thinkingth0ts

[thinkingth0ts]

JOE KEERY as STEVE HARRINGTON STRANGER THINGS | SEASON 5

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DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN 1.08: Isle of Joy

[thinkingth0ts]

─ ✮⋆˙ 𝑯𝑰𝑻 𝑴𝑬 𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻 || 𝑪𝑳𝑨𝑹𝑲 𝑲𝑬𝑵𝑻

MINI NAT’S NOTE: i haven’t stopping thinking about this loser kansas failure man since friday. i literally got out of bed to write this because i can’t sleep. hope y’all love it, mwah!

CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, rough sex, service top clark, he whimpers cause i said so, sexy uses of x-ray vision, clark kent can FUCK, super stamina yes god, hyperspermia, superman’s super huge dick, belly bulging, porn w.o plot, no use of y/n.

"Clark, please—"

Your voice breaks on his name, swallowed by the sound of the headboard slamming into the way again and again and again.

Your thighs are shaking, pinned wide open by Clark’s hands, his grip near desperate as he ruts into you with a punishing force. It’s not as hard as he could go, you know that he must be biting through his lip trying to control himself. You wish he could go harder, that he could really give it to you. 

He deserves it. He works so hard, he deserves a nice warm hole to pound into after saving the world for the hundredth time—or after turning in another perfect front page piece to Perry.

You’ve brought it up a few times, when Clark was too drunk off the feeling of your lips against his own and the taste of your tongue on his to shy away from the conversation.

You could take it, you’d take anything he gives you with open arms and spread legs and a smile on your face.

Clark’s far too sweet to ever pin you down and just take. He’s a gentleman through and through, he was taught to treat ladies with respect. Superman isn’t an exception to those good farm boy manners of course, no matter how many times you’ve daydreamed about him flying through your window and tossing you on the mattress and using you.

God, you really do love him like this though.

“Sorry,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, dark curls mussed. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I can’t stop. You feel too good, baby, you’re so good.”

Clark’s voice breaks on the last word like he’s begging you to understand, but the thrust of his hips says otherwise. There's nothing apologetic about the way he’s fucking you—like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like his survival depends on it. The bed’s screaming under the weight of his body, your body, his strength.

Your spine arches off the bed as his hips slap against yours hard enough to sting, wet and relentless. “Clark,” you gasp, nails raking down his back uselessly. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

His cock splits you open again and again, thick and flushed and incessant, pistoning deep and hard and needy. It’s too much. It always is. Too thick, too long, the fat head of him kissing up against something so deep inside you it shouldn’t be physically possible.

The room smells like sex. Sweat and musk and Clark—rain, ozone, sunlight. The sound of your bodies coming together bounces off the walls, the wet slap of skin on skin. The filthy, slick noises of your pussy sucking his cock deeper makes your ears burn.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come. Clark hasn’t. Of course he hasn’t.

“Five,” he groans, burying his face in the sweaty expanse of your neck. “You’re so sensitive now, baby, I know—I can hear it, your heartbeat skips every time I do this—” he pulls out, just halfway, then slams forward and stays there, his cock so deep your stomach distends a little. “Gosh, look at that.”

You’re soaked, ruined, you know it. You’ve been trembling under him for five rounds, but you love it. Every ragged thrust, every strangled apology he can’t stop moaning, every load he pumps into you like his body has to. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, drag him even deeper, and Clark whines.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come again—please, baby, let me—please—”

He’s come three times already. You can feel the wet, hot mess he’s made of you, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. You’re already so full. You feel full.

The last time he came inside you he barely gave you a minute before he was hard again, aching and apologizing even as he buried himself back in your cunt. His come is still dripping out of you in thick, creamy ropes, and he still hasn’t stopped chasing it. He can’t.

"Yes." Your legs wrap tighter around his waist. You want it. You need it. “Give it to me, Clark.”

That's all it takes for him to lose it again.

His body locks up—hips jerking, mouth falling open with a loud, broken moan.

You cry out as you feel him twitch deep inside you, and then it happens again—hot, endless, thick spurts of come painting your insides, filling you up so full it hurts. Clark’s gasping, his mouth falling open against your shoulder, his whole body trembling. 

His cock doesn’t go soft, it never does. Not when he’s buried in you like this. Not when you keep fluttering around him, squeezing down like you want to milk every last drop from his body.

“Shit, I didn’t mean—‘m sorry—I keep—” His hips stutter and then roll again, like he’s addicted to how you feel around him, like stopping would kill him. “It’s too much—I know, baby—I just—you make me so messy—”

There’s even more come leaking down your thighs in thin streams of white, soaking the sheets, slicking his cock every time he pulls out just to slam back in. You can feel how slippery everything is now, how swollen you are, how stretched. And still—he doesn’t stop.

“You—shit, you take it so good,” he moans. “My good girl—my pretty girl—look at you, look at how much I gave you.”

Clark looks down, a soft groan rips out from somewhere deep in his chest at the sight of his cock punching up inside of you. His eyes go, glassy and unfocused for a moment. That’s the only warning you get before he tilts his hips ever so slightly, and you’re crying out when he hits that spot up inside you perfectly on the next thrust.

That’s a definite perk of dating a metahuman, x-ray vision. You know that even without any special powers he could take you apart until you were a crying, shaking mess. That being said, the MRI eyes help.

Clark has spent hours learning each and every part of your body, inside and out. He’s made a home between your legs and watched your nervous system light up more times than you can count. 

He’s watched the way your dopamine levels spike when he mouths at your clit just right, the way your pulse lights up when his fingers slide deep and curl at just the right angle. He’s studied you like scripture, like a blueprint.

You cry out, screwing your eyes shut as your hands slide down his back. You revel in the feel of him on top of you, the muscles of his back rolling and working under your greedy touch. You’re going to come again, you know you are. The spring inside of you starts coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust.

“Please,” Clark gasps, nearly sobbing it. “Let me—one more time, I promise—please—I know you’re full, baby, I know—just one more.”

“You’re gonna break the bed again,” you gasp, too dumb and lost for words to say anything else.

Clark doesn’t respond—maybe he can’t. Maybe he’s already too far gone to hear anything but the desperate squelch of his own come leaking out of your ruined pussy and down the hard length of his cock.

“I love you—I love you so much," he mutters incoherently, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the meat of your hips as his cock carves a place for itself inside you. "You feel too good—god, you were made for me.”

The mattress jerks violently beneath you with every thrust—you can feel the wood frame groaning, splintering. Not the first time. Probably won’t be the last.

It’ll be worth it.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: anyway this movie changed my life. i started rewatching 70s superman the second i got home. james gunn thank you for making superhero movies with love and whimsy again.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[thinkingth0ts]

just learned people associate em dashes with chat gpt. Girl fuck you. You can pry em dashes from my cold dead hands. One of us is gonna have to stop using em— and it’s not gonna be me!

[thinkingth0ts]

Superman cast share their hopes for their characters' future

[thinkingth0ts]

stop trying to silence me

[thinkingth0ts]

[thinkingth0ts]

letters of devotion [one-shot]

marvel band au drummer!bucky x waitress! reader

you sent filthy, anonymous letters and nudes to the drummer of your favourite band, never expecting he’d read them. never expecting he’d keep them. never expecting he’d show up at your diner one night, more than eager to fulfil your fantasies.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, multiple orgasms, forced orgasm (consentual), oral (f receiving), fingering, p n v, unprotected sex, praise kink, explicit consent, aftercare, reader is horny lol, daydreaming smut scenarios, beefy bucky, band au, diner au, love letters, fangirl/obsession, lowkey depressed/sad reader, bucky is a menace, bucky matches reader's freak levels, use of the petname sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: hi, thank you for 5k followers! as a treat, have this absolute filth. i think this is the closest you'll ever get to smut w no plot from me lmao, i went through every stage of grief writing this. inspired by dinner in america + spun my prompt wheel and got band au / beefy - not proof read.

main masterlist

You were starting to think your obsession with the Winter Soldier wasn’t just unhealthy, it was pathological.

Two hours into your shift at Sal’s Diner, buried in the itch of your polyester uniform and the reek of burnt coffee, you’d already drifted off into fantasy more times than you could count on both hands. Daydreams clawed at the edge of your attention like static, buzzing louder with every second you spent beneath the flickering fluorescents. You’d nearly poured hot coffee straight into a trucker’s lap. His barked ‘watch it!’ still rang in your ears as you’d scrambled with a rag, your hands shaking as liquid pooled across the table. You’d forgotten table four’s extra side of bacon, missed table six’s banana smoothie with extra whip.

You hated this place. Hated the chipped pink tiles, the dusty jukebox that hadn’t worked in years, the scent of grease that soaked into your skin no matter how many showers you took. But more than anything, you hated the sameness of it all, the way this town never changed, never grew. How every face that passed through the diner was one you recognised, and worse, how they all recognised you.

You were twenty-something, with nothing to show for it except a minimum-wage job and a slowly decaying sense of purpose. Your apartment was a shoebox with paper-thin walls and a view of a brick wall. Every night, like clockwork, the baby next door shrieked, the couple upstairs screamed and stomped, and the couple across the hall fucked like they were being paid for it. You’d eat something microwaved and vaguely beige, drink cold coffee you forgot you poured, and zone out to reality TV you weren’t really watching. Housewives screamed through muffled speakers while your brain quietly rotted.

Everyone else’s lives were in motion—marriages, babies, master’s degrees, weekend getaways with friends and Instagram sunsets. Yours was stuck on pause, the buffer wheel spinning endlessly. You kept saying yes when Sal asked you to cover a double, because what else did you have to do? You had no plans. No passions. No clue what you even wanted.

You had tried. God, you had tried. College ended in a quiet breakdown and a withdrawal form. Relationships fizzled before they even warmed. Nothing stuck. You felt like you were wading through a fog that everyone else seemed immune to, like they all had a compass pointing to some clear, shining future, and you were just circling in the dark.

If anything still lit you up, it was music.

It was the only thing that made you feel. You were always listening, earbuds in as soon as you left work, blasting bass-heavy playlists on your way home, tapping your fingers to invisible rhythms behind the counter. You hummed under your breath while restocking napkin holders and scrubbing dishes to the beat of crashing drums. Music drowned out the ache, the boredom, of everything you didn’t want to think about. It was the closest you got to peace.

And your salvation came in the form of one band: The Howling Commandos.

They were everything you weren’t—loud, chaotic, unapologetic. All raw vocals and snarling guitars, like rebellion captured in sound. You clung to their music like a lifeline. Their songs made you feel invincible, if only for three minutes and forty-two seconds at a time. You stalked their socials like a religion, hoping they'd announce a show in your town. Underground gigs, secret venues, cryptic posts…the mystery only made you want them more.

And they were hot. Unbelievably so. You didn’t even know what they looked like. They performed in ski masks, their identities always hidden, but that just added to the appeal. They were anonymous, untouchable. A fantasy you could project anything onto. Big, muscled silhouettes thrashing under stage lights, voices full of rage and sorrow. 

And the Winter Soldier, the drummer—he was your favourite delusion of all.

He was the biggest, a towering shadow behind the drum kit, all brute force and brooding stillness. Maybe it was just the size of him that drove you wild, the thick bands of muscle in his arms, the way his thighs flexed as he worked the bass pedal. His hands were massive, wrapped tight around his drumsticks like they could break bones just by holding on too hard. You’d close your eyes when one of their songs hit its peak, feel the rhythm pounding in your chest, and imagine those hands wrapped around your waist. Pressing down your hips. Spreading your thighs. Keeping you still while he—

The shrill clang of the service bell sliced through your fantasy.

“Oi, girl!” Sal’s voice barked from the kitchen, all gravel and phlegm. “Plates for table three! Move it!”

You blinked hard, swallowing the heat that had risen to your cheeks. “Sorry, Sal,” you muttered, forcing your legs to move, dragging yourself away from the milkshake machine with the weight of a thousand unmet fantasies.

Because the truth was... yeah, you were obsessed.

Not just a fangirl. Not just a casual listener with a couple of favourite tracks. You were consumed by the Winter Soldier. The mystery, the sound, the brutal power behind the drum kit. You had no musical talent yourself, no rhythm in your bones, no dreams of making it big. But still, music was your only lifeline. And him? He was the rope you clung to when it felt like you might finally let go.

So, you found your own way to contribute. Your own warped form of expression. Your own art.

Love letters.

It had started innocently enough. Just a few pages of breathless admiration, scrawled out after long shifts while your brain buzzed from caffeine and exhaustion. You confessed your devotion to the band, to the music, to him. You wrote about how their songs made the world feel bearable. You poured out thoughts like they were diary entries, lyrics from a girl whose life was anything but lyrical. You didn’t expect a reply, you weren’t stupid. You imagined he probably received plenty of letters from fans. But the act of writing? It helped, it made the loneliness less loud.

But the longer you went without hearing back, the longer you worked the closing shift in a sweatbox diner and watched your life go nowhere, the more unhinged the letters became.

Passion turned to desire. Pages and pages of filthy, desperate confessions. You wrote about how you wanted him to bend you over your shitty couch, how you’d beg if he made you. You described exactly how his hands would feel gripping your hair, how his voice would sound in your ear as he pushed into you. You stopped holding back. The words poured out of you like something exorcised.

And then came the photos.

You’d found an old thrift-store polaroid camera, the kind that spat out little grainy prints with bad lighting. On your braver days—the lonely, horny, bored out of your fucking mind days—you’d strip down in your bedroom, the blinds barely tilted shut. You never showed your face. That wouldn’t be on brand, you gave him anonymity right back.

Your body became the message. Lace underwear clinging to your hips, the curved lines of your thighs spread wide. Some days you kept it tasteful, just the bare suggestion of skin. Other times, when the ache got too strong and the fantasy too vivid, you’d pose with your fingers between your legs, soaked and aching, back arched.

You’d kiss the pages with bright red lipstick, spray your favourite perfume, and seal them tight in mismatched envelopes.

You called them Letters of Devotion.

And maybe, deep down, beneath the layers of lust and delusion, you still hoped he’d reply. That he’d see your letters—your alias, your handwriting, your stories—and feel something. Anything.

Maybe you were a little crazy.

Or maybe it was the only thing keeping you sane.

—

It was late.

The kind of late where the world outside the diner windows had gone completely black, where the parking lot was empty save for a few tired trucks and one lone streetlamp flickering. Your feet ached in your shoes, cheap sneakers with soles worn thin from double shifts and the way you dragged yourself around this place like a ghost. You’d been on your feet for nearly eleven hours, fueled by lukewarm coffee and pure spite. Even the radio had given up playing its same old loops and was spitting static.

The bell above the door jingled, and you glanced up from the counter, expecting maybe the regular who came in late for grilled cheese and three cups of black coffee. But instead, four men walked in.

You blinked. Then blinked again.

They didn’t look like locals. Not the usual crowd of truckers or farmers passing through. No, these guys were something else. All broad shoulders and heavy steps, tattoos trailing up their forearms and necks, worn boots and dark jackets dusted with road dirt. One of them had a scar splitting through his eyebrow. Another had arms so thick he barely fit into the booth. 

Your gaze snagged on one in particular.

He slid into the booth facing you, his leather jacket creaking as he settled in, and you swore the breath stalled in your lungs for a beat too long. He was massive. Broad through the chest and shoulders, thighs spread wide like he didn’t know how to sit small. His jaw was covered in dark stubble, his mouth pulled into a neutral line—neither a frown nor a smile. Serious. Watchful. His hair was dark and thick, ruffled like he had dragged his hand through it a few too many times. 

You forced yourself to move, grabbing your notepad and approaching with a practised smile that felt barely glued to your face.

“Welcome to Sal’s,” you said, as cheerily as you could force. “Kitchen’s closing soon, so if you want something hot, order now.”

One of them, the one with the scar, grinned and cracked a joke about ‘always liking it hot’, but you barely registered it. You were still stealing glances at him. He didn’t say anything, just looked up at you with those cool eyes, and nodded toward the menu. 

“Burger and fries. Black coffee.”

“Sure thing,” you managed. You scribbled it down, turned before they could see the way your cheeks flushed.

Behind the counter, you leaned against the milkshake machine, heart still thudding, mind absolutely not on the order. You watched them from the corner of your eye. They spoke in low voices, murmuring to each other, intense and focused

And all you could think about was him.

You didn’t know why. Maybe it was the size of him, the stoic vibe, the fact that his shape reminded you of The Winter Soldier. Maybe it was the way he didn’t talk unless he needed to, the way he moved like his body was too powerful to be casual. Or maybe you were just so sleep-deprived that your brain was automatically generating pornographic content to keep itself entertained. You could imagine him behind the drum kit, imagine his face behind the ski mask. Maybe you would hold onto this memory, think of his stormy blue eyes when your core was hot and wet, fingers already scrabbling for your polaroid, ready for another Letter of Devotion as you came and came again at your own hand—

Your eyes drifted back to the booth. 

You imagined what it would feel like to be pressed against that chest, what it would sound like if he whispered in your ear with that voice. What it would feel like to have his hand sliding up your thigh beneath your diner uniform. You imagined him fisting your hair, guiding your head as he fucked your mouth slow and deep, until the cheap linoleum beneath your knees squeaked—

You were so deep in the fantasy that when you blinked, he was looking at you.

Direct. Curious. Like he knew.

Your heart skipped. You jerked your gaze away so fast you nearly knocked over the salt shaker. You busied yourself behind the counter, wiping an already clean surface, trying not to combust.

—

Eventually, the guys finished eating. Paid in cash, left a decent tip. One of them winked at you on the way out. He just gave you one last lingering glance as the bell over the door jingled again, then disappeared into the night.

You exhaled, a little dazed. Tried not to think about the heat still curling in your stomach.

And then you noticed it.

In the booth, the one they’d just vacated, sat a black backpack. Left behind, half-tucked beneath the table like someone forgot it in a rush.

You looked out the window. Their taillights were already gone.

Somehow…it felt like a sign. 

You rounded the counter on instinct, hands moving on autopilot as you stacked plates and wiped down the booth, the backpack heavy in your peripheral vision. You slipped into the kitchen, scraping leftovers into one of the giant bins, trying to look busy while Sal shouted down the phone near the walk-in freezer. Something about plumbing. Something about the hot water. You weren’t really listening. Not with your thoughts spinning like a carousel.

Your fingers twitched with anticipation.

Had he left it behind on purpose?

Maybe it was nothing, an honest mistake. Just a man in a hurry, too focused on the road ahead to notice what he’d forgotten. Or maybe, just maybe, he had been distracted. By you. Had you gotten into his head the same way he’d buried himself in yours? Had he been sneaking glances the way you had? Imagining things?

God, the possibilities curled hot between your legs.

You were elbow-deep in soapy water when Sal came stomping back in, muttering curses. 

“Dahla’s moanin’ that the hot water ain’t workin’,” he barked, grabbing his keys off the hook. “I gotta run. You good to lock up?”

You nodded, barely looking up. “No problem.”

He grunted in the barest minimum of thanks and was gone within the minute. You waited, counting the seconds until the crunch of his boots on gravel faded, until the cough of his truck engine roared and peeled off down the road.

You all but bolted to the front of the diner, heart hammering in your throat. You hadn’t even locked the front door. The open sign still glowed in the window like a forgotten thought. You didn’t care. Your hands were still damp from the sink as you reached for the bag, tugging it up onto the counter with a soft thud.

It sat there, plain and unassuming. Black canvas, one shoulder strap fraying. Just a backpack.

You stared for a second.

You weren’t sure what you expected. A note? An ID with a name you could finally put to that face? A number scrawled on a napkin meant only for you?

Your lip caught between your teeth as you slowly tugged the zipper down.

The contents were disappointing at first. A couple of old t-shirts, faded and smelling faintly of smoke and sweat. Crumpled food wrappers. A phone charger. Some receipts. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing romantic. Your heart dipped—

Then froze.

Nestled at the bottom, slightly bent at the corners, was a thick bundle of envelopes. Cream-colored. Handwritten. Lightly smudged ink. It wouldn’t have been that strange if it weren’t for the fact that you recognised them. 

It was the smell of the perfumed paper that hit you immediately. You knew that smell. The faint trail of your favourite perfume, sweet and smoky. The red lipstick stain pressed into the corner, your shade. That was your kiss. Your handwriting.

Your fingers moved with nervous urgency, fumbling as you grabbed the stack and rifled through it.

Your letters.

At least a dozen of them. All opened. 

You seized one at random, and your hand trembled as you pulled the page free. A small clatter followed as a polaroid slipped loose and hit the countertop face-up.

You felt the heat rush to your face like a punch.

You. 

It was you. 

One of the more explicit ones. Black lace panties, expensive, a splurge from when you were still clinging to the idea of romance. Your thighs spread wide. Your hand, barely hidden behind delicate fabric, buried between your folds, caught mid-motion. Your other hand was out of frame, probably holding the camera. You remembered that night vividly. Remembered how worked up you'd been, how starved. You hadn’t just been horny, you’d been aching, lonely.

Your pulse roared in your ears as you slowly unfolded the letter, the edges soft from wear. Like it had been regularly reread. Your cursive spilt across the page, desperate and messy. A confession. A fantasy—

I had a dream about you last night.

Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. Maybe it was a memory from some other life. One where you knew me, touched me, ruined me like you were meant to.

You bent me over the arm of my couch. One hand flat on my back, keeping me down, keeping me still. The other between my legs. You didn’t tease. Didn’t waste time. You slid your fingers through my pussy and hummed like you liked what you felt. Then you pressed two fingers inside me, slow at first, then rougher, curling them just right until my legs shook and I moaned like I’d break apart.

You didn’t stop. Not when I came. Not even when I begged. You made me take it, over and over, until I was soaked and shaking, face pressed to the cushion, drooling into the fabric while you watched. While you owned me.

And only then did you unzip your jeans.

You didn’t say anything. Just dragged the tip of your cock through the mess you’d made of me and pushed in, inch by inch, nice and slow. I remember crying out, legs spreading wider like my body already knew what to do, like it wanted to be ruined by you. You fucked me deep. Kept me bent over. Kept that hand wrapped around my throat when I tried to lift my head.

And when I finally looked back at you, barely able to keep my eyes open, you grabbed my jaw and made me say it.

‘Tell me who you belong to.’

And I did. Over and over. 

I woke up soaked through my sheets, hand still between my thighs, still aching. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I can’t stop imagining this. Wanting this. Needing it—

“Why are you going through my stuff?” A deep, gravelly voice jolted you back to reality. The letter slipped from your fingers and fluttered back onto the counter

You hadn’t heard the bell.

Hadn’t heard the door open.

Hadn’t realised the man you’d spent the last hour wet and restless for was standing just a few feet away. Arms crossed over his broad chest, head tilted, expression somewhere between amused and dangerous.

You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to breathe through the thick, electric panic that was blooming behind your ribs.

“I—” 

You fumbled for words, your voice catching and unravelling as heat rushed up your neck. “You left it behind. I thought maybe I could find ID or a name or—I wasn’t trying to—”

Your voice faded as he took a single step forward. Just one. He was already towering above you. You stood frozen behind the counter, gripping the edge. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run or drop to your knees.

And then, against all your better judgment, the words tumbled out.

“Why do you—how do you have these?! I didn’t write them for you, I wrote them for—”

You cut yourself off. Because you were watching it happen in real time, the slow curl of understanding at the edge of his mouth, the glint of something unholy blooming in those stormy eyes. A smile pulled at his lips, knowing and wicked.

Your voice dropped to a whisper, half-horrified, half-aroused. “Unless… unless you’re him. The Winter Soldier—”

He stepped closer, until the edge of the counter was the only thing between you and the solid heat of his body. His gaze dragged down your face, your throat, like he was memorising you.

Then he leaned in, just slightly, and spoke, low and lethal.

“I read every single one.”

Your entire body flushed hot.

Every. Single. One.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out, just the soft stutter of your breath as your brain struggled to catch up. You were painfully aware of your appearance. The grease-slicked apron, your hair pulled back in a lazy bun, the sweat still drying at your temples from a long shift. You were supposed to be invisible here. 

But now he was here. Standing over you. Real. Breathing the same air. And he’d read it. All of it. All the filthy, aching, needy things you’d never even said out loud.

“You…” you rasped. “You read them?”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You think I just collect random strangers’ letters full of desperate, pretty little fantasies?”

His voice was quieter now, just above a whisper. It curled around your throat like a hand.

“I started reading the first one on tour,” he went on. “Thought it’d be funny, another obsessed fan. But then I kept reading…kept waiting for more to arrive.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “You don’t hold back, sweetheart. Not even a little.”

You swallowed thickly. “I didn’t think—I never thought anyone would actually—”

“—read it?” he finished, one brow raising. “Come on. You write shit like that and don’t expect it to crawl into someone’s brain? The way you describe it, how you want it… fuck.” He leaned closer, his mouth nearly brushing your ear. “You got no idea what you’ve been doing to me. You’re like some kinda genius, some kinda fuckin’ succubus. Do you know how many songs I’ve tried to write about you, about those fuckin’ photos?”

Your knees went weak, pulse thudding behind your ribs like a warning bell.

“Which one was your favourite?” you asked before you could stop yourself, breathless and reckless. 

His grin returned, dark, indulgent. “The one where I make you cum over and over again,” he murmured. “And you beg for it, like a good girl. And you beg until you're so fucked out you can’t even speak, just moan and take every last inch of me.”

Your breath hitched.

He studied your face, then slowly, very slowly, reached out and picked up the polaroid you’d dropped. He held it between two fingers, glancing down at it with a hum of approval.

“You still have these panties?” he asked casually, like he was asking for a drink recommendation.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked up from the photo, and his expression turned serious in a way that made your stomach flip.

“What’s your address, sweetheart?” He asked.

You stared at him. Speechless.

“I’ll come by after you close up,” he added, voice low, fingers tapping on the counter. “You let me in and I’ll do everything you wrote about, hell, I’m ready to beg for it just lookin’ at you.”

—

You weren’t sure how you made it home without crashing your car.

Your hands shook the whole drive, knuckles white around the wheel, still sticky from the milkshake syrup you’d forgotten to wash off. The radio played something mindless, but you couldn’t hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat thudding behind your ribs like a fist.

You didn’t even turn the lights on when you burst through your apartment door. Just kicked it shut behind you, peeled off your apron, and headed straight for the shower. The water was too hot, scalding your skin, but you welcomed it. You scrubbed with your nicest soap, dragging the loofah hard over your flesh. Like you could wash off the diner grease, the lingering smell of cheap coffee. 

You towelled off in a hurry, slipping on lotion while your skin was still damp.

The panties were easy, the black lace ones from the photo. No bra. Just a thin cotton tank top, the kind that clung to every curve.

You paced your apartment like a storm was coming.

Checked your reflection.

Then checked it again.

Clean sheets. Dim light. The curtain pulled just enough. You caught yourself reaching to tidy the bookshelf, then stopped. What the fuck were you doing?

He didn’t care if your books were alphabetised. He was going to ruin you.

The knock came just after midnight.

You froze.

Your feet carried you to the door before your mind could catch up. You stared through the peephole, breath caught.

Still in that worn leather jacket, shoulders broad enough to fill the frame. His eyes were darker in the hallway light, but they still found the peephole like he knew you were watching.

Your fingers curled around the doorknob and tugged it open. 

He looked at you, eyes dragging down your bare legs, the hem of your tank top, the curve of your breasts beneath it. His jaw tensed like he was trying not to say something filthy right there in the hallway.

“You wore them,” he said at last, voice rough.

You swallowed. “You said you liked them.”

He stepped inside without another word, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. You stood barefoot on the rug, heart hammering in your chest as you looked up at him, your fingers twitching at your sides.

You parted your lips to speak, to say something, but you never got the chance.

Because he was on you in a second.

He crossed the room in two steps, grabbed you by the waist, and lifted you clean off the ground. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his hips as he shoved you against the wall. His mouth crashed down on yours, tongue sliding past your lips. 

You melted into him instantly, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket, back arching to press yourself closer. When he finally pulled back, you were panting, dazed, lips wet and parted.

He carried you to the bedroom without asking and dropped you onto the bed, stepping back just enough to shrug off his jacket.

You whimpered. You didn’t mean to. It slipped out, needy and desperate, before you could stop it.

“Take off your shirt.”

Your hands trembled as you obeyed. You pulled the tank top over your head, exposing your bare chest to the warm lamplight. He watched you like a man starved, his eyes dragging slowly from your flushed face down to the curve of your breasts. You could feel the heat pooling between your thighs already, the lace of your panties damp and sticking to you.

He stripped his own shirt next.  “Lie down.”

You sank into the sheets, heart pounding, legs already falling open.

He crawled over you, his face right above yours. His fingers brushed your cheek, your jaw, then slid down to wrap gently around your throat.

“You want this, sweetheart?” he murmured. 

You whimpered again, nodding, thighs instinctively rubbing together.

“Words,” he growled. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, I want this.”

He smirked, and then he dropped his mouth to your chest, biting softly at your nipple, soothing the sting with his tongue before moving lower. He kissed your ribs, your stomach, licking and dragging his teeth along every inch of skin until he reached your panties.

He hooked a finger under the waistband, met your gaze, and then ripped them off.

“Still my favourite pair,” he muttered, tossing the ruined lace aside. 

And then his mouth was on you.

Tongue hot, thorough, relentless, he licked into you like a man on a mission. His hands gripped your thighs hard, spreading you wide, keeping you in place as you writhed beneath him. You sobbed, fingers digging into the sheets, your hips lifting off the mattress before his hand came down hard and held you still.

Your first orgasm crashed into you fast, so fast it stole your breath, tore the sound from your throat. You choked on it, body arching, tears prickling at your lashes.

But he didn’t stop.

Not even when you whimpered, not even when you trembled.

“I said over and over again,” he reminded you, dragging his tongue up your slit with obscene precision. “Beg for the next one.”

“Please—fuck, please—” you sobbed.

“That’s better, good girl.” The praise scraped low from his throat, barely audible over the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy.

You were already shaking, thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hands fisted in the sheets. But he didn’t slow, didn’t let up. His tongue worked you ruthlessly, slow when you needed fast, fast when you couldn’t take it. He read your body like a song he’d memorised, like he was playing you just to see how many ways he could make you fall apart.

He licked deep, flat and hard, then flicked his tongue tight against your clit until your hips jerked. Every time you gasped or moaned or bucked against his mouth, he made a low, satisfied sound in the back of his throat.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he muttered between strokes, his voice ragged.

You choked on a moan, your back arching off the mattress, but his hands clamped down and held you there.

“I can feel it,” he said, breath hot against you. “You’re close again, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you sobbed. “Fuck—please—”

“Not yet.”

He pulled back just enough to slide two fingers into you, thick and unforgiving. Your whole body snapped. He hooked them expertly, rubbing against that perfect spot deep inside, his mouth still latched to your clit, and your orgasm hit so violently you couldn’t even speak. Your cry caught in your throat, your thighs shook uncontrollably, and your eyes rolled back as white-hot pleasure splintered through you.

You collapsed against the bed, panting, twitching, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause.

He licked through the aftershocks, fingers still curling inside you like he was searching for more.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled. ���You said you wanted this. Said you wanted me to ruin you. That I could fuck you until you couldn’t speak.”

“I did—I do—fuck—I do!”

“Then take it.”

He leant back on his knees just enough to watch what he was doing, his fingers fucking in and out of you, soaked to the knuckle. Your juices dripped down the insides of your thighs, your pussy glistening in the warm light, flushed and swollen. He looked wrecked watching you, his cock straining hard against his pants.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, sliding his fingers out with a slow, slick pull that made you whimper. “Look at this fucking mess. You’re dripping, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, a sob tearing loose from your throat.

“I want it,” you gasped. “I want you. Please. I need you inside me—please—”

He moved fast.

One hand on his belt, jerking the buckle loose. The clink of metal echoed through the room, followed by the sound of fabric hitting the floor.

He stood at the edge of the bed, fully naked now. His cock was thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip, the veins along the shaft standing out as he wrapped his fist around it and stroked once with a tight grunt.

You couldn’t look away.

“I’ve been hard since the diner,” he said hoarsely, eyes locked on your wrecked body sprawled across the sheets. “Sat in the truck reading that last letter again, just thinking about how wet you’d be for me. How sweet you’d sound when you begged. How I’m gonna write that fuckin’ song about you, how I’ll write a whole fuckin’ album about you—”

You mewled again, tears slipping down your cheeks now, your thighs twitching open wider on instinct. 

“Please,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I’ll say it. I’ll say anything. Just give it to me.”

He climbed over you slowly, bracing himself on his elbows as he lined up at your entrance.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice dark with hunger. “You’re gonna take every inch.”

And then he pushed in.

You cried out as the head of his cock stretched you open. Your back arched off the bed, fingers scrambling at the sheets, your body twitching from overstimulation. Your pussy clenched tight around him on instinct.

“Shhh,” He murmured, his voice ragged as he held himself still. “You can take it. I know you can.”

He slid in another inch, slow, dragging, splitting you open around him.

You keened, helpless. The stretch burned, but the pressure—the way he filled you so deeply, so perfectly—made your toes curl. Your walls clamped down around him, greedy, desperate, already milking him without meaning to.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re tight. So fuckin’ tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands flew to his back, clawing at his skin, dragging down his spine. He was heavy and solid, his cock thick and pulsing as he fed you more inch by inch.

“Please,” you gasped, legs trembling on either side of his hips. “Please, fuck me—just do it—”

He let out a rough groan.

And then he sank the rest of the way in, bottoming out with a hard, final thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

Your body spasmed beneath his as he filled you to the hilt. 

He moaned above you, one arm sliding under your back, pulling you tighter against him, locking your bodies together.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice shaking. “How perfect you take me?”

You nodded frantically, tears slipping free, your hips rolling up to meet him before you even realised.

And then he started to move. Each thrust dragged the full length of him through your soaked pussy, grinding against that perfect spot inside you with unrelenting precision. You cried, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to keep him as deep as possible.

“You’re already squeezing me,” he groaned, fucking into you harder now. “Already so fucked out, sweetheart. Look at you.”

You couldn’t. Your eyes were glassy, lips parted, hands slipping uselessly across his slick back as he took you. His pace built, thrusts snapping forward faster, harder, making the headboard bang softly against the wall. 

“Beg for it again,” he panted against your throat, teeth grazing your skin. “Let me hear you say it.”

“Fuck—please—don’t stop—need it—need you—”

“That’s it.”

He shifted, changing the angle, sliding one hand beneath your ass and lifting you to meet his thrusts. The new position had you screaming, your body jerking, clenching tight as your orgasm slammed into you so hard it felt like falling. You convulsed around him, sobbing, your nails digging into his shoulders, your whole body begging without words.

But he didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it, through your crying, through the way your body trembled and tried to curl in on itself. He held you open, held you down, every thrust bruising and perfect.

Your vision blurred. Your voice broke.

And still he kept going.

“You said you’d let me,” he growled. “Said I could fuck you until you couldn’t think straight.”

“You can,” you cried. “Please—just don’t stop—please—”

His mouth crashed down on yours, swallowing your scream as he finally lost his rhythm, his thrusts turning sloppy, urgent, his cock twitching inside you.

And then he came.

Hot and relentless, spilling inside you with a groan so wrecked it made you see god. He buried himself, grinding in as he filled you, a string of curses a rough whisper in your ear. 

You didn’t even realise you were crying again until he brushed the tears from your cheek.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You took it all. Just like I knew you would.”

You didn’t know how long you lay there, trembling and spent, your body still flushed and twitching in the aftermath. You couldn’t move. Could barely think. You were splayed across the mattress, your skin slick with sweat, your thighs sticky and sore, your pussy still aching from the stretch of him.

A large hand brushed damp strands of hair away from your forehead, gentle fingers stroking through your hair with surprising care. “There she is,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, bleary-eyed, lips parted but no words came. You were too fucked out to string together a thought, let alone a sentence. Your body was heavy, bones turned to syrup, and you felt the flutter of tears threaten again.

He leant over you, his skin warm where it pressed against yours, and kissed the side of your temple. A lingering kiss, soft and steady. One that said, I’m not in a hurry.

“You did so well,” he murmured against your skin.

You exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed. “You know, I never even asked your name.” Your voice was hoarse, practically gravel from all the screaming and moaning.

You felt him smirk softly. “It’s James, but all my friends call me Bucky.”

“Bucky…” you sighed, almost dreamily. “Suits you.”

Silence fell over both of you as you nuzzled his shoulder, dazed.

He stayed close, his hand never leaving your body, sliding down your arm, over your hip, then back up again. A slow, idle rhythm that kept you tethered to reality.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I read every word you wrote.” He finally whispered, enough to jolt you back to full consciousness. 

Your breath caught, eyes opening, but he kept going.

“I tried to write back, wanted to...” His thumb swept over your cheekbone. “I’m just no good with words, not in the way you are. Different from writing songs, I don’t know why. Was scared I’d fuck it up somehow, scare you off.”

He watched your face, his tone softening even more.

“I think I’ve spent this last year looking for you, whether I realised it or not. Like I knew I’d find you.”

Your chest ached. Your lips moved, trying to speak, but you only managed a faint, broken sound, a gasp, a sob, maybe a laugh. You weren’t sure. You were too far gone, too full of him, too unravelled.

“And now that I’ve found you?” he said, voice dropping low. “I’m not letting you go.”

With a shaking hand, you brushed a few fingers across his forehead, down his temple to the stubble of his jaw. His breath caught at the motion. “Yeah? You’ll take me away from this place? Make me happy like in my letters?”

A huff of laughter escaped his nose. “If that’s what you want, sweetheart.”

---

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[thinkingth0ts]

tmi stands for tell me immediately

[thinkingth0ts]

[thinkingth0ts]

DJO Coachella: Arrival

[thinkingth0ts]

When I say “last year,” I’m talking about 2019

[thinkingth0ts]

confessions

the tale of one (fictional) woman's journey (through fiction). told to you by way of a (fictional) story, featuring (fictional) characters.

✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚

If you’re reading this, you’re probably a pervert.

Yeah. You read that right. You’re a sad, lonely little pervert, and we’re all talking about you.

Really, we are. You keep us up at night. All you do is stare at your screen, scrolling and typing and clicking and posting. You’ve probably got a whole queue of posts dedicated to this shit, right? Weirdo. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you have any friends?

Of course you don’t. You’re here! And if you’re reading this, it’s probably because you went looking for it.

That’s where our problem begins.

Joel clicks his fingers in front of your face. “Hey. Are you even listening to me?”

“What?” you ask, looking up from your phone. You’ve been talking to your only friend again; a gray floating head with shades on. You’re not sure what it is about them, this faceless figure: they just get you.

“Unbelievable,” Joel says. He shakes his head and struts off.

“I was listening,” you call, chasing after him. “I heard you.”

“What’d I say?”

“You said something about immorality. And therapy. About me needing therapy. Right?”

His jaw clenches, releasing some sort of disapproving grunt. He gauges the distance between you, making sure it’s a respectable, appropriate five feet before he responds. “That’s about it, yeah.”

“Yeah…” You scratch your head. “And what do I need therapy for again?”

Well, that sets him off.

His eyes widen in shock. He gestures between your body and his, gaping. “How about you trying to dream up some world where you and I are in a sexual relationship? I mean, my God, Fellow Legal Adult, it’s like you’re attracted to me or something.”

Fellow Legal Adult. This is his new thing, the nickname he’s been using since baby girl is too inappropriate in today’s climate. He calls his fictional daughters baby girl, and you’re wrong and sick and twisted for enjoying the sound of it in his waxy Texan accent.

“I just thought it might be some fun to imagine it,” you admit. “I don’t actually want to do it, I just want to play pretend and maybe write a story about doing it.”

“No,” Joel says. “Writing a story about something is the exact same as doing it. Every work of fiction ever is actually the writer’s endorsement of that thing. Shakespeare has been cancelled for years over Macbeth, or did you miss that Twitter thread?”

You pull at the skirt of your sundress. Shit – my bad, you’re not wearing a sundress. That’s overdone. Also kinda slutty. You’re only wearing it for easy access, right? Come on, now. This isn’t one of those fics from 2023, with zero plot and just sex. We’re better than that. We’re literates.

That’s why we’re on Tumblr.

You pull at the skirt of your frock. It’s now ankle-length and much more self-respecting. “I’m confused,” you reply. “So you’re saying no?”

“Yes.”

“You’re saying yes?”

Joel sighs, taking another conservative step back. “No. We can’t. This would be wrong.”

“What’s so wrong with it?” you ask, impatient now. You’ve met all the required terms and conditions of pursuing a romantic relationship with a man who does not, never has, and never will exist outside of the confines of your imagination.

You’re not his best friend’s daughter, because – ew, right? Who the fuck wants to fantasize about a clandestine summer fling with a mature, intelligent man who only has eyes for you, against all odds and rules of society; a man who would put his closest friendship on the line because you are just that insatiable to him; a man who treats you with the respect, trust, and – my God, I’m about to say it – the love that no other boy ever has or ever could?

It’s not like you’re calling him daddy, either. What fucking twisted piece of shit would do that? Doesn’t Joel know about the decades of usage of that term, the sheer number of people who buy into such whimsy, the little fantasy one might like to indulge in while existing on this hellish lump of rock and partake in sex so immoral, so filthy, so – incestuous? And here you are, promising to refrain from such practice. Protecting him and yourself from the dreaded patriarchy, which solely oppresses fictional characters, as everybody knows.

Really, he should be grateful.

Jesus, what else? You dress in a frock and petticoat; your ankles are never on display. You don’t allow yourself the fun of pretty, girlish clothes which feed the patriarchy and may lure the untrained eye into thinking you are – oh, Christ, a child! In actual fact, you’re fifty-two – supremely middle-aged – just like Joel. Actually, you never were a teenager, nor a twenty-year-old, not a dreaded, unsightly, geriatric thirty-year-old at all. And if you ever were, you sure as shit wouldn’t write fiction about it, because it is uncouth, tasteless, and downright predatory to imagine yourself a day younger than you currently are.

No. You marched straight from your poor mother’s body, armed with a smartphone in one hand, X-formerly-Twitter pre-downloaded, with some hefty conservative views to punch into it as soon as you learned how to spell the four most important words: romanticize, fetishize, sexualize and normalize. You’ve spent your entire life hunched over the thing, foaming at the mouth and wiping thick globs of saliva with the back of your hand; screaming at people you don’t know, will never know, and reminding them what ugly, loathsome, untalented, worthless people they are.

What the fuck isn’t there to like about you?

Joel sighs. He shakes his head, then reaches around to his back pocket for his phone.

“I have to check what the people online would say about this,” he says. “You know, the ones with blogs dedicated to policing this kind of thing. They give their summers up for this, Fellow Legal Adult, they’re really brave and inspiring and I owe them a lot for keeping my reputation safe. With all the innocent survivors I’ve killed over the years – not to mention the entire hospital I shot up to save one little girl – I really don’t need a completely fictional relationship to turn me into some kind of bad guy.”

“But it’s just fantasy,” you say. “None of it is real. You’re not even real.”

His jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

You scrape together an explanation.

“I just meant: nothing we do actually means anything. We’re just words on this person’s screen. Look at them, reading about us right now. We’re figments of their imagination! I wonder if I have brown or blue or green eyes; I wonder if you have a full beard or you’re the other guy with the curly hair. It wouldn’t matter either way, because neither of us exist! Right?”

“Not the point.” Joel shakes his head, logging in to his account. “It romanticizes unhealthy sex practices.”

“Joel,” you whisper, with love and patience, holding his little brain like it’s a smooth lump of damp clay. “We’re not actually having sex. Same as you didn’t actually blitz a hospital. And anyway, if I consent and you consent, and nobody gets hurt, what’s unhealthy about sex?”

“It normalizes kink and taboo, that’s what.” He nods, dignified, proud of the argument. It took him a whole hour to come up with. His brain grew one wrinkle in the process. For a little extra punch, he adds, “It’s propaganda I’m not falling for.”

“Using normalize and taboo in the same sentence feels a little contradictory, Joel. You’re starting to sound like one of those freaks with a stan account dedicated to Ellie or Tommy.”

He rolls his eyes and shoves his phone back into his pocket. They’re debating the ethics of reblogging other writers’ work right now, and he hasn’t the time to get into it. “You wouldn’t understand,” he grunts. “You’re fetishizing me, you’re glorifying your own abuse and manipulation, and you’re forcing everybody else to be on board with it too. It’s disgusting, Fellow Legal Adult, I’m actually disgusted.”

“Nobody has to be on board with anything they don’t want to,” you say. “That’s a pretty basic rule of thumb in anything, but especially sex. Are you sure you’ve had enough sex to understand the basic concept of consent? Maybe if you spent less time yelling in your tags, someone might want to…”

He laughs. “You’re just a girl who doesn’t know the ideologies she’s playing into.”

“Which ideologies are those?”

He hesitates. “Patriarchy,” he spits out, the word wobbling across his tongue. It sounds like a big word and it victimizes women, so it must be right. It seemed to come up a lot when he asked ChatGPT for an argument which both liberates and subjugates women. He has no idea what it actually means or how it ties into this discussion.

“So, let me get this straight. You think you’re punching a hole in the patriarchy by talking down to women and comparing them to real-life criminals, all for writing some stories on a fandom website?”

He hesitates. Again. He’s not used to having human interaction without his keyboard to hide behind.

Also: he hesitates because he’s not real. I can’t stress that enough. I’m making this dude do whatever the fuck I say. Look, now he’s on a pogo stick. He’s bouncing all over the fucking joint. Joel would never pogo, I hear you say. Too bad! Now he’s going no hands. Damn, this guy’s good.

“Why would women want to fantasize about some of the shit you write?” Joel asks.

Fuck. That’s a great question. I better make him put the pogo stick down.

“Sexuality is a complicated thing,” you reply. “It always has been. We’ve never really understood human desire; that’s kind of why it’s such a heavily-covered topic in media. It’s not supposed to be interpreted literally. The crazy thing is literature is full of metaphors and symbolism, but people only have a hard time understanding that shit when it comes to erotica.”

He scoffs, twisting the pogo stick into the ground. “So you want me to believe you don’t actually want to fuck the people you’re writing about?”

You purse your lips. “I feel like it says more about your intelligence level that you can’t wrap your head around the concept of a metaphor, than it does mine. Maybe you wanna read more books and less anonymous messages?”

“No, thank you,” he says, waving his hand. “I don’t like to be made to feel uncomfortable. By anything. Ever. I live in my bubble of legality and morality. We’re all good people here. That’s why we have an obligation to bully the living shit out of anyone we disagree with, and threaten their personal safety in the process.”

“Right.” You back up, dragging the heels of your sneakers – sorry, your Victorian boots, no ankles. Suddenly, the thought of sleeping with someone so stupid and immature doesn’t feel as fun anymore.

“Where are you going?” he asks, pogoing after you. His voice shudders as the stick makes contact with the earth.

“I think I’m gonna close this doc,” you mumble, gathering your frock as you jog. “I’ll just open a new one and write a version of you who’s normal and doesn’t talk out of his ass as much.”

“Good luck with that,” he replies. “That’s totally out of character for me.”

In one click, he pauses, glitches, pogo stick springing – before he plummets into the recycle bin on your screen. The silence is bliss.

You look around the room. Outside, birds sing and cars soar by on the street. You remember that the real world exists; with real rules and real codes of conduct which help to protect real people. With real patriarchy: not fictional girls in sundresses who like summers of sex, but instead an insidious rot which runs so deep through society, it threatens to permeate the fantastical.

Here on your screen, a blank page and cursor blinking, just waiting for the stories and silliness you might spill into it – none of that shit has to matter. You are safe within the realm of fiction to be whoever you like, do whatever you want. Even shit that makes other people uncomfortable. Think of it like an intellectual jungle gym for adults.

You can paint yourself brave, beautiful, funny, smart, sexy. You can chase your wildest dreams, accomplish the impossible, fraternize with your favorite characters and exist in faraway universes. You can be desired by everybody you ever wanted, or nobody at all. You can explore things that make you feel good, things that make you feel scared, and no harm can ever come from it.

Hell, you might even learn a thing or two about yourself in the process.

That’s the fucking point of fantasy, you incel pieces of shit. Read a fucking book.

[thinkingth0ts]

[thinkingth0ts]

‘do u have kinks’ yeah like five in my neck

[thinkingth0ts]