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lostazuree · 3 days ago

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HEAR ME OUTT. Asking BLLK boys for gym pics w rin, kaiser, nagi, isagi, bachira & shidou

📸 ₊˚୨୧— Gym Pics.ᐟ

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: Asking your boyfriend for gym pics .ᐟ —SUGGESTIVE

ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ: Michael Kaiser, Itoshi Rin, Shidou Ryusei, Nagi Seishiro, Bachira Meguru, Isagi Yoichi .ᐟ

♡ ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ ᴋᴀɪꜱᴇʀ .ᐟ

His gym sessions were quite relentless, he worked his ass off in the gym, always came home looking absolutely delectable. Towel over his shoulders, hair scattered across and his gaze half-lidded, exhaustion evident in his gaze as he opens the door with a creak, a heavy sigh slipping out of his lips as he shuts it behind himself, kicking his cleats off, heading for the showers, purposely flipping his hair infront of you once, twice, until you comment on how hot he looks after returning. Same routine.

Which left you wondering, that if he looked like this after the gym sesh, how good would he look during it? And what better than to ask your very helpful jerk of a boyfriend? You'd had suggested the idea to him a few times before, "Micha, Gym pics when?"

He had brushed it off all the time playfully, taking it as a joke, 'cause he's very locked in at the gym; no texts, no calls. It's not like he told you not to, you just knew better than to disturb him while he's working out. But one day, one day you really needed one, for whatever reason, let's just say you were feeling horny lonely and you missed your boyfriend. So you texted him despite your better judgement; "Kaiser, please. One photo isn't too much, ja?"

His phone buzzed, which was surprising. No one ever texted him at this hour. He thought of ignoring it but his curiosity got the better of him. Unlocking his phone, he read the text, a smirk quirking up on his lips. "You're so desperate, engel.", "You're getting blocked for that jargon." and before you expect another cocky or dramatic reply, Ping!, attachment- one image is what you read as you clicked on the picture before ascending, you were swept with what you saw; A gym picture. More specifically, he's in the restroom infront of a mirror, shirt off and hanging from his shoulder, flexing his biceps while his abs are on full display for you, beads of sweat coating his skin like a sheen, hair falling over his eyes, head slightly tilted to the side, letting you see the blue rose tattoo of his neck along with the veins as he's leaning over the sink counter with a smoldering expression. "Forgive me, schatz?" is the caption. How could you not?! This was the best apology in the history of mankind. "Too speechless? I guess we'll 'talk it out' when I get there." is the last text before he turns his phone off and you nearly stop yourself from throwing yours across the room.

♡ ɪᴛᴏꜱʜɪ ʀɪɴ .ᐟ

Rin is hot, extremely. You know that. And he returns from the gym looking neat. He doesn't realise it, (maybe he does, who knows.) but he's a walking national threat when he wears that sleeveless black tee, cuz the weather's too hot. And that too, a compression tee. You can see every inch of his skin through the T-shirt but he's flustered inside unnervingly calm about it.

You had asked him before, just one time, maybe twice..thrice, only for two months. He was always adamantly set on denying. He wouldn't admit but it was goddamn embarrassing for him to even imagine pulling out his phone in the middle of a set, walking up to a mirror, pose, and snap. He is just disgusted by the thought of people glancing his way while he does this. So no matter how much you asked, "No. You know I'm not gonna do that." while mumbling 'lukewarm things', 'half-baked questions' under his breath. But frankly, he had grown used to you asking that question before he left for the gym, and nowadays, you didn't. It didn't feel the same. He had to do something, even at the cost of his pride.

You're watching silly tiktoks on your phone, occasionally sending him a few cause you know his phone stays on silent when he's at the gym. Until..you get a notification back. You were startled to see; "Rinnie 💋: sent an image!" Your fingers practically flew to check the message. There it was, a gym picture! and you were floored at what you saw, jaw hung open at the sight before you. You couldn't believe that this man sent you a gym pic, the one who refused such things even in your dreams, was now standing infront of a full body-mirror, hair covering his eyes, grey sweats and a black tee, with a simple pose. He held the phone infront of his face, in an attempt to hide his blush, but you knew his hands were trembling because the photo was a little blurry—not blurry enough to not show the veins cascading down his toned arms as his hand was shoved into his pockets, neck tense. The arm which propped the phone up, was tense like he was pleading with his body to stay with him, his triceps on a perfect display as he captioned the image, "First and last." but toast to him, because now it's a tradition for him to send you atleast 3 images per week. Gets him hyped up.

♡ ꜱʜɪᴅᴏᴜ ʀʏᴜꜱᴇɪ .ᐟ

He's a well sculpted man, he never fails to show it. Roaming shirtless around the house, purposely forgetting to bring his towel into the shower, (you're cooked). He loves when you look at him, and he goes all out to prove that. You don't need to ask him for any pictures, a hint that you like him working out is enough for him to send you a gym pic everyday—he's just that horny generous.

Like I mentioned, you just need to compliment him after he comes back home from the gym. Sweaty, tired, filthy and clingy. His hair is usually weighed down from his strict workout, "Gotta keep these muscle babies up', what if ya leave me if I don't?" Dumbass. He purposely puts up the most dramatic muscle-man show infront of you all the time for you to give him some attention and praises. "Ryu, baby, looks like you've been hitting the gym a little harder." and he grins wide, nodding eagerly. "Mhm, of course you'd notice." and consider your job here, done, just that, you're set. From the next day onwards, you're getting your daily wages.

Evening, exactly thirty minutes after he's left, a notification sound erupts from your phone, one you specifically set for his chat because opening this man's texts in public is a biohazard-ic crime to society, if that even makes sense. You never know if it's the most heartfelt love confession, an "I burnt the toaster.", the most devious memes ever, or you know, just a casual greeting pictore of his mini-shidou. But today, it wasn't any of the aforementioned, it was him, wearing a beige loose tee, it wasn't a mirror picture, he set that phone on a dumbbell with a timer, standing infront of it, lifting his Tee by it's hem, his flexed biceps and abs glistening with sweat as he stuck his tongue out, his other hand shoved into his pocket, letting you see every carved detail of it. The air was knocked out of your lungs as you practically gawked at his picture, unable to reply. "Hey pretty baby, I know you saw that. No words?" and you coughed, brain still malfunctioning, "Just come back, Ryu. Right now." Safe to say, he paid for the gym membership, and you paid for Ryu-membership. He's gonna send you stuff everyday now.

♡ ɴᴀɢɪ ꜱᴇɪꜱʜɪʀᴏ .ᐟ

Now, for the sake of this scenario let us believe this lazy ass dude goes to the gym. (Which I think he maybe does, because bro's panels are always sick), there's no other way he has such immaculate abs. But Seishiro is unbothered, it doesn't really matter to him whether he has abs or not. But he finds your interest in them a hassle bit amusing.

You've asked Nagi to send you some pics, and he just looks at you like "Huh? Gym pics?" and you grin at him, "Yes. You heard me." He thinks about it, one one hand he's confused why you wanna see him sweaty and tired, though he doesn't have any objections, he's too lazy to come up with that. And on the other hand, clicking pictures is so troublesome, it's a hassle. "...fine." He's been saying that since a long time but he forgets everytime. Begrudingly, he gets up in the evening after relentless honking outside from Reo's car (recent chapters 💔) as he comes and picks up Nagi for the gym. Nagi tells Reo about how you've been asking him for gym pics, and he provides him motivation to do so. He's gonna help.

Your phone buzzes, it's a picture from Nagi, You sit up straight on the couch because he finally sent you a picture. You open it and it's the messiest photo, because you can literally see the full length mirror slightly cracked, a set of fingers, most probably Reo's, curled up from behind, holding up the mirror, because Nagi fell ontop of it once. While Seishiro is trying—trying to pose, his posture is still slumped, his fingers pushing back his hair and his head tilted to the side, so you could see his neck, His T-shirt tossed aside, his other arm holding up the phone. You could see everything, his sweats hung low on his waist, revealing that delicious V-line for you while his expression is neutral, not tired, just neutral. Like he's giving this a second thought, waiting for your reaction. "No more, please." He captioned. What you send him next is a flurry of almost unintelligible texts with spam clicked emojis, hyping him up because goddamn, you want more. When he reaches home, he tells you how much of a hassle it was, and that he won't do it again. But the next day, click!, another picture, which is slightly higher in quality, dimmer lights, a better view, no cracked mirrors and no third person.

♡ ʙᴀᴄʜɪʀᴀ ᴍᴇɢᴜʀᴜ .ᐟ

Now, Bachira was anything but shy. He didn't really care, he could roam butt-ass naked around the entire house flashing you whenever you looked at him. But there was something about how he looked when he was exhausted after working out. That half-lidded gaze, yet still a goofy grin on his face? Yes. And he absolutely would comply with your requests, no hesitation.

He's lying on the bed with you, spooning you from behind while you're poking at his arms. They look good. He's been working on them, of course they do. You shift in his grasp, turning to face him as he pops a lazy eye open, waiting for you to speak. "Megs." you look at him with your signature grin, one he's grown used to, he knows you're up to no good, but so is he, anyway. "Yes, sunshine?" you poke at him, "I like your arms." and before he can react, "I like your shoulders. Your chest. Your abs. Everything." and he grins wide, arms tightening around you. One thing you knew for sure, you could get anywhere with this man with praises. "Thanks, sweetheart. Gym is crazy." And then you drop the bomb over him. "Pics or it didn't happen." and he looks at you, blinking, confused as he tilts his head with a low, "Huh?" and you giggle, rephrasing yourself for him once again. "So you want gym pics." And that's about it, he agrees quickly, too quickly, because he will not waste any opportunity to have you look at him and praise him. Babyboy.

Next time he's at the gym, your silly little notification sound goes off, one he set himself, a picture popping over your screen, and god, you are asking the divine itself for patience and sanity, because this boy is just so edible. It's a selfie, except, the hem of his usual jersey, (yes, he wears a jersey to the gym) is tucked between his teeth, holding it up so his abs are served out on full display for you, his honey eyes narrowed at the screen, the lighting is dim, his surroundings aren't visible, but what matters is he's flexing his bicep, rippling with veins. caption? "Here, lovey.😝" And after your garbled rambling, since then, you always get your daily fill of evening snacks.

♡ ɪꜱᴀɢɪ ʏᴏɪᴄʜɪ .ᐟ

Isagi hardly cares about the way he looks, but to say he works hard at the gym would be an understatement. He probably uses those poor equipment to cool off the rage he doesn't even know how or why, exists, and he doesn't get it either why you'd wanna see him all sweaty after gym, sure, he does know why, but he doesn't see the appeal.

He looks scrumptious after gym, hair slightly pushed back, his tee clinging to his body as he walks with that concentrated little frown on his face that he doesn't know he acquires when he's focused. So, naturally, you wanna see more. And also very naturally, you've been asking him for some gym photos for a few weeks now, and he too, brushes it off thinking that you're just teasing him. Until you make it clear that you're not. "Isagi, you MUST send me some pictures." You nudged him while he dried his hair, raising an eyebrow, "It's a must now? Why so?", "You know, boyfriend duties!", and you only get a grin from him as a reply. How rude.

The next day, he leaves at his usual time. And you're not having it anymore, he's 15 minutes in, and his inbox is swarmed—no, bombarded with texts, all from you. He sighs audibly loud, walking over to the restroom, shutting it behind him with a click. Exactly ten minutes later, your phone buzzes with a notification, it was a picture. Finally. You opened the image, and you could feel yourself levitating closer to the divine, because holy—the photo may've took a long time, but was worth every second. It was him, his leg propped up on the countertop, his shorts ridden up, revealing his toned thighs. His hand holding up the phone was flexed, muscles tight, while the other hand was in his hair, dragging it back, giving you a full view of his forearms. His face was covered by the phone, but you knew he was blushing, you could see the flush on his neck. He captioned it; "You can quit whining now, babe." He was trying so hard to be cool, a little too hard. "You took ten minutes for that?" But you knew, a few flirty comments from you, and it's game over for him at the gym, and game over for you when he comes back.

A/N: W request. 😝

Thanks for reading .ᐟ

Likes & Reblogs would be highly appreciated .ᐟ 🎀

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webslinger-holland · 3 days ago

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Hi lovely, I love your preferences/headcanons and was wondeinf if you could write the Thunderbolts reacting to you having 'girl dinner' when you cant be bothered cooking or its too late for a full meal?

Prompt: The Thunderbolts react to you having 'girl dinner'

Warning:

Note: I love this request and I loved writing it! Please enjoy! Also, I love Yelena (that gif is so fitting) vvv

It was late at night. You were exhausted in that numb, low-battery kind of way where every small task felt like climbing uphill in deep mud. Cooking sounded like a battle and cleaning the dishes afterwards always felt like a tiresome chore.

The fridge felt judgmental. You had ingredients, technically, but not the energy to turn them into anything that resembled a proper meal. Instead, you grabbed the jar of pickles and sliced a semi-stale apple. You crumbled some cheese onto a paper towel like that made it a “platter.”

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something. A handful of random things that didn’t require heat, thought, or emotional investment. Just enough to quiet your stomach and keep you upright.

Call it lazy. Call it survival. Tonight, it was the best you could do. Tonight, it was girl dinner.

Yelena: When Yelena walked into the kitchen and spotted you hunched over the kitchen island, she froze mid-step. Her mouth dropped open in shock.

"You're doing girl dinner?" Yelena gasped in exaggeration. She put a hand to her chest like she was offended. "Without me?!"

You didn’t look up. Just gave a tiny nod and muttered, “I didn’t feel like cooking.”

She just watched you eat for a moment, arms crossed, head tilted like she was studying a rare animal in the wild. She padded over in socked feet, rounded the island, and leaned forward on her elbows beside you. Her tone stayed light, but she didn’t tease.

“You forgot crunch,” she says, after noticing all the fruits and cheeses. “And spice. Very important for emotional balance.”

"Didn't want to go through your stash," you commented with a mouth full of peanuts. She rolled her eyes, pushing off the island and heading towards her cupboard where she hid her snacks.

She took out a bag of spicy chips, a tiny jar of pickled onions, two pieces of dark chocolate wrapped like treasure. She lays them down beside your food and sits next to you on the counter, legs swinging.

"Girl dinner," Yelena sings, puts her hands up, and does a little dance. You look at her utterly amused, unable to fight off a smile.

So the two of you indulge yourselves in a tasty effortless meal that you made together.

Bucky: He’d only come down to the kitchen for some water, maybe a late-night tea if he was feeling generous. The place was usually dead quiet after midnight. But as he rounded the corner, bare feet silent on the tile, he saw the dim lamp by the island was already on.

And then he saw you.

Sitting cross-legged on one of the stools, hunched slightly, your elbows resting on the counter like they were the only thing keeping you upright. You were still in pajamas — soft, oversized, familiar. In front of you sat a sad little spread: crackers, cheese that hadn’t been sliced all the way through, two limp baby carrots, and a soda can half-crushed in your grip.

You didn’t even look up as you absentmindedly dragged a carrot through some ranch dressing, chewing slowly. Your eyes distant. You weren’t crying. You weren’t visibly upset. But something about the quiet slump of your shoulders pulled at something deep in his chest.

"That dinner?" Bucky's voice came out low and careful.

“Sort of.” You shrugged.

He cautiously approached the kitchen island, leaning his forearms agaisnt it so he could really gauge at your whole spread. "Let me guess— you didn't feel like cooking anything for yourself tonight?"

You let out a small laugh. "Yeah. You got that right."

His lips curved into a gentle smile because there you were in front of him. Your words were soft, small, and honest. He let the silence stretch for a moment before finally muttering:

“You know I’d cook for you, right? All you’d have to do is ask.” Bucky offered.

“I don't need a full meal, not tonight.” Your lips twitched — not quite a smile. More like the ghost of one.

That did it. Something in his chest squeezed a little tighter.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just exhaled slowly through his nose and walked around the island. You watched him curiously as he pulled open the fridge and started gathering things: Alexei's takeout leftovers, some old rice, half an avocado, and a piece of naan folded up in tinfoil.

He silently joined beside you and started constructing his own version of 'girl dinner.'

John: Initially, John thought it was odd finding the kitchen light on when it was so late. Most of the team had long since crashed— even Alexei, who snored loud enough to rattle the walls. But when he rounded the corner, it made sense.

There you were, sitting at the kitchen island, elbow propped up on the counter, spoon dangling from your fingers like you’d forgotten it was there. A mostly-empty jar of peanut butter sat in front of you, surrounded by a sad little constellation of snack foods: three crackers, a few grapes, a slice of cheese not even fully unwrapped, and a single pickle spear.

You didn’t look at him when he stepped in, just let out a quiet sigh and plucked a grape off the counter like it weighed ten pounds. You even had a glass of half drunken wine, but then you cracked open a can of some highly carbonated drink.

John pauses.

"That's disgusting," John said flatly. He observes your spread of junk food. "None of this looks healthy."

You finally looked up at him with a tired blink, dragging the can toward your mouth for another sip like you just couldn't bother to care. Then you proceeded to shove some crackers in your mouth.

"It's girl dinner," you corrected him. “It’s not supposed to make sense.”

“That’s not dinner. That’s… an existential cry for help in snack form.”

You sipped your wine, then chased it with the soda again, and watched his face twist in real-time.

“Oh my god—stop doing that!" John pleaded. His voice sharp with genuine distress. His nose wrinkled, his whole face twisting as if he'd just witnessed a car crash in slow motion.

You looked back down at your snack pile, grabbed a baby carrot, and dunked it in the peanut butter without hesitation. "I just didn't feel like cooking," you shrugged.

"You eat like a raccoon," John claimed shaking his head with theatrical disappointment. “A drunk raccoon that broke into a gas station.”

You finally glanced up at him, unimpressed. “You act like I don’t hear you eat cold pizza in the gym hallway at two in the morning."

He pointed a finger, jaw dropping slightly. “That’s different. That’s recovery fuel.”

“Yours is pizza, mine is pickles. Let me live.”

He stared at you, mouth opening like he wanted to argue—but then he looked at your face. He saw the way your shoulders drooped and the distant look in your eyes. It looked like you were barely holding yourself together with carbs and carbonation.

"Let me guess—bad day?" John wondered.

“Didn’t feel like dealing with anything else,” you said finally. “Dinner included.”

He turned and opened the fridge without another word. You furrowed your brows in confusion.

“What are you doing?” you asked quietly.

“Making you real food,” he said over his shoulder. “You’re not ending the night with a dinner that looks like a toddler’s dream and a nutritionist’s nightmare.”

“You don’t have to—”

He smiled more to himself. “Yeah, I do.”

Ava: She found you lounging on the couch in your pajamas with a paper plate of snack food in your lap. You stared off into the distance mindlessly, blinding grabbing another cracker to feed yourself.

Slowly, Ava came to approach you and crouches beside you on the couch. She spares a glance down at your plate of cold snacks with a furrowed brow, but no criticism.

"Rough day?" Ava asks. You gave a small, tired nod.

Ava sighed and brushed a loose strand of hair off your face, her fingers cool and gentle against your cheek. She didn’t push, didn’t ask why. She just saw you.

"I could always cook something for us," she gently offered. When you shake your head again, she takes a strawberry off your plate and lies back beside you on the couch. “Then I’m eating this with you.”

She quickly found the hummus and pretzels, helping herself to some food. Still keeping your eyes ahead, you silently offered your wine glass to her which she gladly accepted and took a long swig of it herself.

You let your head drift against her collarbone as your eyes slid half-shut. She took another bite of something off your plate, humming softly at the taste. The two of you passed grapes back and forth without looking, the comfort of her presence so seamless it felt like breathing.

She doesn’t get the appeal, but she gets you, and that’s all that matters. You end up curled together, sharing quiet bites.

Bob: The hallway was silent. He had meant to pass through— maybe grab some tea, check the news, disappear back into the safety of silence before anyone noticed him. He preferred the world quiet like this. Like nothing could break or ask too much of him.

But the kitchen light was on. And so was the sound— soft, almost imperceptible. A sniff. A wet breath held a little too long.

He stepped in gently. You didn’t see him right away.

You were curled into yourself at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, a paper plate of snacks in front of you— nothing warm, nothing properly nutritious. You still had two apple slices left, a stack of dried crackers, a carbonated drink that had gone stale, and an assortment of cheeses.

It looked like you'd been crying for a while, not the messy or loud kind. Just this slow, quiet ache of tears that slid down your face like they’d been there a while. You didn’t wipe them away. You just stared at your food, trying to chew through the lump in your throat like maybe that would help.

Bob stood in the doorway for a second, just breathing. Then he crossed the room.

No words. No sudden moves. He pulled out the chair beside you and sat, his presence warm and unintrusive. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t force you to look up. He just sat there.

For a while, it was only the sound of your quiet breathing, the occasional sniff, the crackle of the soda can shifting as condensation slid down the side.

Eventually, he reached out slowly, steadily and picked a cracker off your plate. Ate it like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like this was dinner. Like this was okay.

When you finally glanced at him, eyes rimmed red, he met your gaze with a gentle, understanding smile. "Mind if I join you?" Bob asked hopeful.

Your chin trembled. You shook your head. You watched him take one of your apple slices.

"I like the red apples best. They’re always much sweeter than the green ones— I don't want to bite into a fruit and it'd be sour." Bob spoke so casually and lightheartedly that it was quite refreshing.

It certainly caught you off guard. A small, wet breath escaped you— not quite a laugh, but close enough. He smiled back at you and stared for just a second.

Then he leaned back, arms folded loosely, gaze drifting to the far window where the sky had turned black and soft with stars.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said after a moment, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t owe me an explanation. I just… don’t want you to feel alone.”

That’s what undid you. Not the comfort. Not the silence. But the quiet knowing behind it— the way he saw you without reaching in, without prying. Just being there, steady as gravity, kind as light.

You leaned toward him— not asking, not warning — and he shifted only to let your head rest against his shoulder. He stayed still. Let you breathe. Let you cry, if you still needed to. Let your paper plate of snack food sit untouched on the table as the minutes passed like clouds.

Eventually, you felt his voice near your temple, soft as a secret: “Tomorrow, I’ll cook for you. Just say the word.”

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vio1315 · 3 days ago

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I want to share my white noise solution in case anyone falls into the same niche as me.

I've always liked having a fan/white noise to sleep to in order to block out other sounds, but lately have found my white noise machine has a secret frequency that I can hear sometimes that might be causing me some brain fog issues???

So to remedy this I thought getting something that makes noise with water might be a good idea. But all the indoor ones are really quiet, and it's hard to tell from online listings if people are just putting a mic up close or etc.

(Note, my solution is more about muffling than being loud enough to fully override)

So here's my set up:

I got a tabletop fountain that is meant to simulate rain. While I don't necessarily recommend this one, it's what I have and so what everything I say is going to be based around: [Amazon link]

The 'calming cloud by mindsight'

The first thing to know is that yes! These things are way too quiet. Out of the box, the sound of it was easily overwhelmed by someone in the other room using an electric toothbrush.

So basically I got heavy duty aluminum foil (if you're sensitive to sound I recommend using some kind of hearing protection for this because it genuinely hurt so much) and used a bowl to get the foil in a circular shape. You want the excess to come upwards to block out the sides, because it Will have considerable splash from this. Use a toothpick to put some holes in it, you don't need that many.

Do not use any splash pad, stick that foil right in there and set up the sides to fit inside. For the gaps, I just took a piece of foil and taped it to the top to further block the water from splashing out.

This is considerably louder! Not as loud as a fan, but it's enough to keep sounds from inside my house from driving me insane. Note that the pitch of the water is a little high. You would need a different kind of material to get it lower, probably harder to work with etc. I have tried glass and it is not very loud.

The sound is surprisingly repetitive for something physical like this, so some troublesome holes I blocked off if they were a little too incessant. Holding onto the splash pad is good for this so you can silence any you don't like.

You will need to refill the water as it will evaporate over time. You may even wish to clean the foil eventually or replace it. The one I have will automatically shut off after 3 hours also.

If you use this, please do not put chemicals into the water. I'm not that positive, but this stuff might be something you end up inhaling, so I really feel it's best to just clean it sometimes

Also, yes it is ugly. I find that putting a lampshade over it doesn't impact the sound much.

A lot of cons which is why it's a niche, but the pro is that it does indeed help with the brain fog thing I was experiencing! So maybe someone else could benefit too.

“if you’re sensitive to sounds when sleeping, just use earplugs!” i cannot stress enough that the sensory feeling of having my ears fully blocked AND now being able to hear my own heartbeat and breathing and every other sound that’s happening inside my own body is a million times worse than whatever ambient noise may be keeping me awake

#Vio Speaks #I do have some earmuffs and even though the head crush can give me nausea- there's still times it's preferable to the horrors #I might try a weaker pair sometime and see if they're a little less like being an astronaut in the vacuum of space

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doodleodds · 3 days ago

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Still feel like always returning after 2 years? /pos

I'd love to see more of your art if you're still doing it, I love looking at your older art hope you have a great day✨️✨️

Haha yeah, I'm still around! Has it really been two years since I last posted?? Good lord. Here's something summery that I finished up as a thanks for sticking with me :) I hope YOU have a great day! ✨️✨️✨️

youtube

bonus image of how many times i had to export to make sure my timing was right lmao

#thanks for taking the time to say hi anon :) your message was a really nice surprise! I'm still kicking; just not doing art as much any more #it turns out getting a job with odd hours really saps your energy/motivation to do anything when you get home aside from eat dinner :|#& I haven't really been making anything worth posting of late (stopped improving when i stopped drawing; go figure) hence the lack of posts #I'm assuming if youre looking at my blog still youre here for akeshu lol... so heres something old that I thought would be easy to clean up #and i was WRONG this took AGES #fun ages! but agessssssssssss. forgot how much drawing animating actually entails LMAO but it was nice to get back into it :>#also heads up for anyone who doesn't know about color preview in csp: set it to sRGB for the love of god #learned the hard way that having your preview set to 'display' does not accurately tell u what it will look like exported >:|#everything was muted as hell and i had to play w the saturation to fix it because i was NOT manually recoloring every frame. nopeeeeee #hopefully it's not too eye-searing as a result. let me know lmao #anywayyyyyyy YES i am still projecting my habits on my favs-- melona bars are real and they are in fact square and they are delicious!!!!!#i have been eating them lately bc i got a big box at costco. the honeydew and mango are my favs & theyre great for the heat rn #anywhozles! thank u again for reaching out anon! it was very sweet and it really made my day to hear that you still like my old stuff :)#p5 #akeshu #worlds most generic-looking akeshu admittedly. but its intended to be them lmao

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undyingdecay · 3 days ago

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Maybe John with a virgin reader or inexperienced reader? He'd totally trick his girlfriend with the whole "just the tip* thing, but he'd be and nice as he could be, which is still kinda mean

But that's why we love him🫣🫣

(tw: reader is faintly implied to be a virgin or not have tons of experience)

john would absolutely pull the just the tip lie EVERY SINGLE DMAN TIMEE. he wouldn’t even pretend to feel bad about it, either — maybe for a second, but it would pass the moment your pretty little face went slack and your voice caught in your throat. he’s a bastard like that. not cruel, not exactly. just the kind of mean that wraps itself up in tenderness until you can’t tell where one stops and the other starts.

he’d be so good at it too. soft hands, soft voice. coaxing you into his lap, murmuring about how 'we’ll just see how it feels, sweetheart. i won’t push in all the way, i swear. wouldn’t do that to you.' lying through his tEeth, ofc. but it sounds so sweet coming from him you want to believe it. you tell yourself you can handle it. you trust him.

he makes you straddle him because it’s easier that way, easier for you to ease down slow, easier for him to watch your face when it happens. he likes watching. likes seeing that wide-eyed shock when you realize it’s more than you thought it would be, that your body’s not used to being stretched like this. 'hurts a little, doesn’t it?' he’ll murmur it against your skin, lips brushing the hollow of your throat. 's’okay, baby. you’re doin’ so good.'

and when he promises it’s just the tip — when he lets you sink down just enough to feel that sharp, unfamiliar ache and then stops, palm splayed against your lower back, holding you there — you believe him. you really do. because his eyes are soft and his voice is low and everything in you wants so badly to be good for him.

but it never stops at the tip. not with him.

he’ll rub your back, tell you how warm you are, 'how tight, how fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart', and before you can even catch your breath he’s guiding your hips down just a little more. telling you it’s alright, you’ve already taken the worst of it, might as well finish what you started. and you’ll go with it because it feels good in a way that terrifies you, makes your head spin, makes your stomach flip. because it hurts but it hurts nice, and john’s voice in your ear is the only thing keeping you grounded.

he’d still be as nice as he could manage about it. which, with john, isn’t very nice at all. he won’t tease you for crying — no, he likes the tears, likes how they make you cling tighter, how you bury your face against his neck to muffle the soft, embarrassing sounds spilling out of you. he won’t laugh when your thighs tremble or when you beg him to slow down, though he might hum a little, a smug, pleased sound that rumbles in his chest because you begging for anything turns him inside out.

he’d kiss your temple, your jaw, your mouth, sloppy and hungry, like he can’t get enough of you now that he’s got you like this. 'fuck, baby, you’re so good for me. look at you. takin’ it so well.' and you’d whimper, you’d arch into him, chasing every scrap of praise like a starved thing, even though it stings, even though you know you shouldn’t let him do this to you.

but you would. and he knows it.

when he finally bottoms out — because of course he does — he’ll shush your little gasp like it’s something fragile, kiss your wet cheeks, tell you you did so good, tell you 'almost done, baby, i got you.' and he’ll stay there for a moment, buried inside you, just feeling the way you flutter around him, the way your nails dig crescents into his shoulders. like he’s earned it. like this was always meant to happen.

and when you finally calm down, when your breathing evens out and your thighs stop shaking, he’ll fuck you slow, deep, every push a reminder of how you let him have you, how you trusted him even when you shouldn’t have. he won’t say it out loud — doesn’t need to. it’s written in every languid thrust, in the way his hands hold you like he owns you now.

#.ᐟ.ᐟ #marvel #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#⤷ john walker #john walker has a fat ass #john walker thunderbolts #john walker mcu #john walker x reader #john walker smut #john walker marvel #john mcu #john walker #john walker yum yum

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motherismotheringggg · 1 day ago

Text

please darlin’

summary: reader is walking home from the jukebox joint when a mysterious man lurking from the shadows offers to walk her home, what they both learn in due time is that the unlock something in other person that they didn’t know was even there

type: black southern fem! reader x remmick

warnings/tags: well he’s a vampire so there’s blood play but i don’t think it’s particularly graphic, biting, dry humping, p in v

author’s note: i used the gif in the images but this post is based on this gif set here and a tiktok i saw that pointed out how HUNGRY this man was during the movie 😭😭 i also asked this question separately and didn’t get a ton of pushback just to reiterate — being attracted to the “antagonist” of the film does not negate my understanding of the film or its cultural and historical importance — im just a criminally horny individual 😛

The juke joint was still humming behind you—low and rowdy, with bass rattling the floorboards and laughter spilling out the crooked windows like steam. You stepped into the thick Mississippi night, dress clinging to the sweat on your back, the heat pressing on your skin like it had weight. The cicadas sang in the trees, and somewhere far off, someone was still blowing blues on a trumpet like their life depended on it.

You didn’t notice the man at first.

He stood in the shadows just past the tree line, his form half-hidden under the crooked lean of a willow tree. A white man, alone, arms crossed over a chest that looked carved out of something strong and stubborn. Brown hair curling in thick tufts, jaw dusted with stubble, and a guitar case slung across his back like a weapon.

Every instinct in you went sharp.

A white man in the Delta after midnight didn’t mean anything good—not for a Black woman walking alone with liquor on her breath and music in her bones. You held your chin high, eyes fixed forward, feet steady on the gravel.

He didn’t speak until you passed him.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” he said, slow and honeyed.

That voice stopped you.

Thick with Southern drawl, like warm molasses. He didn’t quite sound like danger. He sounded like moonlight through lace curtains. Like the kind of man you know who’d smile sweet, touch gentle, and still be the end of you.

“I ain’t lookin’ for company,” you said over your shoulder, not stopping.

“I ain’t company,” he replied, stepping out into the moonlight with his palms up. “Just a fella walkin’. Thought maybe I’d keep you safe.”

You turned, slowly.

“From what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smiled. Slow. Crooked. Full of something too soft to be harmless. “World’s full of bad men, miss. Ain’t no tellin’ who might be out this time of night.”

You looked him up and down. Tall, broad-shouldered, tan from sun exposure, and dressed in linen. That guitar case over his shoulder looked worn, edges frayed like it’d seen more of the South than you ever had.

“And you?” you asked, tone sharp as a razor. “What kinda man are you?”

He didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head with a confident smirk and said, “The kind who calls a woman ‘darlin’ ‘cause she walks like she got secrets I’m dying to know.” His hands clasped in a praying motion, you snuck a quick glance at the veins in them.

“The kind who knows better than to let beauty like yours walk home alone.”

You should’ve walked away.

But instead, you let him follow you. Not close, not touching—but his presence, his footsteps in time with yours, felt… right. Familiar. Like a song you’d heard before but couldn’t name.

When you got to your door, your hand hovered over the knob.

“Well, you best get on home now,” you said.

He nodded.

“Or,” he said, voice softer as he pressed judy up against your back. Not enough for there to be contact but very little room for anything else, “you could let me come in. Just to talk.”

You could feel his eyes scanning your body, though his gaze stayed respectful—it burned. He wasn’t begging. He was waiting.

You opened the door.

The next memory was heat.

Your dress hiked up, his hands on your waist as you crashed on to the bed, his lips slanting over yours with an urgency that stole the breath from your lungs. His body was hard and hot above yours, the curve of his hip pressed into your inner thigh, his belt buckle cold against your stomach. His fingers dug into your hips like he was afraid you’d float away.

He pressed his weight onto you as he came down into your neck , both of you slick with sweat, tangled in cotton sheets and heavy breathing. His tongue worked over a sensitive part of your neck that made you melt to his touch

Then—

Blackness.

The kind of still, shuddering dark that comes after a storm you weathered.

You woke up soaked in your own blood.

Sticky, metallic, warm and wet along your clavicle and down your chest. The bedsheets were ruined. You blinked up at the ceiling, then turned your head.

Remmick was kneeling over you. Mouth stained red. Eyes wide, almost glowing.

His lips, slick with your blood, parted slowly as he looked down at you in wonder. His voice was low, reverent, almost tender.

“This is what you needed,” he said. “Don’t you feel it?”

You blinked up at him, still dazed, your breath shallow. Slight traces of fear in your eyes.

“No more pain, darlin’. No more aging, no more fear. Just you and me, able to roam this earth and the next as we please .”

He brought his palm to your sternum, pressing over your heart like he could feel it trying to outrun your ribs. “I gave you what the world never would,” he proclaimed, brandishing his fangs in his smile. “Freedom.”

Remmick reached for your hand and pressed it to his chest. His heart beat steady beneath your palm—slow, deliberate, like thunder rolling through deep earth.

Your body tensed and then something inside you snapped.

But It wasn’t panic.

And It wasn’t fear.

It was a deep animalistic and hungry need.

Your vision sharpened at the edges. The room around you dulled into haze. All you could focus on was him—his smell, all smoke and sweat and salt, the heat radiating from his skin, the way his breath hitched when your fingers traced down the length of his chest.

You rose—slow, deliberate—until you were on your knees as well. You could feel the new strength coiling in your limbs, the animal instinct buzzing like a fever beneath your skin. He talked on and on about the promises this new life would bring. You flashed him eyes that communicated a nondescript but intense hunger and you swore you could feel his pulse in your mouth.

You trailed your fingers along the line of his collarbone, across the swell of his shoulder, then up—sliding into the soft curls at the base of his neck. He stopped talking altogether, just quiet in anticipation.

You gripped.

His breath caught.

Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as your voice dropped to a dark, sultry whisper:

“Bite me again, baby… and make it hurt good.”

He shuddered.

And obeyed.

His mouth descended like a storm, lips finding your neck, tongue lapping once over the curve of your shoulder before his fangs sank in deep. The pain was immediate, but it rolled over into heat so sharp and consuming you arched your back pushing you further into him with a gasp.

Your thighs twitched, your fingers clenched in his hair, and a moan clawed its way up your throat—raw and low. You throbbed everywhere, each nerve ending lit up, humming like your body had been set on fire from the inside out.

He fed, and you held him there, needing every drop, every ripple of pleasure knotted up in that pain. You rocked against him, your core tightening, heartbeat pounding in your ears like a war drum.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were red and his eyes glassy.

Your voice was hoarse and full of smoke when you whispered, “Again.”

—————

Daylight became a stranger to you—an old, forgotten friend you’d grown to miss some days more than others. Some days you wished you could unboard your windows and sit on your porch. But your life was now lived on by moonlight and instinct.

It was the way of things now. You didn’t question it. You just waited.

Every evening brought the same rhythm. The soft knock—three gentle taps at the front door, just after dusk. Sometimes you’d feel it before you even heard it. Something in your chest would tighten, like the pull of tide on sand. And then you’d go, barefoot and breathless, to let him in.

Remmick always stood there like a complete gentleman. Leaning in the doorway with that easy grin, hair tousled from the flight over, chest rising and falling like he’d just run to get to you. Sometimes his guitar was slung over his back, sometimes he’d bring flowers, he carried nothing at all. But he always brought that voice.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” he’d say, like it was the first time you ever met him.

Then he’d kiss you. Or he’d bite. Or both.

He’d close the door behind him and walk you backward until the wall caught your spine. His hands would be warm, calloused, possessive in that way that made you weak in the knees. And his mouth — he used it like it was exactly what you needed. Suckling at the place behind your ear, then down the slope of your neck. Drawing blood like honey, always lapping it up before it hit your collarbone.

Sometimes, he got playful. Sometimes reverent. Sometimes both in the same night.

There were evenings he laid you out like a meal, biting slow circles behind your knees or dragging his fangs just barely over the soft of your belly. He’d hum songs from his time while he worked, deep and low, the sound buzzing in your skin.

And you’d laugh. You’d moan. You’d shake.

It didn’t take long before the pain didn’t even register anymore. Only the pleasure.

Each bite felt like being struck by lightning, and each mark bloomed like a secret flower on your skin.

But while you were losing yourself, you started seeing something else. Something new in Remmick

At first, it was just the look in his eye when you pressed your mouth to his neck. The way his lashes fluttered, like he was about to cry. Then there was another time when you opened the door before he knocked, pulled him inside by the collar of his shirt, and kissed him deep. He didn’t push back, didn’t even make a move. Just let you take it.

You shoved him against the wall, your palm flat against his chest, and stared up at him with hunger.

Then, with one hand, you undid his belt. Slipped inside. Wrapped your fingers around him like you owned him.

Remmick’s knees buckled.

He let out the softest whimper—high, shaky, damn near reverent.

You blinked at him. “Tell me you like it.”

His eyes were wide, glassy, mouth parted. “Y-yeah… I do…” he whispered.

The tremble in his voice lit a fire in your belly. It left you soaked and smug and stunned all at once.

A few nights later, you were straddling him on the couch, skirt pushed high, your hips working a slow, torturous grind against the bulge in his slacks. He was breathless beneath you, hands barely touchin’, like he didn’t know where to put them.

So you took his wrist and placed it on your waist.

Then you gripped the length of his neck, thumb draggin’ under his jaw, and squeezed just a little.

His head tipped back. His mouth opened in a gasp. And all he could say was your name—like he wanted to worship and repent in the same breath.

But the moment that settled it deep in your bones came just three nights ago.

Remmick had you laid back on the bed, his shirt open, your bodies tangled in heat. He hovered above you, ready to push inside, eyes locked on yours like he was asking permission.

And then he dropped his forehead to your neck, his voice gone raw and low.

“Please,” he said, and the word shook straight through you. “Please let me make you feel good. Lemme do it right, darlin’. I—I wanna be good for you.”

He didn’t want to dominate. He wanted direction. He wanted to be given, not to take. Wanted to be praised. Ruled. Owned.

And you?

You could do that.

You were already doin’ it.

You leaned in that night and whispered, “Show me how bad you want it.”

He did.

And now, every time you touched him—every time you claimed him—he’d melt into you like sugar on your tongue.

—————

Remmick was doing what he did best—buried between your thighs like a man starvin’ for grace, kissing and sucking like you were made of syrup and moonlight. The room smelled of sex and sweat and something wilder, something old. Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, damp with sheen, while his hands gripped your hips tight—thumbs digging into the softness like he was trying to carve himself a home inside you.

His tongue moved slowly and soulfully. You could feel him moaning against your clit, the vibrations rolled through you like thunder through tall grass.

Your breath hitched. Your back arched clean off the mattress, a cry ripped free of your throat as his mouth sealed tighter, tongue flattening and working you in slow, tight circles.

“Remmick…” you gasped, voice crackling like a lit match. “Shit—baby…”

But just as your body built to that fever pitch, that hot, dizzy place where the edge was near—

It hit you.

Not just the pleasure—but power.

That molten core deep in your belly didn’t just burn for release. It burned to command. You weren’t just his feast.

You reached down and tangled your fingers into that thick mess of brown curls. Then you yanked hard.

Remmick let out a strangled grunt, his mouth fallin’ open as you pulled him off your cunt with a wet, obscene sound. His face was slick with your shine, lips raw and glistening, jaw working like he didn’t know whether to cry or thank you.

He blinked up at you, dazed. Wrecked.

“Darlin’, please,” he rasped, voice sandpaper rough. He tried to lean forward again, his nose just barely brushin’ your thigh like he couldn’t stand the distance. “Let me back. I need—I need to finish you. Please, lemme taste all of you…”

“Ah ah,” you crooned, your grip tightening in his hair until he hissed, until his jaw clenched and his body tensed under your hands. You tilted his head back, just to watch his throat bob with the swallow. “Slow down, baby… we got all night.”

He looked like he was fighting for breath. His chest rose and fell fast, his thighs flexing where they knelt on the bed—like it was taking everything he had not to fall apart.

“I can’t let you do that just yet,” you whispered, leaning down close, your lips just grazing his as your voice curled like smoke around the words. “Not ‘til I get a good look at you like this.”

You dragged your eyes over him—his blown pupils, the tremble in his jaw, the shine on his cheeks. His mouth was still parted, flushed and wet, and you felt the weight of his arousal pressing up against your thigh, stiff and aching beneath his pants.

You kissed him slow—deep and indulgent—relishing in the taste of yourself on his tongue, moaning low in your throat as his hands twitched at his sides, still clutchin’ the sheets like a man on the edge of salvation.

You shifted and now he was under you.

Remmick went willingly. His breath caught in his throat, body folding back onto the mattress like he’d been waiting all his life to be handled just like this. You climbed on top, slid your bare thighs around his hips, your slick heat grindin’ down against the thick ridge strainin’ under his waistband.

He shuddered.

Hands still not touching, he wanted to wait for instruction. They just flexed at his sides like he was praying for permission to reach.

“Look at you,” you murmured, your thumb ghostin’ along his bottom lip, feelin’ the soft tremble there. “You’re being so good for me, aren’t you?”

He moaned—real and helpless—his head fallin’ back against the pillow. “I am,” he panted, chest heaving. “I am, I swear it—all yours, darlin’. I’ll do anything you ask—just tell me what you need…”

What a whiny mess.

Your lips curled.

You leaned down and dragged your tongue slow up the column of his throat, feelin’ him pulse under your mouth. Then you bit—just enough to make him twitch. Just enough to make him need.

“I need you desperate,” you breathed against his skin. “Need you beggin’ for it.”

Remmick let out the softest, filthiest sound—a desperate mix of want and surrender—and your hips ground down harder as he whimpered beneath you.

And baby… he did.

Your lips hovered just above his throat, breath fanning warm over his skin as your hips rolled again—slow and molten, drawing out a ragged moan from deep in Remmick’s chest. The friction was maddening—slick and aching and just shy of too much. You felt his cock twitch under you, felt his whole body tense like a man about to break.

He arched beneath you, head thrown back, jaw slack and trembling. His hands hovered in the air—uncertain, unmoored—like he didn’t know whether to grab your hips or clutch at salvation.

“Please,” he rasped, voice hoarse, lips parted. “I—I c-can’t—”

You smiled, mouth grazing the stubble along his jaw, your voice like silk soaked in wine. “You can.”

You kissed your way down the side of his throat, slow and deliberate, until you felt his pulse jump under your mouth.

Then you moved—reached between you both and undid his belt with one fluid motion, your fingers deft, steady. The leather snapped open. The zipper whispered down. You dragged his pants low enough to free him, and he gasped as his cock sprang out—thick, flushed red, the head already slick and weeping.

His hips jerked into the air, but still—still—his hands fisted in the sheets like he’d been trained to wait for your word.

You licked your palm and then wrapped your hand around him, slow and sure, and gave him a few long, lazy strokes from root to tip.

Remmick’s whole body shuddered. His eyes fluttered. His voice cracked.

“God—”

You rose just enough to align him, his cock sliding through your folds, catching sweetly at your entrance. The head slipped in, and you sank down slow—inch by aching inch—until he was seated deep, your walls fluttering around him as your body adjusted.

And Remmick lost his damn mind.

His back bowed off the bed, a cry tearing from his throat, one hand finally snapping up to your waist like he was drowning and you were the only thing keeping him above water.

“F-fuck—darlin—please—”

You rolled your hips, slow and deep, your thighs clenched tight around him. You watched his face twist in pleasure, that strong jaw slackening, brows drawn like it hurt to feel this good.

He was trying to hold back—trying to let you lead—but his hands betrayed him. They clawed at your hips, gripped tighter, pulled you down harder, like his body had a will of its own and all it knew was need.

“You strugglin’?” you teased, raising your brows, breathless but smug.

He was unraveling. Stammerin’. Shakin’. That smooth southern charm dissolved into raw need. But he tried to mask with a smile the feigned even a shred of dignity.

You leaned forward, lips ghosting over the pulse point in his neck, tongue dragging slow up the sweat-damp skin.

You could feel his chest collapse under you the closer you got to his ear.

“I wanna taste flesh” you whispered against him, voice honey-slick and dangerous.

And then you did.

Your fangs sank in hard, right at the juncture where neck met shoulder, and he screamed—a sound torn from deep in his chest, feral and desperate. His cock jerked inside you, his whole body arching into your bite like he wanted to crawl into it, like the pain was just another kind of prayer.

His blood was hot and copper-sweet, rushing over your tongue in waves. It lit your nerves on fire—made you throb around him, made your hips snap harder, faster, riding him like you’d waited a lifetime to take this.

Remmick was gone.

A mess of sounds—moans and gasps and high, breathless cries—his body thrashing under yours as he gripped your ass like a man possessed. His voice was all broken pleas, all need and surrender.

“Please, darlin’, don’t stop—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

You pulled back from his throat, lips slick with red, grinning down at him with a mouth full of sin.

Your nails dragged slow down his chest, raising goosebumps in their wake.

You rode him hard and deep, taking what you wanted, making him feel it—all of it. His cries got louder. His body shook beneath you. You could feel him throbbing inside you, could tell how close he was from the way he gripped you like he’d fall apart without your body wrapped tight around him.

You bit again—softer this time—just above your first mark, and that was it.

He came undone.

Crying out your name—just your name—like it was the only word left in the world. His release hit in waves, hips bucking helplessly beneath you, cock pulsing deep inside as you fucked him through every twitch, every tremor.

And when it was over—when he was boneless and breathless and soaked in sweat—you kissed his jaw, slid off of him slow, and disappeared into the other room.

You came back with a damp towel, soft as cotton and still warm from the basin. Wiped the blood from his throat, the mess from his stomach, and then let him curl into your lap like a man reborn.

You lit a cigarette and played with his hair, slow strokes at the nape of his neck, offering him a drag every few times.

#I NEED A REMMICK TAG #and i think it has to be #my own personal labubu #bc i cannot get that image out of head #anyway i hope you enjoy #sinners #sinners movie #sinners remmick #remmick smut #remmick oneshot #remmick fic #remmick fanfic #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick x y/n #remmick x black!reader

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iatrophilosophos · 2 days ago

Text

Hmm well my thoughts are as follows

I am an anarchist and thus not invested in how we build systems of knowlege that effectively interface with the legal system because i do not believe we should have a legal system, generally speaking, so none of my responses here are actually going to answer that for you.

The dichotomy of "science vs vibes" is both incredibly funny and incredibly annoying to me, and a complete failure of imagination or grace on behalf of all who propose it.

This is of course what thr academy dose and why I hate it. It's the cornerstone of maintaining the western progress narrative: academic ideas are good and order, all others are chaos and vibes.

Science is a tool. It is also a religion rivaling Christianity in scale, scope and obsessive-yet-liturgically-uneducated believers. I am interested in science as a tool; I am fully disinterested in fundemental faith assumption of science (that the universe is governed by consistent and knowable laws). Science as religion pleads an optimism about how its *supposed* to work and discards objects of criticism as heretical. I refuse to engage with this perspective. The purpose of a system is what it does. However, i am going to endeavor to talk about the fundemental flaws of science that would still be present without capitalism and specifically bad-faith (academic def; do not earnestly believe what they have said to be true) actors. I am doing this because I DO think this critique is essential to understanding the limitations of science and how we utilize it + other systems to our best advantage.

Science is a toolset for generating a predicitive model, because humans love predicitive models. They're very useful! They help us make choices like how to care for plants and the land, what foods to eat, what medicine to take. There are actually many other tools for generating predicitive models, and I will speak to one shortly. Science accomplishes this by identifying an observation, hypothesis and variables, running scenarios in different configurations to see what may happen, and concluding something either about the experiment itself or the nature of the world. We accomplish those conclusions these days through the application of statistics, which can do some really nasty shit--not just making results seem more promising than they are!

Science is optimized for big answers on a fast timescale. It is a really useful tool in a lot of applications. In the medical field, I can say wholeheartedly that im a big fan of the scientific model as applied to communicable pathogens. I like cultures and i like testing novel antibiotics to see if they do what we want them to do. The situation of a mass outbreak is one where we want a big fast answer.

However, this tool has a lot of limits that I dont think are adequately described by just talking about the replication crisis or specific scientific atrocities. I want to push back on the idea that its "throwing spaghetti at the wall"; cuz i think we both know thats not actually true. Its testing hypotheses based on observations.

Observations are cultural. I firmly believe that one of the problems with psychiatry is that the perceptions, the "common knowlege" as is being derided here, of what Madness is and how it works predate science significantly, and they're ugly. The lobotomy is not throwing ugly evil shit at the wall and seeing what it does. The lobotomy is the "observation" that a certain kind of mad person is the way they are because they are over-active, too much, want stuff too badly, are plagued with an urge to sin so great that it must be excised before they can be saved by willpower and prayer (therapy). The hypothesis then follows: if we have "observed" that Mad people are "too much", we cut part of them away. If we have "observed" that Mad people desire incorrectly, we inhibit their ability to desire. In this way, the logic of the lobotomy is still active in the world and still being used to generate atrocities that I firmly believe we will look back on as a horrific stain on the history of official medicine in 10, 20, 50 years.

Psychiatry and psychology are easy to poke holes in, but this issue is at play in other areas of medical science as well. I am less well versed, but my associates in cardiology will very-unhappily tell you that a similar caliber of "observations" into the nature of human beings, specifically Black people, plague their field and cause deaths they themselves have witnessed firsthand.

The other foundational problem with science is statistics. This is why science as a legal basis actually sucks shit, though as I said im not really interested in constructing more legally-appriopriate knowledge sets. Statistical analysis as the bar for evaluating experimental results can tell us what works most of the time in most cases; especially in those high-quality mass-scale studies. There will be a number of cases where something doesnt work that works most of the rest of the time, and a number of cases where something works that doesnt most other times. I fucking care about statistical outliers. I am one. People i love live in this space. Land i love lives in this space. I believe there is value in high-reward low-risk low-likelihood interventions being widely available. I fully and completely reject the cultural value that most people is good enough, let alone the bar to strive for.

So, alternatives? There isnt one alternative because I dont subscribe to science as religion and thus I do not require it to be an all-encompassing world view or thrown on the trash heap; and i feel this way about other predicitive modeling tools. I believe in doing things that get the results i want for myself, my loved ones and social relations, and the land we participate in; without exploiting others in the process and in a way that hopefully supports others in achieving the same. Many tools fit in that box. I will however take this moment to soapbox about what im gonna term "conversational knolwege" because I think its an interesting model that kind of precursors our modern understanding of citations but retains a lot more nuance.

One benefit of science, and i think WHY it lends itself to systems such as legality, mass medicine, and so on: it endeavors to replace interpersonal trust and deep individual basis of knowledge. Who this benefits is a hell of a question: on the day to day scale, we can say it benefits the average person. It's nice not to have to trust your doctor, a person you probably dont actually know, who has financial and social interests that might diverge from your own, to have your best interests at heart: let alone agree with you on what your best interests actually ARE or have the knowlege and decision making skills to help you get there. Its nice to believe that everything will be okay, that there is an answer, and that you arent personally responsible for making hard decisions in the world. On the mass scale, this way of living doesnt benefit us, it benefits power. Medical codification as a stage of empire is an entirely different can of worms i could talk about forever but suffice to say: medicine is a constant cultural practice present among all people. States get big. In the same way they endeavor to retain power over people by preventing them from feeding themselves etc; they outlaw, burn, and replace the common medical culture with a system more conducive to control. Prescientific medical models have also been used in this way; as are the state-backed nonscientific medical models traditional Chinese medicine and Ayurveda (medical nationalism is another can of worms we can talk about with all three, western industrial, tcm, ans Ayurveda, but especially tcm...its rlly fucking interesting. Don't even get me started on the medical models of colonized countries that fall somewhere between these three powers. Aaaa! I love this shit. Anyway).

Point being: this benefit is damage control for a society that perpetuates itself via deskilling the population. What does generation and transference of knowlege look like in populations with high individual skills?

One answer is conversation. It goes like this:

Person A spends their life engaging with an area that they are passionate about and have a high aptitude for. Maybe its a field of medicine, drug production etc, maybe its a field of engagement with the land like food production or having trails that dont erode to shit or building structures that work well for the beings using them. They come to an understanding of the world based on what they personally see happen (notably, not "vibes", watching something over years is NOT the same as reading half of three news articles and adopting a worldview based on it, I think we can all agree that the latter is an unhelpful way to engage with information). They collect students who learn those worldviews. Maybe they write a book or in oral traditions, pen a folktale with something important to say about the world. Person B is one of their students just starting out in the world. They compare this worldview to what they experience. They travel, sometimes hundreds or thousands of miles, to meet a person with the same role as person A in a different community. Person B learns different things and, by transporting what person A knows into a new context, finds problems with it, and finds where it succeeds. Person B teaches. Person C, a student of person B, has a both what person A and person B thinks, and continues the process adding their own voice to the conversation. Person C carries these three perspectives and communicates them to person D, by saying who told them what they have to repeat and in what context. This "citation" is then allowed to carry elements of personality, reputation, and nuance in trust. This happens over and over again for thousands of years. Every lifetime makes it better.

The problem with this engagement of knolwege is that it is slow. It leads to understandings of the world that are not as good at adapting to the chaotic and rapidly changing conditions of our modern world and its documented to be not as good at responding to drastic shifts (e.g. natural disasters) in history. It requires every individual to participate to at least some degree in the stewardship of knolwege. It requires willingness to break from dead ends and acknowledge we were wrong. Ugly things have happened when we fail to do this and especially when social configurations make it harder: for example, societies that abuse their children are responsible for some of the gnarlier and more shocking historical medical practices, because doing something to someone when they are a child is an easy way to make humans keep doing stuff that sucks (sumn we're otherwise fairly good at avoiding).

What it is very good at is creating skillsets that are nuanced and treat situations as individual; it is good at making knowledge systems that account for statistical outliers. In part, it is because its a system that DEMANDS an answer to *why* something is known: even moreso than science, because a citation doesnt suffice, we are forced to interrogate to trust.

Maybe, especially to folks who are already fully bought in to the logic of the academy, this system cannot shine a candle to the imagined benefits of a perfect science. As I said, I refuse to engage with the imagined benefits of a perfect science, because we might as well start talking about what we should do if the moon is made of cheese. And what the real world right now has to say is that a large swath of interventions generated in these traditional modes WORK, when trialed in good faith; with limitations for drastic shifts in climate, bodies etc occurring over the last few hundred years, +/- the severing of many of these traditions and thus their ability to grow and change approximately concurrent with industrialization and the acceleration of *gestures* All This Shit. (For example, many plant-based drugs that were exceptionally low risk 100, 200 years ago now carry much higher risk or unknown risk profiles in an age of pharmacuetical prescriptions and way more possible drug interactions).

So, that is a way of answering "how do you know?" That is neither a scientific citation nor "vibes". I am personally most interested in hybrid strategies and novel study models because of my aforementioned investment in working with statistical outliers AND the rapid shifts in the world that are occurring in our lifetimes. I think it is imperative to reject science as religion and the comforting position that we'll solve all problems by following the right rules. I also think that its a mistake to resign ourselves to "the best we have", because the best we have doesnt fucking cut it, definitely not for me or people I care about.

So idk if thats the weigh-in you wanted but its what I got. Im not gonna put hella cites in a fucking Tumblr post i wrote before breakfast for one friend, and anyway most of this info is the synthesis of rlly diffuse inputs across historical texts, medical anthropology, conversations with mentors across the spectrum of academy to licensed practice to traditionally educated practitioners to wingnuts like myself, and a ton of dives into random questions about topics across the above spectrum. I can provide my standard entry reading list upon request and as always my #1 reccomendation for people who are new to medical anthropology is The Expressiveness of the Body by Shigehisa Kuriyama. Peace ✌️

"these researchers published a paper on something that literally any of us could have told you 🙄" ok well my supervisors wont let me write something in my thesis unless I can back it up with a citation so maybe it's a good thing that they're amplifying your voice to the scientific community in a way that prevents people from writing off your experiences as annecdotal evidence

#medicine #fair warning: ill talk to my friends & folks who wanna have a real convo but this topic is pretty to the edge of what i care about spending #my energy on so imma block fast & freely if i dont already kno u

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howitcouldgoes · 2 days ago

Text

AND ANOTHER THING—-

More digital circus stuff beware:

I wanna talk about this scene- because many people use this as Ragatha being mean to Jax intentionally and bringing up his abstracted friend.

Except RIGHT AFTER she says this Ragatha quickly backtracks and goes “oh, Oh wait no! Uh, I’m sorry— I wasn’t talking about— that wasn’t meant to be—“ before she runs away.

Sputtering out how she wasn’t talking about Jax’s friend.

The thing is: I believe her.

It’s how she said “I wasn’t talk about [them]” and “That wasn’t meant to be [about them]” — the [ ] being what I assume she was going to say.

I genuinely don’t think Ragatha was trying to make a jab about that abstracted member because we’ve seen Ragatha get upset about past abstracted circus members before, like in Kaufmo’s funeral despite not getting along with him all the time she still cried and mourned him.

There’s truly no reason she would bring up a potentially really painful memory just to spite Jax, as she said in episode 4: “Hey… I like… hate you? But I don’t want you to hate me. Is that weird?”

Now what was she trying to say? Well to me the tone of voice and the way she looked away— not even intentionally gazing at Pomni— goes “Not anymore” implies she’s not talking about anyone else, but talking about herself.

It’s giving like “Not anymore since I’m not trying to befriend you anymore.” Or “Not anymore since I realize you never change/don’t care”

Although Ragatha does have a very minor habit of almost speaking for others but never to put words in their mouths, in fact every time she does something similar is usually to talk down Jax- like when they talk both Gangle and Ragatha says “maybe she doesn’t want to be friends with someone whose mean to her all the time!”

I truly don’t think she was talking about/for gangle when she said those things- it really did sound like it was coming from her. Purely uncensored personal thoughts about her just finally giving up on Jax’s friendship. EDIT: The only thing that truly debunks this is when Ragatha apologizes to Jax for "bringing up that thing earlier" but again. I don't believe she was actually talking about the frog character - I think Ragatha just felt the need to apologize to Jax because she's been thinking about how she offended him since that moment.

#tadc theory #tadc episode 5 #tadc gangle #tadc jax #tadc pomni #tadc ragatha #tadc #tadc spoilers #the amazing digital circus episode 5 #the amazing digital circus theory #the amazing digital circus

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arachnidseyesmoved · 2 days ago

Text

─⋅⋆⁺𖤐

YOU AND ME

Damian Wayne x Constantine! Reader

A/N: Previous. Next. Damian and reader go on a date!!! That's all that happens, I swear! w.c: 1.8k

You bow with the rest of the performers on stage as the crowd gives one last show of appreciation. When the curtains fall, you very stealthily scamper towards the dressing rooms, not before catching the sly wink Zatanna throws your way.

Maybe you weren’t being that stealthy.

The door to your dressing room clicks shut and you eye yourself in the vanity mirror, only then realising how nervous the girl in the mirror looks. There’s a lot that can go wrong today and a lot you really want to go right. You fix yourself with a look of determination.

With a little twirl and a poof of smoke, your magicians outfit is swapped with the outfit you spent a rather embarrassing amount of time picking out. Before you can fuss anymore over your reflection, there’s a knock on the door.

That was fast, at least you’re not the only eager one. You take a quick, deep breath before opening the door.

Damian Wayne stands in the doorway, he takes you in while you take him in. He’s dressed much less fancy than the last time you saw him, bomber jacket with a simple but probably unnecessarily expensive t-shirt and loose jeans.

“Are you ready?” You ask, unable to fully hide your excitement. You see just the smidgen of a smile on his face as he answers rather seriously,

“I’m always ready for anything.”

“Ooh, Don’t challenge me, Wayne.”

You pull him into the room and shut the door. After knocking three times on said door, you give him a grin.

“You let me plan this whole thing, remember.”

You open the door and step through into an entirely different place. Damian’s sneakers touch cobblestone road and he squints in the sudden sunlight. He thinks he knows already, given the wide bustling streets and the architecture of the buildings around him, but he asks anyway,

“Where are we?”

You’re all too happy to tell him, winding an arm around his and leading him in a seemingly random direction.

“Turin, Italy. I did a mission here a while ago. That’s what we’re going to see first by the way, some good old spooky occult shit, this city has tons of it.”

He lets you drag him to several such occult sights. He listens while you yap about the differences between demonic and non-demonic cathedrals, how to know if a crypt is cursed and which ghost sightings are obviously real and which are fake. He does it all with an attentive mind, almost like he’s reading a book he really likes and he's trying to burn it into his mind.

Once you're done showing him all the "cool shit", you proudly announce that you also planned some things he'd actually enjoy. He keeps the fact that he was enjoying himself the entire time to himself.

You take him to an art gallery, an archaeological museum and a natural history museum. You listen to him yap all about unconventional painting techniques, which period had the best samurai swords and which fun facts about prehistoric animals are actually true and which are completely wrong. You listen with the ear of someone who’s hearing their new favourite song for the first time.

─⋅⋆⁺.

“I get that, but when a magician asks you for your favourite animal and you say "Anaconda." You should at least be a little ready for her to pull out an anaconda! He almost soiled himself on stage!”

Damian huffs a laugh, easing back against the bench you two found that completely coincidentally (as far as he knows) has a perfect view of the sunset. You sit in easy silence, sharing a cup of caramel ice-cream. He looks more at ease than you’ve ever seen him before and an embarrassing amount of pride blooms in your chest at how well your date turned out to be.

You stare ahead at the horizon and wonder if he’s thinking the same thing you are, the thought sparks a bit of unease. Realising you haven’t said something stupid or irritating in a while, you decide now would be a good time to break the fast.

“Do you think the sunset will be this pretty on our wedding day?”

His lips nudge downwards, not quite a grimace but he eyes your smug grin with much annoyance. He sighs and takes another scoop of ice-cream with his little wooden spoon before saying,

“I hope so.”

The teasing grin disappears from your face, and all you can do is gaze ahead blankly. That’s not what he was supposed to say.

You clear your throat and take a bigger than necessary bite of ice-cream, racking your brain for what the hell to say next. After a few minutes you try again, teasing tone more forced than before.

“Do you think Alfred would walk me down the aisle?”

He doesn’t look at you this time, he just stares ahead at the pinkish-orange sky.

“I'm sure he would if you asked. So would my father. He would be glad that at least one of his sons can commit.”

You look ahead too, wishing you could see the view through his eyes instead.

“I'm sure he'd be proud.”

Damian doesn’t have to ask who you’re thinking about when you say that, so he doesn't.

“Would you invite…her?”

He tilts his head up, genuinely thinking through how that would play out despite how ridiculous this complete hypothetical is.

“I don’t know. I’d want to.”

You nod in understanding. Some things are just too complicated to work out in the end. A twinge of sadness settles before you feel the impulsive urge to turn to a lighter topic.

“Titus would make the perfect flower boy.”

He lets a smile slip onto his face, finally looking back at you. The sun leaves little specs of gold in his eyes and you find yourself openly staring (unbeknownst that he’s making the exact same observation). He takes the cup from your hands and places it beside you on the bench. Taking your hand in his, he leans closer and kisses you gently.

His other hand gently holds your cheek. When you part, he stays close. It feels just like those stupid cheesy movies, like a pretentious romance novel, like a sappy love song. But it feels good, good enough that you hold off on the snarky comment for just a few seconds more.

“You know you’d have to make Jon the best man, right?”

Damian groans, pulling back and closing his eyes, acting as if that's actually something he'll have to do. You laugh and lay your head on his shoulder.

“C’mon, He’d be devastated if you didn’t.”

Damian puts his arm around you, keeping you close.

“Maybe I’ll just lie and tell him Arab weddings don’t have a best man.”

You let out a snort,

“Good luck with that.”

You stay like that until the sun sinks behind the distant mountains, replaced by the orange glow of street lamps. Eventually, you stand from the bench, clearing your throat a bit.

“I know I’ve kept you all day, but do you want to grab dinner?”

He stands from the bench as well, throwing away the little ice-cream cup before casually lacing your hands together.

“Anything for my future wife.”

Your heart almost stops. Your brain stammers and so do your words.

“Don’t- Don’t say that.”

“Say what, beloved?”

He asks, looking down at you with a smirk. You very much do not like being on the other side of this dynamic at all. And you know he knows that, he might just be able to feel the heat from your face!

“Stop that-”

Before you can finish, the world stops, literally. Everything slows to a halt. Crickets stop chirping, the breeze stops blowing, all commotion on the street is silenced. Even Damian is suspended in animation just like everything else. Everything except you and-

You’re looking around already, knowing exactly what this is. He used to do this when you were being belligerent on missions. He'd just stop the entire world to yell at you for being a dumb kid, even if he could only do it for a few precious seconds. Nothing for months and he picks now?

You slide your hand out of Damian’s and step closer to where you can see the yellow portal forming.

“You really have bad fucking timing.”

“Language.”

John Constantine steps out of the portal, hands in the pockets of his coat, cigarette in his mouth.

“I need yer help.”

You couldn’t stop the eyeroll if you tried.

“Obviously.”

Why the hell else would he be here. He sighs and takes in his surroundings, looking anywhere but you.

“What are ya even doing here, sight seeing?”

You step back towards Damian and grab his hand, bringing him out of the time freeze. He looks around, taking in the situation with shocking calmness, his expression turns to understanding when he sees John.

“I'm on a date.”

John looks to you, then at Damian, then back to you. It takes him a minute to understand who Damian is and what that means. The cigarette falls out of his mouth as he sputters like an idiot.

“Yer fucking with me.”

“Language.”

He regains some composure when he notices the way you’re looking at him. As if he just remembered how you two left things. That you might actually not want to see him.

“Look, Love, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't an end of the world kind of thing.”

You feel Damian squeeze your hand a little, a reassuring act, an act of trust. There’s a deep understanding between you but with that comes a lot left unsaid. Left in the grey space of "We both understand this so there’s no need to discuss it really.” or is it that you want to talk about it but don’t know how. Being exceptionally gifted kids with exceptional, world-saving parents and bucket loads of trauma isn't something you just bring up casually.

But Damian understands obligation and responsibility. The need to do what’s necessary.

“Fine.”

John sighs, like he actually thought you wouldn’t say yes for a second. The thought brings you more spiteful pride than you’d like to admit.

“Come along then.”

He simply states, before disappearing into his little portal leaving it open for you to follow. Everything slowly returns to normal pace again, the bustle of the street returns as pedestrians keep on like nothing happened. Lucky bastards.

“I’ll call you…when I’m done.”

He nods his head. He’s taking this very well and you’re not sure how to feel about it. He's trying to be understanding, probably because he knows you'd do the exact same thing for him. You barely have to talk about why you have to go, what you have to do… but that doesn't mean you don't want to.

"Don't make me stitch you up again."

He brings you into a hug. You think briefly on how awkward a hug from Damian would have been just a month ago. The thought makes you smile as you burrow your face in his warm neck, breathing in his distinct scent. You open a magic door for him,

“This’ll take you home. To the manor.”

With that you give him one last long look before following your dad into his portal, going who knows where to face who knows what.

─⋅⋆⁺𖤐

#damian wayne x reader #constantine! reader #dc x reader #damian wayne x you #damian al ghul x reader #damian al ghul x you #damian wayne

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kandyscorner · 2 days ago

Note

You know what super sweet to think about, Jason getting his first cheek kiss by someone he likes🥺 I know I said I'd submit something for Dick or Tim to break up all the Jason Todd on the dash, but ugh can you blame me?? Like maybe it's a first date or a second, and he's nervous, like she can tell even though he's hiding it pretty well. Maybe he does something sweet, hold the door open for her, pull her seat out, give her his jacket, something chivalrous that just comes naturally from being around Alfred for so long, and she thanks him with a sweet kiss to the cheek. I imagine he short circuits completely, couldn't recover in time even if he tried, and believe me, he tried. Red blush, starting from his chest all the way to his ears, eye brows shooting up involuntarily like he didn't know a cheek kiss could exist, and he's just frozen in time. You look at him and giggle, and that sound breaks him out of it, and he's just a fumbling mess the rest of the night, but secretly he's just trying to earn another one of those. Ugh, I love him your honor

@herodedicatedblog

Publishing this request to try and summon @herodedicatedblog. I miss my friends crazy commentary. I got lost in the sauce of this, I think, but I still think it works out pretty good. Flustered Jason is the best! I love him!!

_____

“Trivia? You're taking me to trivia?” Jason gives you a very judgey face and it makes you wrinkle your nose.

“Don't say it like that. I thought long and hard about this.” This being the first time Jason was letting you plan a date.

“So that's where the smell of smoke was from.” Jason retorts. You step slowly into his space, hands behind your back and you grin at him innocently.

He eyes you but doesn't step away from you, if anything leans just a bit closer. It gives you ample opportunity to flick his cheek.

“Don't be mean to me,” you tell him with a pout. He grabs the hand that flickered him, thumb rubbing over your knuckles.

“Alright, I'm sorry, okay?” You can see the sincerity in his eyes but you flounder anyway.

“Do you really not like trivia?” You ask quietly, eyes downcast. He tips your chin with his free hand to make you look up at him again.

“I like anything you plan. I didn't mean to rag on you, sweetheart. Just wasn't expecting trivia is all.”

“It's at the library,” you start, feeling more confident and hoping to explain why you had chosen trivia for the date, “and it's specifically on classic literature.”

You tug him down the sidewalk where you two halted for your conversation. Your jittering nerves enough to finally answer him after he asked what you had planned for the third time.

“The library?” He asks, letting you pull him slightly.

“Yeah, you mentioned how you spent a lot of time at the library when you were younger and how you try to support them as much as possible. I figured we could hit two birds with one stone. A date and support the library by participating in their activities.” You suck in a breath at the end of your words.

“Anyone ever tell you you're perfect, sweetheart, cause you are.” The compliment has you flustering a little but you find relief when the library comes into view.

You pause to look at it. The buildings in Gotham never ceased to amaze you, the architecture always so detailed. Jason stands beside you as you admire the building and then offers you an elbow.

“I think we have a fun trivia night to get to.” He says and you take his arm letting him lead you this time.

“You called it fun,” you say in almost a tease.

“I never said otherwise,” he lightly chides as you climb the steps.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you roll your eyes and reach for the door but Jason beats you to it and pulls the door open.

“Thank you, handsome,” you say as you walk through the open door. When you turn to wait for him you find a light red dusting across his cheeks and find yourself pleased with getting him to blush.

The past three date's you had been on you had felt like a total fool. It's why you asked if you could plan the next one, for some semblance of control when it came to being around Jason.

You check in for trivia and settle in. A small crowd, mostly families and a few couples and friends. Trivia goes by easily or as easily as being tested on old books could be.

Jason kept looking at you and smiling. You could tell he was trying to make up for his teasing from before, telling you periodically how he was enjoying this and that it was fun.

The trivia was set up like March madness. You would go up against one team and whoever won would move onto the next round.

Jason was good, like really good and so were you. You had lightly studied up on classic literature beforehand. It wasn't to show off but you didn't want to look like a total idiot during the date. As the game went on the questions got harder and more specific.

You were in the second to last round. You just had to beat this one and you would be in the finals. You were actually excited, a quiet adrenaline thrumming through your veins. You had one last question in this round.

“Shakespeare wrote over 150 works in his lifetime. Which of these works ends in the death of the noble Trojan Hector?”

You find your competitors turn to each other in a panic. You don't think about it and don’t listen to the question thoroughly as you turn to Jason, “It's the Iliad, right?”

Jason blinks at you apparently startled, he already has the mark uncapped and pressed to the white board. His face turns into a grimace like he’s about to tell you some bad news.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently and makes you smile at his placating attempts, “that's not Shakespeare.”

“I know,” you nod slowly with pinched brows. He gives you a look and you turn to where they have the question posted, “Oh sorry. I wasn't listening to the first part.” you fluster. He reaches over and gives your hand a squeeze.

“You would've been right without,” he lets go of your hand and picks the mark back up. You lean over his shoulder to watch his answer.

“I never knew Shakespeare wrote anything about the Trojan War.” you whisper into his ear and you swear Jason shudders. He turns his head to meet your eye once he’s done writing.

“It's not very popular. People find it confusing and the name is deceptive.”

“You're actually pretty positive about this, aren’t you?” you question.

“It's why you brought me.” he says with a cocky grin which makes you laugh because it's something you'd expect from a man winning a sport not classic literature trivia.

“Times up, Ladies and Gentlemen, please show us your answers.”

The other team flips the board first, Timon of Athens. Despite the written answer they still seem entirely unsure of it.

“”While Timon of Athens is a tragedy, it is not the tragedy of Troy. Unfortunately that is incorrect. And our second team?”

You give Jason a reassuring nod and he flips the board. Troilus and Cressida

“It seems we have our first contestants for the final round.” the host rambles on more information that you entirely ignore because you made it to the final round! You and Jason stand to swap out seats with the next group. You shuffle over to the “Audience” seating and sit down suddenly aware of the tight grip you have on Jason’s hand. He doesn't complain, doesn't say anything.

It's only once the next round starts that you can't contain your excitement anymore. You shake Jason’s hand and turn in your seat, lean up and press an excited kiss to his cheek, “We won.” you whisper, still vibrating with glee.

As you pull back, Jason turns his head slowly to stare at you. He blinks and stares and blinks again. The apples of his cheeks turn red first. It creeps up to his ears and down his neck disappearing under the collar of his shirt. Your glee shifts from excitement about winning to excitement over how fluster Jason suddenly is.

“What’s wrong, handsome? Need another victory kiss?” you swear he turns redder at your teasing.

“No, that's okay. Is it hot in here?” he mumbles and you laugh, loud enough to earn a glare from the people around you. You couldn't care less about the trivia night anymore, enamored by how Jason blushes.

You leave Jason alone other than periodically staring at him. His blush settles mostly, though it resides on his cheeks indefinitely. He fidgets in his seat clearly no longer paying attention to the trivia game in front of you.

You want to kiss him on the cheek again then kiss him on the mouth and sit back and watch that blush grow. You want to do it when his shirt is off so you can press kisses to his reddened neck and hopefully follow it as far down as it goes. Maybe go lower to see if the red would follow.

You blink at the poking at your shoulder, a woman behind you gesturing to the trivia contest. It was time for the final round. Apparently, neither you or Jason were paying attention because you have to tug him out of his seat to get him to come along.

You settle in your seat, markers at the ready. The host explains that there will only be one question this round and that was it. You glance at Jason, cheeks still red and you're not entirely sure he’s even listening which would have bothered you if you even cared about the trivia game anymore.

“The final round, the winner takes it all, all being this small trophy we found on Amazon and this bag of candy.” The host presents the prize and a ripple of laughter moves through the group with a small child yelling out, “there was candy!?”

“Are you ready contestants?” the host asks and you nod only slightly hoping Jason will come back to the moment.

“How often does Mr Darcy call Elizabeth by her first name in Jane Austen's book Pride and Prejudice? Time starts now.”

You gingerly set the marker down. This question was so not meant for you. Jason had teased you about not having read it at least once. It wasn't a requirement at your school.

You turn in your seat and find him still looking a little dazed and decide you're probably not going to be winning this.

“Jason,” you whisper to him and gain no reaction, “Jason!” You poke at his rib and his eyes snap to you.

“What?” You press your hand to your mouth to keep from laughing.

“I can't answer this question.”

“What question?”

“Jason,” you chide and gesture to the posted question and the time you were running out of fast.

“Oh, shit,” his brows raise in surprise and you stifle another laugh.

“Jason, there's children here.”

“Sorry,” he doesn't sound very sorry, “I don't know the answer.”

That he does sound sorry about. You give him what you hope is a calm smile.

“That's okay. Take your best guess.”

“But we're so close, sweetheart.” He insists even though there's nothing he can do.

“I know, handsome but we're out of time,” you gesture back to the clock now in seconds. He hurries with the marker and writes down his answer, once.

“I think it's when he proposed, but there may have been another time.I can't remember.” He leans to whisper to you, cheeks a slightly redder than before.

“And our answers are once and twice. I'm so sorry but the answer is twice!” The little girl on the competing team bounces out of her mom's lap and nearly dives at the host for the candy.

You finally let out your ill contained laughter, hand grabbing Jason’s and intertwining your fingers. Partially so he won't think you're mad about the loss, mostly because you're about to kiss his cheek again and you're definitely going to make him stay there so you can watch him turn red again.

_____

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adhd-fandom-and-gay · 2 days ago

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Honestly im trying to imagine what id assume without foresight bias.

I think my first thought would be that buddy is being taken under friend's wing as a protectee or something like that. Both of them being very defensive over buddy's past would lead me to suspect that maybe buddy came from a dangerous (whether that be due to his own havoc or a bad environment) life prior and id probably assume that a lot of his behaviours (the avoidance of contact when traveling through the city, the long periods of hiding away, the aversion to expressing his past, the lack of appetite, the overall hostility) were either a result of perhaps trauma or something of the sort. Maybe some of its just him trying to keep his head down as to not be caught in the case that he ran away from a bad home life and has been reported as missing by his residence or is on the run from the police.

So first assumption is that he's a runaway or maybe just a down on his luck guy with some issues who my friend took in.

From there, I'd likely assume that the reasons for it were because of the friend's altruistic nature because I'd feel uneasy trying to blame buddy for blackmail if I'm assuming that buddy has just had a bad life before this. Maybe friend has a deal with buddy that buddy does assistant work for him in exchange for shelter? I wouldnt be able to confirm nor deny that so my next assumption would probably be that there was some sort of connection between them beyond that (relatives, secret lovers, maybe just sex or close friends.) but thats about as far as my theorizing would go. I might try to rule out or give more credence to direct familial relation based on appearances if I could but like i said i wouldnt be able to get much farther than that.

situation:

you are in your mid forties, and have this friend who's your age that you've known for decades

except you two sort of lost touch a few years ago. he's been busy with work, and now he's kinda famous? good for him!

but now your friend has this... buddy - a man half your age (about twenty years your junior)

your friend tells you he's written a will that says all his estate goes to this buddy. like, your friend is a childless bachelor, so its not like he has a clear heir, but like. this doesn't add up. your friend always was... eccentric, queer if you will, but you didn't expect him to do something like this

and when you finally meet this buddy, you hate him. everyone you know hates him. the buddy is an asshole, and just being around him is enough to unsettle you. something's deeply wrong with him, but you might also just be biased

and also its really vague where this buddy even comes from? neither the buddy nor your friend will tell you. they've asked you to stop asking, and you aren't going to break the law to violate their privacy

also. you keep hearing these weird rumors. your bestie says the buddy is satanic. your friend's staff say that the buddy is nocturnal and doesn't eat. the buddy also seems to be able to travel completely undetected in the city and disappears randomly

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rokiibrok · 1 day ago

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Gentle Scratches

Smut with a plot.

Caleb x you

synap: After getting bruised in a fight with wanderers, Caleb offers to clean you up, leading to undeniable sexual tension.

The phone in your back pocket vibrated repeatedly. When you finally took it out, a very enthusiastic voice greeted you.

“Hey, pipsqueak, what are you up to?” You could almost imagine him twirling his hair like some excited teenage girl.

“Running a few errands, I hope you’re still free after,”

“I already cleared the rest of my schedule for you,” which wasn’t as easy as he made it sound.

“What are you doing?” You mumbled, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear.

He let out a slow, exaggerated sigh. " Boring colonel paperwork," His pen now twirling in his fingers.

"I would have thought you'd always be on your feet, stressing about something," you replied with a teasing tone.

“No, most of the time-” He paused. You could hear a faint knock before another voice started speaking. They sounded almost panicked as they rushed their words out. But you couldn’t make out a single sentence. “Sorry, pipsqueak, I have to go. Make sure to call me when you get to Skyhaven,”

You responded with a quick will do before ending the line.

You finally finished all your errands, but unfortunately, a hunter never gets a day off. Shortly after your watch pinged, Wanderers appeared. You quickly pulled out your gun, keeping an eye out for the fleeing people while also trying to contain the Wanderers and protect the rest of the city. The fight ended quickly, but you didn’t come away unscathed. Keeping people safe while fighting wasn’t easy; you had bruises, scratches, and some minor bleeding, but nothing life-threatening. An ambulance arrived and offered to take you to the hospital, but you declined; you were used to a few bruises by now. Finally, after everything, you arrived in Skyhaven, feeling relieved to have made it.

You didn’t even have enough time to click Caleb’s name on your phone before your name was called. The excitement in his voice cut off immediately.

“Are you okay? What happened?” He rushed towards you. His hand was hovering slightly above your face. His voice was stern.

“Just a bit exhausted,” You looked up at him, his brows furrowed. His hand finally cupped your cheeks ever so gently. He turned your face left, then right, slowly. “I’m fine, I swear,” you smiled, hoping it would ease the tension a bit.

“Was it Wanderers?” The way he spoke, moments when his voice lost all playfulness, all emotion. It reminded you he wasn’t the boy you grew up with. Not anymore. You nodded a bit, grabbing his hands.

“Let’s just forget about it. I’m not hurt, just a few cuts,” he didn’t respond right away.

“Can I at least check on you when we get home?” he said softly, almost as if he were begging. His violet puppy eyes looked down at you, and no matter how many times he gazed at you with that almost hurt expression, you always fell helplessly for it.

“Of course you can,”

——————-

——————

Caleb's thumb held your chin as he turned your face. Y'all were now at his place.

“Does that hurt?” His free hand gently running down your neck then stopped at the edge of your shoulder. You almost shudder at the touch.

“No-tickles,” you giggled a bit, which earned a small smile from him

“You have dirt in your hair,” he said, backing away and ruffling your hair. His voice was tinged with a hint of sorrow. He spoke softly, his brows pointing upwards. Lips pouted so slightly, if you hadn't known him so well, you would've missed it.

“Offering to wash it?” It was almost a joke. You felt kind of icky after the fight. After all, you had rolled around in dirt. Dried blood and sweat still stuck to your skin.

“I-,” he paused before smiling. “I haven’t washed your hair since we were kids,” you hummed, smiling.

“Because you'd pull my hair,” you teased, walking to the bathroom.

“Mayyybe because you couldn’t sit still.” He followed behind you, and you didn't notice when his gaze quickly flickered across your body.

You now sat in the tub. Bubbles sitting right above your chest. With Caleb, you never felt uncomfortable. Not even while you sat naked in the tub. Bubbles covering your most intimate parts. After all, you’d sat like this time after time with Caleb.

“Little Miss Hunter,” He spoke lowly. His fingers gently rub your scalp. “Always rushing head first into danger,” His fingers somehow massaged your scalp like an expert. Gently soaking the bubbles deeper. You almost hummed at the soothing sensation. “Try not to squirm, I don’t want soap getting in your eyes,” His voice low, breathy. Heat from his mouth brushes against your neck, causing you to shiver. One hand traces the curves of your back. “Does this hurt?”

It took you a moment to respond, not because of the question, but because you were worried you'd let out a moan for an answer. “No,” the words slowly fell from your lips, hesitant yet firm.

“Look up,”

You did as told without a second thought, almost instinctively. You shifted slightly, closing your legs as a pressure began to build in your lower stomach. It was something you were somewhat used to; after all, Caleb was a handsome man. It would be strange if he didn’t make your heart race once or twice, right? Especially when he spoke so low it should’ve been a whisper. It didn’t help when one hand ran water through my hair. You took a deep breath before slowly letting it out. Your chest, wavering. Your body reacting in ways you wish it didn’t. Goosebumps covering your skin.

“Try not to squirm I don’t want soap getting in your eyes,” He laughed slowly, a teasing, low laugh that made your head spin and your eyes roll back. Both of his hands rested on your shoulders. His left hand remained still while his right hand trailed down your arm, moving only with his fingertips.

“Your entire arm is bruised.” His voice was soft and slow, like it hurt to say. That quiet worry made your thighs press tighter together. God, he cared. And that did something to you.

“I’m okay,” A breathy moan escaped your lips involuntarily. “Promise,” you added quickly. Hoping to brush past the sound. Whether he noticed, he didn’t respond. You glanced over your shoulder and took in his disheveled hair, with a few strands sticking to his forehead, likely from the stream. Then, your gaze fell on the sleeves of his shirt, which were rolled up to his forearms. You noticed the bare skin of his arms, the visible veins, faint scars, and the contours of his fingers. His hand rested on the side of the tub for support.

“Distracted?” That boyish grin drove your imagination wild. Your eyes rolled as you looked away. The teasing lit in his voice caused you to smile. You couldn’t stop it if you tried.

“You done?” Maybe if you got him out of the bathroom, the heat consuming your body would slow down.

He smiled and tilted his head a bit before pushing himself up. “Yea yea,” that smile never leaving his lips. His eyes not quite leaving you either.

The moment he left, you let out a sigh of relief. The heat in your face slowly going down. You rinsed off the soap, feeling the water trickle down your body. Your mind wanders to the memory of Caleb's slender fingers against your bare back. Imagine the feel of his hand on other parts of your body. You quickly shook your head and got dressed. Which was unsurprisingly his shirt and shorts. They almost hung on you like a blanket.

“We aren’t playing doctor all night, are we?” You teased walking out of the bathroom. Caleb is already holding a few Band-Aids.

“Not much longer, promise,” He patted the open space on the couch. “We can do whatever you want after,” his smile didn’t fully reach his eyes.

“Whatever?” you echoed with a grin, your voice lilting just enough to let him know you were poking fun.

“Anything,”

“What if you regret saying that?” You sit down next to him. He scoots a little closer. You were only teasing-or at least it’s supposed to come off as that way. He paused a little, then smiled wider this time.

“Turn your head, pipsqueak.” The Gentle tone he used affected you more than you wish. As you did so, you could feel his hands on your jaw as he laid down a band-aid. He started covering the rest of the open wounds on your body. His hand gentle around your waist. You had to look away so you wouldn’t stare.

Especially when he dropped to his knees. Settling between your legs. Putting a Band-Aid around your ankle, with all his attention focused on that one leg. His eyes looked up. Those soft violet eyes made your heart jump. Just one glance from him could make your body shudder. Not to mention the feeling between your legs returned tenfold. His fingers spread as they slowly moved up your leg, inspecting every inch.

“Relax,” His voice was soothing and intoxicating all at once.

“I... am just," You paused, taking a quick breath. “Stings,” the words sounded more like a question. You shook your head, a bit embarrassed with yourself. It felt silly-the sexual tension building had to be your imagination. Caleb's eyebrows tilted ever so slightly. He glanced back at your leg before placing one more band-aid on your upper thigh.

“When we were kids you’d always get hurt doing the silliest things,”

He sat up, still on his knees between your legs. His ruffled hair covered his face as he looked down. His attention was on the same leg. Seemingly lost in thought as his fingers ran down. Stopping right above your ankle. He let a low, breathy chuckle.

“Then you’d come crying -Caleb, oh Caleb, I think I broke my leg,” he mocked. Then, slowly, he glanced up. His hair was still blocking his face. His eyebrows raised as he looked up at you, passing his lashes and strands of brown hair. “And I’d take care of you,” his thumb caressed the middle of your leg. “Until you felt better,” His tone steady and low. A moment passed, yet you couldn’t look away. Especially when you caught glimpses of his eyes.

“Caleb,” The words came out slower and softer than you expected. He didn’t respond right away, his head dropping to your leg once more. His fingers slowly trailed up your leg. One hand around your calf while the other on top. Both hands moving in sync. Then he said your name. So low you could’ve missed it if the outside world wasn’t so quiet. His hands stopped below your knee. He seemed almost hesitant.

“Is this okay?” The question seemed simple. But in reality, he was asking, Is it okay to cross this silent boundary? The one that kept us friends? Would it be okay if we went passed the point of no return? Slowly, you nodded, holding his eye contact. It took a moment before he stood up. One hand remains on your leg. Slowly moving up until it reached the outer side of your thigh. His other arm reached out beside your head. As he places his hand on the back of the couch. You followed his movements, then stopped back at his face. Your eye darted from his lips to his eyes. The dog tag you had gifted him was dangling from his neck. Slowly swinging back and forth. Him now standing between your legs.

“I need to hear you say it.” The usual teasing edge in his voice was gone, replaced by a quiet firmness that made your breath catch

“Yes,” you paused and glanced away. Only for a second. “It’s okay,”

The hand on your leg that was hesitating before now continued to roam over your thigh. You could feel the faint warmth of his body. He tilted his head and leaned in but stopped halfway. His unsteady breath hits your bottom lip. His eye was glued to your lips. Then they slowly trailed back to your eyes. He waited like a quiet invitation. As if he were asking, “Are you sure,” one last time. Wrapping your hand around his neck, you pulled him in. His lips immediately moved once they connected. His hand on your thigh roaming up passed your ass then stopping at you lower waist. He pulled you closer to him. It was slow and passionate. Like two flickering flames slowly connecting. His free hand on your neck. He slowly tilted your head down to follow his movements. His knees were back on the ground. His pelvis was on the edge of the couch. You could feel his chest against your lower stomach.

He was the first to pull back. You could see his eyes moving around your face. His lips slightly parted, his breathing irritated. Both his hands on your waist now.

“I want you.” Your eyes wandered to his chest. “I need you Caleb.” It wasn’t long until his lips were back on yours. His fingers tightened slightly. Not hurting, just firm. You go to take off his shirt. He pulls back for a second to slide his shirt over his head. His chest was firm. His torso was bare beneath the light. Lean muscle shifted with every subtle movement, each line of his abdomen carved like stone, sharp and defined, the kind of abs that made it impossible not to stare. the taper of his waist draws the eye lower.

“You have me,” he went back into the kiss. Tongues connecting, His slight groans muffled by your lips. Both of his hands now cupping your cheeks. He leaned into the kiss. Pushing your back against the plush couch. His hips moving between your legs. Your slight groans muffled with each kiss. “You’ve always had me,” He murmured against your lips. Not fully pulling back as if he wasn't ready- wasn't capable of breaking the kiss. You pulled back to slip your shirt off. A trail of saliva follows you. Now leaving you in just his shorts. He watched your every movement. Caleb's eyes seemed awestruck. Especially when he leaned back in with a smile. “You’re beautiful,” he said, kissing the side of your neck. His hands following the curve of your waist.

“Every part of you,” His lips trailed down your neck. Leaving small kisses in a slow trail. Finally stopping at your collarbone. He paused for a moment before continuing to kiss down your body, stopping just above your chest.

“Caleb,” The way you said his name was almost whiny. Showing him how impatient you were growing by the second. It didn’t make him move any faster. In fact, all he did in response was hum a little as he started kissing up your neck. Stopping right below your ear. His hum was almost a mocking "yeah"

He kisses your jawline, then pulls you back into his chest, before scooping you off the couch. You could feel his muscles as he carried you like nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him into another hot and heavy kiss. One arm wrapped around his neck. Your other hand was tangled in his hair, gripping slightly. You moaned into the kiss. His hand gripping under side of your thigh. He gently pushed your back against a wall. You leaned back, looking at him. His cheeks a slight shade of red. His head tilted ever so slightly. One of your hands rubbed down his bare chest. Keeping a slow, tantalizing speed. Feeling each ab on your fingertips while holding eye contact. He groaned at your touch. You could feel him grow tense. His eyes followed your touch. He squirmed as your fingers slid down. Without moving his head, he locked eyes with you. He was smiling. Your hand stopped at his waistband. You gently pulled at the front, making sure not to break eye contact. He whined just at your touch alone.

Putting his hands on your lower back, he pulled you into his chest before backing off the wall. He kissed you once more, like a starving man. He wasn't ashamed to be vocal, that's for sure. Using his foot, he kicked his bedroom door open. He dropped you onto his bed, your legs spreading as you looked up at him.

You leaned in, grabbing his dog tag and pulling him on top of you. He followed along, crawling over you, his arms resting on either side of your head. The tip of the tag rested on your bottom lip. You pulled at it, dragging him closer. His tongue tangled with yours. He slowly lowered himself onto you, his hands finding your waist. He moaned into your mouth as you both felt each other’s most intimate parts. The print in his pants rubbed against your clothed cunt.

He took the first initiative to take off your pants, sliding the oversized shorts off and dropping them to the floor. He paused for a moment, looking up at you. His lips spread into a slow smile as he looked down at your panties.

"You're wet," he said — almost like he couldn't believe it, like it was a dream. He leaned down, kissing your lower abdomen.

You tensed up a bit. You head rolling back on the soft pillow, one hand in his hair. Not pulling, just holding. The other holding the side of the bed. "Relax," He mumbled into your stomach. A low vibration followed his words. He trailed down, leaving kisses. One hand sneaking from your waist to your lower stomach. His fingers spread out. "I read you better than anyone,' The last word sounded venomous. Whilst the rest were low yet comforting. "I'll know if you start second-guessing," He said, kissing the lace on your panties. "I'll know," he kissed again. "So," he pushed your leg open, placing a kiss above the crease between your thigh. "Trust me,' He spoke slowly, his words sounding like a whine. Like he was silently begging.

"Of course, I trust you," the hand in his hair falling to his cheek for a moment. The way his brows rose, his red cheeks. His slightly parted lips. It made your heart rate rise. He kissed the space between your legs. Earning a low whine from you. A silent approval as he slowly slid your panties off. His eyes trailed down your legs, then back to the middle. He leaned in, not quite doing anything. Not yet, at least. His arm lying on the top of your upper thigh. Slowly he ran his thumb down your clit. you squeezed the side of the bed and looked away.

"Do you like it when I do that?" He asked, rubbing a small circle in the same area. A simple yes wouldn't be enough. It took you a moment before you nodded a meek yes, leaving your lips. Quickly followed by a soft moan. He played with your clit, enjoying your reactions. He'd been yearning for so long that he'd never want to rush this moment. Especially not with you. "I want to hear you," it took a few seconds before he continued, "Baby." His voice is enrichingly deep.

"Yes," Your words came out in a single breath.

"Okay' He leaned in. The tip of his nose on your bare pussy. "okay" He mumbled into you before leaving a kiss. Then he stuck out his tongue. Staring from the bottom and stopping a you clit. It was slow and long. Your body involuntarily jolted. Your back lifted off the bed for a second. One hand was squeezing his hair. His moans vibrating off the walls of your cunt.

"Please," you moaned, looking down at him. His eyes appeared between your legs. "Caleb." Whether it was your tone, his name, or the way you begged. Something made him snap. He ran his tongue over your soaked core one last time before finally slipping it inside you. Your breathing became ragged, your throat dry, as involuntary whines left you. Both Caleb's hands are on your thighs. You could feel the faint pressure of his Evol keeping your legs open. Your eyes rolled back. The heat in the room prickles your skin with sweat. You moaned louder when you felt a finger enter. His tongue still ravishing your pussy as he fingered you. You moaned his name. His tongue now lapping at your clit. His fingers kept a steady, slow pace. Finally, he lifted his head. The area around his mouth glistened. He watched looking at your chest rise and fall quickly. His fingers were still moving. He watched as you tried to hold eye contact. But failed as you continued to whimper. Your head falling back on the bed. His fingers wiggling inside of you. His evol letting up so he could watch you squirm in his grasp. Your legs shaking with every pump of his fingers. Then, as you reached your peak, he stopped. You heaved as your chest lifted and fell, struggling to catch your breath. After a moment you spoke.

"You’re such a tease," you said, not directing your comment at him specifically. Eyes glued to the ceiling.

"I can't help it," He sat up. "it's not my fault you sound-" He paused as you sat up and jabbed his chest gently.

"shut up," You pulled him back on top of you, pulling him into a kiss.

"So bossy," He spoke against your lips. Your hands found the buckle of his pants. He helped you slip them off alongside his drawers. Finally letting his cock spring to action.

"Oh," you leaned back on your arms. He was huge—realistically huge. It jumped as you stared, eyes tracing the curving veins. You sat up on your knees, taking a moment before gently pushing him down on the bed.

"Okay," you whispered next to his ear, your finger trailing slowly down his chest, giving him the same kind of slow torture he gave you.

You watched him whine, eyes locked on yours like he'd do anything you asked in that moment, no matter how ridiculous. He tensed when your fingers traveled back up his chest. He moaned your name and grabbed your wrist, not to stop you, just to feel you. You kept stroking his chest, and he jolted at your touch. Your fingers spread as you trailed down his chest. Feeling his chest and the ripple of his abs.

You hadn’t even touched his cock yet, and still it jumped like you did Pre-cum dripping down. "Do you... like this?" You asked hand lowering. Finally touching the tip if his cock. Cum sticking to the palm of your hand. He moaned, his fingers pulling at his hair.

"can-" He took a sharp breath as you ran your hand down his cock. "I want to feel you, baby." His voice wavered. You paused, looking up at him. His soft voice, almost a pleading tone. It made you ache to feel him. You leaned over him, catching his lips. You straddled his hips. His hands found your waist as you fervently made out. You moaned against his lips. Your hands on his bare chest holding yourself up.

"Is this okay?" You whispered, looking down at him. He took a moment before speaking.

"I want to make you feel good," he whispered softly, reaching up to caress your cheeks. His thumb rubbed small circles as he continued, "I want you to feel how much I love you."

His words were all you needed as you hovered over cock. Before slowly sitting on top of him, you stopped at his tip. It stretched you open. He sucked in a deep breath his fingers tightening on your waist.

"Are you okay?" He asked with a husky tone. You nodded, giving yourself a moment to adjust to his size. Your hands are still on his chest most of your weight focused there. You slowly dropped yourself lower. A gasp left Caleb as you clenched around him.

You moaned his name when his cock twitched inside of you. His eyes still glued to you. Occasionally, trailing over your body. Taking in the sight of you on his penis. He stuttered as he said your name, head rolling back. "do you like that," His voice low.

You nodded, moving your waist. His penis moving against your walls. He whimpered, hands once again tightening.

"good job, baby," His voice was high. His breath was heavy with every word. Your hips bounced once more until you found the perfect rhythm. You moaned a bit, stifled as you covered your mouth. "let-" He interrupted himself moaning. "l-let it out," You clenched around his cock. His voice was low, husky, ragged, like each word was dragged from the back of his throat. “Just like that…” It rumbled out of him, breathless and broken, the sound heavy with want. Every syllable felt earned, like he was speaking through clenched teeth, trying to hold himself together while you moved on top of him.

"Yeah,” your words came out as a whine. One of his hands rested on the back of your neck, holding your head still to maintain eye contact. Your stomach tightened as the pressure built. Using his hand on your neck, he pulled you in for a kiss. The other hand traveled from your cheek to your lower back. Slowly, he flipped you, positioning himself on top. You let out a small gasp as your back hit the bed. “You feel so good…” You gasped, the words tumbling out between moans. Caleb slowly moved in and out of your pussy. Make sure to leave the tip in before slowly pushing back in. A plethora of wet sounds with each thrust. Caleb nodded at your words. His dog tag dangled violently, swinging with each thrust. Sweat dripped down his toned arms with each hand on either side of your head. His moans were loud, unashamed, and unrestrained, echoing in the air between you. There was nothing held back, no control—just raw, desperate sound spilling from him with every roll of his hips.

Balancing himself on one arm, he touched your lower stomach. He could feel the tip of his cock when it entered. He pushed down softly and earned an abrupt, loud moan from you. It left your lips without shame, high and needy, the kind of sound that made him look at you like he was ready to ruin you all over again. The pleasure building inside of you. You could tell he was at his climax. His words came out strangled. His breathing was heavy and whiny.

"Caleb, I'm going to-" You couldn't even finish speaking. Caleb nodded, his fingers curling around the sheets. The moment you stopped speaking your walls clenched around his penis. He moaned your name as he leaned down, catching your lips. Your moans entangle with his tongue. The world blurred for a moment as you both came undone. Legs shaking as the high slowly subsided. Caleb slowly dropped on top of you. Rolling over a little, not to crush you. Your limbs still entangled.

He took a few heavy breaths before he spoke. "Are you okay?" He seemed to speak in one breath. You nodded before turning your head to look at him. Strands of his hair stuck to his forehead. The rest is messy. His eyelids were lowered like he'd fall asleep at any moment. Unable to restrain yourself, a smile crept onto your cheeks. The euphoric moment takes hold of you.

"are you okay?"

He nodded at your question, smiling. His eye widened slightly, sparked with new life. His hand once again found your cheek. His thumb caressing your face as he held eye contact. Neither of you could speak. The moment was filled with comfortable silence as he admired you. He leaned in pressing his head onto yours.

"I love you,' He whispered before closing his eyes.

"I love you, too, Caleb." Your eyes fluttered closed as well, listening to his soft breathing.

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

This was my first time writing actual smut. So I hope you all enjoy, and if you have any requests or feedback please let me know :)

#love and deepspace #caleb x mc #lnds caleb #caleb smut #caleb #caleb lads #lads caleb #caleb love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x you #caleb x reader #calebmc #caleb lads smut #lads smut #love and deepspace smut #smut caleb

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mareastrorum · 2 days ago

Text

This is only half a thought so far, but maybe other people want to chime in.

I’m doing Watch Machina (currently at episode 15) and Nein Again (currently at episode 21) while I also keep up with current Critical Role content (Age of Umbra episode 4) and something that bothers me a little is Matt’s current method of narration.

In C1, Matt’s style is very informal with regard to the narration. There’s little added drama via his tone, pace, or choice of words. “Toothy maw” became a meme pretty quickly, but the point of every description was to efficiently set the scene so the players could start their RP and choose what to do. There wasn’t as much precision with his descriptions, and of course that is a talent that takes a long time to hone when you’re describing lots of different things over the course of several hours. However, the narration was far less formal and calculated than his NPC dialogue, so (in combination with voice acting) it was very easy to determine when Matt was in character or not. It wasn’t a bad thing; Matt’s very casual narration and formal dialogue leading up to the Chroma Conclave’s attack on Emon was excellent because it was so sudden, leading the players and the audience to experience the exact same shock the NPCs would have. It’s not a bad way to narrate. If anything, it made the heartfelt moments so poignant, especially at the end of the campaign. That description of snow drops would not have been nearly as impactful if Matt had narrated that way all the time.

In C2, Matt started getting more descriptive and slowed down his narration to match. As Aabria would put it, he “paints a word picture” and includes more environmental storytelling for the setting itself, not just things for the characters to expressly interact with. I think this is part of what led to the Nein interacting with the set dressing more: Matt mentioned it, so it must be important! This led to some fun hijinks as time went on, and it gave Wildemount a different feeling than Tal’dorei. I couldn’t tell you that Emon had a particular vibe to it other than it being a big city, but howdy do we know that Berleben is full of nosy, bored people in a smelly swamp, and we sure know that Zadash is a bustling city with stark class segregation while Nicodranas is a beautiful trade hub with a mixture of different cultures. I think part of that may have come from working on the source books (they have similar language for the plot hooks and location entries). However, that method of narration was mostly limited to first descriptions of a new place or events (“cutscenes” like the attack in Zadash). Within a scene, Matt was still fairly casual in his discussions with the players.

But currently in Age of Umbra, and with a good chunk of C3, Matt’s narration is far more deliberate. There is a consistently slower pace compared to earlier campaigns, usually only speeding up in combat. Part of that may be for production purposes (easier for transcriptions and closed captioning), but it also impacts the pacing of the game itself. There’s also that presence of a new character: the narrator himself has a voice, and that is now part of the story. It’s extremely noticeable when the cast gets Matt to “break character” as the narrator to only be a DM. It requires a baseline level of formality for that to happen, and Matt committed to it in nearly every scene, regardless of the context of the scene. While that doesn’t feel all that strange for Age of Umbra (it fits well with the soulsborne style of game), it does make me realize that it’s part of why C3 felt incongruous. Like, sorry about the dead horse, but I was expecting C3 to be pulpy, which very much benefits from the narration style of C1 rather than the formal narration style Matt prefers currently. Punchy, informal narration sets a player expectation of “you’re here to get something done and I’ll tell you if it works,” while the current style instead lends itself to “you’re part of my story and this is the tone.” The former is great for fast-paced roleplay and the latter is suited to unhurried storytelling—which wouldn’t feel as mismatched if C3 hadn’t been a story where the PCs needed to prevent a second calamity within the course of a few weeks.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that this was a mistake. Matt clearly enjoys how he narrates currently, and every DM is entitled to their preference. However, I think there’s a lesson in here that varying the narration style to match the purpose of the scene and story would benefit the players and the audience.

To be fair here, Matt is not the only DM who doesn’t mix it up very often. Brennan Lee Mulligan (Dimension 20) is far closer to the C1 style of fast, informal narration with very limited, specific instances where he would slow down for drama; there is no “narrator” character in his players’ story. D20 has a far more casual tone to its seasons than CR does in its campaigns. Luis Carazo (Tales Unrolled) narrates similarly to Matt, with a focus on instilling an emotional reaction for the players to deal with, and the players collaboratively join Luis as the narrator for their own characters; it’s a back and forth where the DM and players contribute to that additional presence. Tales Unrolled is on the opposite end of the spectrum from D20, with a clear feeling that it is a storytelling experience.

Again, choosing one narration style over another isn’t necessarily a flaw. However, I think varied narration is a tool that most DMs underutilize. If used carefully, adjusting narration styles within sessions on the fly could enhance the experience of an Actual Play campaign for everyone involved. It could be used as a signal to the players for what type of scene this will be or when a scene is shifting. It could also signal to performers in a show for pacing within an episode (hijinks are over, time for some drama; time to cool down from the tension).

But, as always, it’s easier to point stuff out like this than it is to do it in practice.

#critical role #matt mercer #also #am I the only one doing all three AND d20 AND tales unrolled?#I might have a problem #PS I just realized I wrote snow caps instead of snow drops too late don’t mind me I want little candies

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