people who tell you to stop reading the news to "regulate your nervous system" do not have your best interests at heart. if following current events makes you spiral you probably need a better analytical frame, not less information
i'm totally crazy, i freak out all the time, but you know what helps me most? learning. reading. studying. discussing. sometimes you do need a nap, but sometimes you need a conversation with someone more knowledgeable/experienced, or a day at the (physical or digital) library. and really i think everyone has a different baseline emotional register that's best for them and their circumstances, but i recommend aiming to feel solid and anchored, not necessarily "calm." of course we won't feel "calm" after reading about genocide. but if we approach what we're reading correctly, it can strengthen our resolve; feed our fighting spirit; show us paths to liberation. a lot of people in my life have diagnosed me with "revolutionary optimism" and wonder how i maintain that mindset but i'm not an optimist by nature, it all comes from studying
۶ৎ “just the tip” with satoru during ovulation week
you’re not supposed to be doing this.
he’s not even in you. that was the rule. that was the compromise—dry humping only, hands above the waist, no slipping, no skin, no tip, no nothing, you promised, swore up and down that you could behave, that it was just about the pressure, the friction, the grind, the way his sweats catch your clit just right when you angle your hips and rock down slow—
but that was twenty minutes ago.
and now your panties are soaked, his dick’s leaking, your thighs are trembling, and you’ve already cum twice with your face buried in his neck like that’s gonna hide anything.
“satoru,” you gasp, rocking down again and again and again, desperate and slick and not even pretending anymore.
he grunts. his fingers dig bruises into your hips.
“jesus christ, baby,” he groans, “you’re getting it everywhere.”
you can feel it—wet cotton, sticky fabric, the hot mess you’ve both made of yourselves just from humping like fucking teenagers, and it’s not enough, it’s not enough, it’s not—
“just the tip,” you whisper.
he stares up at you.
“baby—”
“just the tip, please.”
and then you’re already shifting, already dragging his sweats down just enough, already pulling your panties to the side, already sinking onto him with one long, slow grind that makes you both go silent at the same time.
he doesn’t even push in. he doesn’t have to. your cunt takes him.
just the tip, technically—just the thick swollen head of him seated snug inside, no thrusting, no rocking, no cheating—but it’s warm and full and perfect and your eyes roll back immediately like your pussy’s trying to kiss his cock goodnight.
“jesus fucking christ,” he pants, arms shaking, “you’re—you’re holding me, baby, i can’t—”
“shhh,” you murmur, already lowering yourself until your chest is pressed to his, your cunt clamped down tight and still around him like you were built to do this, like you were meant to do this, like this isn’t the worst fucking idea you’ve ever had—
“it’s just cockwarming,” you whisper, breath hot against his ear. “we’re not moving.”
but your pussy keeps fluttering. every breath he takes makes his cock twitch. every twitch makes you clench. every clench makes him groan and every groan makes you want.
you bury your face in his neck. breathe him in. smell the sweat and the shampoo and the sharp clean scent of his skin and pretend you’re not slowly dripping around the base of his cock like a fucking needy whore.
“fuck,” he whispers, voice shaking. “baby, you gotta stop—”
“i’m not moving,” you whisper, biting your lip hard enough to leave a dent.
and you’re not. technically. because if you move it doesn’t count, right? if you stay still you’re a good girl, you’re not cheating, you’re just sitting here still like someone who didn’t accidentally impale herself on her boyfriend’s cock during a desperate dry humping session while ovulating, because it’s just the tip, it’s cockwarming, it’s not a real fuck if you’re both crying about it inside.
“you sure?” he breathes, eyes glassy, jaw clenched, fists buried in the sheets like he’s one centimeter away from fucking up and five seconds away from nutting inside you just for being warm.
you nod. try to look convincing. try to ignore the way your pussy flutters again—because it’s not your fault, it’s muscle memory or instinct or the devil, maybe, but definitely not you.
he groans. sharp and guttural. one of those stomach-deep noises like it’s pain, like it’s good, like the pressure’s so much it’s tipping over into agony.
“you’re fucking tight,” he mutters, voice strangled. “like—like blood flow cutting off tight. like medical emergency tight. like—fuck, babe—”
you clench again, experimentally.
his whole body jolts.
“baby.”
“sorry,” you say, not sorry at all.
his hands grab your hips like he’s going to stop you. like he could stop you. like he’s not actively losing his grip on reality while his cock is sheathed to the tip in your sweet, wet, fluttering fucking cunt.
you are. you’re clenching again. because he’s leaking. because it’s hot. because your cunt is drooling around him and your brain is going static and your whole pelvis feels like it’s glowing and you swear it’s just the hormones, it’s not like you want this, you don’t want to—
“fuck—fuck, i’m gonna cum—”
“don’t,” you gasp, tightening your thighs around his hips, not moving, still not moving, “satoru, don’t—”
he whines. actually whines. high-pitched and broken and fucking precious, like his soul is trying to escape through his teeth.
“baby,” he sobs, “i told you not to clench—”
“you’re such a little bitch,” you spit, just to be mean, just to win, just to distract—and he cums. just like that.
no thrusting, no warning, no control—just his back arching and his arms going tight and his face twisting like he’s seeing god as he empties his soul into your cunt in slow, hot, endless waves. every pulse another betrayal.
every spurt another nail in your coffin. your mouth falls open in shock and awe and disbelief and pure molten fuck as he fills you past the point of saturation, creamy and thick and so much more than just the tip.
you can feel it leaking down already, soaking your panties, sticky between your thighs, staining everything.
he’s panting. blinking up at you. ruined.
“…oops,” he says.
you stare down at him.
“…satoru.”
“technically,” he whispers, grinning, “you moved first.”
you shift a little and flinch immediately because it’s still coming out of you, warm and viscous, soaking through your poor panties like they’re tissue paper, and satoru’s just lying there, flushed and panting, looking way too proud for a man who just came like a teenager in a movie theater.
“you’re disgusting,” you mutter, voice flat. dazed.
he grins. “you’re welcome.”
“i’m going to kill you.”
“that’s fair.”
he’s still inside you. you can feel it—softening now, twitchy and spent, and still plugged up tight with his mess—and you should climb off, you should run for a towel or the bathroom or a time machine, but instead you just stay there. legs spread. pussy full. brain fried.
satoru lets his hands settle on your hips again. not to move you—just to hold you. like he’s grounding himself.
“you okay?” he asks, a little softer now, and you hate that it sounds real. like he means it. like he knows he pushed it.
you nod once. barely.
he presses his thumbs to the curve of your hips, gentle. “wanna get cleaned up?”
you exhale. long. still dizzy. “not yet.”
he hums. smug. self-satisfied. then, quieter. “we can try again later. properly, this time. y’know, if you really wanna warm my cock.”
you don’t dignify that with an answer. just close your eyes and stay there. stuffed. soaked. ruined.
Love a sleepy, unassuming man who you cannot trust to not stir and flip you over to fuck you slow and deep, pressing you to the mattress with his whole weight mid nap if you so much as tease him
the problem with people praising how fast you can read things as a kid is that as an adult you retain that hyper-fast reading speed, only for its only actual application to still just be making other people go “wow you read so fast!”
you’ve seen the way he speaks to strangers, always polite. the way he kneels to tie your shoe, grabs your favorite snack without you asking, rubs little circles into your back when you’re falling asleep. he listens when you talk—really listens, like every word out of your mouth deserves to be framed and hung on a wall. he laughs quietly, never raises his voice. his touch, out there in the world, is always featherlight.
but in here?
he’s rough. brutal, even.
“look at me,” he snaps, voice low, fingers digging into the fat of your thighs as he pushes them back, forces them wider. “you’re gonna take all of it, yeah? you’re gonna be a good fucking girl for me.”
and you do—because he asked. because it’s him.
your sweet boy with the soft hands and soft voice and the meanest cock you’ve ever taken in your life.
he’s big. thick enough to stretch you open slow, then cruel enough to bottom out in one sharp thrust that makes you cry out like you’ve been slapped. your back arches, breath knocked from your lungs, eyes wide and wet, but he just grins.
“that’s it, baby,” he pants, one hand clamped tight around your waist to hold you still while he grinds deeper, like he’s trying to live inside you. “so fuckin’ tight—god, you’re squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go.”
you don’t. but it’s too much. your body trembles under him, already overstimulated, raw at the edges, and he knows it. he uses it, tilts his hips just right, drives into that sore, swollen spot with vicious rhythm, punching broken moans out of your throat.
“cry all you want,” he growls, dragging your face toward his, lips brushing yours. “you’re still gonna take it. you begged for this, remember?”
your legs are shaking. one hand grips the sheets like they might anchor you to earth, the other claws helplessly at his back, searching for something solid while he fucks you like he hates you.
but his eyes—god, his eyes—they never stop looking at you. even when he’s splitting you open, when he’s got one hand wrapped around your throat and the other pushing your knees back until you can’t move at all, he’s looking at you with love. with reverence. like he’d still carry you to the bath after, even if you came on his cock until your voice gave out.
“you’re mine,” he whispers, voice suddenly softer even as his hips snap harder. “you’ll always be mine.”
and afterward, when your limbs won’t stop trembling and your body’s aching in the best kind of way, he pulls you close, presses kisses to your shoulder, brushes the hair from your face and smiles like he didn’t just fuck the living soul out of you.
“i’ll run you a bath,” he murmurs. “you did so good for me. such a good girl.”
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