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lunajay33 · 2 days

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Precious🩵

Summary: Reader gets separated from Daryl at the start and finds a farm with a wonderful family, she finds out she’s pregnant and one thing leads to another and a new group settles onto the farm

•Masterlist•

I waited for Daryl at our little house in the small town we grew up in, I had been gone to the city for the day when everything happened, I was able to find a car and drive back home praying that Daryl would be there waiting for me but I knew it would be a long shot, I waited for a few days until the food ran out and decided if I was ever going to find him again then I’ll have to go find him myself

So I pack up my bag with essentials, clothes, water, snacks that were left over and weapons for Daryl’s hunting collection, I drove for what felt like forever no signs of human life only blood and rotting corpses who some how took over the earth

I came to the interstate seeing the cars upon cars piled up blocking my way so I turned around hoping to find a back road to get around when I spotted a sign “Greene’s Farm” if the farm was still standing maybe it could have some food or more water, as I pulled up the drive way to a large white farm house people filtered out, it felt surreal to see people, live people

I got out of the car as the came down the stairs, it was an older man a girl around my age and a younger blonde, then what seemed to be an older couple and a younger boy

“How’d you find this place?” The man with the white hair asked

“I’ve been on the road looking for my husband, I got turned around in the road and saw your farm sign, I just need some rest” I say as I run my hand down my belly

When I went to the city when everything happened I found out I was pregnant and I was over the moon about finally starting a family with Daryl but now I’m scared, scared about delivery, this baby never meeting their wonderful father

The man noticed my movement and his harsher demeanor changed to one of pity

“Come dear we’ll get something set up for you”

They let me settle in the spare room after feeding me some eggs and fresh fruit, the house was cozy and they are lovely people but I can’t help that feeling in the pit of my stomach, the feeling I always got when Daryl would be gone too long, he always soothed me even if he didn’t talk much he showed me comfort with actions of love and care

Whenever he scrounged up enough money he’d buy me little gifts, he got me a silver necklace with a bow on it which I never take off, I never got a wedding ring because I refused and said we should keep the money for the future and that I don’t need some diamond to show my love for him

“Knock knock” I look up to the doorway and see Maggie standing there with a wide smile

“Daddy wanted me to check on you, well both of you”

“Oh yes I think we’re okay, I only found out about two weeks ago”

“That’s when you first had symptoms?” She asked as she sat next to me on the bed

“Yeah, the nausea and a little bump”

“I’d say you’re about two months pregnant then, signs only show up later, does the father know?” I shock my head feeling my heart clench in pain

“I never got the chance, I don’t even know where he is but somehow in my heart I believe we will find our ways back to each other” she ran a comforting hand up my back and smiled

“You’ll find him sweetheart you never know what might happen!” She said before she left the room giving me space to finally rest

It’s been 2 months now on the farm and it was peaceful for some reason this farm has gone untouched from the world that’s filled with death, I haven’t stopped looking for Daryl, every other day I’d search farther and farther out but there was no sign, as I was walking back to the farm I saw two men and Otis running through the field, I got back to the house and Maggie told me of everything that was happening, Otis accidentally shot the boy who Hershel was working on now

I sat outside on the steps as the young boys father came out obviously in shock covered in blood, he sat next to me completely disheveled, I took a rag I had in my pocket and wiped some blood he smeared on his face

“Hershel is a good surgeon and a great man, your son is in good hands” my words seemed to calm him down and what he needed right now was a distraction it seems

“I remember when my wife found out she was pregnant with Carl, we were young but I was excited this little life was gonna be born, so how far along are you?”

“About 4 months now, I’m not sure if it’s a boy or girl, I got separated from the father when I found out but I’ve kept looking, I know he’s out there, he’s a stubborn man but god is he strong and pretty smart too”

“Yeah I know the type, got a man like that back in our group, we lost a little girl and he’s been looking for her day and night”

“Maggie should be back soon she must have found your group by now, it’ll be okay” almost as if she heard me I see her horse ride up the field with cars following, then I hear the rumble of a motorcycle and it brought back so many memories I had with Daryl, when he’d work on his bike I’d sit with him, when we’d go for a drive at night together, moments I kept dear to my heart, zoned out in nostalgic thought I didn’t notice the group coming to the steps

“Y/n?” The grumble to the voice that I fell in love with, I look up to see him standing there just as the day I last saw him still as handsome, I couldn’t stand up fast enough before I was pulled off the stairs and into his arms

“I can’t believe it’s you, I looked everywhere, I missed you so much Daryl” I cried into his shoulder as his group was most likely watching this moment unwind

“It’s me sunshine, I found ya” he pulled back and we just looked into each others eyes for some time before he looked me over stopping abruptly on my belly

He opened his mouth but he seemed to be at a lose for words

“It’s yours if that’s what you’re wondering?”

“My baby?” He asked placing his hands on either side of my bump

“Yeah our lil baby Dixon”

After everything settled down and people set up tents I decided to stay with Daryl since they were using my room for Carl, I was sitting across from him on my sleeping bag and he couldn’t take his eyes off my bump

“Do you want to feel?” He thought for a moment before he nodded, I lifted my ivory dress just above my belly feeling his warm hands caress my bare skin

“How did this happen?”

“Well remember that night you came back from the bar with Merle and I was wearing my pink sundress you love” realization dawned as a blush crossed his face

“Yeah that’s how it happened” I laugh missing how easily it is to embarrass him

“Where have you been?” I asked as we laid next to each other

“Found a camp outside of Atlanta with Merle, idiot went and got himself stuck on a roof don’t know where he is now, then we went to the CDC and that was a bust then that leads to now finally some sanity with ya”

“I’m just glad you didn’t get bite, the farms been secure so I haven’t had any troubles”

“And ya never have to with me ‘round”

It’s been 6 months and Daryl and I had a beautiful 1 month old baby girl, it was painful giving birth but with Daryl by my side it made it a bit easier, hopeful

She was a wonderful little thing, barely fussy, brown hair light blue eyes just like Daryl, and he was over the moon about her he praised me over and over for giving him such a gift he treasured

We were able to move into the house to make it more comfortable for the three of us, we named her Lily because Carl thought it suited her perfectly so we just went with it

I walked into the room seeing Daryl sat on the bed with her in his arms her little hands reaching to pull on his now grown out hair, I sat beside them curling up to Daryl’s side

“She loves you so much D”

“Not as much as I love her”

“You know I think she’s your favourite”

“Nah she loves us both sunshine, I love ya”

“I love you too Daryl, forever”

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ghouljams · 3 days

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A Weight Off His Shoulders

cw: Ghost x f!reader/f!oc, Ghost pov, m!oc, demon au, mild implications of self harm, interrogation techniques, exposition, Ghost grappling with his trauma, depersonalization, I'm holding Ghost at gun point and making him talk about his feelings

Summary: Ghost does not adjust to the few hours he spends without you hanging around. Actually it seems to make things worse.

It’s a strange feeling, Ghost’s shoulders feel weightless, eased of their infernal burden. Yet they’re still heavy. Guilty. He almost misses the pressure, the tightness. It’s like wearing a bulletproof vest, there was something almost comforting about having you weigh down his shadow, and it’s gone now. Ghost grits his teeth, coaxes his nerves away from the edge, hits the punching back in the gym harder than he intended to. He shakes the blow out of his knuckles, readjusts his wraps with a mumbled swear.

“Ghost,” Price calls behind him. Ghost shakes his head, he’s not in the mood for it. A lecture is the last thing he needs. Teamwork and all that bullshit means nothing when he’s- He clenches his hands tightly and throws another punch, he feels full to bursting with energy he doesn’t want to put a name to. Price calls his name again and he ignores it.

Right hook, left jab, right jab, left hook, uppercut. He switches his footing and throws a hard kick, catching the punching back with his shin. Textbook. Price catches the bag, his eyes hard. Ghost settles his foot back onto the matt floor and adjusts his wraps again.

“Know what you’re goin’ to say,” Ghost grumbles.

“Enlighten me,” Price sounds unamused, Ghost knows better than anyone how much he hates to be ignored.

“Team only works if we all do,” Ghost throws another jab, stopping short of the bag. Price doesn’t flinch. “Never needed to be friendly to do my job.”

“So I hear,” Price crosses his arms over his chest, rolls his shoulders back, watching the door. There’s something easy in the motion, unimpeded. Ghost’s eyes flick to the shadows on the wall, then back to Price. The gym is strangely empty, all the life filtered out and the shadows silent. He hadn’t noticed how alone they were until now.

“Where’s your dog?”

Price turns his attention back to him, there’s something sharp in his eyes, something warning. “Thankfully somewhere they can’t hear you call ‘em that.” Price’s tone is even, but dangerous. Ghost clenches his jaw, biting back the words he wants to say. He doesn’t know how Price can’t feel the same rolling disgust about their situation. He’s in the same boat, deemed too dangerous by Hell to exist without an escort. Monster enough to need another monster keeping him company. “They’re off with yours,” Price says finally, “looking over your contract.”

“Which one,” He knows which one, but Price still humors him.

“Not the one you’re hoping for, but if you really want a discharge-”

“I don’t.”

Ghost turns his attention back to the punching bag. He rolls his shoulders, the ease of motion doesn’t sit right. He ignores it. Price lets him wallow in silence, lighting a cigar while Ghost avoids the elephant in the room. Contract. He shouldn’t be beholden to something he never signed. He didn’t mean to summon a demon, he didn’t mean to attach himself to you, he didn’t mean for or want any of this. For God's sake he was barely holding on to his humanity as it was.

Maybe this is good, showing him what he still has to lose, how desperately he still clings to the hope that he could go back. Back to being Simon, to being human, to being something more than a machine part, the teeth on a meat grinder meant to rend flesh apart. He’d always hoped Ghost was just the shell, but maybe he’d spent too long hollowing himself out. Maybe Hell was right and there was nothing left to go back to.

Price lets out a long hard breath, waving his hand to clear the smoke so it doesn’t set off the alarm. He tucks his lighter back in his pocket while Ghost digs his nails into the wraps covering his palms. There’s a ringing in his ears that grows louder as Price smokes.

There’s something wrong with him, something dark and twisted that he was managing, plying with corpses to keep quiet. He was doing well, he was handling it. He was handling having a demon, it wasn’t ideal, but it was manageable. You were a useful tool, he could work with tools. He was a tool, and you were a tool. An unfortunately matching set. He squeezes his fists tighter.

You were so warm.

“So what’s wrong with ‘er?” Price’s voice jerks him out of his thoughts.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Ghost is quiet. There are a million ways he could explain it. Price would understand, he’d sympathize, maybe he’d even have some advice. There are a million ways he knows he could explain it, but he doesn’t have the words for any of them. He’s never had the words for anything. Probably why he didn’t finish his schooling.

What’s wrong with you? You pushed him, you did something to him during sex that made him want to hurt you. No. He’d already wanted to hurt you, had those awful thoughts festering in the recesses of his brain where he knew they couldn’t hurt anyone, and he’d acted on it. He yelled at you, he slammed drawers and made a fuss. He wanted to hurt you. He did hurt you. You made him feel-

You made him feel like his father, like Roba, like none of the good he’d done meant anything. Hearing you beg- he’s heard those words from too many people: his mother, Tommy, himself. He thought he was better than that. He was kidding himself.

“S’like lookin’ in a mirror,” Ghost rumbles, his voice low enough he isn’t sure Price heard it.

“A mirror,” Price repeats with a disbelieving hum.

“Everything I- Christ-” Ghost drags a hand down his face, feels the friction of his hand wraps against the balaclava and frowns. “I see her and I can feel my old man putting his ideas in my head.”

“His ideas?”

“Wantin’ ta hurt ‘er, wantin’ ta-” It hits him quick, needles his brain. He knows this technique, knows it because he’s heard Price use it enough times before handing Ghost the pliers. He’s too trusting of Price. He’s being interrogated.

Ghost growls and rips the velcro on his wraps, tugging the canvas off his hands with quick motions. The gentle burn of it unraveling from between his fingers barely doing anything to ground him. Price watches him, his smoke filling the room, heavy where it touches his shadow. There’s something crawling in the air, something choking that Ghost can’t attribute to the cigar. The gym is empty, oppressively empty. Ghost’s skin crawls, Price’s stance hasn’t changed, but he’s different, his eyes are harder, challenging Ghost to make a wrong move. His shadow has grown horns.

“We’re not done,” Price tells him evenly. Fire licks at the ice of his irises, sparking anger in Ghost before he can stop it. Even the most docile dog bites its master when cornered.

Ghost cools his fury, fixes Price with a glare as he rolls his shoulders to try and ease some of the tension. Briefly he wonders if he’d feel the same stomach churning pressure with you hanging off of his shoulders. Your weight always seems to negate any other that tries to hold him down.

Price tips his head, and Ghost hears a softer voice tell him, “We’re done.” It bites into Ghost’s blood. He trusts Price, but this? This is pushing it. He’s always hoped to be doing enough good in the grand scheme of things to negate a fraction of the death and destruction. Was that wrong? Were they all being puppeteered by Hell? Was it all for nothing? Should he have felt it; that he’d become worse than his father?

“They got you on a short leash,” Ghost challenges, unable to stop the bite in his tone. Price’s eyes narrow, warning, but all Ghost can feel is the white hot burn of anger.

“I’m tryin’ to help you,” Price assures him, but it feels hollow. Something shifts in Price’s eyes, some twitch in his brow that feels too fleetingly soft. It’s the sort of look that tells Simon, “I got you into this mess, let me get you out of it.” It feels like his ribs could collapse in on themselves, like his lungs are suddenly too empty to fill again.

“You can’t,” Ghost assures him, shoving Simon back into the dark, “there’s nothin’ left to ‘elp.”

Price hums. “You’re a bad liar Simon, always have been,” He takes a drag from his cigar and waves away the smoke of his exhale, “Skip mess and be in my office by 1800.”

It’s not your weight in his shadow that alerts him to your presence. It’s your laughter. Bubbling and just slightly at the edge of raspy, watery, almost. It twists the knife in Ghost’s chest. You shouldn’t sound happier when you’re away from him. You shouldn’t- Actually you shouldn’t be out of your shadows. You never seemed eager to pull yourself out of the darkness before, but here you were loud and bright as ever. Ghost stops his stalk through the hall, parks himself at the corner to listen. Your ever present babble of speech makes his heart flip. He didn’t realize how quiet everything felt without you murmuring in his ear.

“Maybe it’d be best if you stayed with us for a while,” A newly familiar male voice says, the concern is evident in his tone, but it sparks in Ghost’s stomach. Annoyance, must be. The product of disregarding direct orders, not offering advice to someone that isn’t wanted. What a pair they must make.

“Dinnae ken if my back can take tha’,” Soap groans, “May as well have Gaz’s shoulder the way Ahm clickin’.”

Ghost closes his eyes, knocks his head against the concrete wall. Soap. Fine, count him off the list of people he could gripe to, if you’re riding his shadow there’s no reason to go seeking the man out.

“Should have his fuckin’ pelt the way he’s treating you,” Hush grumbles.

“Ghost’s alrigh’,” Soap defends, “just a li’l rough around the edges, dinnae let him get to ya.”

Another flip, his stomach this time. Ghost shakes his head, more than rough around the edges, he’s rough all the way down. No reason to defend a man who’s already proven himself to be demon enough for Hell to keep an eye on. Ghost pushes off the wall and tries not to glance down the hall as he continues his way past the junction. A difficult task when you’re at the other end of it made even worse with the way Hush touches you.

Just a hand on your shoulder, thumb stroking over the army green tee you’re wearing, but it boils in his blood, sings through his ribs like a howling wolf. It pisses him the fuck off seeing you smile at that man. Hush glances his way with a glare. You follow his gaze and your smile drops seeing Ghost staring.

Why does it feel so much like he’s caught you in the act? You’re just standing there, holding his gaze, daring him to look away first.

You’re cute in fatigues.

He tears his eyes off of you to glare at Hush. “Try to keep the insubordination to a minimum, yeah?”

“Ghost,” You sound concerned, on the edge of an explanation that doesn’t come. He doesn’t like it. He turns away, keeps walking.

“Coward,” Hush mumbles.

It stings, but the truth so often does.

You fill his thoughts. An unbidden, contagious, line of thinking that ruins his focus. He thinks of everything but fucking you. Thinks of the way you’d purred, and the way you’d laid against him. He thinks of your voice in his ear, the diagrams drawn in thin air, the weight of shadowed weapons. He thinks of the softness of your hips, the dig of his fingers into your thighs.

He thinks of the way his hands had wrapped around your neck in disgust. Thinks of the way you’d gasped and clawed at him. He thinks of how he’d felt doing it, the wash of guilt and shame that it brought. He’d liked it, and you’d done nothing to stop him.

He thinks of the way you’d smiled at him, the way you’d smiled at Hush. How could they feel so different? How could he feel so different?

He tapes his hands too tight when he goes to beat the bag in the gym for a second time. It hurts each time his fist collides with the stiff fabric. It’s good, deserved even. Men like him don’t get softness.

He remembers the way you’d pressed your lips to his jaw, and whispered for him to get some sleep.

He hadn’t slept so well in years.

Ghost doesn’t bother knocking on the door to Price’s office until he’s already got his hand on the handle. Barely waits to be told ‘enter’ before he’s opening the door. He shouldn’t be surprised to see you, can feel the weight of you starting to slip onto his shoulders just by proximity. It makes him tired, warmth seeps into his bones like a heavy quilt and

“There are three ways humans can acquire demons,” Price’s demon explains, “People like Price who summon them are more traditional by human standards.” Ghost’s eyes fix on Price, what do they mean summoned? Price catches his eye and nods once, short.

“Heard the rumors, figured as long as I was getting blood on my hands I’d do it properly,” Price sniffs, “we do what we have to, to make the world safer. Nothing else to think about.”

“But-” The demon interjects, obviously not happy about the interruption, Price shrugs, “Cases like yours aren’t that uncommon. Plenty of soldiers out there have to compartmentalize their humanity in order to do what’s necessary, you were just a little better at it.”

“Suppose’ to be a compliment?” Ghost narrows his eyes at the demon, they seem unphased.

“It’s a fact. You’ve compartmentalized the humanity most people wear publicly, you’re a dead-man-walking. No time for human emotion, no desire to share your secrets, no desire to learn anyone else’s. You only care about getting closer to the kill you’re tasked with, here to do one job and one job alone.” The demon takes a breath, lets it out and shakes their head. “You take pleasure in your work, some unknown force is paying for what happened to Simon with every enemy you kill. Well, this is what you get-” They gesture to you, “a weapon to help you keep exacting your revenge, with enough humanity to help you sleep at night.”

“Didn’t ask for your ‘elp.” Ghost growls, “was doin’ just fine wi’out ‘er.”

“And humanity was doing just fine killing each other without the atomic bomb,” The demon shrugs, “You adapt, you find better ways to kill each other, and we update our recruitment tactics.”

“The contract sweet’eart,” Price rumbles.

“It’s Hell, the fine print has fine print,” The demon sighs, pinching the bridge of their nose, “If you were expecting a termination clause there isn’t one, the best we can do is revise it.”

“I actually-” Ghost’s head jerks at your voice, it sounds so much smaller than the last time he heard it, you seem smaller, it tugs at something he buried long ago, “-had a thought on that.”

“Let’s hear it,” Ghost prompts. You glance at him, there’s an emotion in your eyes that he can’t put a name to. He knows it well enough, felt it enough times to know when it’s staring him down. It chafes at him, he doesn’t want you to look at him like that. “Good for you to get away from me too, don’t wanna be around a woman that think’s I’m gonna hurt ‘er.” That only seems to make it worse, your smile is so forced that you may as well have a gun to your head.

“You could’ve told me, I wouldn’t have-”

“But I did,” hurt you, Ghost cuts himself off, forcing the correction, “you did.”

He couldn’t have told you. Wouldn’t have told you. What did you need to know about him that you couldn’t see? He was a machine made for slaughter, and you wanted to be the butcher’s knife. That was all you needed to be. He didn’t know why you tried so hard to get closer. He didn’t like-

“If the contract is to provide him some humanity, we just need to get him to a point where he doesn’t need me anymore.” You smile at the other demon. Their eye twitches, their expression impassable.

“If you were unable to fulfill the contract,” Price’s demon starts, before shaking their head, “No, revisions are the best bet.”

“Let ‘er try,” Price decides, “Simon can make adjustments in the meantime.”

“This is exciting,” You chirp, “like a really intense mandated therapy sort of thing.”

Ghost hums, does his best to ignore the way you stretch out on his bed. It’s been less than 48 hours without you and somehow it settles the squirming in his chest to see you making yourself comfortable. It also churns in his stomach. You smile to yourself, pleased. He doesn’t know how you can be happy with the way things are shaking out. Don’t you want to get away from him?

“I was thinking we could start with something really easy, and you could share some music or something,” You say, rolling onto your side, “you know you can really learn a lot about someone from the music they listen to. Me, I like all that techno stuff, the real bee-boop-y crap that you can feel in your chest.”

Ghost tries to focus on the damage he took in the gym earlier, the bruised knuckles, the split that’s broken his skin where the wraps cut too tight. Your voice is so nice to hear again, the softness of it cradles him in a way he can’t explain. Your weight in his shadow presses onto his shoulders, pressure points he didn’t know he could miss until they were gone.

“You look like a metal kind of guy,” You continue, “I don’t mind metal, maybe you we could listen to some of your favorite songs some time, like a date-”

Ghost flinches and you shut your mouth with an audible click. Ghost swallows, digs his blunt nail into the split skin on his knuckle until it bleeds. He needs something to ground him, to keep him from feeling the flush that spreads over his neck. You’d be better off- He’d be better off without you.

“Maybe favorite foods are better!” You try, your voice taking on too much excitement for him to cut out, “I bet you have something really sweet you like, did your mom bake? Mine did and I-”

“Would you stop being so damn cheerful?” Ghost snaps, you flinch to sit up straight and he lowers his voice, “I-” He stops himself, looking away. Silence lapses between you.

“What would you have me do Ghost?” You ask, shoving down the hurt until it cools in your stomach. He shakes his head, avoiding your eye. “You don’t like when I’m upset, you don’t like when I’m happy. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

“I don’t know,” He admits, the feeling sours in his throat like bile. He can’t swallow it down, can’t put it on a shelf like he always does. He feels the question he always wanted to ask but never had the courage to hear the answer to biting into him. “Aren’t you angry?”

You blink at him, your brows pulling down as your lips do. He doesn’t see where the confusion is coming from, if it’s confusion at all. Your mouth moves as you swallow, working through the words he’s sure you have bubbling in your throat. “No,” you say finally, “I might be later, but right now-” you shake your head, “I’m just drained.”

It kills him. He knows the feeling, the way shutting the door to his room always seemed to take all the air out of him. Anger seemed like such a constant companion these days, he’d assumed it was just that, a constant. “Are you angry?” You ask, the softness in your voice cuts him too deeply. It makes him want to turn and run. Fuck he’s always run from these things, it’s in his nature. Run until he can figure out how to solve the problem. Run away and join the army until he can get his shit together. Run away when his family’s destroyed, run from his name and his face, bury the man that died in Mexico deep in his soul.

“No,” He admits, though that admission feels like iron against his teeth, he’d rather gut himself than put his emotions to words, but he has to start somewhere if he’s going to get rid of you, “I’m scared.”

“I know,” You hum, “can feel it.” You pat the bed next to you, and somehow it feels settling. Ghost takes the steps he needs and perches on the edge of the mattress next to you. The springs creak, dip under his weight, and you lean against his side.

“I’m sorry,” You tell him, “I don’t know how to be good for you.”

“Me neither,” Simon mumbles, feeling your head rest against his shoulder. Your fingers lace with his, thumb swiping over his bruised knuckles. He doesn’t know how to be good for you either. All he knows is you’re the one person he can’t run away from, and it scares the shit out of him.

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correctproseka · 2 days

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An essay on autistic Mafuyu

Coming from a very autistic person.

Mafuyu has a bunch of autism symptoms, but a lot of them can also be explained by other reasons, such as her upbring and trauma, but not all of them, so I'm going to start speaking about the explainable by other things traits and move up to "boy you're tism". (Notw that the trauma explanation can also have a pre-disposition to happen due to tism)

In the biggest "can be explained by her trauma" category, we actually have the biggest reason people headcanon her as autistic. Her Alexithymia. Which is just a fancy word for "can't recognize her own feelings". No i did not have to copy paste that name to not write it wrong. Yes, many autistic people are bad at recognizing their own feelings, me included. But we also have to note that Mafuyu absolutely hid away those feelings for a mask and because they were needs not being met, a "good girl" like her doesnt get sad or angry right? Thats what made her push down those feelings so much she just ended up.. numb. Its extremely common in depression as well as autism which made me personally not realize i was depressed until someone made me put it into words, it was similar to my normal.

Theres also her.. exquisite vocabulary, Mafuyu uses lots of fancy terms sometimes, which is very stereotypical white boy autism. But also, she was pushed books down her throat by her mom since she was a child, she was expected to be this "fancy" and "smart-sounding". So she is.

Observant. Mafuyu doesn't talk a lot, she observes. She can recognize things on others sometimes, but mostly about the environment, which can be an autism noticing a bird singing 5 blocks away or a trauma "i need to notice this or i get fucked" reaction.

Mafuyu as mentioned, tends to listen more than speak, I am personally not this kind of autism, but it exists, Mafuyu is quiet, listening and only speaking when she feels her input is needed. This can be simply a mixture of autism and trauma. She doesn't feel the need to speak, so she doesn't, why would she waste her energy like that? Smh.. but also her good girl mask is supposed to be a good listener, not much of a yapper.

Now we are starting to move onto the things she does that are less explained by trauma and more explained by tism. Which is my favorite part to analyze.

Parallel play: Mafuyu seeks comfort with being with niigo and working alongside them, she doesn't even need to be talking, as seen by the kitty event where she kept just listening to them on earphones, she just wants to be near her people and gets calmed down by being with them.

Bluntness. As an autistic person i am extremely blunt in wrong situations, and can easily not recognize its the wrong situation. Per example Mafuyu's "why dont you imagine you're gonna get killed if you dont do it in half an hour" or all the times she points something out to Ena and gets a scream back because it was the wrong time? Mafuyu says what she thinks and when out of the mask she really. Really. Lacks a filter, because she doesn't know when or what she's supposed to speak or not

She.. kind of needs people to say the obvious? Sometimes she doesnt realize whats going on, why she's reacting in a way, so and so. One of the reasons Mizuki had to tell her it's ok to run away. Mafuyu never considered it. It wasn't obvious for her like it would be for a lot of people, she's kind of very oblivious in emotional matters like that, and needs someone (coughs usually Mizuki) to explain something to her

There's probably more but im doing this in like 15 minutes.

Plus, all in all, she makes autistic people like me really relate to her, even if they can be mostly explained by trauma doesnt mean she doesn't show those signs or that they're only because of that, even the mask she uses is a known neurodivergent thing.

#project sekai #proseka #prosekai #colorful stage #pjsekai #puroseka #asahina mafuyu

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finniestoncrane · 2 days

Note

Could you possibly write a smut thingy with Egon Spengler as the reader(female) professor? Love your work!!

Egon Spengler x Fem!Professor!Reader, word count: 1k i am refreshing my memory on learning styles and turning my least favourite word into a positive thing with this one anon lmao ❤ he gog on my ped until i geeeeeeeeee👻 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: i've attmpted a bold reader once more, confident reader, masturbation/handjob, ruined orgasm ehehehe

As your students filtered out of the small seminar room, you noticed Egon trying to push against the currents, standing a whole foot taller than most of them, some of them more, and catching your eye with a small, awkward smile as he managed to get through the throngs.

He stood silently for a moment, awkwardly fiddling with his glasses before he spoke to you.

"Your attendance is impressive."

"Is that surprising?"

You teased him with a coy smile, watching the way he was flustered immediately. He was usually so firm, unflappable, especially given his line of research, but around you he seemed to lose all confidence.

"N-no, I was admiring it. Pointing it out. That almost seemed like more students going out than have your class on their schedules.

"What can I say? I know how to keep them interested."

You turned, walking to the desk in the corner of the room with a distinct wiggle to your hips. Egon's pupils widened as he watched you, mumbling to himself.

"I can see why."

"How can I help you, Doctor Spengler?"

He was snapped out of his daze, eyes flitting swiftly back up to meet yours in a panic. Not only had he been caught drooling over your backside, now he had to think of a lie on the spot.

"Uh... I wanted to... discuss with you the... importance of..."

It hit him, a strike of inspiration, a good follow-through from his previous statement.

"... The importance of adapting your teaching methods in order to engage with the largest proportion of students. I imagine it's something you're very familiar with, given how interested your students are. Is this something you work on? Or does it come naturally?"

You smiled softly, watching as he relaxed into his excuse and deciding to punish him, just a little, for not being more straightforward with you.

"Well, I think it might be slightly natural on my part. I can read people very well, Doctor Spengler."

"You can?"

He tensed up as you walked out from behind the desk, taking slow, purposeful steps towards him.

"Oh yeah, I know what's going on inside their minds. What they need... or what they want. You might even consider me an example of your psychic studies."

He swallowed deeply, pronounced Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he pushed his nerves down, his face remaining as calm as was possible in the face of your bold approach. You were close to him, and only coming closer, backing him into the board on the wall, with nowhere else to go.

"So... how does this help with your students?"

Egon's efforts to keep up the facade were admirable, but you could see the slight blush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted from your body to the ceiling, and youhad to admit that this more sheepish nature, as opposed to his often blunt and dry responses, was doing a lot for you.

"It helps to know how best to reach them. I know that some students prefer to listen and learn, that works for a majority. Audio and visual learning is the sort of default state. But others need a different approach, and it's important to facilitate that. I find it benefits those who can't just ask for help to offer them a more... tailored approach of my own accord."

He seemed to get the message, as his cheeks flushed a deeper hue, his glasses steaming up slightly in the center of the lenses. Sensing that you were perhaps offering a more suggestive opportunity to him than he had expected, he continued to play along.

"Can you... can you provide an example?"

"Of course, Doctor Spengler, let's take you for example! I think that you're probably the kind of person who learns better in a one-on-one environment. Perhaps you would be better suited to some private tutelage."

Ever stoic in appearance, even now as he felt his pants beginning to tent with his growing arousal, Egon nodded, considerate and firm.

"Yes, that does sound very appropriate."

"Mhm... and you strike me as a kinesthetic learner... Someone who requires a very tactile, hands on approach..."

He had begun to agree with you, but the words were strangled into a soft yelp as your hand met his crotch. You felt his cock pulsing against your palm, a twitch of the length as your fingers travelled up towards the belt of his brown slacks.

Undoing it with ease, you turned your attention to his fly, undoing it and reaching into the fabric to pull his cock free. His body fell against the wall, completely undone by that first gesture, quivering as you began to stroke him.

A heat rose within him, bringing with it a confidence that bolstered his own movements as he leaned his head down, nuzzling against your neck. His soft curls tickled at your skin, his breath soft, panting, into your ear as you worked his cock.

Egon's hands pulled at your waist, tugging you, bringing you closer to his body, wanting to feel you on him as he threatened to reach his climax. But as he began to cling tighter to you, body keening, you pulled away, watching him stumble after you. He bucked his hips once into the air, an instinctual urge to search for friction, to continue his impending orgasm, but instead all he found was your knowing, mischievous smile, arms folded across your body, eyes lidded as you watched him push his cock back into his pants.

"I do think that's all we have time for, unfortunately. But did you learn anything valuable from our discussion, Doctor Spengler?"

He grumbled a little, disappointment on his face.

"I think I did."

"Good. Well. If you ever need to recap anything, my office door is always open."

As you walked away from him, he raised an eyebrow, smiling with suspicion, but hope. He was quick to follow you, however, following like a lost puppy. If you weren't going to your office now, then at least he could take a seat outside and wait for you. He was very willing to put off the rest of his day's work for the chance at some more of your private tutoring.

#i dont really know EXACTLY what pedagogy means but i just know that whne i'm in a room with more than one academic #someone is definitely going to say it at least three times #finnie writes #ghostbusters #ghostbusters 1984 #ghostbusters x reader #ghostbusters fandom #egon spengler #egon spengler x reader #egon spengler x you #egon x fem!Reader #ghostbusters egon #egon spengler fanfic #egon spengler fanfiction

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lethesbeastie · 2 days

Note

Hi, I saw your post about practicing drawing fat people and I was wondering if you could compile like a list of resources or references?

It can be difficult to find resources for drawing the wide variety of forms fat bodies can occupy, so I've done my best to bring together some resources I've been able to prove have some degree of diversity in the references they offer!

My primary resource recommendation for drawing fat people is Morpho Anatomy For Artists: Fat And Skin Folds! It does a wonderful job breaking down where fat accumulates on the body, how it interacts with the familiar landmarks of human anatomy, and what sort of shapes it tends to form under the influence of gravity. It's a phenomenal reference and my top recommendation for anyone seeking to improve at drawing fat people!

When it comes to finding decent photo references for fat people, the pickings are frustratingly slim. Most sites that specialize in pose references either don't have fat models or have all their images behind paywalls. Of the resources I looked through, the best sources for pose references were Adorkastock and Line of Action.

@adorkastock actively seeks to provide an incredible profile of pose references with diverse body types, and as an added bonus you can access a lot of their images for free on their site/Tumblr or join their patreon for early access to images! Line of action is a site aimed towards practicing figure drawing, providing images and a timed function to challenge artists to sketch within a set time limit. I took the time to go through roughly 300+ images and was pleased to find that during my session around two-to-three out of every ten photos were fat models. The only caveats to this was the fact that most of the images were of the same individual, limiting the applications for studying the variants of fat bodies. Still, it's an amazing tool that has a free mode and allows you to filter the types of references you want based on age and level of nudity.

Beyond sites that specialize in art reference photography, there's also the ever popular Pinterest, which is the site where I typically seek references for my personal studies. Due to the nature of Pinterest's extensive collection, there's a vast variety of references for different fat body types that includes a lot more "everyday" people. The primary issue with Pinterest however is the rampant reposting and lack of proper credits for images, which can make things dicey depending on how you wish to use the references you find. For personal studies this isn't really an issue, but for any sort of professional or paid work is something to be aware of just for the sake of accountability.

* For those who are 18+, porn photography of real people also offers an incredible wealth of visual resources for fat bodies and how they interact with gravity/movement/etc. The variety of positions and angles offer many opportunities to study human anatomy, and it's a pretty well-known fact that drawing NSFW art can be an important learning experience for those struggling with drawing anatomy. In the end, it depends on your personal level of comfort with viewing/drawing explicit images, but it's not something you should completely overlook.

Last but not least, look at the work of artists you admire who draw fat people! While I typically recommend sticking to photo references for learning anatomy, studying artist's portrayals of fat people is also incredibly helpful for learning different tactics for simplifying and/or stylizing fat bodies to better fit ones own style. There are also plenty of artists who've crafted tutorials detailing their approach to drawing fat folks, so I highly recommend you check them out as well! I hope the resources I've linked here can help you in your studies, and feel free to drop another ask if you have any more questions! I'm planning on posting a tutorial on how I do studies for fat people soon, so that will be an additional resource for you once I've got it posted!

#artists on tumblr #beastiebites #asks #art resources #drawing fat people #thank you for the ask! lemme know if u have any more questions!#im working on drawing up a tutorial for another ask so that resource will also be available!#let me know if any of the links fail #tumblr is trying to kill them but i stay silly :3

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letsnotperceive · 3 days

Text

Thinking about Simon Riley on leave.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶ ༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

He's got a bit of property out in the countryside with a little house sitting on top of it. There is something too suffocating about sharing walls with strangers in the city, toe to toe on the sidewalks and windows facing the uncomfortable civilian normalcy that runs outside. Especially for someone who is off-put by unnecessary social interaction, not looking for the unwanted small talk and advances of others.

It's a bit of a fixer-upper that he hasn't accomplished a lot of repairing to, at least, not on the outside. Who does he have to impress? It's got running water and electricity, the means to keep out the elements, and a king-sized mattress in the bedroom. Simon Riley is satisfied with the simplistic, bare minimum of survival and doesn't need much outside of that. (Yes, that king-sized mattress should be considered the bare minimum of survival for a man his size, thank you very much.)

His house isn't some farmhouse with a white picket fence and wrap-around porch, finished with a wife and 2.5 kids. Those kinds of luxuries stay far out of his reach, away from the contamination that his sickened soul brings and the destruction that seems to trail in his footsteps. So, who cares if it's covered in a thick layer of dust and grime when he finds time to step foot into it, the air heavy and stale without a window opened in months? The refrigerator is barren and defrosted, yet when he searches for the drawer with a couple of haphazardly stored cigarette cartons he’s rewarded for the effort. A little gift from his past self to the present in anticipation of the unsettled nerves that occur here.

He takes the filter of one between his slightly off-kilter teeth and lets the heavy coating of smoke stain his lungs and fill the void. The flame that flickers from his lighter illuminates the tips of his fingers as he pulls the cigarette back. For a moment, he could swear he saw the stain of red under his nails, despite how hard he scrubs his hands under water. Maybe he needs something a little more holy to cleanse away what lies beneath the surface of the calluses and scars embellishing his skin. He runs a hand through his cropped hair, swearing under his breath and making disingenuous mental declarations that he will at least plug that damned fridge back in tomorrow. However, there is no haste in him stepping foot back into town to fill it up.

There is an appreciation for the controlled environment that this seclusion brings, but not necessarily the silence. It's jarring when his ears constantly ring from the consistent cacophony that surrounds the line of work he's a part of. Maybe he constantly has music playing or the TV running—anything to deplete the quietude enveloping him. His joints and muscles ache from the shitty military accommodations coupled with the nearly innumerable old injuries from circumstances long ago: old fractures and breaks, bullet wounds that leave tender sites, and the consequences of several concussions that tail you. It's only after the sun sets and the sky starts to bleed into an inky emptiness that he tries to stretch his legs and breathe anything other than nicotine mixed with the stagnant must of an unexploited house.

It's not that he necessarily needs the curtain of darkness to conceal his incognito here in the middle of nowhere at all, but he has come to be accustomed to it. The dirt and gravel road under his boots don't deter the unexpected lightness and stealth of his gait, though the smoldering red cherry of his next addition to the chain-smoking he is performing pulls focus to his looming silhouette.

He draws the attention of a mangy little creature, half-limping near the desolate road. It comes darting out of a nearby field, and his hand instinctively moves towards a holster no longer strapped to him. But it’s just a dog, one that is certainly not much of a sight compared to the dutifully designed Malinois K-9s he’s been around. It’s likely got fleas, with a lingering stench that’s far from pleasant, yet it marches up to him with an air of certainty as if it’s a prideful show dog. Simon eyes it with a glare that’s withering in his best attempt, but the animal is unfazed by his unapproachable nature, not afraid of his marred face.

“Scram, ya’ filthy mutt.”

His voice is raspy and raw with the disuse it faces off base, from the stretching silence he spends mostly in his head. It just barks back at him in return, a reflection of his own persistent nature. Somehow, the damned thing thinks it’s a good idea to trot along home with him. And somehow, Simon just lets it happen. He hoses him down on the side of the house with a less-than-enthusiastic expression but still throws down a pile of old blankets so that it can rest its weary head. He’s not a fan of having something that’s completely reliant on him- a fragile being that requires a nurturing hand he doesn’t believe he has. The best he can extend is the bare minimum of survival he grants himself currently.

The dog can’t stay forever, like most things in his unpredictable existence. A fleeting reminder of the way that more often than not he’s surrounded by death rather than life. He is more familiar with how to take than to give; his fingers cocked ‘round a trigger. But perhaps he will make that venture out to town tomorrow, the dog hanging its head out the passenger window of his truck. He’ll get something to fill his fridge and something to fill the dog's bowl, the solitude will be a little less consuming.

For now, he scrubs under his nails a little harder.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶ ༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

First Tumblr post disclaimer. ^^

Well, a re-upload of it with some editing. Hope this is a bit better.

#ghost cod #cod #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #ghost mw2 #ghost call of duty #simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost #call of duty #cod mw3

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in-memoriam-tgwk · 3 days

Text

The last thing Almondlight remembered was the burning feeling of his chin colliding with mud-slicked earth, right as his legs finally gave out beneath him.

It’s a rather stark contrast to the harsh medicinal smell that floods his nose as his consciousness slowly pulls him back from the depths.

It’s not an unfamiliar scent; in fact, it’s something he feared he’d never know again. It brings a wave of sadness, of happiness, of overwhelming relief as he realizes his days of walking are finally behind him. He made it home. He finally made it home.

Another smell, one that laces fear through Almondlight’s jumbled thoughts, catches his attention. It’s not the bitter tang of marigold he knows to belong to Ferretpaw, nor is it Emma’s sweet honeysuckle or Oaktrail’s damp clay.

Deep forest pine, tinged with salty mineral and poppy. The smell of fur that he used to burrow into as a kit, not that long ago. He manages to crack open his eyes.

He is where he expects himself to be, within the shallow cave that the Colony’s trio of medicine cats call their work space. At first groggy glance, he appears to be the only soul in there. There’s no movement apart from a small insect scuttling across the dusty floor. The light filtering in suggests a high sun, at its zenith and possibly on its descent. His eyes scan to the right, to the left, slightly more left, and that’s when he spots who he’s searching for.

Long, brown tabby fur, surrounding a muzzle tinged with silver.

Glowstar. His father. The cat he is equal parts relieved and terrified to see.

He’s going to be upset, he thinks. He’s going to berate me. ‘What a foolish thing you’ve done’, he’ll say. ‘Who would be so stupid as to believe they could outsmart a Twoleg and its dog? No son of mine would even entertain the thought!’ He’s not sure he can handle a reprimand in his state.

And what a state he is in; breaking his leg on his first escape attempt was not an ideal situation to find himself in. He was affixed with a splint by a Twoleg to keep it immobile, and it’s certainly done its job, as he’s fairly certain they wrapped it that way in order to deter another exit. His second attempt got him out of the Twoleg’s nest, and from there he started his slow trek home. Unfortunately, the bulbous mass of brightly-colored cotton holding his limb hostage made his travels all the harder to manage; hunting for food was incredibly difficult and he could only clumsily traipse his way through the forest, as the blasted thing got caught on every branch and thorn he came across. If tearing it off was an option, he would have done it in a heartbeat.

The shape of his father stirs, and another sting of fear stabs Almondlight in the chest. He looks around wildly for options. A quiet exit is impossible, but maybe he can manage a quick one—

“Almondlight.”

Sage eyes meet a kaleidoscope of blue, green, yellow. He’s only been gone less than a couple of moons, but his father looks to have aged considerably since then. He swallows audibly.

Glowstar regards him for a moment; they regard each other, the lost son and his equally lost father, in a den that stinks of herbs and smells of home. And then, the father crumples.

“My son… My son, please, come here—“

Forepaws wrap around Almondlight’s shoulders, and a face tinged in silver buries into his neck fur. Glowstar shudders against his frame, emotions wracking his body that Almondlight has only ever witnessed one time before this, and a strained sob claws its way out of the older cat’s throat, like the act alone is nearly impossible for him to do. To say Almondlight is shocked into silence is an understatement.

“I-I thought— I was so certain— Oh, my child, you do not know the weight lifted from my shoulders…” His voice is heavy with tears.

Almondlight’s tongue catches up to his mind. “You aren’t upset…?”

“Upset? Why would I ever be? You live and breathe before me now; I can’t possibly believe my fortune!”

He frowns deeply. “But I… I failed, Father. I made an incredible error in judgement. I was ignorant to believe I could take on that beast and his hound…”

Glowstar’s face leaves his pelt, expression soft and wet. He shakes his head insistently.

“No, my boy. I cannot blame you for the choice you made; a warrior looks after his own, and you were looking out for Needlemaw, yes?”

Almondlight inhales sharply, casting his eyes to the den’s entrance. “I-I was. Did he…?” Glowstar nods.

“He’s just fine. It was your quick thinking that prevented two lost warriors. And it seems you’ve returned to us after all. I can’t imagine a better outcome than that, can you?”

He wishes that he could. Like with most things, his father is right; both he and Needlemaw made it out alive. There is no better outcome indeed.

A memory surfaces, hazy and recent. He scores his claws against the silty sandstone beneath as he struggles to stand up.

“Father, we have to— It’s Foggythorn, Father! She might still be down there!”

A heavy paw lands between his shoulders, gentle yet unmoving, pushing him back down onto his belly. “Son, please stay here,”Glowstar warns. “We have Foggythorn handled. She is in the right paws.”

He looks at Glowstar in confusion, before flicking his gaze around the den once more. They continue to be the only two cats within its interior. Why is she not recovering in the medicine den?

“Why is she not with us? She couldn’t even stand on her own when I found her… I had to carry her. I was carrying her…”

His eyes find Glowstar’s, and nothing more needs to be said. They are narrowed with pity. Something in Almondlight’s heart plucks, and snaps sharply.

“She was… She must have only slipped, there’s no way… Father, how can that be? How can that be?!”

It’s his turn to collapse against Glowstar, clinging to him as grief attempts to swallow him whole. He was certain that they’d both make it home. He knows she was still with him, step for step. Why was that still not enough?

A tongue rasps gently behind Almondlight’s ear. “Do not blame yourself, boy. You did more than enough for her.”

“But I should have been faster… I could have helped her. M-Maybe she wouldn’t have fallen, maybe she wouldn’t have been in the river at all—“

“Almondlight. You did more than enough for her. Fate is wicked, and she does not pick whom she takes from this life with reason in mind. To try to find reason at all will drive you mad… And all the reasoning I’ve done has made me an insane old man.”

Almondlight has sensed this change within Glowstar for moons at this point, but to hear him so blatantly disapproving of Her will feels like a needle in his side. Perhaps he was not as completely aware of Glowstar’s bleeding heart as he once thought. He tightens his grip on his father’s fur and sheds his tears in silence. Tears for Foggythorn, and tears for Bonekit and Marshkit. He has walked the path they now face, alone and without direction. He hopes Hollyspeckle is a better cat than his father is.

#tgwk lore #clangen #warrior cats #cw animal death

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hotmessmaxpress · 3 days

Note

Firstly, your writing is a gift from god.

Secondly, I am begging you for a Vale POV of Marc in the yellow shorts (OF au)!

I mean, firstly, he is a possessive mf and seeing that definitely gave him a heart attack, but secondly he couldn't really have known that Marc was a big fan, right?

Like yeah, Marc knew him/his tattoo, but like he's Valentino Rossi, if Marc is into motorbikes, he knows Vale, it doesn't mean he likes him. And he might have only showed up at that GP because of the situation or because he's a MotorGP fan. But the SHORTS?! Like damn, that boy loves you.

This is, dare I say, not good. But! It is words! It's words that I put together! It's something!

Thank you for sending in a prompt and for your support 🤍 I'm really hoping to get back in a better writing headspace soon! Until then, I hope this is okay.

Rosquez OnlyFans au, interlude: Vale's perspective of the Tiny Shorts

Vale is frustrated, nearly vibrating with pent-up energy despite winning the race over the weekend. He’s desperate for something to take the edge off, but nothing feels quite like what he had with Marc.

He tries running, hoping to tire himself out enough to make his mind stop racing. When that doesn’t work he goes cycling, but he can’t stand to be on Tavullia roads without an engine between his legs. He goes to the ranch and putters around, lubing bike chains and checking oil and air filters. He can only check the tire pressure of so many tires though, before he feels like he’s going insane and he goes home.

He finds Marc’s DM as he’s oscillating between laying on the couch and feeling restless, walking around the house and feeling restless, and walking around outside and feeling restless.

It’s long: a wall of angry, betrayed text that feels like a knife to the gut. Vale knew that Marc wouldn’t exactly be happy about being blocked, especially considering the amount of financial support Vale provided, but he hadn’t expected it to take an emotional toll on the young creator.

You didn’t have to kick me out of the paddock.

Vale doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but with a sinking feeling he texts Uccio. He knows that Uccio is just being protective of him, but it’s frustrating to think that Marc could have been in the paddock, so close to seeing Vale, but apparently removed.

Vale and Uccio argue and Vale follows Marc on Instagram. He tells himself it’s out of spite, but then he spends the next several hours looking through Marc’s substantial number of posts. Marc’s instagram is much different than his OnlyFans, for obvious reasons. He still posts a lot of pictures of his collection of bikes (something that Vale’s cock takes interest in), but he also includes photos of his home and his dogs. It’s surprisingly domestic, and Vale finds himself unexpectedly invested in Marc’s home life.

The next post from Marc is… hot. He’s working out, sweaty and shirtless. Vale watches it more than once, taking in all the lines of Marc’s body. He’s seen them all before; he’s seen his abs flex as he rides a cock. He’s seen his strong thighs bounce him up and down. It feels like there’s no part of Marc that Vale hasn’t seen, but there’s something about seeing Marc like this that really does it for Vale.

The posts continue, with Marc in various states of undress and various levels of sweatiness. Vale turns on post notifications and becomes bolder about liking Marc’s posts, not at all mindful of how quickly he likes them. He jerks off to some of the posts, feeling a little guilty about it, but he can’t help it. He’s caught in a limbo between not wanting to piss Uccio off (and possibly damage his reputation if someone were to notice his social media activity) and wanting to claim Marc’s attention for himself once again.

One day Marc posts a workout video. It’s similar to the others, but Vale realizes immediately that the shorts Marc is wearing are his shade of neon yellow. They’re tiny, so tiny that Vale is surprised Instagram hasn’t flagged it as porn.

Vale likes it immediately, and then as his mind spirals he opens his own merch website. The shorts are nowhere to be found, which means that Marc hasn’t bought them recently.

Which means he must have already had them.

The bikes, the recognition of the tattoo… Vale selfishly wonders how big of a fan Marc really is. He wonders if Marc found him sexy before they began their OnlyFans repartee. When did Marc buy those shorts? What has he worn them for?

Vale is hard, painfully. He pulls his own cock out unceremoniously, watching the video on loop while he fantasizes. He pictures Marc shirtless, with only the tiny shorts on, rubbing his cock through them. The shorts are tight enough that Vale knows he’d be able to see every vein, every detail of Marcs’ hard cock. He imagines Marc coming in them, soaking the front of them. Vale wants to press his face to the front of them and lick. He wants to taste Marc’s cum through the fabric of the merch that bears his name like a brand on the ass of them.

He takes a shower when he’s done jerking off to Marc’s video and the embarrassment has passed. On impulse, he sends a message: I’m sorry you were removed from the paddock. He has no idea if Marc will want to speak to him, but it’s clear to Vale that he’s not going to be able to stay away. There’s just something about Marc that draws Vale to him. There’s no way Vale can go the rest of his life without Marc. He has to see this through.

#onlyfans au #rosquez #mm93 #vr46 #I am not fully satisfied with this but it is a full 40 minutes past my bedtime and I'm honestly just happy to have written something

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brainrot-of-a-thot · 3 days

Text

requests are officially open.

so, I have decided to open my askbox permanently for those who wish to request something from me. however, before sending in a request, there is just one thing I ask of you to keep in mind —

I’m the mother of a toddler, and I survive pretty much off of caffeine and my own daydreams.

edit: as another note to this, I was very recently diagnosed with asd (autism spectrum disorder), and it does affect my writing from time to time; for the most part, it doesn’t affect it horribly, especially when I’m hyper-fixated on something. but it could kill my motivation at times.

the reason I bring this particular fact up is that, depending on the length/detail of a particular request and whether or not it coincides with particular events in my life, it could take me awhile to write it. so, I guess all I ask is you keep in mind that patience is a virtue? lol. okay, with that out of the way, I’ll move on to my rules.

fandoms: this blog is exclusive to the windbreaker (nii satoru) fandom

maturity/genre: I essentially don’t have a filter on this. e for everyone, pg-13, nc17, rated r; fluff, smut, angst, hurt/comfort — it doesn’t matter. I will write anything.

is dark content okay to request?: to an extent, yes. I haven’t ever really written anything explicitly dark (just a few fics with dub-con elements) but I’m also not triggered very easily, so I am open to dabbling in darker content. [pedophilia is an absolute no-go; I will not write fics about an adult abusing/taking advantage of a minor/child.]

what constitutes as dark content?: this could vary from person to person, but for me, dark content consists of: stalking/yandere, non-con, dub-con, kidnapping, drugging, extremely toxic relationships, and other things along those lines.

how many reqs can I send in?: there is no limit. you can request as many fics as you want, with differing themes, characters, and ratings. [the only thing I ask you to keep in mind is that I do not work requests in a ‘first come, first serve’ sort of way — for me, it’s a matter of interest and how well my brain flows with the idea. my creative juices aren’t infinite, unfortunately.]

where do I send my requests?: preferably, through the askbox. I like the fact that it offers the option for requesters to do so anonymously — as an introvert who would be highly embarrassed to send in a super detailed req with my blog name attached to it, it warms my little heart. though, if you’d rather send in a req through the comment section of a post, you can do that too. [note: it may take me longer to find your request that way.]

requests and anonymity: as mentioned above, requests can be sent anonymously — but I can also take it a step further for your comfort. rather than creating the post directly from your ask, I can create it via an entirely new post (meaning, your specific ask won’t be linked to the resulting fic). all you have to do include that within your request, such as saying ‘can you make the post separate’ and I will do it. if you wish, I can briefly summarize your request within the post — or, if you’d prefer, not do so at all. you’re in control here, love.

I know these rules were long and probably pretty boring to sift through, but I appreciate anyone who did. happy requesting, my loves! let’s get some more windbreaker content on here!

#wind breaker #wind breaker x reader #windbreaker #windbreaker x reader

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andsomemaniacgotridofthewheel · 2 days

Text

What I don't understand about certain "discourses" is:

the whole point of writing fan-fiction is to get your own headcanon out of your head on paper / the screen in order to share it with the people who might have the same headcanon. Or who just like your headcanon. Who can see it.

And it works the same the other way around. You are looking for fan-fiction that supplements and supports your headcanon. Your interpretations. And then you read it.

In which case the writer has succeeded in sharing what's happening in their head with someone who feels the same way, and the reader has found someone who made a thing that totally works for them. Everybody is happy.

So why would you go reading fan-fictions that are clearly not a match and then complain about it?

What you do instead is: first you set your search parameters to filter for the things you like or dislike*. Then you check the tags and maybe the summary for anything you might dislike. And then you start reading.

And chances are that you, more often than not, will indeed, in your head, go "he would not fucking say that". Because in your head, he doesn't.

In which case, you hit the "back" button of your browser or close the tab and keep searching the other fics for one that might be for you.

And if it is something that squicks you so much that you don't ever want to see it again, you always have the option of preventing that by blocking - the work, the author, the artist, whatever works.

What you do NOT do is bang the writer's door down just to tell them how much you dislike their work and disagree with their take on things, and you absolutely do not assemble your herd to collectively judge them for it. In a fanfic that they wanted to share, for free, with likeminded people. Which means a fanfic that wasn't even for you.

Don't like? Don't read.

There are always going to be headcanons and fanons that are further off the mark than others. There are always fan-artists who are going to project things onto characters to deal with stuff. There are always going to be fanworks based on misremembered stuff, or misinterpreted stuff, or non-canon stuff. There are always going to be interpretations you disagree with. But all of these, too, will find their people. People who, unlike you, want it. People who might even need it.

I am not talking about meta or analysis or canon discourse here. If someone starts a fight insisting that their complete misinterpretation of a character or scene is the only correct one, they're gonna have to deal with upset people answering back.

But fanworks? Fan-fiction, fan-art, filk, that is stuff someone put a lot of work and heart and sometimes tears in for themselves and for anyone who likes it, too. It often comes from a place that is deeply personal, that makes the artist vulnerable, and that they then gift to anyone who might feel that pang of recognition. It is not just free content to consume.

The same goes for complaining and arguing about why some genres, some tropes, some fanons or pairings or fandoms are more popular than others. Which is always going to be the case.

You have no right to demand a quota from the fan-fiction writers community. You have no right to demand that someone else sacrifices their precious free time to write your headcanon or fulfills your personal needs or includes your specific minority. Fan-fiction writers are not free content creators, they don't work for you. They work for themselves. And then they gift their work to the people who might want it. Anything they do or don't do is out of their own volition and they only have to answer to themselves for it. And that is exactly how it should be.

And if you're unhappy with what you are getting, there is always the golden rule of fan-fiction:

If no one has written or wants to write the fan-fiction YOU want to read, you're gonna have to write it yourself.

(Or find someone who actually takes commissions. In that case, you would even be entitled to complain if it isn't what you paid for.)

*=thankgod for the AO3 search function!

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