she loves my quiet whimpers, my moans, and all the other little noises i make for her in the middle of the night. i love grinding against her hand all slow and lazy, bruises blossoming across my collarbone and along my exposed throat in sacred tribute. yes, i belong to this woman. yes, i am hers. yes, she leaves me wet and desperate, wild with pleasure and wide eyed at the depth of intimacy we attain, curled into one another night after night just like this. i shatter against her quick fingers, her delicate touch, her pretty little mouth at my breasts. i hear her toy with me, her voice languid and husky in my ears, low with want: “cum for me, baby.”
So does Juno have like a thing for hands or something?<p/><b>Me: What? <p/><b>Friend:</b> He keeps mentioning them when he gets kissy. <p/><b>Juno Steel:</b> "Lips like silk. Strong hands, pulling on my coat."<p/><b>Juno Steel:</b> "It wasn’t so bad being petted for a change. Most of the human contact I get wears titanium knuckles and comes in at a few hundred miles an hour. I was almost sorry when the doctor came in."<p/><b>Juno Steel:</b> "She had good hands. Powerful hands. I wouldn’t’ve minded holding them a little longer."<p/><b>Juno Steel:</b> "Wanna get your hands off me? This isn't a goddamn honeymoon suite."<p/> <b>Me:</b> ...Okay, so maybe he does.
“Y/N! Just the little
ray of sunshine that I wanted to see” Lucifer called out in a low,
flirtatious tone as you entered the throne room, locking his eyes
onto you as a smile spread across his face. He lounged comfortably
with his elbow resting on one arm of the throne and his leg draped
over the other, a position which only he make look both lackadaisical
regarded, approaching him with a stack of papers in your hands.
Swinging his leg back
over the arm of the chair, he rested both feet on the floor and drank
in your figure, a thousand thoughts dancing quietly behind his eyes.
A quick flick of his fingers sent the papers you were holding sailing
to the other side of the room, scattering them to the ground with no
regard for their importance.
“Come here” he
propositioned, patting his leg as he beckoned you closer with a
gesture of his head.
Your eyes drew wide for
a moment as you pulled your lower lip between your teeth, trying to
vain to suppress the smile that threatened to bloom across your face.
Feet gliding towards him on their own accord, you approached the
throne as he held out his hands, finding yourself within his grasp
faster that you would have guessed.
He patted his thigh
again, eyes half-lidded as he slid his fingers around your forearm
and pulled you gently closer. You turned to sit yourself down on his
leg, feeling like one of those children nervous over a mall Santa
Clause. It wasn’t until he halted your turn, snatching your other arm
to keep you facing him that you realized what he wanted.
Not one to disappoint,
you brought your one knee up to rest beside his thigh, hoisting
yourself up to straddle him on his throne. You dragged your lower
half over his lap as you settled yourself atop him, sliding your
fingers up his chest to lace them behind his neck.
“You have a meeting in
twenty minutes, my lord” you purred at him, chest heaving from
excitement as you felt his length beginning to stiffen under you.
His expression darkened,
eyes flashing red as his fingers ghosted up your sides.
alright but talk to me about secret witches because i know we exist
clearing off the top of your dresser and quietly declaring it an altar; having to justify why seashells and rocks and candles belong there and how your breath catches trying to explain it
nervousness in the aisles of walmart, trying to decide which candle colors are most important this week; because you know you can only bring home two without getting questioned, and you know you need a red, but it’s coming down to lavender federal vs teal votive, and you have to choose now
counting pocket change in little mall shops, calculating the tax and the deals on the incense; trying to figure out if you can get more out of the cones or the sticks, because you need a better burn time and don’t have a penny to waste
using those little tealight-powered oil diffusers to brew tiny batches of potions; storing the results in two-for-a-dollar craft jars, haphazardly labelled with post-its and sharpies and kept in a shoebox under the bed
keen eyes and quick fingers in the spice aisle of a grocery store, slipping a bottle of thyme or sage into the cart, praying it’s good enough, praying your mom doesn’t notice
innocent playlists with just the right touch of eerie to remind you of your roots and your power and put that extra pop in your step
being alone, being covenless- until you spot the lavender tied with green thread next to the candle on your friends nightstand and you both just know
working casual blessings into text messages to your friends- you’ll pass the test; win the match; you’re a star; love you; be safe
little curses for the ones who piss you off- your shoelaces will never stay tied, your leftovers won’t taste quite as good, small animals will snub you; hissing hexes at the strangers who dare to act like you belong to anyone but yourself
sigils scrawled on palms, wrists; pulling your sleeve down to hide from curious onlookers
picking clothes that are casual enough to outsiders, but you know there’s a certain magic there
sneaking out the back door just before sunrise to discard spell ashes
i mean c’mon we’re here and we’re interesting as hell
I heard a story tonight. Sobbing girl told it to me. She was young, nice, kind and just a little bit of naive. I don’t know why she Knew certain things. I can only guess.
She spoke of happier times, when she was seeing someone, nice boy with sharp mind and quick fingers when it came to programming. He would compliment her hair, her eyes, her laugh. It felt nice.
She can’t see him now. Not after he bound her, after he stole the keys of the archive where she worked and open the doors. Those doors. They should not be opened. She doesn’t know why he did it. Or rather she does, just not what was Their side of the deal.
He wormed his way into her soul, demanded a place in her heart and stole her True Name from her lips.
She is gonna die, she knows this. But still she won’t look for him
“It was my fault, I should have protected those Names.”
She disappeared soon after, I don’t know which boy she was talking about. She didn’t say me his nickname, or what he looked like. But he is there. Somewhere
I will remember you Nom de plum
I will remember you Lucy Jackson
Till next name comes to my lips
It’s been months of cautious flirting, weeks of feather light touches, hours of confusion, minutes of regret, and only seconds of action. The seconds of action is what leads him to standing between Jeremy’s spread thighs while he sits on a counter at a party. It’s what leads to the hitching breaths he takes when Jeremy doesn’t move first, because has he read this wrong? Did he just mess up a relationship he needs so strongly?
But then Jeremy let’s his hand brush lightly against Jean’s thigh, touches that have made the nerve endings on him go awry and his brain short circuit, and he taps his fingers in quick recession. Two for yes. A pause. One for no. He’s leaving the decision up to him, letting Jean decide whether or not he wants to take that plunge. And Jean answers him by leaning in and capturing Jeremy’s lips with his own.
in case anyone forgot my favor towards dysfunction
meh bloo-blah, speculative meta in fic form, takes place after Bruce returns from being lost in time
Damian likes it black and white, cut and dry.
He prefers seeing that way. He prefers feeling that way. He prefers killing that way (although that would not get him any points, it seems). He does not like the mix of emotions inside, seething, squishing, screaming. It is…messy. And for a man so focused on action (and he is a man, truly), he did not have the time or the will to invest the time to untangle the mess inside. So he lies to himself. He slams the dark forces inside, sobbing and oozing and weeping, and locks the trapdoor underneath him. Steps on it, to make sure nothing gets out.
But sometimes, things do.
Damian does not think highly of himself, in the way most men do. He is a man of action, and he prides himself on his quick fingers, his crushing blows. The way his tongue can lash as any whip is able, planting seeds of doubt. Part of the battle, his mother told him, is psychological.
He would be more accepting of the idea if it hadn’t appeared as a double-edged sword in his life. He had used it as a tool before, not really considering its consequences. He was a man of action, he did not consider the consequences. At least, in regards to other people.
But now it has come back around. That karma so often spoken of in a blasé manner, it attacks with a vengeance.
His father doesn’t trust him. Understandable, to be sure. He wouldn’t be Batman if he didn’t. But Bruce is not just Batman. Damian knows that now, after Grayson’s stories. After Grayson’s laughter, his clenched jaw to stave off grief.
So Bruce is not just Batman, is not just Father. He is a man. A man who values action, not petty words. Damian is a man of action. He turned his back on his mother, on his upbringing. He has not brought mortal blood on his hands. He has changed.
So you all know Miyuki had to quit skating because of an injury, right? He fell in a self-loathing slump because his injury was caused by the fact that he neglected a form of tendinitis on his left leg instead of giving it the right amount of time and care. So he takes extra care of Eijun’s legs to prevent this from happening and he has a strict routine of legs massages and exercises he force Eijun to do before sleeping (Eijun hates them so much)
The Family always gets what it wants. Whether they’re looking for information or favors, Jongdae is always the best choice to get what they need. His slick charm eases their nerves and opens their lips. His wandering hands can do even more - unlocking the words to secrets his mark would never dream of spilling. Men or women, no one is safe from his dancing eyes and the perfectly curved smile carved into his lips. On this particular night, in the back rooms of the governor’s mansion, his target find herself pinned to a heavy mahogany desk, hips arching up against his hand as it wreaks torture on her, fingers pressed deeply inside her and thumb rubbing circles into her clit so that her every muscle tenses, legs opening wider to invite him in. Every once in a while, he pauses so that she’ll whine and whimper, begging for more and paying in confidences and anything else she can think to say, just to get him to move his quick fingers again. He looms over her, praising her with his quiet words even as he smirks darkly - another victory to add to his tally.
So yesterday, YouTube dude @cr1tikal posted a video called Finger Family Mystery. In it, he details a strange. sprawling assortment of videos littered all over YouTube, each with millions of hits, almost zero comments, and always featuring a benign children’s nursery rhyme.
As it turns out, he’s right; a quick search of “Finger Family” nets you nothing but hundreds of these videos. Why do they exist? I decided to probe. Watching one of the videos didn’t enlighten me, but then I had the radical idea of watching the videos on Internet Explorer, where I don’t have AdBlock.
Shock and terror: all of the videos are monetized. Suddenly, the sky opens up and the truth is clear. These videos aren’t being made to be watched. They’re being made to generate money.
Remember how YouTube’s copyright and monetization system works? It’s a combination of the ads and the total minutes watched. The Finger Family videos vary; the smaller ones are only about a minute and a half long, the longer ones are up to 90 minutes, and in the middle they range from 15-30 minutes.
Now, copyright. The nursery rhyme “The Finger Family” is public domain, so anyone’s free to stick in a book of nursery rhymes and sell it. There are copyright characters all over these videos, sure, but none of the original material is being used; it’s all half-baked animations cobbled together using familiar faces. It’s pissing on the face of copyright law. And assuming these videos are being churned out by some Chinese company (where copyright laws are FAR more lenient), this could very well not have any copyright hurdles to start with.
But who’s watching the videos? No human being. Most likely, it’s a bunch of computers set up to watch these videos, click an ad, reload the page, and so on. Who’s making the videos? Again, not a person. The content’s being generated by automated systems that grab premade assets and familiar characters and automatically generate a video.
This is all speculation, of course. I could be entirely wrong. There could be a Finger Family Cult hidden beneath the crust of the Earth, and watching these videos is part of a daily ritual. But as that seems unlikely…
TL;DR: These videos are being automatically generated and watched so that whoever owns the videos can make a ton of money off of ad clicks and views.
day one : fumbling eren is adorable i will be doodling for ereriweek, despite beeing super busy! (though i might post the rest of it in bunches cuz uh spam) i just miss my ereri friends and senpais and ereri in general too much to pass up on this majestic event! i hope a lot of you are joining, let’s have funnn c(ˊᗜˋ*c)