#not one brain cell is functioning between them right now

[night-triumphantt]

@cashweasel FDSFSDFSDFS I couldn’t help myself please accept some art that you definitely had no idea was coming lmao

The og for context lol: X

[retroellie]

Polluted

Summary: After a long day of work, Spencer comes home and fucks his stresses away.

A/N: This was written in literally 45 minutes but I had this idea and I couldn't make it into a full fic, my mind could only think of the smut part lmao. Enjoy!!! :)

Warnings: NSFW, slapping, degradation, squirting, unprotected sex, mean!spencer

Word count: 1.9K

Prison changed Spencer Reid, plain and simple. This is not the man you came to love. He was cruel, possessive, completely and utterly damaged. You hoped that prison wouldn't taint Spencer too much, you hoped that he would continue to be sweet little Dr. Spencer Reid. But you knew what prison could do to a person, for you locked people up daily. You knew that the system would take Spencer's old soul and soft heart into its muddy hands, squeezing them until they became one. Although sometimes in the right lighting, in the right moment, you can see a hint of Spencer in his light brown eyes.

You can't say that you hated the change in Spencer, obviously there was much work to be done before Spencer could truly be himself again. However, you could live with this change. He was hungry, feeling as though your body was the only thing that could fill that hunger. It was extremely attractive to you, his sudden hunger for you. Spencer was always using you, using your body or your mouth or your hands... just you. There was always an excuse for him to be inside of you in his mind. A man thought of looking at you? He bent you over the kitchen table. You wore a shirt that showed a bit of your chest? He dragged you into the bathroom and forced you onto your knees. You smiled at him? He would shove his face between your thighs until you couldn't even see straight.

Even on the way back home after he had gotten out of prison, he bent you over the backseat on the side of the road and fucked you roughly. It felt like you were stepping on eggshells every time around him because you never know what can set him off... it was oddly scandalous, almost arousing as the thought of how he'd fuck you next was always on your mind. A big plus was that spencer dug himself into your brain, pulling out your deepest and darkest kinks, and using them to give you earth-shattering, mind-blowing, life-changing orgasms. Now you don't think you two could ever go back to just plain sex. He had ruined you, ruined your body so much that only the thought of being hurt could get you off now.

"Fucking bitch..." Spencer spat out, his hand spreading your legs further open as his cock drilled into your soaked cunt. "That bitch looked at me like I was fucking stupid..."

His words came out breathy and jagged as he fucked into you at an animalistic pace. Spencer came home today upset, his tie being ripped off and thrown down as soon as he got into the door. You knew something was up by this action, but also the look on his face. He seemed to have a frown sewn onto his face, something that he wore most days. You asked what was wrong but you were met with him ripping off your clothes, hinting that he didn't want to talk but to fuck his frustrations into you. Now here you were, panties ripped off, legs wide open, Spencer deep inside you with his hand placed on your neck.

You couldn't tell how many times you came just in this position alone, you couldn't keep count. His hand gripped your through, affecting the way your brain functioned. You felt with every thrust of Spencer's hips you would lose brain cells... creating the dumb cock whore that Spencer ached to achieve. Spencer's hand applied more pressure to your throat as he thought of what happened at work, how while section chief Erin Strauss critiqued his work, people were being murdered.

"As if my 187 IQ wasn't enough for her." He started, his hand on your thigh being slammed down past your face and into the wooden table he was drilling you into. " I mean, I've been at this place for over 10 years... I know what I'm fucking doing"

You came again, not able to keep yourself from unraveling now. His hand on your throat was constricting your moans, completely silencing them as the only thing that could come out of your mouth was soft gurgles. You loved this feeling, knowing that at any moment if you didn't like it you could alert Spencer and he'd stop immediately. I guess you could say that Spencer's care for you never disappeared after prison, he would go on to say that it strengthened his love for you. He had this picture of you that you had sent him in one of your many letters, he kept it with him everywhere he went for it was the only thing that kept him sane.

One time a fellow inmate saw it, snatched it from him, and digested every single inch of you. He went on to explain the disgusting things he would do to you if he got the chance, that is exactly why Spencer came home to fuck you nice and good every night. Because if he wasn't the one to do it, he knew that other people would take you for granted, they would spend only minutes with you... ignoring what you needed and taking what they wanted. You would feel incomplete, unsatisfied, and completely in denial that love existed. You would assume love was only made for books and movies, that no one could show you the love you deserved. This is the love you deserve. You deserve a love that could have you coming undone over and over again, a harsh and mean kind of love but that always ended with soft kisses and a nice hot bath. A love that was sour at first but ended sweet, making sure that the words "i love you" were carved onto your skin.

"You wouldn't do that would you?" He whispered into your ear, his grip on your throat as he waited for your response. " You don't think I'm stupid ...hmm?"

His cock was too deep inside you, it was deep enough to have you going cross-eyed and unable to speak. Your moans became audible now, no longer being stuck in your throat due to his pressure being released. His pace was still inhumanly fast, not stopping even for a second. The table had started to shit forward, being scrapped across the floor and probably worrying the downstairs neighbors. You were on the verge of cumming again, your mind not even able to comprehend his question until you felt a harsh sting on your cheek. Spencer had slapped you across the face, growing impatient while waiting for your answer.

"Answer me...." He hissed out, leaning down and taking his lips to yours. He bit down on your lip, creating a pain that shot through your body. "Or I'm going to make you cum over and over and over again until you can't think of anything else besides my cock deep inside your tight little pussy..."

You could taste blood now, your lip bleeding and seeping into your mouth. His words created this deep, rough knot in your stomach. It wasn't like the rest of the orgasms you had tonight, no it was more intense. It hurt, painful with every thrust of his cock. It created a deep pain and pleasure dynamic in your body but felt like something was trying to claw itself out of your body.

"Fuck..." You screamed out, grabbing onto him and digging your fingernails into his back. "No I wouldn't! Fuck... I wouldn't! I won't!"

You finally replied, hoping with those words he would deepen his thrust if that was even possible. Spencer just grinned down at you, placing his head in between your shoulder blade and your neck. He set soft kisses to the skin, his warm lips against your burning skin. Spencer was close, your words pushing him further to the edge. The feeling inside your stomach didn't stop or dull, it only got worse. You were screaming now, Spencer's hand lingering on your neck but sitting gently on your skin. Spencer picked up his speed, the table scraping against the floor even harder.

You couldn't handle it, everything around you becoming so far away yet being so close. The feeling got to a point of feeling terrifyingly painful but also so potent of pleasure and so bewitching that you didn't want it to end now. A couple more of Spencer's deep and harsh thrusts sent you over the edge, the painful knot in your stomach snapping and shooting liquid out of your body. It was the first time you had ever squirted, the feeling so glorious that you wished it would happen every time. Your vision went out, only seeing light and hearing Spencer's soft moans as he finished inside of you. The world felt like it ended, nothing to be seen or to be experienced... just emptiness but complete fullness all at the same time.

"Good girl..." You heard Spencer's words echo through your now-empty mind. You couldn't tell if your eyes were closed or not. "You did so good for me honey... I'm so proud of you."

Those single words were all you needed to hear as you floated back to earth and into your body, you blinked a couple times... forgetting where and who you were for a split second. You came back to see Spencer brushing your hair back from your sweaty face, his face inches from yours as his face filled with concern that maybe he had broken you finally.

"There she is..." He chuckled softly, kissing your lips softly. " There's my girl..."

You gave him a weak smile, raise your hand to rest on his cheek. You rubbed it softly, feeling the growing stubble on his face. He was just as sweaty as you, his body hot to the touch. You two probably looked insane, one of you barely able to walk looking beat the hell up and the other one scratched up and drenched with liquids. Spencer gently slid himself out of you, watching you wince softly as it felt like he was connected to you at this point.

"Sorry..." He whispered, taking your hand in his as he rubbed your thigh gently "I was too rough huh?"

Rough was not even close to what Spencer was. He was brutal, sadistic, barbaric but you couldn't deny that you would choose it over compassion any day. You began to think that maybe prison was the best thing that could've happened to Spencer Reid, not only was he a genius but he now had a powerful glow to him. Shy kisses and longing gazes were a thing of the past for you two, Spencer knew what he wanted and he was going to get it.

"You were just rough enough..." I chuckled, feeling nothing but content and at peace in this moment.

Spencer laughed with you, pecking your lips one last time before pulling away from you. He looked around, his eyes landing on the couch. He smiled, walking over and leaving you but only for a second. He came back with a blanket, wrapping it around you then picking you up bridal style. You thanked him silently because you knew there was no way you were getting off the table without some kind of help.

"To the bath you go..." He joked, holding you close to him as he walked you to your shared bathroom. 

You looked into his eyes and at the right lighting, the right moment, you looked into his light brown eyes... realizing that this is Spencer Reid. This is Spencer Reid damaged, polluted, and bruised... but it was still the man you fell in love with all those years ago.

[mythicalmisery]

Bull Rider AU: GhostxSoap

Bull rider Ghost and clueless Soap who doesn’t know the hat rule. 

Soap had a stupid smile on his face as he picked up a discarded, black cowboy hat and put it on his head while turning to Gaz. They had been heading back to their seats after a quick snack break when Soap had spotted it, unable to help himself. 

 “Ye think I can pull it off?” he asked grinning, completely unaware of the hulking figure that had appeared at his back only moments later. 

Soap froze at the deep, yet still whispered, “Don’t think that belongs to ya, mate,” spoken right beside his ear. He could feel the other’s hot breath on his skin.

His eyes went wide, pleading, as he looked at Gaz for a lifeline. His friend had the same expression reflecting back at him, unsure what to do either. Without any help from Gaz  Soap turned around.

His eyes met a broad chest clasped in a black leather vest, decorated with various patches of brands and sponsors he had never heard of. He slowly lifted his gaze to the man’s face, or at least what was showing of it. The lower half was covered in a black bandana with a skull design painted onto it.

It was real dusty and the man was clearly one of the riders competing, so Soap didn’t think twice about it. Hell, he wished he had one right now to hide his own embarrassment that was surely written all over his face.

The only thing he could make out underneath the stadium lights were amber eyes and blond lashes that matched his mop of sweat-clumped hair that stuck to his forehead. Those eyes that pinned Soap to where he stood and felt like burning flames licking at his skin.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, his voice coming out dry and crackly despite his efforts. “Sorry mate, didn’t mean to offend anyone,” he tossed out in an attempt of easement.

He grabbed the hat off his head, stretching out his hand and offering it back to its rightful owner. The man didn’t remove his gaze from Soap once as he took his hat back. 

Soap was all too aware he had been holding his breath during the whole interaction. He was hoping the man wasn’t offended by Soap touching his property. A fight was the last thing he needed right now, especially three beers into his night. His internal panicking was interrupted by the stranger’s gruff voice.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell ya not to go ‘round touching things that don’t belong to ya?” Soap took a reflexive step back when the man took a step forward. 

He could still see Gaz out of the corner of his eye, which helped a little knowing he wasn’t alone if things went to shite. Although, he would feel really bad if he made Gaz get into an altercation and ruin their night out due to him being an idiot. 

Soap laughed nervously. “Always seemed to have a problem with authority and rules.”

That had the other raising a brow. “That right?”

There were alarm bells ringing in Soap’s head. The adrenaline pumping through his veins should have been warning enough but he never claimed to be smart. The man glanced over Soap top to bottom, as if he was assessing him. The undivided attention had goosebumps breaking out over Soap’s skin. 

He leaned in closer, invading the already non existent space between them. 

“Do ya know what the hat rule is, mate?” he asked with a smirk, like he already knew Soap didn’t.

“Uh, n-no.” Soap felt like a bumbling idiot. 

The man simply nodded at the answer he was already expecting. He lowered himself until he was looking over Soap’s left shoulder, speaking directly into his ear.

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.” 

Soap could feel the heat flood his face like a dam opening. 

Oh fuck.

It was as if Soap’s mind, mouth, and pretty much whole body went offline. He couldn’t seem to get anything to work after the other man’s words had registered. Well, except maybe one body part, that seemed to be working just fine.

After standing frozen like an idiot once again for too long, he somehow managed to stoke the last dying embers of a functioning brain cell and took control over his body once again.

With a nervous laugh he took a staggered step back, his arms outstretched in a placating way. The man wasn’t angry, but fucking hell was he intimidating and Soap needed some space to breath especially after that comment. 

“Oh, well that’s.. uh.. ye know, we really should be getting back to our seats,” he spewed out while grabbing Gaz by the shoulder. Soap didn’t wait for the man to say anything else, leaving him to stand and watch as he scurried away like a coward. 

He made a beeline for their section in the stands, subtly adjusting his now uncomfortably tight pants. He glared at Gaz when he made a comment at his flustered appearance, doing his best to block out his incessant teasing. He felt like he was fifteen years old again, popping boners when the wind blew just a little too strongly.

The announcer came back on over the intercom speakers, introducing the next round of riders as they finally reached their seats. Soap did his best to try and focus on the riders in the dirt down below, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of that man’s breath on his neck, the way his voice was that deep even at a whisper, the way his eyes made his skin feel like it was lit aflame.

And as if God was playing a cruel trick on him, his gaze was drawn to the rider getting ready to mount the bull in queue. It was him. 

He couldn’t make out too many details from this far up, but he was able to spot that familiar mask on the jumbo screen hanging in the center of the arena. The man had his hat on this time. The same hat that Soap had just been wearing. He couldn’t deny it, the man looked good in it. 

The announcer chimed in, getting the crowd going. Gaz leaned over, hitting Soap’s shoulder as he whispered, “There’s your man.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the slight upturn of the corner of his mouth at his friend’s words. Soap glanced back up to the screen, eyes scanning until he found what he was looking for in big, bold letters. 

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

Simon. Fuck. Even his name was hot. 

He looked back down to the roping box, the bull that - Simon? Ghost? - was about to ride. It was fucking massive. He could see it already bucking and ramming the sides of the fence from up in the stands and on the screen, clearly pissed off. 

The anticipation in the arena was electric, the crowd buzzing with excitement as Ghost settled himself on the bull. While the men around him steadied him with their hands,  Soap’s heart pounded in his chest. He didn’t even know the man but his stomach was twisting into knots. 

He watched as Ghost adjusted his grip on the bull rope and flexed his hand, his muscles tensing under the strain displayed on the big screen.

Soap’s breath stuttered as the gate flew open, the bull exploding out into the arena twisting and bucking with raw power. Ghost moved with fluid precision; the man’s arm raised into the air, his waist snapping back and forth in perfect sync with the bull’s wild movements. Soap couldn’t tear his eyes away, completely captivated by the sight.

The crowd roared around him, cheering and shouting their encouragement as Ghost held on. Soap found himself leaning forward in his seat, his breath caught in his lungs. He silently willed Simon to stay on just a few seconds longer.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the ride. Ghost leaped off the bull, landing as gracefully as one could while running from a crazed animal with horns. Soap’s heart was still pounding as he watched Ghost run back toward the gate, somehow still maintaining his casual demeanor as he climbed over. 

He watched as the rider disappeared behind the gate and out of sight. Gaz elbowed him playfully, a knowing grin on his face. “Go congratulate your cowboy, he just one first place,” he said, his voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd.

Soap whipped his head to the scoreboard, eyes scanning before he saw Ghost’s name jump to the top as his points were entered. He couldn’t help the stupid smile spreading across his face. 

“Ye sure you’ll be alright?” he asked, already standing up. Gaz scoffed, “Get the fuck outta here Soap.”

Soap put his hands together in a mock prayer. “Thank you, Garrick.”

He turned around and nearly sprinted down the stairs, cursing the crowds blocking his way. He had to make it down there before the rider left.

Soap finally managed to make it down to the ground floor, booking it to the area cornered off for the riders and their crew. He got farther than he thought he would before security stopped him, asking for his pass that he clearly didn’t have. 

He tried a handful of excuses but there wasn’t any reasoning with the man. He was about to ask if he could at least pass on a message for him before he felt someone brush up against his back. 

“He’s with me.” 

Soap swallowed. That low, gravelly voice back in his ear. Right where he wanted it.

The security guard stood there a moment before he nodded at Ghost and walked away, as if Soap wasn’t even there. 

It took a herculean effort for Soap to turn around. He was very close to losing his nerve and chickening out of this whole ordeal. Hell, he didn’t know this man. What was he doing? 

“Now, what are ya doing all the way over here. Breaking more of those rules, I see,” he said forcing Soap to take a step backwards. 

Soap cleared his throat, voice coming out surprisingly steady. “Well, I figured I would congratulate the winner.”

“That so?” he asked with a tilt to his head.

Soap took a step forward in a random burst of boldness. Now or never. 

“Aye, I also think I owe ye a debt,” he punctuated by grabbing the hat off the man’s head and placing it upon his own.

Soap wasn’t sure if it was the passing headlights from the sea of cars and trailers behind them, but he swore Ghost’s eyes flashed at his words. He leaned down in a mirror image of their earlier interaction, a strained “Follow me,” was spoken in his ear.

Soap let out a deep breath as he watched the man walk away. Not ashamed to admit he enjoyed watching him as he did so. Fuck. This was happening. 

They walked through a dirt and gravel lot off to the side of the arena. Soap observed the ranchers loading the livestock back into trailers under the parking lot lights as they passed through.

They ended up on the outer edge of the lot, the closest light post was a few cars down so it wasn’t overly bright where they were. Soap nearly missed it when Ghost turned a corner around a large parked trailer. 

He followed suit, unable to stop the embarrassing yelp that left his mouth as he was thrown against the side of said trailer. All thoughts of cursing the man out disappeared when Ghost’s lips were crashing against his. The initial impact had him grunting, the sounds immediately swallowed by Ghost’s domineering mouth. 

Soap couldn’t breathe, and normally he wouldn’t have any complaints about the matter given the situation, but he was starting to get lightheaded. He reached his hands up, gripping onto that leather vest and regretfully pushed the man off of him. He gasped at the separation, greedily filling his lungs at the first opportunity.

“Air, air is good,” he wheezed out.

The bastard huffed a laughed right in Soap’s face. Between the night sky and Soap’s racing mind, he hadn’t quite registered that Ghost had taken off the bandana from earlier. He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, just barely making out the details of the face currently six inches from his own. 

He was fucking beautiful. 

Soap didn’t need sunlight to come to that conclusion. He had strong features; a Roman nose that had clearly been broken one too many times and never healed quite right, full lips that had a small scar running across the bottom as if it had been split in a fist fight and never got the proper stitches. He had another scar going from his chin to his neck, the moonlight illuminating the silvery healed skin that was no doubt part of an impressive collection. 

Soap couldn’t help the heat rushing to his face when he realized how blatantly he’d been checking out the other man. To his credit, Ghost just stood there; not saying a word while letting him have his fill. 

His attention drifted back to reality when a wave of lights and shadows danced across their faces as a car drove by. Soap unconsciously grabbed onto Ghost’s vest, pulling him onto himself while trying to melt into the trailer out of fear of getting caught. 

“Relax,” Ghost whispered. 

His mouth moved down to Soap’s jaw, kissing his way across his flushed skin until he reached his ear. Soap couldn’t help the full body shutter that racked through him as the man licked up the shell of his ear before biting down on the tender cartilage.

He turned his face slightly to the right in a poor attempt at stifling his moan in Ghost’s shoulder as the other slotted his knee right between his legs. 

Fuck. He hadn’t realized just how hard he was before Ghost started grinding against him.

The friction was almost unbearable, just the right amount of pain to still be pleasurable but still not enough. “More,” he groaned out. All reservations about sounding too desperate were out the door, he needed this man. Now.

Ghost turned his head to stare directly at Soap with a smirk plastered on that stupidly handsome face. 

“Needy little thing, aren’t ya?” he teased. 

He didn’t even give Soap time to defend himself before he was reaching down to undo his belt buckle and slide his hand down Soap’s boxers. 

“Fuuuck,” Soap hissed out as Ghost gripped his cock with those rough and calloused hands. Every twist of the man’s wrist had a jolt of pleasure shooting up Soap’s spine. His hand had felt like a branding iron, scorching to the touch and Soap had no complaints over the claim.

He was full on panting now. The only air he could manage to get was what Ghost allowed him when his lips granted reprieve. 

Soap was gradually nearing his breaking point. He normally would have been embarrassed for not lasting longer, but he decided to give himself a break when he’d been sporting a semi nearly the entire second half of the event. No thanks to the bastard who currently had his tongue shoved down his throat. 

Soap hadn’t even realized the involuntary bucking of his hips, his body’s feeble attempt to get off. The shallow thrusts got quicker, insinuating his building release. Just as Soap was about to reach that blissful moment he had been craving all night, Ghost snatched his hand away and removed them from Soap’s pants entirely.

“Oh, you fuckin’ bastard,” Soap spat out at the other man. 

Ghost stood straight before clicking his tongue. “We have a debt that needs paid now don’t we, darling?” he cooed at Soap who did his best to not let the pet name affect him too much.

Soap groaned in frustration. “Then hurry the fuck up cause I’m not gonna last much longer, ya fucker,” he growled out.

Ghost shook his head at him. “Ya sure do have a mouth on ya,” he stated.

“Aye, ye can do something about it next time.” Soap didn’t really care that he just left an opening for this to occur again, mind too preoccupied on the fact his balls felt like they were about to explode. 

Ghost had that smug look back on face as he reached into his pocket for something. He pulled out a set of black keys and pressed a button, the black truck behind him flashing its lights twice before he put them back. 

“Are ye kidding me? Your car was here the whole time?,” Soap whined. 

“Sounds an awful lot like complaining, mate. Not a fan of being watched, are ya?” Ghost taunted. The way he talked to Soap like he was a child was some fucked up mix of extremely hot and infuriating. 

Soap glared at the man. “Get the fuck in the back seat. Now.” 

Despite Ghost narrowing his eyes, Soap didn’t leave any room for argument and the other man complied with no further complaints. 

Ghost climbed into the back of the truck, spreading out across the seats with his hands resting behind his head as he looked at Soap. Well, didn’t he just look like the cat who got the cream. 

God, he was fucking hot.

Soap climbed in after him without another word. With the door closed, the lights in the truck went out and the space was filled with darkness once again. Soap was straddling the man’s massive thighs, nearly hanging off the edge. It was cramped, barely any room to move but he would make it work. Had to make it work. 

“Just gonna sit there and look pretty, darling?,” Ghost snarked, breaking the silence. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Soap replied with no real heat. He reached out to undo Ghost’s belt, hoping the way his throat bobbed at the clear outline in the man’s pants wasn’t visible in the moonlight. Good lord he was massive. That earlier apprehension started to slowly creep back in and wash away his false confidence. 

Ghost made another one of those clicking sounds with his tongue that had Soap freezing his movements. When he looked up into the man’s eyes, he couldn’t help the way his stomach flipped. Ghost had a way of looking at him that sent every warning bell and nerve in his body off like a crack of lightning. Like a predator finally catching his prey after having it in its sights for too long.

“Get undressed,” Ghost demanded.

Normally, Soap would put up a fight just to be an ass, but he didn’t have much fight left in him at this point. He was so on edge, so close to finally getting off he was honestly scared what he would do just to make it happen. With nothing more than a roll of his eyes in complaint, he started undoing the buttons of his shirt. It was only a matter of minutes before Soap was spread across the man’s lap in the back seat, completely naked. 

He felt like his brain was melting. There shouldn’t have been something so hot about the fact he was completely naked and bare while Ghost hadn’t even removed so much as his hat during all this. He could feel the rough denim on the sensitive skin of his thighs, the cold buckle from the man’s belt when he leaned forward just an inch. Soap wasn’t even ashamed when he realized he had been slowly grinding himself against the man, anything to ease his burning desire.  

Ghost finally spoke up, but Soap didn’t even stop his movements. “What’s your name?” he asked with that low and rough voice. Soap’s own ego was slightly stroked, he could hear the strain in the man’s voice despite the calm demeanor he was trying to convey. 

“John, but most people call me Soap,” he breathed out. He was two seconds away from ripping the clothes off this man himself.

“Soap? What kind of nickname is that?”

“Says the man called Ghost?” he quipped back.

“Alright, I’ll give ya that one. Why don’t you go on and get yourself ready for me, darling?,” he asked, but they both knew it was another command.

Soap couldn’t help the pointed stare he threw at the man. “Ye gonna make me do all the work, is that it?”

Ghost’s lopsided smile was answer enough. “I’m not the one who picked up the hat, Johnny.”

Johnny.

Fuck, why was that so hot to hear coming from his mouth? He really needed to get this thing moving.

Soap held his fingers out in front of the man’s mouth. When all he got was a questioning look in response, he rolled his eyes and pushed them against his lips. “Suck,” was all he said, patience wearing thin now.

Ghost opened his mouth slowly, letting Soap glide his fingers over his tongue. They were probably dirty as hell, covered in germs and popcorn butter but he didn’t really care at this point. The bastard would live. 

He was mesmerized as he watched Ghost work his tongue across his fingers. His mouth was hot, but nothing compared to the flames dancing across his skin as Ghost never lost eye contact during the whole ordeal. He could probably cum from this alone.

Before that thought became reality, Soap pulled his hand back. Watching the string of spit connecting his fingers to Ghost’s mouth glisten in the moonlight. 

He cursed lowly as he gripped himself in one hand, rising slightly before reaching around. He entered himself without a fuss, moaning at the friction as he slid his fingers in further. It burned a little, Ghost’s spit only helping ease the way so much. He preened like a peacock when he felt, more like heard, the other man’s sharp inhale below him. 

He started moving with a little more urgency at that, opening himself up while rocking his body back and forth. He wasn’t overly moaning like a whore, but he wasn’t exactly trying to hold back anything either. Quite enjoying the sharp little intakes of air and jerky movements of the man beneath him. He managed to get up to three fingers before he found that particular spot inside him. This time, his moans might have been a little porn starry. Ghost finally lifted his hands at that, gripping onto Soap’s hips like he was his lifeline. 

Soap wasn’t having any of that. He swatted the man’s hands away, pushing down on his chest with the hand not currently inside him when Ghost tried to protest. “No touching,” he scolded, taking great pleasure in the frustrated look on his face. 

Ghost grunted in response, like a damn toddler who didn’t get his way. “Awww,” Soap cooed at him, “Needy little thing, aren’t ye?” he said, throwing the other man’s words against him.

Ghost narrowed his eyes at that, but didn’t complain any further. “Funny.”

“I’d like to think so,” Soap replied. 

This time, when he went to undo Ghost’s belt, he wasn’t met with any resistance. With quick movements, he had Ghost pulled out in no time. Fucking hell. Massive was an understatement. It took everything in Soap to school his emotions. He wasn’t letting this bastard know how intimidated and equally impressed he was. He must have done a shit job cause Ghost had that satisfied, smug look back on his face. He could probably read minds for all he knew.

Soap gave a few quick pumps to Ghost’s cock before he lined himself up. He froze just as the other man was about to enter him. 

“The hat,” he said. It took a while before Ghost could tear his eyes away from where Soap hovered over his cock, the words finally registering before he reached up and placed his hat on Soap’s sweat-slicked mohawk. 

They were both burning up, feeling like a damn sauna in the backseat of the truck. The windows had fogged up a while ago as they swapped air in the small space, thankfully providing a thin form of privacy. 

Soap smiled as he adjusted the hat with one hand, the other still lining Ghost up as he slowly lowered himself down. 

Fuck.

They both moaned in chorus as Soap’s still too-tight heat enveloped Ghost’s cock. He sunk lower and lower at a glacial pace, letting gravity do the work and take some of the strain off his shaky legs.

He bottomed out eventually, resting on Ghost’s hips as he caught his breath. Ghost was panting below him, chest heaving as his body was strung tight with tension. Soap knew the man was dying to take control. Too fucking bad.

When Soap’s world wasn’t spinning anymore, he lifted himself back up before repeating the process all over again while setting a steady pace. He wasn’t going very fast, but he didn’t really need to. Ghost was so big that he reached all the spots he needed him too, the stretch and burn sending bolts shooting up his spine was enough for him.

He gripped tightly onto Ghost’s leather vest with his right hand, his own make shift bull rope as his left held onto the black hat resting on his head. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Ghost, but he still had to lean and bend at a weird angle to fit in the cramped space. He started to pick up a little speed, his movements mimicking Ghost’s from when he rode the bull earlier. Soap snapped his own hips back and forth, occasionally grinding down in a circular motion that had Ghost groaning unabashedly. 

He wasn’t normally one to be overly cocky, but he basked in the satisfaction of ruining this man. That calm and collected demeanor washed away by the panting, barely held back animal beneath him. Hell, he was equally just as ruined. He couldn’t contain the little punched out moans that escaped every time Ghost hit his prostate on each rock backward. He wouldn’t last a minute longer and judging by the shaking man before him, he wasn’t the only one. 

“S-Simon, pleaaase,” Soap groaned out between moans. He tried to convey everything he was thinking and wanted in that one word. Ghost being the mind reader he was picked up on it without dropping a beat. Like he was waiting for it.

He immediately grabbed onto Soap’s hips with enough force to bruise. Fuck, Soap wished they would. With one last glance at the man below him, Soap closed his eyes as Ghost started jackhammering into him. The car was a symphony of curses, moans, and grunts. Neither man holding back now. Soap removed his hand from the hat and pushed it against the ceiling, trying desperately to find purchase and not fall over. The rough movements had the sweat from his forehead running down his face, beads dropping onto Ghost’s chest off his nose and chin. He couldn’t find a single fiber of his being that cared.

His end was nearing and he wasn’t going to deny it this time. “Fuuuck, don’t s-stop,” he moaned as Ghost abused his prostate at the angle they were in. If Ghost decided now was a good time to tease the man, Soap would probably end up committing murder.

He could tell Ghost was almost at his breaking point as well. The man’s thrusts started to become wild, losing all sense of coordination as he chased his release. Soap screamed out when Ghost lifted his hand off his hip and grabbed his cock, pumping it in an off beat against his thrusts, never allowing Soap a second of reprieve from overwhelming sensation. 

“Go on, cum for me, Johnny,” he rasped out. Who was Soap to deny him?

Soap’s whole body seized as Ghost slammed into that bundle of nerves harder than he’d done all night. It felt like lightning was shooting through his body as his vision whited out. He didn’t even feel bad that he made a mess all over Ghost’s vest, too blissed out to even care. Ghost lasted around three and a half thrusts more before he was following Soap over the edge as well, cursing his name as he did. It was the best thing Soap had ever heard in his life. He responded with a groan as he felt Ghost empty out inside him. The feeling making his own spent cock twitch in response. Round two was not an option currently on the table. Soap felt like rolling over on the floor right there and taking a twenty hour nap after this. He didn’t think Ghost would mind very much.

They sat there for a few minutes, chests heaving and skin sweaty where they were still connected. Soap started looking around, his eyes scanning the man’s truck before he found what he was looking for in the center console. He popped the lid off and held it between his teeth as he unzipped Ghost’s soiled vest and unbuttoned his shirt. He ignored the curious eyes watching his movements. With the man’s chest now bear, Soap moved the marker to scribble out his number in his chicken scratch. He pulled back, looking down at his work with a satisfied expression as he capped the marker and tossed it over his shoulder. 

“Give me a call next time you’re in town, cowboy,” he said as he slowly raised himself off of Ghost’s softening cock. 

He wasn’t sure if the man had even heard him. His attention drawn to where he pulled out of Soap, his cum slowly starting to drip down his thighs. It was gonna be an uncomfortable ride home. He glanced around and grabbed his discarded clothes, doing his best to put them back on in the limited space. Ghost just sat there watching him, lounging across his backseat without a care in the world. 

Soap finally managed to put his shoes back on, pulling out his phone and ordering an Uber ride. He turned down Ghost’s offer to drive him home, he needed to get away from the man so his brain wasn’t mush anymore. With one last glance around, he leaned over Ghost on his knees. 

“Ye know, I like this hat. I think it’s mine now,” he stated.

“That so?” Ghost asked as he looked up at Soap.

“Yeah, it’s mine. Ye know what that means?” 

“What?” Ghost responded, genuinely curious. 

Soap lifted up the hat before lowering down, placing it back onto Ghost’s head as he whispered low in his ear. “Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.”

Soap didn’t say anything else as he exited the vehicle. The smile was uncontrollable as he walked across the gravel lot back to the car pick up zone.

 A man with a short circuiting brain laid in the backseat of his car behind him.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Hype!!!! For your 1k follower party - fic prompt request!!!

G, 💐, 🥰 and 🍎 These were so hard to pick omg Congrats again to you!!! 💖😊🫂

Kei, thank you so much!! This was a delight to write, all the more bc you offered to draw a little something to go with it!! Everyone, look at the beautiful art @firefly-party has created to go with this little ficlet! 🌸💖😍

The language of flowers

Words: 1000

Rated: T

Tags: Meet cute; Flower shop AU; Bookstore AU; Background Buckingham; Platonic Stobin; Platonic Hellcheer; Flirting; Horny disaster Eddie Munson

“Chrissy, we have to make a decision.” 

Chrissy stops stirring her cold coffee, tearing her eyes away from the bookstore across the street. Or more precisely the owner, who has just stepped outside with an armful of magazines. Eddie watches how she blinks at him, futilely trying to return to their conversation, and sighs. 

“Ever since that place opened, it's like I'm talking at a wall. A pining, sighing, exorbitantly gay wall. Either, we find a new coffee place…” 

Chrissy’s eyes widen. 

“... or you'll need to ask bookstore chick out.” 

The shock on Chrissy’s face morphs into horror. 

“What?” she squeaks. “No way, I'm not doing that. Have you seen her? She's dreamy, she probably has people queuing up left and right.”

On the other side of the street, dreamy bookstore chick trips over her own shoelaces, sending the magazines flying all around her. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Anyhow. Just walk over, ask about the merchandise. Use your charme, get her number.” 

Chrissy scowls. “You say that like it’s easy.” 

“Because it is,” Eddie laughs. “I could do it right now.” 

“Oh, yes? Go ahead.” Chrissy quirks a brow, gesturing at the flower shop next to the café. “If you can walk over and get a random employee’s number, I’ll to ask out bookstore chick. If not, you pay for our coffee.” 

“Oh, it’s on,” Eddie cackles, sliding out of his chair and prancing over to the flower shop. “Watch and learn!” 

He lets his gaze sweep, scanning the employees in the green polos milling about between the flowers. He’s just thinking that all of them are either decidedly too old or decidedly too female when he spots him. He has his back turned, so all Eddie can see of him is a shock of chestnut hair, streaked gold from the sunlight. That, and the polo stretching over the muscles of his shoulders and arms as he bends over the colorful bouquets. Eddie feels his mouth tug into a grin as he saunters closer. That one's perfect.

“Excuse me,” he starts to say. “I'm wondering-” 

The guy turns. And all words evaporate on Eddie’s tongue. 

He was wrong. This one isn't perfect. This one's divine. 

Hazel eyes with gold flecks, brought out by the green shirt. Full, pink lips begging to be kissed. A strong jaw and long neck dotted in moles, like the heavens themselves painted constellations all over the guy’s skin. Eddie is overcome with the sudden, irrational urge to rip off that polo to see if they continue on his chest, maybe trace them with his tongue and teeth. 

“Hi,” says the guy, and even his voice is nice. “Something I can help you with?” 

Eddie thinks there’s many things he’d like this hottie to help him with. 

“Erm …” is what he says. 

Flower shop hottie cocks his head at him and lifts his hand to his mouth. He’s holding an apple, crisp green to match his shirt. It crunches as he takes a bite out of it. Eddie wastes half a brain cell wondering why he's eating at work. The rest ceases functioning over the thin sheen of juice glistening on those lips. Flower shop hottie raises a brow. 

“Flowers,” Eddie croaks after an hour or ten. “I wanna buy flowers.” 

That perfect mouth twitches. “Well, duh. This is a flower shop, y’know?” 

Eddie nods dumbly, wondering if those lips would taste of apples if he licked them.

“Well,” hottie says helpfully, taking another, very unhelpful bite of his apple. “What did you have in mind? Sunflowers would be great for your friend. Bright, cheerful, not overly romantic. Roses for a crush, obviously. Red is the classic, but maybe pink if it's still fresh? Peonies for a more elegant and subtle alternative.” 

Eddie eyes the flowers, the ones with the long stems and dramatic, voluminous blossoms. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Peepo- … Pony- … Those.” 

“Excellent choice,” Hottie beams at him. “They're my favorites.” 

“Cool,” Eddie squawks. “Great. How much are they?” 

“Huh?” says hottie. “No idea, I don't work here.” 

Wait, what? 

Hottie takes in his dumbstruck face, the way Eddie gawks at the green polo - markedly devoid of a company logo or name tag - and smiles.

“Oh fuck,” Eddie groans.

Hottie throws his head back and laughs, like Eddie just made the funniest joke in the world. 

“I'm on my lunch break,” he then explains. “I own the bookstore. Well, co-own. And, speaking of which…” 

Eddie flinches as the half-eaten apple is pressed into his hand, but hottie gestures at him to wait, so he does. The amount of things he'd do for this guy is quite frankly alarming, and he's only known him for a few minutes. 

Hottie fumbles around in his back pocket for a second, finally emerging with a pen. 

“Overheard your little bet,” he says, pulling Eddie’s free hand towards himself. It tickles as he scribbles something onto the his arm and Eddie needs to hold back an undignified snort. “Not the coolest of moves, but if Robin rants at me about your cute little friend one more time, I'll club her to death with a book. So here you go.”

He steps back, snatching the apple and taking another bite while Eddie peers down at his arm. There's a number on it, and a name above that. 

Steve. 

“You don't work here, though,” Eddie blurts. “I didn't win the bet, strictly-” 

“You want this to continue for another month or five?” 

Eddie follows Steve’s nod to see Chrissy gazing forlornly at the front of the bookstore and winces. 

Steve chuckles and nudges him towards her. 

“Go on, then. Put us all out of our misery.” 

Eddie has already started walking when something occurs to him.

“Is this your actual number?” he asks, flapping his arm up and down. “Or did you make it up?” 

“Why don't you try it and find out?” Steve winks at him. “I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot of each other either way.” 

Congrats, Eddie, you've just acquired your very own bookstore hottie!

More celebration ficlets

[letarasstuff]

Female Rage

(A/N): Initially, I wanted to end this one on a hopeful note. But fighting the war of equality and equity can be pretty hopeless. I tried to be as inclusive as possible, but it's came out in a very binary way. I'm sorry for that and I'm readyto change anything.

Summary: Spencer learns from his daughter how much the patriarchy really sucks.

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: the utter feeling of hopelessness in today's patriarchy, unwanted advances, some men suck

✨Masterlist✨

_________________________

“Hey, what’s with you today?” Spencer asks after hearing his daughter slamming the front door shut.

Her stomping feet bring her towards the living room, where he sits on the couch with a book in his hands, deciding whether or not he’ll include it in his next class. Looking up from the written words, he instantly spots all the emotion running over (Y/N)’s face.

Now, being a father to a 16 year old teenager wasn’t always easy and especially since puberty started it’s becoming increasingly difficult to decipher his child, but Spencer knows right away what kind of emotional cocktail is playing here: Anger, hurt, a pinch of shock and layered under all of this is a certain type of fear. Which one is up to (Y/N) telling him.

“What’s with me today?” She asks him in an incredulous tone. “With me? What about you? Or your entire gender. No, seriously. How can you men go around, trumpeting how you are the stronger, the smarter, the better, the most superior gender? And mean that? Even going as far as to believe that bullshit”

(Y/N) stops, taking in a deep breath. Her father looks at her with waiting eyes, thinking that she now will calmly explain to him what her whole tirade is about. But it seems that this was just the prologue. Because she continues with even more vigour in her voice than she started with.

“For real, what makes you even think that? Stronger than a person, who was assigned female at birth? Just because you are able to build muscles faster than we? Or lose weight faster than us? You know what I call that? An evolutionary problem, because while I got emergency fat to feed off in the case of, I don’t know, an apocalypse, you will freeze to death.

“Our bodies are, for the most part, able to grow an entire functioning human being. We literally take a breakfast bar and build fingers with that energy.

“And for the smarter part? No, absolutely not. So many findings in history have been stolen from women by men, who greedily put their name on it and call it a day of science. Without women, cars probably would still drive around with windshield wipers. Mary Anderson has been laughed at for that idea, despite being one of the first women to hold a patent. And as soon as it expired, suddenly wipers were installed in all cars. Out of nowhere, it stopped being a dumb idea? Just because you weren’t able to attribute it to a woman?!

“But what more to expect from a gender that made protective gear for their testicles in hockey mandatory a hundred years before doing the same thing with a helmet. Who would have thought that brain cells need protection, too? A woman definitely.

I don’t wanna say one gender is better than the other or that there should be a particular fight between any gender at all, but men make it out like that. Damn it, they make women compete with each other to garner their attention. All those “pick me” girls you make fun of? They are the product of internalised misogyny.

“The baseline is wanting to be different from the “typical girl”, right? Well, what is a typical girl, who defined her and why is it so bad to be typical. Who do I want to be different for? Who is mad that I’m dressing up, putting makeup on or having good friendships with other girls?

“Men apparently, because they don’t want a different girl. They don’t want a well dressed, put together woman for the sake of love or so. They want someone easy. Nothing complicated, not someone, who asks them if these pants do look better with that shirt or this blouse. They don’t want to be confronted with problems. That’s why they made up a narrative of how a woman is supposed to be, solely for their own interest.

“And this whole thing eradicates the beautiful experiences you can have as a woman. I don’t talk about these silly and partly belittling things like girl dinner or girl maths. I’m talking about hyping each other up. Bathrooms in a club are fun, because there are a bunch of strangers, talking another stranger up to shoot their shot. Or down from texting their ex. There is unity.

“So where do men get their audacity?!”

Ending her whole rant with this question, (Y/N) stands in front of her father, seething and looking like she is about to overthrow the patriarchy with her own two hands. Right here, right now.

Meanwhile Spencer has started to shrink into the sofa and looks as physically small as possible.

“Uhm, the audacity for what, Sweetheart?” He asks hesitantly, scared for her reaction, but also knowing that this is something his daughter needs to get out of her system.

“TO WALK UP TO ME AND TRYING TO GET SOMETHING ON WITH ME WHILE HE CLEARLY HAS BEEN TRYING TO DESTROY MY WHOLE PRESENTATION! TO FLIRT WITH A MINOR WHILE HE CLEAR AS DAY IS IN HIS MID TO LATE TWENTIES!”

(Y/N) falls down on the sofa face first, next to her father. He rubs her arm up and down in a soothing manner, trying to take the fall after her burst of warranted female rage.

“I apologise. I know, there is nothing I can do against all of what you just said. I also know, like you, that we are talking about a structural problem. It’s nothing that can be solved by a few words. It sucks, knowing that your right to vote is younger than the patent on the first motorised vehicle. It’s not right that you always have to stick up for your rights, while mine will never be threatened.

“Nothing about all of this is fair. That I have to raise you in a way to remind you that any man out there could hurt you. It’s not fair that you have to go tell other men making advances at you about an imaginary boyfriend, because they rather believe in the legitimation of a fake male than your no. That you have to say no more than once, just because someone wants to “make sure you really mean it”.

“I can’t do anything right now that will satisfy you.

“But I can promise you that I will always listen to you. Listen to what makes you mad about this system. I will listen to other people, telling me how the patriarchy failed them. I promise to uplift the women in my life, give credit where it’s due and try to be the best feminist I can be.

But you need to promise me to tell me how I can support you the best in a world that wants to diminish your opinion, your rights and you. Can we do that?”

A short moment of silence gives Spencer the opportunity to think about instances, where he had to endure how (Y/N) being born female made her life more difficult. May it be boys pulling your hair on the playground and the teacher saying that they show love in this abusive way. May it be being called emotional or being told to stop being dramatic while talking about her problems. May it be in simply enjoying stereotypical girly things and being called basic because of that.

“Yes, I promise, I’ll keep you in check. And if you start rambling about how men are superior, I’ll ship you off to the worst retirement home I can find,” (Y/N) says, voice a bit muffled by the couch pillows.

The family continues sitting in silence, the feeling of deep and utter unfairness seeping into their bones.

If you have come this far, please consider a reblog or a comment. Not holding you at gunpoint or anything, but it would be pretty neat.

All works:

@venomsvl @kneelforloki @ssa-uglywhore27 @bibissparkles

Criminal Minds:

@averyhotchner @herecomesthewriterwitch @ash19871962 @ellyhotchner

General Spencer Reid:

@mayoanddelight (sunny, you seriously need to tell me when you change your url, this list had such an old one in it)

[mosaickiwi]

Hi again! Hope you've been doing okay!

First off I just wanna say that you always deliver, I mean "Fall Unto Me"?? Four part+an epilogue of me being torn between wanting to baul my eyes out and wanting to melt into a puddle from the feels :')

But as for the request, could I ask for Angel and [REDACTED] redecorating his appartment? Getting rid of the gaudy furniture once and for all!

Don't forget to drink water and take breaks whenever you need to! My brain is also 105% filled with this skrunkly but the trick is to keep two neurons in a cell reserved for this >:] /silly

HEHE I’ve been ok! Hope you are too!! <3 thank u for appreciating my (deranged) brainrotting fic c: the suffering is my favorite part. I’m drinking lots of water cause summer hates my ass. 💖 Also sorry this is long I am clearly not winning at the "be normal" challenge.

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

Redecorating

“This one?”

The dark haired man peered at the laptop in your hands for a long moment. “It's… nice.”

“Yes…? You called the last three couches nice, too. Any other thoughts?” You gently goaded your partner.

Choosing new furniture with [REDACTED] was supposed to be easy. You'd pick something, and he'd agree. Except you wanted it to feel like home for both of you. He didn't have to say the mushy, obvious line: as long as you were there, it was home. So progress was challenging with some things. You were sitting together on the current couch—the ugly, lifeless one that came with his apartment for some reason. 

His brow crinkled as he searched for different words. Those soft blue eyes went back and forth across the screen until he said, “It’s cozy yet functional.”

“Did you just summarize the description to me?”

He confessed to the crime with a sigh. “Angel, all I think when I look at it is you. And how cute you'd look sitting on it. Like y’do right now.”

“I'm always cute. Focus on the couch, please. Not me,” you insisted.

“No promises.”

“Let's see…” You had to find some way to get through to them. An idea came to mind that you knew he wouldn't like very much, but you had to try. “Pretend we're not dating. Or maybe I don't exist? You come home—don't make that face! I said pretend—so, you come home after a very terrible day and you see this couch. Is it nice then?”

[REDACTED] still made that face as he answered you. “Annoying as fuck to clean.”

It was progress. You didn't want to dwell on why that would be what they thought about after getting home. “Did the first one I showed you seem annoying to clean?”

“Mm... a bit.” They reached forward to change the webpage back for another look. “Y’never showed me these.” 

You leaned over to see what he was talking about. There were a few humongous bean bag chairs on the furniture wish list you’d made. “I just thought they looked fun to take a nap in. But I’m not sure we’d both fit, so it’d be silly," you explained and tapped the mouse to continue skimming through your other selections. “We can think about the couch later. I found some wall art that doesn’t look like it came from a dentist’s office.”

His eyes carefully followed the scrolling page until the bean bags disappeared at the bottom of the screen, but he didn’t protest.

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

The new furniture had arrived—and been efficiently assembled by your boyfriend, despite your protest—while you were at the library, so you were excited to get home. [REDACTED] held one hand over your eyes as he unlocked the apartment’s door.

“I already know what all the furniture looks like, Ren.” Even so, you didn’t wave their hand away.

You could hear the door click as he guided you into the foyer. “I may have added a few extra things,” he hummed while you blindly struggled and failed to take off your shoes. “Actually… close your eyes f’me.”

“O—kayy?!” Just as you closed your eyes the floor slipped away under you, replaced by familiar arms cradling you to their chest. His quiet footsteps barely echoed against the marble as you got your wits about you. The living room wasn’t that far, so you were certain where he took you without seeing anything. You just didn’t know where exactly in the room.

They turned and came to a stop, rooted in place for a moment as if thinking to themself. “Y’gonna scream if I drop you?” 

“...Yes. Maybe.”

Without another word he let go. There wasn’t enough time to scream as you immediately landed against plush fabric with the faint crinkle of something below it. The fabric crinkled some more as you felt your shoes being taken off.

“Can I open my eyes yet?” you asked. You could already tell what one of the ‘extra things’ was. It felt like heaven.

“Sure, love.” Their voice was a little farther away than you expected. Probably from hurrying to put your shoes in the closet.

You found yourself nestled on one side of the room, with a perfect view of his handiwork.

A couch that was easy to clean, in a color you insisted he decide on, draped with a luxurious looking blanket that wasn’t in your list. A coffee table with rounded corners so they wouldn’t keep hitting their leg on it. Some wall art of Attack on Giants—with extra pieces from a show you sort of recognized, but definitely suited the man's tastes. A few shelves to show off merchandise from another of your favorites. And the enormous, navy blue bean bag he’d so rudely dropped you in moments ago.

Your darling hacker stepped in from the foyer and tossed their hoodie onto the new couch. “Everything good?” he asked, piercings pulling up in a smile.

“I think I love it.” Your eyes scanned the room again and eventually landed on the pictures. “And I love that you added your own stuff.” It didn’t seem to be a clone of your apartment that he just happened to live in, like you worried about. “What about you?”

“S’better than before. ‘Course, the best part is that I don’t have t’see some shitty couch when I open the door—I get to come home to you, trapped in a bean bag.” He stood up and walked over, eyeing you playfully from above. “Comfortable?”

You nodded, then immediately yelped when he fell forwards. Just before you were squished, he caught himself on tattooed arms, caging you in the crinkly, soft material. You only felt some of their weight on you like a heavy blanket. A soft laugh slipped past your lips as he got comfortable himself, clinging to you as best he could while you both sank further into the depths of the bean bag. It’d be impossible to get out.

You wiggled your legs, straining to even find the damn floor. No doubt a futile effort, you had to sigh, “At least we both fit on it."

[REDACTED] didn’t speak, already yawning from the exhaustion of setting everything up before meeting you at work. The walk to and from the library certainly didn’t do him any favors, either. In a matter of seconds, he was fast asleep in what surely felt akin to a nest, all four lanky limbs wrapped around you like a snake.

[justwinginglife]

Part 1.5 of Wait For Me Fic

At the request of @anamedeiros99, this is a continuation of the Wait For Me series. Just some short little flashback action. It takes place before Soshiro leaves for the Defense Force from his POV.

She was doing it again- she was driving him crazy.

He'd already long taken notice of all the specific ways in which she was growing up, but his shame and embarrassment kept him clinging to the relationship they'd always had, forcing him to keep treating her the way he always did.

Besides the fact that he was terrified of destroying the most important relationship of his entire life, he was also unwilling to admit just how many times he looked at her just a little too long, how many times his heart beat just a little too fast. It was unsettling and unwanted. Everything was perfect the way it was and he didn't need to go and fuck it up by thinking with the wrong head.

But he thought he might just throw all self control out the window when he'd taken her to the beach and she'd opted for a bikini instead of her usual, conservative, one piece. He bit his tongue to keep from spilling all the salacious thoughts that were unintentionally flooding his mind and he shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his swimshorts, trying to keep their intentions at bay.

He could tell something was frustrating her but he couldn't figure out what, and certainly not when she was wearing that. He was surprised his brain cells were functioning at all- he thought the heat in his cheeks would've burnt them to a crisp by now. He was glad it was blistering out so he could feign heatstroke.

His struggles only got worse when she proposed a game of beach volleyball. He had protested, knowing where this would go, but he never could resist her pleading eyes. He caved in within a matter of seconds.

As they were playing, he thought to himself that never in his life did he ever think he would be so focused on a volleyball, his eyes never leaving it for fear of glimpsing something else. If his face didn't give him away, his shorts certainly would and he refused to let them betray him like that. So his eyes stayed fixed on the ball, devoting himself to it like it was his religion. And when she was finally tired enough to quit, he dove into the ocean shortly after, hoping the cold water would cleanse him of this unnatural state he found himself in.

It backfired because she joined him in the water and then afterwards, proceeded to dry his dripping body off with a towel. He wondered if she knew just how strained he was, trying to resist her. Trying not to kiss her salt-stained lips, take her on the sand, take her in the water.

He'd hated men with little self control and right now he was starting to hate himself. He never wanted to be the type of person that she couldn't feel safe around. He'd protect her smile forever.

Those thoughts sobered him enough to stand firm when she began to suck provocatively (did she even fucking know just how tempting and seductive she was being right now??) on a popsicle and then again, when she dried herself off with his towel, spending just a little too much time hovering the cloth in between her legs for his comfort.

He thought he might just melt into the sand if she kept this up, but he'd rather be lost among the grains then become something he'd be disappointed in, something she'd be disappointed in. So he resisted over and over again, until finally it became reflex. It became second nature. He pushed his feelings so far down that he hoped he wouldn't even recognize them if they tapped him on the shoulder.

He'd do it for her, he'd do anything for her, even reject himself.

But she didn't make it easy for him.

He was puzzled to discover that she had a new way of styling her hair, a new way of doing her makeup, a new way of doing her nails, every single month without fail. He didn’t know why she changed styles so frequently, but he held on to that confusion, to that uncertainty, because it kept him from thinking about how delicious she looked as a redhead, or how much he’d like to pull on her blonde ponytail, how he wanted to tuck purple strands behind her ear. He wanted to kiss her red lips, kiss her pink lips, kiss her black lips. He didn’t care if it smeared on his face, he’d take any part of her that he could get.

And then he’d remind himself to push those feelings down. Again. He found it quite the workout.

When he finally made the decision to join the Defense Force, he was relieved to have some respite from the constant battle in his mind.

But then she sent him a letter.

And it changed everything.

[sl33paholics]

Do you think anyone in Baki would be crazy enough to fight Santana?

Short answer, YES! (All information stated is gathered from the official jojo wiki)

If half of these men are WILLINGLY wanting to fight a man who's from the Jurassic / Cretaceous era who is 10x their size, height, weight, strength, and so and so, then they are DEFINITELY going to fight Santana.

Now, let's do an analysis. The Pillar Men an ancient race of humanoid, and the Pillar Men are very strong in their own right and able to manipulate their bodies to their liking without worry. Such as:

Super Toughness | When Kars fell off a 175cm cliff and Esidisi swallowing a whole fucking dynamite.

The men seem to have a high tolerance when it comes to pain. In the anime, when Esidisi's body was disintegrated, his brain was still able to function and possess Suzi Q. When Santana's body was ripped / burned he was still able to fight back Joseph.

High Intelligence | According to the wiki, they're able to instantly catch on and learn the mechanics like tactics, systems, one's mind and actions, languages, etc.

Not to say that Pickle isn't as smart or intelligent as the Pillar Men, he definitely understands his surroundings and the physical language the men give him while fighting. However, compared to him and the Pillar Men, they definitely take the cake. Santana was able to pick up on the language between the soldiers Von Stroheim just by listening to them through the vents, as well dismantling a gun that takes HOURS for humans to take apart.

Now, when it comes to fighting, or, advanced fighting, Pickle has number one here. This nigga fought fucking dinosaurs. There's no way the Pillar Men could compete with that. Although, like I mentioned earlier, Santana and the rest are able to manipulate their bodies.

Body Manipulation | The men are able to dissociate and break their bones, flatten the organ to any form they desire. Even with a served body, can they remotely control them. As well slipping into another organisms body and control them via inside.

We all know that Santana was able to control his rip chage, having them come out like spikes. Even able to bend them to his will. Think about it, if Katsumi was fighting this man with his severed arm, he would be dead. Santana entering him through that entrance would cause an instant death.

Absorption | The men's bodies are composed of cells that have digestive acid causing the victims to melt, making the illusion of the Pillar man absorbing into their body.

This ALONE could end a fight. If any of the men are bothering and bickering for a fight while he's unasmused and unphased by their efforts, they'll take it as a sign once he starts to walk past them. Getting in front of Santana as he begins to absorb them without the guy realizing that he's at death's door rn.

It's safe to say that the Baki cast would most likely want to fight a man from his time. To see his ability, to test them. To see if he still has the spirit within him to put up a good spar. Just don't let Yujiro find out about this man. Not saying he'll be afraid (cuz psjhhj why tf would he) but considering his abilities and such, the Orge himself may not want to die to a being like him.

[the-bittera-one]

Chapter Keywords: I did say everything goes downhill from there, rain! date!, foreshadowing, getting sick Chapter CWs: Hurt starts here. Implied self-pleasuring.

Prev - Main - Next

4. Blue Daisy

Another day, another last-minute assignment to submit.

It didn't matter, you were stoked for Saturday to come. The date with Miguel was all set, from the movie you two would watch (some intergalactic sci-fi flick) to the fast food place where you two would pick up your greasy orders, and then finally drive to a certain romantic and secluded spot where you two lovebirds could spend some quality bonding time together in the car while stargazing, maybe even talking about the movie while looking up at the dark, hopefully starry and not smog-clouded, sky.

... Or maybe do some more impure activities. God knew you needed it.

It wasn't just the assignments that kept you awake these days, but also the thought of spending some special time with your boyfriend.

Many nights you had been lying on your bed, the softness and comfort of your blankets and pillows not enough to lull you to sleep. The many cups of chamomile tea you drank night after night only caused you to stumble to the toilet at 2 am.

The culprits behind all this mess? Miguel, your hormones and your damn imagination.

Because those things were what had you lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing that the one embracing you wasn't the sheets, but him.

Wishing that what you were biting down on wasn't a pillow, but him.

Wishing that the thing satisfying you wasn't your hand, but him.

But all that was soon to be resolved that Saturday.

There was just one small, teeny, tiny problem.

Miguel didn't seem to know your plans.

Or maybe he did, you weren't sure. You had sent him the text with the plans for the date the day after you had studied together in the library. Text that appeared just below the goodnight message you had sent him before going to bed.

But he hadn't responded to any of them.

Perhaps the person he was teaching this time burned a lot of your poor boyfriend's brain cells, along with his infinite patience. You would have to reward him for that.

But you grew more and more uneasy as the days went by. He had replied, yes, but you still weren't sure if he had actually read the arrangements for your date because his texts had become monosyllables that functioned as short answers to every question you asked him.

Like:

Did you sleep well? - Yes.

Was tutoring tiring? - Yes.

Can we study together tonight? - Busy

Lol, look at this squirrel. It stole Mr. Crabgrass' toupee after the old man tried to chase it away with a stick - Huh

That last one wasn't even a question yet the answer was the same.

Was he starting to piss you off? Yes, but Miguel was much too kind a soul to do that knowingly, right? He had always been the sweet, caring guy who soothed you during your hard times, even putting his body under strain for you, like the time you twisted your ankle so badly on your way home that he had to carry you on his back for blocks. And that was back when he didn't have any of the muscular prowess that his physique now displayed.

There was no way this sweet summer child was doing it on purpose, he was probably, as he said, busy. College was a pain in everyone's ass, and the two of you weren't as wealthy as other students might have been to be able to slack off.

That didn't mean you didn't feel lonely sometimes. But things would work out eventually, wouldn’t they?

Your mind went to what he had told you back then when your ankle had taken on the shape of a tennis ball.

"Everything will be okay."

A sunny day greeted your weary eyes with a midday sting that Saturday morning, waking you from the peaceful slumber you had fought to achieve all night.

But instead of getting out of bed grumbling as usual, you slipped out of it with a cheerful smile and headed straight for your dresser as you unlocked your phone.

Swiping between Instagram (which showed some girl you know getting married), the weather app (which showed graphs of temperature changes), tumblr (which showed some cheff-kiss quality smut), and the browser, you finally found the two tickets you had purchased yesterday.

Yes, you had called Miguel last night and he had finally given you a verbal answer.

He had spoken rather breathlessly, and you had assumed that he was running late for something, and as the considerate partner you were, you had opted to keep the conversation short. After all, it wasn't the first time you'd caught him being late for class.

But as of now, you had to focus on getting lunch and dolled up. An "everything" shower, skin care products, whatever cosmetic you used and the outfit you had planned for the day were waiting for you, as well as the lingerie chosen for this "special" occasion.

Of course, the golden ring on the bedside table couldn't be forgotten, placed there so it wouldn't bend or slip while you slept.

The movie would start at 8 and end at 9:40. A jacket, your keys and your phone were the only things you would take with you. Miguel would be the one to drive you out of the theater anyway, all you had to do was show up on time.

You were late, it didn't take a genius to know that when your phone displayed "8:20" on the screen. The numbers looked so bright that they were downright mocking you.

It wasn't your intention, really, but your bed had suddenly looked so soft and cozy as you waited for what felt like hours for your moisturizer to work its magic.

The marathon you had to run had left your lungs stinging, but your mind was focused on something else.

"Miguel won't be upset, will he?"

The sentence itself sounded ridiculous to you, but it escaped your lips as you rested your back against a wall, puffs of hot breath accompanying the escaping question.

The cold air outside the theater was doing nothing to cool your body temperature after such a long run, so you knew that "sweaty" would be the first thing anyone would think of when looking at you.

An embarrassed sigh was the one that escaped from you this time as your fingers went to your phone, unlocking it and texting an apologetic "I'm here" to your ever loving and understanding boyfriend.

You felt sorry, you had hyped up this date so much and yet you were the one who was late? But, well, nothing a good smooch couldn't fix.

You were quite sure that the one who needed the smooch this time was you.

A couple of hours had passed and there was no sign of your man anywhere, no texts or calls. The movie had long since ended, and yet you were still there, waiting.

Hoping.

Nervousness had turned to annoyance, annoyance to anger, and anger to worry.

Was he okay? Did the rain catch him?

What seemed to be a sunny and otherwise cloudless day had given way to biting winds and a light rainstorm that soon brought bigger raindrops than the weather forecast had originally predicted.

Your calls fell unanswered, and eventually all signal went down as the power went out in a large part of the city that still had a shitty power grid.

By the time you made it back to your dorm, you were too exhausted, cold, and wet to make another 100 calls to Miguel. You did give him 5 more, but they went unanswered, just like the 5 texts you sent.

Feverish, you had barely managed to get into bed with clothes that were supposed to keep you warm in what felt like the worst cold of your rather short life.

And that's how sleep claimed you, sick, worried and cold, with drenched garments lying next to your bed, left there to wet the carpet as it took on a musty smell.

Prev - Main - Next

[rui-drawsbox]

Hello again, it’s me: the menace of your inbox 😎✨🤠✨🐊✨

for curtesies sake I’ll add a read more after I write one sentence of explanation.

I’m too busy to write a fic rn but the brain worms are so intense for Magical Girl Arashi that I will instead write an outline.

I’ll probably try to write em in an episodic fashion cuz like, magical girl anime :D:D✨✨✨

Cool so episode one should serve about three functions.

show how arashi gets her powers

establish the setting and foreshadow future characters

Get the view acquainted with the tone

so here’s how I’d go about it 🥰

Scene one:

Arashi should be in class

its a normal day

a new kid joins the class, it’s Mika

she notes that there’s something odd about him but like, in a comedic way that the audience won’t initially pick up on

he shouldn’t notice her at this point, she’s still a normal girl (still a queen, slay Fr I love her)

However he doesn’t make any friends for most of class and his introduction sounded like a robotic script, also he’s sitting alone, poor murderous baby 😭

anyways she, being the queen that she is, decides to talk to him after class and she gets a whole conversation with him

He doesn’t show it very well but he is happy to have a friend and offers her a bear charm instead of actually confirming that they’re friends (he’s real standoffish at this point so think how he acted to Anzu at first in the first game but like, a bit more tame) (cuz he ain’t allowed to really have friends, he’s just supposed to keep up appearances while Shu finds what he’s after)

School goes on, Arashi has lunch with Ritsu and Leo, we get a passing convo about them going to karaoke later, Leo laments that Izumi won’t go with them and the other two just kind of give him a sad look ig. Cuz he hasn’t gone with them in a really long time cuz he’s “busy” and “not interested in childish things right now” “too much work with ballet” (he’s lying💀✨. We’ll get to that later, I am having numerous thoughts)

School goes on once again and the day ends. Arashi walks home with her friends and they all go their separate ways.

while she is walking alone she hears this awful screeching sound, like a cat that’s super upset. So she, as any good cat mom would, follows it.

she finds a little kitty that’s being chased by these creepy looking Victorian dolls. They have golden strings attached to their feet that seem to trail on the ground as they walk. She doesn’t take much note of them tho. She’s too busy grabbing that cat and getting the hell out of there.

so she takes the cat back to her house and checks the poor baby for injuries. Thankfully the kitty is fine. However, things get a bit funky. (Magic cat.)

The cat puts a paw on her chest (like between her collar bones) and a little jewel mark appears there. Arashi is obviously very confused and concerned but the cat just purrs and meows at her.

She starts questioning the cat but like, ma’am despite the magic, that cat don’t talk. That cat meows, screams, and imitates barking noises to scare other cats. Fucking creature tbh. I love this cat.

also arashi is in her room on her bed btw, and there should be big windows by her bed, also she is on the ground floor. This is important.

so after a few minutes of questioning and getting meows for yes and shaken heads for no, the cat starts yowling and screaming and growling. So arashi is obviously very concerned.

There’s a thump on her window, the cat gets even louder.

she looks out and sees a… doll? Maybe a mannequin? It certainly looks large enough to be a mannequin. Huh, it has more of those gold strings. It’s beating on her window. Huh, wait, why is the window sliding open, FUCK!

Arashi grabs the cat and bolts while this mannequin chases her through the house. She does the smart thing and tries to call the police, there’s no response cuz the lines been cut and the service on her cell phone is out.

She tries to leave the house but each exit is being stalked by a different mannequin. So she runs to the bathroom to lock the door and hide.

(She tried to snap a photo of one of the mannequins btw, just in case she needed proof but when she looks at it later the photo will be obscured and unrecognizable so sucks to suck lmao 💀)

The cat gestures to the gem mark on her chest and tries to communicate with her to touch the mark. She does as the cat communicates and then she transforms. She gazes into the vast universe (the background from your art of her in her super magical girl form) and she sees a sword, a really pretty, majestic sword. She grasps the handle and her transformation starts.

anyways she doesn’t kickass yet, I’m sorry girlboss enjoyers, she ain’t a fighter yet, but she’s real strong and has the urge to kill to defend this kitty. So she wins, but just barely.

She also manages to avoid destroying her house in the process. So good for her. If the house was beaten up when her parents got home they would’ve had a fit.

Anyways the episode ends with her relooking all the doors and windows to her house and wondering what she got herself into with this cat. But the cat is cute so she doesn’t care. Also yes it is her cat from enstars. I love her cat so much.

That’s what I have for a possible episode one for this. I’ve got more ideas but I don’t have time rn. I’ll be back. My Izumi ideas are going crazy rn tbh. I’m gonna have a lot of fun implementing him lmao.

Also hi Rui, I hope you’re having a good day/night :D:D✨✨

my dude is your brain powered by the fukin sun or you are just a genius

anyways i can't possibly add anything to your outline. It's perfect. It was so good that even made me want to animate it and i went to search tutorials to the page i was going to use for my studies this year, and found out it was a scam HAHA

Local high school girl adopts transferred silly man

also what do you think about Arashi, Leo and Ritsu (and sometimes Izumi?) doing dance covers every now and then, i think it would be a good excuse for when she has to outrun the dolls(?)

fuck the twelve principles of animation, all my homies don't know what they're doing

ngl it would be a pretty horrific scenario to be in, lucky she😊!

also have you considered Arashi not knowing how the fuck a sword is used outside movies (and bc those dolls certanly look hard to break lol) and in the dispair uses it like a mf hammer? especially bc it's a real technique and it looks funny

anyways, stars from stock wallpaper, my beloveds

dont tell i dont know how to draw weapons i already know jsfhdkas

And Arashi just 'brushing' all that happend bc the cat is cute is the most magical-shoujo-protagonist thing that she could do lol

anyways im actually more motivated to animate than ever! my friend you just did the perfect first chapter for a series like that ajfads

good night my fellow AU enjoyer! Rui out! *explodes*

[maizeversal]

Tbh I love Underverse!Ink, I think he's a lot of fun and seeing him get to play a non-heroic role for once is,,, chef's kiss. Fuck it up little man. Fuck everything up. Okay maybe not that much. Girl you are KILLING it. GIRL you can STOP NOW it is ALREADY DEAD

And, like... I totally get why some people dislike it, especially since in other cases, the Soullessness thing has been taken as a mental health metaphor. I think that's a valid take with a lot of potential and it's reasonable that people would be uncomfortable with this new angle.

But, at the same time, as somebody with its own cocktail of mental issues, a few of which are things that people tend to ascribe to Ink as aspects of the lighter, more flavor text versions of Soullessness, I honestly don't see it that way. So I don't have a problem with UV!Ink on that front. By no means is it a perfect series, nothing is, but that's not one of the things that's bugged me, y'know?

Personally I like the idea of Soullessness being something... Alien, for lack of a better word. Not "eldritch", either, but like... Okay. Let's try a comparison.

So, to a Human, a Soul is the source of magic, right? And it's definitely connected to emotions and identity and all of that, but it's main job as an organ is to contain and control the person's innate magic. It gets its color based on the Human's behavior, not the other way around, kind of like how flamingos turn pink because of the shrimp they eat.

A Monster Soul, however, is the ENTIRE ORGAN CAVITY. That's the brain. That's the heart, the lungs, the guts, all of it packed into a sort of nucleus (although that's not a perfect analogy, either, because an animal cell's nucleus only houses the genetic material, but... You know what I mean). The rest of the body is essentially a machine that allows the Soul to get around, feed itself, and fend off threats.

So imagine if you met someone, and they just... Didn't have organs. No brain, no heart, no lungs, no guts. There's a lot of variations that the human body can survive and even thrive with; we have ways to pump blood and oxygen through the body without a standard circulatory system, thanks to inventions like pacemakers and organ transplants. But you can't live without a brain. You just can't, like, fundamentally. Yet, this person talking to you has lifted up part of their skull and there is nothing there. They do the same thing with their ribs and there is no blood. They seem to be doing fine, no machinery or even surgical scars, but there is no way they should, scientifically, be a functioning organism.

That's what I've always thought of it as. Ink is not a Monster, nor is he Human; he is something else entirely. The best way I've been able to pin it down is that he is a spirit, or a pure manifestation of Creative magic. And quite frankly, yeah, a spirit would have a completely different way of interacting with the world around them. Our experiences, our motives, even our ability to bond with others, are uniquely human in the most animal, evolutionary sense; Monsters, too, would be influenced by the conditions in which they evolved.

But Ink? Did not evolve. He was Created. Though he learns and grows as a conscious being, as a mind, he will never physically grow; any changes over time are superficial results of his internal, personal growth.

And I love that. I LOVE how goddamn weird he is. I absolutely adore the conceptual tug-of-war between him wanting to be like the others and having to embrace that he just isn't in order to move forward - the idea that, yes, he is alien, he is "unknowable" but only if nobody tries, he is a different kind of creature and that is okay, he is still a person. He's done something horrible. But, like any person - Human, Monster, or otherwise - he is more than that one mistake. He has free will. That is his responsibility.

[alaxamost]

As I'm trying to study for my Biochem exam my own brain decided it was a good idea to make a fic out of it, so I did...here a little snippet:

◇~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~◇

The Exam

A Jayvik fanfic that I made for mere leisure (and also thanks to my bestie @cerezzzita who kept telling me to go to study)

"Ughhh Viktor, what are we going to do?" said the tall man while entering with his partner to his apartment, it was not the best, but hey, you can ask 2 undergrads who are nothing to graduate with their master's degree.

"For now we must start studying, I do not want to take the material between my feet" grumbled the shortest as he dropped his heavy backpack on the sofa, sitting on it while he began to take out all his materials, these being his laptop, his notebook and adjacent books.

Jayce followed suit, also taking out his things and leaving them on the table where they both used to do their homework and study. At the time of starting these 2 opened almost simultaneously their notebooks and began to read all the topics to study. The subject was Biochemistry, a subject that, although it did not have much to do with what they had chosen as a career, if they had to pass it, yes or yes.

"Ok, let's start," said Viktor as he began to open one of the presentations. They had to start with the cellular structure, so Jayce was attentive to what her boyfriend was saying and they started writing down all the information they had that was relevant.

To this, each one was saying what he was finding of the subject aloud, which helped to reinforce the memory.

"Let's see, organelles are intracellular structures, which means that they are inside the cell, which are quite complex since in these occur the processes necessary for the life of a cell, a cell that can become?"

"It can be eukaryotic or prokaryotic, both enter"

"Right, then, each of these performs a specific function"

"Equally it does not matter true, since in the end between several help"

"It shows that you have paid attention in class"

"It's about time I did," he said as he cracked a small smile, with a somewhat embarrassed tone just as well.

The pale-skinned smiled back and now he began to listen to Jayce, that he would be the one who would mention each organelle and what its function was, then Viktor would continue with the subject of membranes and so they would take turns until they finished studying, which procrastinated that today they were not going to sleep and not for a more pleasant reason

"Ok Jayce your turn, I want to see if you remember what the teacher said in class," Viktor mentioned while cracking a mocking smile, since the reason they took this class together was because Jayce had the same teacher in high school. The young man only let out a snort as he began to dictate, to which this Viktor began to write.

"It will be better that you write with legible handwriting my love, I do not want to explain to the teacher because our notes look like a Van Gogh painting!"

"You're very funny Jayce Tails..." said the other in annoyance.

◇~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~◇

Imma try and continue it later, see y'all

[thepastisalreadywritten]

WARNING: This article contains a graphic picture of the patient

Surgeons have performed the world's first ever whole-eye transplant, a feat hailed as a breakthrough despite the patient not yet regaining his sight.

"Doctors never expected it to work at all," patient Aaron James said, but the eye has shown signs of health, such as functioning blood vessels and a promising retina.

It has been six months since the 21-hour surgery, performed during a partial face transplant in New York, but the surgeon who led the procedure said Mr James, 46, may yet see out of his left eye again.

"I don't think anyone can claim that he will see. But by the same token, they can't claim that he will not see," Dr Eduardo Rodriguez said.

"The mere fact that we transplanted an eye is a huge step forward, something that for centuries has been thought about, but it's never been performed."

Mr James, a military veteran from Arkansas, survived a work-related high-voltage electrical accident that destroyed the left side of his face, his nose, his mouth, and his left eye in June 2021.

He said he knew he might not regain his vision, but he had hoped that surgeons could "learn something to help the next person."

"Hopefully this opens up a new path," he said.

"It feels good. I still don't have any movement in it yet. My eyelid, I can't blink yet. But I'm getting sensation now," he added.

Until now, doctors have only been able to transplant the cornea, the clear front layer of the eye.

Initially, doctors were just planning to include the eyeball as part of the face transplant for cosmetic reasons, Dr Rodriguez said.

"If some form of vision restoration occurred, it would be wonderful, but... the goal was for us to perform the technical operation," Dr Rodriquez said, adding they aimed to have the eyeball survive.

"At this point, I think we're pretty happy with the result that we were able to achieve with a very technically demanding operation."

Mr James's eye will continue to be monitored, but right now, it is not communicating with the brain through the optic nerve.

To encourage connection between the donor and recipient optic nerves, surgeons harvested adult stem cells and injected them into the optic nerve during the transplant, hoping they would replace damaged cells.

Transplantation of a viable eye opens many new possibilities, Dr Rodriguez said, even if sight is not restored in this case.

Other research teams are developing ways to connect nerve networks in the brain to sightless eyes through insertion of electrodes, for example, to allow vision, he said.

"If we can work with other scientists that are working on other methods of restoring vision or restoring images to the visual cortex, I think we're one step closer," he added.

[thunderclaw100]

*Scene part 3*

Viper slouches off to one of the break rooms for some peace and quiet. Hopefully he won’t have to hear any conversations from other staff members there. After the stressful day he’s had. All Viper wants right now is to relax, eat his favorite snack bar and take a nap, Recharge his brain a little.

“Damn those drones. Today was a total failure! All I’ve asked them to do was inject the subjects with Irken stabilizer liquid cells. It was supposed to maintain the existing cells but break down the defective genes. We don’t need ugly traits pooling over our system.”

It was supposed to be the first step in his project after getting permission to borrow some slave aliens to give his test a try. If Viper was going to make this genetic mutation thing work, he first wants to make sure that these selected aliens were not carrying any bad genes and disoriented body functions. He came up with an idea to help fix that, but with how terrible his fellow staffs were in presenting it, Viper needed a break from the lab. He found nothing else would do.

“Oh thank glob there’s nobody in here!”

Viper is relieved that the break room is empty. He can spend some time in here for a while before going back to the lab. “I’ve been given a few more days before my presentation to the tallest. I HAVE to master this new genetic mutation thing or I’ll be a laughingstock to the whole empire….” Viper said. Shaking his lag anxiously. Resting his chin between his fingers. He made earlier testing with other aliens subjects but while injecting one of them with the Irken stabilizer liquid cell, that said alien had a bad reaction to it. This made Viper rethink about his method on using that carelessly. Hell have to redo the serum later to lessen the effects.

“Hopefully when I get the ok from the tallest and control brains, I’ll be able to debut my project before I turn 125. But….what if it all fails? What would our next patch of soldiers look like if they are born with that many foreign DNA?” This thought came out of nowhere to him. Then the voice of Soren hit him.

“It’s not natural. You’ll be making freaks out of nothing. Is cloning yourselves not good enough for you? Taking your concurred slaves, stealing their DNA, experimenting on them just for the hell of it. That’s crazy, Viper. Even for you.”

Viper slammed his fist on the table and growled. “Am I really letting Soren’s words get to me? That disrespectful brat! He thinks he knows what he’s talking about. I’ll prove to that little vortian that my work will make the empire greater that ever before.”

A sly smirk crept on his face. Viper will have to double back on his work files and set aside a new thing he would like to perform after this project. Feeling a vibration, Viper perked up and heard heard someone coming. Without even thinking about it, the irken flopped his body onto the table and displayed himself, laying on his side, posing. He would have regretted it if Viper didn’t know who came in.

“Ah. Crypto….Soren.” He growled at the last name.

Both Crypto and Soren have been assigned to maintenance temporarily due to low staff count. This isn’t the first time Viper seen them together, but it is strange to him that they are. The vortian spoke up. “Why are you laying on top of the table like that?”

“For dramatic effects as soon as you walked in here.” Viper said. Moving his gaze up to Cryptio. Those flaming red eyes pour into his. Was he thinking about their last brief talk in the bathing room?

“Anyway, I came in here because I needed a break from those insufferable drones of mine.” Viper said.

“They’re probably tired. You have overworked them.” Soren told him. He walked over to the chair to his left and sat down. Crypto followed along and sat next to him. The blue vortian took out some vort snack bars. He passed one over to Crypto, who gratefully took it. Soren didn’t even bother to give one to the other itken. He was told that Viper prefers to eat Irken-made snacks, so he doesn’t looked bothered when he wasn’t offered anything from Soren.

“I hade it all made and laid out for them to follow. My orders should be clear to these drones by now! All they had to do was get the samples. I had to jump through SO many hoops to get my hands on a small fraction of Irken cell from the bio laboratory.”

Soren mouth gapped open. Did Viper really steal dna sample from one of the most secured private rooms that is only accessible to those at top ranks? The control brains will be furious! How did Viper even slip in there, undetected by anyone or any security bots?

“How did you get that Irken DNA?” Soren asked.

“Never do you mind, shorty. All that matters is that I have it. Now if only I can get these incompetent drones to follow up, so we can get started before the deadline hits. Don’t know why they’re slacking….”

“Maybe they would do their jobs better if you weren’t such a controlling prick…” Crypto comment.

Viper’s antenna twitched and he slammed his hands on the table before leaning forward. “Do you have a problem with me, Crypto?” Viper hissed.”

“My problem is that you’re taking a risk that might not be worth a damn thing if it fails! If you asked me, I don’t think you should go through with this project. Tampering with Irken DNA for cloning is one thing. But TAINTING it with other aliens is boundary stepping.” Crypto said with a serious tone.

“Then I’m glad I never asked you. But I can tell you’ve been chatting with Soren. He said something similar.”

His blue eyes frown at the vortian, sitting beside Crypto. He has no comment for that one, but the other irken did. “You want to be the best scientist irk has ever seen? Then why not find a way to fix defective paks? Why we can’t touch liquid water and some meat substance. Tend to our disabled.”

Crypto wanted to make a list of the many problems effecting irkens daily lives back on their planet. Some that were dismissed or unnoticed by their superiors. He understands the limits their own scientists are given but lending a helping hand to some problems shouldn’t be that difficult. Viper is just being selfish and greedy for attention. It’s one of the traits, Crypto hates about him. “I’ve already got the pipsqueak on my case. I don’t need you in my business too.” Viper told him. He looked at the time. His break is over.

“Welp. Gotta get back to the lab. Tweak a few wires, spin a few heads, run some experiments. And I’ll see you two goof troupes later~” Viper waved goodbye and then was out out the break room in no time flat.

“How long do we have to put up with this guy?” Soren growled in annoyance. For once he wish he were tall, so that he can have the right to slap Viper. But even that would get him thrown out into space. At least it would be worth it to him.

Crypto got out of his seat along with him and they both walks out the door. “We only have to tolerate him until our recommendations gets through. Hang in there, Soren. Let me walk you to your room.”

[a-couple-of-notes]

cr3e52 hot takes that I need to get out of my system

not main-tagging this and putting it under a cut because it's salty as hell, but I really just need to get this out of my system by writing it down. mayhap I will take parts of this and flesh them out into more considered posts later, with all the nuance and disclaimers about blorbo apologist. for now, have straight crankiness. spoilers for c3e52.

I can see the whole "The party/specifically Imogen is still thinking about joining Ludinus, they're so dumb and frustrating" discourse starting up again, and it's getting on my nerves. All of Bells Hells understands that Ludinus is the bad guy; nowhere in this episode did I hear any of them say that they should join his moon cult. In fact, Imogen was pretty clear that the god-eater was bad. It was actually F.R.I.D.A. who was closest to exhibiting a pro-Ludinus stance (Imogen says that Ludinus is trying to destroy the gods, and they say "good.") And even Deanna (who's no fan of the gods herself) tells them hmm, no, wait.

I continue to be frustrated at how much crap Imogen gets for--like, three canonical moments of doubt, which again, are not about whether the party should join the moon cult. I also think we should talk more about why she's tempted, which is an interesting mix of actual supernatural compulsion (Laura's rolling saves, y'all! she's being cued by the DM!), yearning for her mother, and her implied past ideation of death.

There's a difference between exploring strained relationships with gods, questioning the meaning and worth of faith, and wondering why this is the path you're on - and straight-up wanting to join the moon cult. It's okay if you don't like this narrative, or find it repetitive. But the question that continues to be in tension is not "Are Ludinus' actions right, and should we join his cult?" It's "Do the gods care about us? Why are we, the largely faithless group, the ones on the path to saving the gods?"

Though I understand the categorization of these two groups into "emotionally stable" and "powder kegs without a brain cell" (and to some extent agree - Chet, FCG, and Imogen have very volatile elements, and Orym, Ashton, and post-Delilah Laudna don't as much), I feel that this can get into the infantilization of Imogen and FCG especially. "Imogen has never learned to take care of herself." "The party will have to learn to function without their babysitters." Like. Yes, Imogen is very attached to Laudna, but this ignores the fact that she is a 28-year-old woman with a decade of experience in managing her condition, who has regularly played the even keel for both FCG and Laudna herself. And this also limits the way we can view the other half of the party. If they're just the long-suffering adults dragging their idiot companions along, there's no room to address, say, Laudna's arrested development (which I believe is still a facet of her even post-Delilah) or Ashton's rage and projection onto parental relationships.

(Since I'm very ornery in this post I will also say that buying into this read too much can flatten the relationships between the starting pairs into simplistic tropes--one is only the caretaker, and the other is only the one being cared for. And that bugs me, because there are a lot more reasons why these pairs have stayed with each other--healthy or unhealthy--and those are also [if not far more] interesting.)

[manwalksintobar]

Gloves on! // Anne Carson

So,​ your life. There it is before you – possibly a road, a ribbon, a dotted line, a map – let’s say you’re 25, then you make some decisions, do things, have setbacks, have triumphs, become someone, a bus driver, a professor of Indo-European linguistics, a pirate, a cosmetologist, years pass, maybe in a family maybe not, maybe happy maybe not, then one day you wake up and you’re seventy. Looking ahead you see a black doorway. You begin to notice the black doorway is always there, at the edge, whether you look at it or not. Most moments contain it, most moments have a sort of sediment of black doorway at the bottom of the glass. You wonder if other people are seeing it too. You ask them. They say no. You ask why. No one can tell you.

A minute ago you were 25. Then you went ahead getting the life you want. One day you looked back from 25 to now and there it is, the doorway, black, waiting.

When I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease a symptom particularly mortifying to me was that my handwriting disintegrated. I used to take pleasure in writing in notebooks, shelves of them, day after day, year after year. Now the upright strokes bend or break or go in all directions, vowels shrink to blobs, slant loses its smooth smart angle, it all looks embarrassing. I scrub out whole paragraphs in shame.

Hard to describe or explain the shame of bad handwriting.

Bad handwriting is ugly. Also it is inauthentic. In the sense it is not you.

Parkinson’s is a disease that turns off certain genes in the cells of the brain, no one knows why. Many physical actions, and some cognitive actions, are thereby inhibited or mangled.

In The Brain That Changes Itself, Norman Doidge writes:

Each cell in our body contains all our genes, but not all those genes are turned on or expressed. When a gene is turned on, it makes a new protein that alters the structure and function of the cell. This is called the transcription function because when the gene is turned on, information about how to make these proteins is ‘transcribed’ or read from the individual gene.

So the brain has its own handwriting. Which depends on a certain protein. I can imagine my poor brain throwing up its hands in dismay to find all the good handwriting protein gone or a mess.

Entering the shatter zone. Hands within hands. Metabolic and metaphorical vectors overlap. Is this confusing? Yes, it is confusing.

What a difference there is between Keats’s handwriting in letters or notes for a poem and his ‘fair copies’ made for publishers or friends. I study this difference. I say to myself, it’s just a matter of attention; turn the page, pay attention, try again. I try again; I am wrong. Life slips one more notch towards barbarity.

Life is no longer fair!

Handwriting is a mark from inside me that I put outside me, often with a view to showing, telling, communicating. It carries what Gerard Manley Hopkins calls ‘the inscape’ out. (Note: Hopkins meant several different things by ‘inscape’, which I don’t know enough about his psyche or his poetics to represent here, but those Dublin notebooks – wow!)

If your writing slants to the right you are a person strongly influenced by your father; procrastinators dot their ‘i’s to the left, etc. Graphology is the study of handwriting as a clue to character analysis. It’s hard to believe it isn’t a good clue.

Scriptural disintegration: also scary as an image of the cognitive breakdown that is another gradual effect of Parkinson’s disease. Vagueness, forgetting, discontinuity, gaps and fissures, slowdowns, stops. When critics talk about the ‘late style’ of Beethoven or Baudelaire, do they mean marks on paper as well as, or as a clue to, hauntings in the brain?

‘In the history of art, late works are the catastrophes,’ Adorno writes in Essays on Music.

Graphologically speaking, the art of Cy Twombly poses an aberration. His paintings feature handwritten words inscribed in such a way as to avoid offering any clues to him or his character or his inside state. Scribbled, scrawled, gauche, idle, unlovely – the hand is no one’s, or everyone’s, or mythic, or just a stain left behind by something written there before. A mark with no person in it. No shame.

Neurologists now seem to believe that the brain is plastic and that certain activities can rewire it, by generating new neurons to replace lost ones or by exciting neurons that have gone idle or slow. Boxing is recommended. I go to a boxing class three times a week. Everyone in the class has Parkinson’s, various degrees of damage. At a certain point in each class (after stretching, shadow-boxing, drills, strength training) the instructor yells: ‘Gloves on!’ We rush to the lockers for our boxing gloves. Putting on your first glove is easy. To don the second glove you have to get help. ‘Don’t use your teeth!’ the instructor calls out. Interesting fact: it is impossible to conjure the black doorway while someone else is putting a boxing glove on you.

Tremor, what is it? Uncontrollable shaking of a limb, identified by the English surgeon and apothecary James Parkinson in 1817 as one of the first symptoms noticeable in people suffering from what he called ‘the Shaking Palsy’.

When I try to produce a complicated movement like a one-two-four-five combination in boxing (left jab, right cross, right hook, left uppercut) I can feel the neurons in my brain struggling and striving. Yes, I can feel it. Now you think I’m crazy. Sorry, neurologically diverse.

Let’s say a tremor is produced by electricity flowing along a nerve path at a speed I don’t like and can’t control. For example, when I am brushing my teeth, which I do with my right arm and hand, where I have a tremor, the toothbrush whams up and down at a savage pace, colliding with lips and gums. But a nerve path has a plane of action. If I concentrate and change the plane – by moving my arm up or down – I can interrupt the flow and still the tremor. Concentration is key. I have to think into the motion.

A man called John D. Pepper has discovered something similar in managing his problems walking. He addresses his problems with walking by walking: fifteen miles per week in three sessions of five miles each at a pace of four miles per hour. Four miles per hour is a faster pace than I naturally want to walk. It is a struggle. I have to pay attention to the motion. That is, motor movements that another person might perform automatically require conscious attention from me. By engaging this conscious-movement technique, Pepper enabled himself to tame the tremor and other motor symptoms. He probably got Parkinson’s in his thirties (although it wasn’t diagnosed at the time) and is now in his nineties. Intensely, he thrives.

Righting oneself against a current that never ceases to pull: the books tell me to pay conscious, continual attention to actions like walking, writing, brushing my teeth, if I want to inhibit or delay the failure of neurons in the brain. It is hard to live within constant striving. It is hard to live within the word ‘degenerative’, which means that, however I strive, I do not win.

Of course everyone is striving all their life. And no one wins against mortality. But there is a difference between striving to (say) learn ancient Greek or do the vacuuming and striving to pay microscopic attention to every instant of a physical act. Studying his own way of walking in Reverse Parkinson’s Disease, Pepper analyses it into nine segments of action and six targets of attention for each step he takes. Check it out. The man is intense.

Writing this essay in a notebook with a ballpoint pen has been a chastening exercise. The handwriting is maybe 60 per cent legible. I do not achieve any Twombly-like liberation from the husk of cliché or the shackles of my personality with this scrawl. The hand is all too much me. And, frankly, a bit loathsome.

But let’s keep it light at the end. Quoting Barthes may lift the tone.

Describing the gaucherie of Twombly’s hand Barthes remarks on its lightness, its inclination gradually to erase itself and fade away in a vapour of innocence. He admires the impulse ‘to link in a single state what appears and what disappears; [not] to separate exaltation of life from fear of death [but] to produce a single affect: neither Eros nor Thanatos, but Life-Death, in a single thought, a single gesture’ – a single tremor?