#it's not a good experience. it's not something I want to do

[beansnpeets]

Thinking about human behaviour compared to animal behaviour again.

It's funny to hear people (the older gens) complaining that "kids these days are lazy, they don't wanna work, etc." What do we get for busting our asses? There is no reward. Many will never own homes. Many are unemployed, trying to find work, and nobody will hire them because they don't have a million years experience and a masters degree OR they want people to work for minimum wage??? People are giving up because there is no reward. Why would we do all this for nothing?

Same as a dog that won't recall when you haven't reinforced it with a reward. Your dog isn't going to do what you tell it to if there is no incentive. No, your dog SHOULDN'T listen just because you're boss and it should respect you. That isn't how it works. They don't think that way. And honestly neither do people.

When we went hiking Sprocket wasn't always taking treats gently from me when I recalled her or she checked in and I rewarded and my one friend told me to stop giving her treats. I told him I won't work for free so why should she. And he said "I do things for free all the time because I want to do them," and I didn't say it then, but I wish I had, but if you like doing it, that's the incentive. It's a self-rewarding behaviour. Just like anything else a dog does, like chasing a squirrel or sniffing things or getting into the trash. Heeling instead of going off to sniff stuff or recalling off of something they want to chase is something you have to reinforce. You have to give them something better so they make the choice you want them to make. They won't make it just because they *respect* you. They won't willingly recall off of exciting prey out of RESPECT. You need to give them a tangible reward for that. You cannot possibly expect your dog to listen just because and then punish them for disobeying you.

Yeah, Sprocket bit my fingers a couple times. The one time pretty hard. But she was excited. She knows how to take gently and I reminded her and she tried very hard to be gentle most of the time. I wasn't going to stop rewarding her for checking in with me and recalling while we were off leash hiking in the woods. I want her to know that coming back to me is good and in the event of an emergency I would like her to not blow me off.

[dontexpectmuch]

hii, could u maybe write something about joining jude in the celebrations today and sometimes you get a little overwhelmed with big crowds so he’s protective of you and looks after you? 🥹

loud cheers and applause all around the place invaded your ears, the smell of smoke and beer, sweat and other liquids filled your nose as your eyes danced around the crowd in front of you. you coukd feel the sweat on your back roll down at times with how hot it was around you.

the sight if the crowd and fans slowly got smaller as the parade train rolled down the street. you and some other partners of the players were in the back, looking at the happy team with happiness bubbling inside of you as well.

the parade for the team just ended, everyone is on a high that they do not plan to come down of anytime soon, laughter and excitement are still present as if the day had just started. you knew that it would be like that, jude had told you this morning. and he also told you that he would be next to you if you ever felt overwhelmed, though you could not bring it over your heart to disturb this beautiful moment for him. you’d just suck it up for the time being and try to be as happy as possible for you boyfriend.

now, you were in the building where the next party would be held, a more intimate one with families and other staff members from the team. your eyes wander around the huge room, hoping to catch a glimpse of jude. while you are at it, you start to walk towards the buffet, wanting to grab something to drink because of the hot temperatures inside.

“¡chica! where have you been!” an excited voice behind you calls for you, making you turn around.

you are met with the sight of an excited eduardo, his smile so contagious that you can’t help but copy it. you feel relief wash over you as you see a familiar face, automatically moving closer to him.

“i was here and there, y’know.” shrugging, you smile at him while the two of you look around the room, the noise around you rising by the minute. “congratulations, by the way! all of you played amazing and truly deserve this!”

he smiles at you, loving the compliment coming from your mouth, “what can i say-“

“not everyone is blessed with such an amazing teammate like me, eh?”

you feel judes arm along your shoulders and how he pulls you closer against his chest, his voice is clear and loud, perhaps due to all the cheering that is still going around.

eduardo laughs, shaking his head and patting judes shoulder before he moves away, a new drink in his hand as he dances with another person.

“hi.” you turn around to face your boyfriend, his smile never leaving his face and eyes bright.

this sight alone makes your heart roar, suddenly everything else around you disappears in a buzz and you solely focus on him.

jude takes a sip from your water before he puts his arm back around your shoulder, “where have you been?”

“i was with the others, behind the team and all.” you tell him, head leaning back against his shoulder.

even though it was really hot inside and you would like to keep cool, no one could ever make you leave judes touch voluntarily, so you enjoy it while you can.

“how are you? everything okay?” you couldn’t see his face, as the two of you were looking ahead, though you knew that he was concerned about your well-being, making your heart flutter.

you could always feel his eyes on you, no matter where he was or where you were at, he always made sure to keep an eye on you to see if you were comfortable, which you really were. you tried to stay as calm as possible, even if you don’t enjoy large crowds, just to help jude have a good time during the celebrations.

“i’m fine, amor, really.” you take his hand into yours and lift it up to your mouth, gentle kisses feathering against his knuckles to convince him.

his eyes wander around the room, his teammates’ laughter and their cheers painting a bright smile on his face. with winning the league, creating a new environment for himself to gain the best experience ever and having you by his side to share all of this with, jude could not want to be in a better position than he is now.

now thinking of you, he genuinely hopes that you also had a nice time with him and the others, even though he wasn’t able to dedicate most of his time to you. but you seem content, relaxed smile on your lips as you also look around the room, comfortable sigh leaving you.

you push yourself off his shoulder to look at his eyes while your hand stays in his, “you should go and celebrate with them some more, show them how horribly you can dance.”

“ha, ha, ha.” jude rolls his eyes, but he can’t stop himself from smirking at your words, “as if you can dance any better.”

“in fact, i can.”

you hear him scoff, his hand slightly squeezing yours before his eyes turn serious, “babe, ‘m bein’ for real. as soon as you feel uncomfortable, you tell me and i’ll call mum. she’ll pick us up.”

this time you are the once to roll your eyes, even though you love it when he gets protective, you also want him to enjoy his time.

“lo sé, bebé. i will tell you, i promise.”

he opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted when some of his friends call him to come and take a group picture together.

“i-“

“just go, i promise i will tell you when i need to go home, okay?” your reassurance makes him visibly relax, nodding his head at your words.

with one last kiss on your cheek he moves away quickly, the cheers around you once again rising as he joins the group.

yeah, he was your cute boyfriend that could not dance to safe his life, but he will also always be the one that will look after you no matter what, and you will be forever grateful to have him in your life.

———————————————————————

guess who’s back

[notjustjavierpena]

4AM (Drabble)

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost

A/N: A little peek into Hubby’s mind. I’m working on a longer piece but here’s a taste for the starving.

Summary: Javier reflects on fatherhood while comforting his son.

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader/You (No y/n)

Tags: Domestic, Javier loves his family, Javi POV, life with a tiny baby!!

Word count: 1.5k

Link to this work on AO3:

4AM

It’s like clockwork when Lucas’ cries start echoing through the hallway in the early hours. Four in the morning and no sooner or later. You could set an alarm to wake you up at this point but each time there’s the slightest hope that it’s going to be at five the next time. 

You wake first. A moment later, you hear Javier wake up beside you with a sharp intake of air. He rubs his eyes with his thumb and index finger, “Whose turn is it?”

“It’s four a.m. He’s probably hungry,” you say with a groan and try desperately not to let your eyes close for too long, “Jesus, I’m tired.”

Lucas sounds desperate with how he sobs, hiccupping unhappily at not feeling either of you close yet. You feel bad for not having left your bed already, reaching for the covers to throw them to the side. Javier looks like he is just about to turn onto his other side but he sits up instead, “Let me. You just go back to sleep, baby. I’ll heat a bottle or bring him here if he’s hungry.”

He swings his legs out over the side of the bed, his movements slow with the kind of sleepiness that only comes from not waking up by oneself but rather being woken up by something or someone. 

“Javi,” you try to protest. 

“I mean it. Go back to sleep,” he stands up with a small noise, shuffling out of the room and down the hallway to avoid more protests from you. He works so much and you stay here with his infant son all day; it’s the least he can do. Plus, he wants to get all the quality time with his baby boy that he can, even when he’s miserable from sleep deprivation.

He stops and takes a deep breath right before pushing the door to Lucas’ nursery fully open. There’s a soft glow from the night light by the bed, a lamp shaped like a half-moon that shines a golden yellow over the crib to soothe. 

“Hola, mi amor (hello, my love),” he says when he leans over the side of the crib to look down at his wailing son. Lucas’ hair is dark and tousled much like his own, his eyes are big and brown but right now, his face is also tear-streaked and red from exhaustion to the point where it tugs at Javier’s heartstrings. He shushes gently as he scoops his infant into his hands with practiced ease, holding underneath his arms and supporting his head with his fingers. He bounces gently when he has Lucas cradled against his bare chest. In his head, Javier goes through his usual checklist to make the crying stop but he finds that his son is neither hungry, gassy, or in need of a diaper change. He tuts softly and paces the room to make him settle. 

“Did you have a nightmare?” He asks when the wails subside and turn into soft whimpering instead. The tiny hands on his chest curl up and as the sobbing stops, Lucas seems to find comfort in the familiar scent and warmth of his father. Javier kisses the top of his head, speaking gently while still bouncing carefully, “Don’t worry, I get those too sometimes but your mamá is right there with me when I do just like I am here with you. You’re always safe with us.”

Javier is floored each time he manages to soothe his baby boy. It’s a reminder that he is doing a great job despite all the doubts he had during your pregnancy, the introspection, and the constant fear that your softness hadn’t changed him enough after Colombia to be a good father. 

It seems so long ago since he was living an adrenaline-fuelled and cruel life miles away from the quiet suburban life he now leads in Texas. Sometimes, he even feels like everything that happened in Colombia are experiences that belong to a whole different person. This is even if there are still nights when he wakes up in a cold sweat, his whole body aching, feeling claustrophobic, and his poor old heart racing with memories of the things he's seen and done.

The hope of everything that he has with you had always existed beneath the layer of women and booze but Lucas is the true reason for letting go of his past. He doesn’t think he has ever felt so much fulfillment in anything until he held the tiny little boy against his chest for the first time and a nurse told him that he was a natural. He sobbed when you had gone to sleep, leaving him alone with your shared creation and he just couldn’t take his eyes off him. He doesn’t think he ever thought that his heart was capable of feeling so much unconditional love for anything. He still marvels at how his chest aches every time he looks into his son’s eyes.

Lucas has drifted off to sleep in his arms by now, breaths having slowed down and eyes having fluttered closed. Javier paces around the room for a few more minutes just to make sure, and then he walks back to the bassinet and gently lays the baby down on his back. 

However, as soon as Lucas loses the warmth of his father’s embrace, his eyes shoot open and the crying restarts. He writhes and hiccups and kicks the blanket off. 

Javier sighs softly but there’s a smile on his face as he does it. He picks him up once again and the routine starts over, “So that’s what you needed, huh? No llores. Estoy aquí. No voy a ningún lado (Don’t cry. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere)."

He is so tired as he promises this, eyelids burning from exhaustion when knows he doesn’t have to be up for another three hours and they could be spent on sleeping. It doesn’t reflect what he wants though because sleep is nothing compared to hearing those cries ebb out until they stop altogether. He feels triumphant each time. 

He walks to the corner of the room where an old and slightly weathered rocking chair stands. It used to be in his father’s home, more specifically on the back porch, but he received it as a gift after his pop found out he was going to be a grandfather. 

He slowly lowers himself into it. The gentle motion back and forth has Lucas falling asleep once again. Javier can feel his chest rise and fall in time with his son’s and it’s so soothing that he allows himself to relax. He closes his eyes, becomes aware of their synchronized heartbeats, and then passes out with the little bundle on top of him. 

In your bedroom, you wake up an hour later to pee only to find that Javier still hasn’t returned after getting up. You concentrate on listening for your baby’s cries but there is nothing to be heard. After going to the bathroom, your feet take you down the hall and into the nursery just in case Javier needs you to take over rocking your son for a while. 

You find them both fast asleep and it is a relief that there’s no distress after all. It makes you smile to see them like this, looking so alike despite the age difference between them. Tiptoeing across the floor to gently place a hand on Javier’s shoulder, you wake up your husband with the intention of not disturbing your son. He stirs at your touch and looks up at you with tired but content eyes. 

“Looks like you both fell asleep,” you whisper to him gently. Absent-mindedly, you stroke your hand up and down Lucas’ back. 

“I didn’t mean to,” Javier blinks sleepily, reaching up with one hand to rub his eye, “Seems like he didn’t need anything.” 

“Are you kidding me? That’s not true,” you cut him off with a shake of your head and a soft laugh, “He needed you.”

There’s a pause. Javier almost looks like he might drift off again. You carefully lift Lucas from his arms, “Let’s get you back to bed. Both of you.”

You lay Lucas back in his bassinet, rubbing his belly with the palm of your hand before tucking the blankets around him snugly. He stirs but only briefly and then settles back into a peaceful slumber, his tiny fingers curling around the edge of his covers.

Behind you, Javier has gotten up from his seat. You turn to him and wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you both stand there in the soft glow of the nursery. It goes on for a minute or so, none of you saying anything. 

Together, you quietly leave the room. In bed, Javier holds you protectively in his embrace during the last few hours he has with you. He leans to kiss your lips tenderly, “Te quiero tanto, baby (I love you so much, baby).”

“Y yo a ti (I love you too),” you reply and earn him squeezing you even tighter, “Para siempre (forever).”

Being a first-time parent is hard, you know this, but it’s not as hard when four a.m. I love yous are involved.

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[yuri-is-online]

Hi hi so can we have an expansion of middle school Floyd completely being his unfiltered self around yuu (maybe even octotrio going like "Oh please don't believe that merculture is like this" because middle school Floyd is embarrassing them in front of their crush) PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

Hmmm

So Floyd says morays are cowards right, but my experiences with little kids tell me that they don't always have the best sense of self-preservation. I picture little Floyd as one of those kids on crack. He thinks this human is cute! Especially because they don't have the sense to be afraid of him at all and are calling him cute, that's real funny. What if he just takes a big chomp outta ya, will you still think he's cute? As for the embarrassment, well...

Azul

It comes from how blunt little Floyd is.

He's got even less patience for Azul's plans than big Floyd does, and the complete inability to see the value of waiting for the pay off. He's actively getting angry at him and throwing temper tantrums every time Azul tries to smooth things over with Yuu.

"No you can't get the ability to breathe underwater from kissing a mermaid Floyd is making that up. And no not all merfolk are obsessed with legs that's just a him thing-"

"Nah Azul really likes your legs and pretty much everything you do with them!" Little Floyd is loud enough that other people than just you are looking at him in confusion (Azul is convinced it is overwhelming judgment) because he's choking on a mixture of spit and air because how did he pick up on that already?!? Azul thinks he's so subtle when he admires you, he's got to be so you don't think he's weird.

He can't wait for this to be over, he can handle being made fun of by the twins now since they've got a good rapport and he can give as good as he gets but little Floyd is like a sea otter with a clam, he just won't let this go because he thinks octopus courtship is boring and he's not above saying that. Outloud. In front of you.

Jade

It's from how willing he is to throw Jade under the bus.

Floyd knows Jade pretty well, even if it's a younger version of him so he knows just how down bad stupid Jade is within 15 seconds and he is determined to "help."

Said help is mostly just humming a very specific song while swimming around you in circles and doing little tricks to "set the mood." Or asking you what you think about Jade when he thinks he's out of earshot, something he's never once been since little Floyd got summoned.

He thought this would be fun, Floyd is always so delightfully unpredictable and now there's two of him! But instead of bothering Azul he's decided to torture Jade and ruin his carefully cultivated image instead. He sort of gets why Azul was so determined to get rid of all his childhood photos now, you're never going to look at him the same after this.

When his efforts don't work because Jade is too much of a coward little Floyd starts just telling you a bunch of stuff they got up to as kids in an effort to embarras him. It clearly works from how quick Jade is to shove him to the side but you're polite enough to keep the laughter to a minimum. For the most part

Floyd

It comes from how much of a coward he is.

Floyd is waiting for the right time to speak with you, when he's extra sure that you feel the same as he does. When he knows you'll accept everything he wants to give you and more.

But no. Little him has to say everything that comes into his mind. "Are your legs soft? Why are you leaking seawater? Do all humans really only have ten toes and can I count them-"

If you find this funny, I think it might depress him somewhat. He wants you to see all the ways he's smart and not brush him off as an unserious joke. If you think it's cute, well that's a mix of emotions. He doesn't want you to see him as cute now, but it's ok if you find morays cute, and even nicer if you find baby morays cute. That thought alone perks him up.

Until little Floyd starts telling Yuu he thinks they're cute. Then he gets possessive and starts competing with himself like a looser. Probably by picking Yuu up and carrying them away since his legs are longer and he can get away faster.

[drdemonprince]

I was in the car with a new friend recently and he was fuming about stress at work, and his rent going up, and I was sympathetic and bummed for him, and then he started yelling about traffic and freaking out any time a car took more than a millisecond to get moving and it freaked me out and I fell silent. I guess he could sense the energy changing in the air.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Am I bothering you?"

"It's okay," I said instinctively, unconvincingly, trying to convince myself to get over it, to not make him feel bad, to not make things about my feelings. I searched for a justification as to why my reaction was wrong. "I guess I forget what it's like to drive a car."

I used to get screamed at for moving too slowly. I exasperated my parents taking so long finding the momentum to get up and do things. I was spacey. Everything was always happening so quick. Where I wanted to put my attention was never where the world wanted me to. They needed me to care about car routes and traffic and appointment times instead of smooth pebbles on the sidewalk or birds. And my dad was always so furious in the car. Certain he was the authority on what made a good driver and that everyone else was not up to his standards. Ranting and yelling and flipping out so badly it made me cry and then put on a big smile to reassure him. I almost gave up learning to drive as a teen because my slow, plunking movements and insecurity on the road sent him into such a rage.

"Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ruin the evening," my friend said.

"You didn't," I reassured him.

I didn't want him to think I had a problem with him complaining about his life. That is what friends are for. It was the road rage that touched an unaged part of me, and brough that part forward so strongly I couldn't hide it. I couldn't fix my face. I almost started to cry.

It was the first time in a very long time that I've been well and truly triggered. Certain experiences in the present can make old parts of me reverberate; there's a ringing that you get inside when someone's shampoo smells like a bad old boyfriend or somebody touches you the wrong way without meaning to and you briefly go a little dead. That's manageable. It's a useful cue that something needs to change quickly before you freak out. I thank those triggers for existing. But this one. It caused an actual emotional phase shift straight to the past. Freeze up and then fawn it off, play along, make up for your own reaction.

It's crazy how unsafe I genuinely felt for a moment! And I tend to critique people who abuse the language of "feeling unsafe" for manipulative and white supremacist ends, so it is useful for me to get that reminder of just how reality-bending an acute state of triggeredness is. I tell people to use their words and regulate their distress and there I was, unable to.

I had forgotten one of the major reasons that I hate cars! That is how long I have been away from my dad and car-dependent culture and intense, mean impatience. I have made a lot of the right choices to protect me over the years, or else this upset would not be so unfamiliar.

[permanentswaps]

Building Each Other Up Pt. 3

Read Pt. 1 here and Pt. 2 here.

Shane’s POV

‘I'm not kidding, Mark. I wanna swap back,’ I angrily texted. I stared at the screen, waiting for the blue bubble to pop up and signal the message had gone through. Instead, my message popped up green with a little red circle saying ‘Not Delivered.’

“Fuck, did that asshole block me?” I muttered to myself, feeling a surge of anger.

It had been almost two weeks since Mark forced me out of my own body and into his, which meant he had been controlling my body full time for almost a month. At first, I thought I could handle it. And despite the bullshit he pulled, I wanted to trust him. But now, it was clear that he was enjoying my life a little too much.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising panic. It hadn't been the worst experience being in Mark’s body again. I had enjoyed indulging in some cheat foods and cigars I hadn’t been allowing myself, and I still managed to pull girls without much effort (I mean Mark was still a good looking guy). There was even a nostalgic element to being back in his body after so long.

But the bodybuilding competition was tomorrow. I had been working towards this for so long, and the thought of not competing in my own body was infuriating.

Grabbing my phone again, I tried calling him, but it went straight to voicemail. "Damn it, Mark! Answer your fucking phone!" I shouted, slamming it down on the counter.

"Okay, well, I guess I'll have to take matters into my own hands," I muttered to myself.

Mark had mentioned earlier this week that he needed to make more of the potion. He said it was a bit of an involved process, but with the competition coming up, he just didn't have the time. I knew better. I'd made the potion with him a few times, and while it was a bit complicated, it didn't take that long. Maybe two to three hours tops.

"Alright," I said to myself. "It doesn't seem like I'm getting any help from him, so I guess I'll just make some on my own."

After rummaging through the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen, I found everything I needed. I set up in the kitchen, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia and frustration. As I started cooking, memories of the first time we made the potion together came flooding back. We were both so excited about getting me some gains back then.

Following the steps carefully, I mixed the ingredients, heating them just right on the stove. After about two and a half hours, I had a batch of the potion ready. It wasn’t quite the right color – a bit more greenish than usual – but I had followed all the steps correctly.

"Good enough," I said, pouring the potion into a vial.

I made my way over to my apartment, feeling a mixture of anxiety and determination. Mark had insisted we go about our routines as normally as possible to avoid raising suspicion, but I knew that if I was going to get my body back, I had to act quickly.

As I approached the door, I fished out the vial of potion from my pocket. "No sense in asking him to swap back if he’s been avoiding me," I muttered to myself. I took a deep breath and downed the potion in one go, the familiar bitter taste washing over my tongue.

I entered the key code and opened the door, my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear movement in the bedroom, the sound of my own footsteps pacing around. Mentally preparing myself, I quietly made my way towards the noise.

I run in there and dive into my back. Except, once inside, I realize immediately that something is wrong. I'm not in control. I'm just a passenger in this body. Panic sets in as I shout in my head, "Mark, you fucker, what did you do?" But there's no reply. Shit, he can't hear me.

I feel myself walk over to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Except it isn't me. It's some random kid. Who the fuck is this, I think to myself.

Not only did I make the potion wrong, I jumped into some random guy. And who the hell is he? Why is he alone in my apartment? My mind races with confusion and dread.

I hear the door open again and watch as my old self – Mark in my body – walks into the room.

"Hey babe," he says, his voice filled with affection as he pulls me in for a tender kiss. I'm shocked, but I can't do anything to resist.

"How was the gym?" I hear my body ask, its voice sounding strangely detached from my own thoughts.

"Oh, great," Mark responds, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I think I'm in great shape for the competition." He flexes his muscles for emphasis. "But I'm still feeling a bit stressed," he adds, smirking at me seductively, walking to the bathroom and quickly indulging in some pump selfies.

I feel myself following him into the bathroom, my body moving on its own accord. I know what’s about to happen Panic sets in as I try to turn off my subconscious, but it's no use, I'm trapped.

I watch as my body turns on the water, and Mark looks at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Before we get in, I know how much you like my post-workout musk," he says with a smirk.

Despite my internal protests, I also feel a strange sense of anticipation. Mark pulls my head towards his armpit. I take a deep inhale and then begin to lick, finding it surprisingly tolerable. The taste is musky and slightly salty, but not as overpowering as I feared.

Once the shower is nice and steamy, we step in, enveloped in the warmth and the mist swirling around us. My new body takes the lead, its hands gliding over Mark’s – I mean my body’s – skin, caressing every curve and contour with the gentle pressure of the sudsy soap and the softness of the loofah. His muscles relax under my touch, and a contented sigh escapes his lips as I lavish attention on him.

Then, it's Mark's turn to return the favor. My body tries to make itself look as sexy as possible for him.

He turns me around, his touch sending shivers down my spine as he runs the loofah over my skin. I close my eyes, lost in the sensation of his hands caressing me, focusing on the way his fingers linger on my ass.

When he squeezes and playfully slaps my ass, I'm taken aback by the surge of arousal that washes over me. My heart races as I feel myself growing excited at his touch, unable to control the growing heat between my legs.

"Fuck," I feel my voice mutter, the intensity of the moment clearly overwhelming the guy in control of this body. If this didn’t fell so good, I would’ve realized that I’d never felt aroused by another guy when I had controlled Mark’s body

As Mark's hard cock pressed against my eager hole, a jolt of conflicting emotions surged through me. “I can’t be here for this,” I thought to myself, trying and failing again to retreat to my subconscious.

Then, finally, I felt the exhilarating sensation of him entering me.

Despite my initial resistance, a wave of unexpected pleasure washed over me, leaving me stunned by the intensity of the experience.

"Fuck," I thought, momentarily forgetting who I even actually was.

The sensation of being filled by my former cock was overwhelming. I find myself lost in the moment, my body eagerly responding to his every touch and thrust. I can’t deny the pleasure coursing through my veins as he drives into me.

As the pleasure builds to a crescendo, I feel myself teetering on the edge of ecstasy, my mind consumed by the raw intensity of the experience.

“Unghhhh Shane” I hear my voice moan uncontrollably.

That definitely got a reaction out of him. He starts thrusting into me even deeper.

“Wait,” I thought, “he’s not just enjoying this kids admittedly built body …  is he getting off on being me?”

“Fuck yeah, keep saying daddy’s name” he replies.

“Fuck me harder Shane,” I hear my voice beg.

Finally, with a guttural groan, Mark reaches his peak, his hot cum flooding into me, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through my body. I feel myself clenching around him, my own release echoing his as we both ride the waves of pleasure to completion.

As we catch our breath, Mark pulls away, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. Basking in the physical afterglow, I find myself struggling to come to terms with what just happened.

“That was another great one, babe. Your ass is so incredible,” he says, his voice tinged with satisfaction.

“Thanks, babe,” my body responds automatically, a smile forming on my lips as I lean in for another kiss under the warm cascade of water.

I had a million questions still racing around my head – “who is this kid”, “why can’t he hear me”, “how can I get my body back” – but one thought dominates above all others: When can I do that again?

To Be Continued ...

[ghouljams]

'Til Death (Remember Me in Your Will)

Rating: Mature (Minors Do Not Interact) Words: 3.7k Tags: David "Hesh" Walker/F!Reader, Sugar Daddy au, Dom/sub undertones, flirting Summary: You start dating Hesh as a way to supliment your income. It's not like you've never sugared before, you know how to play this game. It's just too bad Hesh seems to have his own ideas about what this relationship is. Next Chapter > ao3

You’ve always been smart. You don’t know if you’ve always been pretty, but you try not to be too harsh on your younger self. You also have bills to pay. You’re fortunate enough to be doing what you love, working a job you’re passionate about, and getting paid shit all for it. Luckily you’re not the one paying your bills. You have sugar daddies for that.

Like you said, pretty, and smart enough not to rely on one stream of cash. You have a couple men you sugar for, all old enough to make sure they know you’re not looking for love, and with enough experience to get you off at the end of the night. It’s a good situation, everyone gets what they want, and you don’t worry about your job paying you barely above minimum wage. When one man drops you, you hit up your favorite sites for another. Which is how you got here, staring at Hesh with a cup of coffee held tight between your hands and a hangover that throbs like a lobotomy.

What you don’t know is how he got in, but you’re more focused on his offer than anything else. Drop the other men you sugar for to be his exclusively, and he’ll double every dollar they pay you monthly. You’re not greedy by any stretch of the word, but your mouth waters at the proposal. That’s a lot of money he’s laying on the table.

“And what about sex?” You ask him. It’s been months of dating him, and Hesh still hasn’t touched you. In fact the smoldering tension between you has made all your other relationships feel cold. Forcing you to rely on your toys after sex these days when your other daddies fail to perform. That doesn’t mean you want to cut it off cold turkey. You can’t, not when he still makes you throb eagerly even with the hangover migraine. If he doesn’t want you, there’s no deal. 

There’s something steely in Hesh’s eyes when he leans forward, his elbows settling on his knees. His smile is wicked, predatory, it makes goosebumps prickle over your skin. Your blood runs hot, and follows his eyes as they drop to stare between your legs.

“Baby,” He purrs, “I’ll fuck you over this table right now, all you gotta do is say yes to me.”

(six months ago)

You check your makeup in your compact mirror. Not your favorite, but you find the men you date appreciate the femininity of it. There’s something terribly alluring about swiping your pinky over the corners of your lips with a compact mirror in hand, and you don’t get that sort of sex-out-of-the-bag flavor with your phone camera. You really need all the cards you can get tonight too. You’ve got a date with a new man, a new sugar daddy. You don’t usually go for them when they’re this close in age to you, but he seemed nice, and paid in advance(no strings attached), so you’re taking the chance on him. He offered to pick you up, but… you’re not about to get trapped in a car with a man you don’t know. It’s better having a quick escape route if the date goes south.

You snap your compact shut and tuck it neatly back into your purse when you spot your date. He hands his keys to the restaurant’s valet, and offers you a smile. He’s wearing a suit, you expected as much with the caliber of restaurant he suggested, but it’s nice being dressed up for. You hold your hand out in greeting as his long strides carry him close. You’re pleasantly surprised when his fingers grip yours and raise your hand to his lips. He just grazes your knuckles, his eyes heavy on yours as he kisses your hand. They’re green, you note. Not just his eyes either, his suit too. It’s so dark you’d mistaken it as black, but it’s green, and it makes his eyes positively electric looking.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” He smiles, dropping his hold on your hand and slipping his around your back as you turn to walk into the restaurant.

“I just got here,” A white lie, you got here with ten minutes to spare, never early or late for the men you date. Your date hums, his thumb rubbing against the small of your back, right where the zipper of your dress ends. His hand splays wide, his pinky grazing the swell of your ass. It sends a little shiver through you, the touch quickly removed as your date gives his name to the host.

“Walker.” He voice, sure and even, louder than the intimate softness of his voice when he’d greeted you, makes something warm slither down your spine. 

“David Walker,” you feel the name over your tongue, adding the last name to the one he’d had on his profile. You feel the way his attention slips back to you heavily, it may as well be another hand with the warmth that it draws over you.

“My friends call me Hesh,” He sounds proud, but not like he’s puffing out his chest. There’s no bragging to the nickname, just the simple exchange of information.

He settles his hand on your back again when the host leads you to your table. The firm pressure not pushing you, not hurrying you, but steadying you. You wonder if he doubts your ability to walk in the heels you picked, or if he’s simply the touchy sort. You suppose you’ll figure it out soon enough. He pulls your chair out like a gentleman, helps you scoot in to the table, and takes his seat across from you without a wasted movement. You’ve never met a man that seemed so immediately comfortable in his own skin.

You suppose that comes with the territory. The men that pay you, pay you for a reason. You’re arm candy, or a kink, or an easy lay that’s a step better than a prostitute for men too important to “date down”. You know all sorts of men, but Hesh… Hesh seems like he could find a partner easily. Maybe it’s a time issue. You’ve only dealt with some of those. The type of man that doesn’t have the time in his life for dating. You slot the possibility into your mental file for Hesh, and settle your elbows on the table, leaning against them with a smile.

“So,” You draw the word out, give him time to eye the way your breasts push together against the low cut of your dress, “how was your day?”

It’s a simple question, one that never feels out of place, but busy men will always talk about their work. Hesh’s eyes drag over you, flicking to meet yours from their brief rest on your chest. He smiles, taking the menu set in front of him to look over as he speaks.

“I’m in the military if that’s what you’re askin’.” You feel yourself falter a little, regaining your composure, your smile, when he glances up at you.

“You must be busy,” You try, keeping your tone interested but light. You dislike intelligent men, the ones that can see through you, see through your questions, it makes it harder to play the game when both sides know the rules. But a date is a date. 

“Hard to date with deployment looming,” He admits, or perhaps supplies, helping you build your mental catalog for him. You nod, you can see that. It would certainly make it hard to keep someone around without an incentive, hence the use of a sugar baby. Ah, got it. You file him neatly into the correct box and reach for your water glass. 

“I can imagine,” You raise a brow, taking a sip, busy men like talking. Busy men tell you about themselves, what they can do for you, what you should do for them, how busy they are and how little time they have for you, as if you’re meant to be grateful for every second they allow you.

Hesh waits. He sits patiently, watching you with interest as you swipe your thumb over the lipstick stain you’ve left on the rim of the glass. He’s quiet, observant. Unnerving. Busy men talk, and Hesh isn’t talking. He’s watching, taking you in like he has all the time in the world. He sets his menu down and laces his fingers together on the table. You wish you couldn’t feel the hesitance in your fingers as you take another sip of your water, delaying the inevitable.

“Do I make you nervous,” He asks after your third sip. There’s a keen evenness to his tone, low and deep enough to shiver goosebumps over your skin. You set your water down and plaster on a smile that feels as fake as you’re sure it must look.

“Of course not.”

“You done this before sweetheart?”

“Sugar?” You can feel Hesh’s hum, the warmth of it spreads through your chest, his eyes soft and his smile inquisitive. “Once or twice.” You lie.

“Once or twice,” He turns the words back to you. An interrogation technique you often employ during these sorts of things. It works though. You bite down the need to correct him, to tell him maybe it’s more than just once or twice.

“It’s hard to pay the bills with just my work.” You explain, though you’re not sure why. Something in your stomach flutters to explain yourself to this man, the desire shakes itself through your bones. He reaches for his own water glass, draws the moment out as you watch his Adam's apple bob with the motion of swallowing. You've done this a good dozen times, but no one has put you on your toes as quickly as Hesh has. You take the moment to give him a once over. There's a slight shadow over his jaw, we'll groomed stubble that feeds its way into close cropped brown hair. Young-ish, with an age to his eyes that makes you wonder what he's been through, what he's seen. He's just at what you would call “acceptably older” if you were actually dating him, but he still wears his youth in the gleam of his smile. He watches you like a hawk, and you in turn watch him like a rabbit.

“Non-profit, right?” Hesh confirms, and you nod, before quickly giving a verbal affirmative. Verbal answers are more confident, and you've done this too many times to be losing your confidence now. Hesh is outside of your normal routine, but a sugar daddy is a sugar daddy, and at the end of the day they all want one thing. A pretty thing on their arm. They don't care about what you do or who you are, as long as you go home with them at the end of the night. “Do you enjoy it?”

The question takes you off guard. Or, not the question itself, you've heard that a hundred times at least, it's the genuine interest disguised behind an impassive smile. You blink at him.

“I-” you don't give details about your work, they don't want details, you give the necessary ‘yes’ and move on to talking about him or playing footsie under the table, “I do it’s-”

Your waiter stops beside the table, and you feel Hesh's attention leave you like a weight falling off your chest. He speaks with conviction, orders wine for the both of you, and where you usually feel as though that sort of move is right out of a “how to show women you’re the boss 101” handbook, on him it feels natural. He’s used to commanding attention, to giving orders. No wasted breath, no wasted words. Hesh orders and you wonder if he’ll do the same for your meal.

“What did you say you did in the military?” You ask when the waiter leaves, and Hesh’s eyes feel all the heavier on you for your interest.

“We were talking about you,” He corrects. The way he sits and looks at you show a man that holds not just himself to high standards, but everyone else as well. The weight of his full attention is crushing now that you’ve felt it leave you, and yet it sparks something in you. A desire to please. A desire to live up to those expectations.

He’s here for you, you don’t want to disappoint him.

You’ve never had a conversation with a man who makes you feel so aware of yourself. You can feel the brush of fabric against your skin like a touch, and each breath you take seems to tease you as your dress pulls over your chest. And his eyes… He touches every inch of exposed skin he can with them, drawing warmth over you until you’re positively alight with want. You have to excuse yourself to the restroom. He stands with you, old school manners you’ve only seen in movies, and offers a hand to help you around the table. You think you feel the brush of his fingers over your hip, his touch burning through you even when you must have imagined it. 

You fix your makeup in the bathroom mirror, attempt to clean up some of the mess you’re making in your panties. God. It’s been so long since you had a date that stoked the fire low in your stomach, a man that looked at you like something to be desired not just a sure thing. When’s the last time your date seemed so interested in you, asked questions to further your answers, brought up topics that related to something you’d mentioned and not just something he could brag about? When’s the last time you had a good date with a hot guy and weren’t worried about whether it would be worth your time?

God have you really not thought about the money this whole time? You’d been so swept up in the way Hesh spoke to you, the way he looked at you, that you couldn’t think of anything else. Even now you can’t help thinking of the way he’d purred, “Anythin’ you want,” when you’d asked what to order. The memory of his voice makes you press your thighs together. You want to know what he’d say to you without the filter of public decency. You want to know how he’d touch you behind closed doors.

He stands again when you make your way back to the table, waits for you to sit before taking his seat. You notice he’s barely touched his food since you left, only picking up his knife and fork when you do. You slot “slow eater” into your folder on him. It doesn’t matter you suppose, he sips his wine, always pours another swallow for you when you run low, and yet he seems to finish with you. His food is gone just a bite after yours is, and he leans against the table as the waiter whisks your plates away. Like he’s waiting for something.

It’s easy to slide your foot against his calf, easy to see the heat that burns in his eyes. You’re careful of your heel, but you’re well practiced in this game. He wants you, you know he wants you. That’s how these things work, pick a pretty girl off the site and take her home at the end. You get first right of refusal and some extra cash in your pocket, he gets to boast about the pretty thing he’s screwing.

“You hopin’ for something sweetheart?” Hesh catches your ankle under the table, firm fingers stopping you from trailing past his knee. His tone is casual, playful, his grip is not. “Gotta use your words like a big girl.” 

“I’m hoping we can get the check,” You purr. Your dates usually rush for it, signal the waiter as quickly as they can to shuffle you into the back seat of their car, or the nearby hotel. You don’t think you’ve had a date ever end at dinner, the same way you’re sure you’ve never had a dinner last quite as long as this. 

“We?” Hesh smiles, his thumb rubs your ankle, the friction making you shiver, “You offerin’ to split the bill little one?”

“Of course not Daddy,” the title falls from your lips with an invitation to touch further. You try not to stretch too obviously into his grip, feel the slip of your skirt as his fingers push up over your calf like a curtain drawing the evening to an end, “Just thought you might like to have dessert elsewhere.”

Hesh’s hand is warm and appreciative as it strokes your leg. You feel the drag of calluses, rough palms skating over your soft skin, and wonder how those thick fingers will feel once they’re inside you. Men like him… they like when you’re a little bold, they like knowing that you’re not too shy to avoid falling into bed on the first date. You’ve honed your edge against the predictability of the men you date, and you know you’re right by the way he catches the waiter’s eye and taps his fingers against the table.

You settle into the warm feeling of victory, and the knowledge that you’ve snagged another source of income. Not to mention the added benefit of sex. Hesh touches you with an idle sort of intimacy that makes heat throb between your legs, he touches you like it’s his right to, like he holds command over the how and when of it. You don’t think he’s the sort of man people often say ‘no’ to.

He drags his fingers over your shin, settling your foot against his knee as he takes his hand from under the table to take the check. It’s a bit of a stretch, the burn in your hamstring of keeping yourself looking presentably seated while still abiding by his placement is a wonderful precursor for the night ahead. You keep your eyes on him as he pays with barely a glance at the bill as he hands the waiter his card. The whisper of wealth. No, you don’t think people say ‘no’ to Hesh often. If ever.

Hesh slips his card back into his wallet as he stands, and moves around the table to offer you his hand. You don’t need it, but you like the way his fingers curl around yours, the firm grip he holds you with as you stand. You brush your hands over your skirt, letting the hem fall back into place. You don’t miss the way Hesh’s eyes follow the sway of your chest as you lean forward. Men are all alike, perfectly predictable.

You press close to his side, letting him feel the soft curves of your body as he leads you out of the restaurant. He hands the valet his ticket and you make a mental note to call one of your friends to come grab your car. Although you suppose you don’t have to spend the night, you can uber back here in an hour or so and grab it. The restaurant staff know you well enough they can let you park here for a bit.

“Are we going back to yours or finding a hotel?” You can’t say you aren’t interested in seeing where he lives, but a hotel is closer, and you’re ready to go.

“Neither,” Hesh hums, “you’re going home.”

He’s not- he’s not interested? Your confusion must read too clearly on your face because Hesh’s hand finds your waist and drags you close. You tip your head to avoid bumping your nose against him and he takes the motion as permission to kiss you. His lips searing yours as his hand squeezes the meat of your hip. You’re quick to wrap your arms around his shoulders, quick to press against the length of him, your chest to his, your hips to his. You can feel the thick twitch of his cock where you push yourself against it. (Fuck is that all him?) He’s like a furnace, radiating warm want that soaks into your skin. The night air feels freezing on your exposed skin

Hesh’s lips part, his breath a sigh as his head tips. The soft push of his lips against yours is exceedingly gentle for the hunger you can taste behind it. It shivers down your spine, aches in the creek of Hesh’s grip on your hips, a want that you can’t quantify. Your lips slide over his, his stubble tickling you a little as you part and kiss, part and kiss, again and again. 

He presses, forces you to lean back, arching into him. You’re reliant on him to keep you standing, trusting your balance to a man you barely know. It makes your skin prickle, makes you want. You wiggle your hips, try to entice him to give you what you know he’s looking for, even slip your tongue in the part of his lips. His fingers tighten until you squeak with pain and pull away from the kiss.

He pulls you up, lets you go to take his keys from the valet. You can still feel his spit slicking your top lip, the tingle of his stubble against your bottom. You balk, the dark fabric of his suit does enough to hide the outline of his cock in the low light but you know what you felt. How can he just leave you like this?

“You’re serious.” You realize, and Hesh pauses with his hand on the top of his car.

“I am,” No wasted words. You hesitate, worry your lip between your teeth before you can stop yourself. Hesh waits you out, patient as a saint.

“But I thought-” You try to blink through your confusion, “I thought this went well.”

“It did,” Hesh smiles and it isn’t patronizing or pitying, but there’s something in it that doesn’t feel entirely friendly, “I’d like to get to know you better, that’s all sweetheart.”

You frown. The first genuine expression you’ve given him all night and it’s a furrowed brow. You fix your face before you lose the next date to your pouting. Hesh’s brows are heavy, his eyes lidding as he watches you. There is something dark and unreadable in the way he looks at you, something heady that makes you dumb. The chill rushes to you when he looks away, climbs into his car, and leaves.

[thekissesonkeisha]

So I minishifted to my kpop idol dr last night and I'm loosing my mind

Lowkey still kinda freaking out about it because it's only just when the realisation settled in that I FUCKING SHIFTED. AND TWO OF MY FATTEST CRUSHES WERE STOOD RIGHT THERE. FUCK. OKay let me explain what happened before I IMPLODE!😆

So given how startled I was when I woke up in what i assume is my studio room? (It was a pretty cute studio and looked like it WOULD be mine🤭🤞🏾) I was only there for a good 2 minutes before freaking out and shifting back like the COWARD I AM, so I'll tell you everything that happened whilst I was there😁

Okay so first of all, I woke up in "my" studio right next to my group leader Mei and my other best friend on the other end and I was SO confused at the time because I was trying to figure out where I was. I didn't understand why I was in a different room but like at the same time it felt familiar.

But anyway, I felt so comfortable and warm and realised it was because I had a really soft blanket wrapped around my body, which I suspect was from one of my members?? Maybe?? and then Mei looked over at me and noticed I was awake, she was like "Youre finally awake Keesh" and rubbed my back so gently i could have fallen asleep right there and then again. It was like I got a taste of satisfaction for my touch starved self.

And GOSH her voice was so much more raspy than I thought it was going to be i was quite taken aback😭😭 and her face sculpted by Aphrodite herself kinda switched to a concerned expression when she saw me looking around the room frantically like I didn't know where I was, she asked me if everything was alright, and I couldn't even reply with my voice because I was so stunned so I nodded weakly with most unconvincing smile ever because I was still processing what the hell was going on.

Then suddenly, I heard like two worryingly familiar male voices coming close to the studio room we were in☹️☹️(internally i was like FUCK OFF I cant do this rn). My head literally snapped to the door when i heard it creek open and standing right there was the glorious man he is, Min Yoongi, leaning on the door frame (with long black hair btw) and the gorgeous man he is, Jimin, peaking his head through from behind the door😭😭 (I think i remember him being Blonde?). When I tell you my pulse picked up at a million miles per second. Seeing Yoongi and Jimin in the flesh is something else you guys. And to say Yoongi is intimidating is an UNDERSTATMENT☠️☠️ those two were so hot oh my GOD. I was lowkey panicking because I was NOT prepared to come face to face with AANYONE from my kpop dr nevermind BTS☠️☠️ even though i intended to shift there last night.

But anyway, i heard Yoongi ask my members ask if I was still asleep because my food was getting cold, and Mei said, "Oh yeah, yeah, she just woke up.." and Immediately placed my head back on the table and covered my face with the blanket, PRAYINGGG she'd think I fell back asleep WHICH SHE DID THANK GOD🙏🏾 and right before I woke up here I heard Jimin saying something like "you should wake her up before he eats it all??" He was giggling while he was saying that, too. And then I shifted back here.

OH AND LET ME NOT FORGET TO ADD, THIS ENTIRE DIALOGUE WAS IN KOREAN?? AND I UNDERSTOOD IT ALL.

This experience is actually one of my most scariest/exciting/crazy ones ever. Not even just because I shifted there, but because of what happened prior to the shift. Me and my best friend were yapping to each other about BTS, and we were talking about the signs we picked up on and then the realisation I came to. The moment me and my friend and I made this silly girl group as a joke, it seems that we created a butterfly effect in our reality. And now, whatever sign I get about BTS, "coincidentally," always links back to my girl group.

Anyway so yeah idk wether or not I want to shift back because LORD I CRAVE TO SEE THEM AGAIN but like I am so intimidated by Yoongi and even Jimin I might just freak out the next time I see them again😭😭 @livingmydreamlife5555 @samara444 @4ellieluv @theshifterbear

[nicromancytarot]

WHICH ONE OF MY FAVOURITE FICTIONAL CHARACTERS YOU WOULD BE?

This is a general channeling based on a collective of people. Take what resonates and leave what doesn’t. If you don’t feel the pile resonates with you, don’t be scared to try another, if it still doesn’t feel right, that’s ok! Maybe our energies aren’t as connected and my readings are not for you.

I do these strictly for fun and educational purposes. I do not charge for these readings, and I do not fake content.

PICK A PILE READING

I asked my spirit guides what favourite fictional character of mine you would identify as, pick a picture and find out what they had to say!

PILE 1

Tom Riddle. (Harry Potter)

Being born into a life of disadvantages cannot be easy, his parents have been a fluke of love rather than a serious one, a small one-sided magically influenced fling turned into the birth of their only son, but one could not have and one did not want, so he was given away. Unwanted, alone, ignored, mistreated. So he assumes power in the only way that he knows how to, having not been given love or care his entire life, all he knew was darkness, and so he worked further with it.

Tom Riddle soon enough became the most overpowered and feared wizard in the entire world, his name itself was one people worried to beckon incase it summoned the dark lord himself, this was the only way for Tom to get his revenge on the world.

But Tom was scared, no matter how old he grew, he was always so concerned for the thought of death that clouded his mind daily, so much of his life was taken from him at the start, and at the end he just wanted more.

Everything he had built, whether with good heart or not, was stolen from his grasp and ripped from under his hands, the little time that he was granted was shortened by his fear, a deep deep terror that he would never have enough of it, that there could not be enough seconds on the clock to count how long he wanted to be alive.

So soon enough, the nightmares that haunted him while he was awake, were the ones that defeated him and dragged him back to sleep.

PILE 2

Mira Troy. (Enola Holmes 2)

Miss Mira Troy, the unexpected villain of the story, the one too overlooked to have the evil intent noticed by those who were near her, the woman with twice the mind of anyone she had to work for, but ignored because of her identity.

Mira Troy took the invisibility that she was granted within her job, her place in society and ran with it, hiding her true self from everyone in order to be the person that no one knew she could become. All her opinions and words were disregarded and seen past, so she created a false persona, she expressed her intentions clearly, but so discreetly that no one who had the opportunity to talk to her would realise that she was indeed capable of the things normally seen fit for a man.

She schemed in darkness but she worked in daylight, achieving more than she would’ve been given, creating all that she was not allowed to have, and all without any wandering eyes, all unnoticed, unseen.

She managed to complete one of the most heinous, risky crimes all in order to make the money that she deserved regardless, and she did it without anybody poking their nose in, purely to play a game with Sherlock, and even then if he was not acquired to help Mira Troy most definitely would’ve gotten away with it.

PILE 3

Elizabeth Boland. (Good Girls)

Beth was just a casual mother when she got herself into some trouble, she would carpool her kids to their soccer games, she would bake cookies for the school bake sales, it was the least expected to know that she and her friends, average mothers like herself were engaging in moving, cleaning and laundering fake cash for a dangerous gang leader.

And even when she managed to find a way out of her predicament, she put herself back in for more, she needed to experience something other than the bore of being a stay at home mother; she discovered how much she enjoyed doing risky things, and even when a gun was held to her head, she didn’t care much for what was going to happen.

She outsmarted those who thought little of her, got the gang leader wrapped around her finger and continued to make the money that she could from doing what no one expected she would. Her plans were always fool proof, they were designed intricately to keep herself out of trouble, and she did it purely just to have a more exciting life. She liked the thrill of it.

Even when she did get caught, her excellence in lying helped her out a ton, making her seem like a sweet innocent mother once again, no one would know what she was really planning on doing.

But maybe she was too easy going, forgiving her husband for cheating multiple times, for faking cancer, for trying to kill her gang leader friend, who may have been more than a friend.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if I turned my coworker in for using his phone?

☎️ for obvious reasons.

So I’m gonna put this up front: this isn’t actually about the phone, it’s about the coworker. The phone is just convenient.

Our players are me (35 AFAB), Coworker A (~30 M), Supervisor C (N/A M), D (N/A F), and L (N/A F).

So first, the reason I have beef with A: he has never had a conversation with me that didn’t involve hitting on me and/or inappropriate questions. These have included demanding to know who I voted for, how my paycheck is delivered, whether I’m in a throuple with my roommates, and whether I have a boyfriend, which wouldn’t be weird except it was literally the first question he ever asked me—he didn’t even know my name yet. After I yelled at him over the voting thing because he refused to take “I don’t discuss politics at work” for an answer FOUR TIMES, he tried to break my glasses when I put them down so I could put on my safety goggles.

You may be wondering why I haven’t turned A in for harassment, ESPECIALLY after the glasses incident. I have. The problem is, he’s very good at looking pathetic and saying “I was just _________.” In this case, he was just looking at my glasses (never mind that you shouldn’t be playing with someone else’s expensive medical device!), and just making conversation. In spite of the fact that he was ignoring his trainee and distracting me from my work, he somehow got away with this. After a few of my screwdrivers went missing the same day he went pawing through them and he broke my brand-new pen, C told him to stop having anything to do with me, that his attention WAS NOT WELCOME.

Now we get to L and D. They’re two of our coworkers who can solve just about any problem you have. Ever since A was warned off, I’ve noticed that if I’m working with L or D, suddenly A needs all kinds of help that keeps bringing him over to our machine, and he always seeks out help from whoever it is I’m working with—if I’m with L he’ll go to L, if I’m with D he’ll go to D. If you’re a dude and think I’m overreacting, go ask a couple of the women in your life—you probably know someone who’s had similar experiences. (And for the record, another coworker I only know to say hello to has commented that his behavior toward me makes her feel like “he wants to wear your skin or something.”) I don’t think A is actively dangerous, but he’s very clearly a creep—especially because he also has a girlfriend and baby and still keeps doing this.

Now we get to the phone. I work in a factory where we’re not allowed to have phones on the floor because we work with food product and a phone dropping in a box is a huge contamination issue, on top of which distraction at my job can lead to life-changing, possibly even life-threatening injuries. (I was on a machine that threw its chain drive once and the only reason I didn’t lose an eye is because there happened to be another machine piece between me and the snap.) So: phones are a big no. Management will look the other way for people in extenuating circumstances, like having a sick kid at home, but in those cases your phone is to remain in your pocket and if it rings and you need to answer, you have to leave the floor.

I have caught A texting FOUR TIMES in the last month. Once I caught the words on his phone screen, and he was making plans for a party. That’s definitely not extenuating circumstances, and twice I’ve found his phone in the product catch tray.

So: very against rules that are there for the safety of us and our end users, and if I turn him in he’s going to get a writeup and possibly even a termination, which would mean I didn’t have to deal with him anymore. On the other hand, if he gets fired for violating safety standards he’ll have a hard time getting new work, and his baby doesn’t deserve hardship just because Dad is a creeper. Also, while I don’t carry my phone on the floor, I worry that turning him in could lead to a blanket ban that affects those in extenuating circumstances, because I’m almost positive he’d try “I was just checking on the baby” as his excuse.

WIBTA?

[goldengirliez]

STEALING MIKEY'S KEYS SO HE'S LATE FOR A MEETING>>>>>

09:32 pm

I believe that intimacy is the new kind of pure love. Getting to know someone on a deeper level is something that goes beyond simple attachment, it goes beyond the simple but necessary need of validation.

Being intimate means getting on the same frequency level as a person and communicating effectively with each word, each action, and each stare.

Intimacy isn't something you only find under the sheets until sweat, tears and arousal dampen the mattress. Its true nature lies in between the actions of your everyday life, moments that don't need any kind of particular reason to happen and yet feel special because you are there, you are connected.

You have realised such a thing only briefly as the air is getting in and out of your lungs hectically, your breath coming short and irregular and the adrenaline rushing through your veins full speed with each pump of your vital muscle.

Your legs almost shake and your feet ache slightly, your eyes darting to the person in front of you with an excited and rebellious glimmer, the glint of life.

You've been running away from Mikey for the last ten minutes because you had taken the keys to his motorbike.

He has been spending every evening with Toman recently, not passing by your home to even say goodnight because the meetings always finish late at night.

You know that he always tries his best to make it up to you for the lost time with his ways of bringing your favourite sweets to school, taking you home and around the city with his bike whenever you need to, sending you a sweet message randomly throughout the day to check up on you, never missing the opportunity to hug you, kiss you or keeping you close when you pass by, and yet… You can't help but miss him more than anything.

You tried to talk to him about it but he prefers for you to not get too involved in his gang business: he fears your safety, not wanting hundreds of testosterone-filled guys to get close to his beloved.

You fear nothing when he's by your side but he still turns you down when you ask to come along with him: he has lost too many people he cared about for his good and he has no intention of putting you in danger even the slightest.

This had to change.

That's why you're preventing him from heading to the meeting of Toman until he makes up his mind.

“Y/N! I'm gonna be late, please, give me those darn keys back, goddamnit!!”

His voice spurts out desperately, short puffs of air coming out of his mouth as he tries to catch his breath: you're fast for fuck’s sake!

He is a bit pissed at you for acting this stubborn, sure, but he can't help the wide smile that plasters on his face the more he hears you laugh every time he can't catch you, every time you hide behind his motorbike and fool him by running in the opposite direction, almost tripping on your own feet.

That smile of yours, that light in your eyes is worth every spare minute of his life and the meeting can wait if that means he has the chance to see you this full of energetic playfulness.

You're both in the flowers of your youth and sometimes you forget that due to how harsh life experiences can be. Moments like these make up for the lost time.

As you raise your hand high and shake his keys, making them jingle as you do so, you can't help but feel overpowered by pride: having your super athletic boyfriend, the invincible Mikey whining out to you so he can get what he wants isn't an everyday occurrence (I mean– unless he's begging for sweets or your attention, of course). Maybe you could break him and he would finally let you come along in one of his meetings.

“Begging ain't gonna do shit, you gotta work for it, Mikey!”

Sprinting to the other side of the garden of his house, you can feel him sigh exasperatedly and follow you along as he mutters “If I catch you–" in between a breathy laugh.

The wind feels magical against your skin, the cool breeze of the night after a heated summer day gives you goosebumps and yet you feel hot all over; your blood pressure rising with each stride of your run is what keeps you going, laughing nonstop as you stare up the full moon over your head briefly, savouring such a moment that will surely become a core memory of yours.

As you hide behind his motorbike once again, Mikey stops a few feet away from you, the vehicle is the only thing separating your bodies.

“You’re a menace, y/n!”

You shrug at his words, rotating his keys on the tip of your index finger with a proud expression.

“I guess that dating a delinquent made the trick– eek!”

You can't even finish your sentence as Mikey takes a run-up and easily jumps over his CB250T and lands not so graciously on top of you, making you fall on the grass with a thud. The impact doesn't hurt that much though, not when Mikey put a hand behind your head right on time so you couldn't injure the slightest.

He couldn't resist the urge to bring you down and wipe off your face that shit-eating grin and see that cute pout your peachy lips make every time he catches you by surprise. He's a weak man, bear with him.

Pinning you down on the floor he takes away his keys from your hand and smiles toothly: his rosy cheeks and messy hair shine under the moonlight, his obsidian gems staring into your soul easily make you melt and your initial annoyance turns into an amused laugh. He's your angel, no matter what.

“Sorry, what were you saying about dating a delinquent?”

Rolling your eyes at his statement, your smile slowly fades when he gets off you and brushes some grass away from your shirt with his hand, before kissing the top of your head with the soft petals of his lips.

He was going to leave again and that thought screeches inside your brain. It doesn't sit well with you the fact that he's keeping you detached from a big aspect of his life… There's a strong gut feeling that tells you you shouldn't let it slide, you should insist on being part of this area of his life because, if you don't, something extremely bad will happen in the future.

And Mikey sees right through you, he always does, because he loves you and he is connected to your being in every way for respect and admiration.

He feels the intimate bond you two share, he can almost touch that connection, he can feel the burn of the red string that connects the two of you.

He can feel his bones ache under the weight of letting you drown away from him so sad and helpless and whenever he sees your angelic face darken out of worry and fear for him, for the both of you.

He knew why you took the keys away from him that day and he couldn't help finding it amusing and cute... but believe me when I say he's not blind and recognises the desperate attempt to have yourself near him for longer.

Mikey stands up from the ground and offers you his hand to stand up, his calloused hand brushes against your tender palm and holds in a strong and warm hold that doesn't flatter even when you're finally standing.

Staring down at your feet, your voice comes out in a whisper, a loving but pained one.

“Please, be careful Mik–”

“Hop on.”

Your head snaps up, your eyes searching for his out of confusion and then hope.

The two of you are intimate, you understand each other's worries and can feel them within your organs, you can feel each emotion run through your being and resonate like a magnetic wave from you to him and vice versa.

You two are flames that burn for love, with love: your glint should never flatter, you deserve to feel it alive and vibrating.

Mikey smiles at you as he puts his helmet on top of your head and secures it attentively.

“I'll keep you safe, pinkey promise”.

That's your man to you.

I have had this idea bouncing inside my head for a while now! I've been inspired by this post of the sweet @xsleepinggoodx.

I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it.

English isn't my first language so I apologise for any mistakes!

Sending y'all hugs. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

©GOLDENGIRLIEZ do not repost or modify on any platform.

[timkontheunsure]

Some of the reasons I think Stolas is on the spectrum

(finally getting around to popping this on up too).

He has special interests & misses social cues while being happy in them.

It not really normal to be happy reading legal documents when someone's life is on the line. But Stolas is just vibing that he gets to help with his love of words. Yay him!

Stims

He stims when both happy & sad to help regulate his emotions.

His happy stims are:

*clapping when he gets to take Via to the circus, because he thinks they can enjoy it together.

He also does this with contract reading.

*He hopps up and down when his dad gives him a new books. Also when getting ready for his date with Blitz. He's just so happy he needs to hop.

His sad stims:

*are bang his head again and again about the engagement.

*He self sooves with chest strokes when Blitz says his outfit is too much.

*He hand rubs and wringing his hat when worrying about Via in LA.

Special interests

The there's that Stolas info dumps on the playdate with Blitz all about his books and about plants.

Stolas also feels he has to explain why Blitz horse joke was soo funny. And why's it so funny?

Because it's accurate. I love his little cutie.

But he's also kept up his love of plants as a major hobby now he's an adult. When most people tend to swap interests as they age.

Side bar

His comfy resting hand position is t rex hands. This tends to be an autistic thing. Also works well as an owl.

Sensory issues

Stolas appears to also have some sensory issues too. When his a child he appears to be struggling when Mr Butler touches his hair out of nowhere.

But he's fine with Blitz doing it when they're kissing. This shows a lot of trust between them.

I think it's likely sensory issues are the reason why he swaps into his comfy, very old robe, as often as he can too.

Specific communication issues

While Stolas is very good at some communication styles, he's pretty bad at others.

When the audience think it's another joke about wanting to keep a puppy; he immediately knows Blitz's is panicking the studio. And tries to get to him.

However he doesn't get that his dirty talk is way OTT, because he's mostly likely coping it from the erotica. Not lived experience.

Speaking of erotica.

There's obviously a rule that reading is allowed at the diner table. But Stolas doesn't get This book isn't appropriate to read there.

Another rule he appears to follow more rigidly than most probably would; is that when you get an appointment you wait till you're seen.

Ozzie's ment to met Stolas at noon, but doesn't make it till 4 pm because of problems with work.

Stolas is only a couple of days out of the hospital and is probably feeling horrible.

But he sticks around a minimum of 4 hours to be seen, because he feels he has to.

(I'm assuming he also got taught you turn up earlier rule, but this just a guess).

Stolas genuinely wants to do something Via will enjoy, and he's fine taking Via to stylish occult when she asks.

But didn't get it till she's crying and sad that she wasn't enjoying Loo Loo Land.

"I take it you are.. not having fun." She needs to spell it out. Sarcasm isn't easy for him to interrupt.

His was obviously thought taking his daughter and his lover out to a theme park would be a good way to introduce them.

It's the sort of plot that only works on a novellas. And that's probably when he got it from. (Probably worked great for Gabrielle and Alejandro).

These are examples of him Masking, and not understanding why it didn't work.

Stella's being dangerous to be around = take Via out somewhere for her to have fun to blow off steam.

Wanting your lover and daughter to like eachother = ask IMP to tag along as the completely unnecessary bodyguards.

He doesn't really get that flirty with his affair partner, in front of his kid while going through a divorce isn't a good idea...

He also struggles to understand when his flirting comes off as condescending too. With "ittybity imps like you" or calling him Blitzy in public. He's most likely him coping language from other goeita.

But Stolas is very good at knowing when knowing when Blitz is fine being picked up, when to reassure him with face stokes, or how to calm Blitz down from a panic attack in just a few seconds.

So it's not that he's just never learnt these skills. It's just that some communication skills are harder for him than others.

But if you disagree that fine. 🙂 I just wanted to put down some of my thoughts why I think he could be.

[y-rhywbeth2]

Ketheric continues to be the member of the Chosen I struggle to get a grip on. Like the other three I can tell you the details of why (I think) they grew up to monsters:

Long post.

-

Let's start with Gortash: spent his childhood being told he was a selfish monster for his thoughts - apparently from birth - for the way he perceived the world, for *checks notes* wanting his parents attention as an undeveloped human being that relies on its parents to survive and thrive.

Then his parents send him to hell as part of a deal. Because that's where monsters go isn't it? They go to hell to suffer eternal damnation because they were monsters in life.

So you grow up in one of the literal cesspits of the universe, where the only people you meet are the literal scum of the universe, or those you're going to learn to see as weak fools who had to rely on others - and were ultimately willing to commit atrocities themselves - who were taken advantage of by the scum of the universe. You get to the Hells by committing atrocities, either because you want something so badly you'll fuck somebody over for it (out of greed, or because you couldn't fix it yourself (weak)) or because you did them of your own volition. And curiously, some of these people had their price tags wrapped in such subtle terms they don't even realise they did anything wrong! Lesson learned; anyone will willingly be a monster if you make the evil sound nice. Every single devil you meet has had the humanity flayed from their soul, and they got to where they are in their existences by fomenting (and committing) hate and rape and murder and everything evil under the sun as a regular Monday morning in the ultimate goal to make the universe an evil place. Devils are also 'self made men', everybody started from nothing as a lemure and clawed their way to where they are now. Every social interaction in the Hells is manipulation and abuse. Everyone there hurts everyone.

But you do have one example of a good person! There's Hope! Lovely lady, kind and sweet... Trapped in hell being abused forever going insane because of it because your ambitious sister fucked you over. That's where trust and love being a good person gets you.

And that was his entire social life. That was the people he had to look to for examples. All his early experiences were limited to a sample of the absolute worst it has to offer, and he has a very skewed view of the universe.

And the fact that he's apparently so damn good at sex a lady gave him a ring worth everything she owns after growing up around a pleasure devil whose role is harming and corrupting people with sex and has built in charm person at etc is not ringing alarm bells(!) I'm not side-eyeing the boudoir at all.

I wonder why having a child/teen spend their formative years in the evil factory literally designed to spit out monsters... spat out a monster? Kudos to Karlach, though: just how many layers of defence mechanisms has she got in her brain?

Gortash's thought processes are 50% through the lens of engineering and 50% through the lens of a devil's perspective to me. People will sell out others for their own gain, because they're too weak to do it themselves or because they're bastards. If you don't get with the programme you're the victim. You only get ahead by being ruthless. Everybody is untrustworthy, and relying on them will get you betrayed. The world is divided into the weak and the ruthlessly strong who take what they want. Yes, he's a monster. And so are his parents. And so is everyone. And then Bane saw this perfect example of his way of thinking and said 'that one.'

-

Orin: obviously we've got grooming. The fact that her formative memories include her mother trying to murder her, and the fact that she feels like the only person who has ever cared about her or supported her is her grandfather. Who is implied to have been raping her, or intending to. All she's permitted is to have her brain poisoned by her faith, which her life revolves around, and then her kin 'does it all wrong' and inherits everything she's been groomed to believe is hers. But no, 'they're not wrong,' says everybody around her 'you are!'

She's a Bhaalspawn, so her relationships with her kin are "kill or be killed," as Helena proved. You will please father by slaughtering your siblings, or you will die - or worse. You must be and stay favoured by Bhaal above all the others to be truly safe ("safe"), and Durge outranking her is a threat to her existence. Actually Durge existing is a threat to her well-being. She has no way to live a life outside the cult, never has and never will. Her life is insanely lonely and mostly consists of paranoia.

But the overlaying theme here is that she's a changeling. She's mirrorkin with no unique physical identity of her own, she can only reflect those of others. To be dnd canon accurate: she has no real facial features, no pigmentation. She's not permitted an identity of her own, and was punished for trying. She's a mirror born and raised to reflect the glory of Bhaal, the glory of her failed grandfather, the rise of Bhaal's favourite child. Never her own. Gee, I wonder why she literally wears people's skins.

Denied the ability to do anything but live according to what she's told, she does her best to live up to it because to fail is to become her parents and the countless aunts and uncles currently enjoying their damnation in the Throne of Blood. And then she's told she's doing it wrong. By everybody. She's a 'rabid dog'. She, despite having doctrine poured into her ears and probably carved into her flesh her entire life 'doesn't understand Bhaal.' And everybody is insanely patronising about it! You're never allowed to be anything but what we tell you to be, but you're still not good enough! Which is death. The Temple of Bhaal needs murder feminism.

-

The Dark Urge is my favourite little nightmare, and I've talked about them at length: much of Orin's trauma also applies to them, although where she's a mirror made to reflect the egos of others, Durge is only allowed one identity: Bhaal's. Where Orin can never seem to reach the standards forced on her, Durge is never allowed to fail to meet them, or else. Every outside connection they ever had was brutally sabotaged, and they've had 'you're a monster and only I (your abusive Father) can love you' drilled into their mind. They hate themself. We got the threat of sexual exploitation (assuming it didn't happen), there's a subtle undercurrent of incest to some interactions. The prayer for forgiveness kind of sums it all up: 'I'm sorry for forming an emotional connection that isn't blind love for you father, but don't fret, I'll destroy it with my own hands just like everything else and then finally get to kill myself just like I've always wanted.'

-

But Ketheric? Like villains don't need tragic backstories to be terrible people, but it does make them more interesting.

OK, so your bio family is fucked up and I definitely get the impression that they sucked (Malus is giving me vibes that say he'd have been a villain anyway, and might've been secretly Sharran to start with; Gerringothe seems to be drowning whatever her issues are in gold), and then the loving family you made for yourself broke: your wife died, and your daughter died, sure. But plenty of people on Toril probably have similar if not the same stories and didn't go evil overlord! Why are you doing this? What is informing these decisions? Why does your existence hinge so much on your dead daughter that your son is basically named after her and you seem to hate him for existing and not being her? Does Shar have something to do with it? Has Ketheric just carved out so much memory and emotion, so much of his own identity, that all that's left is the grief and the hunger for the pain to stop but, as per Shar's intent, it keeps coming back, with less and less positive memories to soften the pain. A wound that festers and never heals. Is the obsession with Isobel because she's the icon of everything that was good in his life, and her loss was the moment everything good was gone? Was he a rational man who turned to Shar to stop the pain in a moment of understandable grief and rage at her sister, and then was trapped in a cycle that destroyed everything that was good in that man until we get the General?

Just guess working my way through his entire backstory...

[nico-di-genova]

A Lesson in Braking

AKA: Strollonso College AU, this time with a name! Warnings: Smut, at the very end, so if you don't want to read that bit it's literally the very end bit, just skip that altogether.

Chapter 1

The problem with street racing, Lance thinks, is that it is entirely reliant on the people around you being aware of their surroundings. Which, in a state full of retirees who can barely see past their steering wheels, much less their side mirrors, is an impossibility. So Lance shouldn’t be surprised that he’s almost sideswiped when he’s doing 130 in a 65 by a white Honda Civic with a geriatric behind the wheel. He shouldn’t be, and yet when he swerves back over into the far side of the left lane to avoid being flattened, the bike still nearly goes out from under him anyway.

He fights every instinct not to brake and lock up, to lose it and go sliding across the pavement with only his padded jacket and jeans to protect him.

"Jesus Christ!” comes the panicked, staticky voice through his helmet from the Bluetooth connected to his phone, along with the worried yells of everyone else inside the car.

The red Dodge Charger that was chasing Lance seconds before slows in the lane behind him, gives him enough space that if he does fall he won’t be run over like road kill – he can hear the tires of the muscle car screeching on the pavement, the horns from the traffic behind them. Pato, thankfully, is not an eighty year old with failing eyesight. He is, however, the reason that Lance had been swerving through traffic in the first place.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Pato laughs, deliriously.

Lance’s fingers are shaking around the handlebars of the bike, leather-gloved hands so tight around them that he can feel the tension in his body. He tries to breathe out, and an equally insane laugh escapes him.

“Are you okay?”

“Fuck,” Lance sighs, laughs again, thinks his heart might be beating so fast it’s on the verge of failing, “Y-yeah. I think so.”

“What the fuck?” Pato repeats again.

Welcome to Florida, Lance thinks, flashes a shaky thumbs up to Pato behind him just to ensure the man, and his car full of people, know he’s okay – even if he doesn’t quite feel it yet. He didn’t lose the bike, which he figures counts for something.

“That was insane,” Pato continues.

“That was stupid!” Esteban corrects.

Lance eases the bike back up to speed in response, shoots past the Honda Civic that nearly killed him, and flicks the old man hunched behind the wheel off as he goes.

----------

Fort Myers, Lance quickly learns within his first semester at school, is fucking boring. FGCU, pitched to him as an idyllic campus set along the Gulf Coast, is actually in a swamp. And technically, he’s not even in the city of Fort Myers at all, but Estero – a town no one’s heard of but has somehow managed to house some of the wealthiest people Lance has ever encountered, himself included. He feels he can hardly be blamed for racing his motorcycle through the streets during rush hour traffic just to feel something other than the monotony of flat land and the oppressive heat he’s been stuck in for the majority of the past three years, and getting pulled over in the process. His father, who pays for each ticket with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, does not seem to agree.

Which is exactly why he has no plans of telling the man about his near-death experience. Lawrence didn’t even want him to get the bike in the first place, still threatens to seize it with the steady growing pile of tickets. Lance endures the lectures over the phone with the patience bestowed upon him by being a good son, and then hangs up to do burnouts with Pato in the parking lot of their apartment complex. He’s unbothered by near-death at the hands of the old man, but Esteban, when he climbs out the backseat of Pato’s cramped charger, is not.

“You’re insane,” he says, thwacking Lance on the side of his helmet.

Lance, working the strap through the clasp so he can ease the thing off his head, winces, “Ow.”

“Idiot!”

“I was in my lane!” Lance justifies, even if he was nearing 160 km/h in that lane and was definitely exceeding a safe level of speeding. He hates to lose though, especially to Pato, who would hold it over his head at the next mixer. Lance has endured enough ridicule from his frat brothers for all the races he’s lost, he doesn’t want to add Pato’s fraternity to the mix.

Esteban wouldn’t get it, he’s not in a frat at all.

“You were barely in the lane!”

“Close enough.”

“You shouldn’t have a license,” Esteban grumbles, eyes Lance’s bike like it is a sentient being that willfully chose to do twice the speed limit, and not Lance himself that controlled it. Lance can still smell the burning rubber coming off the tires, feel the heat from the engine. It’s familiar to him in the way the sweaty leather smell from his hands when he slides the gloves off is.

He shrugs, “Neither should half the people in this state.”

“It’s true,” Pato chimes in, coming up behind Lance to pat him on the back. His hand thunks against the padding of Lance’s jacket, sends him rocking forward against the bike. “Glad you’re okay, güero.”

“You two especially though,” Esteban grumbles. Lance just thinks he’s still upset he doesn’t have a car of his own to race, despite the fact that Lance has offered his own on multiple occasions. It hardly gets used, because he hates sitting in traffic, and Esteban would probably be doing him a favor by taking it. But money has been a thing between them since freshman year, since it was established that Lance had a lot of it, and Esteban little, and the dorm room they shared became a space where discussions of finances were forbidden – a sentiment that soon reached through their entire friendship. Esteban still lives in the apartment style dorms on campus, Lance now has a luxury one-bedroom in the newest off-campus unit. His car sits in the parking lot more often than it runs and Esteban walks to class.

“If dumbass here keeps getting tickets he might not have to worry about a license at all,” Pato teases, smirks at Lance as Lance runs a hand through his hair to try to dissuade the helmet hair from setting in and pointedly ignores him. He busies himself with unzipping his jacket, rolling his shoulders and stretching enough to ease the lingering tension from his joints. His shirt rides up with the movement.

Esteban looks away, Pato stares, and the freshman he’s let tag along, David, stands awkwardly beside them because he isn’t sure what else to do. Lance smiles at him, tight, forced, equally as unsure. The kid’s lanky, blonde, curly hair nearly gold in the sunset. One of the new pledges, or someone Pato is trying to recruit, because in their small circle Pato is the only one social enough to actually want the job of recruitment chairman.

“Sorry for almost dying in front of you,” he apologizes to the kid.

David shrugs, “It’s cool. You’re not hot in that thing?” He points at Lance’s jacket with a cast wrapped wrist, the black fabric with grey and white accents.

It’s late August now, summer still working its way into fall. Lance was not raised in the heat, returns to Canada during the break between semesters so he doesn’t have to bear the worst of it, so he is distinctly uncomfortable. His shirt is sticking to his skin with sweat, and he can feel tendrils of it working in steady drops down his spine, soaking into the waistband of his jeans, but he’d rather wear the heavy jacket than have to cart it around for the entire time they’re standing ogling at cars. Or rather, Pato ogling, he and Esteban hanging back to talk about dinner plans. He likes cars in that they can get him from one destination to the next, doesn’t care to talk about them outside of that.

“It’s manageable,” he shrugs, tucks his helmet under one arm and starts walking toward the closed off section of the outlets, where cars are already parked and lined-up.

Pato doesn’t suggest Lance leave the gear in his car, despite it being an easy solution, he knows Lance likes the looks it draws. Lance had drunkenly admitted as much one night, when Pato was straddling his lap and kiss his neck because there were no other options. They had grown accustom with becoming each other’s last resort, hooking up in bedrooms of stranger’s houses or in the back of Pato’s car because the number of girls at parties they frequented far outweighed the available, and interested, men. He smirks at Lance over the top of David’s head as they walk toward the row of cars with popped open hoods – a glint of knowing in his far too mischievous eyes.

They’ll probably hook-up later. Unless Esteban finally feels like kissing him, or the freshman stops being a freshman, both of which are likely to happen when hell freezes over.

“Looks heavy,” David says.

“It is.”

Pato’s smirk widens, “He’s used to it.”

“Go look at your stupid cars, man,” Lance rolls his eyes, shoots Pato a warning look.

It’s the Aston Martin that draws Pato’s attention first. Silver, brown leather interior, the type of car Lance’s dad would own – if he doesn’t already. Lance lost track of the collection long ago, lost interest too, much to his dad’s disappointment. Lawrence wanted him to get into racing professionally, which Lance entertained for all of two seconds before he realized just how far his dad wanted him to go. Then it all felt like too much too fast, and Lance realized he was maybe more content hiding in the Florida swamp land for four years instead. Time he is rapidly running out of.

“You didn’t want to race on a track, but you’ll do it in the street,” he can hear his father’s voice chiding. Lance doesn’t know how to explain there’s more freedom in the street racing, less control, and substantially more danger but a higher reward. No one knows him under the helmet either, not in the way they would if his name was tied to a team and a car and all the responsibility that came with it.

David goes with Pato, both of them studying the engine of the car. The owner, thankfully, isn’t around. Lance doubts they’d like the way Pato goes to duck his head in through the driver’s side door.

Lance shoots Esteban a look, “I feel like you should be more into this,” he says, leans over enough to poke the man in the side with an elbow. Esteban is one of the few people in his friend group who is the same height as him. Which was the first thing they’d bonded over, the second was the fact that they both spoke French. Esteban more fluently, but Lance enough that most their conversations were shared in the language.

“Why?” Esteban asks, eyeing the Aston the same way he had Lance’s bike, like it is likely to reach out and bite him. “Do not say because of the engineering.”

“A little because of the engineering?”

“No.” Esteban is the smartest of them, which Lance has known since he first met him and Esteban introduced himself with a handshake which was quickly followed by, ‘majoring in mechanical engineering.’ His golf management major had sounded silly in comparison, had seemed even sillier once Esteban pulled all-nighters to complete homework for math classes that far exceeded Lance’s skill level while Lance was learning the best techniques for watering grass.

Lance failed a class his freshman year, Esteban passed all of his with what appeared to be ease. Then they both got shitfaced on their last night together and snuck onto the trail that ran from the freshman housing to the upperclassman apartments to share a joint. It had been close to midnight, and every sound that came from the surrounding wilderness had them jumping, but it was maybe the thing that had cemented their friendship.

“You know what you want to do with that yet?” Lance asks, because they’re starting their junior year now. Because the future is becoming something tangible, and so discussing what the fuck they’re supposed to do next seems like the correct thing. Lance still has no idea what he wants to do and thinking of it makes the sweat on the back of his neck run cold, makes the jacket he’s sweltering in seem even hotter.

"Not a clue,” Esteban says, which makes Lance feel a little better, “You?”

“Golf, I guess.” Not much else he can do with his degree, and his business minor had only been something added on at his dad’s request. Lance isn’t passionate about either of those things, isn’t sure he’s passionate about anything. He likes racing, likes his bike, likes spending lazy Saturday mornings on the course, or weekday mornings practicing tennis with his coach, and he’s decently good at all of those things but none of them really seem like a passion.

He is becoming increasingly aware that he is running out of time.

“Professional golfer, Lance Stroll,” Esteban says, draws out Lance’s name to really test the sound of it against PGA pro.

Both of them grimace.           

“Maybe not,” Lance amends.

“Could work, maybe.”

“Probably wouldn’t,” Lance isn’t good enough, not for going pro, and he doesn’t plan on putting in the effort to get there for something he cares so little about. “Maybe I’ll just wait for you to secure your fancy engineering job, marry you and live off your paycheck.”

Esteban shoots him a look that reads ‘fuck no’ clear as day.

----------

The sun sets fully somewhere around eight, Lance starts cooling off at the nine p.m. marker. At some point they lose Pato and David, and then Esteban runs into a group from his major, and then it’s just Lance standing in a sea of American sports cars wondering if he should maybe just go home. He’s feigning interest in a Camaro, lime green with black racing stripes, ugly and gaudy, when someone behind him clears their throat.

“You ride?” the person asks, accented and deep and Lance turns to come face to face with a man who looks right at home amidst the crowd of mid-forties dads showing off their hardly impressive rides. Polo, cargo shorts, and a cap sporting some car brand, Lance thinks he looks a lot like the tourists he’d spotted on his brief visit to Orlando last year. He doesn’t look like the sort of guy who would know anything about motorcycles.

“Uh, yeah.” Lance says, shifts the helmet in his hands so he’s got a tighter grip on it. The guy follows the movement, watches Lance’s hand flex, follows the line of his vein up his arm until he reaches Lance’s eyes again.

“What bike?”

Lance swallows, feels a bit like he’s being interrogated with how the guys brown eyes are staring into his.

“Suzuki 650.”

“Your first?”

“Yeah,” the same one he’s had since his freshman year, stored in storage while he’s gone for the summer and then taken back out when he comes back down. It’s reliable, and Lance has other bikes back home, but he likes this one, likes that it feels like he’s worn it in. “It’s custom,” he adds, defensively, can feel this guy sizing him up.

“Yes?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a moment where Lance thinks that might be the end, the guy will decide there’s no further conversation to be had and then be on his way. He isn’t sure if that would be a bad thing or not, is still trying to maintain eye contact and try not to step back any further against the Camaro behind him.

When the guy offers his hand to shake Lance is afraid to take it, knows his free palm is clammy, doesn’t want to give himself away.    

“I’m Fernando.”

“Lance,” he shakes, hopes the guy will assume it’s the heat, not the nerves setting Lance on edge. This is the most eye contact he’s had to maintain since his plane landed back in Florida two weeks ago. It’s unyielding too, like the guy is trying to win a contest Lance hadn’t realized he’d entered.

“Lance,” Fernando says, testing it, “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too. Do you- do you ride?” Fernando seems to have some understanding, looked decently impressed when Lance mentioned his custom ride. And he wasn’t asking about the cars on display, but instead the bike that Lance wasn’t even near.

Finally he looks away, back to the helmet, back to the way Lance is gripping it with a tightening hold. His mouth, which had before been slanted upward into something close to a smile slips a little. Lance watches the movement, categorizes it the way he does every micro expression, because he’s gotten good at reading people over the years and knows hurt when he sees it.

“I used to.”

“Not anymore?”

“Bad knee,” Fernando explains, motions at his right leg. Lance looks down at where the shorts stop just above the joint, can see the faint white lines of scarring amongst leg hair. Surgical incisions, clean and even.

“Oh.”

Fernando doesn’t look that old, not old enough for knee surgery. There’s lines on his face and grey in his beard, but still plenty of color left alongside it. Dark brown stubble and brown hair curling in the humidity beneath his cap. Lance wouldn’t place him above fifty.

“I’m sorry,” he says, for lack of anything better, and because Fernando keeps glancing at Lance’s helmet with something like envy.

“Is okay,” Fernando says with a shrug, smiles sadly.

And maybe it’s because Lance is feeling lonely, abandoned by his friends, or maybe it’s because something in Fernando’s expression is familiar, he offers, “Do you- do you want to see it? My bike?”

----------

“What happened here?” Fernando asks, pointing at the scuffed paint along the right side of the gas tank, finger tracing the slightly dented spot where matte black has given way to exposed metal.

Lance could have gotten it fixed, but he liked that the bike had character, liked that it was a little imperfect. At least he thought he did, now he just feels like a teenager with their first beat-up car driven off the used car lot.

He laughs, embarrassed, palms at the back of his neck as his cheeks warm, “I, uh, I dumped it freshman year.”

Fernando looks up at him, arches an eyebrow, smiles like he knows the feeling. And then he waits for Lance to continue.

“Yeah, it, uh, it was stupid. Or I was stupid. I was driving around the loop on campus, at school, hit a patch of dirt, it just slid out from under me.” It was his first time falling off the bike, only a week after he had gotten it. And because he’d only been going from the main campus to his dorm he hadn’t bothered to wear gloves, or his jacket, ended up with road burn and an arm ran raw and bloody for his stupidity. He still had some scarring, faint, but there.

"Ouch,” Fernando says, still tracing the damaged spot with an index finger.

Lance watches him, swallows, takes the moment where Fernando isn’t looking at him to study the muscles of his arms straining against the cuff of his polo. And then Fernando shoots him a quick glance and he’s darting to look away like he’s been caught. He maybe has been, if the way Fernando smirks is any indication.

Lance blames Pato, the empty spot in the parking lot where his car was a few hours ago, taking the promise of a blowjob in the backseat with him. And leaving Lance standing in the shadows cast by the street lamps and palm trees dotting the lot, beside a man whose name he knows and little else. When Fernando shifts closer, until his weight is pressing against the side of Lance’s right arm, Lance doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets Fernando get close enough that the smell of him is almost overwhelming, sharp cologne invading his senses.

“So what’s custom?” Fernando asks, snapping Lance back enough that he can focus on the asphalt beneath him and the bike in front of him, enough that he remembers they’re two doors down from a still open Best Buy.

In his mind he is drafting a strongly worded text to Pato, outwardly, he is pointing at all the pieces of the bike that his father had spent a small fortune on and watching Fernando’s impressed expression grow. Fernando doesn’t pull away, Lance doesn’t make space, and when Fernando mentions the Aston Pato had been ogling earlier in the night is his, Lance follows him to it with blatant interest. He pretends to care about the car, up until Fernando asks him if he wants to go for a ride, and he knows he can drop the act.

----------

They end up on the other side of the outlets, tucked beside a dumpster near the Barnes and Noble and an abandoned Asian restaurant. Lance isn’t picky, doesn’t need to be wined and dined, is perfectly okay with grinding against a guy in the backseat of his Aston Martin and letting his sweat soak into the leather. His jacket and helmet have been dumped in the passenger’s seat, his t-shirt pulled over his head and lost somewhere on the floorboard.

Lance is straddling Fernando’s lap, his head bent against the roof of the car, his neck angled just enough that Fernando can get better access to the junction where his jaw meets his carotid. In terms of hook-ups, it’s not his craziest, though Fernando may be the oldest. He didn’t ask for an age, was content enough with Fernando still having color in his hair. And it didn’t much matter once the man got a hand around his cock.

“Fuck,” he pants, grinding down on Fernando’s growing length beneath him before thrusting back up into the warm grip of his hand. His head thunks against the roof with the movement, causing Fernando to laugh, breathy and warm against his neck.

“Come here,” He instructs, pulls down Lance until he’s resting his head against Fernando’s shoulder and curled over. The position severely limits his ability to grind against Fernando, makes it so that he’s the only one deriving any real pleasure from this scenario.

“Is okay,” Fernando says when he tries to voice that, continues to stroke the length of his cock without pause.

Lance bites his bottom lip to muffle a whine. His jeans are the only thing still on him, and just barely, pulled down and pooled around one ankle. Fernando is still fully clothed, obvious bulge in his shorts. Lance feels exposed, raw, so close that he can feel the orgasm building in his stomach.

“I’m close,” he pants, cries almost. It is better than he and Pato’s backseat escapades, better because Fernando smells likes sharp clean cologne and there’s no exercise equipment digging into his back from being pressed into the seats. Better because Fernando twists his wrist a certain way and Lance can’t stop the cry from escaping him.

“Please,” he begs, leans back enough that he can look at Fernando, only to be pulled back in by the nape of his neck – into a bruising kiss that makes him realize he’s maybe never been really kissed before. Fernando tastes how he smells, sharp. When Lance opens his mouth to pant Fernando’s name, it’s the man’s tongue that silences him, licks behind his teeth and explores him like he’s trying to learn the shape of his mouth. Lance lets him, finds he is eager to do so.

Pato doesn’t kiss him, it’s a rule they have, a fragile divide that maintains their friendship. Lance didn’t realize how much he had been missing.

When Fernando pulls away a trail a spit connects them, until it breaks and lands cool and wet against his chin. Lance doesn’t wipe it away, lets it stay there as his eyes flutter open and he’s staring into steady brown, turned dark in the shadows.

“You’re beautiful,” Fernando praises, lips slick with spit and eyes shining with praise, and Lance cums like that. His spine arching, his body tensing, Fernando coaxing him through it until he goes boneless and slack, cum streaked across his stomach and trailing down Fernando’s hand, his arm, dripping onto the leather seats beneath them.

“’m sorry,” he pants, eyes darting to the pearly mess dotting the brown leather, “Your seat.”

Fernando glances at it, uncaring, quickly looks back at Lance and trails a hand down the front of his chest, tracing along the skin as Lance’s chest heaves with the breath he’s trying to regain.  

“Don’t worry,” he says, smiles, the same smile he’d shot Lance’s way back by his bike, the smile that told Lance this would be where they ended up. He trails a hand back up Lance’s chest, his neck, settles against his jaw and traces a thumb along his cheekbone. Lance leans into the touch, finds he doesn’t mind it, finds he maybe wants it to stay for longer than a backseat hookup should. Fernando indulges him, lets him catch his breath before he suggests moving.

Lance slides off of him, falls back onto the seat, tries to maneuver in the cramped space to slide his boxers and jeans back on. Fernando passes him his shirt, pulled from the depths of the floorboard, rumpled and dirty from their shoes catching on the fabric. There’s still cum on his stomach, drying cool, he glances at it, at Fernando.

He’s about to ask if Fernando has a napkin, an old receipt, anything, but all words quickly leave him when Fernando leans down and licks the mess away. His tongue, warm and wet against Lance’s stomach.

“Oh,” Lance chokes, feels Fernando laugh against him.

“Better?” he asks when he’s done, sits up and eyes Lance like he’s asking for a five star review on an uber ride.

Lance nods, mouth slightly agape, eyes wider than he means for them to be. Like a shocked cow, he can hear Pato teasing in his head, his big brown eyes and dumbfounded expression matching that of the creature. He swallows, tries to regain some composure.

“Do you- do you want me to-“ he motions at Fernando’s cock, the bulge still there.

Fernando shakes his head, “No, you will get me next time, yes?”

Lance chokes again, “Next time?”

“Unless no?”

Back propped against the door, handle digging into his back, legs spread out before him like he’s forgotten how to make them work, Lance shakes his head.

“No! No, I mean, yes. Yes. Yes to next time,” his hands fumble for his phone in his pocket, and then he’s holding it out to Fernando like a demand. Fuck Pato. Fuck his backseat. Fuck shitty blowjobs when they’re both too drunk to swallow properly. He’s beginning to see the appeal of this Aston Martin now.

Fernando laughs again, warm, endeared. It’s slow and drawn out and all the things that Lance isn’t. It’s easy in all the ways Lance isn’t.  

Lance kisses him when Fernando drops him back off at his bike, leaned over the console, and tastes himself on Fernando’s tongue.

“Drive safe,” Fernando says.

Lance does the speed limit the whole way home.

[dark-frosted-heart]

I Love You, I've Sinned - Azel

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this

One day during my stay in Tanzanite, I wound up becoming a servant to God—

Emma: Prince Azel…Is it true that you deliver divine punishment to people?

When I asked Prince Azel about this after handing him something he had me fetch for him in town, rather than giving me his usual smile, he scowled. 

Azel: What did you see while out in town?

Emma: There was theft in the market today. The criminal was immediately captured by a passerby—

~~ Flashback ~~

Male onlooker: How dare you…Never did I expect that there would be such a ruckus in God’s own land.

Female onlooker: You will face divine punishment. Our Living God will not forgive you.

~~ Flashback end~~ 

Emma: —It seemed like everyone, the thieves included, feared “divine punishment”.

Azel: Absurd.

Emma: Have you ever threatened people across the country in the past?

Azel: That slander deserves some reparations.

Emma: I can’t say anything at all can I…

Azel: Don’t talk nonsense unless you want to experience divine punishment for yourself.

Emma: Ah, so divine punishment does exist.

Azel: Who knows?

After checking what he had me get for him, Prince Azel placed the jute bag in a corner of the crumbling ruins.

The temple which was supposed to be the Living God’s home, was as shabby as ever.

(Prince Azel’s a two-faced god, so it’d be scary if he actually did deliver divine punishment…)

Azel: Have you ever sinned?

Seems like Prince Azel’s in a good mood if he’s continuing the conversation even though he said not to talk about nonsense.

Emma: Probably…not

Azel: You’re lying.

Emma: Why do you say so?

Azel: Because no humans are without sin.

Emma: …Wouldn’t that mean everyone’s been imprisoned before?

Azel: Has anyone ever told you how empty your head is?

Emma: This is the first.

Azel: Have you never been exposed as an idiot before?

(You have a response for everything…)

Prince Azel leaned against a wall in the shade.

I followed suit and took a sip of water out of my flask.

Azel: Only acts that violate the law aren’t sins. Sins are actions that deserve God’s divine punishment.

Emma: So only God has control?

Azel: Is that so bad?

Emma: …No.

Azel: Simply put, anything you think you’re guilty of is a sin. Surely you’ve also been guilty of something to some extent. Whether it’s telling small lies, hiding things from others, or doing something to hurt someone unintentionally… As long as you’re alive, it’s hard to avoid them.

Emma: Well when you put it that way.

(Then, looking back, I probably have too)

(Sins that I need to apologize for…)

Azel: Confess your sins to God, and through receiving divine punishment, all will be forgiven. Perhaps that’s why people seek God…How laughable.

(Hm?)

Mysterious, starry eyes look at the flask in my hand.

Emma: …I’m not giving it to you?

Azel: Stingy.

Emma: I don’t want to hear that from a greedy god.

Azel [polite]: Ahhh, then at this rate I will dry up and die.

Emma: …

Azel [polite]: For a human to treat a god so cruelly…That’s god abuse.

Emma: …

Azel [polite]: God abuse is a felony and the charges cannot be compared to any that has existed to this point—

Emma: OKAY! Then in exchange for the water, please forget that the reparations demanded earlier ever existed.

Azel [polite]: Of course. Thank you very much.

(Can’t believe you put on the god act in times like this…)

When I handed Prince Azel the flask, he started drinking immediately.

(I don’t mind giving him water, but…does Prince Azel care at all?)

Feeling restless somehow, I turned my gaze away from the mysterious god and toward the ruins.

(...)

(If god abuse is a sin, then…)

(There’s one guilty sin I remember)

--

—That night.

When I came to, I found myself in place with half-bloomed roses.

(I’m here again…)

The usual dream in the usual place, but today, there was something unusual.

At the end of the countless paths stood a figure.

That person sat improperly on the oak table where a book usually was, and as I walked down the path, he turned from the large full moon in the sky toward me.

Azel: We ran into each other in a dream? …Give me a break.

Emma: That’s my line. It’s not like I enjoy running into you either.

(I heard that dreams have some deep psychological meaning, but…)

(I wonder if seeing Prince Azel means he’s occupying my mind that much)

(...That being a good or bad thing’s another story)

Azel sat on the table with one knee up and looked down at me cheekily.

It was like the dream world enhanced his mysterious, inhuman appearance.

Emma: …You’re not here to deliver divine punishment, are you?

Azel: If you’re feeling guilty then maybe.

Emma: …

Azel: You are.

Emma: Who knows…

Azel: Sins are forgiven when you confess. It’s easier to let it out than to suffer in distress, that’s just how it is.

Emma: …

Azel: Say it, then. If you seriously ask for forgiveness, then I’ll deliver divine punishment to you. …It’s not a free service though.

(That’s why he’s so oddly assertive)

Emma: Nevermind then.

Azel: No, ask for forgiveness. Or else this dream won’t end.

Emma: That’s a threat!

Azel: Talking back to God like that’s asking for more to be added on to what you owe.

(...If Prince Azel wasn’t a real god, then I could ignore him)

Tanzanite’s living god was a true god, recognized and revered as sacred throughout the continent.

Even if the face he showed me was different from the face he showed the public, I wouldn’t dare to ignore God’s word.

Emma: …Will you listen without getting angry?

Azel: That depends.

Emma: To tell you the truth… The other day, I saw you taking a nap. Even when I got closer, you didn’t wake up, so… …Out of curiosity, I played with your beautiful, silver hair.

Azel: …

Emma: I’m so sorry! But it felt really nice to touch!

Azel: That’s a grave sin.

When I tried to run away, Prince Azel lept off the table and stopped me with a hand on my shoulder before jabbing my cheek.

Emma: Please stop! The jabbing really feels like you’re going to hollow my cheeks out!

Azel: Accept your punishment. I noticed your eccentric behavior though.

Emma: Then why didn’t you wake up?

Azel: I wasn’t in the mood to entertain you.

(A very Prince Azel-like reason)

When he finally released me, I rubbed my cheek.

(Even though I suffered…my heart definitely feels lighter)

(I can’t let him off easy…)

Emma: Have you ever sinned, Prince Azel?

When I asked the question in retaliation, he shrugged in exasperation.

Azel: How could a god sin?

Emma: At it again…

Azel: If there’s no one to punish it, then it’s not a sin. If neither man nor god can punish me, then no one can punish me for my sins.

Emma: …

Azel: Perhaps one day God will commit a mortal sin. When that time comes…I wonder who will sit on the Throne of God and punish me.

Prince Azel’s mutterings melted into the dream space.

(That…doesn’t sound like a joke…)

Emma: Leave it to me. If it needs to be done, I’ll do it.

As if to dispel the mysterious aura around the god, I made a proud declaration.

Emma: I hope your cheeks will be able to stand it.

Azel: That doesn’t sound like a big punishment to me.

Emma: Stay complacent while you can. I have a mean slap.

Azel: …No one’s asking you to slap me.

Emma: If it doesn’t hurt, then it’s not a punishment worthy of being divine punishment.

When I pretended to slap him, Prince Azel smiled condescendingly. 

However, there didn’t appear to be any ill intentions behind the smile.

Azel: If God were to sin, then it would be a sin on a different level from humans. Possibly enough to wipe out an entire country. Punish that sin if you can…Actually you might do that.

Prince Azel looked up at the glittering moon in the dream world.

I still wasn’t sure about the meaning behind that melancholic look on his profile.

[guilty-shot-au]

Okay, I have been meaning to say this for a while, because I think this is a noticeable problem in our community:

Every ask matters And yet there are NONE

Do you feel bored in this RP fandom?

Tired of browsing a rarely updating tag?

Notice how half the community is joining ask games?

Ever wonder why many OS RP blogs go almost completely inactive?

Notice how there's half a dozen boring and slow as hell arcs going on recently?

This is because many blogs get NO asks at all. Popular or not.

Even OS Game RP giants like @diginiko-asks and @nyat-a-cat (currently shadowbanned so ask @the-kerfus-machine ) can experience a complete lack of asks sent sometimes!

And we need YOU to send some to the blogs you follow!

No matter what you send, no matter if they get answered or not, having asks to answer is good for everyone!

If you find yourself constantly waiting for asks all day, without actually sending asks out yourself, you are a part of the problem!

This community thrives on interaction, not waiting!

Want to help this community? Want to improve people's days? Try sending three or more asks to random blogs a day!

Feel anxious to send asks? Nobody in this RP will do anything to you, and the characters do not reflect any of the blog runners intentions. Also, the anon option is there for a reason! Always remember that you have good intentions!

Feel like you will worsen someone's day by sending an ask? As long as you follow the rules set by the blog runner, you won't! At worst, it's a forgivable annoyance.

And if you are running an RP blog, remember: you are not obligated to reply to any asks sent, do not let this hobby cause you burnout.

"Oh, but I don't know who to ask!"

Just browse the "#OS game RP" tag, it's more effective than you might think at finding new blogs!

Check the blogs you follow, there's likely an RP blog or two you forgot about.

There's already large lists of OS game RP blogs out there, check out Mapmaker's interview list and the fifh masterpost!

"Oh, but I don't know what to ask!"

Here's some ideas:

Philosophy, hobbies, and specific preferences are simple topics to form questions in, and can tell a lot about a character!

Ask something as YOUR character! - Have a casual conversation between two different characters with someone else in a thread, share lore on the way, tell stories, and have fun!

Question some lore! - If you can ask something regarding a character's backstory, especially to fill in the potential plot holes, that can be very healthy for the writing side of running an RP blog!

A lot of blogs are actually fine with M!As, if they are simple or interesting!

Found yourself questioning or answering something interesting out of RP? Great ask!

Found something interesting in a quiz? That's a great ask idea!

Came up with something that would probably cause funny reactions? - Ask away!

Heard a silly question in general? Great! Guess who you can redirect it to!

Remember: Questions do not have to be complicated! Don't feel bad if something of yours does not get answered, because you had good intentions in the end!

But I am never going to tell you to send people random nonsense just for them to not have empty inboxes, so try to avoid:

Random memes/words - These are hard to work with and are unlikely to lead to interesting things.

Basic compliments - Most characters will probably say "thanks", unless they have a backstory for it.

Repeating jokes - No one's gonna have fun if you just send "Fifh" to Freeware entity for the 15th time without putting a unique twist on it.

Spam, NSFW, exc. - Just no.

In general, it's best to put thought in your asks.

If you have anything to state on the topic, please do so in the reblogs. I encourage you to check them.

Share this around and tell your friends to send out asks regularly!

Anyways good night, sleep deprived ramble over.