#than the substance of the post itself

[321sluggie]

Hey, considering the majority of people use “transandrophobia” to mean either 1) any transphobia specifically against transmascs or 2) the intersection of transphobia and misogyny that affects transmascs, I would really reconsider your thoughts on it in light of your sexism/pedophilia post

Ok

[yourstormthlaylirahh]

.

[solibrie]

sigh. i am cursed to have thoughts and connections to mediocre media

descendants, fe3h, and bnha are by far the most Mediocre but that makes them so easy to fixate on... i could FIX THEM!!!!! i havent had descendants thoughts in a while, but the other two are EMBEDDED INTO MY BRAIN

claude is my best friend i adore him beyond belief but the story DOES NOT CARE ABOUT HIM... wc should have been more route-focused regardless, but vw should have ABSOLUTELY been more unique. i have so many Concepts in my brain about this. the heart of it will always be making almyra matter more + having claude assist the kingdom forces properly. there is truly no reason for the alliance and kingdom NOT to team up aside from miscommunications that literally could have been settled on the battlefield without any bloodshed. i think a kingdom assist mission in early VW is very compelling, i would have loved to make use of the fhirdiad map in the VW route.

like, claude's whole thing is Fundamentally about uniting people. it's why he's the king of unification! and it's SUCH a waste that he can't start with the kingdom+the alliance.

i don't even bat that hard for dmcl but i could... i just claude so much and dmcl is a popular claude ship so i like it because i like claude...

and bnha........................i am always fixing bnha in my brain. it had so much potential. but frankly i think its downfalls are trying to make bkg matter to the plot and also not letting OFA's weirdness be more central. part of that is that i think hk didnt plan for OFA to be so weird at first. but oh well.

like the sports festival showed us those ghosts, and then the story waited WAY TOO LONG to shoot chekov's gun! danger sense should have gone off during the hosu arc and then we have ANOTHER awakening at the final exam (float, maybe, since all might would recognize it and he can start researching now. bkg doesn't see it though. only toshi) and then another at the summer camp (fa jin, perhaps, since then izuku could try doing his faux-higher percentages and not break himself so badly). i don't mind izuku not getting a reveal during the eri stuff since that arc is more about "WHY izuku" than anything else.

and then the joint training can still be blackwhip. its by far the most destructive awakening, even compared to fa jin during the fight against muscular... smokescreen is also pretty obvious (i mean, so is float, but izuku was already super mobile so i think it's a little more conceptually acceptable than smokescreen). like, i think blackwhip and smokescreen are THE hardest quirks to explain away. danger sense is invisible, izuku was already super mobile with the stockpile so floating/using it to fly is super easy to accept, and then fa jin is just another strength quirk but different since its storing up kinetic energy. smokescreen could maybe be during the provisional license after toga tries to attack him actually...

the point is! there was SUCH a better way to introduce another quirk into OFA but instead we got canon.

isn't is so annoying that my brain is so hellbent on mediocre media. i want to be free so bad. but alas. here i am.

[pellucid-constellations]

Only in Dreams

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: In his dreams, Azriel recounts how he got to his mate.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Some angst, mentions of injuries

a/n: Hi this is my first acotar fic idk what I'm doing. I've been reading them for years so here's a little one for fun <3 I know it's different from my usual but inspiration is a finicky creature :) Also, italics denote flashbacks.

~~

There was very little Azriel wouldn’t do for his mate. 

He had learned that early on. 

In those early days, when the bond had made itself known to only him, there was so much confusion and strife within the shadowsinger. He had known you for decades, admired you from afar, and befriended you under self-made pretenses. You were a light, a healer, too good and sweet to be anything to him other than a friend, a coworker. 

But you were also his mate. 

The air had been knocked from his lungs at the realization. 

“Is everything okay?” you had asked, sweet confusion bunching at your brows. 

And Azriel couldn’t answer, not for several long beats. 

“Az, what’s wrong? You look like Cassian after he took that weird herb Majda wanted me to test.”

Another bout of silence, this time accompanied by soft, warm hands along his cheeks. You leaned in, the sweet scent knocking him out of his stupor. As he jerked back, you only followed, blinking in surprise. 

“Azriel—” 

“I apologize,” he finally—weakly—stammered out. “I was talking with Rhys.” 

“You were talking with Rhys?” 

It hadn’t sounded much like a question, but Azriel nodded anyways, enraptured by you and your closeness. He needed to get away, to leave. You were too close. He was too weak. 

But then you giggled, and the sound was so melodic and saccharine that he found himself breathless again. He could get lost in that sound. If he was being honest with himself, he had gotten lost in that sound plenty of times before. But now… now. Gods, now you were his mate. 

As you laughed some more, teasing retorts echoing in the air, Azriel knew you had no idea. 

And, as Azriel had learned, that was fine. You didn’t need to know. Because he knew, and that was enough. 

Enough for the overwhelming devotion he felt for you to finally have substance. To finally be validated. 

You were his—everything sweet and good was his to protect. And, gods, did he want to protect you. 

You made that very difficult in the weeks after the bond had snapped for him. His instincts were in overdrive, taking note of your every move and praying to the cauldron that you were careful when he was sent on missions and you stayed back in Velaris. He had nothing to worry about when that was the case. The inner circle loved you almost as much as he did. 

But then Rhys decided you were needed. 

With an unreciprocated mating bond and a mate that cared so little for her own self-preservation, that had been Azriel’s worst nightmare. 

“Reconsider.” 

“There is nothing to reconsider, Azriel. We need a healer in Windhaven to show them that the clipping won’t be seen to fruition. And y/n just so happens to be our court healer,” Rhys carefully explained for the third time. 

“Send Majda.” 

Rhys held the bridge of his nose. “There is a reason y/n took over her post. Madja is far too old to be making those kinds of trips.” 

“Send anyone else,” Azriel rasped, a tightness to his words. 

“No. She is the best. It will only be for a few weeks and Cassian—” 

“Rhysand.” 

Rhys paused at the desperation laced within his brother’s tone. He removed the fingers attempting to abate the ache along his temple and observed Azriel’s clenched fists and restless shadows. Rhys’s lips parted in shock, his eyes blinking in quick succession. Something clicked within his gaze.

“Is she…” 

The muscle in Azriel’s jaw quivered. “Just don’t send her there. Please.” 

Rhys raised a hand to run down his jaw. “My gods, Azriel. This is…this is—does she know?” 

“No,” he replied, quick and low. 

“I understand what you’re feeling, but I can’t stop her. You know that, brother.” 

And, unfortunately, Azriel knew that. 

When you set your mind to something—when you knew you were going to help people—that was it. There would be nothing keeping you from helping those in need. Especially the Illyrian women. Azriel was pretty sure you kept a dartboard somewhere in the house with Lord Devlon’s face on it. 

He loved that about you, truly he did. But it also made you reckless.

There were plenty of instances where you burned yourself out from healing. You would come home swaying on your feet or be so depleted you couldn’t even winnow correctly. He could count on two hands the amount of times you passed out at the dinner table after work. When he thought about you doing that in Windhaven… Azriel couldn’t even stomach the thought. 

“Then order her,” Azriel gritted out. He could hear you coming. You and Cassian, bags packed, chatting down the hall about something insignificant. 

Why couldn’t he come, again? 

Right, because he would “stir up the camp” or whatever obtuse reason Rhys had given him. 

“You know that won’t go over well,” Rhys countered. 

“Neither will the entirety of Windhaven if she gets hurt.” 

Azriel’s threat fell on deaf ears as you came bounding into the room, bright and determined and smiling at him as if you weren’t leaving. 

“Here to see us off, Az?” 

That trip to Windhaven had been awful—for Azriel and for you. Rhys’s “ordering” hadn’t been effective, and neither had Cassian’s ability to pick up on context clues. As you stood, baffled at Rhys’s sudden change in plans, Cassian didn’t so much as look at Azriel’s subtle vies for assistance. Because Cassian had been just as baffled as you were. 

So, you went to Windhaven. 

And then you came home hurt. 

Not terribly, just a few cuts and a black eye that rivaled his own from the last time he trained with the Valkyries. 

Cassian explained that there had been a fight unrelated to you, but you had gotten caught up in it. He suspected it was a ploy to get hands on you, but Azriel had stopped listening to him the second you landed on the balcony with stitches on your forehead. The moment he saw your hands bandaged and your eye purple and blue. 

You had laughed about your inability to fight, knocking an injured hand into Cassian’s side as he jested that it was time for you to get into the training ring with him. Later, Azriel would agree with that sentiment. In that moment, however, unparalleled fear had coursed through his veins. Rhys was the only one ready for it. 

Cassian’s back slammed into the far wall of the house, wings splaying out against stone. Azriel’s shadows were gone as he held his brother against the wall, abandoning him in favor of wrapping around your wounds. 

Azriel thought he heard you scream. 

“You said you would protect her!” he seethed, pushing his forearm against Cassian’s throat, blue siphon blazing atop his hand.

“Azriel, stop!” Your call went unheard. Rhys stood ground in front of you, arm jutting out when you tried to get around him. 

Cassian pushed back against him, face twisted in confusion. “I did. I pulled her from that fight as soon as I could, Az. You think—” his words cut off with another shove from his brother “—you think I would have let anything happen to her on purpose?” 

Azriel growled, low and dangerous. “All I think is that my mate came back looking like that when you swore to take care of her. You swore.” 

The room went silent, stagnant. Even the shadows halted their appraisal of you as you held onto Rhys’s arm. Cassian stopped fighting. Somewhere down the hall, the rushed footsteps of some other member of the family abruptly stopped. 

“She’s your mate?” 

“Azriel—” Your whisper was lost in the lingering chaos of the room. 

The time after was a blur for Azriel. He knew he left the balcony, retreating to his room hastily after sending you a longing, apologetic glance. He knew you called after him, that you were breathless and shaking and Rhys kept holding you back… telling you to give him some time to cool off. 

He didn’t need time. He needed you, and Azriel had been positive that would never happen now. 

Half of his shadows joined him in his room, engulfing him as he sat on his bed with his head in his hands. The other half stayed with you, still worried about the pain that you had endured. It was a miracle you hadn’t sent them away. They would have listened to you if you had. They would always listen to you. 

When the door creaked, his shadows covered him even more, encasing his fear and worry and embarrassment into a shell that kept him safe. 

He was a fool. 

“Azriel?” 

He had to be imagining the sweet trill of your voice. There was no way you had come for him, not after all of that. But soon, your shoes slinked into the mess of shadows between his legs, and a bandaged hand gently guided his chin up. 

When he met your eyes, his shadows circled faster. His wings fell lower and lower against the bed, giving himself up to your gaze. 

“Azriel,” you repeated, music within the swish of dark air. “Care to explain, shadowsinger?”

The bruises on your face made his stomach turn. He went to look away, to escape this physical and mental turmoil, but you only locked your wrists and kept him there. 

It took him a moment, but he finally relented. 

“You are my mate,” he spoke, gravely and unsure—even though that was the one thing Azriel was sure of above all else. “You are my mate and you are hurt. I am sorry for my actions… if I scared you or—” 

“I wasn’t asking about the display of male violence on the balcony.” Your teasing smile made some of his shadows rest.

It also made hope swell within the deepest parts of Azriel’s wearied chest. 

You didn’t look forlorn at his offhanded declaration, nor did you look repulsed. You just looked like… you. You looked at him as you always had, and maybe that meant something. 

Maybe that was something for Azriel to hold onto. 

“How long have you known?” you asked, when he spent a moment too long admiring the upturn of your mouth. 

Azriel blinked, moving his eyes back to your own. “A while.” 

“And you weren’t going to tell me?” You didn’t sound accusatory, or even angry as he was sure Feyre had all those years ago. You only sounded sad. That made it worse. 

“I wanted to tell you,” Azriel stressed, leaning forward on the bed to capture your legs between his. “I wanted to, I just—y/n, I just…” 

There was no solid explanation. You didn’t rush him as he stumbled over his words—you were patient, as you always were. You were patient and Azriel was a coward.

Determination set a line in his brow. 

“I was a coward,” he affirmed. “I didn’t want to push you away… to make you feel unsure or pressured. You are… you are everything. You have been everything to me for many years now. If I had ruined that—if I had pushed something upon you that you did not want—” 

“Has it occurred to you, Azriel, that I would very much like to be your mate?” 

Azriel paused his spiel, licking his drying lips as he searched your eyes for the lie. 

“Only when I dream.” 

You had kissed him after that, all bruised and scratched and broken, and Azriel found himself dreaming.

As he stared at you across the sitting room, surrounded by your raucous, disruptive family, Azriel dreamed again. The glow of the fire lit up the side of your face as you laughed, sending warmth up the long-accepted mating bond, and he dreamed of you in every iteration of his life. 

And he would do anything to keep that dream alive.

[sagatale]

Dreams Of You

Hello everyone! So, I thought I would give posting fanfics a shot, starting with this small "blurb?" of Jacob Black. Obviously, aged up! I have been wondering quite a lot recently how imprinting would feel and be perceived since it's described as more intense than normal love. I really hope you like it, and if you have any other ideas for a longer fanfic you would like me to write next, let me know, and I might write it!<3 sexual content 18+ minors dni

“I dream of you all the time.” His voice was low, his breath brushing against your collarbones as he found a place in the crook of your neck. Warmth surrounded you, scorching skin burning through the layers of clothing, heating you until all left were cold fingertips and even colder lips. “Even when I’m awake, I still dream of you.”

The words were almost unrecognizable as his mouth pressed against your bare skin, sending shivers down your spine. His words never failed to make your heart flutter at his blatant affection for you. Never did it cease to overwhelm you, for he told you that there were truly no words that could describe how he yearned for you every minute—every second of his long, exhausting days. 

Indeed, you couldn’t imagine what that was like, for if you harbored feelings in that vast amount, there could be no other way for you to deal with them than simply exploding. 

Sometimes, when Jacob was perched over you, arms wound tight under your back as he hugged you close to him, strong legs helping him push into you, you could almost be sure your thoughts weren’t too far off the mark. The way his hands always seemed to handle you softly now strained against his strength, pulling you so tight against him as if having you close was the only way to keep him from eating you alive.

His pronounced brows permanently furrowed something so terribly, eyes tightly shut as sweat dripped down his skin, the salty substance dripping down your chest as his lips distracted themselves by dragging his tongue over your pulse, breathing in your scent til it consumed him whole. Strained breaths could be heard, grunts mingling with your quiet whimpers as your hands trailed over his shoulders, feeling his body tremble beneath them, shaking something so terrible. 

You’d ask him if he needed a break, worry consuming you when his strong arms gave up, pressing into you more urgently as the bed rocked against the wall. Yet it turned out there wasn’t anything the matter with his stamina as he growled in protest when you tried to sit up, his heavyweight over you making your attempts futile, desperate lips finding yours as he slowed slightly, grinding into you as you moaned at the tortuous rhythm he set. 

“You’re shaking, Jacob.” You’d say quietly, fingers threading through his damp hair as his hazy, warm, brown eyes found yours, once more planting his lips against yours. “I’ll be okay.” He’d mumble through the kiss, tongue caressing yours as his hand softly placed itself on your cheek, threading over your skin as if it were porcelain.

It didn’t take long for him to move inside you again, eyes glazed over as he stared into yours through lidded eyes, mouth open over your gasping one as your fingers ran through his black hair. Bringing him down to you once more, you felt the ridges and bumps of his upper body against you, muscles clenching with every thrust as if it took every willpower of his to control himself. 

“God.” He panted out, releasing you to slap his hands against the mattress, gripping the sheets tightly in one hand as you heard them rip under his harsh treatment, the other hand taking hold of the headboard. The wood complained under his hard hold, crumbling as his hold tightened. Your hand found his cheek amidst the pleasure coursing through you, thumb carefully stroking the skin as you whispered his name.

It felt like every sense of reality was swept away from Jacob as his unfocused eyes fell on you, heart thumping so hard against his chest it felt like it would punch through both skin and bones. Shaking his head, he looked at you again, still finding your lidded eyes staring back at him like he had created the world you walked on. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” He grunted, reveling in the feeling of your cold fingertips against his hot cheek as his stomach coiled something so terribly, making him believe he was going to go insane with desire.

In a way, he always feared being this close to you, for only being in your presence was overwhelming for him, never mind feeling your soft skin against his and hearing your pleasure-filled whimpers as he took you. Oh, how he had longed for you, how much he longed for you now, even though he was the closest to you he could ever be. 

He didn’t lie when he told you he always dreamed of you. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you, like you were carved into his eyelids. He never could get close enough, and while that was a curse in itself, it was a curse he wouldn’t trade for any other.

[transmutationisms]

Why are communists against postmodernism?

in very crude terms: 'postmodernism' has historically been defined / defined itself by the rejection of claims to access 'objective' truths, narratives, and knowledge. in its strongest form, this stance precludes the defence of a materialist (including marxist) theory of history or society: if we cannot truly access an objective reality or know for sure that we are doing so, then clearly any discourse referring to 'real' material conditions or relations is rendered untenable, or at least heavily asterisked. in other words, a strict 'postmodernist' sees marxism as defending only a naïve realist position, à la feuerbach. the strict marxist, in turn, considers the postmodernist position to be a reactionary discourse that invokes the social construction of knowledge in order to defend (knowingly or not) ruling class interests by denying the possibility of understanding and therefore changing the material conditions of the world.

in practice, few people beyond a select few polemical academics have ever committed to the 'strong' versions of these claims. in particular, to read marxism as naïve in this manner is fundamentally a misunderstanding of marx's appropriation of hegel, which entailed not just 'turning him on his head' (that is, reversing the relationship between material world and ideal Spirit) but theorising dialectically. marx's claim was not that material reality could be known naïvely, or independently of our ideological schemata or modes of thought; nor was it that materiality (base) operated independently of, or solely in determination of, ideality (superstructure). and, though you may still hear some communists / marxists shitting on postmodernism, that term is mostly unfashionable these days anyway, and any serious communist analysis is itself predicated on quite a bit of social constructivist critique.

so although it's certainly true that communists are (rightfully) scornful of reactionary bourgeois postmodernist ideology that denies the basic premises of material / class analysis, in truth any decent communist these days is already making fruitful use of constructivist and post-structuralist critiques, and is also hostile to crude positivist / determinist ideology even when it brands itself as marxism. which is just to say that like a lot of philosophical debates, this one looks very different when we consider the substance of the arguments imputed to each 'side', and are attentive to when and how those arguments are actually deployed, rather than accepting at face value the sort of ideological coherence and consistency that is often implied by labels like "postmodernist" or debate parameters like "communist v. postmodernist".

[marsprincess889]

Saturn nakshatras and developing will

⚔⚔⚔

Pushya🐑🌸🐄🥛🌿

Anuradha🐰🌺👯‍♀️🎇🦌

Uttara Bhadrapada🌊🐉⚔🐮👑

Just a thought: if you are familiar with basic indicators and coorelations in astrology, you might know that Saturn is associated with rules, discipline and obedience. Have any of you found saturn dominant people(people with any of the big three in saturn nakshatras) rather hard to control? Because I have.

Saturn, at its core, and by its simplest understanding is simply a force that binds, making it necessary for anything to materialize. The "rules" are simply the limitations that give any substance an opportunity to take form through submitting to them. So, they can either be correct or not, but never "good" or "bad".

In life, everything is a limitation. Anything that exists is a limitation, and that limitation is precisely what gives it definition. You can't be everything, because then you'd be nothing. "To define is to limit." Exactly.

So, if you think about it, life is just limitations. Every choice is a limitation, every decision is a momentary rule, and any force that you encounter in life is its own unique set of rules and affects you accordingly.

The question arises: which rules and limitations then, should I follow? Which ones are "correct"?

Maybe each of you reading this could test yourself and think about how many choices(big or minor) throughout each day do you make thoughtlessly or carelessly. How many of those truly come from you and from your truest self, because those are the exact rules you should folow. Not something similar, not something almost the same, but exactly those, precision is key to saturn.

Because you yourself were born through limitations(the theme of bharani_ saturn's debilitation, where those rules come from a higher place in hierarchy and are enforced, requiring for the person in question to find inner bravery and will). You yourself, naturally, are a unique set of rules, and require no master other than your truth. The point of control is that if you do not control yourself, others will control you. And if you do, those who don't will naturally be submitted under you.

The sun is just substance that encourages individuality. It does not need to concern itself with the world of hierarchies and rules and materialism, that is not its job. It's the soul. But it's only one side of the coin. To be human is to have a soul(sun) in a flesh that lives in the physical world(saturn). That individuality can only exist if it follows the rules set by itself.

Saturn is the other side: it finds itself in a world of countless limitations and rules. At some point it most likely realizes that it doesn't have to be afraid of those, it just needs to find the correct rules to submit to, and those rules are based on and come from its soul and individuality(sun).

That way the sun and saturn are always connected and are dependant on each other. Saturn and sun nakshatras are all opposite each other and the two pairs of them are yoni consorts(cow and sheep yonis). They always seek each other out and/or are constantly drawn together without choice.

And this dependancy and choiclessness regarding one's nature is also something Saturn has to learn to deal with. True limitations have fo be accepted, so that you don't have to accept limitation imposed by others that aren't true for you. (This is also connected to Bharani_ where higher forces gaslight human souls, and where courage, force and knowledge of your truth will save you from being intimidated and subdued and are the keys to individuation. Btw, the nakshatra of complete individuation is Revati_ Bharani's yoni consort, but those two require their own set of long posts😭.)

Anyways, Saturn has ro master and develop courage and discipline to be their true selves in the face of anyone and anything that is out to make them submit. Over time, it achieves clarity, precision and perfection, and at that point if any outer force encouters it, it will find that it cannot be controlled. Not by fear, not by intimidation, not by anything other than what it chose itself throught love(Swati_ Saturn's exaltation).

So, if you think that Saturn means submission to anything and everything, then I think you have misunderstood its nature. After all, limitations have to be limited too, to only those that are correct, erasing the false ones. In a way, it's defeating the limitations in their own game, fighting them with their own weapon.

I see the last nakshatra of any planet as transcending the planet. Like Purva Ashadha, where Venus is channeled through Jupiter, finally sharing its bounty with others. Or Purva Bhadrapada_ where Jupiter's excess has to be erased and restricted(Saturn), and crystalized(Saturn again) down to its true form.

And then we reach Uttara Bhadrapada. The last Saturn-ruled nakshatra, where the challenge is to transcend the challenge itself, to transcend the limitations and hardships and the rules. I already said how that is done, and that's exactly what Uttara Bhadrapada does. It's known as "The Warrior Star", and not by mistake, because its iron will can never be broken nor bended.

Once all the work is done all that is left is to enjoy everything, to enjoy the end, to appreciate all that has been and just be. And that brings us to Revati_the point of ultimate freedom and individuation, the end of the journey, the calm after the storm, the ending where everything falls into place, and the fun starts...

Look out for my post on Revati(?😭😭).

I want to do it but let's see. Revati and Bharani and their dynamic.

[l4long-winded]

Would you ever write about Carmy and cum play? I just feel like he would be sooooo into it

no, no, no, this has been haunting me for so, so long! like, he would be more than into it. you have no idea the monster you let out in me while i was writing this!!! i hope you like it, love~

o.s. it's more like a fascination

summary: getting a glimpse into one of carmen's obsessive infatuations passionate fascinations (carmen berzatto x afab!reader)

reflection: this one... this one had me blushing. it kind of gave me brain rot. would be completing a task, and boom, thinking about carmy and his stupid oral fixation. this has to be one of my raunchiest fics yet. thank you, anon, for inspiring such an intense writing experience for me. i fear i will never be the same again. as always, feedback is appreciated! please enjoy!

warnings: no condoms (wrap it, tap it, you get it), cumplay (it's everywhere), marking, pussydrunk!carmen (he's obsessed, basically), fingering, cunnilingus, implied blowjob, somewhat dom!carmen, begging, dirty talk, cursing, p in v sex, longwinded descriptions, body worship, carmen's pov, spit, filth, cum eating (carmy is doing the most), multiple orgasms, lots of licking, no use of pronouns, (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 1,989

( this work has been cross-posted to ao3 )

Carmen hates condoms. It’s not in the typical, cliche type of hatred that most men have. If you’re uncomfortable, he won’t insist. However, you’re more likely to encourage it. He prefers to be as closely bonded to you as possible, no rubber in his way, able to feel the squelch of every glide and the crushing pressure of your walls wrapped around his pulsing cock. The fever you stew him in. A condom doesn’t do that for him. Not in the same way. You’re far more sensitive without it, clenching your eyes shut, heaving pleasured breaths up against his shoulder you previously gnawed into for composure. That, or the depletion of his, he could never tell with how you flip between being all passive and docile to motivating his rough manhandling, ultimately placing you in charge and in control while he follows instinctual need.

He cherishes the moments where he pulls out and his cum spurts from his tip over your lower stomach, the milky and pearly substance just under your navel, seeping towards your pelvis. It’s lewd. A waterfall waiting to happen. His eyes blink hard as if they’re taking a mental snapshot. You’re delectable like this, chest rising and falling as your open legs tremble. Sometimes, there’s so much of his load to bear that it slides down your inner thighs, liquid opal skimming the cute button he’s teased with his digits and tongue earlier (as if it couldn’t get any fucking prettier), and into whomever’s bedsheets you’re both using for the time being. You look debauched, dazed, and proud to be marked as his.

Your tits make for just-a-great-a canvas, he’s found. If he props himself above your abdomen, one knee at the side of you, his foot drawing up at the other until his leg is at a right angle, his tip always lines itself at the inception of the valley between your breasts. He cautiously focuses his aim to paint your cleavage while resisting the urge to stripe your neck and chin, earnestly observing slack-jawed as some dribbles over your nipples. Would you judge him if he sucked his cum off while tonguing around your areola as a dual effort of cleaning his mess and pebbling your nipple to frenetic attention? The uncontrollable sounds of pleasure petting his eardrums don’t signify negative judgment, but Carmen wouldn’t be Carmen without believing in his self-doubt. And you, you fucking angel, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t chase and stomp that out until its light dimmed. Sometimes that comes through words of reassurance and patience and other times it’s as simple as your howl of his name or your digits tugging his unkempt hair further into its tumultuous state.

It’s not uncommon for Carmen to see his cum pooling in your mouth, either. He likes the way it rests on your tongue when you stick it out to show him, the challenge he issues being in maintaining a drop doesn’t fall in your performance. But, although his habits are organized and pristine and he has concerning tendencies relating to an undiagnosed compulsive disorder, he particularly enjoys watching when it’s too much for you, when it’s sliding down your usually swollen (the result of sucking him off) lips and rounding down your chin. That’s more rare since you seldom let anything escape, the tip of your tongue catching him and drinking him back in.

“Get it all? Let me help you,” he says gruffly, applying the pad of his thumb to your face to scoop the rebelling stream into your mouth where it came from. The plus is the feeling of your approving humming vibrating on his flesh and your spongy taste buds licking along the indents of his thumb after.

His real favorite spot to finish is inside of you. Now, now, it’s risky for obvious reasons, but you’ve discussed birth control and there are rounds where you’re fucking begging him to and he’s not going to deny you, being the generous lover that he is who selfishly wants to pipe your cunt until it’s leaking. No, he’s unresisting to the way your legs wind around him and pull him in deeper, sloppily humping up into you and rutting and grinding until he’s gasping and flooding and drowning you both in stickiness. He rocks until the end, stilling above you as he’s throbbing and trying to regain a grip on himself. What have you done to him?

That’s how Carmen has you at the moment. Your legs unwrap from his waist and flop into the bed, and eventually, he retracts inch by inch, his ridges catching. He likes to extend his time inside of you, likes to live in the present instead of his head when you’re folded up like this. It’s a shame you’ve made him so sensitive. He wants to fuck his cum right back into you, but he requires a recovery period male anatomy failed him in. Your eyes flutter open in sensation as he finally slips out, closing after as you take the time to calm yourself and your body down from the high he’s propelled you into. He notices the way your face scrunches in discomfort, legs presumably sore from being corralled around his hips for too long. Carmen’s hands massage your thighs, promoting the feeling back within them by kneading the supple flesh there and lifting them into peaking mountains, heels on the mattress. It gives him the best view of his bidding, of the extra cream beading out of you, down to the crevice of your cheeks.

“Carmen,” your fucked out voice breaks him of the hypnosis he fell into. This can’t be all that pleasant for you, the seed of him drooling out of you while he holds up your thighs you’re not holding up on your own for a good reason. He’s aware of what you’re thinking. He’s aware of how you’re wondering how the hell he has more to give when you’ve got close to nothing left.

“I know, I know, I know,” his lips graze over your kneecap, toned stomach flexing while he shifts himself onto it. The next time you look into Carmen’s eyes, your thighs are framing either side of his head. His arms curl around them, and they end up over his shoulders, fingers drumming along your skin unprompted. It’s because he likes it when you lose yourself and wind up hugging his ears with your thighs. The downside is listening to the tune of those moans swathed up, but the upside is the heightened sense of touch it accords him. The noises you release vibrate all over your body, reverberating like the walls of a temple undergoing an earthquake while a beautiful harp dazzles it in devastating harmonic trills of its column strings. Or… in other words.

Your clit ripples with it on his tongue. What good is hearing you moan when he can feel it in his mouth through your pussy? What the fuck were those toothbrushes that played the music called? Whatever, it’s similar to that and it’s a pleasurable perk of living the human experience with you, if he had to name one off the top of his head. A nice dinner with you with some trashy television is another, but he’ll compile a list later. He’s busy staring at your sodden hole, intending to create more of a capacious mess than he already has. He means both of that gift between your legs and of you entirely.

Carmen laps beneath your twitching hole, capturing the glissading cum before it can fall further into the crevice where your ass begins. He tongues that sensitive area to make sure he gets it all, gliding the flat of the organ upwards and gulping its catch into his mouth. You’re trembling, and there you go, moaning out into the air. Carmen repeats the action until you’re no longer leaking, until the only cum left on you is still inside. He sinks his middle finger knuckle deep into you, checking to make sure of that fact, as if his cock didn’t guarantee it when he drove in deep to saturate and caulk you up, and yes, you’re tender and fucking heated and dewy around his finger as you grasp him tight and moan in a mix of surprise and overwhelming pleasure. He pumps and coils his middle finger, fucking that cum back up into you where it belongs, doing his best to locate that spongey spot you love so much to lubricate it with him, further claiming you from the inside out, all while he simultaneously peppers kisses around your outer lips.

“More, Carmy, more, please,” you say, and fuck, it’s like you know you’re going to get anything and everything from him in the entire world if he’s able. He ends the loneliness of his middle finger by adding in a second, his index joining into the fray. His middle finger is longer, but clumsier, doesn’t create as good a rhythm as his index does. It’s a true sentiment, further proven by how you arch suddenly and your thighs attach to his ears like magnets. Yeah, he found the spot, almost the very second his index finger navigated into your warmth. It’s a homing beacon.

He leans his head up. He didn’t swallow the cum he licked off you yet. He’s let the heat of his mouth warm it up, saliva pool in his cheeks with it, and abruptly, his lips part, spitting the combination over your clit in a glob that causes your hips to raise off the mattress, pelvic bone dangerously close to breaking his nose. The one hand on your thigh brings you back to earth for him, his fingers continuing the rubbing motion that’s got you whimpering sounds he selfishly wants louder. It’s not as pearly as it once was dribbling out of your slit, but it’s still a gratifying sight for him, and the lamp at bedside catches the remnants of the viscous substance splitting apart from his saliva. It’s like oil and water. Cum and spit. All lovingly blanketing your clit and seeping down where his fingers are taking care of you. And fuck, he can’t resist it, he knows what the fuck it’s gonna make him look like, but if you don’t judge him for splashing your tits and stomach with his seed, or kissing you deeply on the mouth to share it when you’ve just given him the crassest head, then he’s not going to hesitate any longer.

Carmen drops his mouth, licking it all back up. He prioritizes stimulating your clit with his tongue, but he’s not going to lie, he’s drinking it all back in. His cum, his spit, your wet arousal slick over his fingers and knuckles. He’s got you where he needs you, withdrawing yet another orgasm from your body that rocks you. He allows the gentle humping of your hips as you ride out that high, never slowing his fingers, bathing your clit with his lips and tongue for as long as you need it, and for as long as it tastes good. So… you have to brush a hand over the side of his face because to him, it never stops tasting good.

“Fuck, sorry. Too much?” He breathes. He kisses your inner thighs while you nod, dazed out and breathing heavily. Your chest falls and rises, breasts jostling in the action. Carmen continues to kiss your skin, slipping his fingers out slowly. You shiver, and your legs fall once more now that they’re not in his stronghold.

This is the other side. You’re spent. You can barely move. All you can do right now at this moment is watch Carmen sit back on his knees above you, observe as he drags his tongue over his digits, licking them unsullied. Because, sure, he’s got a huge thing for cumplay, but he’s also addicted to how yours tastes.

[tinycozycomfort]

moon, a hole of light

pairing: qz!joel miller x f!reader

day one of @pascalisbaby and i's joeltober: dacryphilia -> read her day one here

summary: It makes you feel like a toy, like some misused stuffed animal with loose seams and fur that’s been rubbed to the weft. Your use brings him comfort, his comfort brings you hurt.

warnings/tags: dacryphilia, unprotected piv, substance abuse (joel), age gap (joel is 46 [~10 yrs post outbreak]), reader is not), yearning, dom/sub dynamics, smidge of underwear play, pet names (honey, sweetheart, etc), joel is mean

word count: 2.4k

rating: explicit! 18+ only, mdni

a/n: i'm trying so hard to shorten things so forgive me as i navigate this learning curve.

main masterlist

A lot of life is weeping. 

In joy. In sorrow. In fury so poignant it makes you wilt. Your body furls in the collapse—u-shaped shoulders that guard your insides, the lock of hard elbows into thigh. 

It stings to feel so little, so vulnerable—to let anyone see how ugly emotion’s face can be—yet you let it happen, knowing that this is the only thing that separates you from the rest of them; they’ve spilled out all they had, hollow in the center after nearly a decade of ‘justified action’. 

So you cry, and you sob, and you don’t care for their uncomfortable shifting and curled lips. Tess gives her best in the way of comfort, not letting a scoff slip as much when she can help it. Tommy will at least leave the room. 

But Joel—Joel will watch. Joel will encourage.

He’s taken the liberty of cycling himself through every shape your hurt takes, the tears pouring over for all of his near-misses and his inability to care for you how he’s meant to. You see the way he grins to find that you cry when you’re happy to see him the same way you do when he insists he should leave. 

Part of you thinks he likes it—pushing you to react and then having something to show for it. You think he especially likes when it causes you pain. You cry longer in those moments, working though fits of frustration while he kneels at your feet and watches your face sprout tears like light rain. 

He pets you through it—even when he’d been the one to kick you down in the first place—to tell you you were good for sticking around, for being brave enough to have faith in him. 

He enjoys having something to come back to, and wounding you is no obstacle in the pursuit of feeling needed. 

It makes you feel like a toy, like some mis-used stuffed animal with loose seams and fur that’s been rubbed to the weft. Your use brings him comfort, his comfort brings you hurt.

You know he’s gearing up for another slip-away with the swift shift to kindness; Friday night he caresses you, soothes the ache of something not yet felt, to ease his exit. All pretty words and the affection he so desperately wants to hide, whispered promises of how much better he can be, how he can give you everything you deserve.

Come Saturday morning, you’re discarded. 

He’s gone again on another outing, one he persuaded Tommy into joining—if the silence is any indication—even though he needs nothing; that in itself makes you even more sure it has everything to do with wanting. The burn, the desire, is something you see so clearly in the glaze he gets on later nights, the crinkle of soft plastic that trickles out through the open bathroom door. He swears it’s nothing—even to Tess, when she’s around—that he’s not on anything. He throws any excuse he can muster; it’s the wounds and the healing and the aging that make him stumble even in the lit apartment.

Everyone knows what’s actually going on, why the trips outside the QZ are becoming more frequent. It doesn’t get lost on you all the times Tommy complains of Joel disappearing to meet more than one mysterious, unarranged contact who asked for privacy—who wanted Joel alone. 

Whatever it is he’s buying keeps him numb, so Tommy lets it slide, and Tess is apathetic towards Joel for reasons you aren’t too willing to know about. You’ve only tagged along so recently, so maybe they pity you, or they feel better about throwing Joel onto someone else—to ruin another thing if only to feel better about having been ruined. 

You cry through the weekend in long streams, worried for him, until the hot tears pool and curl the cotton of your t-shirt—forever wet. You stay laid out on the bumpy sofa cushions for hours before your back feels just as knotted and you have to relocate to the bed, only rising again to shower and half-eat and sulk, until you’re too weak to keep track of the seconds.

When he swings in on Monday night, boots knocking as he raises them up on the rack by the door, you’re at the tail-end of another bout, cheeks damp and chest catching where it’s pinned by your shirt against the bed. 

Joel walks into the room like he’s done nothing wrong. He walks in alone. 

“Where’s Tommy?” you ask, but he ignores you.

Instead, he comes to you with tattered hands, fresh bruises and torn skin, and tugs you up by the creases under your shoulders so you’re seated, kneeling by the bed to level himself with the picture he’s come to love. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he coos, words slow, “What are all those tears for? Me?” 

You huff out a few shaky breaths to steady yourself, “Where’s Tommy?”

He sighs, long and hard and uneven, “He left. Why the fuck does it matter?” 

He peers up so you’re forced to face him and you can see it now, the film of wet that clouds his eyes, sticky lashes and deep creases of exhaustion purpling the skin where they brush. 

“Why did he leave? Because you’re high? It’s too late for him to be out there.”

You already know he didn’t hear anything past the accusation, brought to a boil at the mention of another one of his failures. He gathers up the soft flesh of your cheek in his hand, the blunt curve of his nails digging in to find teeth through the skin. He grips tight to let you know of his anger—that he could easily wring the life out of you like water. 

“You’re getting real brave for someone who sits and waits for me like a dog.” 

Fire prickles in the tips of your fingers, stretches across the top of your chest in humiliation. You can hear the weight of his words even through his gentle slur, like he means it, twisting away as best you can to speak, “Is that really what you think this is?”

He’s laughing before you even get it all out, the corner of his lips perked up on one side, “No one forced you to, and I certainly don’t remember asking.”

You shove at him then, with force, your hands bending back enough to pinch when he doesn’t budge. He leans into you instead, a challenge. 

There’s barely time to choose before he does for you, gathering up your wrists in one hand, the one around your jaw tightening. 

So close now, you get a better look at him—his hair stuck to his forehead, cheeks flushed red but with paler lips. His eyes are round, pupils cartoonish and wide. He’s still so pretty, even when dulled by the sheen of his high. 

He heaves onto you, shy of livid, and you start to feel like you’re suffocating under his stifling heat, billowing out from where he’s damp with sweat under his denim shirt. The pills work fast, and for longer than they should, so you can tell he’d spent the peak of his high elsewhere, but he’s on a jagged edge of almost coherent.

You slide your thighs together at the whole of him, so strong and honest and invested in you—negative or not—something you usually find him being incapable of. He sees it.  

“Oh, but you do it because you like it, don’t you? Couldn’t wait ‘til I came back. Little thing just needs some attention, hm?”

“Joel, I’m serious. Are you high right now? Where’s your brother?”

Joel wedges a thigh up under the crease of your knee, uses the grip he has on your body as leverage to move you further up the bed, climbing up with you pushing himself into the cradle of your body on the way.

“Please. You don’t give a fuck about Tommy,” he snaps, releasing and depositing you so he can make work of your shorts and the buckle holding himself back, “He’s not going to bother us, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

You whine as he releases himself, can’t help how you grow wet between your legs, heart throbbing in your throat. He’s not wrong, as mean as he is how he puts it—-you’d die for him if it meant he’d look at you. If you could have him to yourself.

His cock swings free as he shoves his jeans down only enough to be out of the way, not bothering to remove your thin strip of underwear once your bottoms are tugged off. He’s hard for you, another flattery that sends shivers down your spine, the feeling of arousal flashing along your whole body—fingers folding and ankle rolling. You’re excited for him, and this display of joy doesn’t please him as much. 

“I didn’t say it was a good thing. You’re pathetic,” he sucks his teeth, hooking a finger in the cotton across your seam, peeling it away from where it's slicked down, knuckle dipping in the place you’re pooling, “But it’s cute. You’re still young enough to have hope.”

He strings the gusset up and away, presses his length against your cunt before replacing it, trapping himself.

“It’s okay that you love me, sweetheart. Don’t be embarrassed. Hang onto that. It might work out for you some day.” 

“But not with you,” you whisper, half an offense and half an admission of awareness—he doesn’t love you, hasn’t and can’t and won’t, but you’re willing to take what you can get.

“Cry about it.” 

Joel grinds his cock against the wet slip of your cunt in short, tight motions to better catch against you, soaking himself. He presses three fingers against the base of it like a vacuum, holding himself between the two of you, the scalloped edge of your underwear twisting when they roll over his skin. The hard of him on your clit makes you gasp, and his mouth hangs open in a soundless laugh. 

And you are crying, sooner than you thought, barely registering it until you feel it falling into the cup of your collarbone, a steady stream that barely burns brighter than the flare in your core. 

“You really should be more careful with that little heart of yours. Gonna hurt yourself.” He slides his hand further up his cock to the tip, releasing the pressure and guiding himself to your center. Joel slides himself in to the hilt, leaning down on one forearm to hold himself up. 

With his unoccupied hand, he brushes the flesh of your cheek, following its path with kisses—the warning is a genuine one, followed by no punchline or remark, the first time tonight where he’s actually tried to resonate with the predicament he’s put you both in. Earnest. 

The give and take of him, flowing freely between unrelenting harshness and the soft comfort of his reassurance should be nauseating, but it shines a beam of light behind your eyes when you close them, white-hot and blinding. You’re sobbing enough to wonder how you haven’t stopped; you can feel your own wetness when he rubs down your chest with his mouth, gathered up from his mapping of your face. 

Joel’s knee digs into your side as he hikes you up on his hip, eliminating even the air between your bodies, sweat-soaked and glued together. He’s pushing himself into a place you’ve often found unconsidered, that spongy spot at the back that marks the beginning of your womb. The very center of you, he’s reached, and you start to move in an act of self-preservation, unsure whether you want him to continue forward or exit. You’re mumbling something about Joel, yes-too much-don’t stop-wait-please don’t stop and when he leans back he’s beaming at you, the point of his canines shining in the dim light of the room. 

He looks dangerous, like the man you’ve seen hobbling and flighty and inebriated—only ever close to anger—was just the very surface. This is the man that hunted men—that sought conquest and destroyed lives. He’s done the same to you, you realize, and now your being is nestled within the palm of his hand, pliable and willing and fully at his disposal. 

You keen for him, thin and high in the channel of your throat, and he pinches your face, sealing his mouth over yours to swallow it. He’s breathing hard into you, the movement of his hips growing shaky, rhythm breaking down a half-step so that you're just swaying against the bed under his weight in little jolts. 

“Joel, please. I want to make you come.”

“Keep crying for me just like that and I will. Can you do that?” 

You’re so close, the anticipation feeling like warm sand sliding under your fingertips. Joel wrestles a hand into the side of your hip where it’s tightly pressed to his, finding your clit with the pad of his thumb. Your babbling continues, Yes, I promise, I promise, and Joel nods, relenting. 

He presses hard against the nub, and shoves himself in that much further, and you start to come undone beneath him, the waves of pleasure coursing through to the ends of your limbs.

He’s still moving above you, talking over you—good girl, good girl—removing his hand so as to not overstimulate you before bringing it up to brush his knuckles over the hinge of your jaw, so careful even as he hammers into you, “So sad, honey. Poor thing.” 

You’re still caught up in your own rambling, but you tip your head yes and he picks up his pace again, chasing his own end, “Say it for me. Can’t do it unless you say.” His voice is a little warbled, and you can tell he’s crumbling. 

“Please. Come inside me, Joel.”

Joel grunts, the noise catching in his mouth like a hiccup, overtaken with the pleasure of your permission. The heat of him spreading inside your body has your legs shaking and cunt pulsing in response.

You fight to catch your breath, running a hand over your face to snap back into focus.

He falls over to lay on his side, still connected to you, dragging you over with him. He hides his face in the fold of your neck, knocking his forehead into your throat. 

“Really sweet of you to wait, honey,” he breathes, sliding out of you with a long drag, a thread of wet spooling out in his wake, “Now get the fuck out.”

[kafukaselect-blog]

The Guillotine Devil's Incredibly Well-Executed Design

The Guillotine Devil has quickly become one of my all-time favorite devil designs in Chainsaw Man.

The exceedingly tall stature of the devil perfectly captures the tall and unwieldy shape of an actual guillotine, and while I would like to say a little more of substance with this post than just "it looks cool"… it cannot be overstated how fucking cool this design looks. The long wings of the bird creating a circular cloak that doubles as the frame of the guillotine is genius.

The skeletal "body" of the devil, if you can even call it that, hangs limply so that attention is drawn to the guillotine device itself, which adds a wonderfully cold and unsettling element to the design, fitting for a cold metal murder machine.

The bird motifs that have been present throughout Part 2 are on full display here, with a design that harkens back to the crows that have been seen throughout the series (Most notably the one Denji stepped on), but with a pigeon head to emphasize its birdbrained nature.

With a tilted head the devil echoes Fami's own signature scale-tilting lean to draw a connection between itself and its owner, similarly to how the Falling devils love of cooking connects it to the food-loving Famine devil.

But while the tilted head's similarity to Fami is great, my favourite aspect would have to be the way that the entire upper body of the Guillotine Devil resembles a severed head after an execution, with the feathers around its shoulders creating a birds-nest-looking basket much like those placed under a guillotine.

Fujimoto absolutely cooked with this design.

[volitioncheck]

does near every single post-canon DE fic out there need to be tagged ‘Sober Harry Du Bois’? i’m getting so tired of it.

do i expect every single piece of fan content to have to fully delve into the often-depressing always-complex topic of addiction? not really. sometimes you just want to write/read a silly fluffy romance one-shot, whatever. i get it. but i think my issue is specifically with the fact that for nearly every sillyfluffy au out there, there almost must be a ‘sober harry du bois’ tag. and it does feel very slapped-on more often than not.

i think to me it is an unconscious statement that nothing *good* can ever happen to harry du bois until he is completely and permanently sober. before solving the next big case, he has to be sober. before quitting the force, he has to be sober. before falling in love with kim, he has to be sober. before accomplishing anything, starting any sort of recovery, making any life improvement, he must first be sober.

sobriety as a goal, as a journey, and honestly as a concept in of itself is not as cut and dry as so many people think it is. and i think it would serve a lot of people well if they did some introspection on the implications of how nearly every single post-canon fic that isn’t dealing directly with harry’s addiction have him as completely sober instead.

if the plot of the fic isn’t going to touch directly on harry’s substance use (and again, i’m not demanding that every single fic should), why does that mean that sober!harry must be the default?

i think i am just tired of reading a casefic, a smutty one-shot, a fantasy au, whatever, where it almost seems that before getting on with the plot, the author feels obligated to first assure us that the harry we’re reading about is a Sober Harry. it’s established with a couple lines in the exposition, probably about his improved appearance, a tag up top, and then never brought up again; a checkmarked box. like the societal image of An Addict has completely prevented people from being able to imagine a person just, continuing to live life, while still struggling with addiction.

life happens, with all of its backslides and achievements, mundanity and changes, to people with drug addictions just as much as people who don’t. is a post-canon harry who isn’t sober not worth writing about?

i think so. i think the game we all played thinks so too. in fact i think that sentiment is woven into the game’s very core. i just wish i saw that reflected in our fan content more.

[communistkenobi]

I always get a little annoyed at posts saying “btw did you know conservatives don’t know what they’re talking about? did you know that they’re incorrect about x?”. And it’s not because that’s wrong per se (conservatives don’t know what they’re talking about and they’re almost always factually incorrect, which is a significant part of why their politics are awful), but focusing on the factual substance of their claims tends to obscure the reason why they’re being incorrect in the first place. like yes they sound ridiculous when they say “I don’t believe in pronouns” but its not because they don’t understand how grammar works. The purpose of that statement is to argue that gender should not be negotiable through language, that to use “pronouns” is to attempt to alter someone’s god-given ontological gender and is therefore morally wrong. And because this discussion is dominated by English-speakers (gendered pronouns are not universal) living in imperial countries, a deeper claim is being made, that trans people are perverting the most enlightened language, the language of the West, the language that dominates all others. This also very neatly fits into right wing antisemitic conspiracies about the oncoming death of western civilisation, which is not an accident!

So conservatives are latching onto a word that has been recently infused with fresh political meaning in public discourse and using it as a rhetorical platform to be disgusting. They know how language works - language is contestable, it is both subject to constant change and a medium through which that change is negotiated. Trans people are making a claim (gender is partially mediated through language and therefore gender is reinforced and expressed linguistically) and conservatives are making a counter claim (no it isn’t). “I don’t believe in pronouns” is not an argument about the technical structure of language, it is an argument that trans people are so perverse that we infect and degrade the base components of language itself.

So yes, point out that they’re incorrect, but they aren’t incorrect because they’re stupid or ignorant, and being incorrect is not the primary problem with their rhetoric. That is a strategic statement which is deliberately inflammatory, can fit neatly inside both tweets and headlines, and makes a very grand conspiratorial claim about reality (any mention of pronouns is evidence of a transgender plot to destroy western civilisation and indoctrinate children), and this is all accomplished with a 5-word sentence that can be repeated ad nauseum. So the issue at hand isn’t a failure to observe the basic components of language, it’s a violent call to action to remove trans people from public discourse, and eventually public life entirely.

Conservatives are incorrect for a reason. They are incorrect on purpose because they don’t care what the truth is. They are politically savvy and incredibly successful at gaining and maintaining power. They know what they’re doing, and if your only critique of them is that they don’t have their facts straight, I think that’s just a really weak position to hold. What happens when they saying something factually correct? What happens when they know more than you? What happens when they’re well-spoken, well-read, and reasonable? What will you object to then?

[alienpossession]

Mode of Infiltration: Shower

NASA and the other space scientist weren't too far off when they predicted that the highest possible form of an alien would be something small or even in liquid-form. Lucky for those extraterrestrial creature, Earth consisted of around +70% water, ensuring their ability to infiltrate human society stealthily

But won't you realize that sudden change of texture or even temperature when you mind your own business under the shower head and instead of drops of water hitting your body, something slimy instead slid all over your body. Osman here realized it when his post-shower gym suddenly turned into a nightmarish situation as he felt something slimy trickled down his body.

He dashed out from his shower in shock as he witnessed the slimes coagulated into bigger form within the shower stall. But before he can try to run outside his bathroom and warn his wife, his sons and his younger brother, the numbing component of the slime caused him to stuck as he found himself unable to move a single muscle in his body. Before long, the slimes that coagulated in his shower made their travel upward the ridges and peaks of Osman's body before sliding in comfortably into his brain, where they then take control of his body

Kevin experienced the same fate hundreds of miles away in the sunny Ibiza. He just wanted a peaceful shower, but then the weird goopy "splat" sound surprised him. He thought a bird dropped its poop or something since the shower stall in this particular beach has no sun shade or anything. But he found nothing with his naked eyes. If only he focused a little, he might found the translucent alien that already pooled in the shower floor.

When Kevin left the stall, it was no longer Kevin in control of his own body as the alien managed to repress his consciousness and begin his exploration of the party-heavy island.

Luis also no longer in control of his body when he kissed the love of his life, Justin. But, Justin have no clue about it. Plus, the alien that controlled Luis split a little part of itself to enter Justin. As both men kissed, the alien that blended smoothly with Luis' saliva managed to startled Justin who then quickly taken over by that small alien part. They went on for more kisses afterwards as Luis practically pumped Justin with extraterrestial sentient.

And again, this is not just simply about shower shower. You can be possessed even in chlorinated pool water without you ever realized as the see-through, water-like alien shot itself into your brain by sliding itself into the not-so-tight-fitting swimming shorts you wore.

But in some random cases, even being showered with affection might be the cause of people's downfall as certain liquid alien managed to sort themselves inside fancy wine upon landing. Not a single soul would even be able to realize that his supposed friend didn't just spray him with champagne, it's an alien sentient that marged itself with one of human's favorite drink, and they did it successfully.

His friend, his teammates, are not necessarily what they looked like as they got taken over earlier than him. But it's not just the team getting affected, business partners and media crews that gathered to witness and document them after their historic win also affected by the suds and whatever remnant of the champagne as those watery substance quickly slid into people's ear, nose, mouth and even navel, rendering them to be nothing but mere passenger on their own body.

All in all, these aliens are indeed very elusive, and with so many type of them with differing abilities, there's still many more mode of infiltration these extraterrestrials have that need to be uncovered. This one is rather stealthy, taken people by surprise but certainly far from brutal. Yet, that is not always the case and we are going to go through some of them in the next edition

[extrajigs]

The MODERN MIRAN SCRIPT. Basically the continuation of the old school Chimeric that I covered in this post. That has most of the nitty gritty and this is more so about the branch of the language. The BIG info dump below the cut!

Chimeric is the original, a purely written language used by chimera when talking is unavailable. Written in a circle heading inwards with two defined lines of dialogue. The subject/action 'real' substance and the tonal, emotional intent of the writer and sometimes reader. Chimeric is still used by the remaining population to talk within their ranks, but nearly every chimera is at least bilingual depending on where they ended up. Back in Mirum the written language of Chimeric stayed behind but has been pretty heavily modified to better suit the reading style of the people that remained. Mainly Histin who cut out pretty much all the fluff and added a bit more structure.

So! As opposed to the radial style of Chimeric, Miran has double decker sentences. With the top row being the remnants of the Subject quarter and the bottom row being the Action quarter. Linkage of subjects and actions take place between the two lines. Plus there is a new form of linkage, the priority/influence links which show which subject is acting upon who, and define action sequences. While Chimeric is written inwards radially, Miran is written top to bottom, starting going from left to right then right to left and alternating down the page. Also circular paper is swapped for rectangular, think a standard 8x10. Still, you are expected to enclose sentences within two parentheses, lil hold over from the circular days. But to the outside perspective the largest difference between the two is their tones, or well overtonage of one and lack of tone in the other. Chimeric is the 3 paragraph overly detailed text, Miran is the single word response. Lest to say they do not mesh super well.

ANOTHER fun hold over I want to add but am still thinking over characters for is that for rare fancy words (poetry/music/heart speak) Miran can slide in a THIRD ROW in between the first and second. There the spoken tone quarter manages to eek out a meager Miran existence through a few dozen sets of characters to convey certain emotions and the like. Songs in Miran very often have multiple sets of lyrics overlaid in this fashion, the largest can have 5+ tonal rows.

Oh that reminds me! Miran DOES have a spoken equivalent. Or rather, the original shared Histin/Diagrevies language has been stretched over to fit better with the written word. That in itself has split the spoken word in Mirum in two once more, with spoken Miran and Draconic being the two main talkings. Histin typically only speak and read Miran, whilst Diagrevies will speak both; with their preference being draconic. A Diagrevies will typically have a Histin under their employ to read and write for them since ya know, they cannot see.

All this taken into consideration though, Miran and Chimeric are still basically two ways of writing the same basal language. Not that modern speakers like to admit that. But small character additions and style changes aside, if you can read one you can get the gist of the other. Miran is by far the most spoken in modern times tho. Its a little more accessible for different species than Chimeric.

Want to get more into the modern Mirum dealings. The chimera may be absent but their influence is still very plain to see if you know where to look.

[illnessfaker]

if you legitimately believe in the concept of porn addiction you're a reactionary btw.

edit: i'm turning reblogs off on this post because the people taking umbrage with it are either 1. reactionaries proving my point 2. people who refuse to read any of the sources provided in the relevant reblog 3. people who don't understand what actually defines addiction vs. compulsive behavior or 4. people who don't understand that what society dictates is abnormal sexual behavior isn't an objective measure of fucking anything anyway and that should be obvious because being gay used to be in the dsm!

read this and fuck off:

Another consequence of medicalizing addiction is that addiction as a medical condition can expand in scope to include an ever-larger number of cases (e.g., Reith 2004; Barker and Galardi 2015). Though early US sexologists, such as William Masters and Virginia Johnson, studied what they labeled “sexual disorders,” they did not use an addiction framework (Irvine 2005 [1990]). Instead, the emphasis on sexual addictions, including addiction to pornography, stems from the addiction movements related to substance abuse (Reay, Attwood, and Gooder 2015). In the last half century, this movement has begun to identify and treat a wide range of addictions related to various behavioral pleasures, such as eating, gambling, and sex (Travis 2010; Netherland 2012). Founded in 1977 by a longtime Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) member, Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous (SLAA) was the first established sex addiction support group. In the 1990s, the addiction movement began targeting pornography addiction, which they connected to both sex and Internet addictions (Irvine 2005 [1990]; Voros 2009). Conservative Christian leaders and organizations, which have long opposed pornography on moral grounds, championed the addiction framework in late twentieth-century messages about pornography’s harms (Thomas 2013; Perry 2019; Burke and Haltom 2020). Radical feminists, who have maintained their opposition to pornography since the 1970s (Whittier 2018), remain in coalition with religious anti-pornography groups but have not taken up the language of addiction like their conservative Christian counterparts. Instead, evangelicals and feminists find common motivation on the basis of freedom from so-called sexual exploitation, language that, according to Bernstein (2018), reflects the rise of the neoliberal state and militarized humanitarian efforts.

[...]

Compared to newspaper articles and state resolutions, scientific articles were the least likely to support an addiction framework, and we found less support among neuro-physiological research than psycho-social studies. Seventy-six percent of psycho-social articles that referenced pornography addiction supported an addiction framework, compared to 55 percent of neuro-physiological articles. Psycho-social articles outnumbered neuro-physiological articles by nearly seven to one and were better positioned to support an addiction framework by using self-reports of perceived addiction or addiction-like behavior. Neurophysiological articles that did not include self-reported measures used criteria to define and measure addiction neuro-physiologically, and these noted common limitations. First, for those using cross-sectional designs, researchers could not determine whether the differences they observed preceded or followed pornography consumption. Second, as an article published in 2015 in Frontiers in Human Neuroscience describes, neurological researchers who work under the assumption that the brain responds to cue and reward differently when studying addiction (i.e., what triggers the addictive behavior and to what effect) test pornography itself as a reward behavior rather than as a cue for future reward. In other words, in the lab, participants are typically instructed that they should not masturbate while being exposed to visual sexual stimuli or pornographic material. These studies may lack construct validity measuring pornography as a reward, whereas in real-life pornography, it is most often a “cue” for some other rewards (i.e., masturbation or partnered sex).

[...]

Within our sample of neuro-physiological studies, 81.8 percent (9 of 11) included all-male samples. Though psycho-social studies that analyze gender do find differences in pornography consumption and perceived addiction for men and women, neuro-physiological studies that use all-male samples reinforce the assumption that men experience unique physiological harm as a result of pornography consumption. Neurophysiological articles are more similar than psycho-social articles to newspaper articles and state resolutions in the likelihood of exclusively emphasizing men as the consumers of pornography. This serves to reinforce a medicalized model of men’s biological predisposition to become addicted to pornography and thus perpetuates the stereotype that men have innate and uncontrollable sexual urges. Women, who may be literally excluded from a neuro-physiological study’s sample, are then figuratively understood to lack these same sexual desires.

[...]

Our findings reveal that references to pornography as addictive emerged in scientific articles, newspapers, and political documents in the twenty-first century and grew most substantially in the last decade. Most of these sources implicitly or explicitly reproduce the pornography addiction framework that they reference, but scientific studies are more likely than newspaper articles or state resolutions to explicitly challenge or critique a pornography addiction framework. Broad cultural understandings of addiction position neuro-physiological studies as the best equipped to validate pornography addiction since addiction is understood as a “brain disease” (Vrecko 2010a; Netherland 2011), yet these studies are the least likely in our sample to make broad conclusions that pornography is addictive in ways that are similar to drugs, alcohol, or gambling. Most newspaper articles that reference pornography addiction take for granted the concept and therefore implicitly support it, yet the articles most often mention public figures who are not neuroscientists of addiction and are instead activists, politicians, religious figures, and therapists. All state resolutions in our sample explicitly support pornography addiction as a concept and rely on biomedical language to construct pornography as a threat not only to individual consumers but also to broader groups and communities. This reliance on biomedical language allows political actors to present a seemingly objective and factual account of the harms of pornography that are more convincing than claims about morality that may seem outdated or out of place in the political sphere (Thomas 2013; Strub 2010).

Our analysis of how arenas of public discourse construct harms associated with pornography addiction illustrates the social and political stakes of biomedicalized concepts related to sexuality. Just as sociologists of other addictions argue that the shared understanding of addiction as “biological” is made meaningful only through social situations (Keane 2002; Weinberg 2002), we find that public discourses construct pornography addiction as a social problem by articulating a wide range of harms, including direct harms to consumers and indirect harms to broader society. These discourses do more than pathologize pornography itself but also pathologize individuals and relationships that fall outside of normative definitions of gender and sexuality.

[mischiefmaker615]

Assassin

Rating: R

Summary: Apparently killing the god of mischief isn't as easy as you thought..

Note: Apologies, its a long one but i figure since i haven't posted raw ideas in awhile Lol 

Your fingers grip the tray in your hands as your eyes slowly rise to your approaching door. You had hidden the poison perfectly out of site and not even the first forkful of food would reveal what awaits for your target.

The plan was simple and even with your target being the young prince of Asgard, you were confident you wouldn’t fail. The servant’s dress was a little uncomfortable considering how you were so used to pants and armor, but it would all be worth it when the god of mischief is no more. Just go in, deliver the food and then leave. News wouldn’t take long that the prince had perished and then it will be all done.

Reaching his quarters, you gave a knock and a pause before entering. ‘’your highness, I’ve come to deliver your morning meal’’ you announce gently, keeping your eyes low out of respect but your side view showed he was at his chair with his nose in a book with his shoes up on the very table you needed to set the tray on.

When you heard no reply, you thought nothing of it. a servant’s job was to do their job and get out with not much interaction or expectance of a reply. You had watched them diligently and posed as them for weeks and throughout all your hard work, your patience finally got you a chance to have interaction with Loki when you heard his usual maid was ill.

Standing before the table, you bowed before you bit your lip, wondering when he was going to remove his shoes so you could place the tray down. Nothing. You weren’t taught where else to put it if a situation like this occurred so you just stood there awkwardly as you lifted your eyes slightly to look at him.

‘’..pardon my prince..’’

Nothing. His eyes remained moving, reading his book as he paid you no mind. Bastard.. you’ll die soon.. Placing the tray down anywhere else would risk its improper place, so you had no choice but to remain still and wait. Minutes went by, and Loki paid you no mind but you were clear in his vision so you were certain he was there. The only movement he made was to turn a page and sigh contently as your arms began to ache from holding the tray for so long. More minutes went by and you glanced at him almost in desperation as you stood in silence.

The snap of his book shut had you jump out of your skin and he casually sat up with a stretch, his eyes elsewhere than you and he finally took his shoes off the table. In a split second, you placed it down with achy arms and almost slammed it down out of anger and relief of finally being set free. You shook your hands from the ache and quickly bowed your head.

‘’your highness, is there anything else you need?’’

He stayed sat calmly, staring up at you as he man spread with hidden amusement in his eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing. ‘’are you sure it won’t anger you further?’’ he smirked as your body tensed. It was almost as if he was daring you, there would most likely be a sever punishment if one dared showed any negative emotion towards a royal so you quickly shook your head with obvious thrown on cheer.

‘’I am at your service my prince, please- anything you wish of me is in no position of a bother..’’ you said quietly and your heart skipped a beat as he leaned forward to examine the food for a brief moment.

You snuck a peak yourself but there was no vision sign of the substance in it so your eyes glanced at him nervously.

With a single finger, he swiped a bit of porridge and stood up casually, his expression basically tsking as he made his way over to you and stopped once the tips of your shoes were touching. His height made itself known as you tilted your head up to look up at him, not knowing if you were breaking a servant’s respect but something about his eyes made it impossible not to look away. It wasn’t until he raised his hand and presented the porridge on his finger just before his lips was when you broke eye contact to look at the food.

‘’it’s cold.’’

I wanna kill him..

You opened your mouth to respond, to tell him in the ‘kindest way possible’ that it was because of how damn long he made you wait was why it was cold. Yet before you could even utter a word, he moved his finger into your mouth and pressed down on your tongue, making to jump as his free hand gripped your hip so you couldn’t take a step back.

‘’you know what to do, don’t you.’’ Not a question, as his voice came out as a purr as you looked up at him with a blush to your cheeks.

Just going along with things would get you the hell out of here so he could finish his breakfast right? True it was cold, but perhaps he wouldn’t mind it if you just pleased him and left. Sucking up your pride, you used your tongue to remove the porridge from his finger before you began sucking.

Loki hummed in approval, almost closing his eyes as he looked down his nose at you. Why were- were you aroused?! This was a bloody mission for norns sake! Even if he was drop dead gorgeous- the god had to go! Before you could even make a move to step back, his hand removed itself from your waist and rested on the back of your head. He steadied your head as his finger began moving itself in and out while his fingers curled into your hair, slowly matching his own rhythm as he moved you head as well.

Your eyes widened at the action, your hands raising up almost grasping his wrist but stopped, knowing fully well if you touched him without permission, you’d be done for. Your legs self-consciously pressed themselves together much to your shock as a small squeak of submission left your voice and demeanor before you heard him chuckle.

‘’you’ve pleased me love, you’re a very amusing toy.’’ And with that, he released you in your state of shock and your hand covered your mouth while the other gripped your dress.

‘’w-will that be all my prince?’’ you asked and straightened yourself as your cheeks remained red.

His hands remained clasped behind his back as he gazed down at you with now wondering eyes. ‘’perhaps.’’

You hesitated, not sure if that meant yes or no as you still tried to gather yourself at what the hell happened. you thanked the gods the food he gathered was just the top layer, any deeper and he might as well have fed you your own poison meant for him.

With shaky legs, you turned and made for the door in a casual pace, not wanting to go to fast or slow for suspicion as your hand rested at the door knob and opened.

‘’wait.’’

You cussed in your head as you took a deep breath and turned just to see Loki taking a stalking pace towards you. His eyes seemed blown and even your side view could tell he was aroused.

‘’you wish to please your future king?’’ he asked simply.

‘’..y-yes..’’ you said with uncertainty of what he was getting at. Its not like you could have said no.

‘’then, maid, I wish to bed you.’’ Just as he had finished speaking, his hand extended and closed the door behind you with a push, keeping his arm there as your back pressed against the lost exit to look up at him.

If you were drinking a beverage you would have for certainly spit it out as you opened your mouth with a lost of words. By his previous actions, you quickly shut it and this made him laugh as he raised your chin up with a single finger.

‘’sire I..I-‘’

‘’you don’t wish to please me?’’ he fake looked hurt and panic entered your eyes as you tried finding any excuse to get out of this situation. Refusal to a royal was unacceptable and your mission was complete if you would just leave him to his meal but.. gods! You thought the maid’s gossip was just to tease you when they found out you were covering the other’s shift.. they were right!?

‘’did.. did your regular maid-‘’

‘’very much so.’’ Loki smirked, leaning down more so he was almost nose to nose with you as he towered while you coward. ‘’all the time in fact, we’ve had to replace three headboards in fact.’’

You took a shaky breath as you tried to find the right response as you glanced behind him to his bed. ‘’..oh..’’

Slowly taking one of your hands, he walked backward while he pulled you forward, small resistance threatening your limbs as you wished not to go over to his bed. ‘’you will be a perfect substitute, exactly what I need this morning.’’ He praised in a light tone mood as if you had already made him the happiest man in the world. ‘’now then,’’ he said as he took a seat on his bed with you standing before him. ‘’kneel.’’

Your body tensed as your mind already drove ahead to where this was leading. You very much wished to leave but you knew it would compromise everything. Stuck.. with shaky legs, you knew you had to play the part even if it meant sacrifices as you sank to his knees.

‘’good girl..’’ he said with almost a whisper. ‘’now go right ahead.’’ He said as he leaned back on his elbows while he gazed at you to get started.

Fuck.. through it all, you still couldn’t believe you were aroused as you squeezed your legs together where you kneeled.Everything about you was shaking as you took a deep breath to calm yourself. You didn’t dare once look at the prince’s eyes but you knew fully well that he was smirking, relishing in the amusement of messing with you.

With shaky hands, you slowly reached for his pants and with a moment to figure out how to free him, you finally managed to pull his cock out. It immediately was standing at attention and the size itself startled you at how well he held the title god. You looked up at him with almost pleading eyes, your thoughts leaving all royal rules behind at how you didn’t wish to compromise yourself but he merely leaned forward.

His movements were slow, almost as if he was stalking his prey as he held that famous smirk on his lips. A hand slowly rested behind your head and pulled you forward, guiding your face before your body took over for a moment. Your hands rested on his thighs and shoulders stiffened as you tried stopping him from pulling you down but his god strength made it clear this was happening.

Your eyes flashed up at him just as his other hand came to grip your jaw and his fingers curled to the sides to force your mouth open. Your eyes looked up to him in panic just to see his eyes darken with a sinister smile now.

‘’the moment I feel teeth, I pull every single one out with my blade.’’ He said darkly before pulling your head down with his cock sliding down your throat.

Your heart beat raced as your hands gripped this thighs, squeezing your eyes shut as he leaned back on his elbow while the hand remained at the back of your head, keeping you down. a content sigh left his lips as he closed his heads and hung his head back in relish.

He didn’t taste bad, dare you say it you wanted more if your mind and body fought against each other for the sake of your mission. His cock twitched now and again, making your body squirm as it pressed against your throat but what was confusing was that he kept your head down on his cock but didn’t allow you to rise and fall like you expected from this.. particular act. He just.. kept you immobile.

Your body began to relax every so slightly and your confused eyes looked up at him as he took a deep breath and looked down at you with casual eyes, as if he was waiting for you to explain yourself.

‘’so, you wish to kill me.’’ He sighed.

The mere comment sent shock to your brain and body, making you jump every so slightly and made your throat rub against his cock, almost triggering your gag reflex and earned a sharp breath from him that he immediately hid.

‘’The poison is no good when its been exposed for so long, which is why I enjoyed seeing you stand for so long beside my table.’’ He smirked and your fists balled against his thighs as your body began to pull away from him, seeing there was no point in pretending anymore but he didn’t let you. His grip behind your head way firm.

‘’Your patience is impeccable, but this is obviously your first mission because whatever dimwits trained you didn’t bother to teach you thoroughly about poisons. Which is also why you haven’t dropped head upon having a single.. finger full’’ he smirked and bucked his hips ever so slightly, feeling his cock run against your throat as your hands gripped his thighs. There was no escape.

You mumbled bastard but all was heard was a muffle, sending vibrations through his dick unintenually by you but he thoroughly enjoyed it as he seemed to shiver with a grin.

‘’your fire is perfect, I could pretty much read your thoughts as I played with you, how angry you must have been’’ he mocked with almost a baby talk tone and you felt his fingers grip a bunch of your hair. ‘’and you’ll be absolutely perfect for pleasing me, you might be even the first person I break three headboards with, even more’’ he teased with a hushed tone as he slowly raised your head where his tip almost left your mouth as you sucked in a breath through your nose before he slowly lowered you back down on his cock against your wishes to try to stop him.

So, the headboard thing was him jesting? Did he do anything like this with his servants? You wouldn’t be surprised, but most of you knew this was all just to tease, to get back at you for trying to take his life; and you knew this wasn’t going to be your first punishment for something so treacherous against a royal.

As he continued to agonizingly slowly pull your head up and down against his cock, your eyes squeezed shut as did your thighs. What was happening to you.. your hands tapped and hit his thighs as you tried to indicate your release but he merely chuckled.

‘’come now darling, you merely brought yourself upon this predicament. After all, you told me yes that you wished to please your future king.’’ He mocked as your eyes looked up at him with slight tears from his strokes. He gave you an amused, indifferent look at he leaned forward and both his hands took hold of your hair, bringing your head up and down with a little more speed as his eyes closed and his head raised.

‘’gods you feel so good on my cock.. as if you were made for this..’’ he breathed and a smile came to his lips. ‘’those who sent you didn’t exactly know who you were dealing with did they? As if mere poison would be sufficient enough to kill a god’’ he tsked and a hand began petting your head and cheek as the other continued its work.

‘’I hope those ingrates know they won’t be getting you back’’ he smirked and your eyes rose to him as a million thoughts came to mind. Was he going to kill you? torture? Prison?

‘’you’re mine now pet, I will think of them sending you as a mere gift instead of an assassination attempt. It takes war off the table for now, something I’m sure you’ll be surely grateful for. Unless you wish to face all of Asgard as the one who will be responsible for such a catastrophe hmm?’’

Your eyes glared daggers at him as you thought about using teeth if it wasn’t for his threat at pulling them all out. War wasn’t on the table when it came to killing it, it would be just an assassination attempt by an unknown threat with the god of trickery off the table in the universe. Apparently, fate had other plans by having you fail.

‘’come now darling,’’ he sighed and stilled his hands, raising his hips slowly into your throat instead which had your body arching in response with each thrust, something you thought was unvoluntary but apparently some parts of your body was enjoying his manhandling. ‘’we both know you secretly love this’’ he mocked and eyes your ass by simply leaning forward before dropping his gaze to you. ‘’you should be grateful, being full in my care instead of being sent off to suffer some gruesome death by norns who knows who in Asgard’s dungeons. I hope your prepared to show me just how grateful you are.’’

And with that, his hand gripped your hair and pulled you up off of him. you gasped for air as your hands shook against his thighs and the tears of his actions fell down your cheeks as the soreness in your throat reminded you of his actions. Why was your cunt dripping..

Before you could even fathom whether you were enjoying this or not, he lifted you up to your feet by your hair and got off the bed. Your hands grasped his wrists behind you to relieve his grip as he turned you both so the bed was now behind you. it was a miracle your legs didn’t go out as his eyes eyed your bosom and flashed back to your eyes with a smirk.

‘’please-‘’

“don’t worry princess’’ he smirked and pushed you onto the bed with a knee resting against the mattress with intention to crawl on top of you. your fingers gripped the sheets as your eyes widened, backing up slowly with your elbows until his hand grasped your ankle.

‘’daddy will take good care of you..’’