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[white-reader-detected]

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[chocolatepawws]

Sweet Baby

Old!Gerard x Fem!Reader

Summary:You're the new Gee's girlfriend, you meet at the backstage on a mcr concert, you're like that one groupie sexy girls, but he's most like your dad he always pampers you, brought you clothes and accesories. You're his little and sweet girl, but he's still a pervt old man.

Tags:Smut, dirty talk, degradation, vaginal sex, pull hair, fingering, rubbing, dom gerard, sub reader, daddy kink, penetration, puppy play (mentioned), age gap, reader is 18 and Gee is 49.

Notes:This is my first fic in english, I hope you like it

You and Gee agreed to meet in the mall, you're wearing a little pink skirt with a tight blouse with low neckline and your cute thigh-high stockings, when you arrive the mall you see him distracted on his phone, he look up and see you, It didn't take long for him to blush. You left nothing to the imagination; He always try to convence you for wear less revealing clothing, he always get jealous when other guys turned to look at you.

"Hi, honey" Said Gerard holding your waist, so sweet and kind like always, you give him a kiss in his check, "Hi, Gee" you greeted him. You go to your favorite expensive café. Everything was going normally, until you sitting on his lap, waiting for you dessert, you turned to look at him with your innocent look, you can feel him erection press against your ass "Gee" "Yes, princess" He hug your waist and with a hand he star to stroke your thigh "Can we go to the new fashion store?" you look at him with those big puppy eyes "Umm, yes, everything my little girl wants" "Thank you, daddy" you move your hips purposely, Gerard didn't take long to start rubbing against your ass, damn old perv, you smile and stayed in the phone, He playfulness with your soft hair, Gee learned how to make you pigtails and braids, so he star to make you two cute braids and put them hair bows, you still felt how he rubbing, You were moaning softly and involuntarily, moans that reached Gerard's hard cock.

After some minutes, the waiter arrive to your table and gives you your dessert, after you and Gee eat and talk, he take you to the fashion store, when you tried on short clothes, He was left open-mouthed, staring at you. You smile triumphantly, you came closer him, He look at your short skirt and how your pantie lace it peeks out "How I look, daddy?" you said "So sweet and sexy, dear" "Oh, yeah?" "Yeah, but... you should star to buy clothes... less revealing" "heck, don't tell me what to do, dirty old man"you said, he furrowed his brow, you just look at him with your spoiled-brat look "Oh, don't be brattie, daddy doesn't like that" He murmurs on your ear, you ignored him, but he gonna teach you a lesson. His princess just have 18 years old, she doesn't be too rude. He buy you the outfits you tried on, cause you're his pamper lil girl.

On the way by home, he touched your thigh under your little skirt. When you arrive the Gee's big house he corners you against the wall and kiss your pink lips. "damn slut provocative" he said lowering his hand to your panties, your moan his name, until he rubbing you trough your panties "Oow, does my needy little girl want daddy's cock?" "Aagh, y-yes daddy, fuck" He take off your panties, he trow you onto the bed, he sit on the edge of the bed, he sit you astride on his lap, you star to rubbing against the lump in his pants, you moaning "Daddy... daddy", he contemplate how you little pink pussy gettin puffy, He lowering two fingers for rubbing your clit, you rubbed against him faster, Gerard just let out a little laugh and place a hand in your hip "What makes you so needy my puppy girl? huh?" "Daddy-fuck, daddy please" he puts two fingers inside you and rubs that point that makes you see stars, you moaning and rolled your eyes,"Little needy slut, your brain is porridge" Gerard grab your hip with force preventing you rub, you whined, Gee lies you on the bed and kiss you neck, Gerard take off you the skirt and the blouse, Gerard play with your boobs and run a finger over your nipple "So wet, just for me" Gee said unbuttoning his belt, he flip you upside down. He lowering his boxers and revealed his hard dick, he grab his cock and rub his tip against your clit, he puts his cock inside you, you moan for the fell of fullness inside you, Gee started charges at you, "naughty little whore, sleeping with a older man" Gerard moan with two hands holding your hips, "this little thing need daddy's attention desperately" little moans escaped from your lips for the ability of Gerard for fuck you, He grabs one of your braids and he pulls on it, "God-damn, Gee please, harder!" "Huh? does this stupid bitch need more?" "Yes... Please, I'll be good for you" you moan desperately "You know? you was being rude in the mall, daddy doesn't like spoiled girls" you felt near of your orgasm "Aah- daddy p...please I beg you" Gee agreed and fuck you hard as he could "Oh, you're so tight" he said charging into your tight pussy, his cock touch your G point, You let out a stifled moan, Gee star to rubs his thumb on your clit, you see star and feel the big orgasm, you milking Gerard's cock, He felt how your quality walls they were contracting all around his cock, Gee moaned and he filled you up with his cum inside you.

After some minutes he retired, Gee flip you over, and caress you hair, you smile and blush, he gives a little kiss and sleep beside you.

[ayamentha]

𝙱𝚄𝙲𝙺𝚈 𝙱𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙴𝚂 - 𝙹𝙴𝙰𝙻𝙾𝚄𝚂𝚈

⤷ bucky barnes x fem!reader ⌇ 614 words ౨ৎ - SYNOPSIS. bucky gets jealous at party, and all his pent up emotions leads to something a bit more... intense warnings ᯓ mdni! no use of y/n, modern au, tfatws bucky, smut, mention of breeding, angry sex, semi-public? caught in act Bucky gets jealous easily. He won’t outright say it, of course, but he shows it in small actions.    Like the time he saw you talking to Steve at Vision’s birthday party. His jaw was clenched, hands balled into fists, and that subtle twitch of his eyebrow he did when he was irritated. He was borderline glaring at his friend from afar, watching how Steve flirted with you, watching his eyes roam around his girlfriend like a piece of meat.    You, of course, are oblivious to his advances, laughing at some stupid, dumb joke he said—and Bucky just had no choice but to intervene.    He practically stomps toward you and suddenly you feel his warm hand engulf your waist, pulling you closer beside him, almost as a silent way to tell Steve: She’s mine.     “Bucky?”  God. How he loved how his name sounded from your lips. It made him so fucking har—

Steve’s voice interrupts his train of thought, “Buck,” Steve smiles innocently as if he wasn’t flirting with you a few seconds prior. “How’s it goin?”    Bucky’s blood boiled, and his hand tightened your waist significantly. “Just peachy.” he grumbles.    You look at your boyfriend worriedly, noticing his discomfort immediately. The furrow of his brow, his jaw tight, his grip almost punishing. “Is everything okay, darling?” you ask.    His gaze lands down at you, and his hardened gaze softens, just melting from the sweet melody of your voice. “I’m fine, sweetheart.” he says with a tight-lipped smile.    He was in fact not. Fuming in jealousy, the green-eyed monster consumed him slowly.     “So, Buck, you never introduced me to your cute girlfriend.” Steve grins, playfully winking at you. You blush, slightly flustered as Bucky glares at him with murderous intent.    “I guess so,” he grunts. “Well, if you’d excuse us, we’re going to get some refreshments.” he pulls you away hastily and into the crowd.       --------------------------------------------------------------------------------     You don’t know how you got into this situation. You don’t remember either. You’re too fucked dumb to even think.    You’re in the bathroom, bent over the sink as Bucky’s cock plunges in and out you, just pounding like a crazed madman—like he hasn’t had sex in 70 years.     “Bucky-” you whimper, “What’s— what’s the matter with- ah!” he pulls out and slams back in hard. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, seeing stars.    “Fuck, baby,” he growls, “you’re so fucking tight f’me,” he’s groaning again, his pace now picking up again. “You’re such a-” another hard thrust, “naughty girl, eh? Makin’ me jealous on purpose...”    It clicks in your brain. So, this is what he was upset about. Really?!    “I- I wasn’t trying to-” you plead your case, but it was clear he wasn’t listening.    His hands go to your hips, gripping them so hard that they would leave bruise marks later. “Fuckin’ stupid Steve, trying to- fuck- steal my girl-” his pace quickens, chasing his release as the erotic sound of skin fills the air. “Gonna breed ya- show everyone who belong to-”    "Bucky-” you moan and mewl his name, your own release coming. Your walls flutter around him, and he lets out an uncharacteristic whimper.     “Your pussy is so warm....” he breathes, his balls tighten, his whole body feels so hot, and with a final brutal thrust, he releases. Cum overflows into your pussy, and you finish right after, gasping for air, teary-eyed. He continues thrusting sloppily, like he’s trying to bury his seed inside you.     You’re dazed out, fucked dumb, and utterly satisfied. “Bucky...” you gasp breathlessly.     He’s about to respond until a knock interrupts, soon followed by a familiar voice. Steve.    “Hey, Buck?” his voice more gruffer than usual. “You done in there?” 

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Frat Boy Look

Baran Al-Hashimi x GN!reader

Summary: You're getting to meet your girlfriends parents for the first time and you just want to make a good impression.

word count: 516

Warnings: reader is GN but referred to as girlfriend

Authors note: I had this thought at work and immediately told @mommyslittlebird to which this came out later from that

Truly you weren't sure what to do, but this really did seem like the best option at the time. You were getting to meet your girlfriend's parents for the first time. Two immigrants who had made a name for themselves. Two individuals who clawed their way up from the bottom. 

When the words “country club” came out of her mouth your mind went to one thing, those white boys who wear salmon shorts and polos. So you did research, used Baran's card as she's told you many times because she loves spoiling you. So you did the logical thing and looked up the expensive brands. Even though you knew you could get inexpensive ones at Wal-Mart you wanted to impress. You wanted to show them you had taste. 

So now here you were in your salmon colored shorts that Vineyard Vines called Mariner, a light pink polo from Burberry they called Mallow Pink, and of course a limited time collaboration of a pair of Sperry boat shoes called Studio Splatter.

You felt proud of yourself as you looked over the full length mirror. You looked like you'd fit in at a country club. So now as Baran got ready in the bathroom you waited for her to come out so she could see you…only you don't get the reaction you're hoping for.

She walks out adjusting one of her gold earrings and then stops. Looks you over and a chuckle rolls out of her, low and deep, one that makes you blush and look down. 

“W-what? Did I do something wrong?” You ask a little panic in your voice. You really didnt want to fuck this up. 

“You look like a frat boy who’s headed to his summer shift at the public pool.” she says, eyes looking you up and down.

“I just want to fit in!” you manage out as your fists clench and your body goes a shade of red. 

She comes over to you, her pointer finger slipping gently under your chin to tug you up. Her brown eyes soft in the morning light coming through the windows. 

“Azizam you don't have to fit in. You can be yourself. If my parents like you they like you and if they don't," she shrugs, “oh well their loss because I have the most amazing girlfriend who will go the extra mile to try and impress them. I have the most amazing girlfriend who treats me right every day. I have the most amazing girlfriend who makes sure I'm okay first before anyone else.” She smiles softly and you melt at her words. 

“Can I still keep the outfit on? I spent lots on it and i actually really like how it looks…” you admit, another chuckle rolling out of her. 

“Of course azizam. If it makes you happy then it makes me happy. Now come on. I want to show you off to everyone and make them jealous~” she says as she tugs you by the carabiner on your belt loop. 

A goofy smile on your face because truly you were living the dream.

[devushkanextdoor]

otw!era michael confesses he thought of you while singing the final take of 'Lady in my life' with quincey jones,

──── ❤︎

You & michael were laid up in your bed half-naked, the warm amber light casting a subtle glow on his face & bare chest as you watched him talk about his recording session today. You place your hand on his cheek, caressing softly as you admire him.

His eyes glimmer with excitement as he tells you about his day, you nod on, smiling, occasionally running a hand through his dishevelled curls.

“And you know, for lady in my life, that was my first romantic song I’ve ever sung, I felt a bit shy.” He says lowly.

You pout, “how so baby?”

“Well, Quincey said he wasn’t feeling my other attempts. Said he wasn’t satisfied. I didn’t know what he meant, but then he told me to beg for it, beg for her.”

Michael looks down with a little nervous smile, his cheeks flushed a slight pink. He remembers Quincey's words to him.

"You need a muse Michael, think of somethin." Quincey had said, taking a drag of his cigarette.

You were the first thing that popped into his mind in that moment.

Your eyebrows raise, “Beg?”

“Yeah…and I knew what he meant. But I’ve never sung like that before, God, I was so embarrassed. I had to close the curtains between me & him, then turn the lights off. It was only then I could sing it the way he wanted.”

You giggle, planting a kiss on his lips. “You bring a demo home so I can hear?”

Michael leans back, pulling out a tape from the side drawer. It’s labelled ‘final take.’

“The main thing I wanted to say was, I thought of you. The first take I was just singin' y’know, but the final take where he told me to beg for it, I had to think of you to get me there. I imagined I was begging for your love.”

Your eyes are laced with love as you place a hand on your chest sincerely.

“Oh Michael,” you whisper.

You gently take the tape from his hands, placing it in the cassette player. You press play, the smooth melodic tune making you blush and chuckle immediately.

You lie back on his chest, his arms wrapped around you as you both listen to the song play gently in the background.

♪ Lay back in my tenderness, let's make this a night we won't forget, girl, I need your sweet caress, oh, reach out to a fantasy, two hearts in a beat of ecstasy, come to me, girl

The sound of his voice singing the lyrics with such passion & desire makes your skin tingle. You look up at him from below, he looks shy and closed off. You can see he’s trying to fight it, but he wanted you to hear how much he loves you. You decide to bring him in for a kiss, your hand planted on the nape of his neck as the song continues muffled in the background. Your tongues dance in rhythm to the music, your breath hitching & your skin burning up.

“I love you so much, baby. Just wanna touch you.” He trembles.

Before you knew it, all remaining clothes had been taken off, & it’s just you & him on top of the sheets giving each other exactly what he was begging for in that studio, sweet love.

𑣲⋆

a/n: this was sitting in my drafts for months, so here's a quick little something for yall

[mistydear]

better than a heating pad

baran al-hashimi x fem!reader, w/c: 5.1k

Cramps are kicking your ass. Baran knows how to make it better.

notes: truly no plot in this one. period sex, blood obviously, vibrator, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, sickeningly sweet relationship fluff, tiny bit of insecurity

Distantly, you hear your front door open and close, keys clattering on a table, your name being called, and finally footsteps in the doorway. Guilt stabs at you. You forgot Baran was coming over tonight and would be expecting a dinner you hadn’t even bought ingredients for. You’d come straight home from work several hours earlier and hadn’t moved from your current position since. That is to say, curled up on your bed with a heating pad wedged in the V of your body, low against your belly, your face buried in a pillow. 

“Azizam?” Baran asks quietly, and delicate fingers brush hair out of your face. You crack an eye open, taking in the worried furrow in Baran’s brow, the thin set of her lips. “Cramps?” she guesses, tucking another strand behind your ear, her thumb brushing your cheek bone. You hum affirmatively. 

“Kicking my ass,” you mumble, turning your head enough so you can settle both weary eyes on Baran. 

From work, you’d brought home debilitating pain and a horrible mood. It started in the morning, waves of a dull ache deep in your core. You kept meaning to take medication, but something always pulled you away, distracted you, until suddenly the pain was coiling sharper, demanding to be noticed, and you could feel it all the way in your throat. And once it starts in earnest, it’s so much more difficult for you to get on top of it with medication. It didn’t help that you weren’t expecting your period for another couple days and only had tampons left over from last month in the back of your desk drawer. Tampons on day one were a big no for you and just amplified your pain. 

You white-knuckled it until 5 pm, barely able to focus on work, bouncing your knee far too aggressively. If anyone saw you humming low to yourself, the heel of your hand pressed harshly into the middle of your forehead, they didn’t say anything. And when you got home, the tears came, hot and pathetic as you changed into a pad and took another round of meds and dragged the heating pad from the hall closet. Your body wanted to nap, strung out from being in so much pain all day, but your uterus wouldn’t let you — contracting in waves that made you entirely incapable of doing or thinking of anything else. You rubbed your feet together, the hot, thrumming ache making you restless. 

“I’m sorry, my love,” Baran breathes, sitting down on the edge of your bed and rubbing her hand over your shoulder in soothing circles. 

You’re too raw today, all your nerves on fire, and you don’t usually like to be touched when you’re hurting — turning into somewhat of a wounded animal each month, cagey and unpredictable. You allow Baran’s touch for a long moment, but the repetition of her movement flares into overstimulation, which bleeds to anger quicker than normal. 

“Please don’t touch me,” you mutter, and Baran’s hand retreats to her lap. 

“What do you need?” she asks instead, and her gentle tone, her quiet presence next to you brings hot tears to your eyes. Baran is so beautiful and kind and loving, looking down at you like an angel custom made for you and all your fickle, flawed ways. And you just told her not to touch you, and she listened. “Eshgham,” Baran sighs as you hide your face in the pillow again, another wave of pain blossoming in you. “Why are you crying?” 

Your throat bobs, and a pathetic whimpering sob wrenches out of you. It feels like the lower half of your body is trying to separate itself from the upper half, cramps ripping through your lower back and around and into your thighs. That choking feeling when you hit your tailbone wells in you, waves of nausea coming and going all day.

“I don’t deserve you, and I hate being a woman,” you cry, your cheeks flushed and slick with salty tears. 

“Yes, you do, and no, you don’t,” Baran offers, amusement lacing her voice, almost a chuckle, and it just makes you cry harder. “Oh, baby, you must be in a lot of pain,” she sighs, leaning closer, wanting to touch you so badly but respecting your boundaries. 

Baran knows your periods are usually hell and knows you have a very specific routine to keep your cramps in check. She can deduce something got thrown off schedule for you to be so incapacitated. You curl into yourself harder, wiping away your tears and looking back up at Baran, eyes rimmed red and feeling immensely guilty. 

“I completely forgot you were coming over, I’m sorry. I don’t have dinner, and I’m not much fun tonight.” Baran dismisses your apology with a troubled look and a decisive shake of her head. 

“You should know by now, I don’t need anything from you, azizam. I just want to be with you. Especially when you’re not feeling well.”

Fresh tears well at her words, so earnest and in love with you. You’re in love with her, too, even if you don’t feel like you deserve it all the time.

“I took meds too late, and nothing is fucking working,” you whine, and Baran hums low, sympathetic. Her curly hair is a little frizzier after a long shift, her makeup worn off, but she’s attentive to you, her eyes tracking carefully across you, assessing. 

“Can you let me try to make it better?” she asks softly, her fingers inching closer to your elbow. 

She’s asking for trust in your raw, fragile state, and you’re not always willing to give it, but tonight, with Baran’s sure and steady gaze, you can. You nod, and in response, Baran leans low and kisses you, a featherlight press of her lips. Once. Then twice. Testing the waters. Your eyelashes flutter, and you tilt your chin up to meet her.  

She smells like Baran, her perfume worked off after a twelve-hour shift, and it’s a scent you’d bottle if you could. Or infuse into a pillow so you can hold her close when she’s not there. Burying your face in Baran’s neck or her hair does something inexplicable to you, especially after a long day and especially when you’re in pain. The tension you can never let go of bleeds from you in rapid, gushing waves. The whole world could end, you think, and you wouldn’t care because you’d know you were safe and loved. 

Baran’s kisses are delicate, her lips soft and pliant, unhurried. As soon as you lift a hand to rest on her neck, Baran feels she’s been given the okay to touch you back, so she rests a hand on the side of your knee. And then her tongue slides against your top lip, soft and flat before her bottom lip follows, dragging up. It makes something deep in you flutter, and a faint whine breaks from your throat as your tongue finds hers. 

Baran is a diversely talented woman, but kissing is your personal favorite skill of hers. She knows exactly how to uncoil you — or how to work you up. You’re not actually sure which she’s doing right now, but her nose is digging into your cheek she’s kissing you so deeply, so completely. A soft moan rolls from you to her, and she swallows it before her hand slides up to the dip of your waist. You shiver. Gently, she pushes into you, pressing you down onto your back. 

“Baran,” you breathe, feeling hazy and raw. She pulls away just enough to look at you, but you can still feel her breath on your cheek. 

“Do you not want to?” she asks, knowing how you get when you’re on your period, her hand sliding to rest on your stomach, just above the heating pad. While Baran gets incredibly needy and clingy on her period, you get distant and sulky. Emotions can run high and unpredictable for both of you, but you crave different things. Now that you’ve uncurled yourself, the cramps are sharper, building to a peak and staying there. Her hand is light on your stomach, but you feel the warmth of it through your shirt, rivaling the heating pad. 

You’re having a hard time feeling any traditional sort of arousal while in pain like this, but you want Baran in a different, even more primal way. You want your wounds licked and cleaned and the pain eased. You want to be taken care of, and Baran — you’re realizing — knew this before you did. She assessed, diagnosed, and is already moving on to treatment. God, she makes it easy to love her. 

“I do,” you say, but there’s a hesitancy there, one that makes Baran tilt her head, those brown eyes so steady and patient. “You’re not…” you trail off. The period sex you’ve had thus far with Baran has been in the shower or with a tampon in, and you aren’t sure if it was intentional on her part. You gesture vaguely to your pussy, and something twitches in Baran’s lips and crinkles in her eyes. 

“Not in the slightest.” Her voice is cool, sure, and heat swells in you as you dig your fingers into her neck, bringing her down to kiss you. 

The heating pad between you is starting to make you both sweat, so Baran pulls it away and turns it off. When her hand touches the skin of your abdomen, just above your shorts, her expression tightens. 

“Honey,” she starts, pulling up your shirt to examine your skin. It’s streaked red and angry and too hot, and her fingers are clinical as she looks down at it. “You can’t keep it on high that long. You’re going to burn yourself.” 

You’re not listening, focused on the way Baran’s fingertips graze lower, the way her chest rises and falls resting sideways against yours, the smell of her hair. A need starts forming in you, warm and wet. The pain still roars, but it’s getting easier not to focus on it. When your hand slides from Baran’s neck to her shoulder blade and digs in, she finally looks over at you, and her concern melts to affection. Your eyes are low, lips parted, and she kisses you, deep and slow.

“Take off your shirt. I’ll be right back.” 

When Baran returns moments later, she finds you bare chested, resting back on your elbows. There’s a towel in her hand, and she tosses it on the bed before pulling off her own shirt and crawling up between your legs. She presses featherlight kisses to your lips, your jaw, your neck, but you’re so sensitive it elicits the same reaction as if she’d given you a hickey, arching and whiny. She moves lower, dragging her tongue over your breast, and before she’s even to your nipple it pulls a moan from you. Amused by this, she smiles as her teeth graze you, and when her lips close over you and suck, your eyes flutter closed. The feeling is sharper than usual, even as Baran is more gentle than she wants to be. 

You sigh her name, your hips twitching up. With Baran’s mouth on you, the pain dulls slightly, enough to pave the way for real arousal. She leaves your nipple slick and glittering in the low light of your bedroom before moving to the other. Your breath comes quicker, a low pleasurable ache starting between your legs. 

It’s entirely unacceptable that Baran is still wearing a bra, you think, so you reach forward to unclip it as she works. She discards it before kissing your stomach and tucking her fingers under the waistband of your shorts. You lift your hips so she can take them off and discard them too. Then she sits you up. With Baran on her knees, your mouth is almost at the height of her chest. You, of course, use this to your advantage, and Baran sighs, her hand coming to tangle in your hair as yours hold her ass against you. 

“Mm mm, tonight is about you,” she mumbles, but her voice has gone soft, and she lets you stay there for a long moment until you pull a faint moan from her, until her hips are pushing into you. “Eshgham,” she warns, and you pull back, looking up at her. She holds your chin, breathless. “Scoot back.” 

You do as you’re told. She slides off the bed and tugs off her yoga pants before securing the towel underneath you, which embarrasses you a little until you see Baran’s expression. In everything she does, Baran is measured and ritualistic, but you’re not used to seeing it in bed, where her control usually gives way to hunger. But this one calculated action is laced with so much love and desire it knocks the breath from you. She kisses each of your knees and doesn’t break eye contact with you when she slides your underwear off and sets it aside. And then she does something you don’t expect. She climbs into bed behind you and leans against the headboard.  

“Come here,” she instructs softly, opening her legs and her arms, and you blink, scooting closer so your back is pressed to her bare front. “Is this okay?” she asks low into your ear, feeling you hesitate against her. 

This isn’t the type of sex you’re used to with Baran, where her mouth is everywhere, and you’re pushing and pulling against each other. This is slow and deliberate and entirely focused on your pleasure. It makes you blush. Baran brushes your hair away and kisses the shell of your ear, her hands sliding from your shoulders down your arms. 

You want to say, you don’t have to, or, are you sure because you’ve never thought yourself deserving of one-sided pleasure, of something that wasn’t transactional. It’s a prickly insecurity that Baran is trying to break you of. So, you take a breath and hum. 

“This is okay.”

Baran kisses your neck, her hands trailing across your waist. One slides up, just below the swell of your breast and holds you against her, and the other slides down, resting where the heating pad did, pressing in. 

“Scientifically —” she starts, her lips against your ear, and you laugh, exactly the kind of anticipatory release you need, and she just hums so knowingly it’s almost infuriating. 

“Shut up,” you mumble, craning your head back to kiss her. With your lips connected, Baran’s hand slides lower, over your hip to your thighs, pushing them apart. Your knees bump her legs, and then her hand is sliding up your calf, your knee, your inner thigh. The touch sends sparks through you, and you twitch, sighing.

“You’re so sensitive,” she breathes, her left hand sliding up to cup your breast, fingers brushing your nipple. Your abdomen pulses with a relentless pain, but Baran’s touch is like a salve, toning it down to something much more tolerable. 

Her right hand brushes the hair between your legs, delicate, and when she finally slides her fingers between your folds, you gasp, nerves so fried it borders on painful. Baran’s fingers slide over you, immediately slick with blood. Your breath catches as she slowly circles your clit. The feel of her arm working as it rests against your thigh is disarmingly hot, and you lean your head back against her shoulder. She rolls your nipple and drags her tongue across the exposed length of your neck, kissing the underside of your jaw. 

“Oh, fuck, Baran,” you moan quietly, sending tight heat down to your core to dampen the pain. 

“Better than a heating pad?” she asks with a certain arrogance she only gets in the bedroom. 

“Waits to be seen,” you reply automatically, and she moves rougher against you in retaliation, just enough to pull a louder moan from you. The sharpness of her initial touch has melted into something entirely soft and pleasurable, and you feel the slick of arousal mix with the watery wetness of blood. You turn to kiss her again, deeper, more urgently. 

Baran slides her free hand up and down your body, nails dragging, touches light and maddening as she sets your already exposed nerves on fire. Then her fingers dip lower, and she slides a finger around your entrance, dipping slowly in. Hot pain shoots through you. 

“Ah, stop,” you gasp, and Baran retreats quickly, her fingers dangling over your thigh. 

“Too much?” She kisses your head as you glance down at her fingers, bright red and wet. It’s shamelessly one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen, the unflinching devotion of it. Selfless and given eagerly. And, anyway, you just love Baran’s hands. 

“Keep touching me,” you gasp, guiding her wrist back. She does, working you up quicker than usual until you can’t keep still. And watching her fingers slide across you, circle your clit, dip low and come back redder and stringy as it coats her hand makes your head spin. Your hand reaches around to hold the back of Baran’s head, and she kisses your shoulder, biting down. “Fuck, baby, that feels good.”  

You can hear her own breathing catch as her fingers rise to your neck, your jaw, and her right hand moves with the rolling of your hips. The wetness between your legs is loud — you can smell the tinniness of it — and a low moan rips through you, tension coiling. Baran drags her thumb over your lips, pressing gently in, and you take it in your open mouth. She presses into your tongue, and your lips close around her, everything hazy. When she slides her thumb out, she brings it down to tease your nipple, slippery and swirling. 

“You are so beautiful like this,” she breathes against your ear. “Spread out for me.” 

Your head falls back, moans dripping from you like honey, building with whines and breathy, desperate noises. 

“Baran, I’m gonna cum,” you gasp, gripping onto her right arm and her thigh behind you. 

It’s jerking and loud, and it comes from somewhere deep inside you, the aftershocks spreading through your entire body. And Baran works you through it, pressing gentle kisses to your neck and whispering soft words of praise to you. When you can sort of open your eyes, you crane your neck and find her lips, sloppy and needy and full of appreciation. 

“How’s the pain, my love?” You catch your breath, registering that Baran’s fingers are still moving against you, slow and barely there, teasing. The ache of your cramps run deep, but Baran had scratched away at the surface of it. 

“Better,” you admit, and Baran intertwines your fingers, resting your left hands against the top of your thigh — close to her right hand, which swirls slowly, the pressure on your clit increasing a fraction of a degree. 

“Just better?” Another kiss to your neck, slow and lingering. Your eyes flutter. Her thumb draws circles against your hand, and you lean deeper into her, your clit pulsing. You can feel wetness dripping down you — blood or arousal — and you’re so slick with it you can barely feel Baran’s fingers until they start up again in earnest. 

“Jesus, Baran,” you sigh as she nips your ear. “I don’t think I can cum again.” 

“You can. At least once more.”

“At least?” you chuckle, feeling so content here against her you could probably fall asleep if she let you. But a noise leaves Baran so decisive and commanding it makes you shiver.

For a while, she’s quiet, content to touch you without escalating, doubling down when you gasp or twitch, and you’re content to let her. You’re not sure it’s leading to an orgasm quite yet, but you like the feeling of your hand intertwined with hers and her fingers so lovingly and attentively on your swollen clit. When her fingers dip low and spread you open, a finger teasing your entrance, something cracks in you. She won’t try to finger you again, but the area is so sensitive it’s like a sharp, hot tease, and she knows it. And then you want to cum again. 

“God,” you sigh, letting your head fall back, and you untangle your fingers from Baran’s to hold the back of her head. Baran’s arm wraps around your middle, holding you firmly against her as she touches you. 

“Relax, azizam,” she breathes, easy and quiet, and you realize how tense you are, how suddenly desperate you are to cum. “Let it build.” 

In stuttering degrees, you unclench, undo the tightness of your shoulders, turning to kiss Baran, sloppy and deep. It’s when you finally relax and sink heavily back into her that the heat builds in you so quickly it’s like flipping a switch. The pleasure tightens and peaks in a matter of moments, not as deep or intense as the first but enough to have you moaning and gasping, arching against her. 

Baran moans your name, just as surprised. She starts slowing, working you down, and a strangled sort of whine leaves you. 

“Fuck, honey, keep going. Keep going,” you beg, gasping, and Baran does, mouth latching onto your neck, her fingers digging into your side as she tightens her arm around you. Baran’s fingers slip across you, and you can feel that slickness coating your inner thighs, and it feels so good. “Oh, please,” you breathe, entirely incoherent, focused only on the pleasure that hasn’t waned once and just keeps fucking building. Distantly, you feel Baran’s hips rolling into your back and her moaning softly, her lips against your ear. Another orgasm rips through you, more guttural than the last, and you arch against Baran’s hold on you, shaking. 

“Good, baby,” she whispers. “That’s it.” 

As Baran slows, your chest heaves, and you feel the hot stickiness of sweat between your back and Baran’s front. Your hairline is beading with it, and Baran’s tongue slides up the shell of your ear, which makes pleasure jolt through you. 

Her fingers are light against you, but you’re so wet there’s absolutely no friction. She could probably scoop all the slick between your legs into the palm of her hand, you think. Finally, she stills, letting her hand dangle between your legs. 

“You are incredible,” Baran moans against your neck, kissing you there. You whine, bordering on overstimulated, but her words pull a smile from you, soft and lazy. Baran’s whole palm, up to her wrist, is shimmering with blood and arousal, the back of her hand slick to the knuckle. And you can see it on your inner thighs, smeared across you where Baran touched. Little dots splattered lower down. 

“Fuck,” you sigh, a little surprised by it, and Baran kisses your shoulder a few times before following your gaze. 

“We made quite a mess, my love,” she mumbles, and if you hadn’t just had three essentially back to back orgasms you might’ve felt crushingly vulnerable about that. Still, Baran’s here behind you, kissing you and drawing them out of you so effortlessly, and she loves you. And you can feel the heat from between her legs against your lower back. You lean your head back, and she kisses your cheek, keeping her lips against your skin when she speaks. “Cramps?” 

“So much fucking better.” It’s such a relief you could cry, actually. 

“Still there?” The arm around your middle is sticky when she pulls it from your skin, and she slides it lower so her palm can press low into your belly. The pressure on your uterus is shockingly pleasurable and takes away the last of the ache — at least temporarily. 

“That felt good,” you moan, eyes closing, and Baran does it again, a deep, slow massage. Her wet fingers, slowly drying, scrape against your inner thigh. 

“Grab your vibrator.” A breathy laugh escapes you. 

“Baran, I absolutely cannot cum again.” And Baran just kisses your jaw. 

“Come on,” she encourages, removing her arms from you completely. You huff, leaning forward and closing your legs, which sends overly sensitive shocks through you. Baran mumbles something dripping with want in Farsi, her left hand coming to scrape up and down your spine. Your breathing catches, and you try not to get lost in it as you lean over her thigh to your nightstand. Except when she kisses your shoulder blade and her hand squeezes your hip where it meets your thigh, a strangled, low moan pushes past your lips, feeling it tight between your legs. “You are so sensitive today,” she breathes, in awe. 

“Embarrassing, actually,” you groan, and she tangles a hand in your hair and pulls you gently back against her. 

“You could never be. Not to me.” And she kisses you softly, your neck craning as her hand slides back under your arm to rest against your stomach. You can feel her words repairing something small and buried in you, and if she doesn’t start touching you again you will cry this time. So, you place the vibrator in her bloodied hand, and she turns it on the lowest setting without breaking eye contact with you. 

“I love you,” you whisper, and Baran’s lips flicker, her eyes softening even further until they’re just pools of sappy brown. The vibrator settles over your clit, and your eyes flutter, and Baran doesn’t blink. 

“I love you.” They’re barely words she says them so softly, but the devotion in them is loud, and her jaw is slack as she watches you melt into the feeling of the toy. 

“I really don’t think I can cum again,” you say after a long quiet moment. 

“Who says I’m trying to make you cum?” she asks, nipping at your ear, her palm sliding up to rest between your breasts.

“Is this reverse psychology?” Baran laughs deeply, and you feel it against your back. 

“No, sweetheart,” she giggles, “but I should try that some time. I have a feeling it would work on you.” 

There are undercurrents to Baran’s sultry words that make heat rise to your cheeks and blossom between your legs. She dials the vibrator up a notch, and your breath catches. 

“Then what are you doing?” Of course, it feels good, and the blood between your legs is a fine lubricant for a toy, the remaining arousal even better. But if it’s not leading to an orgasm, you’re unsure of its purpose. 

“Making you feel better,” she says easily, her hand sliding higher up to rest against your throat, her pointer finger on your jaw. You sigh, leaning your head back on her shoulder. “How’s the pain?” You check in with your body. 

“When you’re touching me, it’s gone.” 

“See? Told you I could make it better, azizam.” 

“You’re not doing much of anything right now,” you tease, and her hand tightens just slightly around your throat. 

“My fingers were cramping. Needed a sub in,” she teases, nipping your ear, and you laugh, throat bobbing against her hand. 

“So, what’s the plan for the next four days? Will you be under my desk?” 

“I’ll be wherever you are. Always,” she says, her breath against your skin, and you shiver, your eyes fluttering closed, hips rising to meet the vibrator. Baran presses her fingers to your jaw, turning your head to kiss you, deep and slow. She loves having her tongue in your mouth, like she’s trying to lap at the essence of you, root it out and swallow it. 

Baran circles the vibrator around you, and you hear your arousal on it, clicking and sucking. 

“Feels good,” you sigh, moving with the toy, but it’s still not quite enough, too harsh on your raw, sensitive clit. Baran senses it and slides her hand down from your throat to rest low against your belly. “Oh, fuck, yes,” you moan suddenly as her palm presses in. 

“Don’t chase it,” she instructs, low and careful against you, and you think this has to be reverse psychology because the only thing you want to do is buck into her hand. But you listen, forcing your hips to still as Baran finds a steady, even rhythm with the toy. “There you go. Just like that.” 

It pulls a long, low moan out of you, and then Baran’s pressing her palm deep into you, circling slowly, pressure and release, over and over. She drags her lips across your neck, and it sends sparks through you. The noises she’s pulling from you are loud and gasping and entirely obscene, your breath coming out uneven and heavy. 

“Baran, baby, god, fuck yes. That’s good,” you moan, and her name keeps tumbling from you as your orgasm crashes through you. It’s deep and rippling, and you’re squirming against her, your legs stuttering closed. Baran forces them open and drives you deeper down into it, whispering in your ear. 

“You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart. Keep going, you can do it. Just a little more. Yes, like that. Good girl. You are so gorgeous. Yes, eshgham, good.” 

“Fuck, Baran, I can’t. I can’t,” you cry, pulling her wrist away from you. You’re gasping, tears stinging your eyes, and she wraps her left arm tight around your middle and holds you close. The vibrator buzzes off, and her other arm holds your thigh, grounding as she peppers your neck and shoulders with kisses. 

You’re twitching, shaking, limp in her arms, and so overstimulated. 

“Are you okay, my love?” she asks, craning her neck to try and see your face. She usually loves watching you cum. Your head falls back, and she immediately kisses every inch of your face she can reach. No feels too alarming to say, but yes isn’t fully accurate either. 

“That was intense,” you gasp, feeling a little dizzy from the rapid shallow way you’d been breathing. 

“And you did so well,” she says into your cheek, her arm tightening around you. Your eyes close, and you focus on the steady rise and fall of Baran’s chest against you, her — much needed — firm grip on you, her lips as they kiss and soothe. 

“I think you fucked my cramps into submission,” you mumble, and Baran laughs against you. You turn your head and kiss her, soft and needy, her still grinning against you. 

“Let’s go shower,” she says quietly, tapping your thigh with her hand, skin shining red. “Then I’ll go down on you.” 

You laugh loudly, but you don’t turn her down quite yet. Still, your inner thighs are raw, everything between your legs so sensitive you can barely walk, and Baran wants to pull more from you, suck you completely, maddeningly dry. In the shower, after the drain stops swirling pink, you make Baran cum twice on your fingers — easy and quick and loud. Halfway there before you even touched her. And a third time against the wall before she lays you down and her face dips between your legs. 

[checkyourasianbias]

CYAB Redesign & Recreate Challenge

Inspired by @creatingblackcharacters' DTYIS (absolutely amazing blog overall with very thorough research/information/references, and one of our main blog inspirations) along with this ask!

What to Include

Specify whether it is a Redesign or a Recreation

Character Artwork. You can decide how detailed you want to be and what medium you use

A small blurb (or longer if you're a fellow yapper) talking about what changes you made or the new story you created for the character, and why you made those choices

Tag @checkyourasianbias and add #cyab redesign challenge to the tags in your post!

Rules

NO AI. We won't tolerate any excuses for AI in art, we know you can do better than that. If you feel like this is a concern, we suggest adding a timelapse of you working on the piece if that eases your concern (yes unfortunately this is the era we live in)

Yes, Non-Asian artists are allowed to participate. However, this means it is on you to put effort into researching your Asian character's background, culture, and what stereotypes/tropes to avoid. This also means you should be open to any potential criticism we may have. You are totally free to send us asks if you have any questions or concerns!

You can do one (redesign or recreation) or even both! The "Redesign" aspect is pretty self-explanatory, but you would be redesigning the character we chose for that round. The "Recreation" would be coming up with your own Asian OC for that piece of media that could seamlessly blend in as a canon character alongside the original one. This doesn't negate the presence of the original Asian character that is the focus of the redesign, we don't promote the erasure of Asian characters

If you're doing a Redesign specifically, make sure that the parallels between your redesign and the original character are clear. It should be obvious who the character you are redesigning is. If you wanted to make a completely different character, the Recreate option is there 😭

If you are sending in suggestions for Asian characters, please add #cyab redesign challenge [suggestion] at the top of your ask!

[white-reader-detected]

There's something egregiously stupid about fanfic writers proclaiming themselves as the GF/Wife/Mistress of a Black character, and then writing their self-insert Reader characters with pink lips, pink pussies, and pink nipples.

[checkyourasianbias]

Welcome! Our goal is to educate as many people on possible about everything Asian, whether that be on how to create or analyze an Asian character, or to re-examine worldviews surrounding Asians. Be respectful in the askbox and remember that Asia includes ALL Asians. Inspired by @isuggestlandback and @creatingblackcharacters. Please go check them out.

📝Lessons 📝

If you're seeing this through a reblog, you can check the original post to see when I update this list!

Lesson 1: Cross-Racial Solidarity And Asians As The "Model Minority"

Mini Lesson: Very General Tips To Writing Asians

Mini Lesson: Can Non-Asians Wear Traditional Asian Cultural Clothing?

Mini Lesson: Racial Infantilism

Mini Lesson: Nuances of the Asian Parent Stereotype

Terminology Rant: "POC" and Incorrect Usage

Not Ours: Sinophobia & Orientalism Masterlist by @this-is-sinophobia-orientalism

Not Ours: Femboys, Ladyboys, Fetishising Asian Culture & Whitewashing by @knightfaetality

Not Ours: Avoiding Orientalist Language While Writing MENA Characters in Historical Setting by @writingwithcolor

CYAB Redesign & Recreate Challenge Rules

CYAB Playlist

FQA under cut

Disclaimer: We are not the voice for all Asians in the world! We are just two people!! Also racism against Asians is called orientalism. Now you know!

Do I count as Asian? We can't answer that for you, we don't know you. Here's a list of Asian countries though.

What are your 'credentials'? Only answering here so I don't get asked more invasively in the future. I am Taiwanese American with a lifetime's experience of being Asian. I have lived in Japan for two years. Despite my knowledge being East Asian-heavy, this remains a blog for all Asians, and our research and blog content will reflect that. As for Mod Mira, she is (South) Indian American and was raised across the states, so her experiences and knowledge are more tied to the South Asian/Desi diaspora.

Can we tag this blog in posts? Of course! If you have any posts that are relevant or interesting and would like us to reblog, please feel free to tag us!

Do you have a Ko-Fi or Paypal I could donate to? I do not, but I reblog fundraisers for Asians and people of color frequently. Please donate to them.

Note about Sending/Submitting Asks: You don’t have to be shy about sending in asks, that’s why we have anon mode on! However, we do expect common courtesy and basic human decency when having discussions. Being impolite or overtly passive aggressive to us (this is specified because people’s tones can naturally vary) or potentially to others won’t be tolerated. We are not your proxy for disagreements you may have with other people here either. This doesn’t mean you can’t have criticism, that is totally valid! Differing opinions makes for more productive conversation, but don’t treat us differently than how you would people in real life (following the golden rule of treating others the way you’d want to be treated). And finally, remember to capitalize proper nouns such as Asians, specific Asian ethnic groups, etc. when you send in asks, otherwise they will be deleted.

[occidentalist]

I learned a very long time ago that I could post in English on the Anglo internet about my experience as a sexual minority in the #middleeastandnorthafrica region. I could vent about every slight or slur, every indiscretion, all the doors that might not have closed in my face had I not been who I am. But that all it would do is earn me a seat at a table half the world away, a seat that I would lose the second I said “but my people are still human. But we are Arab women before we are queer women. But we are muslim before we are trans women. But we are imperialised subjects of the periphery before we are bisexuals. But we are ‘combat-aged males’ before we are gay men and boys.” A seat that I could only keep if I show a willingness to betray my people. And I will not. I do not want it. The price is too steep and the value too low.

I have come to know now that this western voraciousness for our stories was never an impulse born out of empathy; it has always been little more than a gathering of intel, of reasons to hate us and to justify the destruction of our bodies and the pillaging of our lands and the looting of our resources. So I no longer see the utility in being one more primary source for the proverbial NYT opinion editorial manufacturing consent for the latest campaign of imperial slaughter in my backyard on account of our inherent backwardness.

[creatingblackcharacters]

“The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth” - Violence, Violent Imagery & Black Horror

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of death, violence, blood, hate crimes, antiblackness, police violence, rape

Note! I am going to be speaking from a Black American point of view, as my identity informs my experience. That said, antiblackness itself is international. The idea of my Blackness as a threat, as a source of fear and violence to repress and to destroy, is something every Black person in the world that has ever dealt with white supremacy has experienced.

There are two things, I think, that are important to note as we start this conversation.

One: there is a long history of violence towards Black bodies that is due to our dehumanization. People do not care for the killing of a mouse in the way they care about a human. But if you think the people you are dealing with are not people, but animals- more particularly, pests, something distasteful- then you will be able to rationalize treating them as such.

Two: even though we live in a time period where that overt belief of Blackness as inhuman is less likely, we must recognize that there are centuries of belief behind this concept; centuries of arguments and actions that cement in our minds that a certain amount of violence towards Blackness is normal. That subconscious belief you may hold is steeped in centuries of effort to convince you of it without even questioning it. And because of this very real re-enforcement of desensitization, naturally another place this will manifest itself is in how we tell and comprehend stories.

There are also three points I'm about to make first- not the only three that can ever be made, but the ones that stand out the most to me when we talk about violence with Black characters:

One: Your Black readers may experience that scene you wrote differently than you meant anyone to, just because our history may change our perspective on what’s happening.

Two: The idea that Black characters and people deserve the pain they are experiencing.

Three: The disbelief or dismissal of the pain of Black characters and people.

You Better Start Believing In Ghost Stories- You’re In One

I don’t need to tell Black viewers scary fairytales of sadists, body snatchers and noncoincidental disappearances, cannibals, monsters appearing in the night, and dystopian, unjust systems that bury people alive- real life suffices! We recognize the symbolism because we’ve seen real demons.

Some real examples of familiar, terrifying stories that feel like drama, but are real experiences:

12 Years a Slave: “This is no fiction, no exaggeration. If I have failed in anything, it has been in presenting to the reader too prominently the bright side of the picture. I doubt not hundreds have been as unfortunate as myself; that hundreds of free citizens have been kidnapped and sold into slavery, and are at this moment wearing out their lives on plantations in Texas and Louisiana.” – Solomon Northup

When They See Us: I can’t get myself to watch When They See Us, because I learned about the actual trial of the Central Park Five- now the Exonerated Five- in my undergrad program. Five teen Black and brown boys, subjected to racist and cruel policing and vilification in the media- from Donald Trump calling for their deaths in the newspaper, to being imprisoned under what the Clintons deemed a generation of “superpredators” during a “tough on crime” administration. And as audacious as it is to say, as Solomon Northup explained, they were fortunate. The average Black person funneled into the prison system doesn’t get the opportunity to make it back out redeemed or exonerated, because the system is designed to capture and keep them there regardless of their innocence or guilt. Their lives are irreparably changed; they are forever trapped.

Jasper, Texas: Learning about the vicious, gruesome murder of James Byrd Jr, was horrific- and that was just the movie. No matter how “community comes together” everyone tells that story, the reality is that there are people who will beat you, drag you chained down a gravel road for three miles as your body shreds away until you are decapitated, and leave your mangled body in front of a Black church to send a message… Because you’re Black and they hate you. To date I am scared when I’m walking and I see trucks passing me, and don’t let them have the American or the Confederate flag on them. Even Ahmaud Arbery, all he was doing was jogging in his hometown, and white men from out of town decided he should be murdered for that.

Do you want to know what all of these men and boys, from 1841 to 2020, had in common? What they did to warrant what happened to them? Being outside while Black. Some might call it “wrong place wrong time”, but the reality is that there is no “right place”. Sonya Massey, Breonna Taylor- murdered inside their home. Where else can you be, if the danger has every right to barge inside? There is no “safe”.

It is already Frightening to live while Black- not because being Black is inherently frightening, but because our society has made it horrific to do so. But that leads into my next point:

“They Shouldn’t Have Resisted”

Think of all the videos of assaulted and murdered Black people from police violence. If you can stomach going into the comments- which I don’t, anymore- you’ll see this classic comment of hate in the thousands, twisting your stomach into knots:

“if they obeyed the officer, if they didn’t resist, this wouldn’t have happened”

Another way our punitive society normalizes itself is via the idea of respectability politics; the idea that “if you are Good, if you do what you are Supposed to do, you will not be hurt- I will not have to hurt you”. Therefore, if my people are always suffering violence, it must be because we are Bad. And in a society that is already less gracious to Black people, that is more likely to think we are less human, that we are innately bad and must earn the right to be exceptional… the use of excessive violence towards me must be the natural outcome. “If your people weren’t more likely to be criminals, there wouldn’t be the need to be suspicious of you”- that is the way our society has taught us to frame these interactions, placing the blame for our own victimization on us.

Sidebar: I would highly suggest reading The New Jim Crow, written in 2010 by Michelle Alexander, to see how this mentality helps tie into large scale criminalization and mass incarceration, and how the cycle is purposely perpetuated.

You have to constantly be aware of how you look, walk and talk- and even then, that won’t be enough to save you if the time comes. The turning point for me, personally, was the murder of Sandra Bland. If she could be educated, beautiful, a beacon of her community, be everything a “Good” Black person is supposed to be… and still be murdered via police violence, they can kill any of us. And that’s a very terrifying thought- that anything at any point can be the reason for your death, and it will be validated because someone thinks you shouldn’t have “been that way”. And that way has far less to do with what you did, than it does who you are. Being “that way” is Black.

My point is, if this belief is so normalized in real life about violence on Black bodies- that somehow, we must have done something to deserve this- what makes you think that this belief does not affect how you comprehend Black people suffering in stories?

Hippocratic Oath

Human experimentation? Vivisection? Organ stealing? Begging for medicine? Dramatically bleeding out? Not trusting just anyone to see that you are hurt, because they might take advantage? All very real fears. The idea that pain is normal for Black people is especially rampant in the healthcare field, where ideas like our melanin making our skin thick enough to feel less pain (no), an overblown fear of ‘drug misuse’, and believing we are overexaggerating our pain makes many Black people being unwilling to trust the healthcare system. And it comes down to this thought:

If you think that I feel less pain, you will allow me to suffer long before you believe that I am in pain.

I was psychologically spiraling I was in so much pain after my wisdom teeth removal, and my surgeon was more concerned about “addiction to the medication”. Only because Hot Chocolate’s mom is a nurse, did I get an effective medicine schedule. My mother ended up with jaw rot because her surgeon outright claimed that she didn’t believe that she was in more than the ‘healing’ pain after her wisdom teeth were removed. She also has a gigantic, macabre (and awesome fr) scar on her stomach from a c-section she received after four days of labor attempting to have me… all because she was too poor and too Black to afford better doctors who wouldn’t have dismissed her struggles to push.

As a major example of dismissed Black pain: let’s discuss the mortality rate of Black women during childbirth, as well as the likelihood of our children to die. When we say “they will let you bleed to death”, we mean it.

“Black women have the highest maternal mortality rate in the United States — 69.9 per 100,000 live births for 2021, almost three times the rate for white women, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Black babies are more likely to die, and also far more likely to be born prematurely, setting the stage for health issues that could follow them through their lives.”

Even gynecology roots in dismissal (and taking brutal advantage of) Black women's pain:

“The history of this particular medical branch … it begins on a slave farm in Alabama,” Owens said. “The advancement of obstetrics and gynecology had such an intimate relationship with slavery, and was literally built on the wounds of Black women.” Reproductive surgeries that were experimental at the time, like cesarean sections, were commonly performed on enslaved Black women. Physicians like the once-heralded J. Marion Sims, an Alabama doctor many call the “father of gynecology,” performed torturous surgical experiments on enslaved Black women in the 1840s without anesthesia. And well after the abolition of slavery, hospitals performed unnecessary hysterectomies on Black women, and eugenics programs sterilized them.”

If you think Black characters are not in pain, or that they’re overexaggerating, you’re more likely to be okay with them suffering more in comparison to those whose pain you take more seriously- to those you believe.

What’s My Point?

My point is that whatever terrifying scene you think you’re writing, whatever violent whump scenario you think you’re about to put your Black characters through, there’s a chance it has probably happened and was treated as nonimportant (damn shame, right?) And when those terrifying scenes are both written and read, the way their suffering will be felt depends on how much you as a reader care, how much you believe they are suffering.

There’s a joke amongst readers of color that many dystopian tales are tales of “what happened if white people experienced things that the rest of us have already been put through?” Think concepts like alien invasion and mass eradication of the existing population- you may think of that as an action flick, meanwhile peoples globally have suffered colonization for centuries. The Handmaid’s Tale- forced birthing and raising of “someone else’s” children, always subject to sexual harassment by the Master while subject to hate from the Mistress- that’s just being a Mammy.

There’s nothing wrong with having Black characters be violent or deal with violence, especially in a story where every character is going through shit. That is not the problem! What I am trying to tell you, though, is to be aware that certain violent imagery is going to evoke familiarity in Black viewers. And if I as a Black viewer see my very real traumas treated as entertainment fodder- or worse, dismissed- by the narrative and other viewers, I will probably not want to consume that piece of media anymore. I will also question the intentions and the beliefs of the people who treat said traumas so callously. Now, if that’s not something you care about, that’s on you! But for people who do care, it is something we need to make sure we are catching before we do it.

“So I just can’t write anything?!”

Stop that. There are plenty of examples of stories containing horror and violence with Black characters. There’s an entire genre of us telling our own stories, using the same violence as symbolism. I’m not telling you “no” (least not always). I’m telling you to take some consideration when you write the things that you do. There’s nothing wrong about writing your Black characters being violent or experiencing violence. But there is a difference between making it narratively relevant, and thoughtlessly using them as a “spook”, a stereotypical scary Black person, or a punching bag, especially in a way that may invoke certain trauma.

The Black Guy Dies First

The joke is that we never survive these horror movies because we either wouldn’t be there to begin with, or because we would make better decisions and the narrative can’t have that. But the reality is just that a lot of writers find Black characters- Black people- expendable in comparison to their white counterparts, and it shows. More of a “here, damn” sort of character, not worth investment and easy to shrug off. The book itself I haven’t read, just because it’s pretty new, but I’m looking forward to doing so. But from the summaries, it goes into horror media history and how Black characters have fared in these stories, as well as how that connects to the society those characters were written in. I.e., a thorough version of this lesson.

Instead, I wrote an entire list of questions you could possibly ask yourself involving violence or villainy involving a Black character. Feel free to print it and put it on your wall where you write if you have to! I cannot stress enough that asking yourself questions like these are good both for your creation and just… being less antiblack in general when you consume media.

Black Horror/Black Thriller

We, too, have turned our violent experiences into stories. I continue to highly suggest watching our films and reading our stories to see how we convey our fear, our terror, our violence and our pain. There are plenty of stories that work- Get Out, The Angry Black Girl and her Monster, Candyman, Lovecraft Country, and Nanny are some examples. There’s even a blog by the co-writer of The Black Guy Dies First who runs BlackHorrorMovies where he reviews horror movies from throughout the decades.

Desiree Evans has a great essay, We Need Black Horror More Than Ever, that gets into why this genre is so creative and effective, that I think says what I have to say better than I could.

“Even before Peele, Black horror had a rich literary lineage going back to the folklore of Africa and its Diaspora. Stories of haints, witches, curses, and magic of all kinds can be found in the folktales collected by author and anthropologist Zora Neale Hurston and in the folktales retold by acclaimed children’s book author Virginia Hamilton. One of my earliest childhood literary memories is being entranced by Hamilton’s The House of Dies Drear and Patricia McKissack’s children’s book classic The Dark-Thirty: Southern Tales of the Supernatural, both examples of the ways Black authors have tapped into Black history along with our rich ghostlore.” “Black horror can be clever and subversive, allowing Black writers to move against racist tropes, to reconfigure who stands at the center of a story, and to shift the focus from the dominant narrative to that which is hidden, submerged. To ask: what happens when the group that was Othered, gets to tell their side of the story?”

For on the nose simplicity, I’m going to use hood classic Tales From The Hood (1994) as an example of how violence can be integrated into Black horror tales. Tales From The Hood is like… The Twilight Zone by Black people. Messages discussing issues in our community, done through a mystical twist. Free on Tubi! If you want to stop here before some spoilers, it’s an hour and a half. A great time!

In the first story, a Black political activist is murdered by the cops. The scene is reflective of the real-world efforts to discredit and even murder activists speaking out against police violence, as well as the types of things done to criminalize Black citizens for capture. The song Strange Fruit plays in the background, to drive the point home that this is a lynching.

The second story deals with a Black little boy experiencing abuse in the home, drawing a green monster to show his teacher why he’s covered in wounds and is lashing out at school.

The fourth story is about a gangbanger who undergoes “behavioral modification” to be released from prison early. Think of the classic scene from A Clockwork Orange. He must watch as imagery of the Klan and of happy whites lynching Black bodies (real-life pictures and video, mind you!) play into his mind alongside gang violence.

Isn’t Violence Stereotypical or antiblack?

That last story from Tales From The Hood leads into a good point. It can be! But it does not have to be! Violence is a human experience. By suggesting we don’t experience it or commit it, you would be denying everything I’ve just spoken about. We don’t have to be racist to write our Black characters in violent situations. We also don’t have to comprehend those situations through a racist lens.

Even experiences that seem “stereotypical” do not have to be comprehended that way. I get a LOT of questions about if something is stereotypical, and my response is always that it depends on the writing!!! You could give me a harmless prompt and it becomes the most racist story ever once you leave my inbox. But you could give me a “stereotypical” prompt and it be genuine writing.

Let’s take the movie Juice for example. Juice in my honest to God opinion becomes a thriller about halfway in. On its surface, Juice looks like bad Black boys shooting and cursing and doing things they aren’t supposed to be doing! Incredibly stereotypical- violent young thugs. You might think, “you shouldn’t write something like this- you’re telling everyone this is what your community is like”. First- there’s that respectability politics again! Just because something is not a “respectable” story does not mean it doesn’t need to be told!

But if we’re actually paying attention, what we’re looking at is four young boys dealing with their environment in different ways. All four of them originally stick together to feel power amongst their brotherhood as they all act tough and discover their own identities. They are not perfect, but they are still kids. In this environment, to be tough, to be strong, you do the things that they are doing. You run from cops, you steal from stores, you mess with all the girls and talk shit and wave weapons. That’s what makes you “big”. That’s what gives you the “juice”- and the “juice” can make you untouchable.

I want to focus particularly on Bishop, yes, played by Tupac. Bishop, the antagonist of Juice, is particularly powerless, angry, and scared of the world around him. He puts on a big front of bravado, yelling, cursing, and talking big because he’s tired of being afraid, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it otherwise. So when he gets access to a gun- to power- he quickly spirals out of control. His response to his fear is to wave around a tool that makes him feel stronger, that stops the things that scare him from scaring him.

Now, that is not a unique tale! That is a tale that any race could write about, particularly young white men with gun violence! If you ever cared for Fairuza Balk’s character in The Craft, it is a similar fall from grace. But because it is on a young, Black man in the hood, audiences are less likely to empathize with Bishop. And granted, Bishop is unhinged! But many a white character has been, and is not shoved into a stereotype that white people cannot escape from!

Now would I be comfortable if a nonblack person attempted to write a narrative like Juice? Yes, because I’d worry about the tendency to lose the messaging and just fall into stereotype outright. But it can be done! The story can be told!

“But if Black violence bad, why rap?”

The short answer:

“In order for me to write poetry that isn’t political, I must listen to the birds, and in order to hear the birds, the warplanes must be silent.”

Marwhan Makhoul, Palestinian Poet

First, rap is not “only violence and misogyny”. Step your understanding of the genre up; there are plenty of options outside of the mainstream that don’t discuss those things. Second, every genre of music has mainstream popular songs about vice and sin. The idea that Black rappers have to be held to a higher standard is yet another example of how we are seen as inherently bad and must prove ourselves good. We could speak about nothing but drugs and alcohol and 1) there would still be white artists who do the very same and 2) we would still deserve to be treated like humans.

That said, many- not all- rappers rap about violence for the same reason Billy Joel wrote We Didn’t Start the Fire, the same reason Homer first spoke The Iliad- because they have something to say about it! They stand in a long tradition of people using poetry and rhythm to tell stories. Rap is an art of storytelling!

Rap is often used as an expression of frustration and righteous anger against a system built to keep us trapped within it. I’m not allowed to be angry? Why wouldn’t I be angry? Anger is a protective emotion, often when one feels helpless. Young Black people also began to reclaim and glorify the violence they lived in within their music, to take pride in their survival and in their success in a world that otherwise wanted them to fail. If I think the world fights against me no matter what I do, I’d rather live in pride than in shame with a bent head. Is it right? Maybe, maybe not. But if you don’t want them to rap about violence, why not alleviate the things leading to the violence in their environment?

Whether you choose to listen to their words, because the delivery scares you- and trust, angry Black men scared the music industry and society- doesn’t make the story any less valid!

Conclusion

I am going to drop a classic by Slick Rick called Children’s Story. I think listening to it- and I mean genuinely listening- summarizes what I’ve said here about how Black creators can tell stories, even violent ones, and how even the delivery through Blackness can change how you perceive them. Please take the time to listen before continuing.

I’ve been alive for 28 years and have known this song my whole life, and it just hit me tonight: not once is the kid in this story identified as Black! My perception of this story was completely altered by my own experiences, who told the story, and how it was told.

That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You can tell stories of violence that involve Black characters. I love and adore a good hurt/comfort myself! But you need to be cognizant of your audience and how they’ll perceive the story you’re telling, and that includes the types of imagery you include. It’s not effective catharsis via hurt/comfort for the audience if your Black readers are being completely left out of the comfort. “I wrote this for myself” that’s cool, but… if you wrote racism for yourself, and you’re willing to admit that to yourself, that’s on you. I’d like to think that’s not your intention! You can write these stories of woe and pain without mistreating your Black characters- but that requires knowing and acknowledging when and how you’re doing that!

@afropiscesism makes a solid point in this post: our horror stories are not just fairytales full of amorphous boogiemen meant to teach lessons. Racial violence is very real, very alive, and we cannot act like the things we write can be dismissed outright as “oh well it’s not real”. Sure, those characters aren’t real. But the way you feel about Black bodies and violence is, and often it can slip into your writing as a pattern without you even realizing it. Be willing to get uncomfortable and check yourself on this as you write, as well as noticing it in other works!

If you’re constantly thinking “I would never do this”, you’ll never stop yourself when you inevitably do! If you know what violent imagery can be evoked, you can utilize it or avoid it altogether- but only if you’re willing to get honest about it. You might not intend to do any of this, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t change the pattern, because as always, it’s the thought that counts, but the action that delivers!

[bxbybluelove-x]

lipgloss stains, l.hs

pairing: idol!heeseung x idol!reader

wc: 1.6k | smut (mdni) ⤷ established relationship, both reader and heeseung are in enhypen, sub!reader, oral (male receiving), petnames, fingers in mouth, cumming on reader’s face, gagging

To say Heeseung liked your lipgloss was an understatement.

He loved your lipgloss.

Your pretty pink kiko gloss that he had bought for your most recent birthday, after you had complained of losing your last one. There was something in the way you applied it mid-conversation like it didn’t just erase all thoughts from his head as his eyes zeroed in on your plump lips.

Which is basically what’s happening right now. Well, almost.

You’re sat in your makeup chair, doing the finishing touches with a staff member before the concert begins.

 He watches as she spreads the thin layer of gloss over your lower lip and you open your mouth slightly to help her. As you catch his gaze in the mirror, you smirk slightly. Busted.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jake interrupts.

Heeseung clears his throat and turns to Jake who was rambling about a particularly hard choreography move.

“Sorry, what?”

Jake’s voice fades in the background though as his gaze returns to you, tilting your head slightly, pretending you’re confused as to why he’s staring at you.

He bites his lower lip in frustration and you get what he needs.

He must’ve been a saint in his past life.

That’s the only explanation as to why you barely said anything when you walked into his hotel room and immediately kneeled down, pushing his sweatpants down.

Now, he’s watching you smear your lipgloss all over his boxers as you lick and suck at his boner under the thin layer of fabric.

“F-fuck y/n” he groans as he runs his fingers through your hair, still damp from the post-concert shower.

The thought of you rushing over without even drying your hair just to suck his cock sends a rush of satisfaction and desire through him and his hips instinctively thrust forward.

You just look happier to feel him stuffing your face with his cock.

He gently holds your head still so he can properly rub his clothed erection against your cheek.

You look up at him and you’re exactly where you wanna be.

You don’t really know when this sort of oral fixation? started but you knew nothing made you happier than making your boyfriend feel good and having your mouth full of his cock.

You even fantasized about it sometimes, like if he sat next to you on the plane with his grey sweats you would imagine stuffing your face with his dick.

Soon after, you tug on his boxers with that pouty frown you know he loves.

He nods and you pull them down, already feeling your mouth water at the sight of his cock bouncing out. He holds you by your hair before you can do anything else, eyes zeroing in on your puffy pink lips and your flushed cheeks.

“Say please.” he looks at you.

You let out a soft whine, offended by how easily he teases you.

“Cmon baby” he gently slaps your dick on your cheek, spreading some precum on it and your lips.

He has no idea how he’s maintaining control when all he wants to do is stick his dick in your mouth.

“Please”  you try to push your head forward but his grip on your hair is firm.

He smirks down at you, you’re so cute like this.

He gently guides your head to the tip and watches as you open your mouth.

“There. Follow my pace.” he groans as he pushes the tip in so you can suck on it.

He definitely overestimates himself as he feels your tongue glide under the tip and his hips buck forward.

“Fuck–okay” he grunts.

You just smile and he starts gently thrusting in your mouth.

“There you go-fuck-so good for me.” you take him deeper and he looks down, seeing the way your glittery lips envelope his cock.

He lets out something that can only be described as a whimper, making a gush of wetness pool in your panties.

You look up at him and he shudders as he meets your gaze.

He tugs on your hair, trying to keep some kind of control and not buck into your mouth wildly.

But you have other plans as you lean forward, nails digging into his legs so you can take him deeper.

“Fuck- don’t hurt yourself angel.”

The best thing about your relationship is the reciprocation. 

Sure, you’re on your knees now but he’s there, holding your head and guiding you through it.

And he already knows that soon he’ll be in between your legs licking up all that slick that you’re currently rubbing between your thighs.

He’s firmly guiding your head as he lets out grunts and swear words, but you want more. So you bring your hand up to wrap it around the portion of his dick that your mouth isn’t covering. 

He grabs your wrist.

“Did I tell you you could use your hands?” 

Your brows furrow and you pull off, feeling that familiar burn in your throat from his dick but also  from the frustration. You cross your arms, slightly embarrassed from his reprehension.

“Don’t get offended, doll.” he knows you too well.

“I didn’t know I needed your permission.” your voice comes out a little raspy, but still with that sharp tone that makes his jaw tighten.

“Really, you didn’t know?” his tone is condescending, he’s mocking you.

“Or you just didn’t care?” you feel your cheeks heat up as you look up at him so you turn away.

He sighs and turns your head back to him.

“Baby, don’t be stubborn. C’mon.” he bites back a smirk as he strokes his cock right in front of your face, knowing you hate that.

“I hate you.” you don’t take your eyes off the sight of his dick spilling precum onto his hand.

“No you don’t” he smiles and guides the tip past your lips again.

You immediately feel the salty taste in your mouth and put your hands back on his legs for stability.

“Bet you’re so–fuck--wet right now, mh?” 

You whine, the vibration making his grasp on your hair tighten.

“Wanna- show me?” he grunts.

You freeze at his words and he nods, encouraging you. 

You pull off and hesitantly dip your hand past your panties, your fingers quickly finding the slick dripping out of you. You moan softly as you touch yourself and his dick twitches in front of you. 

Without breaking eye contact he watches as you pathetically grind your hips against your hand.

“Not yet.” he pulls your lower lip down with his thumb.

“C’mon show me.” 

You look so cute in his eyes right now, obeying his every order. 

You pull your fingers out and show him the wetness between them.

Then you decide to spread it over his cock and actually hear him moan.

That breaks something in him.

His hips buck forward and you think you’ve done something wrong for a second with the velocity in which he grabs your hair.

“O-open your mouth y/n-” you do it and he tries to hold back. He hates hurting you, but all he can think of is how innocently you were looking up at him with those big eyes as you spread your wetness all over his cock.

His head falls back as he pushes his dick past your lips and deep into your mouth, so much that he can feel your nails dig into the back of his thighs and your throat tighten.

“Fuck–oh god–baby please, you’re–so fucking good” are the words that come out of his mouth, amongst moans that you’ve rarely heard from him.

He sets a stable pace as he holds you still, cupping the back of your head.

You whine as you feel overwhelmed by how full your mouth is but still go deeper until you feel him in your throat.

He groans loudly and bucks his hips forward, making you gag.

He pulls out and his hand flies to his cock, gliding up and down as he looks down at you.

You have a mix of precum and your drool dripping down your chin and the corners of your mouth.

But the thing that gets him is the glittery shine on your soft lips, that are half open like they’re waiting for his cock again.

“Fffuck angel- so fucking perfect–” he groans as his cum spills all over your pinky cheeks and lips. You look up at him in awe, watching how he continues stroking his cock as his eyebrows furrow and his mouth falls open in pleasure.

When his dick twitches weakly with the aftershocks, you open your mouth to suck the tip clean.

He whines pathetically and puts his hand on your shoulder. “No- no, baby too much.” 

You swirl your tongue on the tip one last time, making him whimper and pull off.

He catches his breath as he looks down at you and runs his hand through your hair, making you smile proudly.

He holds his hand out, helping you get up.

“C’mere baby,” he cups your face and kisses you softly.

“You did so good.” 

You smile and lick your lips, tasting his cum.

“Kinda made a mess, hm?” he murmurs as he rubs his thumb through some cum on your face, just to stick it in your mouth and make you suck it.

“Just can’t hold back when you look at me like that,” he puts his hands on your waist to pull you closer.

“So fuckin’ pretty.” he murmurs against your neck.

You grin as you wrap your arms around him.

“Wanna feel good too now, hm?” you nod, slightly desperate.

“Lay back then doll”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

another drabble from this couple here!

i've been taking a long time writing guyss im srry but more stuff is in the works i promise

(don't hesitate to write asks or send feedback!!)

(i promise i'll make a masterlist soon)

[calugaritsa]

People are so harsh on Black cinema, in this really bizarre way. It's almost like they're unnerved by all the casual Blackness they're seeing in these films, but they don't realize it or care to unpack why — so they hyperfocus on the TINIEST details at the expense of more relevant shit like plot or themes, OR they have these wild, reaching complaints that make zero sense to anyone who like. Watched the film normally. Because TELL ME how I just saw someone saying they wished I Love Boosters "had more fashion" in it. Like really. I Love Boosters. The film about fashion designers stealing clothes and making clothes and selling clothes and pulling heists at fashion shows and clothes stores? The film where they have different outfits in each new scene? That I Love Boosters?? THAT'S the movie that didn't have enough fucking fashion for you??!

[scionsword]

psst if youre unsure of a character's skin tone, id rather you overestimate how much melanin they have than underestimate

[carmahnart]

Hey y’all I have an announcement! My web app that I’ve been working on, Afro Index, is now live! It’s a visual reference library of Black hairstyles, for artist, animators, writers, and anyone who wants to learn more about them!

Check it out at afroindex.org! 💛✨

Afro Index – Black Hairstyle Reference Library

A reference library for Black hairstyles with accurate naming, structured filtering, and curated reference images.

[carmahnart]

Hi all, a donation page has been added to the Afro Index! If you’d like to support the project’s growth, head over to learn more! Thank you everyone for your support so far 🫶🏾 Also, suggested styles are being added to the update list and will be added to the site in the coming days/weeks!

[freak-phone]

I get asked a lot for tips with coloring black people, so i put together a little tutorial! (and bumps my kofi if you found this helpful)

[creatingblackcharacters]

just from a quick google search, I found several links for sensitivity readers! As a writer, I think sensitivity readers are more crucial for getting representation right than beta readers, since sensitivity readers are professional editors while beta readers can be Literally Anyone You Ask. So, here's a few links!

https://www.writingdiversely.com/sensitivity-reading

https://editorsofcolor.com/database/

https://fireflycreativewriting.com/sensitivity-readers

https://www.inclusiveminds.com

I can't guarantee every site will work for everyone, as the editorial process is different for every author, and I tend to write fanfiction no beta style, but these look like good starting places.

If you want beta readers, you should ask people who you trust to be upfront and honest with you about their critiques. If you can't think of anyone, find a new circle and/or reach out to more people (not random tumblr users. tumblr users are usually not reliable. go to writing communities and really any supportive-but-critical communities for beta readers).

Beyond that, if you can't find a few sensitivity readers you like, either you have bias to assess or you need to ask other authors. Writing isn't a career you can do alone! Get help from other writers, readers, and editors. Don't be afraid to just ask around!

Always remember that asking questions with intention to learn is better than staying silent and remaining ignorant.

OY! LINKS TO SENSITIVITY READERS!!

Inclusive Minds is a collective for people who are passionate about inclusion, diversity, equality and accessibility in children's literatur

Book a sensitivity reader to help you navigate writing identities different from your own with authenticity and respect.

Tools for Diversifying Your Staff and Sources

My BIGGEST piece of advice, same as I say for commissioning artists: check their portfolio!! If they aren't Black, or they have not read any works involving main Black characters, I would be wary!