blank blogs, minors, ageless blogs ("18+", "MDNI" or "old" isn't good enough), harry potter blogs, thinspo blogs and bigots will be blocked. as will anyone else i feel like blocking.
feel free to spam like and spam reblog, i don't mind at all âĄ
art requests are open, though there's no guarantee I'll get to them.
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people always talk about someone getting fucked stupid but what about a top going stupid while fucking someone? their brain shuts off and they just become a horny mutt with the only goal of getting off as hard as they can, breeding their sub. incoherent whimpers and moans of pure lust and desire. just a thought
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Welp. Google's AI horseshit has arrived. And I'm not complying. They can pry my ID out of my cold dead hands. I will simply go elsewhere. Remember folks, DO NOT GIVE THEM YOUR IDs. Do not comply. Resist, fight it, use other browsers or sources beyond youtube and google controlled services. Call them. Email them. Make noise. Fight back.
I've been using Google as my main mail service since 2006, and every single account or service I've ever signed up for was made with that address. For a long time I thought it'd be impossible to divorce myself from Google.
It took less than 5 minutes to switch to a ProtonMail account, less than 2 hours to download and/or offload every byte of data from my Google account, and less than 3 days to change every single account or service I've ever signed up for to the new address.
As of today, the only single one I have that's still tied to it is YouTube. It's the only thing I'd lose access to if I deleted my Google acount entirely.
They really, really want you to believe that it's a hassle to switch to a different email system. But it's not. Most websites and/or services allow you to change the email address associated with it.
I've been using Google for almost 2 decades and it only took a few days to move everything. It's not a painful sacrifice; it's an easy change that, frankly, has absolutely been worth it.
You can and should switch to a free, encrypted Proton email account. You also get all of the below perks. For free. There is no trick. It is paid for by the people with paying plans. I am one of them. The (completely functional) free tier is there to entice you into getting a paid account with even more perks. (It worked on me.) But there's no penalty or pressure for staying with the free account.
Also get your stuff off the google drive and put it on Proton's drive. It is encrypted. Only you with your password can access it. Not even Proton can see what you put in there.
how are you gonna be 31 and posting fandom content bro leave it to the teenagers
People 10 and 20 years older than me are writing your favorite fanfics, and drawing your favorite characters. You'd have no fandom without the people you think are 'too old' to have hobbies.
This mentality is so insanely frustrating. Why do teenagers think that people have to give up their hobbies, give up fun, when they reach a certain age? Like??
When I was a teenager writing fic, I remember finding out that one of my favorite authors was in her 50s and that just was SUCH a revelation for me!! What do you mean, 50 year olds can write fanfic?!? Does that mean I can write fics when I'm her age?? That's AWESOME! I seriously looked up to her so much. And now I'm 35 with a husband and kid, and I'm still writing fanfic and posting fandom content - and I have no plans of stopping!
If you try to drive 30+ people out of fandom, you're going to lose the backbone of said fandom!
The ageism in fandom is fucking insane. Itâs strange that people seem to have the idea that fandom was created by and for teenagers⌠It was not. It was created by adults. How would we have ao3 if only teenagers were in fandom?
I donât want to sound like I am hating on younger people in fandom, but god, yâall need to stop it with the ageism. You donât have to give up what you love once youâre an adult. Honestly, the belief that you have to is pretty bad. It sounds like it would make people afraid of aging. Granted, modern society is so very afraid of aging.
Donât give up what you love just because youâre an adult. You donât have to. And donât try to force others to do it either.
Teenagers don't have the resources and skills to build something like AO3, it has to be people with degrees and money doing that, and that translates to a 30+ crowd. But teenagers especially need the protection and legal advocacy that something like AO3 offers them.
Part of the reason the then 30- and 40-somethings who built AO3 did what they did was so that someone with as few resources and as little support as the average 15-year-old fic author can safely and comfortably share their fanfic and find fic to read.
When you attack and belittle older fans for daring to be fans, you're not just being cruel to people who share your hobby and write fic you enjoy, you're attacking the very same people who make your hobby possible for you in the first place.
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Happy Pride Month everyone! Remember 4 months ago when the CEO of this platform harassed and chased a trans woman off this website just for posting her transition timeline, then chased her to other social media platforms to continue harassing her, and threatened to call the FBI if she continued disputing the multiple dubious terminations of her blogs that did not violate tumblr's terms of service in any way? And despite tumblr staff insisting that the CEO was acting against their interests, the broad transmisogyny evident in the site's culture and moderation policy has still not been adequately addressed?
Remember that staff is continuing to nuke the blogs of trans women even after all of this. Remember this post when they call this site the queerest place on the internet again this month
every time theres a puddle in your path, simon riley carries you over it.
it started on your first date, when you were wearing this pretty white maxi skirt and a pair of white heels. he's walking beside you in all black, typical.
but you get to a puddle. it's not entirely blocking your path, you could have gone around it. he grunts and picks you up, carrying you safely over the puddle. "there you go, love," he says and puts you down.
you walk everywhere after that with his hand on your back.
the rainy season has become simon riley's favourite. because he gets to pick you up and carry you past any puddle that's even a little bit out of your way.
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
Your phone is missing.
Youâve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still canât find it.
You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly canât remember.
Youâve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.
But you know you had it.
Which meansâŚ
You eye the bedroom door. You havenât surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. Youâre somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one youâre leaning more towards.
Itâs not like itâs a hardship. This is a nice place. The room youâre in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, itâs stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and thereâs every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels⌠homey.
The entire house does. Itâs not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. Itâs not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. Itâs modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.
âDo ye like it?â Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.
âI thought safe houses were supposed to be⌠sketchy.â
âAye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.â
He didnât elaborate, and you didnât push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.
These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.
Itâs torture, being here.
And worse⌠you think itâs making you sicker.
Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. Thereâs a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, itâs emptiness like a wound that wonât heal. A scrape that wonât scab.
A craving that can never be satisfied.
Itâs a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.
That you canât find.
You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you canât hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire⌠situation.
And in order to do that-
you need your phone.
Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. Heâs alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way heâs sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity youâre used to, the laser focus that never lets up.
It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.
You hear your name. Heâs standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. âWhat is it?â
Stop.
What are you doing?
âUm, IâŚâ You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. âIâm looking for my phone?â Itâs not supposed to be a question. Itâs supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.
âI have itâŚâ he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. âSit.â
âNo, Iâm fine. Iâm justâŚâ
âSit.â Itâs not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.
You practically sink into the couch. Itâs oversized, overstuffed, too soft. Itâs the kind of couch you could spend all day in when itâs rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. Thereâs a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one youâre on the now. Itâs a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.
âI have your phone.â He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like youâre basking in the sun. Itâs unbearable.
âOkay.â You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, Iâll go get it, or be right back.
He says none of those things.
âYouâll get it back once this is over and dealt with.â Your mouth drops open.
âWhat? No. I need my phone.â This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.
âYour phone is not secure. It doesnât take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. Itâs a danger to you, to us, right now.â Your pulse pounds between your ears. âYou can have it back as soon as weâve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.â
âB-but⌠my⌠I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-â
âI already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.â You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?
âNo. No, you canât just⌠you canât just take my phone.â His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.
âI can. I am. Itâs for your safety.â
You hate him.
He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.
You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.
âI want it back.â You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.
âNo.â He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while youâre practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.
âYes.â
ââm not doinâ this with you.â You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.
He moves.
It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.
Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and itâs big, warm, secure.
Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.
You lock up. Once youâre finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.
âEasy,â he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didnât know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.
But it doesnât stop there.
He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.
Subharmonics.
It almost brings you to your knees.
âEnough now,â he murmurs, guiding you in closer, âWeâre not your enemy, dove.â
Alpha.
Youâre slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.
He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.
You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.
No, that is what you mean.
You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to⌠alpha you⌠but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a sirenâs song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.
âDonât.â You whisper. Itâs more for yourself than it is for him.
Donât do this, donât be weak, donât give in.
Your protest doesnât stop him, doesnât prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough youâre overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, heâs there,
âNo.â You croak, but he doesnât stop, doesnât acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.
âSettle,â the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.
Itâs not fair.
âYou donât need to fight us,â he continues, âweâre jusâ trying to protect you.â
âI donât want this.â You choke out. âI donât want to be here, I want to go home.â Home, home, home. Youâre stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.
âThat doesnât matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.â Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isnât safe, itâs hell.
Simonâs stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.
The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.
He doesnât look upset, or jealous, or anything youâd expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.
âEverythinâ alright?â You shake your head, but Simon nods.
âShe was gettinâ a bit worked up.â You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like youâre some hysterical omega who canât control herself.
âAh. We cannae have that.â Simonâs grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.
âI wanted, I want my phone.â Johnny nods. Itâs sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.
âSorry dove. Itâs not s-â
âSafe.â You finish for him bitterly. âYeah I heard.â You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.
Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.
Itâs only once youâre curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.
Itâs late when the knock comes.
âDove?â Itâs Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.
You donât answer. He sighs.
âYe didnae come down for dinner, anâ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.â You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. âI brought ye some food, Iâll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethinâ, please.â Thereâs a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring youâre eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadnât rejected you, hadnât left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.
But you canât. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.
He knocks again.
You meet it with silence.
Finally, after minutes, he gives up and leaves, taking the wave of cardamom and black tea with him, and you slip back into oblivion, closing your eyes to escape into sleep.
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happy pride month. when ghost said "you broke a lot of rules, price" he was talking about price dragging gaz down the path of reckless and passively suicidal war crimes. this is a problem for ghost because 1) gaz is the sun he can't stand to see set and 2) price stole gaz from him after letting watching soap die and 3) ghost is the one who's life is supposed to be thrown away and if it's not then all the damage isn't #gooddamage
longing to get lost @bonbobi - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook