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lxndonorris · 3 days

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such a tease - Max Verstappen

Y/N x Max Verstappen Theme: Smut (you've been warned) helping Max change after the Chinese GP, appreciating how good he looks in his racing suit and without x word count: 3570+ taglist: @game-set-canet EN: I had to use this picture, it lives rent free, got another for CL and LN planned, if you have any requests for others, let me know. Its my longest yet I think. Hope you like it. We need more body worshipping Max imo.

As you stood in the vibrant atmosphere of the Shanghai International Circuit, your heart raced with anticipation. It wasn't just any other day; it was the Chinese Grand Prix, and Max Verstappen, the love of your life, was poised to dominate the track.

As the lights dimmed and the engines roared to life, you couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement coursing through your veins. With each passing lap, you watched Max weave his magic, his driving prowess on full display for the world to see.

The tension mounted as the race unfolded, but Max remained unfazed, his determination unwavering as he led the others around each corner and each straight. Lap after lap, he danced with danger, his skill and precision leaving you in awe.

And then, as the checkered flag waved in the air, declaring Max the victor, you felt a swell of pride wash over you. You made your way toward the pitwall, just in time to catch him emerging from his Red Bull race car.

Max's energy and excitement were infectious as he cheered loudly before he turned to meet your gaze. In one swift motion, he approached you and the rest of his team, hugging you tightly.

With a radiant smile gracing his features, Max held his throphy aloft on the podium, the golden light of victory illuminating his face. Dressed in his racing suit, adorned with the colors of his team, he looked every bit the champion he is.

As you watched from the stands, your heart overflowed with admiration for the man you loved. His determination, his dedication, and his unwavering pursuit of excellence were on full display for the entire racing world to see. And in that moment, amidst the cheers and the applause, you couldn't help but feel incredibly lucky to be by his side.

While Max soaked in the adulation of the crowd, his eyes found yours in the sea of faces, a silent acknowledgement of your unbreakable bond. And as he raised a hand in salute, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, you knew that this was a moment you would cherish forever.

As the press conference unfolded, you noticed Max's gaze constantly finding yours amidst the sea of flashing cameras and eager reporters. His smirk, subtle yet unmistakable, sent a shiver of excitement down your spine.

With every question fielded, his eyes lingered on yours, and as he spoke, his hand subconsciously drifted to his chest and thighs, a gesture that seemed to amplify his magnetic charm.

Watching him, so effortlessly captivating and utterly beautiful, a rush of adoration swell within you. You knew how he felt right now—the excitement and adrenaline of the race lingering deep inside him, and the desire to share this moment with you and you alone.

For just anyone, this seemed unimportant, but you knew that with every stroke, every little move of his fingertips, he imagined it was you instead.

As the conference drew to a close, Max's haze met yours once more, and with a knowing smirk, he got up from the sofa. Together, you made your way through the paddock to his motorhome.

Now inside the cozy confines of his motorhome, Max wastes no time grabbing a cold can of Red Bull from the fridge, his go-to source of energy and focus. With a deft twist of his wrist, he cracks open the can, the satisfying hiss of carbonation filling the air.

Taking a long sip of the invigorating drink, Max's expression softens, a look of pure satisfaction crossing his features.

Turning to you, his eyes sparkle with a mix of exhilaration and contentment. Despite the intensity of the race and the demands of the press conference, he still manages to look effortlessly hot in his racing attire, clad in his sleek racing suit and signature cap.

As he stands before you, radiating confidence and charm, his presence fills the room. You let your eyes roam all over him: his racing suit hugs his athletic frame, the vibrant colors a stark contrast to the muted tines of the motorhome's interior. Paired with his cap, adorned with the logo of his team, he looks every bit the part of racing superstar.

With a playful grin, Max extends the can of Red Bull towards you, inviting you to share his post-race ritual with him.

Taking it from him, you marvel at the warmth of his touch, the electricity that seems to crackle between you. And as you take a sip of the Red Bull, you enjoy the cold, refreshing liquid running down your throat.

With an hour until his next interview, you put the can down on the table next to you before turning back to meet Max's gaze right away.

With a confident swagger in his step, Max closes the distance again. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, he pulls you close, the warmth of his touch sending shivers down your spine.

Steadying yourself against him, you can't help but be swept away by the intensity of the moment. His proximity is electrifying; his scent, a mixture of his cologne, sweat, and champagne, fills your senses as he leans closer, his lips grazing against your ear.

"Care to lend a hand?" he whispers, his voice husky with desire. His playful tone sends a surge of heat coursing through you, and you play along, relishing in the teasing banter.

With a playful smirk, you nod in response, your fingers trailing lightly along the contours of his racing suit as you begin to assist him in changing.

The adrenaline from today's race still surges through his veins, and his whole body tenses with the remnats of the high-octane action on the track. Despite the exhaustion that threatened to set in, there is a raw energy emanating from him.

You stroke his chest firmly through his racing suit; every muscle in his body seems to be coiled like a tightly wound spring, ready to unleash its power at a moment's notice. The fabric hugs his frame flawlessly, accentuating his athletic build and adding an air of intensity to his already striking appearance.

His eyes, ablaze with the remnants of the fierce competition, hold a magnetic allure that is impossible to resist. There is a primal energy to him, a wildness that sets your heart racing and your pulse quickening with every passing moment.

As your hands glide across Max's chest, tracing the contours of his racing suit, you feel the tension in his body gradually give way to a sense of relaxation. Enjoying how the sleek fabric feels underneath your fingertips, you stroke him even firmer, causing him to purr happily.

You let your hands run along his waistline as well, feeling his butt filling out the suit fully. Your hands are now freely encompassing all of him, from the small of his back, running along his spine and back around his shoulders, to his firm chest.

"That feels good." His smile widens as he pulls you closer, his grip firm yet gentle on your waist, a clear invitation to continue.

With each stroke, you sense the pleasure building within him, the sensation of your touch heightening the electric connection between you. His racing suit, once a barrier between you, now serves as a conuit for your intimacy, amplifying the intensity of your shared desire.

Max leans, his lips brushing over your neck and your ear, before he lets out a low, guttural moan, giving you goosebumps.

"Mhmm." You shiver as your hands gilde over his thick pecs and right his arms. As your fingers trail along Max's muscular arms, stroking the sinewy contours underneath his suit, he responds with a subtle flex, the muscles beneath his skin rippling with power.

He leans his head back, and with a knowing smile, he invites you to feel the strength of his arms.

As you press your hands against his flexed biceps, you marvel at the firmness of his form, the raw energy simmering just beneath the surface. His muscles tense under your touch, a silent invitation to explore further to revel in the sensation of his strength.

With each flex, you feel a surge of excitement coursing through you, the heat of desire building with every second. Max's body is a canvas of power and grace, a testament to his relentless pursuit of perfection, both on and off track.

And as you continue to stroke him, tracing the contours of his arms with reverence and awe, you can't help but be captivated by the sheer beauty of his physicality.

"Oh, fuck." You speak quietly, watching your fingers run along his arms and back to his chest. As your gaze meets his once more, a knowing smirk plays on his lips, and he lowers his arms just to grab your waist again, securely holding you in place.

"Feels good, huh?" He licks his lips as his gentle fingers run along your waistline.

"Oh, yeah." You respond with a coy smirk forming on your lips, and then you let your hand run up his chest and right to the collar of his slick racing suit.

As you toy with the zipper of his suit, teasing him with the promise of what lies beneath, you can't help but revel in the power of your own arousal. The sight of Max, so strong and commanding yet vulnerable in his desire, stirs something primal within you, igniting a fire that burns with ferocious intensity.

And you tease him with the zipper while looking right into his sparkling eyes. You alternate between gentle caresses and playful tugs, causing a low, deep rumbling in his throat.

The firmness of his form beneath the fabric carries an intoxicating allure, pulling you closer and closer.

As you unzip his suit slowy, teasingly, you reveal the snug white fireproofs underneath, and a low growl escapes his lips, a primal sound of desire and anticipation. With his head leaning back, he surrenders to the sensations, his body tensing beneath your touch.

Sliding your hands inside his suit, you feel the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric, the firmness of his muscles, even more evident now, inviting your touch.

With each stroke, you apply just the right amount of pressure, eliciting a shiver of pleasure from Max as he arches into your touch. His breaths come in shallow gasps, the rhythm of his heartbeat echoing in the space between you.

And as you continue to stroke him, your movements growing bolder and more confident with each passing second, you feel the arousal within you intensifying as well, matching the intensity of his own desire.

With a shared determination, Max and you work together to remove the upper half of his racing suit, leaving the sleeves hanging down his waist. As the fabric falls away, his muscles are revealed, defined, and taut beneath the thin material of his undergarments.

Each contour is accentuated by the tight fabric, a testament to the physical strength and endurance required of a Formula 1 driver.

Unable to restrain the urge to touch him or feel him, you place both of your hands on his chest again. With every touch, every stroke, Max lets out a low, primal growl of pleasure.

His grip on your waist intensifies as well, as he starts to stroke you in response. This spurs you on, fanning the flames already burning inside your belly, encouraging them to engulf your entire chest with burning desire.

Your hands explore the planes of his chest and the curves of his abdomen. The sensation of his muscles rippling beneath your fingertips only fuels your desire further, each growl serving as a symphony of passion between you.

Running your hands up Max's chest and neck, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your hand, you trace the outline of his lips with your thumb, a teasing question poised on your lips.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" You ask, a playful glint in your eyes.

Max's response is a simple nod, his expression softening as he meets your gaze. The tension that gripped his features now melts away, replaced by a look of pure contentment and desire.

With a mischievous grin, you reach up and remove his cap, letting it drop to the floor with a soft thud. His messy hair spills out from beneath, tousled and tousled from the excitement of the race. Running your fingers through his hair, you marvel at the softness, the strands tangling around your fingertips like silk.

Leaning in closer, you caress his cheeks, feeling the stubble beneath your touch. His skin is warm and smooth, in stark contrast to the rough texture of his racing suit.

At the same time, you keep stroking his tummy, tracing the tangible outlines of his abs with your other hand. The look in his eyes, dark with desire, tells you that he is enjoying every moment of the exquisite torture.

You let your hand wander even further down his body, and you gasp once your hand encompasses the desire bulding up inside his racing suit. In response, Max lets out a low sigh and starts to grind his hips against the palm of your hand.

Your eyes meet his, and the two of you smirk knowingly.

With practiced ease, Max slips off his shoes, the tension in the room palpable as he stands before you, his clothes clinging to his form.

As the racing suit falls to the floor, forgotten in the heat of the moment, your eyes trace the outlines of his body, mesmerized by the sight before you.

Max stands tall and proud, his muscles defined and toned beneath his tight fireproofs. The fabric is hugging his form like a second skin, and unlike the racing suit, it is unable to hide any of his features.

His muscles ripple underneath, his biceps are thick with tension, just like his entire chest and thighs. The unmistakable bulge forming inside his trousers shows the effect all that teasing has on him, and Max isn't even trying to hide it.

Instead, he rubs the palm of his hand across his member while biting his lower lip and watching you closely. Still, you're not done teasing him yet.

Placing your hands back on his firm chest, you continue to stroke Max through his undergarments, eliciting a chorus of enticing sounds from his throat. With each touch, each stroke, the desire threatens to consume you both.

Max responds eagerly to your touch, pulling you closer until there is barely any space between you. His hands, once idle at my sides, now roamed freely, exploring every curve and contour of my body with a fervent hunger.

Feeling his hands on your butt, pulling you flush against him, sends a jolt of electricity coursing through you. The sensation of his touch is all-consuming, setting your skin ablaze with longing and need.

You suddenly can't wait to feel his bare skin under your fingertips. Tugging greedily at his shirt, you expose the hard lines of his abs. Responding to your need, he takes his shirt off in one swift motion, exposing his beautiful, toned chest.

Just like before, you stroke him and play with his hard nipples, just the way he likes it. His skin is so warm, tensed, yet oddly soft. His muscles react to the simplest touch, and you know he's longing for so much more.

Your eyes follow his hand, stroking himself, his chest, abs, and then further down to his member, tenting visibly. Max is letting out low growls, pressing his body against yours while biting his lips.

"Let me take care of that." You smirk and kiss him lovingly before you make your way down his chest. With every stroke, his breathing quickens, and you place kisses all over his chest, down his abs until you're on your knees.

Max runs a hand through his hair and across his face. His entire being is craving a release, to let go of all this pleasure and desire building up inside him.

Teasingly, you trace the outlines of his member with two fingers, causing him to moan quietly. Then, you slip your fingers inside his pants. As you play with the waistband, teasingly tugging at the fabric, Max's reaction is immediate; a low groan escapes his lips as he leans into your touch, his desire palpable against your fingertips.

With each playful tug, his arousal grew, the fabric of his fireproofs stretching against the swell of his desire, its heat radiating through his clothes.

There is no room for restraint or hesitation. Both of you are consumed by the fire of your shared passion.

You pull his pants down and let your hands roam all over his thighs before you focus all of your attention on his dick.

As you take him inside your mouth, your entire body gets just as stiff as he is, and right away, Max lets out multiple low moans, leaning his head back while running a hand through your hair, encouraging you to take it all.

Easily, the two of you adapt to each other's movements, moving in sync with one another to an unseen, unheard rhythm.

Max moves deliberately, soft and gentle, even though he is already on the verge of cumming. All that teasing, paired with the excitement of winning today's race, dominating the entire grid, built up inside him, just waiting for this moment.

It doesn't take long for him to lean his head back even further and let out an exhausted, long moan.

His familiar taste spreads across your tongue, causing you to relish in that moment.

Max runs a hand through your hair as you separate yourself from him. He bends down, placing a hand at your neck, stroking you with his fingertips.

"That felt so good." He moans as he leans in to kiss you gently. Then, he helps you get up and steadies you against his firm frame.

"It was amazing." You lick your lips, savoring the taste still lingering on your tongue.

Max then steps out of his fireproofs, leaving them pooled at his feet. He stands before you, completely exposed, his vulnerability laid bare for you to see.

He touches himself a few times, still feeling that pleasure running through his veins, and you can't help but smile.

As you watch Max get dressed again, your gaze lingers on every movement, captivated by the effortless grace with which he moves.

He starts by slipping into a fresh pair of underwear, the fabric clinging snugly to his form. Max struggles a little with his stiff member, but that just makes the two of you giggle.

"Always the same with you." You tease, but he just shrugs.

"I can't help it." He tilts his head slightly. "That's what you're doing to me."

Rolling your eyes, you can't help but giggle again.

Next, he pulls on a pair of jeans, the denim hugging his legs in all the right places. With each movement, the tension in the room seems to grow again, amplifying the allure of his every gesture.

Finally, Max reaches for his signature Red Bull shirt, the fabric stretching tautly across his firm chest and shoulders. Even though it is a familiar sight, the shirt seems to fit him even more perfectly than usual, accentuating every contour of his muscular frame.

As he smoothes down the fabric, adjusting the shirt just so, you can't help but reach out for his chest once more.

You run a hand over Max's red Bull shirt, feeling the warmth of his body radiating through the fabric. A shiver of excitement exhoes through you.

Your soft strokes elicit another guttural rumble deep from within his throat, and he places his hand on top of yours. The fabric of his shirt stretches and molds to the contours of his body, flattering him perfectly.

His familiar scent envelopes you again, filling the air with an intoxicating aroma that is uniquely his own. It is a scent you know and love—a blend of musk and sweat mixed with the subtle hint of his favorite cologne.

"Do I smell okay?" He asks suddenly, and you just nod.

"Yeah, so good." You smile and lean in to him, kissing him deeply while still stroking his chest through his tight shirt.

As you pick up the discarded clothes from the floor, you can't help but revel in the sensation of Max's racing suit and fireproofs between your fingers. The fabric is so soft yet sturdy.

As the two of you fold the garments neatly, you notice how they still retain the faint scent of Max—a scent that fills you with a sense of comfort and familiarity.

Feeling his arms wrap around you from behind, his touch gentle yet possessive, you melt into his embrace, savoring the warmth of his presence. His hand strokes your tummy with a tenderness that makes your heart flutter, each caress sending waves of pleasure through you.

Turning around to face him, you are greeted by the sight of Max in his signature look, his cap firmly in place, and a playful glint in his eyes. Despite the intensity of the day, he is ready for the next challenge, his confidence unwavering as he prepares for the next interview.

With a smile, you reach up and adjust his cap, making sure it is perfectly aligned. Max grins in response, a silent acknowledgement of your unspoken bond.

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen smut #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x y/n #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 smut #formula 1 smut #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 imagine

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fryingpan1234567 · 10 months

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some CHB headcanons

every cabin has LEDs around the inside, but there’s a constant battle over what color they are

Percy has his rippling back and forth from teal to blue and it looks like light dancing through water all over his walls and floor

the Apollo cabin can usually settle for orange and yellow as a common ground

the Aphrodite kids have a different color for each time of day and sleep with pink on the lowest brightness setting

the Hermes cabin has like ten different strips and they’re all constantly shifting

Demeter cabin’s shifts with the seasons

ANYWAYS MOVING AWAY FROM THE LEDS

they have movie nights, which I will talk about in a different post

before everybody goes back to school, the Aphrodite and Hecate cabins have a massive salon at the end of the summer with new haircuts and magic hair dye and outfit recommendations and fake but enchanted sturdy nails and a whole bunch of other stuff and basically it’s a week straight of spilling hot tea between everyone in camp

if someone asks where a camper got their hair done when they get back to school they just go “oh, um… summer camp.” and their friends will snort and be like bro isn’t summer camp the opposite of a makeover?? but they get no argument, just a shrug and a half smile

when I tell you pride month over there is a fucking riot

because Mr. D is in on it, right?? because he’s the god of gender?? and Chiron is aroace and has been raising dumbass gay heroes for literal centuries?? PLUS the sheer fucking amount of queer peeps up in there?? dude yeah

cabins competing for who shows the most pride

Demeter’s roof is covered in rainbow flowers

Hecate’s is enchanted to emit actual light in whatever flag colors of whoever uses the front door, even when they’re straight (it’s just a rainbow)

Percy collects a bunch of shed scales from the hippocampi at the bottom of the lake and then puts them all over his cabin

I could make a whole post about CHB pride but

every single Apollo kid is also a theater kid fight me

Rachel Elizabeth Dare painted a skateboard for Percy’s birthday and he brings it everywhere now, it even sits in his backpack at school

Leo, Annabeth, Percy, and Piper fucking love horror movies. Frank, Hazel, and Jason fucking hate them. They watch through their fingers, if at all

Piper loves the band Surfaces with all her heart, but she also is a die hard Green Day and P!ATD fan

Jake Mason is covered in burn scars up to his neck, just like Deadpool, just not bald lol

Hephaestus and Apollo kids faintly radiate warmth (like more so than a normal person)

the Stolls sometimes stay at camp year-round because their mom is off on international missions that are too high-risk for them to help with

the seven are AVID Smash Bros players

really everyone but

not as many people go to the Athena campers for help with homework as you might think, but whenever anyone does, they’re happy to help

the sun chariot blasts music at a frequency only the Apollo kids can hear, so their life kind of has a shitty soundtrack that consists of a mix of Broadway, Queen, modern stuff, and random bits of Beethoven every now and then

the Romans swear on few occasions

the Greeks know when to swear and when to be polite

the Valhalla peeps swear unbridled and all the time

the Egyptians never swear (in English)

for the longest time, Will Solace thinks the only gift from his dad is his healing prowess— which is obviously great, but he expresses being upset over the fact that he’s not very good at archery

well, considering this is the dumbass who didn’t bring a weapon to actual fucking Tartarus, Nico drags him to the weapon shack thing immediately afterwards and made him pick something out

he's immediately drawn to the Celestial Bronze shotgun.

Nico’s just like “what in the redneck shit did you just pick up” and Will jokingly aims it at his chest and grins and says “you know I’m from Texas, right?”

that’s how they find out Will is one of the damn best marksmen in Greek demigod history

some of the Disney nerds in the Apollo cabin sing What Once Was Mine to the little ones who need bandaids for knee scrapes and give them lollipops afterwards

Percy Jackson absolutely used to make poverty and struggle meal jokes all the time, but he got weird and concerned looks for it at CHB, so he kind of just stopped. But one day, aboard the Argo II, the PERFECT opportunity came up and he just HAD TO and as per usual— everyone else looked at him like he’s crazy— but Leo laughed so hard chocolate milk came out of his nose and that’s the story of how the two of them became Best Friends

#anyways idk what came over me #riordanverse #percy jackson #leo valdez #jason grace #Annabeth Chase #hazel levesque #frank zhang #piper mclean #Will Solace #nico di angelo #solangelo #valgrace #Jake Mason #connor stoll

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endcant · 11 days

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save a bastion for queer culture in a famously hateful city

i’ll try to write a shorter and sweeter post about this later, but for now i will just beg at length.

there is a town near me called Murfreesboro where at various points they have banned or attempted to ban public homosexuality, drag, and pride flags. for a time their county’s youth incarceration rate was 48% (contrasted with the rest of the state at 5%) due to corruption in their local courts system. every juvenile case that made it to the wrong judge resulted in the child being sent to jail, because the county commissioner thought it’d be “cool” if the jail was a “profit center” (yes these are his actual words). these are just a few examples but suffice it to say, this is a very difficult place to grow up, especially for LGBT kids.

despite all of this difficulty, the area has a remarkable alternative music scene with a few small venues where queer people and young people who don’t fit in elsewhere can genuinely have fun and feel safe for the night. despite the city’s reputation, queer people in the broader area flock to the town for raves and DIY shows. in this area, music culture is intertwined with queer culture and leftist efforts to a much greater degree than i’m used to as somebody from the middle of california.

i really admire the venues and event organizers that cultivate a safe spaces like this in a place where it is decidedly unsafe for queer people, and where the youth are constantly in danger of having their lives ruined for totally arbitrary reasons.

this is why it breaks my heart that murfreesboro is trying to shut down a venue called The Graveyard Gallery. the graveyard gallery is a place where a ton of events are constantly held for lgbt, furry, and alternative communities. it is one of very few alternative places in the broader nashville area where i have felt really, truly safe and welcome as a person of color.

most recently, The Graveyard Gallery has come under attack for attempting to hold a Trans Day of Visibility punk show, with the apt title “Trans Day of Vengeance”. Conservative media, both local and national, directed the attention of their audiences towards this event, calling it “tone deaf” to have it on easter, and to have it sort-of-kind-of-close-to-but-not-quite-on the anniversary of the shooting in nashville. All of this, of course, ignoring that the date for TDoV was set in 2009, and that this was a small DIY punk show that really bore no threat to anybody. the show had to be canceled because of credible death threats, so it didn’t even happen, but that hasn’t appeased anybody.

in the wake of this, murfreesboro’s fire marshal has suddenly decided that the building is not acceptable for occupancy and it has to close immediately and for the forseeable future. people can claim it’s unrelated, but i’ve known people to have their businesses suddenly declined by fire marshals due to sheer bigotry before, and shitty towns will just use their fire marshal to bankrupt small business owners that they don’t like. i do not speak for the owners of the gallery on this front, but i personally believe that these things are related.

all this is to say, the graveyard gallery needs to raise money for their legal fees over this matter. this venue is very important to a lot of people, and may be even more important now that the city’s music scene is in the crosshairs of massive conservative media companies.

if you can donate please do, and if you can share this, please do that as well.

thank you for taking the time to read my post. i know there’s a lot going on in the world, but music venues are where people here gather, and music venues are often also a place where people organize to make meaningful change and promote causes that i know most of you would approve of. music is at the heart of this community, and the venues are where the music lives.

#mine

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whitherwanderer · 11 months

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Pride Backlighting Tutorial

A few people have shown interest in replicating the pride backlighting I did, so hey, here’s a quick tutorial below the cut.

Enjoy, and happy Pride Month. 🏳️‍🌈

STEP 1 — SETUP

First thing you’ll want to do is find a suitably dark background to bounce the light off of. I use the White Screen housing item dyed Soot Black, available from the Housing Merchant or Apartment Merchant in any of the housing zones for 3000 gil.

I line up 2-3 of them for coverage, but one will do if you're trying to be frugal.

If you don’t have an apartment or an FC room to use, try asking friends, FC mates, or even folks you share a Discord server with. You might even find someone who already has a studio space set up and is willing to let you use it!

Lighting in your studio space should be 0 (though you might have success at 1 as well), so make sure to adjust that or ask the studio owner if they can make that change before you start posing.

STEP 2 — GPOSE

Position your character(s) just a little ways back from the edge of the screen. You want some space between them and the screen so that the lighting can float there without casting a weird circle on the wall.

Hop into /gpose and bump up the “Manual brightness adjustment” to about 120 or whatever level allows you to see your character well enough to pose them. Pose to your heart's content.

STEP 3 — LIGHTS

Here’s the fun part. In the Light tab of the Gpose menu, switch all of your Light sources to Type 1, which has the shortest falloff radius (meaning it doesn't reach as far as Type 2 or 3). I also set all of my lights to one strong color to differentiate them while I worked on lighting—red, green, and blue, all maxed out at 255 (for now).

Swing your camera (still on all default settings) around to your character’s back and up above their head a little ways. This is where Light 1 (red) will go.

Now pan your camera down at about mid-back height and set Light 2 (green) there.

Pan your camera down one last time until you have a nice shot of your character’s butt and set Light 3 (blue).

Spin your camera back around and enjoy this nice little macaw-colored gradient.

STEP 4 — CAMERA

Set your camera angle.

The way FFIXV’s lighting works is partially dependent on how much light is in a shot. It will adjust a lot like your eyes do when you’re entering a dark room from a bright room, or vice versa. Your zoom level and camera angle are going to directly affect the lighting, so set this before you start messing with light strength and color. Sometimes this means weaker lighting will actually light your character better.

I ended up bringing my lights down to around ~160 and boosted the "Manual brightness adjustment" up quite a bit to get lighting I was happier with.

For a straightforward vertical shot, I like to have my Field of View (FOV) at 200 and of course my rotation is set to 90. Zoom in or out as needed. Remember to save your camera angle if you plan to pan around and fix things!

STEP 5 — COLOR

Make it ~queer~.

Take your flag of choice and pick out 2-3 “main” hues. Generally these will be the strongest hues in the flag, if not the only ones. Some flags, like the Pride/Progress/Intersex-Inclusive flag itself, are difficult to replicate for the sheer number of colors that are in it. You can loosely represent a rainbow with some adjustment to the RGB colors, if you’re determined to have a whole rainbow in there.

Shader Note: I recommend picking a shader preset that doesn’t mess too much with color so that colors are represented correctly. You may need to adjust light strength and “Manual brightness adjustment” to be compatible with your preset of choice. Bloom will also heavily affect the way your colors are showing up, so you may need to tone down the bloom FX or toggle it off entirely. This all depends on your preset, however.

If you’re not into RGB math, here are some cheat sheets! Not every flag is represented here of course, but I tried to cover as many colors as I could so that you could grab a color from another flag as needed! Please note that colors will need some adjustment for your own screenshot, presets, and preferences.

And that’s it, y’all! 🏳️‍🌈

(Open this image up in a new tab for more detail.)

These were taken using a heavily customized shader for that nice glowy effect.

#ffxiv #ffxiv screenshots #[ ooc ]#[ tutorials ]#i didn't actually have a tutorial tag but #now i do #enjoy ❤️

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ohgaylor · 4 months

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In 2006, the year Taylor Swift released her first single, a closeted country singer named Chely Wright, then 35, held a 9-millimeter pistol to her mouth. Queer identity was still taboo enough in mainstream America that speaking about her love for another woman would have spelled the end of a country music career. But in suppressing her identity, Ms. Wright had risked her life.

In 2010, she came out to the public, releasing a confessional memoir, “Like Me,” in which she wrote that country music was characterized by culturally enforced closeting, where queer stars would be seen as unworthy of investment unless they lied about their lives. “Country music,” she wrote, “is like the military — don’t ask, don’t tell.”

The culture in which Ms. Wright picked up that gun — the same one in which Ms. Swift first became a star — was stunningly different from today’s. It’s dizzying to think about the strides that have been made in Americans’ acceptance of the L.G.B.T.Q. community over the past decade: marriage equality, queer themes dominating teen entertainment, anti-discrimination laws in housing and, for now, in the workplace. But in recent years, a steady drip of now-out stars — Cara Delevingne, Colton Haynes, Elliot Page, Kristen Stewart, Raven-Symoné and Sam Smith among them — have disclosed that they had been encouraged to suppress their queerness in order to market projects or remain bankable.

The culture of country music hasn’t changed so much that homophobia is gone. Just this past summer, Adam Mac, an openly gay country artist, was shamed out of playing at a festival in his hometown because of his sexual orientation. In September, the singer Maren Morris stepped away from country music; she said she did so in part because of the industry’s lingering anti-queerness. If country music hasn’t changed enough, what’s to say that the larger entertainment industry — and, by extension, our broader culture — has?

Periodically, I return to a video, recorded by a shaky hand more than a decade ago, of Ms. Wright answering questions at a Borders bookstore about her coming out. She likens closeted stardom to a blender, an “insane” and “inhumane” heteronormative machine in which queer artists are chewed to bits.

“It’s going to keep going,” Ms. Wright says, “until someone who has something to lose stands up and just says ‘I’m gay.’ Somebody big.” She continues: “We need our heroes.”

What if someone had already tried, at least once, to change the culture by becoming such a hero? What if, because our culture had yet to come to terms with homophobia, it wasn’t ready for her?

What if that hero’s name was Taylor Alison Swift?

In the world of Taylor Swift, the start of a new “era” means the release of new art (an album and the paratexts — music videos, promotional ephemera, narratives — that supplement it) and a wholesale remaking of the aesthetics that will accompany its promotion, release and memorializing. In recent years, Ms. Swift has dominated pop culture to such a degree that these transformations often end up altering American culture in the process.

In 2019, she was set to release a new album, “Lover,” the first since she left Big Machine Records, her old Nashville-based label, which she has since said limited her creative freedom. The aesthetic of what would be known as the “Lover Era” emerged as rainbows, butterflies and pastel shades of blue, purple and pink, colors that subtly evoke the bisexual pride flag.

On April 26, Lesbian Visibility Day, Ms. Swift released the album’s lead single, “ME!,” in which she sings about self-love and self-acceptance. She co-directed a campy music video to accompany it, which she would later describe as depicting “everything that makes me, me.” It features Ms. Swift dancing at a pride parade, dripping in rainbow paint and turning down a man’s marriage proposal in exchange for a … pussy cat.

At the end of June, the L.G.B.T.Q. community would celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots. On June 14, Ms. Swift released the video for her attempt at a pride anthem, “You Need to Calm Down,” in which she and an army of queer celebrities from across generations — the “Queer Eye” hosts, Ellen DeGeneres, Billy Porter, Hayley Kiyoko, to name a few — resist homophobia by living openly. Ms. Swift sings that outrage against queer visibility is a waste of time and energy: “Why are you mad, when you could be GLAAD?”

The video ends with a plea: “Let’s show our pride by demanding that, on a national level, our laws truly treat all of our citizens equally.” Many, in the press and otherwise, saw the video as, at best, a misguided attempt at allyship and, at worst, a straight woman co-opting queer aesthetics and narratives to promote a commercial product.

Then, Ms. Swift performed “Shake It Off” as a surprise for patrons at the Stonewall Inn. Rumors — that were, perhaps, little more than fantasies — swirled in the queerer corners of her fandom, stoked by a suggestive post by the fashion designer Christian Siriano. Would Ms. Swift attend New York City’s WorldPride march on June 30? Would she wear a dress spun from a rainbow? Would she give a speech? If she did, what would she declare about herself?

The Sunday of the march, those fantasies stopped. She announced that the music executive Scooter Braun, who she described as an “incessant, manipulative” bully, had purchased her masters, the lucrative original recordings of her work.

Ms. Swift’s “Lover” was the first record that she created with nearly unchecked creative freedom. Lacking her old label’s constraints, she specifically chose to feature activism for and the aesthetics of the L.G.B.T.Q. community in her confessional, self-expressive art. Even before the sale of her masters, she appeared to be stepping into a new identity — not just an aesthetic — that was distinct from that associated with her past six albums.

When looking back on the artifacts of the months before that album’s release, any close reader of Ms. Swift has a choice. We can consider the album’s aesthetics and activism as performative allyship, as they were largely considered to be at the time. Or we can ask a question, knowing full well that we may never learn the answer: What if the “Lover Era” was merely Ms. Swift’s attempt to douse her work — and herself — in rainbows, as so many baby queers feel compelled to do as they come out to the world?

There’s no way of knowing what could have happened if Ms. Swift’s masters hadn’t been sold. All we know is what happened next. In early August, Ms. Swift posted a rainbow-glazed photo of a series of friendship bracelets, one of which says “PROUD” with beads in the color of the bisexual pride flag. Queer people recognize that this word, deployed this way, typically means that someone is proud of their own identity. But the public did not widely view this as Ms. Swift’s coming out.

Then, Vogue released an interview with Ms. Swift that had been conducted in early June. When discussing her motivations for releasing “You Need to Calm Down,” Ms. Swift said, “Rights are being stripped from basically everyone who isn’t a straight white cisgender male.” She continued: “I didn’t realize until recently that I could advocate for a community that I’m not a part of.” That statement suggests that Ms. Swift did not, in early June, consider herself part of the L.G.B.T.Q. community; it does not illuminate whether that is because she was a straight, cis ally or because she was stuck in the shadowy, solitary recesses of the closet.

On Aug. 22, Ms. Swift publicly committed herself to the as-of-then-unproven project of rerecording and rereleasing her first six albums. The next day, she finally released “Lover,” which raises more questions than it answers. Why does she have to keep secrets just to keep her muse, as all her fans still sing-scream on “Cruel Summer”? About what are the “hundred thrown-out speeches I almost said to you,” in her chronicle of self-doubt, “The Archer,” if not her identity? And what could the album’s closing words, which come at the conclusion of “Daylight,” a song about stepping out of a 20-year darkness and choosing to “let it go,” possibly signal?

I want to be defined by the things that I love,

Not the things I hate,

Not the things that I’m afraid of, I’m afraid of,

Not the things that haunt me in the middle of the night,

I just think that,

You are what you love.

The first time I viewed “Lover” through the prism of queerness, I felt delirious, almost insane. I kept wondering whether what I was perceiving in her work was truly there or if it was merely a mirage, born of earnest projection.

My longtime reading of Ms. Swift’s celebrity — like that of a majority of her fan base — had been stuck in the lingering assumptions left by a period that began more than a decade and a half ago, when a girl with an overexaggerated twang, Shirley Temple curls and Georgia stars in her eyes became famous. Then, she presented as all that was to be expected of a young starlet: attractive yet virginal, knowing yet naïve, not talented enough to be formidable, not commanding enough to be threatening, confessional, eager to please. Her songs earnestly depicted the fantasies of a girl raised in a traditional culture: high school crushes and backwoods drives, princelings and wedding rings, declarations of love that climax only in a kiss — ideally in the pouring rain.

When Ms. Swift was trying to sell albums in that late-2000s media environment, her songwriting didn’t match the image of a sex object, the usual role reserved for female celebrities in our culture. Instead, the story the public told about her was that she laundered her affection to a litter of promising grown men, in exchange for songwriting inspiration. A young Ms. Swift contributed to this narrative by hiding easy-to-decode clues in liner notes that suggested a certain someone was her songs’ inspiration (“SAM SAM SAM SAM SAM SAM,” “ADAM,” “TAY”) or calling out an ex-boyfriend on the “Ellen” show and “Saturday Night Live.” Despite the expansive storytelling in Ms. Swift’s early records, her public image often cast a man’s interest as her greatest ambition.

As Ms. Swift’s career progressed, she began to remake that image: changing her style and presentation, leaving country music for pop and moving from Nashville to New York. By 2019, her celebrity no longer reflected traditional culture; it had instead become a girlboss-y mirror for another dominant culture — that of white, cosmopolitan, neoliberal America.

But in every incarnation, the public has largely seen those songs — especially those for which she doesn’t directly state her inspiration — as cantos about her most recent heterosexual love, whether that idea is substantiated by evidence or not. A large portion of her base still relishes debating what might have happened with the gentleman caller who supposedly inspired her latest album. Feverish discussions of her escapades with the latest yassified London Boy or mustachioed Mr. Americana fuel the tabloid press — and, embarrassingly, much of traditional media — that courts fan engagement by relentlessly, unquestioningly chronicling Ms. Swift’s love life.

Even in 2023, public discussion about the romantic entanglements of Ms. Swift, 34, presumes that the right man will “finally” mean the end of her persistent husbandlessness and childlessness. Whatever you make of Ms. Swift’s extracurricular activities involving a certain football star (romance for the ages? strategic brand partnership? performance art for entertainment’s sake?), the public’s obsession with the relationship has been attention-grabbing, if not lucrative, for all parties, while reinforcing a story that America has long loved to tell about Ms. Swift, and by extension, itself.

Because Ms. Swift hasn’t undeniably subverted our culture’s traditional expectations, she has managed, in an increasingly fractured cultural environment, to simultaneously capture two dominant cultures — traditional and cosmopolitan. To maintain the stranglehold she has on pop culture, Ms. Swift must continue to tell a story that those audiences expect to consume; she falls in love with a man or she gets revenge. As a result, her confessional songs languish in a place of presumed stasis; even as their meaning has grown deeper and their craft more intricate, a substantial portion of her audience’s understanding of them remains wedded to the same old narratives.

But if interpretations of Ms. Swift’s art often languish in stasis, so do the millions upon millions of people who love to play with the dollhouse she has constructed for them. Her dominance in pop culture and the success of her business have given her the rare ability to influence not only her industry but also the worldview of a substantial portion of America. How might her industry, our culture and we, ourselves, change if we made space for Ms. Swift to burn that dollhouse to the ground?

Anyone considering the whole of Ms. Swift’s artistry — the way that her brilliantly calculated celebrity mixes with her soul-baring art — can find discrepancies between the story that underpins her celebrity and the one captured by her songs. One such gap can be found in her “Lover” era. Others appear alongside “dropped hairpins,” or the covert ways someone can signal queer identity to those in the know while leaving others comfortable in their ignorance. Ms. Swift dropped hairpins before “Lover” and has continued to do so since.

Sometimes, Ms. Swift communicates through explicit sartorial choices — hair the colors of the bisexual pride flag or a recurring motif of rainbow dresses. She frequently depicts herself as trapped in glass closets or, well, in regular closets. She drops hairpins on tour as well, paying tribute to the Serpentine Dance of the lesbian artist Loie Fuller during the Reputation Tour or referencing “The Ladder,” one of the earliest lesbian publications in the United States, in her Eras Tour visuals.

During the Eras Tour, Ms. Swift traps her past selves — including those from her “Lover” era — in glass closets.

Dropped hairpins also appear in Ms. Swift’s songwriting. Sometimes, the description of a muse — the subject of her song, or to whom she sings — seems to fit only a woman, as it does in “It’s Nice to Have a Friend,” “Maroon” or “Hits Different.” Sometimes she suggests a female muse through unfulfilled rhyme schemes, as she does in “The Very First Night,” when she sings “didn’t read the note on the Polaroid picture / they don’t know how much I miss you” (“her,” instead of that pesky little “you,” would rhyme). Her songwriting also noticeably alludes to poets whose muses the historical record incorrectly cast as men — Emily Dickinson chief among them — as if to suggest the same fate awaits her art. Stunningly, she even explicitly refers to dropping hairpins, not once, but twice, on two separate albums.

In isolation, a single dropped hairpin is perhaps meaningless or accidental, but considered together, they’re the unfurling of a ballerina bun after a long performance. Those dropped hairpins began to appear in Ms. Swift’s artistry long before queer identity was undeniably marketable to mainstream America. They suggest to queer people that she is one of us. They also suggest that her art may be far more complex than the eclipsing nature of her celebrity may allow, even now.

Since at least her “Lover” era, Ms. Swift has explicitly encouraged her fans to read into the coded messages (which she calls “Easter eggs”) she leaves in music videos, social media posts and interviews with traditional media outlets, but a majority of those fans largely ignore or discount the dropped hairpins that might hint at queer identity. For them, acknowledging even the possibility that Ms. Swift could be queer would irrevocably alter the way they connect with her celebrity, the true product they’re consuming.

There is such public devotion to the traditional narrative Ms. Swift embodies because American culture enshrines male power. In her sweeping essay, “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence,” the lesbian feminist poet Adrienne Rich identified the way that male power cramps, hinders or devalues women’s creativity. All of the sexist undertones with which Ms. Swift’s work can be discussed (often, even, by fans) flow from compulsory heterosexuality, or the way patriarchy draws power from the presumption that women naturally desire men. She must write about men she surely loves or be unbankable; she must marry and bear children or remain a child herself; she must look like, in her words, a “sexy baby” or be undesirable, “a monster on the hill.”

A woman who loves women is most certainly a monster to a society that prizes male power. She can fulfill none of the functions that a traditional culture imagines — wife, mother, maid, mistress, whore — so she has few places in the historical record. The Sapphic possibility of her work is ignored, censored or lost to time. If there is queerness earnestly implied in Ms. Swift’s work, then it’s no wonder that it, like that of so many other artists before her, is so often rendered invisible in the public imagination.

While Ms. Swift’s songs, largely written from her own perspective, cannot always conform to the idea of a woman our culture expects, her celebrity can. That separation, between Swift the songwriter and Swift the star, allows Ms. Swift to press against the golden birdcage in which she has found herself. She can write about women’s complexity in her confessional songs, but if ever she chooses not to publicly comply with the dominant culture’s fantasy, she will remain uncategorizable, and therefore, unsellable.

Her star — as bright as it is now — would surely dim.

Whether she is conscious of it or not, Ms. Swift signals to queer people — in the language we use to communicate with one another — that she has some affinity for queer identity. There are some queer people who would say that through this sort of signaling, she has already come out, at least to us. But what about coming out in a language the rest of the public will understand?

The difference between any person coming out and a celebrity doing so is the difference between a toy mallet and a sledgehammer. It’s reasonable for celebrities to be reticent; by coming out, they potentially invite death threats, a dogged tabloid press that will track their lovers instead of their beards, the excavation of their past lives, a torrent of public criticism and the implosion of their careers. In a culture of compulsory heterosexuality, to stop lying — by omission or otherwise — is to risk everything.

American culture still expects that stars are cis and straight until they confess themselves guilty. So, when our culture imagines a celebrity’s coming out, it expects an Ellen-style announcement that will submerge the past life in phoenix fire and rebirth the celebrity in a new image. In an ideal culture, wearing a bracelet that says “PROUD,” waving a pride flag onstage, placing a rainbow in album artwork or suggestively answering fan questions on Instagram would be enough. But our current reality expects a supernova.

Because of that expectation, stars end up trapped behind glass, which is reinforced by the tabloid press’s subtle social control. That press shapes the public’s expectations of others’ identities, even when those identities are chasms away from reality. Celebrities who master this press environment — Ms. Swift included — can bolster their business, but in doing so, they reinforce a heteronormative culture that obsesses over pregnancy, women’s bodies and their relationships with men.

That environment is at odds with the American movement for L.G.B.T.Q. equality, which still has fights to win — most pressingly, enshrining trans rights and squashing nonsensical culture wars. But lately I’ve heard many of my young queer contemporaries — and the occasional star — wonder whether the movement has come far enough to dispense with the often messy, often uncomfortable process of coming out, over and over again.

That questioning speaks to an earnest conundrum that queer people confront regularly: Do we live in this world, or the world to which we ought to aspire?

Living in aspiration means ignoring the convention of coming out in favor of just … existing. This is easier for those who can pass as cis and straight if need be, those who are so wealthy or white that the burden of hiding falls to others and those who live in accepting urban enclaves. This is a queer life without friction; coming out in a way straight people can see is no longer a prerequisite for acceptance, fulfillment and equality.

This aspiration is tremendous, but in our current culture, it is available only to a privileged few. Should such an inequality of access to aspiration become the accepted state of affairs, it would leave those who can’t hide to face society’s cruelest actors without the backing of a vocal, activated community. So every queer person who takes issue with the idea that we must come out ought to ask a simple question — what do we owe one another?

If coming out is primarily supposed to be an act of self-actualization, to form our own identities, then we owe one another nothing. This posture recognizes that the act of coming out implicitly reinforces straight and cis identities as default, which is not worth the rewards of outness.

But if coming out is supposed to be a radical act of resistance that seeks to change the way our society imagines people to be, then undeniable visibility is essential to make space for those without power. In this posture, queer people who can live in aspiration owe those who cannot a real world in which our expansive views of love and gender aren’t merely tolerated but celebrated. We have no choice but to actively, vocally press against the world we’re in, until no one is stuck in it.

And so just for a little while longer, we need our heroes.

But if queer people spend all of our time holding out for a guiding light, we might forgo a more pressing question that if answered, just might inch all of us a bit closer to aspiration. The next time heroes appear, are we ready to receive them?

It takes neither a genius nor a radical to see queerness implied by Ms. Swift’s work. But figuring out how to talk about it before the star labels herself is another matter. Right now, those who do so must inject our perceptions with caveats and doubt or pretend we cannot see it (a lie!) — implicitly acquiescing to convention’s constraints in the name of solidarity.

Lying is familiar to queer people; we teach ourselves to do it from an early age, shrouding our identities from others, and ourselves. It’s not without good reason. To maintain the safety (and sometimes the comfort) of the closet, we lie to others, and, most crucially, we allow others to believe lies about us, seeing us as something other than ourselves. Lying is doubly familiar to those of us who are women. To reduce friction, so many of us still shrink life to its barest version in the name of honor or safety, rendering our lives incomplete, our minds lobotomized and our identities unexplored.

By maintaining a culture of lying about what we, uniquely, have the knowledge and experience to see, we commit ourselves to a vow of silence. That vow may protect someone’s safety, but when it is applied to works of culture, it stymies our ability to receive art that has the potential to change or disrupt us. As those with queer identity amass the power of commonplaceness, it’s worth questioning whether the purpose of one of the last great taboos that constrains us befits its cost.

In every case, is the best form of solidarity still silence?

I know that discussing the potential of a star’s queerness before a formal declaration of identity feels, to some, too salacious and gossip-fueled to be worthy of discussion. They might point to the viciousness of the discourse around “queerbaiting” (in which I have participated); to the harm caused by the tabloid press’s dalliances with outing; and, most crucially, to the real material sacrifices that queer stars make to come out, again and again, as reasons to stay silent.

I share many of these reservations. But the stories that dominate our collective imagination shape what our culture permits artists and their audiences to say and be. Every time an artist signals queerness and that transmission falls on deaf ears, that signal dies. Recognizing the possibility of queerness — while being conscious of the difference between possibility and certainty — keeps that signal alive.

So, whatever you make of Ms. Swift’s sexual orientation or gender identity (something that is knowable, perhaps, only to her) or the exact identity of her muses (something better left a mystery), choosing to acknowledge the Sapphic possibility of her work has the potential to cut an audience that is too often constrained by history, expectation and capital loose from the burdens of our culture.

To start, consider what Ms. Swift wrote in the liner notes of her 2017 album, “reputation”: “When this album comes out, gossip blogs will scour the lyrics for the men they can attribute to each song, as if the inspiration for music is as simple and basic as a paternity test.”

Listen to her. At the very least, resist the urge to assume that when Ms. Swift calls the object of her affection “you” in a song, she’s talking about a man with whom she’s been photographed. Just that simple choice opens up a world of Swiftian wordplay. She often plays with pronouns, trading “you” and “him” so that only someone looking for a distinction between two characters might find one. Turns of phrase often contain double or even triple meanings. Her work is a feast laid specifically for the close listener.

Choosing to read closely can also train the mind to resist the image of an unmarried woman that compulsory heterosexuality expects. And even if it is only her audience who points at rainbows, reading Ms. Swift’s work as queer is still worthwhile, for it undermines the assumption that queer identity impedes pop superstardom, paving the way for an out artist to have the success Ms. Swift has.

After all, would it truly be better to wait to talk about any of this for 50, 60, 70 years, until Ms. Swift whispers her life story to a biographer? Or for a century or more, when Ms. Swift’s grandniece donates her diaries to some academic library, for scholars to pore over? To ensure that mea culpas come only when Ms. Swift’s bones have turned to dust and fragments of her songs float away on memory’s summer breeze?

I think not. And so, I must say, as loudly as I can, “I can see you,” even if I risk foolishness for doing so.

I remember the first time I knew I had seen Taylor Alison Swift break free from the trap of stardom. I wasn’t sitting in a crowded stadium in the pouring rain or cuddled up in a movie theater with a bag of popcorn. I was watching a grainy, crackling livestream of the Eras Tour, captured on a fan’s phone.

It’s late at night, the beginning of her acoustic set of surprise songs, this time performed in a yellow dress. She begins playing “Hits Different.” It’s a new song, full of puns, double entendres and wordplay, that toys with the glittering identities in which Ms. Swift indulges.

She’s rushing, as if stopping, even for a second, will cause her to lose her nerve. She stumbles at the bridge, pauses and starts again; the queen of bridges will not mess this up, not tonight.

There it is, at the bridge’s end: “Bet I could still melt your world; argumentative, antithetical dream girl.” An undeniable declaration of love to a woman. As soon as those words leave her lips, she lets out a whoop, pacing around the stage with a grin that cannot be contained.

For a moment, Ms. Swift was out of the woods she had created for herself as a teenager, floating above the trees. The future was within reach; she would, and will, soon take back the rest of her words, her reputation, her name. Maybe the world would see her, maybe it wouldn’t.

But on that stage, she found herself. I was there. Through a fuzzy fancam, I saw it.

And somehow, that was everything.

#ooooh my word this was BREATHTAKING and so well-said #because coming out is in fact a very delicate thing #full article here for the tumblr crowd!#taylor swift #articles #new york times #gaylor swift #gaylor #lover #chely wright

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lelengerine · 8 months

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Can I request boyfriend!Haechan being jealous of his member after his s/o fell asleep on their shoulder instead of his

i’m so sorry i got to this late,,, college really takes the life out of u ;0; also i think i made this prompt a little more playful than just pure jealousy and i'm not sure if its entirely what you're looking for, but i still hope you like it and thank you for sending in the req!

midnights

pairing | gamer!hyuck x reader

genre | established relationship au, purely fluff as far as i can say, another round of the streamer/gamer hyuck agenda, haechan uses nicknames for reader (cutie, lovie, baby) but no specific prns are used!

wc | 1.1k

m.list

its currently four in the morning and a new game loads for the nth time on the big monitor displayed right in front of your living room. you’re not even sure what game it is at this point, feeling your eyelids droop the longer you keep them open, yet haechan and jeno are wide awake — presumably from the amount of red bulls they’ve consumed in the past hour, a couple of neon colored cans now scattered around.

haechan invited his friend group over to a game night turned sleepover at your shared apartment. it wasn’t like you minded. in fact, you enjoyed the company of his friends from time to time, and the crowd of people wouldn’t hurt considering you had a couple of guest bedrooms readily available for them.

the ones who are in the midst of playing are practically the only two standing soldiers left. jaemin and jisung had retreated to scrolling on their phones, mark passed out on the bean bag by the corner of the room who knows how long ago, and renjun’s sat on the couch — watching the (not so) friendly match alongside you.

“how long do you think they’ll be at it?” your words are a little groggy as you hug the pillow that was laying on your lap, tone laced with sleepiness.

“i bet another hour if we’re being honest here.” renjun replies back softly, letting out a small yawn after as he mindlessly continues to watch the two play.

the yelling from your boyfriend and jeno begins to sound like static noise passing through your ears, making you even more drowsy than you already were. “another hour it is. wake me up by then, would you?”

“yeah, sure. if i don’t fall asleep either.” a small laugh resounds out of your seat mate’s chest, and you begin to bury your head in the pillow you were hugging earlier, sinking yourself into the plush fabric.

it doesn’t take too long for your consciousness to slip away into a deep slumber, body beginning to grow heavy as every minute slowly passes by. perhaps that’s why it never registered that you were beginning to lean on your side, your head eventually landing by renjun’s arm.

though he does get startled by the sudden weight on his side, he couldn’t find the strength within him to move you back into place—the drowsiness kicking in his system as well—and so, he just let you be, deciding it would be best to succumb to sleep himself.

another hour does indeed pass by just as renjun predicted, and the two are still at each other’s throats for a final round. the room is silent, yet neither of them really cared. the only sound in the room being the mashing of controller buttons to hit combos.

“i finally win, loser!” haechan abruptly cheers once a victory flag is displayed on his side of the screen, signaling the end of their time playing.

“yeah, after like what? five rounds?” jeno chuckles, not a dent in his pride for losing a single time to the boy beside him.

“Whatever!” haechan quickly sets his controller down, still feeling proud despite jeno’s jab at his supposed gaming skills. “they say the last game is always the most important one.”

“sure…” jeno eyes his competitor briefly before getting up to stretch, “anyways, i’m going to go get a glass of water.”

“get me one too.” jaemin mumbles from the side, half-awake and still doing who knows what on his phone. “got it jaem.”

that now left haechan all to himself and his first instinct was to go looking for you, shocked that he found you right behind him, your face comfortably sandwiched between the pillow you were holding and renjun’s side.

he doesn’t know what urged him to rush over to where you were residing, completely dismissing renjun’s presence as he gently gets a hold of your sleeping figure to bring you back to the comfort of your bed. “guys, i’ll be back. just gotta bring y/n to our room.”

a responsive hum from jaemin is all he needs, and he’s already whisking you away to your bedroom, laying you on the fluffy duvet that covers the bed with care.

he crouches down to stare at you for a moment, a small pout on his face. “lovie, i can’t believe you’d snuggle with renjun. on our couch nonetheless!” he whines in a whisper, knowing you wouldn’t hear anything he’d say.

“can’t believe you’d replace me that quick.” a finger of his pokes your cheek once, then twice, then twice turns into a couple more times, and before he knew it, he accidentally wakes you up.

“hyuuuckie, why aren’t you asleep?” you prolong your speech with eyes only half way open, not really registering anything into your brain.

your boyfriend can only chuckle at your drowsy state, finding your actions endearingly cute. “sorry, lovie. i just finished a game with jeno, but we’ve called it quits for now.” he tries to explain slowly for the sake of you understanding him.

“then come to bed! i need my teddy bear.” you huff defeatedly, now making grabby hands his way, and haechan feels his heart bursting with giddy adoration. you weren’t one to usually act this way so haechan would cherish every moment you’d let your guard down in front of him and stored it in his mind like he was collecting a jar of water during a time of drought. this was certainly one of those times.

“you need your teddy bear?” you nod a single time as haechan repeated your words. he originally planned to help with the clean up after bringing you over to the bed, but how could he just leave you all alone after that? “okay, loviee. your teddy is going to bed with you.” he coos all giggly, easily swayed by the sight before him.

haechan lifts up the covers of his side of the bed, laying down in one, swift motion. you seek out his warmth just as quickly, shifting towards his direction to wrap your arms around his waist before falling back to sleep.

“cutie baby.” he utters out under his breath, before letting out a yawn, already feeling himself tire out — the hours of constant gaming quickly catching up to him. soon enough, he drifts off in your embrace, forgetting his friends just outside the room.

“hey, where did hyuck say he was going again?” jeno questions as he rounds the corner of the couch, beginning to pick up the litter he and haechan had left behind on the floor.

jisung quickly points in the direction of the master bedroom, and jeno could only groan in frustration, already knowing his clean up partner wouldn’t be coming out of there any time soon (or at all for that matter).

#: ̗̀➛ requested!#nct fluff #nct dream fluff #nct angst #nct dream angst #haechan fluff #haechan angst #donghyuck fluff #donghyuck angst #nct imagines #nct drabbles #nct dream imagines #nct dream drabbles

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fushipurro · 5 months

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Red Lights Red Flags

Chapter 1 - Services

Masterlist | Next Chapter ->

☆ Synopsis: After recently being sold to a brothel, your new life as a low-rank courtesan began. Try as you might to survive until your debt is paid off, life just keeps kicking you when you're already down. One day, you're tasked with serving none other than an infamous samurai by the name of Toji Zenin who makes you a promise he intends to keep.

☆ Content: 18+ MDNI, f!reader, ronin!toji, courtesan!reader, forced prostitution, graphic violence, implied/referenced alcohol, abuse, implied/referenced sexual assault (not Toji), hurt/comfort, angst

☆ Word Count: 4k

It wasn’t all that long ago you began working as a courtesan in the Red-Light District ─ or rather ─ forced to become one.

This was never the life you envisioned yourself having. Growing up, surrounded by family, life was simple, easy, without any complaints until your mother passed away from an illness that plagued her years before her demise.

It’s because of this tragic part of your history that your father decided to drink his misery away, finding solace in the embrace of courtesans at the very establishment he sold you to. “You’re the spitting image of her,” was about all he could say before handing you off to your new life.

A voice shouts your name from the kitchen, “Come here and help deliver this tray to the VIP room!”

As you’ve come to learn through rather forceful methods, you’re in no position to argue or even think of denying. So, without a moment to breathe, you enter the kitchen and receive the tray containing one of the more intricate dishes the brothel has to offer. No doubt there’s an important guest present, several even given the other low-ranked courtesans gathered alongside you.

You and the other unfortunate souls make haste to the designated room, arriving before a set of hand-painted shoji doors that detail an assortment of vibrant flowers ─ the primary theme for this particular brothel. The leader of the group announces your arrival before sliding the doors open, politely bowing upon entry. You follow suit, taking note to the identity of the clientele.

The Zenin Clan.

One of the three largest clans in this section of Japan, gifted in brute force military talent to enforce the everyday laws of Emperor Tengen. Their appearance here is commonplace, mainly reserved to courtesans higher up the chain. It’s rumored they discuss their plans for war within these walls, and that it’s preferred for them over the sanctuary of their own estate. Something about their “family pride” and other misogynistic values you’re barely able to stomach for appearance’s sake.

This is your first time even being in the room with such highly valued guests, and a heavy reminder to not make any blunders or there will be hell to pay.

You are among the last to enter the room, with only one Zenin still awaiting a tray. A man bearing a loose, dark colored robe and an equally dark head of hair. He has his face turned towards the courtesan at his side, hiding the rest of his features from you. But of everyone in the room, he seems the most out of place. Going as far as to ignore the banters of his family to focus solely on the woman clinging to his arm.

Slowly, you approach, taking notice that it’s not just any woman at his side, but one of the few elite courtesans the brothel has to offer. Botan, a youthful beauty that holds the imagery title of the peony flower to distinguish her from the rest. She’s leaning heavily into the Zenin man, forcing his arm to rest between the valley of her breasts with eyes ignited in playful lust.

While setting the tray of food and sake in front of the man, the peony’s gaze flickers to you, her expression turning to one of disdain. “About time,” she sneers, raising the sleeve of her loosely tied kimono to cover the arrogant smile on her face. “We can’t keep our favorite guests waiting now, can we?”

“My deepest apologies, Master Zenin.” Your voice is meek, bowing until your forehead meets the tatami mat below.

You hear a scoff from the woman. “Leave us,” she spits with added aggression, and you have no choice but to oblige. While making your exit, a brief flash of green hits you that causes you to falter, if only for a moment before the sliding doors come to a complete close.

Your shift for the remainder of the night is as usual. Equal parts cleaning and servicing other customers. It’s a relatively tame night as far as standards go, and in all honesty, not everything about this line of work is the stuff of nightmares.

There are however plenty of times where it is, and those are the nights that truly haunt you. Men who come through the front doors looking only for a pretty enough face they can ruin, going as far as they’d like so long as you’re able to function again the following night. You’ve had the displeasure of being one of those poor souls one too many times. Some courtesans do well to hide the pain or take pleasure in some twisted way over it, but you? It’s become much too hard to ignore the dark thoughts that linger in your mind, pulling you into an abyss the longer you allow yourself to even entertain the idea.

You didn’t want to be here. Not now and not ever.

You miss your mother, your siblings, sometimes even the father that casted you aside for a bottle of sake. And now all that’s left is for you to drown in this horrifying decadence.

While preparing yourself in one of the communal rooms, you hear the proprietor calling your name. “You’re needed in the Peony Room. Now.”

Botan?

“Uhh– right away, Hanami!”

One thing to note about this brothel is that nearly all the courtesans named after flowers also have their own personal room. It’s a given for the higher ranks, and seldomly so for the other flowers. For a low rank like you to be invited to the Peony Room of all places has your stomach twisting into knots.

This can’t end well.

Nevertheless, you make your way over to her room, easily found by the hand-painted peonies across the sliding doors and the carving of one on a sign above the framing. You take a bow, announcing yourself before entering the room.

“Finally, someone shows up,” hisses the courtesan. You’re unable to see anything other than your view of the tatami mat, but Botan most definitely rolled her eyes. “My lovely guests have been waiting too long for some entertainment. Play us some music, would you?” She adds on with a smile that’s anything but genuine.

“My apologies for the wait, esteemed guests,” you murmur, deepening your bow.

Before Botan has a chance to say anything more, another voice chimes up with a much deeper, more gravely tone, “Lift your head.”

You do, and you’re met once again with a pair of green eyes that tug on something deep in your heart for whatever unknown reason. Only now are you able to see his features in full. Raven hair drapes down over said greenery, a pointed nose with a chiseled jawline, and most interesting to you is the scar brandishing the side of his lip.

He looks to you with a narrow, intimidating gaze, deep in thought but with a hint of softness buried even deeper. At his side is man who is undoubtably not a member of the Zenin Clan, perhaps even a foreigner. The Zenin tonight wears a navy-blue robe, while the other adorns a soft shade of brown similar to his own hair and stubble.

Entertaining guests with the art of music is one of the few parts of this lifestyle you can safely say you enjoy. There’s no need for polite conversations, hard scrubbing, or forced prostitution. Just you and the sounds your fingertips create to ease the atmosphere. Your instrument of choice for the night is the Koto, and you have a feeling the Zenin approves from the way his eyes refuse to leave you.

A few times they meet yours, and you have to be careful lest the nervousness take over and you miss a note. More and more, Botan’s gaze burns into you as even she has trouble holding the attention of the man at her side. He lets her hang off him but does nothing to reciprocate besides idle chatter mostly geared towards the man named Shiu Kong. Much to Botan’s dismay, neither end up staying the night for any sort of romance, and that only adds to the fire burning beneath your feet.

“Thank you for your patronage,” is what you and the other courtesans say to the men, bowing as they exit the room. After a few moments, you’re tugged back harshly by your hair.

“Lowly bitch!” she spits, tugging at your hair as you bring your hands up to her wrists, only for them to be slapped away. “Toji is mine, you hear? Stick to the pigs better off for someone like you!”

“Hanami told me to come here!” you protest, further proving your thoughts from earlier. As if you would want to spend the night with the jealous peony herself over any other courtesan.

A harsh slap comes down upon your face, leaving behind the feeling of fire from her hand. “You don’t get to talk back to me! Don’t you dare forget where you rank here.” She huffs, giving you the most disgusted face riddled with envy despite hownone of this was in your control. “Get out of my sight.” It’s an order you’re more than happy to accept, clutching the burning flesh of your cheek and trailing tears as you rush out.

(cw: implied non-con | skip to next line break to avoid)

Every brothel in the Red-Light District comes with their own set of rules and a hierarchy, so to speak. All about maintaining positions of power or holding sway over the people; it’s a whole other level of depravity that goes beyond sexual favors. At the end of the day, human nature and negativity always comes back to one thing, and one thing only.

Greed.

That’s why despite the fact that Hanami is the owner and proprietor, if one of her best moneymakers comes to her with a proposition that offers zero chance of impacting her funds, she’ll gladly accept. In this situation, Botan’s envious nature stoops to an even lower level.

It wasn’t enough that she needed to reprimand you through physical force, but she felt the need to ─ as she so kindly put it ─ remember your place.

Your workload increased exponentially the following week. If something needed to be done, you were the first (and only) one given the task. Hanami had her own discussion with you, highlighting just how disappointed she is that your presence is bad for Botan’s business. Even though really, how is it any bit your fault?

The cherry on top of this are all the distasteful customers being sent your way to deal with. Drunken, egotistical scum of the Earth who on normal circumstances would be sent away for some other brothel to deal with, but not anymore. “You want to make up for Botan’s business, don’t you?” As if you aren’t the one shouldering a pile of a debt.

This agonizing week grows longer by the minute, and the light at the end of the tunnel seems as distant as the stars above. The awful thoughts in your head have returned tenfold tonight, glued to the forefront of your mind like your soul was thrown into a pit of brambles, thorns wrapped tightly around your body until the water runs red.

“Quit your squirming, whore!” one of the men shouts, following up with a resounding clap to your face when dared to so much as whine. “Fucking bitch.”

The other three in the room chuckle, each of them reaching out to stake claim on your body in an effort to hold you down. Screams and cries were futile attempts.

No one will save you.

These men are infamous to the district, barred from entering the premises of a dozen shops and counting but tonight, their business is a treat for Hanami and the root of your torture. As long as she makes her money and her highest ranked flowers are happy, you’re just discarded meat for the wolves to feast.

This night went on for several hours until the light of dawn came and faded away those very twinkling lights you’ve come to memorize, round after round of pleasing each of the four. By the end of it, you’re bloodied and bruised, unmoving from your spot on the floor. To say your appearance is disheveled is an understatement for the horrors you had to bear head on.

A few other courtesans near your rank in blue came to check on you afterwards. Enough to set you upright and help clean you off, but not enough to stick around and become the next target for Botan’s fury.

So much for the love, honor, and happiness a peony flower offers.

Not even the suffering of the previous night is enough to spare you another night of pleasuring clients.

Hanami’s cursed soul reigns supreme, making sure your skin is peppered in fair-colored powders to hide any hideous marks and tainting your worth. It’s one thing to let you be on the receiving end, but another let it get in the way of making her money.

You’ve had enough, you decided. After tonight, one way or another, you will find a way out of this hellhole.

For now, you were instructed to head over to where you’ll service your client for the night, someone who ensured they’d have you all to themselves that entire time to come. The feeling of dread is endless in your body as you make your approach, and every bang and cry along the way sends panic to your heart and the need to take a breather.

To you, it felt like an eternity kneeling outside the plainly patterned doors to whatever demon is awaiting you inside. Just one more night, becomes a mantra through hushed whispers, inspiring the confidence to finally present yourself to the maw of man.

“Lift your head.”

You comply, and faster than you normally ever would to meet the green eyes of Toji Zenin for the third time in only a week. You fearfully glance around to discern who else is in the room, but you come to find that it’s just the two of you.

His expression is unreadable as ever, but he pats the tatami at his side to beckon you closer. “Come here,” he says, with your name punctuating his command.

Like a trained puppy, you approach, sitting neatly and folded ─ albeit tense and riddled with stress. Within that moment, his hand reaches out and causes you to flinch, shutting your eyes tightly to avoid what you feel is coming.

You fully expect pain to follow, but the soft grace of his fingers under your jaw begs to differ. You feel the heat of his breath as he draws himself closer, but to your surprise, there is no clash of lips to signal any erotic advances.

Slowly, you open your eyes, tensing when they meet with his own. It sends a strange feeling similar to electricity through your body, like old nerves reigniting from a familiar sense. He turns your head with his hand, as if analyzing your features. Jade homing in on areas makeup fails to cover given the damage inflicted upon you.

He doesn’t say anything when he releases the feather-light grip on your face, nor when he leans back into his seat to give you some space. You’re unsure what to say, but given what anyone else who comes here desires, you can all but guess as you begin undoing your robes with eager to get this night done and over with.

However, the same hand used to hold your face return over your own, stopping you from further undressing. He shakes his head. “I didn’t call you here for this.”

“I-I’m sorry, Sir…”

You lean back, attempting to fix your robes in a fit of embarrassment and even panic. Did you do something wrong? Are you not performing your duties properly?

“Close your eyes and open your mouth for me.”

Huh?

You obey with cautiousness evident in your features, trying not to let your body shake in fear of the shuffling noises you hear. You don’t know who Toji is, what he’s like, and especially how he treats women. From what you can see beneath another set of loosely fitted robes, he’s the definition of muscular strength. The type of guy who’s able to snap you like a twig if he so desired.

What lands on your tongue actually ends up being the savory taste of your brothel’s very own meal from the singular tray he had placed in front of him from your arrival.

“Eat up,” he says, placing said tray in front of you instead of himself. “You need it more than me, sweetheart, I can see your bones.”

In a way, he’s right. Meals were already selectively given to lower ranking courtesans depending on your earnings, and more so when Botan began heavily restricting your servings if you were even granted anything more than what’s needed to stay alive.

You lower your head. “Master, I… I can’t, it’s my duty to serve you first and foremost.”

“Your master is telling you to eat,” he huffs. “And I want ya to call me Toji.”

He lifts another mouthful of food up and you know saying no isn’t an option. Deep down, you’re grateful to finally have a real meal instead of the bottom of the bowl scraps you’ve been having. It’s reminiscent to Toji, seeing you polish off every bit of food like a starved animal.

“So how’d you end up in a place like this?” he asks, resting a fist against his cheek.

“The same reason as others, I suppose… I was sold by my father to pay his debt,” you tell him with a sullen look on your face.

Divulging this information to clients is frowned upon, but you don’t see the harm in it or the need to lie. Few courtesans willingly sell themselves to the business. It all comes back to money at the end of the day. With wealth, comes power and the control others desire.

“That so?” Toji leans into your space once more and the look he gives you makes you feel oh so small when compared to him. He reaches out, his fingers grazing a violent bruise around your neck hiding away under powders. “Who did this to you?”

You recoil in response, as does he. Flashbacks run in your mind of the men and all the ways they beat you. You don’t even notice how your own fingers softly sit over your throat or the stray tears descending from your eyes.

Toji sighs, “What were you up to before all this?”

You’re grateful for the change in conversation, swallowing the lump in your throat as your breathing steadies itself. “My father was away for work often, so I always helped my mom around the house and with my siblings.” A look of longing fills your eyes with a glossy coating. “I loved my life, but then my mother fell ill and w-when she passed… everything just fell apart.”

He hums in acknowledgement, grasping the hand shaking on your lap and offers soft circles of comfort.

“It was just me and my younger sibling, Koichi. My father became a drunk a-and–“

You snap back into reality, realizing how comfortable you’re letting yourself be when this is work. “I’m sorry– it’s not right for me to go on like this after you paid for my services.”

The hand you pulled back to your chest is retrieved by his own, pulling you into chest. “Shh, it’s okay.” His arms coil tightly around you, offering you a vague familiar sense of comfort.

Teardrops cascade down your face between muffled apologies. His rough palm runs smooth down your back hoping to settle you back down. Toji doesn’t offer you any words of comfort, but you’re okay with that. The embrace he holds you in is warm, inviting. It’s something you haven’t felt for many moons now and never thought you’d experience again. After tonight, you were ready to greet death and the cold embrace they offer, but now confliction is at an all-time high.

Eventually the tears run dry, and you lift your head from his chest. There’s a noticeable wet spot left behind that has you grimacing. “I’m sorry for messing up your robe…” Your voice is hoarse from the relentless sobs, and it makes you hope no one outside these four walls heard enough to care.

“Don’t be, this is nothin’,” he grins with a hint of something more hidden in the forest of his eyes.

Toji is by far the biggest mystery you’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. An enigma. For that, you hope to find a way to repay him.

You shimmy back into a proper position, drying your face off before flashing him a smile of your own. “May I play for you?” you ask, directing his attention to a Koto setup in the room. He nods, and you move to the wooden spectacle.

Brothels typically train you in the art of music, but when it comes to the Koto, that was all your mother’s doing. For the kindness Toji has given you tonight, you return the favor with various melodies all from your childhood. Reminders of the better days when you yourself were once happy.

He remains focused like the time before, maybe even more so. His eyes are unwavering, admiring every pluck of string and harmonic tune. This goes on for a time until your fingers tire and you’ve run out of all those memorable pieces. At the end, you’re much calmer than you were before, finally being able to relax in full.

“You play as beautifully as you look,” he tells you, sending a flood of goosebumps down your neck.

You shrug, “It must be pretty terrible then…”

“Come here.”

“Huh?”

He taps the tatami surface in front of him until you move yourself back over. There, he reaches up with one hand on your shoulder and the other holding your head up.

“Those bruises don’t make you anything less than you are.” He says your name right after with a cold expression but his voice betraying that. “You are beautiful, and I’ll kill the fuckers that did this to you.”

Who knew such brutal words could spark such opposite feelings in your heart?

“Toji…” you drawl, flashing him a look of concern rather than the fear he might’ve been expecting.

His lips stretch further apart like the maw of a hungry wolf. “You think I’m joking?”

“N-no, but–“

“I’m not going to watch you get hurt again, not anymore,” he says, and you can’t help but feel there’s a certain undertone you’re not understanding. For whatever odd universal feeling, you believe him.

Toji stands, walking over to a closet in the room before pulling out a spare futon. You look to him with confusion written all over your face, watching as he sets it up adjacent to his own as he settles down onto the available space of the one.

“You coming?”

“W-what would you like me to do, Mas– Toji?”

His chest rumbles a low husky laugh as he pats the second bedroll. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s late and I’m sure you could use the extra beauty sleep.”

“I thought I was already beautiful,” you half mumble under your breath in a teasing manner, making your approach to his side.

He huffs with amusement, surprising you with how he managed to even hear your softspoken voice. “You are, don’t worry.”

You plop down onto your side facing the samurai, your heart beating a mile a minute. You understand that he’s giving you space, thankful he hasn’t once forced himself upon you like he so easily could.

“Thank you, Toji.”

He doesn’t respond just yet with anything more but a calm yet reassuring face, not while you’re visibly awake at least. Over time, you find yourself inching closer and closer to the warmth that radiates from his body, lulling you into the most restful night you’ve had in years.

Toji’s gaze falls to all the marks over your skin, evidence of the trauma you’ve suffered. Regret fills him deeper than you could ever imagine, and in time he hopes to restore you to what once was.

“I will save you from this.”

☆ Notes: I wrote this series on a whim when I got the idea, and honestly didn't plan much of the future until like chapter 6 so if you're reading this now, just be aware that I rewrote the first six chapters! plot's the same, but i'm much happier with it now so i hope you guys still enjoy it!

#jjk #toji fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen #jjk toji #jjk au #toji x female reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji x reader #ronin!toji #toji zenin #toji x you #courtesan!reader

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polyamships · 4 months

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[ID: “Polyam Shipping Day / 14th of every month”. Next to the text is a red infinity sign that finishes in a heart on top. Above the text are rows of stylized hearts in the colors of both versions of the polyam pride flag (black, red, bright blue, light green, dark green, light blue, navy). /end ID]

January 14th 2024 is our 35th Polyam Shipping Day.

The optional theme for it is: 🤼Conflict⚔️

This could be about the many ways in which a relationship can come into conflict: conflicting schedules, goals, needs. It can also be about how they decide to resolve those issues. Maybe it's about one of them taking conflict resolution seminars to deal with the polycule after a major conflict arose. It can also be about social conflict or being in a warzone. How does your ship deal with being in a violent setting? Do they stay together through it all? What happens when the conflict escalates and they must choose between allegiances? What about conflict that's larger than life such as good versus evil? On a different note, it can be about the internal conflict about jealousy versus compersion, or conflict that comes with discovering you're polyamorous whether in a relationship or not. In the literal sense, it can be about fighting and arguments: who mediates? Who avoids mediating like the plague?

...

We’ll be tracking #PolyamShippingDay, and keeping an eye out for any @polyamships mentions too. We will reblog any polyam-positive fanworks featuring polyamorous ships of any configuration/type from any fandom. All ratings are welcome but anything nsfw/triggery should be warned for and behind a read more, as should very long tumblr fic.

You can also submit works directly to the blog or send us asks to let us know to check your blog for a post. If you’re posting on AO3, our collection name is ‘PolyamShippingDay‘ and you can post to the collection here. Only fanworks submitted/@ us on tumblr or in the official AO3 collection, or fanworks posted to our Dreamwidth community, are guaranteed to be included in our roundup. Please also let us know what prompt you created for, if any - people are always welcome to create for past prompts instead.

We have a Discord - invite here - if you want a place to chat about your ships or what you’re creating for them.

We look forward to seeing what people create for it. If you’re enthused about the day, we’d be especially appreciative of any reblogs to help spread the word about the event.

#OT3 #OT4 #PolyamShippingDay #polyshipping #polyshippingday #polyships #poly shipping #poly ships #polyamships #polyam ships #polyam shipping #polyamorous shipping #polyamorous ships #polyamory #modposts #polyamships prompts #PolyamShippingDay prompts #prompt: conflict

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1-800-deactivatednearu · 9 months

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woag character design notes

[i.d.: a drawn line up of the half life vr ai characters, from left to right, gordon, dr. coomer, tommy, bubby, gman, and benrey. /end i.d.]

yeah i skipped some guys , i dont draw some of them enough to have much unique designs and some of them are a png of a dog

trust me i am just surprised as the rest of yall that i am doing hlvrai art . design notes below (very long, mind your step)

gordon:

wow this guy dont got no head

i didnt want to give gordon a face because of how unexact the person is as the fandom engages with it. is it wayne rtvs? (well as presented to an audience, yes) is it gordon freeman? (well as seen from an in game perspective, yes) is it a whole new guy entirely? (well as

i cut the confusion and took it a whole new direction: guillotine

hlvrai being treated as a very broken game is fun to me as a design perspective, so if you (the audience) are not supposed to see his face, what happens when you see it anyways? missing texture time

there are eyes drawn over because i did not have confidence in my expressions at first and then it grew on me

i think if i were to draw (and i have drawn) an actual person under the mask i would still censor the eyes because that is where the vr headset sits!!

(i do not like putting an actual flesh to gordon though)

though i really like seeing how other people interpret gordon hlvrai it is not . my gordon ? we are talking about the same guy . but this is my gordo . i made this one . this guy my guy . maybe i should draw other gordon designs

i can draw the hev suit from memory and it is also the entire reason why i can render metal confidently

i liked how people changed the lambda to read ai :] i also have no clue if i wrote the lambda correctly

(i did, i just checked)

dr coomer:

as much as i draw/drew him i find it more fun to not stick to one set design :)

so a lot of my takes on dr coomer tend to jump from idea to idea, especially from what other people are doing, though they could be fitted to the left and right designs!

the left design is mainly based off what i saw in fandom spaces

we see rounder shapes, making for a more friendly and welcoming appearance

i think of this as straying from the more professional uniform of the actual scientist models

enter swimming shorts and bright yellow socks, for some reason

so now he kind of looks like a cool science teacher :)

it might be the lab coat

the right design is mainly based off thumbnails for hlvrai itself

these use a more angular appearance

i want to push how comically buff he is because of strength he shows at times, especially since his left design seems to completely down play it as a comically not buff man who is still very strong

the shadows on right design coomer get so much more harsh and exaggerated because i have comic books on the mind :)

he really does look like a dehydrated comic book character huh

tommy:

stick bug (he gets it from his dad) (this thought process is explained at gman section)

i pushed a lot of the saturation of colours in her design because i think tommy gets to be a little silly with it

fun art story of the day! when you color, try messing with hue! you might notice you can get away with a lot as long as your values are about right

i like pushing this with white because you can get away with a lot of things reading as “off white”

old faithful for me is cool shadows with a warm transition colour to keep things visually interesting

i keep making white objects the trans flag

happy pride

tommys design looks a little like a school boy, with the tucked in button up shirt+suspenders+shorts+jacket tied around the waist . and the primary colours . but like it is really fun to dress up so brightly

i actually was strongly inspired by medieval babies if that is a weird descriptor? i wanted him to both be a middle aged man but also a young adult

do not be like tommy, who has their finger on the trigger of the gun while not even looking at where it is pointing and good god he is squeezing the trigger . top ten firearm safety of all time

bubby:

the absurd part is that i think bubby is tall . he is just between tommy and gman who are exaggeratedly lanky .

i wanted to make bubby a pointy kinda guy, so he is the only one actually wearing the lab coat proper . and the only one actually wearing dress socks but not even wearing dress shoes

i wanted to give him a novelty tie but i was running low on ideas and running high on boreds so we dont get a tie

he does have crocs though!! in attack mode!!

i do think we all kind of saw his model and collectively decided it works for him because i have honestly not seen major divergences from his model?

gman:

stick bug

i wanted to stress the more spooky and unknowable nature of him and took it in the dark souls direction of “make bigger than player character”

maked too bigger

he cannot walk through any doorways but you will have to crane your neck to look up at him

in the opposite direction of tommy, i pulled a lot of the saturation in gmans design

it feels important to make them both not fully match the rest of the slightly less broken npcs because there was so much work to make them look cool so i have to respect that

actually a lot of gmans and tommys designs are made in opposite to one another

gman has a largely stationary face and very stiff line work

while tommy is pushed to expressive as possible

thats pretty fun, way to go me

benrey:

benrey also has two designs

and in both of these i keep getting too lazy to use a reference so the vests are super plain (forgetting the badge and black mesa logo) . i think the helmet is supposed to be darker actually .

the design ethos of benrey was “built like a brick shithouse”

a friend of mine took this cooler and interpreted it as a shield/wall/barrier as a physical (and narrative) obstacle

again the first uses fandom designs

most notably the overcast shadow (seen in video thumbnails but i never noticed it or understood why so many people did it until someone pointed it out to me)

i think hlvrai is such a great medium because it acknowledges it is a game and is able to play into that to great effect! i think the shadow is fun to imagine as solid black as a small reminder of the impossibility of the space :]

benrey is a smug cat in the body of a human . to be honest . and this is the full range of emotion i have ever drawn him with

the second was mostly because as fun as taking creative liberties are, i just really wanted to see benrey as is: the half life security guard model in all its slight wonk :]

i actually do prefer this design . it is a little more uncanny because i choose the worst translations of the model . i like it because it is a little more uncanny !

that can be said for like . every single design in this line up huh .

#hlvrai #my art #gordon feetman #dr coomer #tommy coolatta #dr bubby #gman coolatta #benrey #half life vr but the ai is self aware

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ohbo-ohno · 6 months

Text

Kinktober Day 18 - Body Modification

Ghost x Soap - 4.9k (on ao3)

summary: Johnny's tattoo artist doesn't give him the design they'd agreed on. (Johnny POV)

cw: noncon!!, trans johnny, kinda mirror sex, implied future kidnapping

“It looks great!” Johnny confirms as he looks down at the design Ghost holds up for him.

It’s the very bottom of what will become a full back piece further down the line, but Ghost had explained that for a piece as large as the one Johnny was looking for he’d have to get it done in sections. He mostly knew that - his sleeves hadn’t been done in one day, after all - but he also hadn’t been expecting to have one full section done with nothing anywhere else. Maybe lining, then color, then shading, but he trusts Ghost’s process.

Johnny’s been going to Ghost’s tattoo parlor - 141 Ink - since he was twenty-two and drunk off his ass, looking for anything fun to do after a night out with Kyle. The two of them had stumbled into the tattoo shop close to midnight, half-way to blacking out already, and gotten themselves a pair of matching tattoos. The owner of the shop, the eternally grouchy John Price, had talked them down from matching rifles on their thighs to a pair of puzzle pieces on their ankles - something to laugh at in the morning, not something to start saving up for a cover-up after seeing.

Johnny had come back a week later to get something done on his kneecap - a skull with an open jaw - and the only artist open for walk-ins had been Ghost. He’d thought the man hated him for most of the process when he didn’t respond to any of Johnny’s attempts at small talk or jokes, so the next time he planned to get something done he’d scheduled an appointment with Price. But when he got there he was told his artists had been switched, and that Ghost would be working on his piece instead. He was almost as quiet as the first time, but the tattoo came out perfectly, and Johnny figured it was a fair trade.

Ghost has done all of Johnny’s ink since - the matching kneecap, both of his full sleeves, and now the start of his back piece. It hasn’t even occured to Johnny to try finding someone else to work on him. He’s working up the nerve to get a tongue piercing done, but the idea of having Ghost so close to his face with his fingers in Johnny’s mouth… he’s got to get his rampant crush under control a bit more before that can happen.

“Good,” Ghost grunts, nodding over to the leather chair set up in the middle of his office. “Shirt off, pants down, chest to the back of the chair.”

Johnny’s already pulling his shirt off before what Ghost said registers, and he pauses halfway to the chair, laughing a little awkwardly. “Sorry- pants down?”

Ghost makes a noise that Johnny interprets as yes, idiot. He’s never had to fully take his pants off for a tattoo before but… well, he’s also never had his lower back tattooed. So he trusts Ghost, kicking off the sweats he’d worn in preparation for a long day.

“Boxers too, Johnny. Come on, we don’t have all day.”

Johnny blushes as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, hesitating with a thumb hooked in the fabric of his underwear.

“Uh, you’re sure-?”

Ghost sighs, raising his head from where he’d been preparing his ink and shooting Johnny an unimpressed look. “Don’t get prudish, MacTavish. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”

That’s not actually reassuring, but Ghost’s dismissive tone makes Johnny feel… well, not more comfortable necessarily, but more like he was the one being weird in this situation. He takes a deep breath and quickly takes his black boxers off, folding them on top of the rest of his clothes and quickly straddling the chair. He hasn’t mentioned his transition to Ghost before, but there’s a pride flag hanging in the shop’s lobby, so he knows he’s at the very least not a bigot.

“I’m not a prude,” he defends, wrinkling his nose as he glances in Ghost’s direction to see if he’s looked at Johnny yet. “I’d bet I’m more than you could handle.”

A snort from Ghost, and Johnny resists the urge to look over again and see if he’s wearing one of those half-smiles. “That’s a good joke, Johnny. You might have a career in comedy.”

Johnny rolls his eyes, smiling. “Yeah, real funny, Ghost.”

He shifts a little in the chair - he’s uncomfortably exposed like this, despite the banter. With one leg on each side of the chair, he’s spread just enough for his cheeks to part and a cool breeze to blow over very sensitive areas. He has to hover a little awkwardly to avoid just pressing his spread folds to the leather. It takes a bit of wiggling for him to lay a bit more comfortably as he speaks, but he isn’t able to quite shake the feeling of being too exposed.

Ghost lays a hand on Johnny’s shoulder as he sits on a stool behind him, and Johnny can’t help but jump a bit at the sudden contact.

“Steady,” Ghost commands. “You’re fine.” He pushes down with just enough force that Johnny is pressed to the chair, and he winces a bit at the shock of cold from the leather

“Easy for you to say,” Johnny snorts, shaking out his shoulders and trying for levity even as goosebumps race down his arms. “You’ve still got your drawers on.”

Ghost laughs a little in response, and Johnny counts it as a win.

“You want me naked too, Johnny? Gotta pay extra for that.”

Johnny’s glad they’re not facing each other so he doesn’t have to fight down the heat rising in his cheeks. “Och, I’m paying you to get me naked here, and I’ve got to give you even more for some reciprocation? Feels unfair, Ghost.”

“You’re paying me to stab hundreds of needles into your skin for a pretty picture,” Ghost corrects, the machine buzzing to life. “Now settle. You know it feels better when you relax.”

The innuendo there has to be intentional, but Johnny chooses - for once - to be mature and swallow all the jokes sitting on the tip of his tongue, instead sinking into the leather and forcing the tension from his muscles. He’s glad he’d shaved before coming, he’s not sure he could handle both of Ghost’s hands cleaning him up like that right now.

Johnny’s always enjoyed getting tattooed - enjoyed it maybe a little too much, honestly. He’d done a few stick and pokes in university (faded from lack of care and easily covered by the black and gray work on his arms) and knew even then that pain felt good in a way very inappropriate for the public eye.

That fact has only been reaffirmed again and again with each tattoo he’s gotten professionally, and Johnny always finds himself trying not to squirm in the leather chair as he grows more and more slick.

He’s pretty sure he’s hidden his clenching thighs and shivery breaths from Ghost, but he tries to tamp it down as much as possible just in case.

But sitting like he is, legs spread and completely nude, it’s a little harder to hide the way his hole starts to drip, the cool air making his t-cock twitch. He goes limp in the chair as soon as Ghost starts working, the pain a comfort despite his impending embarrassment, leaving his cunt pressed awkwardly into the seat.

Usually Johnny would talk endlessly during one of their sessions. Ghost plays at being annoyed by his rambling, but the man also got offended when Johnny mentioned another tattoo parlor across town, so he’s confident there’s at least some affection there. Plus, Johnny’s seen Ghost shut down rowdy customers without any hesitation - if he was really bothered by the endless talking, Johnny would know.

He’s not keen on babbling this time, though. Not when he feels like an exposed nerve, skin and muscle stripped away and leaving him bare. He sits with the pain, lets it sink into him, and just rides the sensation. Ghost never talks much while tattooing, so they’re left with just the sounds of Ghost’s machine buzzing.

He doesn’t bother to ask Johnny if he needs a break when he pulls away to swipe at certain areas of the tattoo. The first time Johnny had asked for one - his first sleeve, and because he needed to use the restroom - Ghost had levelled him with a distinctly annoyed look and gone back to his work without responding. Johnny had nearly pissed himself, but he hasn’t bothered asking for a break since.

It’s not like he does need one. The few seconds Ghost takes to change ink or clear some of his skin is more than enough for him to catch his breath from the pain. On one such break he shifts his legs a little closer together, squeezing the chair between his thighs. It gives his core a little more cover, makes him feel less like he’s just spread wide for Ghost to see.

Ghost grunts when he turns back to Johnny, giving the outside of his thigh a few harsh taps. “Relax again. Can’t have you tensed up like that.”

Johnny glances over his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed. “‘M not tense. Just putting my legs together.”

Ghost scoffs and rolls his eyes above the black surical mask. “What, like a lady? No need for modesty here, Johnny. Spread ‘em.”

Johnny goes crimson at the comparison, burying his head in folded arms while he reluctantly spreads his legs again. The wetness between them feels more obvious now, and he bites his tongue to keep from ignoring Ghost’s command.

“Good boy,” Ghost says, then goes right back to tattooing. Johnny just has to sit there and pretend those two words don’t have him leaving a puddle on the chair below him.

The session passes mostly without incident after that. Johnny’s blush never fully abates as the wetness pooling beneath him becomes more and more obvious, but Ghost doesn’t say a word about it so neither does he. The pain is easy to manage, and they’re done before he’d even expected.

Ghost is, as always, a little harsh as he wipes the fresh ink off. “Alright. Looks prettier than I expected. Wanna take a look?”

Johnny’s a little confused by that - they’d agreed on an epic battle scene for the piece, it certainly shouldn’t be pretty - but he’s excited to see the finished product, so he’s quick to hop up.

“I’m sure it’s great, Ghost,” he compliments, stretching and moving towards the mirror hanging against the wall. Before he can get far, a warm glove wraps around the nape of his neck, pointer finger and thumb squeezing. Johnny freezes, his back arching instinctually.

“You gonna leave that mess on my chair?”

The slight growl to Ghost’s voice is unfairly sexy, and Johnny prays that he doesn’t start dripping down his thigh. He tries to laugh off the humiliation at being caught once the words register. “Sorry, sorry. You got any towels?”

Ghost grunts, then muscles Johnny forward without warning. He can hardly keep track of what’s happening as he’s forced down, bent at the waist with his nose pressed to the leather, hands just barely darting forward to catch him in time.

“Be quick about it.” Ghost’s tone is dismissive, like there’s nothing out of the ordinary here.

Johnny isn’t quick. He stays like that, Ghost’s hand on his neck and hip pressed against his side, and breathes heavily with wide eyes. The puddle right in front of his mouth is tiny, but noticeable, and he feels a little choked up at the notion that Ghost had seen it.

“C’mon,” Ghost pushes his head a little further, until he makes a small noise in his throat from the sharp pressure in his nose.

He feels a little like he’s living in a fever dream, like at some point while getting tattooed he fell into another dimension where it’s socially acceptable to bend over your naked clients without batting an eye. But Ghost’s hold is firm and unrelenting, so tentatively, Johnny sticks out his tongue.

“Good boy,” Ghost rumbles, squeezing the nape of his neck again. Not harshly, like he had before, but almost like a massage. “The rest of it now.”

Johnny shudders at the tone but listens, darting his tongue out in quick little licks to clean up the slick and sweat from the session. It doesn’t take very long, but he feels every second like a heavy weight on his shoulder.

Once he’s done, Ghost pulls his hand away. “There you go, attaboy. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Johnny doesn’t respond as he stands back up, blushing from his hairline to his chest. He can’t quite work up the nerve to glance up and see if Ghost is staring at him, instead focusing on taking a few deep breaths and stomping down the insistent throb between his legs. He probably shouldn’t be okay with what just happened, certainly shouldn’t be aroused, but his clit isn’t on the same page.

“Come have a look now,” Ghost says, laying a hand on Johnny’s shoulder and giving him a slight nudge towards the mirror. He walks over on slightly wobbly legs, heart still beating a little too fast in his chest. His mouth is dry now and he compulsively licks his lips to try and alleviate the sticky feeling on his tongue.

He’s still a bit shaky in front of the mirror, and he has to twist a little awkwardly to see the tattoo, but once he manages to get a good look his heart stops.

There, in two thick lines right over the crack of his ass, is a large bold script reading “PROPERTY OF SIMON RILEY”.

Johnny can’t quite get a breath in. He hadn’t even known Ghost’s real name - if that is Ghost’s name at least - and now… now it’s tattooed onto him. What the fuck?

“What-” he can’t even get the words out, takes a shuddering breath and tries to twist to get a better look as he starts again. “What the hell is this?”

He reaches back to run a hand over the reddened skin, like touching will make it less real, and Ghost - Simon? - catches his wrist mid-air with a tsk.

“No touching fresh ink,” he scolds. “You know better, Johnny.”

He meets Ghost’s eyes in the mirror, confusion painting every inch of his face. Ghost looks calm and collected, cocking an eyebrow just slightly.

“What the fuck?!” Johnny’s voice rises to a near shout, and he tries to yank his hand away from Ghost while throwing himself back. “You- how dare you- why- why would you do this? What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Ghost follows him when he pushes himself into the mirror, one hand dropping to grip his ass and pull his hips forward so the only part of him touching the glass are his shoulders and head.

“No touching,” he purrs, pressing their chests together and leaning so close they’re nearly nose-to-nose. “Didn’t I just say that? Someone should teach you how to listen.”

Johnny’s breath hitches in his chest and he pushes against Simon’s shoulder with his free hand. “I’m not fucking listening to you, you bastard, you’ve- you fucking mutilated me!”

Ghost scoffs and rolls his eyes, pressing even closer. “Don’t be such a drama queen. My name looks real good on you.” His voice pitches a little lower and he pulls Johnny fully off the mirror, looking over his shoulder and down at the reflection. “Yeah, fits you perfectly. Now everyone will know who you belong to, hm?”

Johnny’s in shock, that must be what this is. He’s fallen into some sort of wormhole and entered an alternate universe, and now he’s in shock. That is the only feasible explanation for his tattoo artist - who he’s only ever seen at scheduled appointments - is making a claim on him via non-consenual tattooing.

He’s pulled even further away from the mirror, left stumbling into Simon’s chest when he can’t catch his balance. Ghost grabs him by the chin and cranes his neck back around, forcing him to stare at the tattoo.

“I don’t-” Johnny cuts himself off when he can’t quite get enough breath in. His voice is almost embarrassingly quiet, but he can’t bring himself to be any louder. “Why the fuck would you do this?”

Ghost hums low in his chest, stroking his hand over the curve of Johnny’s ass and to just below the fresh ink, careful not to touch the reddend skin. “It’s easier this way. Now you and I and everyone else knows who you belong to. No more confusion.”

“There wasn’t any confusion,” Johnny protests, one hand pushing weakly at the arm holding him in place by his shoulder. “I don’t belong to anyone, let alone you. We don’t even really know each other. This isn’t- this isn’t okay.”

Ghost snarls at that, a shockingly loud animalistic noise that sets off every warning bell in Johnny’s head. He’s gone completely stiff as Ghost pulls him closer by the hand on his ass, ducking down to snap in his ear. “You’re covered in my work. You’re mine.”

He doesn’t get a chance to respond as Ghost hauls him away from the mirror, throwing his body over the leather chair in the center of the room. He’s left splayed onto his stomach with the mirror right in front of him, bent over at the waist with his ass facing towards Ghost.

Just as he gets his hands beneath him, complaint already on the tip of his tongue, a hand lands between his shoulder blades and pushes him down with such force that the air is knocked straight out of his lungs. He blinks dumbly at himself in the mirror as Ghost steps behind him, his all-black outfit a sharp contrast to Johnny’s tanned skin.

“Wait-” Johnny starts, some primal part of him (or maybe the part of him that’s watched too much porn) knowing exactly what Ghost wants to do. “Wait, Ghost, you can’t-”

There’s a sudden, stinging pain on Johnny’s ass, and the sound of a smack echoes in his ears. It takes a minute for him to realize that Ghost spanked him.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare-” he snarls, rearing back as much as he can under Simon’s hold. He gets another harsh slap for that, then several more. Ghost lands blow after blow across his ass, each hit thudding and heavy. Johnny bites out insults he’s never used before, fighting as much as he can to no avail.

Eventually the pain sinks a little too deeply, and he goes limp beneath Ghost’s palms. That gets him a purring rumble, and the hand on his back strokes across his shoulders.

“There you go,” Ghost purrs, leaning his hips into Johnny’s reddened ass and shushing the ensuing whine. “Fight all you want, I’ll beat you into submission as many times as you need, Johnny.” He chuckles a little, pressing a kiss to Johnny’s back. “That’s what good boyfriends do, huh?”

Johnny whines at that, a little choked up. He gets his words a minute later, forcing out, “Not- not my boyfriend. You’re gonna rot in jail for this, jackass.”

“Oh?” Ghost coos, leaning to Johnny’s ear and whispering his words, like they’re just meant for him. “Will you come see me? Maybe a couple of conjugal visits from my sweet cunt on the outside?”

His free hand creeps down Johnny’s body, and he has no time to prepare for the palm suddenly stroking over him. Johnny almost dances on his feet, trying to find any way to get the stimulation off.

“St-stop!”

“Stop? But you’re so wet, baby, why would I stop? I can tell it feels good.”

“No, it doesn’t. I don’t let perverts fuckin’ touch me, get off.” He tries to throw his head back into Ghost’s shoulder, but the hand on his shoulder quickly catches him by the mohawk and yanks him back instead. Ghost’s face - mask now taken off - hovers upside down above him, a smug curl to his lips.

“Really? I think you might be a little pervert yourself. Look at how wet you are.” He delivers a quick slap to Johnny’s folds, and the wet sound is humiliating in the otherwise silent room. “You liked licking your mess up that much? Don’t worry, you’ll be cleaning up all your messes from now on. I’ll teach you how to behave properly once I take you home.”

“Home-?” Johnny blubbers a bit, wriggling around but only managing to shift a few inches in any direction. Simon works insistently at his dick, jacking and rubbing the bundle of nerves in an agonizing pattern that has Johnny dripping.

“Yes, home, Johnny. Did you think I’d give you my ink then leave you wandering the streets?” Ghost snorts as he shifts to stand up more fully, forcing Johnny’s head forward more so he’s staring at the pair of them in the mirror again. “What if you got lost, baby? Then some horrible pervert might just scoop you up all for themselves. No, you’ll come home with me, and stay right there, safe and sound.”

Johnny’s past words - he just sort of gapes at himself in the mirror, mind still stuck thirty minutes ago, when everything still made sense. Ghost doing all this, having him bent over, rubbing his pussy in the perfect way… it doesn’t make sense. He has to bite back the confused noise wanting to escape him, tears welling in his eyes from the restraint.

To his chagrin, Ghost notices.

“Oh, baby,” he hums, condescending tone out in full force. “You’re just so needy, huh? Need fucked so bad you’re crying over it? Don’t you worry, Johnny, will fix that for you. Here - I’ll even skip the prep.”

That hreat along with the sound of a belt being undone jolts Johnny back into his body, and he desperately pushes himself up on his hands. Simon’s grip doesn’t let him fully stand, but he manages a bit more leverage.

“No, no, Ghost, you can’t- you can’t fuck me, please-”

“Why not?” Simon just hums, perfectly at peace as his jeans fall to the floor. “Your cunt’s soaked, Johnny. Might be a bit of a stretch, but I’m sure a slut like you can take it. Price’s out, so no one will hear your cryin’ and beggin’.”

“I’m not gonna fucking cry-”

Johnny immediately proves himself a liar as Ghost pushes the head of his cock into his slick hole. He doesn’t push any further than that, but even just the head has Johnny’s arms giving out and leaving him to slump back to the chair.

Ghost is fucking massive. Johnny’s not sure he can even breathe past the stretch, his hole feeling like it’s on fire. He’s sure he’s bleeding - there’s no way something can hurt this much without blood.

He doesn’t even notice he’s crying until a hand turns his head to the side and wipes at his cheeks. “What was that?” Ghost asks, the smugness palpable in his tone. “What were you not gonna go, Johnny?”

He can’t make any sound past a whine, desperately trying to breathe through the stretch.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Ghost pulls back and rests his hands on Johnny’s hips, fingers stroking soothingly. “You’re not bleeding, so I think you can take a bit more.”

“No, no-” is all Johnny manages to gasp out before Simon moves forward, and everything he just felt is multiplied by ten.

He’s almost certain he blacks out from the first push to the press of hips against his sore ass. He feels split down the middle, like the things shoved inside of him is going to keep going forever, come right up out of his mouth and leave him in two pieces. He can feel the tip of Ghost’s cock at his fucking cervix.

By some mercy, Ghost doesn’t fuck him immediately. He coos and whisperes condescending comforts, little hums that humiliate more than they soothe.

“You’re alright, baby boy, just relax. Deep breaths, relax into it. You know how to relax for me Johnny, seen you do it beneath the machine enough time by now. Your body’s meant to take my cock, you’ll be fine. You really are a little drama queen, huh? All those pretty tears and I haven’t even started fucking you yet. You gonna be my little pillow princess, baby? Lay there and let me do all the work?”

Johnny doesn’t even try to work up the energy to respond.

“Alright,” Ghost eventually says, giving the side of Johnny’s ass a pat. “I think you’re about as comfortable as you’re gonna get. Deep breaths now, Johnny, be good for me.”

Johnny’s so deep into sensory overload, he hardly notices when Ghost pulls out. He definitely notices when he thrusts back in - the sudden punch at his cervix has him crying out, even as drained as he already feels.

Ghost chuckles behind him. “I know the pain feels good, Johnny. Just lean into it, baby, it’ll feel good soon.”

He’s right - it only takes a few well-aimed thrusts for Johnny’s body to turn even further against him. The sharp pain of a too-soon stretch is still present, but the drag of a heavy cock inside of him, the way Ghost rubs at his clit and manages to hit his g-spot, it all leaves Johnny with a slack mouth, drool dripping to the tile.

Each touch to his cervix is a shot of pain directly up his spine, but that pain just sets sparks off in his cock. He’s closest to orgasm at those moments, every press deep inside of him nearly shoving him into a pleasurable abyss.

Ghost keeps him riding the edge for a while, doesn’t give him the rush he wants so badly.

“Want to come, sweet thing?”

Against his own better thought, Johnny can’t help but gasp, “Ye-es, need it, oh god…”

“Yeah? Go on then, Johnny, beg for it.”

“Nooo,” he hiccups, hips jerking back into Ghost’s movements before he’s stilled by a harsh squeeze.

“Yes,” Ghost hisses mockingly. “You can feel good once you start to behave. Now come on, beg for it.”

Johnny bites his lip, determined not to give in.

He barely lasts two more thrusts before he can’t take it any longer, riding the knife’s edge of an orgasm driving all rationality out of his head.

“Alright, okay, please, please, need to come so bad, Ghost. Come on, please let me come? I’m right fucking there, I can’t- I can’t fucking breathe, please, ‘m gonna die, needta come, please, please…”

Another laugh from behind him, and somehow the fucking gets even rougher.

“You’re gonna die? There’s my favorite little performer, you just need it so bad don’t you?”

“Yes! Please, please, please-”

“Alright, alright, I hear you.” If Johnny were anything less than completely cockdrunk, he’d have the wherewithal to be offended by how non-chalant Simon manages to sound. “That was a good start, baby. I’ll teach you how to beg properly once you’re home, okay? You can go ahead and come, c’mon, let your cunt milk me.”

Like his brain is already trained to obey Simon’s every whim, Johnny comes as soon as the words are out of Ghost’s mouth. He feels shattered by his orgasm, his vision whiting out as he screams from the pleasure. He clenches down so strongly on Ghost that the stretch feels like too much again, and the sparks of pain just prolong his orgasm.

“There you go,” Ghost moans, hips pumping slowly into Johnny’s snatch. “Gonna make me come, baby.”

He’s got just enough presence of mind to whine at that. “Not- not inside…”

“Not inside?” Ghost almost sounds offended. “What, you want me to come on your back? Johnny, you just got a tattoo done. You want me to give you an infection? No, no, you’re gonna keep my come nice and safe in your cunt. Say, thank you, Simon.”

Johnny whines at the first spurts of come painting his insides.

“No - not quite,” Ghost leans his weight over Johnny’s back, panting heavily. “Try-try again, baby. Come on, be good for me.”

The words don’t encourage Johnny much, but the series of sharp taps to his sensitive clit do that trick.

“Ow- ow, fuck, th-thank you, Simon…” he gasps out, squriming against the pain and then moaning as Ghost just shifts further into him.

There’s a long, content sigh over him. “Good boy,” Ghost praises, then huffs a laugh at the clench of Soap’s cunt.

They lay there in silence for several long moments, both of them slowly sinking back into their bodies. Johnny stares with half-lidded eyes at the mirror, still partly unable to really grasp what just happened.

Eventually, Simon pulls out, shushing Johnny’s whine and wince at the sensation.

“We’re done now, Johnny, stop your cryin’. You’re gonna be alright.”

Looking at the pair of them in the mirror - Johnny, soaked in sweat, tears, and come, and Ghost, standing tall and proud seemingly without a care in the world - he can’t help but doubt the words.

But he doesn’t have the energy to think about the future right now, it’s all been fucked out of him. So Johnny lets his eyes drift shut, figuring that things surely couldn’t be any worse when he wakes up.

#ghost calls johnny “baby” a LOT in this and i dont really know why. i was trying to avoid “pup” but i probably shouldve said love lmao #ghoap #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #soap x ghost #bo writes #john soap mactavish x simon ghost riley #john mactavish x simon riley #soap mactavish x ghost riley #ghostsoap smut #ghoap smut #kinktober day 18 #kinktober #kinktober 2023

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faeriekit · 10 months

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PRIDE stuff I recommend incorporating into a library/school storytime if your community is mildly uncomfy confronting that sometimes two men kiss, go!

Find a book that has a tangible story to it! For this storytime, I used Subway Baby, which is explicitly about two men who have a child together, but is more about the discovery of the child at a subway station in NYC and the process it takes to becomes a family. Heartwarming, a real story that happened to real people, and takes place in a familiar setting (for a bunch of NJ kids.) Another book I might use in place of this would be a book like Julián and the Wedding, which is about attending a wedding with two brides, but is centered instead in a story about what to wear to a wedding (and all the silliness fancy clothes cause.)

You can also pick books that aren't explicitly queer, even when the topics are: Except When They Don't, Fred Gets Dressed, and Princess Kevin are all titles that toy around with gender presentation and clothing without explicitly making the story about gender, making it obvious that 1) clothing is silly and 2) you should do what makes you happy. A boy is a princess. A girl is a football star. Your friends are astronauts dinosaur cowboys who live on Mars! All is well, be happy being you.

USE THE FLAGS! Every stripe has a meaning! Teaching the kids what every stripe in a flag stands for, and how to relate it to their own life makes the sight less intimidating and something more familiar. Since I read for real real real little ones, it's also a great chance to practice color recognition with them lol. "What color is this? Wow, you're so smart! This color stands for THIS big word, which means (longer explanation.)" I use this in Pride-Specific storytimes so there's a break between books.

Make the storytime about pride! ...No, like the emotion. Unless the kids have out people active in their life from a young age, they're probably not going to immediately understand what Queer and Pride and Gay and Trans and LGBT+ are or how they relate to them or each other or the fact that they could discover stuff about themselves later on in life...dumb it down. At most storytime ages, they're still in the process of building their self image and sense of well-being. Being proud is about being happy with yourself and what you do. You're a cool kid, and you should get to celebrate all the things about your life that you love! I ended my Pride storytime with teaching kids a new big word: ✨affirmations✨. Say one nice thing about yourself! This is something nice I say about you! Parents, affirmations are a great way to build self confidence and practice big vocab words. Try them out at home, reciting them in the mirror or putting them on stickey notes around the house.

Decorate your reading space. Hehehehehe rainbows 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈 No, seriously. The more fun the room is, the friendlier the topic feels.

And, of course, I end all storytimes with a hi five and good word to the kids' adults. Kid was energetic? They were so fun and excited today! Kid was zoned out? They were so well behaved! Two things can simultaneously be true.

Tips for non-librarians: for the coolest lgbt kids books, they're hiding in the nonfiction section. Seriously. Books about Gilbert Baker sewing the first flag and Marsha P Johnson and Stonewall and lgbt history around the world... In Nonfic. LAME. BOO. MOVE THEM TO MY COLLECTION INSTEAD HELLO. I WANT THEM. *grabby hands*

#faer winds #library posting #queer #if you tag this as a slur I am coming to your house and asking why you spit on the shoes of your elders #lgbt #youth services #pride month

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viktheviking1 · 7 months

Text

"Husky!!!!!!" Angel shouted as he stormed into the lobby of the hotel.

Spitting his drink in surprise, Husk wiped his mouth and turned around to see an angry spider marching towards him, a little piglet trotting just behind. Husk had been guzzling down more alcohol, sitting on a couch as he read a newspaper, a part of his routine in life that he had kept doing now that he was in hell, but the quiet was broken and his paper was drenched.

"The f**k do you want? I swear, I can't do anything in peace with you around." He grumbled back as he put the sopping wet mess on the coffee table.

Angel ignored the jab and shoved something colorful in the cat's face, "The f**k is this?"

It took a moment to register in Husk's brain what Angel was holding, ". . . It's a pan pride flag?"

"So, you do know what it is! I was half-hoping maybe you were just so old timey that you had it not knowing what it meant." Angel said in a strangely accusatory tone.

"Wait, did you get this from my room? What the hell were you doing in there?" Husk snatched the flag from his hands.

"Don't change the subject! Are you pansexual or aintcha?" Angel crossed one set of arms, and placed one hand on his hip as he dramatically pointed at him with the other.

Husk blushed a little; his sexuality wasn't exactly something he went around shouting to the world. He hadn't been in a relationship for a long time and he wasn't planning on entering one any time soon, so it really was no one's business. Honestly, he forgot he even had the flag. It was just something marked down in July, after pride month had passed, and he grabbed it as just a little something for himself. He was the only one he planned to let see it, just as a reminder that he was okay to be whoever he was and like whomever he wanted; something he was never allowed in life.

" . . . I don't gotta answer that. What's it to ya anyway? I didn't exactly take you to be a 'super straight'?" He mumbled as he used air quotes.

"That's exactly the problem!!!" Angel slumped over exasperated.

Husk didn't really get it, but he was absolutely done with whatever it was, so he stood up and jabbed a finger at the spider, "Look, I don't know what the f**k you're freaking out about Legs, it's got nothin' to do with you!"

Angel shifted his weight where he stood, "Well, you're right but I still wanna know!"

"Why the hell does it matter to you?" Husk stood up, glaring.

"I-I'm just curious is all. . ." Angel blushed a bit.

"Yeah, well, you can shove your curiosity up your *ss." He pushed.

"Why, you don't trust me or somethin?" Angel stood his ground.

"No, why the f**k would I?!" Husk raised his voice.

"Hey, what is your problem?!" Angel raised his back.

"I don't need to be judged by a drug addict pole dancer." He shoved.

"Oh wow, real mature. I'll have you know that pole dancing is an under-appreciated art." Angel defended.

"Well, I'm sure it's very appreciated by those freaks out there who drool all over you." He rolled his eyes.

"All this over a little flag and a simple yes or no question. Acting out like a scared little boy." Angel leaned down to glare at back at him.

Husk expected Angel to be happy. He expected a smug look on his face and maybe a 'see was that so hard?'. And Angel was happy for a moment, but then he looked sad. Then his face soured, and suddenly he was angry again all over again.

"Fine! I'm pan! I'm pansexual! I hate the stupid gender binary and I like people based on their personality. Ya happy now?!" He shouted.

"YOU MEAN I HAD A CHANCE THIS WHOLE TIME?!?!?!" Angel looked actually furious now.

". . . The f**k. . .?" Husk was very, very confused.

Angel took a few steps towards him and he took a couple steps back, "You mean to tell me that I've been throwing myself at you, half-jokingly, for so long . . ."

"Half-?" Husk started.

"I've teased you, I've pranked you, and strutted around you like a fool . . ." Angel pushed him down onto the couch, and blocked him in with all his arms, "And you weren't f**king straight?!?!"

". . . Look, I don't know what you're getting at, but-" Husk started.

"And you've just stared at me, like unflinching! So I figured, 'aw well, guess he's straight, may as well flirt with him, and see if I can't make him uncomfortable'. I've straight up told you how I pride myself on having great f**king gaydar! But then I get it wrong with you of all people?!" Angel turned around, covering his face with his top arms, "Do you know how embarrassing this is for me?!"

Angel was still covering his face, honestly unsure of what he had said in all of his rambling. He just wanted to crawl into his bed and die. Gentle hands curled around his wrists, and he didn't resist as they pulled his hands from his face.

Husk sat with his jaw agape for a moment, processing. He sighed, grabbing one of Angel's lower arms,"Sit your tall *ss down." and pulled him onto the couch, turning in his seat to face him.

" . . . Angel, would you open your eyes please?" Husk's voice was a quiet, sarcastic, but soothing tone.

"No, I feel humiliated enough. I don't need you to mock me right now." Angel said, covering his face again.

Husk chuckled and moved Angel's hands away again, "I'm not going to mock you, Legs."

"You're not going to wear your dumb, smug face, and tell me how you, a person who is attracted to people based on personality, could never like me, a self-absorbed idiot?" Angel rambled.

Husk snickered, "No, never that. Come on, Legs. Please?"

Angel slowly opened his eyes to see a warmest smile from Hell's grumpiest cat, "See? There you are."

Angel blushed and looked away, but Husk turned his chin back to him, "You think you can say all that and not face the consequences."

"C-consequences?" Angel stammered, blushing harder.

Husk blushed, "I mean, we have drinks together all the time, so I guess that's kind of stupid, but uh-"

Husk leaned back and sighed, scratching the back of his head, "Listen, I haven't - . . . I mean I don't- . . . Well, you know how- . . ." He sighed again, "I'm not very good at telling people how I feel, but uh. . . If you wanted to ever . . . We could have a drink sometime . . .?"

He was suddenly clobbered by a massive spider and fell backwards, "Yes! Yes, of course! That sounds great!"

They both laughed there for a moment, Angel on top of him, "What a f**kin' dumb*ss way to figure out we were crushin' on each other, huh?"

Husk chuckled at that, "I feel like it's mostly my fault. You were flirting with me constantly."

"Wellllll, I will admit I do flirt with lots of men. I guess," Angel sighed into his fur, "I just really meant it with you."

Again, they giggled together like little middle school lovers; giddy and drunk on reciprocated feelings, high on finally being understood.

Husk smiled as his face flushed, "Aren't we a pair?"

Angel started to get up when he realized that he was currently on top of a man who just asked him out.

He grinned a mischievous grin, "You know~" he held himself up with his lower hands adjusted his hair and loosened Husk's tie with the others, "We could-"

"Absolutely not." Husk said flatly.

Angel sat up, letting Husk do the same, but still pouted, "But why not? We like each other and . . ." He leaned in, resting his hands on Husk's legs, "I'm sure you're dying to know what you've been missing out on."

Husk was still just staring blankly, but now Angel started noticing things he hadn't noticed before, because he was so sure it was impossible. The slight flush of his cheeks, the dry swallow of his throat, the sweatiness of his palms as he gently pushed Angel away from him.

"I may be pan, but I'm still old fashioned." Husk stood up, picking up his wet newspaper to throw away, "Another time, babe."

Angel watched him leave, and it wasn't until he was sure he was fully out of range that he whispered to nugs, "Did he just say, another time? Did he just call me 'babe'?!"

Nifty would had run over and scolded him for it, but she was still kneeling behind the couch with her broom and dustpan frozen in place as she had been the entire time, accidentally stuck there eavesdropping.

Husk, once he was sure he was out of ear shot, grumbled to himself, "Babe. Babe?! Could I have said anything more lame?" He kicked over a trash bin.

Thanks for reading some HuskerDust. Sorry, it was self-edited / self-betad. If it's bad, you can blame that, or that I'm not used to writing these characters, or that I'm publishing it from my phone, or that the stars weren't aligned or whatever. Thanks for always supporting me and my writing!

". . .The f**k was that?"

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