in his forehead as a win, and try not to preen. "You love it."

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

questioning sexuality is so exhausting

[rotisseries]

inspired by elli's poll lol cause this seems fun actually but if you guys have bad answers I'll kill myself on your doorstep or smth

[wafflinglumos]

Hey guys when you’re ranting about a ship, which is well in your right! I do it too! Don’t tag THAT ship, that’s annoying, sure you might hate that ship but tagging it without “slander”/ “bashing”/ “anti” you’re just being a bit of a dick, you’re pushing your slander of said ship onto the shippers who just want to enjoy it; so cut that out.

On that note, STOP shaming ao3 authors and their works, they are NOT the same as published authors. On that note, slandering ATYD or Manacled is ten times more different than slandering something with 100-10,000 hits, hell it’s different when that other fic has 100,000! And that difference is that the former fics mentioned, have millions, MILLIONS of reads, ATYD has TWLEVE MILLION reads, Manacled has half of that, and even then, TAG THE SLANDER, if you’re talking about these either INSANELY POPULAR, OR INCREDIBLY HARMFUL fics, tag it, don’t just put it under the FIC’S NAME TAG.

Fandom etiquette and general fanfiction etiquette are important.

Unless it’s harming someone or endorsing something harmful, it’s not that big of a deal.

ALSO ALSO STOP TRYING TO CENSOR AO3 THAT’S DEFEATING THE POINT OF THE WHOLE SITE YOU DIPSHITS, AO3 IS NOT LIKE WATTPAD OR TUMBLR. IT IS AN ARCHIVE.

IN THE LITERAL MEANING IT IS AN INTERNET LIBRARY!

STOP IT

(Edit: Said something contradictory last time so I changed the tags a little bit, I’m very anti censorship there are no exceptions like I made it seem like I was saying, lmao sorry for the confusion)

[sundial-bee-scribbles]

hai guys :3

[deepseawave]

obsessed w the tags on ur last reblog

Omgg, thank you haha, it was a quality post so I just had to appreciate it in full force 😂❤️

Can‘t believe someone would actually enjoy my yapping :,D

[bambeebirdie]

Alright so I just finished Earthspark and boy fucking howdy do I have opinions, but I’m not talking about those right now because I’m tired and the ending broke me in such a way I no longer care about anything.

What I would like to say though is I think Tanatulas should have been replaced with Shockwave in that on episode he had with Nightshade. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Tanatulas. He was literally so good, I loved his designs and his vibes and the only bad thing about him is that he never said his pronouns back. But really think about it. He didn’t have to be there. Earthspark spends too much time with the Maltos to really develop anyone so the more characters you add the more everything struggles.

Tanatulas showed up for one episode, he’s not even in the finale. Shockwave was there though and vaguely important, but it doesn’t make sense for him to just suddenly be okay with the Maltos. Unless he took Tanatulas role. Then his sudden willingness to help them would have made so much more sense. It also wouldn’t have been a very hard change, just as a whole, because neither Tanatulas or Shockwave are that important.

Just give Nightshade a line about how they should save Shockwave because they trust him and well everyone else acts the same.

Shockwave even fills a similar general role as Tanatulas being a weird scientist who care more about their science than the war. So it really wouldn’t be a hard switch and would make Shockwave make more sense. If you want to go further too Shockwave doesn’t even have a normal vehicle mode so he really could have given similar lines about alt modes to Nightshade.

Obviously Shockwave actual introduction episode would be different or maybe he’d just get replaced entirely but I really don’t think any of those changes would be too hard. Because again, he’s just not important enough for any changes to his character to be hard.

Tanatulas in Earthspark doesn’t validate his existence much as is. I really do love him, but he’s replaceable and just clutters an already poorly handled cast. While I think it would be cool if he was just more important they clearly didn’t want that by not even giving him a finale shot. So I do think just swapping his episode with Shockwave (and whatever other alterations are needed to make that perfect) fixes the problem with having too many underdeveloped characters since it removes one character and in the process developes another.

[helianskies]

ugly maths.

i hate maths, right. i don't usually like numbers, and if i do like numbers it's gotta be an 8 or a 48 and nothing else.

thing is, i've recently caught myself doing maths again. ugly maths. the kind of maths that, really, i've been trying to avoid as much as possible because, well, it's ugly!

you... wanna see?

okay, fine... but don't say i didn't warn you!

ugly, see? look at all those numbers! not a 48 in sight!

huh? what's that? you don't see what i'm on about? oh... oh! hang on, lemme just—

better? yes? no? no? okay, what if i—

mmh, yes. ugly numbers. see it now? can you see why they're ugly?

here, i can make it worse.

these numbers are ugly. the maths they make me do is ugly.

now i'll level with you: the worst ones by far are the yellow numbers. the maths they make me do it the ugliest.

why ugly?

because it makes me ugly.

those numbers turn me into not only a suddenly number-obsessed fool, but a fool who also cannot understand these numbers and what they mean and why i feel like they reflect on me and my ability.

87, 75.

the thoughts are as follows:

• the orange numbers are big, so why are you being ugly about the yellow ones? you should be happy with what you have. so many nice big numbers! not everyone receives that.

• is it that there are two different audiences for these two different fics? perhaps. they are quite different works, with different appeals, and different themes. maybe you are reading too much into it.

• why are you obsessing over numbers anyway? you don't like maths! you left maths behind when you were 16, put it down!

okay, okay, fine! i'll put the maths down. right here, in fact!:

that 87 was an 83 at the start of the year. the 6161 it is attached to was a 5453.

4, 708.

ugly maths.

the 75 is a nice number. in fact, compared to 87, it is beautiful, radiant, enchanting. at the start of the year, 75 was 48. wow. now that is one sexy number!

27.

mmmm.

6161, 1061.

5100.

87, 75.

12.

mmmm.

you know, my most favourite comment left recently on a fic of mine was 2 characters long: :(

it made me :)

well, actually, it made me >:) because it was left in response, presumably, to one of the key scenes in a new chapter which left the exact impression on someone that i hoped it would.

they must be the only one who reacted like that, though.

1.

have i mentioned that that 87 and 75 include author responses?

i won't try to do more maths, there. it might not end well for me. the maths is making me tired enough as it is, and i have an early start tomorrow.

oh! but, that being said, i have another set of ugly numbers to show you, so keep 87 and 75 in mind.

ready?

838, 245.

(want a hint? the green numbers!)

838, 87. 245, 75.

9.6, 3.3.

ugly maths. it's ugly again, see? i don't like it. i'm seeing numbers within numbers within numbers, and i can't seem to stop!

the numbers make me ask new questions:

• why is it not good enough?

• people seem to engage more with one fic over the other, so shouldn't you prioritise?

• is all this maths this really good for you?

no, it isn't.

i want to avoid ugly maths. ugly maths makes me want to tear my hair out. it makes me want to start from scratch. it makes me want to grab someone and scream. it makes me want to cry and press a button that has tempted me many times before when the numbers become too ugly to bear.

ugly maths turn me into an ugly person.

ugly maths make me obsessive, paranoid, anxious, regretful, vindictive, spiteful, alone.

i hate maths. i hate numbers, just like, it feels, the numbers hate me.

[doodlingwren]

Hiatus

I am going on hiatus for a bit more. I really really hoped the stuff that have been going on lately were already "sorted out" but, uhm... they aren't. I need to take a bit more time offline once again, and try to work things out.

Thank you for your patience ❤

Wren

[blimbo-buddy]

Regarding the Twolegplace Culture Expansion hiatus

To summarize for those who may be in the dark about it: My Twolegplace Culture Expansion was a series of posts that covered my attempts to properly flesh out different Twolegplaces that we see in the series, stemming from my liking for the Kittypets.

So around month back, an ask that I had gotten from one of my mutuals mentioned the Twolegplace Culture series of posts. I had answered with a sort of “summarization” as to why the series has been put onto a long hold, and I feel that the same also somewhat applies to my wc rewrite in general.

It’s unfortunate that I’ve come to this at the moment: But the series won’t be continuing

Well that’s only half-true. We can more accurately say it’s on a very, very indefinite hiatus.

When the series of posts started gaining traction I was super excited to start working on more stuff for the Twolegplaces and during this phase I had written a few rough drafts and outlines for some big posts:

A revamp of the Demonios post (What the Twolegplaces call evil demons)

Epochs and Eras: Chelford (A huge history post about Chelford’s history)

Recipes and tools

Dogs and other city-dwelling animals

Bloodclan, Skyclan, and Warriorclan

Marriages

Figureheads of the Chelford Raids

Patrons

The Flickering (Ghosts that haven’t moved on from Earth)

A Molly Named Johnny (A cat’s adaptation of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”)

But I ended up slowly losing that steam through a bunch of shit: School, personal life, decreasing motivation, and comparing my posts and rewrite to other rewrites. The latter one especially just made me feel like total shit and made me feel like I was being a total hack (Didn’t make it better when I got an anon hate about its quality). Coupled with my real life, I slowly started losing motivation about it.

Writing for these posts became absolute chores and not fun anymore for me and I stopped caring about it all together. “A Molly Named Johnny” from the previously mentioned list was a last effort that I just wanted to get out already.

Of course at some point I felt a bit dejected from how little attention that the posts were getting but it blew over pretty quickly. In terms of the rewrite I had, the last one was the Tom Fate post, which itself is also tied to Twolegplace Culture. I decided this one was going to be the “last” one because it was something that I considered to be a good “sendoff”.

I say that the series is on a very indefinite hiatus because I’m still unsure if it’s a project I even see worth going back to and continuing. And I feel that way even more now seeing as I’m trying to balance College and writing/drawing for Bug World No Mercy, a new project of mine. Right now I’d rather put more thought and effort into that story than try and expand upon an already existing one, especially when so many other people have been doing it for longer to a much larger degree.

I keep repeating myself but the project’s status is an indefinite hiatus, but I unfortunately wouldn’t hold out hope that the project will be continued any more.

[synthshenanigans]

there’s one on here currently and they’re bringing back up old controversy (jashshipping)

Yeaa I saw that. They also seem to post a bunch of CJ related things, so I might make the daily photos one since there isn't one for just CJ screenshots/photos

[icewindandboringhorror]

Various images of things

[pixelatedraindrops]

Okay tumblr is pissing me off in multiple ways so I may stay off for a bit until it decides to go back to normal.

Or at least not post anything for a day or so… ugh. I hate you tumblr stop messing with my vibe gdi

[deadrlngers]

MOIRA VELEZ x BENNY GECKO ft. what if Moira didn’t kill Benny as he deserved? au

template

[kangaracha]

wouldn't expect a lot of queenmaker until ~christmas time, which is not what i would like to say but my body is just telling me to ease up after november and i'm hitting that pre-holiday slump so we're just chillin. we're playing a game for the first time in six months. we're doing a puzzle. my eyes are really blurry rn so i think i'll go to bed.

[urbanbirdbud]

it’s been. a very rough afternoon