You'll still find me on AO3 š«” Writing and posting my works. No fucking AI needed. Not since I started writing when I was 6, and writing in English at 14 because I'm smart š„° and you're not, just miserable little cunts š¤
Fuck AI. Fuck you antis. Fuck you people without jobs or any love nor happiness in their lives, who get off on harassing and stalking people online. And fuck you people who have abused and fed my works to AI chat bots in the past.
Also "flush" doesn't mean you have to get red in the face, you fucking idiots. Flush is equal to getting hot in the face. Otherwise I would have continued to write "blush", which I did use in older works. No, I didn't intentionally write "white-coded" reader, you whiny pricks. I always tried to be as inclusive as possible. But if you want to accuse someone of being racist, you will sure find something to cry about, huh?
Yeah. Exactly.
Coming back here was a mistake for my mental health. But while leaving once was hard, leaving for good will feel like freedom at last. You don't deserve my whimsy anyway š
Judgment Day will come for all of us. God bless.
To everyone else: Love you. Thank you. Hope life's kind to you xx
https://www.tumblr.com/in-polar-skies/820927460154687488/knocked-up-by-wrathofmedusa-07x1x4x1-on-ao3 Do not feel bad for @07x1x4x1 -- She got caught using AI to "write" fanfiction and is racist.
This is so disheartening and angering. The gall required to accused someone using AI and then turning around to use AI to āwriteā is really fucking hilarious. I really used to look up to her and drew inspiration from her to actually start posting. Please leave tumblr and never come back unless you want to put in real work and actually write.
The fact that you cunts keep going after my so called friends and mutuals ANONYMOUSLY to spread further hate even though I've stopped posting is extremely obsessive, cowardly, and franklyāpathetic.
They are clearly going after the people who they have seen interacting with me. That sort of behaviour is absolutely mental, by the way.
Please seek help, a hobby, and a job.
I'm also very disappointed in my "mutuals" and friends on here.
Why do you even reply to a troll who's coming into your inbox anonymously instead of talking to me first?
Because a fic you wrote has html fragments from copy and pasting from Claude. That means you used AI. I donāt truly believe you are a racist person thereās literally no proof to back that up. But the AI claim is so fucking damning.
That is such fucking bullshit it's actually insane.
People using AI to "confirm" something is AI generated is an unparalleled kind of hypocrisy and insanity. I don't know if I should laugh or cry about it.
Also, the fact that people randomly open some anonymous strangers' Google or Word document. The blind trust. Haven't y'all learned anything on the internet.
Anyway, God bless.
Can't wait for the witch hunt to continue and the next writers and artists to get targeted until fandom culture has ceased to exist.
https://www.tumblr.com/in-polar-skies/820927460154687488/knocked-up-by-wrathofmedusa-07x1x4x1-on-ao3 Do not feel bad for @07x1x4x1 -- She got caught using AI to "write" fanfiction and is racist.
This is so disheartening and angering. The gall required to accused someone using AI and then turning around to use AI to āwriteā is really fucking hilarious. I really used to look up to her and drew inspiration from her to actually start posting. Please leave tumblr and never come back unless you want to put in real work and actually write.
The fact that you cunts keep going after my so called friends and mutuals ANONYMOUSLY to spread further hate even though I've stopped posting is extremely obsessive, cowardly, and franklyāpathetic.
They are clearly going after the people who they have seen interacting with me. That sort of behaviour is absolutely mental, by the way.
Please seek help, a hobby, and a job.
I'm also very disappointed in my "mutuals" and friends on here.
Why do you even reply to a troll who's coming into your inbox anonymously instead of talking to me first?
I managed to move my ass to the gym today and I had thoughts the whole time šµāš« Also, I'm exhausted now.
ā cw: 18+; curvy!fem!reader; body dysmorphia; weight loss mentioned; rough sex; emotional hurt/comfort
You're fine until you walk past the wall of mirrors. That's how it always goes.
You're laughing at something Simon said, towelling off sweat, riding the post-workout high that makes you feel capable and strong and like the body you're living in is yours, and then you catch your reflection at the wrong angle and the whole thing collapses like a controlled demolition.
Your smile drops, your hand drifts to your hip, fingers pressing into the softness that's still there despite the months of hard work and calorie counting, and your eyes do that thing Simon knows too well. The bloody cataloguing, measuring, finding every part that doesn't match the version in your head.
He's familiar with that look; wears it himself sometimes after a cold shower at three a.m. when the bathroom mirror catches him without the mask and the scars are just ugly scars and not armour.
But he doesn't say anything at the gym, because he knows you'd deflect and rather start an argument than admit to your feelings. So, he drives you home in silence and lets you sit with it, because pushing too early makes you retreat further, and he's learned your patterns the way he has learned everything about you since you became his person, and therefore his to protect. Even from yourself.
He waits until you're in the bedroom, still in your gym clothes and avoiding the wardrobe mirror, and then he's behind you.
"Look."
Your brows furrow in confusion before you understand, sighing. "Simon, don't. Not now."
But he turns you anyway, manhandles you in front of the mirror and pins you there with his mass; one hand flat on your stomach, the part you hate most, and holds it.
"Look at ya," he murmurs against your ear, giving you a nudge when you don't. "Fuckin' look."
Then he's stripping your leggings off with his free hand, ever efficiently and impatient, and he's already hard; has been since the gym when he watched you deadlift with your jaw set in quiet determination and your thick thighs shaking.
And he grabs his fat, flushed cock at the base while bending you forward enough to drag his ruddy tip through your pretty pussy and inside of you right there; both of you still damp with sweat, skin tacky and warm, and the sound you make is raw and startled while your nails dig into his forearms.
"You were fuckin' perfect before," he grinds out between deep, sharp thrusts, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror, pale mammoth hand still pressed against your belly, holding you against him. "Perfect now. Only difference isā" a harder thrust that knocks the air out of you, "it's easier for me to throw y'round."
"Nghh, Simonā!"
"Get outta yer fuckin' head." His other hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up so you can't look away from the reflection of him, towering behind you, his scarred hand against your supple skin, his hips snapping into you with a rhythm that makes your plump ass ripple against his hips. "Stay here. With me. Look."
You look and you see his hand on your stomach, not avoiding but holding it. You see his bare face over your shoulder, wrecked, staring at your body like it's the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"There we go," he mutters when your eyes finally stay on the mirror. "There's my pretty bird."
You come on his cock watching yourself fall apart in his arms, and he follows with his teeth in the muscle of your shoulder and your name bitten into your skin, and afterwards he keeps you there, keeps his rough hand on your soft belly in front of the mirror until your breathing slows and the glass shows two very sweaty, fucked out people holding each other up.
"Better?" he grumbles.
You nod, exhaling shakily. "Y-Yeah."
"Good. Now shower. You smell terrible."
You gasp, your face twists into a fond frown before you smack his arm and feel his spent cock twitch inside you.
"You're such a prick sometimes."
Simon snorts, inhales your musk behind right your ear while you squeak with a long groan. "Aye. Welcome."
The heat woke you up before John got the chance; the room gone thick with it, fan dead since two in the morning. You awoke in a body that wasn't entirely yours anymore ā one leg slung over his thigh, your cheek glued to his shoulder with a film of dried sweat, the sheets kicked to the foot of the bed, twisted into a rope over your ankles.
You could smell the night still on the both of you. Him mostly. Salty, sticky skin, the back-of-the-throat musk of a man who'd just come home off a four month run somewhere he wonāt name, fallen on top of you before he'd even got his boots all the way off, worked you over thrice, then slept like the dead in the heat he created without so much as wiping either of you up with a washcloth ā his cum and your slick gone tacky between the press of your thighs, pulling at the flesh when you shifted.
Everything ached the way it only ached after him: low in your belly, raw where he'd been, a bruise coming up on the back of a knee from where he'd folded you in half, thick fingers pressed into the meat of it sometime past midnight.
You wanted to get up to finally rinse.
To feel like a person again.
But his calloused hand came down flat on your hip the moment you moved, before your knee had even cleared his leg.
"Where?" is all he managed, voice wrecked and low and gravelly with sleep, the word barely fully formed on his tongue.
"I'm disgusting," you complained, a whisper.
"Mm." His thumb moved across the jut of your hipbone, finding crust of himself there. His eyes hadn't opened yet. The corner of his mouth had, though, dragging up at one side. "Yeahā¦ y'are."
"I'm glad you're happy with yourself," you huffed sleepily.
His hand kept going, palm dragging down over your hip and around the back of your bent thigh, and then up again into the real mess of you, fingers finding where you were still half-open and swollen from last night, slipping through the sticky wet, the pad of his middle finger circling your sensitive entrance. It was too much and not enough at once ā the drag of him over flesh that hadn't settled, a wince folding straight into something hotter, your hips pushing into his hand.
He made a sound; pleased, throaty, his brows pulling in for a second.
"Look at that," he murmured against your temple. "Bet you don' even wan' it cleaned up, do you?"
"Shut up," you half-heartedly murmured.
"Mm-mm," he protested.
Then he rolled, the whole heavy heat of him coming over you in one move, knee shoving your thighs apart before you'd even agreed to anything, and the air between your bodies went humid and ripe, his chest sticking to yours, the dense hair on it dragging over your tender nipples. And your body answered him ā thighs falling open the rest of the way, some primal part of you glad of his weight, glad to be pinned under it, glad he was solid and here and breathing on you. He braced up on a forearm and looked down at you, cyan eyes cracked open and bloodshot, lashes still gummed together. He looked like hell. But so did you, you were sure, and he was staring down like you were the best thing he'd ever seen.
He spat into his own hand without breaking from your eyes, crude, and reached down between you to slick his cock with it. You spread more open for him, your hands coming up to his back where sweat was gathered at the base of his spine.
He sank all the way in on the first stroke, stretching your sore walls, an obscene wet crackle of air pushing out to make room for him, Your whole body remembered him in one shoved open rush. He dropped his forehead to the side of your neck and let out a long breath through his nose.
"Four months," he rasped, almost to himself, the syllables coming apart as they fell. "Four months this was the only thing in my fuckin' head." Then, against your mouth, the gravel coming back into it, his throbbing cock bumping your cervix, your nails scrabbling over his sweaty skin for purchase: "That's it, dove. You can take it. You can take it, look at you, you've had worse than this off me."
You could hear his grin.
"Since last night?" you managed to get out. "Orā generally?"
A huff against your lips, almost a laugh, his hips not stopping. "Both."
He fucked you like he hadn't slept it off at all, like four months of going without you had only stored it up, his cock dragging thick and deep through the wreckage he'd already made of you. Every push of it pressed the sweat-slick of his furry belly against your clit so you got it both ways at once, inside and out, until your spine wanted to leave your body.
He talked the whole time ā clipped, half-swallowed, filth pouring out of him like silver.
"Feel that," he asked. "That's last night still in you, that is. Didn't go anywhere." His teeth caught your jaw, dragged, overgrown beard scratching at your skin. "Gonna add some more to it." A deep grind of his hips that pushed the breath out of you. "Was lying there, every night, in the dark thinking about this. You under me, made a mess of, soaked through and still begging for more. Had to think about something else quick or I'd've embarrassed myself." His mouth is in your ear, hot and foul. "Four months of that. And now here you are. Wetter than the inside of my own head."
"Johnā you're soā," you couldn't get anything else out before he'd angled up and a moan tore out of you instead.
"Gross? Annoying?" he offered, hips snapping now, the bed knocking the wall, his hand slipping between you and the mattress to cant your cunt to his liking. "Yeah. And yet you're clenched down on me like you've never been happier. Funny, that."
It built faster than it had any right to. You'd stopped being able to do anything but hold on ā one hand fisted in the wet sheet, the other clamped to the flexing muscle of his ass, your heels skidding down his back for purchase that wasn't there, every thrust knocking another broken little sound loose from a throat you no longer had any say over. And when you came you spasmed around him with your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders and your mouth open on a noise you'd have been embarrassed by if your brain hadn't been simmered down and reduced to nothing. He cursed and pushed his face into your throat and licked the salt off it, tongue flat against the tendon, groaning into your flesh as you fluttered and squeezed and dragged him over the edge with you.
He spilled deep with a groan you're not sure you've ever heard from him before, and then stayed there. Heavy. Crushing. His heart going hard against your chest, his breath sawing at your collarbone. Neither of you moved ā both of you a single disgusting glued-together animal. Roadkill, maybe.
Underneath the slowing wreck of your own pulse, the feeling you'd been fending off since he walked through the front door finally claimed you ā he was home. Your throat went tight, and you turned your face into his damp hair so he wouldn't catch the sound that squeezed out of it.
He exhaled a warm gust against your throat, then he dragged his lips to the corner of yours and kissed you ā sloppy, tasting of sleep and salt and the both of you mixed past telling each other apart.
Nagelsmann weg. Neuer weg. Mannschaft neu sortieren und mal Selbstbewusstsein aufbauen. Alles MillionƤre und kƶnnen keinen Elfmeter schieĆen. Stell dir vor ein Musiker spielt jede dritte Note falsch. Dem wĆ¼rde man auch kein Geld mehr fĆ¼r Tickets zahlen š¤¦š»āāļø
Iām feeling a bit nostalgic, so Iāve redrawn one of my first Ghoap works, which I did over a year ago after picking up drawing again after many years. Iād say you can definitely see some progress! (Well, the first one was just a sketch, after all)
Soap: Ā Itās pishinā it doon out here.
Ghost: Speak English.
Soap:Ā Ā Raining fuckināhard.
Ghost: Then say so.
Soap:Ā Ā I did!
Warming-up sket
