#I don't think I really answered anything!

[nephynes]

Hey actually i had an idea like jake or heeseung being an tattoo artist and reader getting her 2nd tattoo, but on butt/or any places that might get him turned on. starting off with normal convo but soon turned really freaky.

oou i was serious when i said i got some really good reqs 🙂‍↕️

MDNI

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The first time you met Heeseung, it was on this same table, tilted to the side as he hovered over your neck with gloved hands and whispered, "You okay?" every two minutes while tattooing a tiny cross near your ear. He was painfully gentle, ridiculously focused. You remembered thinking, God, he smells so good.

You told yourself you wanted a second tattoo because they were addictive, but deep down, it was Heeseung you were addicted to.

So now you're back. And this time, you don't pick a hidden spot. No, you sit on the edge of the tattoo table and glance up at him through your lashes. "I want two butterflies," you say sweetly, tapping where the curve of your breast meets your rib.

Heeseung chokes on his own breath.

"L–Like there?" His ears flush pink as he gestures, like he's not exactly sure if he's allowed to look.

"Mhm," you hum. "Think it'll look cute?"

He clears his throat, pretending to flip through your intake form again. "Y–Yeah. Yeah, that's a good spot. Great skin there. Soft."

You smile. "You think my skin's soft?"

He freezes, eyes snapping to yours in horror. "I meant—it's—technically, all skin is—I just meant—"

"It's okay, Heeseung," you tease, already tugging your shirt down, slow and deliberate, exposing the top of your lace bra. "You're the professional."

He swallows hard, hands slightly trembling as he pulls on a fresh pair of gloves. The buzzing machine starts up, but his mind is miles away.

You're so warm under his hands. You don't flinch when he touches you to stencil the outline, but you do gasp a little when his knuckle brushes over the swell of your breast by accident. He pauses.

"I'm fine," you murmur, eyes fluttering. "You can keep going."

Heeseung doesn't speak, doesn't dare look you in the eye. But as the tattoo begins, your soft sighs start turning into barely-there whines. And you know exactly what you're doing when you shift slightly—just enough for your nipple to peek out under the fabric of your shirt.

"Shit," Heeseung whispers, backing away.

You tilt your head, biting your lip. "Something wrong?"

Heeseung's hand is steady, but his eyes keep flickering up—quick glances, like he's trying not to notice that your shirt has slipped low, the cup of your bra barely clinging on as you lean back in the chair with your arm behind your head, completely relaxed.

You're not helping.

"You've got such a soft touch," you murmur, voice lazy and warm, a little smile playing on your lips. "You always this gentle with your clients?"

He doesn't answer, he's been hovering over the edge of a breakdown since you walked in asking for a second tattoo so close to your fucking tit. Now, the top half of your breast is entirely exposed, your nipple just barely out of sight, until it's not. The lace of your bra shifts again, and it slips free.

You don't flinch. You just keep talking, easy as anything. "So... how'd you get into tattooing?" you ask, blinking up at him innocently.

Heeseung hesitates, machine paused mid-stroke. "Uh... I used to draw a lot. Got obsessed with linework."

"Mmm. You're really good at it," you hum, voice almost a purr now. "Do you have a favorite client?"

Heeseung looks like he's about to pass out. He pulls back slightly, setting the gun down on the tray with a clatter. "I—I can't do this."

You sit up just a little, letting the rest of your tit fall fully into view. "What do you mean?"

He stands, running a shaky hand through his hair. "I mean I can't fucking do this. You're sitting there with your—" He swallows. "—and you're talking like it's nothing. And I'm trying so hard not to lose it."

That's when you see it. The outline in his pants, painfully obvious, straining hard against the fabric.

Your grin is wicked. "Wait," you giggle softly, "are you hard right now? From a little side boob?"

Heeseung turns scarlet. "Don't—don't do that."

"Oh, come on," you coo, rising slowly, placing your palm right over the thick bulge. His hips jerk into your hand instinctively, and you feel the desperation. The way he's already twitching under your touch.

"Are you sure you want me to stop?" you whisper, lips close to his jaw now. "You don't look like you want me to."

He groans—like he's losing a battle. His fingers flex at his sides, jaw tight, body straining forward as your hand starts to move just slightly, stroking him through his jeans.

"I shouldn't," he mutters, voice cracking. "I'm—fuck, I'm your artist."

"But you want to be more than that, don't you?" you ask, low and syrupy, kissing up the column of his neck. "You want to ruin me right here, Heeseung? Make a mess on your own table?"

His hips roll again, seeking more pressure. He's rutting into your palm now, helpless and humiliated and so goddamn turned on he can barely think. His chest is rising and falling like he's just run a mile. Your hand stays exactly where it is, cupped over the thick outline in his pants and feeling it twitch in your palm like it has a mind of its own. He doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe properly. Just stares at you like you've short-circuited something deep inside him.

His eyes squeeze shut, a vein ticking at his jaw. "You can't just—" he rasps, hands clenched at his sides like he's physically holding himself back. "You can't just touch me like that and talk like everything's fucking normal."

You give him a slow squeeze.

He groans. The sound is raw, shame-laced, like he's already mad at himself for how good it feels.

"You don't want me to stop," you whisper. It's not a question this time.

His eyes flicker open, wild and uncertain. "Fuck—don't—"

You press a kiss just below his jaw, right where his pulse is hammering, and he shudders. That's when it happens—his hips jerk forward. Just a little. Just enough that you feel him grind himself against your palm more, chasing friction he doesn't even mean to seek.

"Oh my god," you whisper, smiling against his skin. "You're humping my hand, Heeseung?"

He lets out a pained whimper and grabs your wrist, not to stop you—he doesn't pull away—but just to hold it. Just to feel like he has some control over the unraveling.

"You're so mean," he mutters, barely above a whisper. "You don't even realize what you're doing to me."

You tilt your head, watching his breath stutter and shift your grip, a little firmer now, and he lets out a full-bodied groan, all low, desperate, and so fucking pretty it goes straight to your core.

His eyes are glazed over, dark and drowning. "If you keep doing that, I'm not gonna be able to stop."

"Who said I want you to?"

Silence. Thick and hot and full of tension.

Then something snaps. Something invisible but loud—like the sound of restraint giving way. He grabs your face and kisses you like he's starving. No hesitation now. No shy little glances or nervous coughs. His tongue is in your mouth, his hands already pulling your shirt off the rest of the way like it's in his way. And suddenly, it's not sweet or cute, it's needy and reckless.

You moan into his mouth as he manhandles you back onto the padded tattoo table, your legs spread wide without needing to be asked. He's on his knees a second later, yanking your shorts down your legs and tossing them somewhere over his shoulder. He's panting, lips swollen, sweat already forming at his temples.

"You—fuck—you don't know what you've started."

Then his mouth is on you.

And Heeseung? He eats like he's been fantasizing about this since the first day you walked into his shop. Tongue fucking you slow at first, savoring every flick, every whimper you let out. But the longer it goes, the more frantic he gets—sloppy sounds, fingers digging into your thighs, like he wants to make you messy, like he wants you to cum and cry and fall apart before he even thinks about getting inside you. "Oh fuck yeah." "Keep doing that"

You tug his hair hard, grinding against his face, and he moans into your pussy, shaking with it. When he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, there's a different look in his eyes now. Something primal and ruined.

And his pants are off in seconds.

"Hope you're not expecting anything soft," he breathes out. "Not after the shit you just pulled."

You just smile, letting your legs fall open wider, and whisper, "Then fuck me like you mean it." And he doesn't hesitate this time. His hand wraps around his cock, guiding it to your soaked entrance. He groans under his breath, not even fully inside yet, just watching the way your slick coats his tip.

"Fuck, you're wet," he breathes, voice shaking. "You like teasing me this much, huh? Getting off on how desperate I am?"

You blink up at him, breathless. "I like seeing how long you can pretend you're not losing your mind."

And then he pushes in—slow, steady, the stretch making your back arch off the chair.

You moan, loud and unfiltered, head tipping back. "Heeseung—"

"Oh my god," he hisses, gripping your waist tight as your cunt swallows him. "You feel so fucking good. Oh fuck, f-fuck."

He's not shy anymore, not even a little. The second he bottoms out, he's already moving, slow thrusts at first, deep and dragging, like he wants to feel every inch. But it doesn't take long before he's picking up the pace, grunting every time your walls squeeze around him.

"Sound so pretty when you moan," he pants, thrusting harder. "Could listen to you cry for me all day."

You're gasping now, clutching at his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist. He leans in close, forehead pressed to yours, and you can feel every ragged breath he takes.

"You always this tight?" he mutters, more to himself than you. "Or just for me?"

You try to answer, but it's just a sob, every stroke hitting that deep, perfect spot, your body giving out under the rhythm of his hips. The wet slap of skin-on-skin fills the room, and your moans rise in pitch as your release builds.

Heeseung watches your face twist in pleasure, eyes glazed and lips parted, and he groans again—louder this time, losing rhythm just slightly as he feels your walls flutter.

"You're close," he whispers, almost in awe. "You're gonna cum for me, aren't you?"

You nod frantically. "Yes—yes, please—"

"Then cum," he pants, barely coherent. "I'm not stopping."

You don't even realize you're crying out until your orgasm crashes through you, blinding and electric. Heeseung fucks you through it, watching your face, eyes hungry, loving the way you shake underneath him.

But he's not done.

He's still hard. Still moving, holding you open, pumping into your soaked, sensitive cunt like he's trying to mark you from the inside out.

"H-Heeseung, I—I can't—" you whimper.

"Yes, you can," he growls, kissing you hard. "You wanted this, right? Wanted to tease me? Now take it."

His voice drops, low and rough, and he drives into you harder, deeper, pulling your hips into his thrusts like he can't get close enough.

"Cum for me, baby. Wanna feel you fall apart on my cock again."

You break.

Your second orgasm tears through you like a wave, your body jerking, clenching down so hard Heeseung lets out a strangled growl and shoves in deep, staying there.

But he doesn't stop. Doesn't slow.

Heeseung is fucking you through it again, watching every twitch of your body, every sob, every cry of his name. You're limp under him, trembling and sensitive, and wondering where he learned to fuck like this, but he just keeps going, drunk off the feeling of your pussy pulsing around him.

You're not even sure when you start begging, not sure what you're even saying anymore, just broken little words, strung together with whimpers.

And that's when he loses it.

He pulls out, just for a second, stroking himself fast and messy, his hips twitching. "Fuck—fuck—I'm gonna—"

You grab his hand, your voice barely above a whisper. "Inside."

He freezes. "What?"

"Cum inside me," you whisper, eyes glassy, voice wrecked. "Wanna feel it. Wanna keep it in."

He lets out a ragged moan, stumbles forward, and presses in again, deep, so deep, until he's seated to the hilt. And then he spills.

You feel every pulse, every throb, the warmth flooding you. You're both panting hard when he finally collapses on top of you, body trembling, skin flushed. And then—so soft, so Him—he looks up at you and whispers:

"I... think you're my favorite client."

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• a/n: please don’t have raw sex with your tattoo artist just cause you think they’re cute, well unless it’s heeseung 🙂‍↕️

also this got really out of hand😭 why is it 2k words long

[sempiternalmuze]

Running Through the Halls of Your Haunted Home

Jack Abbott x doctor!Reader who has some problems being loved

tags: dr. jack abbott x female!reader, hurt comfort, reader runs away for a bit (story takes place when shes back), Robby being Jacks best friend, age/jobs not really established, implied not great childhood for reader, jack loves her ohmygod??, jack would never leave her tbh, a bit more flowery than i'm used to writing so let me know, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 2.3k

Five months. That was the timeframe Robby had laid out for you when you'd came to him a few days after Christmas, explaining that you needed a break, need time away from the Pitt, the city, the state. He'd been kind enough to not ask too many questions, but you knew he'd hear it sooner than later directly from Jack during one of their therapy sessions.

So three days after Christmas you packed your bag, grabbed your passport, and changed your number. From one day to the next you had gone from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center to Portel, Brazil with Doctors Without Borders.

And you lived. You took the time you needed to find your peace again, to pick up the pieces that you had left behind in the dusty apartment Jack and you had shared.

But now it was May-- and Robbie was calling your number every few days. And today when you answered he'd sounded at about wit's end.

"Time's up kid, we need you back here." He sighed, and you could almost see his hand running over his face, tired and no doubt thinking about a fourth—fifth—coffee.

You had stayed silent for a moment, playing with the sheet of your hammock. You glanced at the tents set up by the river, kids running around in a game of tag, parents watching from the sides as they spoke to the other doctors on your crew.

"What if I told you I liked it here more? Then what?" You said, glancing back at the water.

Robby lets out a throaty laugh, one that pulls you away and forces you back to the shuffle of the Pitt. "Because if you did, you would've just said that."

It's a valid point— and true. You wouldn't be asking, wouldn't be hoping he'd tell you any different. You probably would have blocked him, sent an email to Gloria and moved on with your life.

"And I also know what you've got waiting." He whispered. And he was right. You wouldn't just leave like that and not tell Jack. The only reason you had been able to do it the first time was because you knew it was temporary, and small fold in the story you two shared.

"How is he?" The weight was heavy on your shoulders, an invisible force that only left in the depths of night and that was if you were tired enough to fall asleep as soon as your head hit your pillow. Jack was strong, and smart. He'd been through so much worse than a girl who was afraid.

"Well...he visits the roof a lot more now. The first few weeks were...well they were real bad kid." He pauses, like considering what would be too much to tell you. "I offered him to come stay with me, get away from the apartment, but he said he liked it. It gave him a reason to hold on."

Reasons to hold, how very Jack Abbott of him. To want to have hope, to find the reasons even though he wasn't sure where any of it would lead.

"He'd doing better now, I don't have to act like a hostage negotiator too much these days. He comes out to the park with us after work and he makes jokes with the new med students. But he misses you, a lot."

You nodded with a hum into the phone. The sun was so peaceful this time of day, it bounced off the water and on to your skin. You let your eyes close and let your mind drift back to those months ago, from even before the fight, to when things were still solid between the two of you.

Walks in the park after a long shift, hands intertwined as he poked fun at you for your decisions during a shift. The nights spent in bed, room slightly too cold because otherwise you'd burn up with his body heat. Even on the days when it was hard, when his active duty days caught up to him, there was still something to have, because he'd let you hold him, let himself talk and talk about the people and the days of roughing it, of the bad things he saw, of the pain of a leg that was no longer attached to his physical being.

"Kid, I gotta let Gloria know by tonight. Are you back?" Robby's voice broke through the speaker with a crack of static.

"Of course I am Robby."

Now you were running through the airport, hair a mess, sanity hardly in tact. Cassie had been kind enough to come grab you after dropping off Harrison with Chad for the weekend. Today and tomorrow would be your days to get settled, then straight back to it on Monday.

"I've missed you so much!" She squealed, arms wrapped around your center tightly. "You have no idea how much it sucks to have to take on that waiting room with myself and Javadi." She laughs.

"Oh I bet, what would you ever do without me?" You laughed. You held her tight before you both crawled into the car. She started the engine, waving off some security yelling at her and took off.

"How was it?" She asks, face covered in excitement.

"It was amazing Cassie. The people, the pace, the location, all of it was just-perfect." You sigh and throw your head back. "I think it was exactly what I needed."

"That's great." She says. Her tone tells you that there's something else, something on her mind that she isn't saying out loud.

It takes about three minutes of uncomfortable silence and a red traffic light for her to turn to you. "Have you talked to him?"

Cassie was one of about four people who definitely knew what was going on between you and Jack, one of a few who knew lengths you'd go for one another. Her tone is soft, prodding but not overstepping.

"No, Cass I...I didn't want to do anything that might...I don't know, hurt more than it already would?" You sighed. You covered your face with your hands. "I felt horrible, for taking off on him the way I did. But I just...I knew that he'd make me stay."

Cass nods along, listening. She takes your hands in hers, holding it softly over the center console. She doesn't push or try to interject her own thoughts about the whole thing into your mind. She knows you well enough to know that no decision you made came lightly, that it took hours and hours of thought and careful planning.

The light turns green and the car starts moving again. "You don't have to go back so soon. You can stay with Harrison and I if you want to." Cass offers, a small glint in her eyes.

You take a moment to consider before looking out the window. "I need to go back Cass. To my home, to my stuff. I need to go back to him. I ran once but I'm ready. I finally feel ready to face what we left behind." You smile, hands gripping the door handle a bit too tight.

Cass nods and hums. "Just know I'm there. If you need me."

And that's what the conversation is left at. Fifteen minutes later your left staring at your building. Cass offered to go upstairs with you, but you'd elected to face it all yourself.

There were two options that stood in front of you. One, Jack was home, asleep, getting ready to head to bed and face another grueling night shift. The blackout curtains would be drawn and the apartment quiet. Would the floorboards remember your steps or creak under the unfamiliar weight of your long lost body? Maybe they would, and then they'd wake him, and you'd have to explain the last five months of your life to him while he was half asleep.

The other option was simple, he wasn't home, maybe getting groceries before he inevitably came home to crash out on the couch. It had irked you so much when you first started dating. The way he'd get off a few hours before you and offer to do the shopping, just for you to come home and find him asleep in the most neck sore position possible, jacket barely off, jeans twisted too tightly across his legs. But eventually it became a comfort, the way you could rouse him and make him follow you to bed, where you'd help him take off his prosthetic, rip off his scrubs in return for a clean shirt and pj pants. Or sometimes when you were both so tired after a rough day you could snuggle yourself between his arms, him hardly waking up, but still opening his strong arms so you could press against his chest.

And you find yourself hoping it can be like those distant couch sleeps. That he'll be there, asleep on the couch, and you can just lay with him, head pressed against his chest, snuggled right below his chin as his fingers splay over the middle of your back, gripping you as to not let you disappear again.

So when you turn your key into the lock, you take a deep breath. With the click sounding, you push the door open. You roll your suitcase in first, setting it to the side. Then you pause, listening. There's silence, and for a moment you think you're safe. The buzz of the AC when it clicks on startles you, but not as much as the man standing before you.

Jack stands near the couch, hand holding on to it, like he might fall over. He wears a tight black tee, some washed jeans and his tennis shoes. When you finally meet his eyes you see something, a glint of pain? Maybe sadness, maybe shock. His hair is slightly longer along the sides, his facial hair a bit more clean shaven than the stubble you had last seen him in. He doesn't move, neither do you. Its like the saddest cowboy stand off you've ever witnessed.

The click of the door behind you finally breaks the silence. You take a step forward, placing your keys down on the entry table. You can't tear your eyes from his. You wish you could read his face, know where to start on the long list of apologies and begging of forgiveness.

"I know you probably hate me. I know you maybe wish I would have never come back. And I know when I left we were in a bad position, a position that I never wanted to be at with you." Jack opens his mouth to say something, but you're quick to silence him with a raise of your hand.

"But I'm here. I'm here because I love you. Because I never wanted to leave in the first place. And you are the first stable thing I've had in my life since med school." A sudden hiccup burst from you, followed by tears. You couldn't stop it. In an instant your face was crumpled, warm, tears spilling from your eyes.

"Sweetheart..." Jack mutters, marching towards you until his arms swaddled your frame, arms pressing tight around your ribs, fingers grasping at your hair. His face pressed deeply against the crown of your head, and his chest pressed perfectly against your ear until you could hear the thumping of his heart.

"Jack Abbott you— God you fucking took my life and put it back together in ways I didnt think possible. You showed me that I could be loved. I was worthy of love and attention."

You pulled away, Jack's arms still resting across your waist, fingers digging in, as though fully releasing you would mean you walking out the front door forever this time.

"And I ran. I ran because I was so fucking scared that you'd wake up and decide that I wasn't worthy, that you didn't need to be here. And I wouldn't be able to handle that." You glanced at him, and while your vision remained slightly blurred, you found that he was already looking back at you. For a moment you thought pity might be the thing coursing through his dark eyes, but you realized it wasn't even close. It was more like concern, fear.

"I picked that fight because I thought it was the only way to get you to leave. But you didn't. You refused to leave, to give in. And that made me mad." You laugh, wiping your face. Jack cracks a smile, followed by a small chuckle of his own.

"You made me mad because instead of doing what everyone else has done, you planted your feet. And that made me the most scared." You said, staring down at the ground. Jack gave you a moment to collect yourself, and when it seemed your breathing had finally calmed a bit, he took your hands in his, fingers intertwining with his own, his calloused palms pushing against yours.

"I planted my feet because I knew exactly what you were doing." He says, soft, speaking more into your hair than into the open space around you two.

"It was a stupid battle, and you're not stupid, so of course I knew what you were doing. Because I know you, sweetheart." he chuckles a little, the sound vibrating in his throat. "And more importantly, I planted my feet because I wanted to stay. You have never ever been anything short of the most beautiful, loving, smartest, strongest woman in my life. You are the best thing I've had in years." He sighed, his hand lefts yours as it moved up your arm, until it fell onto your jaw, guiding your eyes to his.

"And you put me back together. And I love you for that." He finishes. Neither of you two move, letting each others words swell around your embrace.

Your eyes drop to his lips, soft and kind. He doesn't hesitate, pulling you against him, letting your lips grace each others for the first time in months. You sigh, pressing your body against his. He holds you close as you two drink each other in.

Eventually he pulls away, rests his forehead against yours.

"I've missed you."

ϟ.·:¨༺ ♡ ༻¨:·.ϟ

[hrrtshape]

a guide on how to survive socialite nyc

hi. i'm emma. i shifted to my better current reality at seventeen where i live on the upper east side, my mom's a billionaire, my dad's kind of royalty-adjacent, and i'm the kind of girl who says "i have to study" but don't actually ever study.

someone asked me to make a survival guide for new york socialite culture, and i did. but now i'm rereading it and i think i accidentally wrote an exposé. i don't know what happened. i blacked out. i woke up and there were ten thousand words about the whitney board and custom-moulded ski boots and my fake boyfriend named marco. this was supposed to be gossip girl meets succession, and somehow it turned into joan didion gets eaten alive by her own cotillion class. i'm sick and i'm dying and please don't look at me.

anyway. take this as a guide. or a warning. or a cry for help. i'm definitely killing myself over this. ok bye.

section i . appearance

you're not trying to be beautiful. you're trying to be "correct-looking". you need to look like you live inside a fridge built by dior and lit by a tolomeo lamp. your skin should glow in the dark but in a non-radioactive, genetically superior sort of way. if you're doing it right, no one compliments you. they just say, "you look well." and that means something. it means you've been seen and passed inspection. not praised, not envied, confirmed.

hair colour : blondes get treated like family money. brunettes get mistaken for pr girls until proven otherwise. redheads (natural only) get suspected of being from somewhere interesting. the kind of interesting that means your grandmother maybe wore galliano and drank at indochine with madonna. dark roots are only acceptable if they've been there since easter brunch at the plaza. don't dye it platinum unless you're in the lvmh bloodline. don't balayage. don't ombré. don't do anything you saw on pinterest. your hair needs to look like it's been this way since you were four and your au pair gave you a haircut with gold scissors. the correct answer when someone asks what you do to it is "nothing really." your shampoo is unavailable in the u.s. and comes in an opaque bottle wrapped in brown paper from a pharmacy in geneva.

face : everyone is pretty. you need to look congenitally expensive. clean skin, no highlighter, not even for the birkin gala. your brows should not be threaded. they should just be like that. your lashes are never fake. your blush is from exhaustion, not makeup. your under-eyes are hollow from birth and elite suffering. use the drunk elephant moisturiser but put it in an avene bottle. no contour. no bright lip. your lipstick is the same shade as your tongue. your foundation is mixed by a dermatologist who doesn't believe in sunscreen. your beauty mark is real. your cheekbones are not filler, they're "genetic."

body : you don't need to be skinny. you need to look "expensively maintained". if your thighs touch but your pilates instructor knows your dog's name, you're fine. your arms are long. your back is straight. your posture is from equestrian camp, not yoga. you don't run. you get walked by your trainer. no muscle definition. no fake tan. you are vitamin d deficient in a $900 tennis skirt. your legs are bruised from skiing, not clumsiness. you own two pairs of trainers: one for walking, one for looking like you walk.

when to wear designer : never in a way that's obvious. your hermès should look inherited. your dior should be vintage (even if it's not). if you're wearing chanel, it better be archival and you better be with your grandmother. never wear logos unless they're ironic, and even then, only if your parents own property in provence. the only monogram allowed is stitched into the inside pocket. not even your driver should know you're rich. it should just be assumed. if it zips, it better have been tailored. if it buttons, it better be mother-of-pearl. if you wear a tee shirt, it should be hanro. if you wear sunglasses, they should be old céline. the only exception to the logo rule is a goyard tote with your initials. but only if it's filthy.

the optics :

looking rich = old money.

looking cultured = foundation grants.

looking interesting = childhood trauma + niche education + subtle jewellery.

ideally, you're all three.

but if you have to choose: go with cultured. rich is obvious. cultured is strategic. interesting is what gets you profiled in air mail. interesting is why the chair of the whitney board remembers your name. interesting is why you were asked to read at the pen america gala even though you don't write.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　┊

section i (and a half) . location

fifth avenue (upper east side only) : if you live above 60th and below 96th, you're in the golden rectangle. this is the museum mile stretch. your doorman will be asleep but he'll still remember your bat mitzvah dress. you don't take the subway from here, you exit the city. buildings here come with plaque-level pedigree. if your building has a name, not a number, you're already winning. your neighbour is on the board of the frick. the florist downstairs knows not to wrap in brown. this is where your mother did her christmas shopping at barneys before it closed. you get sent the new year's schedule for the philharmonic by name.

park avenue : if you say you live on park and don't clarify east 96th or south 30th, people will assume you mean the correct part: between 60th and 92nd. this is legacy socialite land. your grandfather had a secretary. your parents met at a squash match. you eat cottage cheese and pineapple for breakfast and call it wellness. everyone has the same doorman portrait from their childhood: red vest, gold buttons, white gloves, first name basis. your apartment is large but cold. rugs from sotheby's. kitchen never used. the smell of your building is bergamot and chlorine. no one wears shoes inside. you say things like "oh, i think she was in my cotillion class."

central park west : used to be weird. now it's "stable." it's the address you give when you don't want people to google your last name. you have taste. your parents are both remarried. the living room has a view of the reservoir and a de kooning. you own three dogs and a therapist. you've had dinner with a gallery owner. your friends' parents have all written memoirs. your friends' memoirs were published before age 25. this side of the park is for people who fund ballets but never attend them. your building has a doorman named larry. he has seen you through every era of your life. you still cry when you see him.

central park south : this is the purgatory between hedge fund dads and finance guys who think they're philosophers. your building is sleek. there's no dust. the fridge talks. you're new here. you're rich but (sadly) you're not trusted. your kitchen has smart lighting but no knives. people here drink negronis in blackout sunglasses and pretend to read the economist. there's no art on the walls because the interior designer said it would "overwhelm the space." you have an investment property in lisbon. your girlfriend's name is genevieve and she's "between agencies."

upper west side : sweet. proper. unchanging. your dad is in publishing. your mom is a therapist. your apartment has books on every surface. the hallway smells like antique wood and dog. your oven's broken. no one cares. the window sills are wide enough for your cat and your emotional crises. you still get bagels from h&h and take them to riverside to eat on a bench. you applied to columbia and got in. you didn't go. your clothes are unironed but made of cashmere. your rich is subconscious. there's a poster for the new group theatre on the door. your parents met at a rally. they still go to lectures.

upper east side : not to be classist but this is the final boss. not because it's hard to get in, but because once you're here, you never leave. you have a driver named salvador. you have a doorman who fought in a war. your mother has not cooked since 1987. you get your hair cut by a woman named giancarla who doesn't advertise. you were in cotillion. you have a junior board. you've had the same family lawyer since you were born. you've never written your own check. you think going downtown is "a treat." your friends live within a ten block radius and you all eat lunch at sant ambroeus pretending not to.

west village : this is curated bohemia. your mom's a sculptor and your dad used to be famous. your godparents are in theatre. your apartment smells like parchment and good weed. you still use a landline. you never use google maps. your life is full of corner bookstores and 18-year-olds from new jersey who think you're mythical. your floors creak. your cat has an agent. you've dated a writer. you've dated a painter. you've dated a waiter who told you he was a painter. you own records. not vinyl. records. this is where you say "i just grew up around artists" like you didn't go to dalton.

downtown (tribeca, soho, nolita, chinatown, etc) : this is status coded in reverse. you pretend not to care while spending twelve grand a month. you have an ice bath. you wear jnco jeans and a $500 shirt. you've been to art basel but not for art. you own one suit and it's margiela. your idea of a splurge is a $90 candle. your building used to be a button factory. now it has a pool on the roof. you don't talk to your neighbours. one of them is a dj. another is a war criminal's daughter. everyone has an aura. yours is grey. your therapist told you that means grounded. your girlfriend sells resin art. your boyfriend is in berlin.

brooklyn : ONLY carroll gardens. only if inherited. only if your grandmother still lives upstairs. otherwise, you're pretending. the people here have opinions about olive oil and four kinds of salt. you use a tote bag your friend screen printed. you only go into manhattan for doctor's appointments or your godchild's choir recital. your rent is fake. your clothes are all wool. your wine is always open. if you have a backyard, you're a demigod. you have friends who've moved upstate. you judge them. you get coffee from the same man every day and he calls you miss. he doesn't know your name, for som reason that's how you like it.

the real secret : co-ops. you want a board. you want restrictions. you want to have to know someone to get in. if your building has a concierge, you're either french or new here. if you live in brooklyn, it must be carroll gardens, and it must be inherited. if you rent, lie. say it's your godmother's pied-à-terre. say she's an editor at large for t: the new york times style magazine. say it was passed down through divorce, not death.

what your building says about you :

740 park = you were born in the wrong one but with the right lawyers.

one beacon court = you're nouveau riche but hiding it well.

15 central park west = your parents are on the board of the met.

any new development with "tower" in the name = leave. go back to miami.

the elevator should be brass. the lobby should be beige. the staff should have known you since you were small enough to be carried in a burberry baby sling. the security guard should call your mother "ma'am" and you "honey."

floor plan flags :

pre-war = elite.

post-war = insurance money.

floor-through = fine.

duplex = trust fund.

maisonette = you're weirdly connected and possibly european.

penthouse = new money but trying.

anything with "open concept" = west coast interloper.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　┊

section ii . routine

you are never busy. you are booked. your calendar includes lunch with your father, your mother, art auctions, pilates at reform club, and a three-hour window to wander madison in silence. your days are carved into ritual: the same cashmere sweater, the same black coffee, the same twenty minutes sitting in the lobby of the carlyle pretending to wait for someone. you own a franklin calendar. you own a montblanc pen. you never ask for wifi. you already know the password.

before 8am : your macrobiotic chef makes you a green juice. you only drink half. your vitamins come in sachets from a doctor who doesn't advertise. you read the ft weekend in your mom's bathrobe. you do pilates in your mother's solarium. your skincare is nine steps and none of them are from sephora. you take calls on speakerphone in the bath. your toothbrush is swiss. your towels have your initials. you journal. you write thank-you cards. you reply to three emails. one of them is from your trust administrator.

after 8pm : dinner at casa cruz or omakase at masa (only if you're being courted). otherwise . . . late drinks at bemelmans. your table is the one in the corner, under the portrait of ludwig bemelmans' dog. if it's taken, you leave. you are not on the list at cathédrale. you don't want to be. you don't go to equinox. your gym has no signage. your doorman calls the elevator for you. you own pyjamas with piping. they are ironed. you read on a chaise. you only wear cotton at home. you answer no calls after 9 unless it's from your mother or your lawyer.

where you never go :

equinox

any place with a prix fixe menu and instagram account

any rooftop without a legacy donor

restaurants with tiktok in the reviews

dumbo

the whitney gift shop

times square (unless your cousin is in a broadway revival)

the standard

jack's wife freda

any café with neon signage

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　┊

section iii . networking

school : i had scripted in my own private school, st lazarus, but you can go to chapin. or spence. or brearley. if you don't, you don't bring it up. your mom tried to get you into dalton but your father said no because of the art teacher scandal in 2012. your friends are legacy kids. your enemies are legacy kids. your ex-boyfriend is a legacy kid who got into harvard by playing squash and writing an essay on cicero. you've known each other since that nursery in the carlyle. you've all taken a photo on the met steps. you've all blacked out at the same house in east hampton. you've all cried in the same powder room at the four seasons.

you only socialise across schools when you're forced to. you pretend not to know who got into yale or harvard or oxford early. you've cried at the nypl. you've been grounded for getting caught sneaking out of a deb ball. you went to model un once. it wasn't for you but you think your boyfriend is about to take over and become a dictator. your notes app has two kinds of people: those who sat next to you at cello recitals, and those who married your godfather.

trust fund friend groups : you know the difference between old money (soft voice, bad jeans, two homes in nantucket) and new money (veneers, cashmere joggers, the words "start-up"). the trick is to be old money in temperament but new money in liquidity. you summer in sagaponack but you winter in switzerland. you know when to split the bill and when to pretend not to see it. your group chat is called something obscure. there is always someone in it who's a kennedy cousin. one of them tried to kiss you at ski camp. your best friend's trust is bigger than yours. you've never spoken about it.

legacy circles : talk about horses, not brands. never correct someone on pronunciation unless they say "hermès" like it's a venereal disease. don't name-drop unless it's a baroness. remember who summered in sardinia vs. st. barths. know which parents got indicted. know which parents bought the judge. always act bored by scandal. always pretend your parents are normal. always say "oh i think we met at the greco-roman exhibit" even if you didn't. never bring up college unless it's to say you left.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　┊

section iv . reputation

rich girls are on the list. wealthy girls own the building. important girls don't explain. they're just known. you are not a brand. you are a rumour. you are the girl who cried during the metropolitan opera but not at your own party. you are known because you never speak on important matters online. your last tagged photo was three months ago and you were holding a cigarette and a copy of the golden notebook. it was taken by someone who's now at columbia for film. you left the party before midnight. you didn't say goodbye.

you are trusted because you don't post on tiktok that has below 500k followers. you are invited because you don't ask. your last scandal wasn't even public. you've ghosted every publication that tried to profile you. you said no to vogue. you said no to tavi. you said yes to nothing.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　┊

section v . dating

first rule : date like there's a will being written.

second rule : most of the time, don't date at all. it's embarrassing. it's traceable. it's how scandals start.

there's a difference between a real boyfriend and a power arrangement. a real boyfriend carries your bag and makes fun of your therapist and remembers your cat's birthday. a power arrangement is when you date a venture capital heir so your dad can get invited to that investor dinner in geneva. you know the one. the one with the truffle risotto and the private quartet.

finance bros : acceptable between the ages of 17 and 19. don't make my mistake and date a non-homicidal-patrick-bateman-guy. don't even think about it. they must be reformed. they must be family-adjacent. they must be afraid of your mother. goldman > evercore > lazard. no citadel boys. no softbank freaks. you can date someone who did a summer at bridgewater, but only if he cried about it later.

art boys : fine in theory. dangerous in execution. he must not be trying. he must have inherited his gallerist grandmother's house in tribeca and only show in basements. if he says the word "residency" and means it sincerely, RUN. if he was at your cousin's RISD graduation in 2021, he's fair game.

older men : proceed carefully. he must be already-divorced. he must be the one who offers you a ride and never the one who asks for one. he can call you "kid" but only if you once made him cry during a backgammon game in east hampton. you must have a point of exit, a fake emergency contact, and a backup dinner invite ready. if you end up in air mail or curbed, you did it wrong and in less than three years he will be cheating on you .

( and . . . ) how to date someone older without becoming a story : never be alone with him two nights in a row. always say you're "not looking for anything serious." never show up in a dress you wore in high school. and when he tries to show you his collection of rothkos, ask if he's ever read any female authors who weren't in his divorce deposition. don't be his publicist. don't be his therapist. don't be his pr plan.

how to reject an heir without it becoming a scandal : smile. say you're flattered. say your schedule's a mess right now. say you're seeing someone in geneva (you're not). if he pushes, invoke your mother. say she's very protective and doesn't approve of his politics. if he still pushes, leak his trust size to the girl who runs the party list at the standard.

timing :

never date in spring (too many engagements)

never date in september (school chaos)

never date during tax season (obvious)

only date in november if you're ready to spend christmas at his family estate in montauk

only date in summer if you've already been to his family's place in capri and didn't find anything weird in the guesthouse

first date script :

no alcohol unless you know where it was sourced

always pretend you're allergic to something obscure

order the second most expensive thing on the menu

ask him what his family's position on offshore accounts is

leave before dessert

if he survives, you may text back.

boyfriend hierarchy :

real boyfriend (emotional support, security detail, hot)

soft-launch boyfriend (for optics only, must be good at standing near you)

trial heir (wealthy but mid)

scandal buffer (older, boring, strategic)

ghosted ex who still keeps you on his private flight list

and finally : if he doesn't know your favourite book, your mother's maiden name, and your preferred florist, he's not your boyfriend. he's a liability. date accordingly.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　┊

section vi . travelling

there's a way to go. and there's a way to leave. you never go. you're leaving. very different verbs. no one should know where until you've already landed. no itinerary posts. no time stamps. just a quiet flick of the wrist and the next thing they hear, you're in geneva and your hair's doing something new. it always does something new when you're in geneva.

teterboro if you have the car. jfk if you have the mood stabilisers. laguardia if you lost a bet. commercial or charter. it doesn't matter as long as you behave like your father's plane was just in maintenance and you're coping. you do not complain. you gesture vaguely. you don't take photos in the lounge. you don't say "priority boarding." your phone is already on airplane mode. your driver put your bag through security. you're holding a black coffee and a boarding pass tucked into an envelope from le sirenuse. you forgot your charger. you remembered your eyebrow serum. you don't sleep on flights. you pretend you don't know how.

airport outfit :

cashmere jumper. the same one you wore to your eighth birthday. still fits. still smells like almond soap. or a bit like your mum's perfume when she used to hug you goodbye.

cream trousers. lint rolled. slight stain from pistachio gelato in venice. you don't notice. or care. you only notice if someone else tries to comment.

rimowa carry-on. no stickers. only initials. silver. dented. ancient. perfect. it's been with you since ibiza 2016 and it holds grudges.

passport cover is leather. no logos. no pink. initials or nothing. it was a christmas gift from someone who now only communicates via monaco lawyers. you've started keeping a pressed flower inside it.

headphones are big. they don't even connect to your phone anymore. you carry a dongle. your driver hates the dongle. you lost one of the earpads and found it in your mother's glove compartment. they creak when you adjust them. they're a personality trait now.

optional add-ons :

box of clementines for the plane (you eat none), but you drink a lot

tiny stuffed animal that lives in the front pocket (you do not explain it)

old envelope with customs forms you never filled out

prescription sunglasses that only work in theory

hotel slippers you keep stealing "by accident"

inside the rimowa :

three paperbacks. one by simone weil. one by joan didion. one you never actually read. sometimes it's the ethics of ambiguity, sometimes it's franny and zooey, sometimes it's a paperback copy of the bell jar with your notes in red pen. one of them is in italian. you don't speak italian.

an extra white shirt. a pharmacy bag from france. a lint roller you don't use. travel candles you got as a gift and pretend to hate. your skincare fits in a pouch labelled "derm." eye mask from a spa you didn't enjoy. your mother's pearl earrings in a sock. an open pack of gum you've had since zurich. emergency earrings. letters you never sent.

summers :

sagaponack = you call it "the house." not "the hamptons." not "our place." it's the house. the lawn is mowed by someone you've known since you were five. your bedroom still has the wallpaper you picked in 2009. the shower smells like aveda. you bring two friends. you forget one of them on the ferry. someone's cousin always shows up with a guitar. you steal peaches from the kitchen and eat them standing over the sink. someone brings up boarding school. someone cries in the linen closet. someone's mother flies in from stockholm and gets mad you used her shampoo.

capri = your godmother lives there. your mum has a chair on the piazzetta. the boat is moored in the wrong spot and you know it because the neighbours texted. you eat fruit with a knife. you tan on stone. you call the waiter by name. your sandals are leather and broken. you get a rash from the hotel's pool towels and blame climate change. the lemons are too big. the espresso is always burnt. you fall in love with a waiter named marco who disappears the next morning. your mom pretends not to notice. you write down his name on the back of a postcard and forget which book you hid it in.

east hampton = acceptable only if your grandparents bought before 1980 or your cousin is on the zoning board. otherwise no.

montauk = only if you inherited a property with a bad roof and a wine cellar. or you're having a crisis and need to be ignored.

south of france = acceptable. avoid cannes unless you're on a yacht or being paid. you stay in provence, not antibes. you bring books and forget sunscreen. your uncle knows the vineyard owners.

italy = always a yes but never rome in june unless you're doing latin summer at the vatican or on some kind of bureaucratic punishment. florence if your brother is with you. venice if you're meeting someone's parents. sardinia if your friend's dad is on a boat.

winters :

switzerland = you ski. obviously. your boots were custom-moulded in geneva. you complain about the snow. you throw up at altitude. you do après in your ski trousers because your legs are too sore to change. your mother buys a painting you hate. your brother drinks half a bottle of grappa. someone cries in the sauna. it's never you. your instructor is mean and british and calls you “miss” and you have a crush on him for three years. you pretend not to know how to put your gloves on. you get a nosebleed. you flirt while bleeding. you fall asleep next to a fireplace that doesn't work.

maldives = your father booked it. you weren't consulted. the villa has no wifi. you reread death in venice. you cry because you got too tan. you take pictures you don't post. the staff speak four languages. you pretend to speak five. you get bored. you tan again. you find a crab and name it after your boyfriend. you order room service and pretend it's a tasting menu. you fall asleep during a massage and wake up alone and confused and covered in oil. you swim in the rain. it's freezing. you pretend it's not. you write a poem in your notes app and delete it the next morning. your mother asks if you're okay. you say you're cold. she gives you her scarf.

austria = underrated. real power girls know how to ski and speak german. you go for christmas, say you're visiting your cousin, come back with a new necklace and a changed perspective on the monarchy.

the bahamas = only if it's someone else's island. it doesn't count if you paid for the villa. must be family-invited or romantically-involved. you can only post photos from the plane.

los angeles = no. never. not even for premieres. if you must go, tell people it was layover-induced.

spring and fall :

japan = if you've got art world parents or you're visiting someone who's getting married in kyoto. no cherry blossom photos. no public commentary on sushi.

berlin = you pretend you hate it. you secretly love it.

morocco = if your aunt is weird and rich and doing her doctorate on colonial textiles. you bring too many skirts. you forget to charge your kindle. you have mint tea and say you needed this.

oxford = if your older brother is graduating or if you've just gotten over someone named milo. you wander into blackwell's and pretend not to care. you buy four books you won't read.

paris = only if you're registered for something. a language program. a dance intensive. an unpaid internship your mother arranged. not for fun. for improvement.

barcelona = because we love barcelona.

back to the city by october. you don't miss halloween. or midterms.

how to behave in other countries :

be polite. be bored. be quiet.

never speak more than three words of the local language unless you're fluent.

tip in cash. smile with your teeth. never say thank you too much. looks weird.

buy one souvenir. it must be heavy and inconvenient. your dad must sigh when he sees it.

no guidebooks. you do not read tripadvisor. you text your auntie who once dated warhol and ask for the name of her favourite trattoria in milan. she replies with a fax number. you go anyway. it's closed. you end up at a restaurant that doesn't have a name, just a doorbell. you eat alone. it's incredible. you say nothing about it online. you keep the receipt. you tape it into your notebook. you show no one.

bonus behaviours :

be a mystery. leave before the bill. carry receipts in other currencies. pretend your tan is genetic.

tell customs you were visiting family even if you weren't.

lie about your return date.

pack snacks you never eat.

send one postcard and never mail it.

pretend not to know the timezone. check the time every ten minutes anyway.

key principle : you can go anywhere, but you don't arrive. you're simply present. for now. the trick isn't leaving. it's acting like you never did. you went somewhere, but you never went away.......you know what i mean? anyways ok bye

[max1461]

I think this is more an intentionallio-misunderstandio ad absurdum than a reductio ad absurdum. I remember miti making the same kind of objection to another post where I said we should optimize for human flourishing, or something like that.

Yes, there are reasonable caveats. I don't include every reasonable caveat in every statement of my views and I'm pretty sure you don't either. I could trawl your blog and pull the same bad faith tactic on you, but I don't because I have more decency than that.

Let me try again.

The purpose of institutions is to serve people. No institution has a right to exist—it earns its existence by serving a just end with sufficient success. I do not think Israel is serving a just end with sufficient success. In particular, slaughtering people en masse is really, really, really, really, really, bad, it weighs extremely heavily in the calculation. I think the calculation does not come out in Israel's favor, over various alternatives to the existence of an Israeli state. So if someone says "this alternative to the Israel state would be good" or and someone responds "doesn't Israel have a right to exist?" my answer is going to be "no." In in particular, even if Israel did come out on top in a value-over-replacement sense, it still wouldn't have anything to do with it having a "right to exist". And the reason we are even having this discussion is because Israel is slaughtering people en masse, which is really really really really really bad, and—just as the allies did with Nazi Germany—this makes looking into alternatives to its existence reasonable.

No state has a "right to exist". The purpose of institutions is to serve human beings, and if your institution is slaughtering human beings en masse then it must be stopped. The survival of the institution itself in this scenario is of almost no import.

[zoro-sremedy]

I NEED A HERO!

I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night He's gotta be strong, and he's gotta be fast And he's gotta be fresh from the fight!

Synopsis. Your vibrator died and are in dear need of a rescue.

Including. Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna, Megumi, Yuji.

Risk assessment 18+ mdni, smut and crack, stablished relationship, reader is unprotected, spanking, backshots, missionary, prone bone, mating press, soft dom/dom vibes.

HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO 'TIL THE END OF THE NIGHT! SMAU that started this drabble if you wanna read it.

GETO SUGURU—"YOU DON'T NEED ANYTHING ELSE"

It started with a joke. The amused little smirk he gave you.

Then came the silence—that heavy kind, thick and knowing.

And now?

You're beneath him. Completely. Bent in half, legs folded up towards your chest, arms pinned gently above your head by his hand as he sinks into you for what has to be the hundredth time tonight.

"You poor thing," Geto murmurs, voice warm but sharp at the edge, like silk over steel. "You thought a toy could give you this?"

You try to answer, but you're already moaning—body melting under him, trembling from how deep he reaches. His strokes are slow, controlled, focused—designed to unravel you piece by piece.

"That little thing just buzzed at your clit, didn't it?" he goes on, kissing your jaw, your neck, your clavicle with unbearable patience. "Didn't touch your cervix. Didn't make you cry. Didn't tell you how beautiful you are like this?"

He thrusts deeper—you feel it, that weight pressing down where it aches, where you're soft and needy and desperate for him.

Your hands clench. He tightens his grip on your wrists.

"No, angel. Look at me."

You do.

His purple eyes lock on yours—glowing a little, even in the low light, like they're drinking you in.

"That toy doesn't know how to kiss you while you fall apart," he says, voice velvet-soft. "Doesn't know how you look when you're about to come. Doesn't know what your body begs for."

You gasp, head tilting back as he angles his hips just right—finding that devastating rhythm, again and again. You feel yourself spiraling.

And Geto leans down, forehead against yours, voice just above a whisper:

"I know."

You come. Hard. With a broken cry, tears at the corners of your eyes, chest heaving beneath him. And still—he doesn't stop.

His thrusts grow tighter, rougher, more desperate. You feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek as he groans, "That's it, just like that. Take it, love. Take everything."

When he comes, it's with a soft moan against your lips and a deep grind into your hips, holding you there, filling you to the brim.

He doesn't pull out.

Instead, he shifts, kisses your collarbone, and murmurs:

"Now stay. Let it sink in."

You're breathless. Blinking.

He chuckles softly and presses his palm on your lower belly.

"I want you to feel me for hours. I want you to leak me tomorrow. Let everyone wonder why you're walking so slow."

You whimper, and he kisses your temple sweetly, like didn't just rearrange your soul.

"I'll burn that vibrator later," he adds, smirking into your skin. "For your own good."

GOJO SATORU—"YOU THOUGHT THAT COULD REPLACE ME"

At the end, the filthy little thing abandoned you! How dare it! And after Satoru's threat, you didn't want to risk being edged to madness. So, you actually decided to have a cold shower instead.

You're getting some water when the door slams open.

"Satoru—?!"

"Don't you Satoru me," he growls, strides hitting up the hallway. "You really sent that text and thought I'd stay home?"

He's in front of you before you can blink—shirt half-tucked, pupils blown wide, lips twisted into something between a smirk and a warning.

"I was joking," you whisper, already breathless as he cages you in against the kitchen counter. "I didn't think—"

"Didn't think?" he repeats, jaw ticking. "Didn't think before announcing you were out here mourning a fucking vibrator like your pussy doesn't belong to me?

You whimper.

His hand slides down, fast and firm, slipping beneath your shorts. He finds you embarrassingly wet and groans low, head dropping to your neck.

"God, you are sorry, aren't you?" he murmurs against your throat. "Dripping like this. Practically begging to be punished?"

You nod. "I didn't mean it—please, I'm sorry. I should've waited for you. I need you."

"Oh, baby," he hums, dragging your soaked panties down with one hand while the other lifts you onto the counter. "You do need me. You just forgot what it's like to be ruined."

He doesn't bother undressing fully—just yanks himself out, strokes one, twice and then he's there, thick and hot into you like he owns the space between your legs.

(He does.)

When he thrusts in, you sob.

"Yeah?" he moans. "That feel like something your silly little toy could do? Can it make you back your arch like that? Can it grab your thighs like this while you cream all over it?

Your nails dig into his shoulder as he fucks you deep, relentless. One hand finds your throat—no choke, just holding—and he leans close, breathless against your lips.

"Say it."

You blink up at him, dizzy. "Say… what?"

"That you're mine," he pants. "That no battery-operated piece of plastic could ever make you feel this way."

"I'm yours," you gasp." Only yours—fuck, Satoru—please, don't stop, I'm—"

You melt around him, trembling and slick, and he groans loud as he spills into you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to yours.

When it's over, he doesn't pull away. Just holds you there, still full of him, smirking like the bastard he is.

"Good girl," he murmurs. "Now… next time you even joke about needing a replacement—just remember who shows up ready to break the bed.

You nod, limp and blissed-out. And he—grinning like the madman he is—adds:

"I'm still bringing back up. Just in case. Y'know. Double homicide."

NANAMI KENTO—"YOU SHOULD'VE WAITED FOR ME"

You should've known better than to text him that.

The moment Nanami steps through the door—tie loosened, jacket discarded, sleeve rolled to his elbows—there's something dangerous in his gaze. Something quiet, simmering. All the more terrifying than yelling.

"I see I failed you," he says, setting down his briefcase. His voice is calm. Too calm. "To make you feel so neglected… you considered outsourcing my job."

Your breath stutters as he approaches, undoing the top button of his dress shirt, eyes fixed on you like you're both a problem and the solution.

"Kento, I was just—"

"Joking?" he murmurs, stepping between your knees as you sit on the edge of the bed. His large palm slides up your thigh, warm, adoring. "Darling, you know better than to joke about things like that."

You open your mouth to protest again, but the way he tugs your panties down in one fluid motion tells you talking isn't part of the plan.

He kneels in front of you—his hands still gentle, always gentle—but his mouth? His tongue?

That is punishment.

By the time he rises again, your legs are shaking, your voice wrecked from the begging. And he's not even undone his belt yet.

"Now," he murmurs, brushing your hair back, kissing your temple. "You're going to apologize properly."

He turns you over onto your stomach, pressing a soft kiss between your shoulder blades before he pulls your hips up, spine arching under his guidance. He lines himself up, slow and reverent, like he's not about to break you from the inside out.

And when he pushes in—fully, deeply, thickly—you cry out his name like a confession.

His hands are firm on your waist. His pace is steady, precise, measured—the way he approaches everything else  in life. But his voice, oh, his voice…

"I never want to hear about batteries," he growls into your ear. "I never want you to think there's something that could replace me. You want pleasure? You wait. You wait for your man."

You nod, blubbering, barely able to speak through the way he hits you just right.

"And when I come home from a long day," he pants, pace finally stuttering, "I want to find you right here—warm ,ready, aching—like the good girl you are."

He fucks you through your orgasm like it's his duty. When he finishes inside you with a soft moan of your name, he stays pressed to your back, kissing your shoulder softly, breathing hard against your skin.

"I'll always take care of you," he murmurs, voice hoarse. "No substitute. Ever."

You nod, blissed out and dazed, a sleepy smile curling your lips.

And he, ever the gentlemen, tucks you in the whisper:

"You're mine. And I take my responsibilities seriously."

FUSHIGURO TOJI—"BATTERY-OPERATED? CUTE"

You did wait. The last thing you needed was Toji edging you to your next life. Because he would, even more after you apparently offended him with the use of your pathetic little toy, or so he said.

"You what?"

His voice is flat. Unimpressed. He's tossing your vibrator between his fingers like it's a joke—a sad little toy he plucked from your drawer the second he walked in and saw the way you looked at him: guilty. Needy. Ruined before he even touched you.

"I—It died," you mumble, cheeks hot. "I was just—I wasn't gonna finish—"

"Oh, you weren't? he laughs, full-bellied and sharp. "Could've fooled me. Look at you. So fuckin' desperate you pulled this pathetic thing out like it'd satisfy you?"

He tosses it aside like trash and stalks towards the bed.

"You really think something like that could do what I do?" His shirt is already done, his belt undone—and there's that familiar glint in his eyes: wicked, ravenous. Mean.

By the time he's got you on your stomach, ass in the air, his hands are already spreading your thighs like he owns them.

"Should've waited for me, baby," he says, leaning over your back, tip of his cock dragging between your folds. "Now I gotta show you—again—what the real thing feels like."

The first thrust knocks the breath out of you.

He's thick. Deep. Filling you in a way that makes your eyes roll and brain empty. There's no buildup—just Toji, slamming into you like you owe him something. Like this is a lesson you need to learn.

"You feel that?" he grunts, hand wrapped around your throat, pulling you up just enough to hear your whimpers. "You think some battery-powered piece of plastic could fuck you this deep?"

He slaps your ass, watches it bounce. His thrusts are brutal, unrelenting. You're already clenching, already gasping—and he's just getting started.

"Say it," a low, hungry sound leaving that pretty face of his. "Say you're sorry for trying to replace me."

"I'm—fuck—sorry," you cry, barely able to breathe. "It's not the same, I swear—"

"Damn right it's not the same," he snarls, grabbing your hips tighter, driving into you so hard the headboard cracks. "You're mine. This pussy's mine. Don't you ever forget that again."

Your orgasm hits like a freight train—unexpected, unstoppable—and he doesn't let up. He keeps going, even when your legs shake, even when you sob his name like a prayer.

By the time he's done, his cum is dripping from between your thighs, you're brain's barely functioning.

And still, he leans down, kisses your shoulder, voice low and smug.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he purrs, "I'll buy you a new one."

A beat. A smirk.

"Just so I can break it again."

RYOMEN SUKUNA—"IMPUDENT LITTLE THING"

His throne room is dim and gold-drenched, heat coiling in the air like smoke.

You hadn't even meant to tell him about the broke thing—the poor, dead vibrator now tucked in the bottom of your drawer—but he felt it the second he returned. Felt your body still humming with frustration, with denial. With betrayal.

"You toyed with yourself," Sukuna murmurs, voice like velvet over glass. "In my absence. With that?" You flinch under his gaze. His four eyes burn with quiet disdain, like he's looking at something pitiful—a servant that disobeyed. A possession that misbehaved.

"Sukuna, I didn't mean—"

"You did not wait for me." He steps down from the throne, barefoot and lethal. "And you expect leniency?"

-

The broken vibrator is on the nightstand of his chamber, like a criminal caught in the act. Sukuna sees it. Picks it up. Smirks.

"Pathetic little thing." Hi s voice is thick with amusement and venom as he lets it fall with a dull thunk on the floor. Then he turns to you—already bare, already flushed, knees pressed together nervously on his bed.

He's quiet for a beat.

Then he's on you.

One hand wraps around your ankle, dragging you flat onto your back like a prey. His body covers yours in an instant—massive, solid, terrifying—all ancient muscle and cruel intention. He grabs your thighs, shoves them open, wide enough to ache, and settles between them like a god claiming tribute.

"Let's see what kind of mess that toy made," he murmurs, running two fingers through your folds. You're embarrassingly soaked. "Tch. You're still this wet for me?"

You gasp, but he doesn't wait. He lines himself up—thick, heavy, perfect—and slides in deep in one brutal, punishing stroke.

Your back arches of the. He growls, low and guttural.

"That's it," Sukuna hisses, pressing down until you're completely folded under him, legs hooked over his shoulders, hips pinned. "Look at me."

You're trembling. There's nowhere to hide. His four crimson eyes stare down at you, devouring every twitch, every moan, every time your lashes flutter.

"Is this what you need? A fake little buzz, or this—my cock kissing your womb like it belongs there?"

He starts to move���slowly at first, but each thrust grows more intense. More deliberate. He rolls his hips to grind impossibly deep, relishing the way you gasp with each stroke, they way your hands claw helplessly at his arms.

"You'll take every inch," he grunts. "Every drop."

One hand slides to your belly, pressing down—you feel the bulge of him inside you, obscene and undeniable.

"Look at how deep I am. That toy never even made it past your entrance."

You whimper, lost in him. He smirks.

"That's right. Whimper for me. Let that ruined cunt remember what real pleasure feels like."

And then he snaps his hips.

Again. And again.

You come—not once, but twice—sobbing his name, thighs trembling against his shoulders, body a trembling mess beneath him. And still he doesn't stop.

"One more," he growls. "You're gonna come again—with my cock inside, and my name in your throat."

You do.

And he follows.

Sukuna spills inside you with a low, possessive groan, burying himself to the hilt. You feel full—thick warmth flooding you until it leaks around his cock, dripping down your thighs.

When he finally lets your leg down, he doesn't pull out.

He lays on top of you—heavy, warmth and possessive—cock still buried deep.

"You'll stay like this," he murmurs against your ear. "So every time you walk, you feel me leaking out."

And with a final, smug chuckle, he adds:

"Try replacing that, little one."

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI—"EMERGENCY RELIEF"

You barely make it to the bed before he's pressing you down, lips grazing your cheek with a quiet, unimpressed sigh.

"You couldn't wait for me?" he murmurs against your skin.

You whimper a weak sorry—but he's already there, behind you, hand curling under your thigh to lift your leg over his hip, cock slowly sliding into you from behind, inch by deliberate inch.

"I'm here now,' he says quietly. "So stop fidgeting."

You nod, biting your lip as he sinks in deep, so deep you swear you can feel him in your chest. The room is dim and quiet, his chest warm against your back, his arm beneath your head holding you still like you're made of something precious.

He doesn't thrust hard. He rolls into you. Every deep, slow stroke is maddening—filling, soothing, wrecking.

"You couldn't wait, so now you're going to take your time," he says against your shoulder. "That toy couldn't do this."

You can't even argue. You're too fool, too breathless, the angle of your leg letting him reach everything inside you that makes your spine arch and your eyes flutter.

His hand slips between your thighs, thumb circling your clit in lazy, knowing motions.

He kisses your neck softly.

"Always so needy," he murmurs. "But this is what you wanted, wasn't it?"

You nod fast, moaning quietly, trying to hold back the sounds that bubble up.

"'Gumi—please—"

"You're lucking I miss you," he says, voice low, almost smiling as he slows down even more, just to hear the whimper in your throat. "Because otherwise, I would've let you suffer for teasing me like that."

When you come, it's not loud—it's devastating. Your whole body tenses, then melts into him, sobbing as you fall apart, clenching around him like you're trying to keep him forever.

He follows soon after, a groan into your shoulder as he spills deep, still inside you, staying exactly where you both want him.

You're both quiet for a while.

His hand strokes along your side, his breathing slow.

Then, a quiet murmur:

"Throw that thing away."

You laugh, exhausted. "Yes, sir."

ITADORI YUJI—"PUT ME IN COACH"

"Okay—" he pants, sweat dripping down his temple as he presses deeper into you, "—you're gonna have to say if it's too much, 'kay?"

You laugh, gasping as his hips meet your ass again, thick cock hitting just the right spot. "You're literally apologizing while wrecking me."

"Wha—I'm not wrecking you," Yuji huffs, offended. "I'm being gentle!"

You look over your shoulder, barely managing a smirk. "Baby, you're flatting me against the bed and whispering sweet nothings while my face is in a pillow."

He whines—actually whines—and leans over you, punishing, pushing you deeper in the prone bone position, his broad chest on your back, lips at your ear.

"I'm just—trying to make it good for you," he mumbles, hips stuttering when you clench around him. "Better than your toy."

You giggle, breath shaky. "You're jealous of my vibrator."

He groans. "You named it."

"I name everything!"

"I heard you say 'he never lets me down' with a smile," he mutters into your neck.

"And yet—" you moan as he grinds into you slow and deep, making your legs shake, "—here I am, flat on my stomach, absolutely owned."

Yuji moans again, like it physically affects him. "Yeah? Say it louder."

"You're better," you whisper, breath hitching as his thrusts quicken, muscles flexing above you. "So much better, Yuji—oh my god—"

His arm wraps around your waist, holding you tighter. "Good. Because I'm not stopping until you forget his name."

He means it, too. He's panting, flushed, focused completely on your pleasure. Every roll of his hips is desperate, not for release, but to feel you fall apart beneath him. When you come, he nearly cries, whispering "that's it, that's my girl," over and over like a prayer.

And even after, when your legs are shaking and you're practically sobbing into the sheets, he's still kidding you back, asking if you're okay, offering water—

Right before he says:

"… so, we are throwing him out, right?"

[svetamillss]

Random headcanons in your relationship with them✨

Featuring: Yeon Si Eun x Reader(f), Ahn Su Ho x Reader(f), Oh Beom Seok x Reader(f), Seo Jun Tae x Reader(f), Park Hu Min (Baku) x Reader(f), Go Hyeon Tak x Reader(f)

A/N: English is not my native language! Sorry for the mistakes! I was also asked to write with these boys.

Yeon Si Eun

The guy likes to help you with your homework. Despite the fact that he doesn't like to be distracted while studying, he has a completely different attitude towards you. He is ready to explain the same thing to you until you understand the material. In secret, he is amused by the fact that you are embarrassed by such attention on his part to your grades. It's just that he really wants you to have a good future and is ready to do anything for this.

- Damn, I don't understand this math at all. - you sigh nervously, sitting on his bed, he just looks at you carefully, the corner of his mouth twitches slightly, saying that he is smiling.

- I'll explain everything to you now.

- But you've already done it..

- I'll explain again until you understand. - You don't understand how you deserved love from such a secretive and quiet person like him.

Ahn Su Ho

The guy loves your food madly, he is ready to give up any other, just to eat only yours. Knowing his love, you cook for him all the time. And bring lunch and dinner to him at work, to a restaurant or before he goes to deliver orders. It is important for you to know that your boyfriend is full of energy and not starving, and he has a very good appetite. He will say a million compliments to you, your talent and your food.

- Oh my God, my princess came to save me from hunger. - he says, when you enter the restaurant, Si Eun looks at him strangely.

- You're in a restaurant, you could have eaten here.

- Dude, you won't understand. - he waves it off with a smile, running up to you and hugging you tightly.

Oh Beom Seok

You know his relationship with his father, so you are always ready to help and support him in difficult moments. He often runs away from home after quarrels, he comes to you. Yes, he is ashamed, he is shy, because he has to protect you, not you, but you don't mind at all and are happy to take him in. Your parents don't mind either, because they know his situation, but they don't question him. At home, you will feed him, let him take a shower, and put him on your bed, next to you, so that he feels safe. And he is really grateful to you, and in his heart he believes that he did not deserve you.

- Thank you. - he says quietly, before you both plunge into the kingdom of Morpheus, he will also lightly kiss you on the cheek as a sign of gratitude and love.

Seo Jun Tae

Despite the fact that the guy is a high school graduate, he loves to watch cartoons, but no one knows about it, not even his friends. But you are an exception. When you learned about his passion for cartoons, you gladly accepted his passion and began to arrange home dates with him, where ate sweets and watched various cartoons.

- What cartoon are we going to watch today? - he asked when he brought chips, marmalade and soda to the room, you answered without thinking twice.

- Let's watch "Sponge Bob: Square Pants".

- Great idea. - he replied with a shy smile.

Park Hu Min (Baku)

Your boyfriend was a knight to you, and you were his princess. That's why he constantly met you from school or extra classes, no matter where and what time they are, he will still come. Baku will follow you to your favorite places, whether it's various fashion stores or something like that. At first you wondered why he protected you so much, but when he told more about himself, everything fell into place. He is very afraid to lose you, so he will watch over you as the most important treasure in the world.

- What time do you finish today? - he asks when he brought you to school.

- I'll finish at five.

- Okay, honey, I'll come exactly at this time. - he said, kissing you on the lips.

Go Hyeon Tak

He had two passions. It's you and basketball. So you weren't surprised when he chose a basketball court as a place for dates. He really wanted to teach you how to play so that you could play basketball together later. You didn't burn much with desire, but you agreed for him, because you knew that your boyfriend wanted you to have common interests with him.

- Well, are you ready to fight me today? - he said cheerfully, taking the ball in his hands.

- But I didn't really learn!

- No need to say that, you already know how to do a lot, so at the same time let's see how you learned my lessons.

✨✨✨

[persephinae]

i need people to understand two things or more can be true

100k-500k is middle class

the above is STILL a lot of fucking money, more so when you're in abject poverty. that IS rich compared to when you're in poverty

The middle class has actually shrunk down and is smaller than what you think

Those in abject poverty is waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyy bigger than what you think

there are more people in poverty than people living comfortably

and i see it every day in my notes - people working 2-3 jobs and exhausted, people who don't have a savings because their jobs suck ass, people who can't afford good food because they have to make their dollar stretch

i've been in poverty and people who have never been poor do not fucking understand how mentally, soul crushing, awful and exhausting it is.

I was LUCKY and able to claw my way out of poverty into lower lower middle class, save money while I lived with my parents, and now I'm able to help my family if they need anything, but a lot of people never get that lucky break

i need you to understand that when you're poor you wear clothes and shoes until there's holes in them. You buy clothes and shoes at garage sales and ebay. You make the cheapest, crappiest food known to mankind because that's all you can afford - IF you can afford it. A lot of people work at jobs and still go fucking hungry. I had to work at a catholic charity one year and I answered the phone. It broke my fucking heart and had me crying to hear men calling us thinking we were the United Way, their voices breaking and crying as they tried to find food for their families.

When you're in poverty you juggle which utilities you can afford or not, but you never want your water to be shut off because then you can't bathe or have drinking water or toilets. I used to go to school with a girl who was in poverty worse than my family, the school laughed at her and called her "cat litter" because she smelled so bad. <- she had her water shut off and couldn't bathe or wash her clothes properly. (I hope she's doing better in life)

YOU. DON'T. UNDERSTAND. POVERTY.

and shame on that commenter above who claimed they had been poor. When you're that fucking poor you fucking REMEMBER where you came from and you do everything you can to make sure no one else suffered like you did. Also rich people will never accept you or let you escape the fact that you were poor. I've lived this.

I'm not rich but if I was ripped apart by people working 3 jobs and starving I'd be like "that's fair. I get it."

Everyone above sounds like they've never been poor and I'll tell you what you sound like - rich people. Rich people say the exact same thing because they don't want anyone to disrupt their money.

Yes, the middle class is not Billionaire rich, but I need people to really fucking understand poverty and WHY poverty stricken people feel that way. Income disparity is THAT fucking bad.

and when the revolution comes it won't be from middle class people wasting time with leftist infighting who never actually go out and support their community - it will be from the people with nothing left to lose because everything was already taken.

trying to explain to tumblr that the Middle Class in not their enemy

[sourle]

Imagine reader who likes to listen to people yap about their life but their only friend is Taph so they tried to be the one talking but fumbled badly [they suddebnly forgot everythibg that has ever happened in their life]

Yappology

Lalalalala|Okokokokok

WARNINGS: NONE

Note: Taph milestones when

You sat next to him in the boot in the restaurant like dining area, talking about your last round to him before in turns to you explaining how your gui used to work. using the paper on your clipboard to draw what you gui used to look like. You still can't remember what happens to your gui before being forsaken. You know it's still there with you, yet you don't have the guts to show it off.

Taph would just listen, nodding or shaking his head whenever you asks a yes or no question. His hand mindlessly draw on the blank paper on your clipboard. "So.. yeah, that how it used to work.. Oh and It also able to merge with my body, I think. I can also morph into anything I want! Fictions too, as long as I know what they look like."

Taph nods, his hand fiddling with the pink crayon in his hand. "OH! I've been meaning to ask, how does your subspace works? Did you make it yourself? Invent it?.. Does it really explode even with a small poke?"

Taph paused, staring at your curios expression. He just slowly nods, raising his hands to answer all your questions with hand signs. Occasionally he would freeze before continuing to sign a bit faster. He got a bit nervous due to your intense gaze at him and his hands. Slowly his hands moves a bit faster. You can't understand all of it due to his hands blurring to the quick motion.

"Hey Taph- Y.. You don't have to tell me all!" You placed a hand against his trembling one, he seems nervous since he's not one to ramble or talk a lot, you can guess why.

Taph nods, his hand slowly rising.

"Got more room for one more?"

You scream as Chance jumps at both you and Taph once more.

[kedreeva]

person behind the peafowl price ask: just wanted to add that I wasn't meaning to imply anything like... heartless about the birds, I was just curious because of the fact there are bigger breeders, so I was trying to figure out how they stay afloat, and if that was super different from more... 'hobbyist' keepers I guess? I don't know how else to term you lol

(Thank you for answering my question by the way!)

no no, that's how I took it!

the bigger breeders stay afloat by cutting corners, and skimping on care. Just flat out, they do.

One of the biggest breeders in the USA keeps most of his breeders in 10x20 pens (fyi the minimum ethical pen space is 500 square feet..... that's not even half the ethical standard). They buy food in bulk, whatever is cheapest. Brad Legg sells 6 packs of "random" day-old peachicks (all the blues he doesn't want from his mixed pens) knowing full well that anyone ordering a random 6 pack of peachicks knows fuck all about peachicks and will likely kill them off while they're still super fragile (if they don't die in shipping). They don't really do vet work if they don't absolutely have to, they breed way more birds than they have room to house, and they aren't at all picky about who buys from them (for example, not caring at all if the new home has any idea how to care for a peafowl), because a dead bird means another sale, since the new keeper will be told it was their fault. They will take unwanted birds to auction, where they will sometimes fetch some insane prices because people going to auctions don't know how else to get them, and often the birds injure themselves quite severely at auction events because the auctioneers are not trained in handling peafowl. I've seen so many reports of broken legs or broken wings from auctions. Not even people I generally like are free from this kind of poor care! I genuinely like Bill and i think he generally does love his birds and wants to take care of them and STILL, I have a footless wonder in my living room because Bill used smaller wood for roosts than he should have, and didn't get vet care done.

if you can't tell, I may have opinions on large scale peafowl farms.

Anyway, to answer your new question- I would be considered a small scale breeder, or a hobby breeder, depending on who you ask.

[m1ssunderstanding]

what quotes do we have about Jim not liking John besides John talking about Paul picking John over Jim? I’m sure that was John’s emotional read on the situation especially in the 70s when he thinks Paul chose family (Linda) OVER him is that legit what was happening?

Okay I took forever to answer this because I feel like if I get too deep in the Jim McCartney swamps, I have to leave for a minute so people don't start thinking that's all I do here on Tumblr dot com. So, here we finally are.

Let's start with the part of the anti-Jim rant from John where he claims Jim didn't like him. "And his dad was always trying to get me out of the group behind me back, I found out later. He’d say to George: “Why don’t you get rid of John, he’s just a lot of trouble."

My takeaways from this quote are the following: Jim liked George enough to both want him as Paul's friend and to confide in him and ask him to take action on his behalf. This is potentially going on behind Paul's back as well as John's. Just from this quote, if we trust John's account, we can safely conclude that Jim really did not like John. It's not just a feeling John got. He was actively trying to remove this boy from his son's life.

There is also the fact that, according to Mark Lewisohn, Jim forbade Paul from spending any time with John outside of official gigs and practices for the band, so to write together in the early days, they'd skip school and go back to Paul's house while his dad was at work. Not just for the fun of skipping school, which actually would've been a risk and a sacrifice for Paul, but because this was the only way they could be together.

Also, while we're here, as I was going back through for this ask, I realized Lewisohn doesn't mention that Jim threatened to kick Paul out if he didn't get a job. So when John says he and George 'couldn't understand it', no. Of course you couldn't. Neither of you were facing threats of homelessness so it was easy for you both to stand up to any pressures on that end (I don't know if George got any at all). And that means when Paul chose the band, it really was choosing John over Jim.

"I started working at a coil-winding factory called Massey and Coggins. My dad had told me to go out and get a job. I'd said, 'I've got a job, I'm in a band.' But after a couple of weeks of doing nothing with the band it was, 'No, you have got to get a proper job.' He virtually chucked me out of the house: 'Get a job or don't come back.' So I went to the employment office and said, 'Can I have a job? Just give me anything.' I said, 'I'll have whatever is on the top of that little pile there.' And the first job was sweeping the yard at Massey and Coggins. I took it."

[nephynes]

now we need a pt.2 where she tells sunghoon that she stopped taking pills and then all hell broke loose

it really did need a part 2 (just with a little twist)

MDNI

part 1 here

══════════════════════════

You noticed the first time when the pack only had three left. It was a quiet morning, you were still tucked in your sheets, barely awake, your body sore in that sweet way that meant he'd had you up against the wall the night before. He was still asleep, arm flung lazily over your waist, head nuzzled into your neck like always.

And you remembered.

You blinked at the tiny foil circles on your nightstand and whispered, "Hoonie, can you go by the pharmacy this weekend? I'm running low."

"Mhm," he hummed into your skin, lips brushing your shoulder. "I'll go tonight."

It didn't seem like a big ask. He always got them for you. The pharmacy was one town over, weird prescription rules, out-of-stock chains nearby but he never complained. If anything, he insisted on doing it. Said he didn't like the idea of you going alone. Said he wanted to be the one taking care of you.

You liked that. You really liked knowing he was the one who kept you safe. That he knew your cycle better than you did. You never questioned it.

Until it started happening again.

You brought it up two days later. Then again three days after that. Each time, his answer was the same — a little nod, a "don't worry, I'll get them," followed by a kiss to your forehead or a squeeze of your thigh, and that was that.

But the pills never came.

And now you're sitting on the floor of your shared bedroom, blanket wrapped around your waist, legs trembling from how hard you just came against your own fingers and nothing feels like enough.

Your body's hot, worse than usual this time. Your nipples ache, your thighs twitch, and your skin feels like it's crawling with need. The kind of need only he can fix. And you already know why.

Because it's day 14 of your cycle, you're not on the pill.

You're ovulating and you’re sure he knows it.

You stare blankly at the empty blister pack in your palm. The pale blue foil catches the light, mocking you.

Something's off. You know it. He hasn't forgotten. Sunghoon doesn't forget. He's meticulous, always ten steps ahead, always watching over you, always running that hand down your back in bed and whispering, "You're safe with me, baby. I've got you."

You're not scared. Not really. But something coils tight in your chest as you pad out into the living room and see him on the couch, lazy in sweats, one hand resting on his chest, the other on his phone.

He looks up the second he hears your footsteps.

"Hey," he says gently. "You okay?"

You hold up the empty pack, voice tight. "You still didn't go."

He doesn't say anything right away.

Just sets his phone down.

Sits up.

"I meant to," he offers. "I just... forgot again."

You stare at him. Waiting for a smirk. A tell. Something. But all you see is that calm, steady gaze, the same one he gives you when he's watching you undress. Or when you're riding him and don't realize he's memorizing every whimper.

"You don't forget," you whisper.

He sighs.

Runs a hand through his hair.

"No," he says finally. "I don't."

The words hit you like a pin drop in a silent room.

You blink. "So... you didn't forget?"

His throat bobs. He leans back slowly, knees spread, eyes on you like he's already imagining you falling to them.

"I kept meaning to. But the longer I didn't... the harder it was to go."

You don't move. You don't breathe. Because you're starting to understand.

"You knew I was almost out."

"I knew."

"You knew I'd ovulate this week."

He nods.

"And you didn't go."

He doesn't answer.

The air turns heavy. You can feel it pressing down on you. All that need swirling low in your belly flares — not just arousal now, but disbelief, betrayal, want. So much want you think it might break you.

You cross the room slowly, blanket still wrapped around you, and straddle his lap without a word. His hands don't move. Not yet. They sit at your hips, thumbs stroking your skin softly, reverently.

"Tell me why," you breathe.

He looks up at you like you already know the answer.

"Because I wanted you like this," he says, voice hoarse. "Wet. Needy. Desperate."

You let out a shaky breath. Your body's already betraying you, pressing into him, grinding slow circles against the half-hard bulge in his pants.

"That's fucked up."

"I know, baby." He sighs out the words, "I didn't want to."

There's a snap in the air between you. Like something invisible just cracked clean in half.

"You wanted this," you whisper.

He doesn't even pretend to lie.

"I did."

You stare at him, stunned. Heat surges down your spine, your core clenching without permission, like your body's already made the decision your mind hasn't caught up with yet.

Sunghoon notices.

Of course he does.

His hands slide up under your shirt, slowly dragging the hem higher until it rests above your hips, baring your soft thighs in his lap. He breathes in sharply when he sees there's nothing underneath.

"Fuck."

You shouldn't do this. You know you shouldn't but you feel too full of want, too fogged with hormones. You should get up. You should fight him.

Instead, you lean in, grip his jaw with both hands and kiss him so hard your teeth knock. He groans, mouth opening under yours, tongue sliding in deep, desperate. His hands clamp down hard on your hips and pull you flush against his cock, grinding you over him once, twice, until you're gasping.

"Let me," you beg against his lips. "Let me ride you. I—I need it."

His eyes flutter shut. His voice comes out strangled.

"Fuck, please don’t say that."

"I do."

"You don't."

You rock against him again, dragging your bare cunt over the thin fabric of his sweats, soaking him through. He bites back a moan.

"I'm not wearing a condom," he warns, but his hands are already tugging your shirt off, dragging it over your head.

"You never put one on."

"I haven't replaced your pills."

"I know."

He freezes.

His eyes search yours, mouth parted, breath uneven.

"Say it again."

"I know I'm not on the pill," you whisper, trembling. "I know what I'm doing."

His voice breaks.

"Fuck—"

In a second, he's lifting you, maneuvering you under him, kneeing the sweats down just enough to free himself. His cock slaps up against his stomach, thick, hard, flushed red and leaking at the tip and you whimper at the sight of it, eyes wide.

He doesn't tease. He doesn't drag it over your folds or play with you like he usually does. He just lines up and presses in, slow, steady, impossibly deep.

You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. He groans low in your ear, arms caging you beneath him, breath ragged.

"God, you're always so tight—"

You're already clenching around him, your walls fluttering from the stretch. He holds himself still once he's fully inside, trembling.

"I shouldn't," he pants. "I know I shouldn't. But you feel so fucking good." “Doesn’t matter how many times I fuck your needy little cunt op—” “Oh fuck! Baby stop clenching.”

"Don't stop," you plead.

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in.

You choke on a moan.

He does it again.

Again.

Harder.

"You feel that?" he growls, voice guttural. "That's me, filling you raw."

You sob, nodding.

"And you're gonna let me, aren't you?" His hand cups your jaw, forces you to look at him. "You're gonna let me stay inside. Gonna take everything I give you."

"Sunghoon—"

"You want me to cum in you?" he asks, eyes wild. "Want me to fill you up and not pull out?"

You cry out something that sounds like yes. Or maybe please. You don't know anymore.

He groans a dark, possessive sound and fucks into you harder, deeper, panting between words.

"I'm gonna ruin you. You know that, right?"

You whimper, nodding frantically.

"You're mine," he growls. "And if I get you pregnant... good."

You moan, high and wrecked, your back arching as he drills into you.

"Good," he repeats, snapping his hips forward. "You were made to take me like this."

His hand slips between your bodies, finds your clit and rubs tight circles until your legs shake, and that's it, the pressure explodes, white-hot and overwhelming, your orgasm tearing through you like a dam breaking.

Sunghoon curses under his breath, buries himself to the hilt, and finally gives in knowing he’s made you cum, he moans your name as he spills into you, hot and deep and endless.

He doesn't pull out.

Not for a long time.

Not even when you start to come down and blink up at him, dazed and dizzy, your thighs still twitching around him.

He just kisses your temple and mutters, "We'll talk about pills later."

══════════════════════════

• a/n: well sunghoon’s definitely gonna be a daddy now 🤷🏽‍♀️

[rassicas]

whenever i see people who don't think the splatoon world has a government or think that its a totally lawless world, i cant help but think that. hm. i dont think you know how much goes into making an industrialized society function. how much work and how many rules and regulations go into all the things around us. xkcd comic that perfectly encapsulates what i mean

all of this shit would be happening in the splatoon world too. If you ever wonder if a certain job exists in the splatoon world the answer 99.9% of the time is yes. pumpkin farmer. logistics management at a grocery store. lawyer. president of a school board. industrial engineer. entomologist. literally all of this would exist in the splatoon world. you also would have carjackers and serial killers. the splatoon world is supposed to be as complex as our own. as i type this post im realizing how insane i sound. scratches head oh right you wanted government lore. um uhh -inkadia and the splatlands are divided specifically by prefectural borders, implying they are part of the same country. we don't know anything about how the government runs on a national level. if you wanted to know if they have a prime minister of squidjapan i literally couldnt tell you. i wish i knew. -there is a police force in both inkadia and the splatlands, and a defunct prison in the splatlands (bonerattle arena), meaning there is a legal system in place. a few crimes that people have been canonically arrested for include robbery, embezzlement, and terrorism -there is a "splatsville department of public health." surely inkopolis has one too. surely there are all sorts of official departments for all kinds of things -inkopolis square canonically has a chamber of commerce. i know chambers of commerce arent part of the government but sometimes will lobby for things so. sure

-there is an international turf war league, which may be a governing body over the sport...? but thats not the same kind of government as i was thinking about when making this post. or uh. hm.

im realizing this is too broad and at the same time we really dont know the specifics of things people would actually want to know. unfortunately. this post kind of sucks im going to bed

just had the thought of "i should document all the mentions of/direct references to government in the splatoon world" and realized the infinity symbol representing autism is so appropriate because brother this shit never ends

[pineconepie]

CHARACTERS: Octavian, Reader/You

WARNINGS/TAGS: Mostly fluff, brief descriptions of animal cruelty and death (from a movie), blanket forts, modern AU, parental yandere, slight infantilization, cuddling, gender neutral reader

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a commission! To the commissioner, I hope this is satisfactory! <3

"All of these screens are an eyesore," Octavian says, though doesn't resist as you drag him down the technology aisle. His cloak sweeps against his legs with his movements. You both get a lot of weird looks, to which Octavian glares them all down and pulls you close, as if they're giving weird looks at you and not his strange attire.

You smile at him. "Have you ever really seen a TV? Or a phone, for that matter? Anything?"

"Telegraphs are as far as I go, and those things were insufferable," Octavian huffs. "Though I have seen others on their phones many times when in town like now. I just never felt very curious about them."

"Here!" You point out the TVs on display, ranging in different sizes and shapes. Some of them have curved edges while others are so thin they can be mistaken for picture frames. They all play the same scene from some random drama show and none of them seem to hold Octavian's attention. You reach up and tap his nose, "You see how many colors they are? That's much better than a telegraph."

He laughs a little at that. "Sweetheart, anything is better than a telegraph. If this is what you want, I'll get the entire stock." He reaches into his cloak and pulls out an old-fashioned looking billfold.

"We only need one, Papa."

At the check-out, he pays, to which you awkwardly look away from the cashier.

"Sick costume," he says. "Did you guys come from the convention down the street?"

"Sure did," you answer upon seeing Octavian's confused expression. The cashier begins talking to another customer, prompting you to turn to Octavian while he fills out some things. "Are you excited to have some kind of entertainment other than books and gardening?"

"And cooking," he adds, not looking up from struggling with the electronic device. "I have you, though, and that's all the entertainment I need. You keep me on my toes every hour of the day." He finishes his indecipherable signature, making you snort. He sends you a playful glare. "Why on earth is everything digital nowadays? I can't even write my signature on a piece of paper now!"

You roll your eyes fondly.

...

Octavian tries hard to follow the directions you read to him. His eyebrows pinch together in concentration and there's a line between his brows from him wrinkling his nose. He wears reading glasses, which slip down his nose throughout the endeavor. He constantly pushes them back up.

Every time you try to help him, he refuses. "I've got it, Just let Papa handle this."

You're pretty sure he doesn't have it, but you don't dare argue. Instead, you just continue sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the living room floor while reading the directions.

Finally, after a grueling hour and thirty minutes, Octavian triumphantly stands back and looks at the TV propped against the wall. You grab the remote beside you, scooting up on your knees, and press the power button.

The screen comes on, much to your relief. Octavian lets out a big sigh as if he'd been holding his breath during the entire set-up process.

"So... what now?" Octavian asks.

"Now, we build our cozy little blanket fort in front of the TV and watch movies." You grin widely at him and put down the remote. You pick up the two bags filled with blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, and everything you bought for movie night. Well, Octavian was the one to do the buying, but you picked out everything.

"Let me do that, silly," he chuckles and grabs them from you. You stand back up, ready to protest, but he wags a finger at you before turning away to start setting up.

You think about helping, but then remember how stubborn he gets whenever you try to make things easier for him.

Once everything is set up, Octavian turns around with open arms. "Well? How is it? Does this pass inspection, Your Highness?" There's a mock bow to finish off.

Instead of answering him right away, you duck down and crawl into the little fort made of soft sheets and blankets. Inside, it's very spacious— much bigger than any blanket forts you ever made as a kid. In here, the cushions are soft and inviting and warm.

"It passed," you tell him as you wiggle around, searching for the perfect spot. Octavian makes his way in and lays himself across from you.

"How do we work this thing?" he asks, picking up the remote.

"Oh, right." You crawl out of the fort to grab the bag, showing him the movies that were on sale. "They were buy three get one free. For your first movie ever, I'd like you to do the honors of choosing."

He squints at each one like it's a foreign language. All of them are animated children's movies from the past thirty years or so. You're afraid anything more than a lighthearted kids cartoon would be too much for him, rather than yourself.

"The Fox and the Hound, The Princess and the Frog, Ponyo, and The Land Before Time," he reads aloud. He looks mildly concerned. "These are all age-appropriate, right?"

"I think your mind can handle these all, so yes."

"I meant for you, dear." He picks The Fox and the Hound movie case. "When I was younger, still a human, I had a bloodhound that looks like the dog here." You can't resist smiling at how cliche that sounds. Octavian puts the case down. "Ah, before we start, should I make some snacks?"

"Snacks!" you repeat happily and start getting up, but he pushes you back down gently.

"I'll make them, sweetling," he says. "Just stay here and wait, okay? Don't start the movie without me!" There's a playful spark in his eyes before he starts toward the kitchen.

"I won't, I won't," you laugh.

Barely five minutes later, he comes back with a bowl full of popcorn and two glasses balanced on the same tray. He's careful when he gives them to you.

As he pops open the DVD player and slides the disk inside, you notice him struggle with getting everything just right. You know he doesn't want you helping him, so instead you just lean back and pop pieces of popcorn into your mouth.

There's a few minutes of shuffling around and fiddling with the buttons, then the screen brightens and music begins playing. Octavian hurries back to the fort, careful not to step on any of the pillows and blankets. Finally, he settles in beside you, wraps an arm around your shoulder, and pulls you close to his chest.

The usual trailers started to play.

At a trailer for the Beauty and The Beast sequel, Octavian points. "Oh, that one looks lovely. I would love to see that when it comes out."

You shake your head fondly. "It's been out for probably two decades at least." Once again, his amazed expression is amusing.

The beginning scene starts, and Octavian is already clutching you closer. "The mother fox is going to be killed!"

"Papa, it's not real, don't worry," you reassure.

Octavian's expressions change rapidly, already emotionally invested from the first few seconds. He lifts you into his lap to cradle you like a baby when the mother fox hides her baby away to save him from the dog chasing her. His clutch tightens when the gunshots go off, insinuating her death. His wide-eyed stare of horror almost makes you feel bad.

"Are all movies like this?" he asks in horror.

"No," you answer. "But older movies like these were a bit more violent than most of today's movies meant for kids." You pat his chest lightly in reassurance.

"It has a happy ending at least, right?"

"Uh..." you trail off. "No spoilers."

Though he continues clutching you during moments of tension in the movie, his reactions make it worth the discomfort. You find yourself focusing more on him than the actual story. During every sad or remotely violent scene, Octavian covers your eyes with his palm.

His reactions end up feeling more like the movie rather than the one being played by the TV. Octavian does not have a good poker face at all, even if he were trying to subdue his reactions to each scene.

Despite it being a little intense, there are a lot of sweet scenes too, to which Octavian relaxes and stares at the television, absentmindedly petting your hair and kissing your forehead. His affectionate gestures are also distracting, but it feels nice to just be held like this after such a long day.

"Who's your favorite so far?" you ask.

He thinks about it briefly. "The owl, but I also do love Tod. I'll cry if anything happens to him. I definitely do not like that hunter." It makes you smile seeing how strongly he feels for the characters.

For the entire hour and a half, Octavian's reactions range from sorrow to shock to laughter to anger to amusement.

After the final scene plays and the credits begin, he stares at the TV. "That's... it? I thought they'd be friends again and live off somewhere happier!"

"It's a bittersweet ending."

He dramatically sighs, resting his cheek on top of your head. "That was the saddest thing ever. You broke my heart, (Y/n). Are you proud of yourself? You broke your poor father's heart." Despite this, he doesn't seem truly upset, just acting as if he were heartbroken.

"Well, this is your first-ever movie! If you didn't end up sobbing your heart out, then it wouldn't count as a successful movie experience." You snuggle closer against him. "Did you like it?"

"I loved it, believe it or not. Can we watch another one?" He hugs you even closer. "Something happier this time, for heaven's sake."

"Ponyo it is!"

[reiinaissance]

STEP UP YOUR GAME ft. arataki itto (genshin impact) x female! reader

⟢ summary Arataki Itto, one of the troublemakers in your university, needed to pass his test in his failing subject to be able to play this year's football game. So he begged for you, the smartest girl in his class, to tutor him. You never thought it would lead to something more...

��� content warnings nsfw, modern! university! alternative universe, sub! reader, oral (male receiving), dirty talk, size kink, unprotected. minors do not interact.

⟢ word count 1.5k

⟢ notes this is a repost from my old account ☻

archive of our own

"No."

Arataki Itto almost dropped to his knees. No? "W-What?"

"I won't tutor you."

"Why?!"

You told yourself you wouldn't get involved with the Arataki Gang who were notorious on the campus for being... well... troublemakers. Kuki Shinobu was an exception, though, because she's your best friend. And she mostly stayed out of trouble. You never knew how she joined them, it just happened.

"I just... I have a lot of stuff to do this week." You said, opening your notebook to read the lecture for today's class.

You heard Itto sighing sadly, and you almost felt bad. Almost. "You don't have time to tutor me this week? Even just for an hour?" When you didn't respond, he clasped his hands in front of you, "Please! I'll do anything! I really have to pass this subject to be able to play the upcoming game!"

Okay, you lied. You felt bad.

Shinobu sometimes drags you to one of Itto's football games, and he was a good player. It would really be a waste for the team if he doesn't get to play in his upcoming game.

...You know what?

Clicking your tongue, you nodded. "Fine. Every 8 p.m. on weekdays at starting tomorrow."

He pumped his fist up in the air, "Woo-hoo! I'll see you tomorrow... Uh..." You tilted your head. "What's your name again?"

All you have to do is to do your best in tutoring Arataki Itto and hope to God he does well in the test. So much for not wanting to be involved with the Arataki Gang.

"This is the third time I've explained this, Itto." You pinched the bridge of your nose. You've been in his dorm for almost 2 hours now, and you had to be back in your dorm by 11 p.m.

"Wait, wait!" Itto shook his head vigorously. "Just explain to me one more time and I'm sure I can understand it!"

You sighed at the pouting look he gave you and stood up to get your water bottle from the table. "So why didn't you ask Kujou Sara to tutor you instead? She's smart." You asked, and Itto shuddered at the mention of her name. "...What's wrong with Sara?"

"Are you seriously asking me that...?! She's literally the most difficult person to get along with!"

You furrowed your eyebrows, walking back to the bed. "No she's not. I get along with her."

"Hah, right. Of course, smart people get along." Rolling your eyes at his remark, you continued teaching the math problem to him. After a few more explaining, he got the problem right.

"Hey, that's correct! Good job." You flashed him a small smile, and you could've sworn his eyes twinkled with joy.

"Really?!" Without any warning, he hugged you, catching you off-guard. "I'll make sure to focus really hard so I can get all 'em right!"

You get that he was happy about it... but...

You never thought his abs would be that rock-hard. Your clothed breasts were pressed up against his clothed abs, and you felt a weird sensation in your—

Y/N! Snap out of it!

"Uhh, you there?" Itto pulled away, looking at you with a concerned look, then his eyes widened. "Oh— Oh. Sorry, it's just when I'm happy I hug... people. Like when we win games, you know? I hug my teammates and I'm sorry if I—"

"It's fine." You chuckled, and there was an awkward silence until you spoke again. "Um, let's move on."

He nodded and answered the next question. Wrong.

"No, no, it's like this..."

And before you knew it, it was already 11 p.m.

“Thank you… really! I already think I’m gonna ace this test ‘cause of you!” Itto flashed a handsome smile, “Be safe on the way to your dorm, alright?”

You returned the smile, waving at him. “I will, bye.” Itto was about to close the door but you stopped him when you heard footsteps. “Wait.” Shit. Shit, shit, shit!

You completely forgot someone monitors the dormitories as soon as it is 11 p.m!

Itto pulled you into his room and closed the door. You leaned back on the door in distress, “Oh, I forgot about the dorm monitor. You can’t go back to your dorm any time soon…”

“No shit.” You sighed and looked up at him.

He looks… attractive. You were so focused on tutoring him that you never realized he was this attractive.

“Y/N?”

You came back to your senses, “Hmm?”

“I said, you can stay here till the monitor is gone. They’re usually gone by 12 a.m.”

You cleared your throat, nodding, “…Yeah… yeah.”

He chuckled, “Y/N? You okay?”

You nodded once again, “I am…”

“Then… why do you keep staring at me like that?”

“…Like what?”

“Like that.”

Itto was looking at you, and you couldn’t help but gulp at the way he was gazing at you. Archons… he looked so hot. What the hell? “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You walked past him and sat on the bed. “Guess I’ll have to wait… like 30 minutes or so.”

He turned, a smile on his face, “Wanna do something fun to kill time?”

All you could think about was him fucking you senselessly, trying to keep quiet so you don’t wake the others.

“Sure. I’ll tutor you some more.”

Tutor, my ass.

You were on all fours on Itto’s bed, his dick in your mouth as he stood in front of you. You wrapped your hand around the rest of his length that you couldn’t fit into your mouth, and looked up at him. He was biting his lip, grunting quietly.

“Archons, Y/N… Who knew you could suck dick so good?”

You didn’t know how it got to this point — You were tutoring him once again, but you couldn’t focus. You kept stuttering and Itto couldn’t understand you. But then seeing his hard-on… You looked up at him and he was gazing at you…

You both couldn’t resist each other.

Choking on his cock, he gripped onto your hair, hissing, “Fuck…”

Then he pulled your head away, the string of saliva connecting your lips and the tip of his cock. You looked up at him, breathing out, “Fuck me.”

Itto was still panting, and the side of his mouth curled upwards. “Yeah? You gonna be quiet while I fuck you?”

“Mhm… Please…” You whimpered, then gasped when he pulled you up and then pushed you down onto the bed.

He kissed your neck, his hand reaching for your wet clit and rubbing it. You moaned quietly, rolling your hips against his hand then whining when his hand pulled away from you.

"J-Just the tip, first..." You whispered and bit your lip, feeling the head gliding along your clit. "It won't fi— Agh!"

Itto covered your mouth with his hand, growling quietly as he carefully thrust into you. "I'll make it fit, don't worry."

Suddenly, footsteps were heard outside the room. You looked at Itto as he covered your mouth, and your eyes widened when he moved against you. “Shh. Don’t make a sound…” He whispered as removed his hand from your mouth and kissed you.

You couldn't help but clench around him and he groaned, pushing deeper into you. You moaned through the kiss as your legs wrapped around his waist. “Mhhf… O-Oh…”

He's so big that you could feel his tip touching your cervix, hitting it with every thrust he does. He pulled away from your lips as he fucked you harder, your moans coming out as silent gasps.

"Fuck, baby..." Itto whispered, gritting his teeth. "You like that? Does it feel good?"

You could only nod your head in response, afraid to talk because you might moan too loud. He let out a breathy laugh as he continued pounding deeper into you.

Tears filled up your eyes from the pleasure and you could feel the knot on your stomach as Itto went faster. "Mm— 'm gonna...!"

"Shhh, do it for me, baby. Come on."

Your body shook as your orgasm washed over you. He grunted once more, biting into your neck softly.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." And he finally pulled out, cumming on your stomach, "Fuck…"

The sight of your almost-passed-out figure on his bed almost made him hard once again, but he resisted himself. He fell next to you, letting out a contented sigh.

You closed your eyes, still panting. "I was only gonna tutor you. Not fuck you."

Itto laughed, caressing your thighs. "Too bad."

"So you're telling me you weren't at your dorm last night because you were at Itto's?" Shinobu gave you a disapproved look. You smiled sheepishly.

"...Look, it just happened, okay? What were we supposed to do while waiting for the monitor?"

Shinobu sighed. "So much for telling yourself to not get involved with the Arataki Gang."

reiinaissance © 2025 | all rights reserved. do not claim as your own, modify, copy or repost.

[necrolacrymans]

I'll answer here since I'd rather not do asks.

1. Dadson, brother x brother, also age gap/underage are the big ones right now. Also abuser x victim.

2. Not really no? At least not that I can think of. I'm open to almost anything.

3. Imma count it as when I first accepted myself as being proship. William x Michael Afton and Shroudcest

4. Wow, I don't remember. I've liked "problematic" ships ever since I was little. Some early ones I can think of, though, are: Akuroku, Fiolee/Finnceline, Noruka x Soruka, and selfshipping with Pokemon.

5. Swansuke, dunno why but this one gets labeled as problematic often and gets people riled up. Sidlink too.

6. Sidlink, I suppose

7. Willry, I don't even know how antis like this one but surprisingly a lot do.

8. Jamikali I suppose, due to their dynamic and story.

9. N/A?? I don't really have crackships, even if I ship something for the funny I still take it seriously.

10. None that I can think of.

11. Boyfriend to Death I suppose

12. Disney

13. https://archiveofourown.org/works/53073670. This one came to mind, I really liked this one.

14. "Unrivaled Aeons" from Twisted Wonderland for Shroudcest, mainly cuz its their theme song

15. "You can't ship them because I view them as brothers!" and "You can't ship them because they're 1 or 2 years apart!"

Proship ask meme? Proship ask meme.

1.) What is your favorite problematic theme/trope that appears in a lot of your ships?

2.) Are there any problematic tropes that squick you out?

3.) First problematic ship since you joined the proship community?

4.) First ever problematic ship? (you didn't have to know it was problematic then)

5.) Ship you don't think it all that problematic, but the rest of your fandom hates?

6.) Cutest, most vanilla ship you are into.

7.) Ship the antis in your fandom like, but you think is hella problematic?

8.) Ship that is (presented as) cute in canon/fanon, but you think is problematic anyway.

9.) Problematic crackship?

10.) Are there any problematic ships that are your NOTPs?

11.) Darkest fandom you are into?

12.) Least dark fandom that you are into!

13.) Rec a dead dove fic!

14.) Song that reminds you of one of your pairings!

15.) Silliest reason you've been told not to ship a ship.

feel free to send in asks to me (the OP) if you'd like! ^^

[breadandblankets]

Stephanie Brown, not the Spoiler, pokes her head into the Hatch at around 5 pm, Duke hadn't checked the time in a while.

"How are you holding up?" she asks.

"Man, people keep asking that," Duke shakes his head. "But like, I'm fine?"

Steph cocks her head a little.

"You think he's lying?"

Steph always had a knack for asking the important questions. Duke pauses for a moment to mull through his answers.

"No, no I don't think he was lying. It just- It doesn't matter."

"Practically," she starts, and Duke has the urge to snort a little. "It matters a little. There's some big bad out there out for you specifically."

"Okay, sure sure, that matters," Duke agrees, rolling his eyes. "But I'm not about to start calling that asshole dad and invite him to dinner."

Steph laughs a little at that.

"Yeah don't do that," she says. She lets them lap into silence for a moment.

She breaks it after a while: "Your parents are important to you right?"

"Of course," he squints at her suspiciously. "Where are you going with that?"

Steph just shoots him a knowing look.

"That's why people keep asking you how you're doing."

Duke's teeth grit together almost involuntarily.

"Just cause he donated material doesn't make him my father," he snaps. "He doesn't get to do that."

Steph doesn't say anything, just waits. She must think he's not done, but he feels done. Like the weight of the week is pressing down on all sides, like he's learning how to swim all over again.

Words bubble up from his throat without his say-so.

"I miss my dad, Steph," its barely above a whisper, when it finally escapes his lips.

Sometimes he feels silly telling her or Cass this, that he misses his parents with everything that he is. That he wishes against the rules of the universe and everything that he could just go back.

He doesn't know if he'd hang up his cape to go back, he can see the outline of the kid he could have been, the man he could have grown into. Maybe he would, put up the heroing and change the world with his mind instead of his fists.

That better, kinder world he reaches for but never grasps.

"Do you want a hug?" she asks.

He's shaking.

Huh.

"Yeah," he says, almost desperate for the anchor back to earth.

She's warm and soft the way Cass isn't. Hugging Cass is always a prayer to whoever is listening that you don't get poked with some new bone she's invented.

"I'll spare you any speeches," she mumbles into his shoulder. "You're the last person I'd try to tell about finding your own path and finding agency."

"Damn right."

She laughs and its a good sound, always has been. Duke likes hearing his friends laugh.

Out of nowhere she speaks again: "You want us to kill that guy for you? Because we can totally kill that guy for you."

A laugh startles out of Duke so fast he almost chokes.

"I don't think you can do that," he says. "Like physically."

"Plus Ultra!" Steph says, flexing.

Duke squints at her and the sudden bright light she's emitting.

"How did you do that with your face?"

"Blonde superpower."

"That is not real."

"I traded my eyebrows for this shut up."

Maybe this isn't the dark cruel timeline he imagines it to be. It's bleak, its miserable, but it isn't hopeless. Never really was, now that he thinks about it, maybe he's just sad.

His dad's going to be alright, his mom's going to be alright.

He's going to be alright.