AHHHHH!!! multi fandom: marvel, peacemaker, house, community, smiling friends, iasip, the pitt, pluribus, severance, other things that I'm probably forgetting...
this is your reminder to PLEASE contact your representatives about the KOSA bill!! the Kids Online Safety act isn't even about protecting kids, it's about privacy and censoring us on the internet. so many apps and websites will go away if they actually pass this bill: Wattpad, AO3, Fanfiction.net, TUMBLR. it's all gonna go because with passing KOSA, what we're giving the government permission to do is choose what things they think are appropriate for us to read and see.
SOOOO look up the representative for your area if you don't know them and contact them!! email them, call them, anything!! here's a template for what you could say (I didn't write this, I found it on stopkosa.com):
Iâm writing to urge you to reject the Kids Online Safety Act, a misguided bill that would put vulnerable young people at risk. Even though there have been significant promising changes to the bill, KOSA still fails to address the root issues related to kidâs safety online. Unless the duty of care language is removed to stop government censorship of content, KOSA remains harmful. Instead, it would endanger some of the most vulnerable people in our society while undermining human rights and childrenâs privacy. The bill would result in widespread internet censorship by incentivizing platforms to suppress content about LGBTQ resources, reproductive healthcare, and other lifesaving content for marginalized communities. This power could be abused in a number of ways and be politicized to censor information and resources. KOSA would also likely lead to the greater surveillance of children online by requiring platforms to gather data to verify user identity. There is a way to protect kids and all people online from egregious data abuse and harmful content targeting: passing a strong Federal data privacy law that prevents tech companies from collecting so much sensitive data about all of us in the first place, and gives individuals the ability to sue companies that misuse their data. KOSA, although well-meaning, must not move forward. Please protect privacy and stop the spread of censorship online by opposing KOSA.
bitches don't even tell you they're fucked up anymore they just look you in the eyes and say "yeah, I like found family tropes" girl get yourself a found THERAPY trope #standup
Synopsis: Ryland misses you so much it hurts, much to his own hopeless chagrin. Of course, when he can't have his boyfriend fuck him brainless and soothe his (sexual)frustration, comes the next best thing; jerking off to you⌠and missing you the whole time.
WC: 4k.
AN: The smut monsters got me you guys... gulpgulp. "It's ok, Author, we love your filthy Ryland smut!!!" Awhh,.... thank you anonymous, body-less voice!! (PS: Not proofread).
Anyway. Male Reader.
Ryland's keys jingle weakly in his hand as he walks up the stairs, letting the loop of the key-ring hang limply from his index finger as he steps up to the landing, continuing on towards his apartment. Each step is careless, lacking the idle, comfortable laziness they usually holdâ he feels wound tight, his insides coiled together and too hot to be pleasant.
So far, his day had been awful.
Nothing big, nothing dramaticâ just⌠bad. He spilled his coffee this morning two sips in, he used the wrong key twice to get into the School Building, embarrassed himself in front of a parent, and missed you so much he was re-listening to the voice notes you'd sent weeks ago in the teacher lounge.
Yeah. Just bad.
Sighing lowly, he stops before his apartment door, ignoring the longing in his gut as he shoves the key in and turns. The moment the lock clicks in its release, he turns the knob and shoves it open, closing it immediately behind him before he slumps back into it and closes his eyes.
It didn't help his body was sending signals you weren't here to soothe; both frustration, and⌠well, a different kind of frustration. The kind that made his groin ache and his shoulder tingle with the memories of the kisses you laid there.
But you weren't here.
Nope. You were two freaking states away, fixing some stupidly-rich guys "collection car." Because, apparently, knowing models before the seventies and how they work is impossible for anyone other than you to care about.
He had a love-hate relationship with that. On one hand, it was awesome that you specialized in something that made you happy and that you were great at it. On the other, it meant that, sometimes, some drowning-in-money jerk would fly you out to Gosh-knows-wear for a week and he'd be stuck eating take-out and wishing you were here.
Now his apartment just feels empty. No you in the kitchen making dinner so he'd stop spending so much on take-out, no you looking jaw-droppingly sexy in just sleep clothes, no you for him to stick to and bury himself in your after-shower scent.
No you at all.
It feels like punishment, but he knows it's not.
He misses you anyway.
Sluggishly, he pushes himself off of the door, tossing his keys over to the table by the door and beginning to, rather roughly, pull his jacket off and set it on its hook. It falls off right after, and for a moment, all he does is stare at its limp, defiant form.
He's going to lose his mind.
But, instead of doing so, he leaves it there for another more patient day, toeing his shoes off by the door and kicking them next to where yours typically stayed. The spot was empty now.
He pulls his Teacher ID tag from its place around his throat as he steps further inside, setting it down on the island next to where the sticky note you'd left him was.
"I'm leaving now. Sorry for not waking you upâ yeah, I know you'll be annoyed, but you needed the sleep. I'll text you when I land to let you know I'm safe, okay? I love you. See you next week. :)
PS: don't forget the laundry from downstairs. It's in the third dryer on the bottom row, our usual one went out of service."
He's read it about a hundred times nowâ before he'd leave for work, when he'd come home, and whenever he was in the kitchen. You'd talked a lot since then, of course, but he'd still read it anyway. It was a habit now.
Sighing, he steps back, moving on towards the bedroom as he undoes his belts clasp; the noise, even though it's his own, makes his brain recall every time you'd roughly undo your own in times of⌠certain desperation.
Stop it, brain, He grumbles internally, pushing his bedroom door open, he's not here. You need to shut up.
The room still smells faintly like you, even though it's been three days since you'd left. As he gets undressed, he mindlessly wishes your scent would stay longerâ he misses being able to stick to you whilst in bed, to be able to hear your heart and smell you from the source rather than from anything lingering.
Is that a little pathetic?
Maybe.
Is he ashamed?
No, not really. You're his boyfriend. He's allowed.
He unbuttons his shirt first, shrugging it off and throwing it in the general direction of the clothes hamper before he continues with his jeans, holding a hand to the wall to keep him balanced as he gets the last pant leg off.
Letting those stay on the floor, he steps over to the bed, tossing himself down onto your side and groaning, rather loudly, into your pillow. His arms come up, circling around it and pushing it closer to his face as he shifts and inhalesâ the bunched-up blankets rut against a very sensitive place at the movement, and he stills like he was struck by lightning, his groan muffled from the fluff of the pillow.
It felt good, but⌠not as good as he's sure you could make him feel with just a single touch alone.
Nothing compares to how you do itâ he can't ever mirror the way your rhythm falls, or replicate the feeling of your calloused hand around him (or holding his hand). Nothing works but you. Since you've come around, he's only been able to get himself to cum⌠what, twice? With a lot of time and patience.
And you double that in a single night with half the effort.
It was unfair, your absence. He's stuck here like a longing, painfully-hard house wife, while you work hard over twenty hours away. Probably sweating, and covered in various grimes and greases, and grunting whilst you fight to get a bolt offâ
He flips over onto his back, yanking the pillow from his face and letting it drop to lay across his stomach. If it didn't feel disrespectful to use the same pillow you slept on most nights to jerk himself off, he'd be clambering on top of it and rutting into it like a freakin' dog, but... It does, so he won't.
Tonight, anyway. He's not sure if he'll have the same restraint another night, if he stays this worked-up and without you. He'd be one-hundred percent okay with buying you another pillow case if that ends up occurring this week.
For a second, all he does is lay there, half-panting and staring listlessly up at the blank ceilingâ he wants you, so bad it hurts. Everywhere. His shoulder where you'd kiss (and sometimes bite, when you'd cum), his hips where you'd keep him steady, his hands where you'd tangle your fingers together (and where he'd bury his hands in your hair and pull, just to hear the broken groan that'd spill from your lips like honey).
He needs you. Like, now.
Shoving your pillow off of him, he kneels over to the side of the bed, hanging off the edge as he grabs his jeans and digs around in his pocket for his phone. The moment he has it, he's pushing backward to lay down, scooting back to rest half propped up against the headboard.
He's panting as he fumbles to unlock his phone, mis-inputting your birthday once, then twice, finally steadying his hands enough to get it right on the third time. His teeth sink into the fat of his bottom lip as he reaches over, his glasses slipping down his nose as he presses your pillow against his chest.
He wants to call you, to see your face, to hear your voice talking to him, to have your attention.
It's not rude to interrupt if I say it's an emergency, he thinks, staring down at your contact photo, is it?
Calling someone just to jerk off is weird.
No, it's not⌠when you're dating, anyway, right? This is totally normal. People do this all the time.
Nevermind, yes, it is.
He's unsureâ so, to distract himself, he scrolls upward a little and re-reads the last messages you'd sent.
"Yeah, it's not going too bad. You'd like it here. Very cute geese. One of them squints like you do when your glasses are off. Anyway, I miss you. I'll call when I'm done and we can talk tonight, is that alright?"
That one was around lunch, but you'd sent one more before saying byeâ just asking about work, if he'd eaten, that stuff. Caring stuff.
Stuff he would've enjoyed hearing you say in person.
His chest aches.
Dipping his head down a little, his glasses shift as he squishes his nose into your pillow and inhales the left-over scent of your soap. He does it again, and again, before locking one of his arms around it and bringing his legs upâ it's not warm like you are, and it doesn't have the body he likes to mindlessly trace with his fingertip late at night, or the heartbeat he falls asleep fastest when listening to.
But it smells like you, and, for the moment, it'll work.
After a minute, he pulls back, his tongue poking at the side of cheek as his thumb slips down the screen of his phone. He exits the Messages app, instead going to his gallery; the photos there are random. Some science memes, random pictures of the pond with all the geese he likes to feed, more pictures that'd either you'd sent of yourself or he'd taken of you.
After scrolling back a few weeks, he stops, clicking on the video there before adjusting his grip on his phone to have it laying sideways. He presses his face into your pillow again, feeling his groin throb when the edge of the pillow shifts with his movement and grinds against his dick.
The video starts with darkness and some noises of shifting, before you finally pick the camera up and steady it.
"Okay, uh⌠I think I've figured it out." Video-yous nose scrunches, the sharp points of your teeth just slightly visible behind your lips. His attention latches onto it immediately, before shifting to pay some focus to your face.
Video-you is filthy, slick with sweat in a way he can recall a few moments about during a separate time. Your breathing is heavy, too, no doubt from just crawling out from under the car you'd told him about then. It was, apparently, a difficult one.
Not that he cares. He'd thank that friggin' car any day now for this video of you alone.
"Um⌠Yeah, okay. Anyway," The cameras point of view shifts as Video-you moves, and his heart-rate ticks up a littleâ he's watched this video of you showing him around your shop way too many times. He knows what's coming.
"Let me take you somewhere I can talk first without getting droned out from all the noise, yeah?"
He huffs lowly as he shifts, moving forward to lay back completely as the video continues. He brings the pillow with him, circling his arms around it and making it more comfortable for it to hold his phone.
"This is the 'Main room.' Just put quotes around thatâ meaning, it's the only room with AC that everyone crowds like bees. 'M a little surprised it's empty now; my day is finally getting lucky, hah."
Finally, the camera view picks up again as Video-you shows him the room in an idle, lazy movement. He knows the room by heartâ a small table in the corner with four chairs around it, two of them broken, the only window filled with an AC unit, a few lines of counters with a few cabinets above them, a fridge tucked next to the end of it.
"Moving on," Video-you announces, moving over to the little thing of shelves out of camera view, "Gonna prop you up here for a sec, Ry. My hands are grimy 'n my phone keeps slipping." Your voice is slightly muffled when your hand covers the mic, but his stomach heats up at the nickname, however covered.
Ry. No one else calls him that; only you.
As the camera view changes again, the sharp points of his teeth dig into the side of his cheek, his breathing picking up a little as your expression shifts to focused again. This point of view is lower, giving full view of grease-covered you from your thighs and upward, and a full shot of your stomach when you grab the hem of your shirt and bring it up to wipe the sweat off your face.
God, you were hot.
Enough so for that one shot to be why he watches this video again, and againâ your voice, too. It always got a little more raspy when you were tired, a little more ragged. Closer to what you'd sound like when you'd cum; enough so to get him heavily distracted, anyway.
This was a piece of an immortal heaven. As long as his phone was charged, he'd be able to watch this, and get to see you all worn out and dirty and gorgeous.
His tongue runs over his bitten lips, a shaky exhale following right after as he pauses the video and sets his phone aside. As much as he loved this video of you (he's watched it three times yesterday), he hadn't ever⌠well, jerked off to it. He'd thought about it â way too many times, actually â but never had really done it, since you were always there to climb all over.
You're his boyfriend, so it's not like it's too creepy, right? It's not even weird. Couples record "Home Videos," (cough) and do all sorts of things with those, so, morally, he could jerk off to this and be okay.
He wished he didn't have to. He wantedâ needed, you here, all over him and fucking him until his brain turned to mush. Just you here in general would be nice. You didn't have to be on top of him, or behind him, or in himâŚ
He shifts, grumbling lowly at himself.
He can remember last Friday like it was yesterday.
How your lips felt against his, how you groaned into his mouth every time he'd pull at your hair, how your fingers would curl inside of him and make his vision go white⌠He pulls the pillow from his chest, breathing through is mouth as his hand wanders down, taking the teasing path yours would always take.
His stomach twitches beneath his own touch, sensitive to the trail from his hip to his dick.
How your hand felt when your fingers would dig into his thighs to keep his legs open, the feeling of his side pressing into the edge of your knee when the bed would dip from your weight as you'd loom over him, peppering soothing, warm kisses from his jaw to his collarbone.
His imagination is so vivid he can almost feel you hearâ your breath against his neck, the callouses of your palm against him, the heat from your hand around the back of his thigh.
He swallows, sucking in an unsteady breath; he gasps as he palms himself through his boxers, his head tipping back against his pillows. Aimlessly, he tries to replicate your touch. How you'd press the heel of your palm into him and run your thumb over his tip through the fabric, how you'd say something silly just to get him to relax some more and get comfortable.
That latter part is something he can't get right.
What would you say this time, if you saw him? Would you gently tease him, say something softly like Just can't wait for me, huh? Or would you say nothing and just let him try to, hopelessly, get himself off?
It's alright, Ry, He settles on, imagining your voice in his head as his hand presses down a little firmer, I get it. Put on a show for me, yeah? I wanna watch.
His heart-beat stutters as he groans, his eyebrows drawing together when he shifts, pulling your pillow close again just to inhale needily.
Well? Your voice continues, Don't be shy, Ryland. We can stop whenever you want.
He drags the heel of his palm over his tip, his jaw settling at the pleasure of the fabric grinding against the sensitive, positively-flushed placeâ and, rather quickly, he lifts his hips up just to snag the hem of his underwear and yank them down, kicking them off to lay uselessly somewhere on the floor.
For that, you'd probably soothe him; make sure he was alright, that he wasn't too antsy to the point of being overwhelmed. He'd say something like, No, just in a hurry, or something silly and bratty like, What, I can't want my boyfriend?
But you aren't here, and he's pinned fantasizing desperately. It's better than nothingâ imagining you rather than lamenting your absence is more pleasurable.
The tip of his tongue pokes his top lip as he lifts his head up, watching his own hand as it carefully wraps around himself; he sucks in a breath, his groan grumbled and muffled within his throat. His doesn't look the same around him as yours doesâ not stained enough, lacking the little scars littered across the flesh there.
His eyes slip shut as his thumb teases the crown of his dick, this time without fabric in the way. He can picture how you'd look; legs crossed, leaned back on your palms as you'd watch him work himself up, eyes half-lidded and shadowed as you'd stare at his hand.
So, this is how you do it, huh? You'd implore, voice strained by arousal, head tilting. Maybe you should let me watch you more.
"Iâ I wish you were here," He gasps, talking to no-one but himself and his imagination of you. "I hate this⌠I want you."
His fingers curl around himself, tightening just slightly as he huffs, shifting in his place on your side of the bed. He draws your pillow closer again, breathing in a short, quick, unsteady rhythm of your scentâ desperately, he reaches up with his free hand, his other stilling idly as he yanks his glasses off and tosses them over to the bed-side table.
As soon as they're off, he buries his face in your pillow, panting into it as his hand starts up again, trying to find the rhythm you'd always use.
Unsurprisingly, he can't. Every attempt is just a weak, pathetic mimicry. He just couldn't get it rightâ every spot you'd hit almost seamlessly every time to make him see stars, he seemed to miss with skill.
It's frustrating.
Still can't get yourself off? You'd tease, but, he could imagine you wouldn't let him give up yet; no matter how obvious he could picture your want would be then. Want me to help you?
"PleaseâŚ" He whines, his hand curling into a fist around your pillow, voice muffled by the very thing he's clinging desperately to; it's lost some of your scent due to the fact he's been cuddling it to sleep every night, but some is still there, buried beneath his own.
His jaw sets as his hand shifts in rhythm yet again, his hips jerking instinctively when the edge of his thumb bumps into the sensitive spot below his tipâ he whines loudly, his inhale shaky and broken as he tries it again.
There you go, You'd ease, voice softening, that's it, Ry.
"I miss you," He moans, running his hand up, down, then up again, the side of his index finger bumping into the sensitive spot almost every go. "Iâ I don't want to do this myself, I wantâ- hmmg, I want you."
He breathes through his mouth, letting his head tip back into his own pillow so he can get more air. His pace slows just slightly to give his forearm a break, the pad of his thumb nudging against the underside of his tip, just to tease himself like you would.
You're doing so good, Your voice rings out in his head, guiding his hand. So, so good.
His teeth dig into his bottom lip so hard it stings, and when he runs his tongue over the ache, he tastes metallic. He adjusts again, wiggling in his place and letting his legs stretch out, only to spread to give himself some more room.
Starting up again, he tucks your pillow into his side, his fingers curled into a fist around the shirt covering itâ he may or may not have stolen a shirt or two from the dirty clothes hamper to put on it that still thickly held your scent.
His hand isn't as calloused, or as worn as yours, but if he tries hard enough, he can picture you behind him, keeping his back pressed against your front as you guide his hand. Your thighs would flank his hips, one of your arms circled around his chest to keep him in place, your hard-on pressed against his spine with your warmth and your scent swallowing him whole.
He spreads his legs a little wider, moaning open-mouthedlyâ he'd squirm just to hear your groan and your shaky breathing when the friction would press against your dick, then proceed to act like he wasn't doing anything on purpose.
You'd laugh and pretend to believe him, only to litter punishing kisses and little bites around his shoulder and tell him, We've only just started, Ry. You can't come just yet, yeah?
"Mnnghâ" He swallows, feeling that coil start to heat up in his lower tummy, pulling taut.
You're so lucky you're not here, he thinks, tightening the grip of his hand when he gets closer to his tip, Or I'd be jumping your darn bones right about now.
Whining, his head pushes back into his pillow, bearing his neck; if you were here, you'd take the invitation and mouth at his neck, graze the points of your teeth over his jugular in a way that has his thighs shaking now.
His stomach tenses as the string of his insides pull taut, not yet snappingâ he drags the heel of his palm over his tip as he drags the pillow up and over his face, forcing it downward and inhaling.
He cums.
He keeps up pace, slowing as his hips fuck up into his hand, easing himself down; he can feel his cum landing on his stomach, pooling in his bellybutton. The pad of his thumb runs over the underside of his dick as he welcomes the after-shocks, panting desperately into your pillow before reluctantly pulling it away from his face.
After a few moments, he pulls his orgasm-slick hand away from himself, dropping it lazily to rest on his stomach until he works up the energy to care about the fact he's covered in his own cum and the remnants of agonizing need.
His dick still throbs in a heart-beat adjacent rhythm, timing loosely with his ragged panting and the twitching of his stomach.
He jerks at the sound of his phone ringingâ his head lifting up immediately to look for it, only to spot it with your name and contact photo splayed across the cracked screen.
He reaches for it with his filthy hand, only to decide better half-way and switch, snagging it shakily off the bed and swiping to answer. He stares idly at his hand, making a slight face at the cum covering it.
"HâHello?" He croaks, still recovering from his orgasm.
"Hey, Ry. Finished up over here for tonight. Your day get any better?" You question, your voice slightly worn, yet still soft, gentle.
The same voice he was imagining talking him through his own masturbation.
Absolutely fucking rich that Robby thinks Al-Hashimi canât handle running the ED because she paused twice when working with kids. My brother in Christ you are on the killing myself world tour right now letâs self reflect maybe
hey so kosa and other "child safety" bills are now on red alert and there will be a subcommittee markup on thursday, dec. 11 at 10:15am. go call, go email, fax, do anything. be loud and do it everyday until thursday. we need to fight this
it does not directly mean that there will be a vote, but there is a possibility.
Say what you want to about the X-Men movies, but Rogue telling Logan he should wear a seat belt and him scoffing at her only to immediately be thrown through the front windshield was the most Wolverineâ˘ď¸ thing that could have possibly happened.
No offense to any fics about how âBob has never been kissed before uwuâ but like, that is a Florida Man and a former drug addict, I will bet you dollars to donuts Bob has turned tricks. At least one of those shame rooms features him sucking dick in an alley for an 8-ball. Gimme THAT fic.
may god bless the dinosaur that died to make the fossil fuel that was treated to become petrol in the car that took james gunn to the hospital so he could give birth peacemaker (2022-)
