#Lease Society

[mumblelard]

gggggggggggoslings or summer is immanent

last night i dreamt i was at a party with my twin sister. it was a reunion of distant relatives with familiar faces like distorted versions of our oldest memories. on leaving, we found ourselves in another party, this one full of frantic revelry, and then another party, and another, and another, and another, until finally we emerged on a wide boulevard full of brightly lit shops. as we walked through the city at night, we shared our stories, and we laughed when noticed the storefront displays had arranged themselves into funny echoes of our tales

[sparklecryptid]

Sometimes I see takes on this site that feel incredibly cisgender

[giantkillerjack]

Catholicism.

[.... oops I accidentally wrote real analysis in the tags lol]

why is he like this

[eyrieofsynapses]

y'know, I'm chill with other people smoking/vaping/etc. it's absolutely not good for you, but bodily autonomy is a thing for a reason, we all only live once, some people find that it helps with other issues etc. etc. it's like doing just about anything that's bad for you, which is, you know, a lot of things. not getting enough sleep is bad. eating too much processed food is bad. hell, just sitting on our phones all the time is awful for us.

what absolutely pisses me off--what makes me want to shake people by the shoulders--is everyone who does it in an indoor space where others live without asking if it's okay. because here's the thing: when you smoke by yourself, you consent to all the stuff it'll do to you.

but. everyone else? did not consent to the culprit fucking up their body. it's the equivalent of punching them repeatedly in the jaw. except that is, at least, blatant, immediate pain. secondhand/thirdhand smoke and vape? that is fucking insidious. that's carcinogens, and chemicals that sit and build up inside your body, slowly but surely screwing you over. it may be decades until the consequences unfold. or it might only be a few months, if you're sensitive to it. might make everyone in the house feel sick within a day or two, if they're sensitive at all. and, of course, there's everyone with asthma and other chronic conditions for whom this becomes even worse, for whom it does not merely irritate but suffocates.

back when we didn't know how bad cigarettes could fuck us up--back then, there was an excuse. but now? now everyone knows what this shit does. hell, plenty of us have family members who died of lung cancer. so there is no excuse, now. now, you know you're hurting people when you do it, that every poisonous puff is worming its way oh so slowly into everyone else's cells, bodies, lungs, blood.

some people struggle with addiction. I'm not targeting that. sometimes you know how bad a thing is, and you do everything you can to stop, and you just can't. (doesn't make you less culpable--but it isn't all carelessness, at that point.) I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about all the damn generation Z people (my peers) I run into lately who display a ridiculous lack of caring for others' health. and you know, I'm just... impressed, really. at how anyone can justify that to themself. at how you could possibly call yourself a good person and still do that.

our generation grew up with endless, endless messages explaining exactly what cigarettes do to us, exactly why we needed to avoid secondhand smoke like the plague it is. I know kids of smokers who deal with the ramifications of it even now. how the hell, how the living bloody hell, could you possibly learn all of that, know people who went through that, and still justify exposing other people without a care in the damn world?

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"When Mr. Harry Sinclair, the multimillionaire oil magnate, found himself in the toils of the law and landed in the District of Columbia jail for contempt of court, a hue and cry was sent up by the newspapers that Sinclair was receiving special privileges in jail. They protested that he should be treated like any other prisoner. We took the opposite position—for very good reasons. If Mr. Sinclair had received the same barbarous treatment and rough food usually given a prisoner, he would not have survived the ordeal. If society wants to kill a man by putting him in jail they might as will hang him and be done with it.

I know from experience. I was a poor man, but had it not been possible for me to have secured, even at extortionate prices, milk and other suitable food, they would have carried me out of prison in a box. Mr. Sinclair had the money and could afford to pay for his food. Under the circumstances, considering his health and age, there is no sane reason why he should have been compelled to eat the rough prison grub usually furnished at public expense.

Prisoners are human beings, even if they are in jail. Every case should receive individual consideration and be given intelligent attention. The Prisoners Relief Society did not hesitate to express its opinion about the case of Mr. Sinclair.

“All my troubles is over,’ chanted one of the Alabama convicts when the new law went into effect in that state to abolish convict lease labor in the coal mines. “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” wafted its sweet refrain as 800 colored convicts completed their last tasks in the prison mines.

“Boss, I’m no longer in slavery,” was the expression of a mild-mannered prisoner after they broke camp. For nearly fifteen years the fight had been carried on to give these poor devils a chance to live decently on top of the earth, instead of down in the bowels of it. It was a hard fight, but enlightened sentiment finally prevailed. This was another case where “Hope makes even the fettered miner live.”"

- Earl Ellicott Dudding, The Trail of the Dead Years. Edited by William Winfred Smith. Huntington, West Virginia: Prisoners Relief Society, 1932. p. 211-212.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)

ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!

College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI

a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!

edit: I'm writing a full fic for this! Rigor Mortis, college au fic, read here.

wc: 6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice. 

Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window. 

So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman. 

When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.

Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment. 

You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.

You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara? 

Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning. 

On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach. 

"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was… 

You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying . 

The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist. 

"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!" 

~~~

He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring. 

The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.

As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask. 

It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him. 

The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep. 

Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him. 

This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class.  She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.

"Where's he gone?" She asks politely. 

You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."

"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day. 

You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.

"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."

Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it. 

"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo. 

"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.

You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."

A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

~~~

You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it. 

After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course. 

Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself. 

You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall. 

It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure. 

It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself. 

Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here. 

On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video. 

" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen. 

What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all. 

Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners. 

He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you. 

All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs. 

" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-" 

He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

" H-Harder, Miguel, please." 

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers. 

" Fuck, Miguel…"

He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall. 

~~~

He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.

A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home. 

And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.

Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions. 

You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night. 

He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy?? 

You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.

After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water. 

With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there. 

"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway. 

You wince."...F-Fine?" 

You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?" 

You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."

Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice. 

"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further. 

Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together. 

You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand. 

" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee. 

"You look… wet." 

"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze. 

"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed. 

There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression.  His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds. 

Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?" 

He's got a hand on your arm now,  The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details. 

" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy. 

It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside. 

"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."

"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word. 

"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?" 

"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."

"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"

"...I'd like that, to be honest."

"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."

"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too." 

~~~

You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same. 

You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way. 

There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost. 

It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.

Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand. 

What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza? 

Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal. 

So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy. 

“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"

You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats. 

All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought. 

"Yeah?" 

"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-" 

"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"

There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…

"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!" 

With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway. 

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "

"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"

"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-" 

"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips. 

You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.

"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you. 

His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand. 

"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close. 

You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.

"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile. 

"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side. 

"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."

His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.

"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular. 

He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?" 

"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it. 

He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty. 

"Huh. I guess they do." 

"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"

"Katie." He hums. 

"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name. 

You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch. 

"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ." 

Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest. 

"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-" 

"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."

Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own. 

"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.

Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?

"...and I heard you say my name." 

"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing. 

"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-" 

He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"

A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."

He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together. 

He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest. 

It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts. 

"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."

You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck. 

He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum. 

Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth. 

Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin. 

"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt.. 

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara. 

"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"

Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"

He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?" 

You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."

"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?" 

It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction. 

"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach. 

You mumble something begrudgingly.

"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."

Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel." 

Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."

Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth. 

He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.

And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue. 

And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole. 

"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue. 

You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off. 

"Right there, fuck… "

Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily. 

You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him. 

"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him. 

"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs. 

Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck. 

"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."

His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."

You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should. 

"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head. 

"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."

He turns to you, lazily. 

"I could tutor you, if you'd like."

…

"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."

_

_

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings

_

edit: the full fic xx

[recurring-polynya]

I feel like the "officer's neighborhood" was a late-hour add on Kubo's part to avoid having Rukia and Renji living at Byakuya's--there aren't that many scenes of Gotei officers at home, but they always live at the barracks: by my memory, we've seen Isane, Unohana, Shinji, Aizen, Hinamori (by implication), and Urahara at home on base. If you count the anime, we've also seen Matsumoto's quarters in some omake about her closet space, and there was that time Renji got depressed and wouldn't come out of his room and Rikichi had to make excuses for him at the Squad Six gate. There are probably more that I am forgetting. Ukitake is the one person who explicitly does not live in the barracks, and he lives in Ugendou, which is its own thing.

One could argue that they all have quarters at the barracks and that we mostly see them at times of wars, ryouka-invasions, etc, when they would be more likely to be putting in long hours, but I actually really like the idea that maybe the officer's neighborhood was a Kyouraku-introduction?

First of all, in early Bleach can you imagine all the captains just living next door to each other??? Komamura walking out in the morning in his bathrobe to get the newspaper and Kurotsuchi is out there watering his lawn with sulfuric acid. Zaraki is across the street, waxing his Trans-Am? No. I refuse.

Secondly, I feel like the provision of an officer's neighborhood would sort of by definition make it gauche-- it's for the poor captains, the ones that can't afford their own homes. You know Byakuya's ass is not moving into the officer's neighborhood. If they tried to make him, he'd resign.

But post-Blood War, Kyouraku may be trying to usher in a new era of egalitarianism. They've lost a huge chunk of the Gotei, and in all likelihood are recruiting heavily from the Rukon. The captains may get along like a bunch of wet cats, but the vice-captains are largely very young and hip and love free housing. (Please show us Hisagi's house. I need to see Hisagi's house so, so badly). One of my favorite older (as in, written in 2010) fanfic series, Lull, is about Kyouraku and Ukitake engineering Rukia and Renji's marriage as a symbolic cross-class gesture to show the Gotei is going in a new direction after the replacement of the Central 46. I feel like creating an officer's neighborhood and talking the newlywed First Daughter of the Kuchiki into being one of the founding residents has much the same idea to it.

I don't think you're supposed to operate businesses out of the officer's neighborhood, but Ikkaku just runs his dojo out of his house. I'm sorry, I am just obsessed with Ikkaku owning a house and like, using his carpentry skills. Yumichika definitely lives there, too, right? Kubo wouldn't have shown him there at like, 9 in the morning if he wasn't trying to imply that they're married now, right? Do they have a big Live, Laugh, Love wall decal over their couch? I need to know these things, Kubo.

This probably requires a much longer, sprawling post (the number of tentacles increased exponentially every 2 seconds as I was thinking about this) but despite Gotei captains making good money and having fairly high social standing, I feel like land prices must be set artificially, astronomically high so that no one but the already-landed nobility [or a governmental entity, lie the Gotei] could possibly ever own anything. That 'officer's neighborhood' or whatever it is is cushy, but it's also technically just a reserve the nobility has consented to so that there's no reason for these people to live anywhere else (unless they already have property by virtue of being noble). Not sure how this works for commercial leases--are they subsidized by the 46? or does running a business require you to have some kind of arrangement with a noble family. DOES SILVER DRAGONFLY LEASE FROM THE KUCHIKI.

I'm not sure how this would work for Rukongai (except that surely it's very controversial to be buying/selling parcels in Rukongai to begin with, many considering it a foolish audacity to assume such a place can be owned) but I imagine that at the very least the property taxes (or whatever payments/responsibilities inhere in "ownership" in Rukongai, re: assuming responsibility for whatever shit happens out there/keeping it Hollow-controlled, etc.) present a functional barrier to ownership for most individuals.

The generational wealth gap (mostly in terms of having family vs. having no family, but also I guess in terms of shinigami who are really old vs. those who are not) must be bananas, too. But NO, NO, STOPPING, this post was supposed to be 2 sentences about Seireitei land prices and it's already about seventy other things. It's 9AM stopping STOPPING

[thedosianexplorer]

ATTENTION: NORTH CAROLINA CAT NEEDS LOVING HOME

If you are a cat owner, live in/near North Carolina, and are willing to make a drive, this sweet boy wants to be your new best friend! Meet Ricky! He is AVAILABLE to a loving home!! He's almost certainly not a hapless old man polymorphed into a cat!!!

URGENT

We're moving out-of-state next week and would love to see him get rehomed! Local shelters/fosters are full and Humane Society is closed for intake.

He's very affectionate, takes a pet no problem:

He is fixed, around 5 years old (best guess), and extremely friendly towards people and other cats. Our cats love him but we are tragically at cat-pacity for our lease. Definitely a former inside kitty who would be very happy in a home with another cat. I cannot vouch for his behavior around dogs but I think he would be alright with older kids who are familiar with cats. Tolerates being picked up, good "soft paw" play etiquette, and is coming around to being a lap cat.

Interested? PLEASE message/shoot me an ask for more information! I really want to give this little guy the home he deserves and get another kitty off the streets. Non-NC residents PLEASE signal boost and let your friends know! Let's get this guy adopted!

Keep this post circulating, my asks and DMs are open to questions 💜🐱

MORE CAT PICS BELOW THE CUT!

[kaile-hultner]

Help me dig upward: the Tumblr post

In which I talk a little bit about the hole I’ve been in for a hot minute—and what I want to do to dig out of it.

Hey y’all,

For the second time in a few years I’m starting a GoFundMe. This time, though, it’s not for the site, at least not explicitly. It is to help me get out from under the weight of debt that I’ve been carrying for more than a decade at this point, but which has finally gotten so bad that it’s affecting everything from my sleep patterns to my overall mental health and ability to do the thing that you likely already support me for: this website. 

If you’ve been wondering why the posting has decreased here, or reduced in quality, or why we started 2024 off publishing other writers and then just as suddenly stopped doing that again, this is why: I am out of money, I am in debt, and it feels like I’m living every day in pure, basic survival mode. 

This GFM, in which I’m asking for $10,000, is a moonshot, a Hail Mary. I don’t expect it to raise anything; it will be the last time I ask the Internet for money, whether it works or it doesn’t. If it works, obviously it’ll mean I’ll be able to post more and maybe my mental health will improve and I won’t feel like every moment is a countdown to a terrible ending, and I’ll be able to think of compelling angles to talk about video games again. If it doesn’t work, maybe I’ll figure something else out. Bankruptcy, probably. I don’t know. 

I hate doing this. I hate being in this position. I hate that I’ve already asked for money this year and people have been extremely generous and it just feels like all that generosity just went into a hole. I wish I had something to show for that generosity, or proactively for anything I gain from this campaign. So, if there is something you want me to cover or talk about or look at in exchange for your support on this campaign, just shoot me an email with proof of your donation, no matter how small. It’s kaile@noescapevg.com. I can’t promise I’ll write a bunch of magnum opuses at your request but I will do what I can just simply to show appreciation for your support. 

Anyway, this feels bad to me and I’m already starting to regret it, so I’m going to wrap this up by saying thank you in advance and I owe you my life. I wish that was figurative.

Edit: here is the text of the GFM I posted. 

Hi y’all,

My name is Kaile Hultner. I am an online cultural critic who has been running the video game criticism website No Escape since 2019. My work has been featured in other places like PC Gamer, Polygon and Bullet Points Monthly. And like a lot of people, I have been deeply in debt for years. 

Debt is a very strange phenomenon. As anthropologist David Graeber demonstrated in his book Debt: The First 5000 Years, it is a phenomenon that imparts a kind of moral valence on a person; whether or not that person can pay their debts is a sign of their trustworthiness or virtue as a member of polite society. Yet you can’t go without debt: at some point, at least in the United States, you have to pick up a form of debt – credit – to establish your credit score, without which you can’t rent an apartment, buy or lease a car, or, in some cases, even get a job. Being debt-free can harm this score, as can having a credit history that is “too young.” 

I’ve been in debt for a long time. I’ve been managing my debt for over a decade. Every year for the last six or seven years in particular it feels like I’m losing progressively more and more ground. Seven years ago I had a car; I could do things like deliver Uber Eats and DoorDash and make extra money whenever I ran out. It broke down in my driveway in 2022 and I couldn’t afford to take it to a mechanic to get it fixed. I sold it for $200. I haven’t been able to replace it. I don’t know what I’ll do if I ever need a car for anything. Luckily my day job is WFH. 

Recently, I’ve been fighting with my old bank over charges it erroneously applied to my account in excess of $1000, causing it to go deep into the negatives. I’ve been slowly, slowly digging myself out of that hole thanks to some close friends and some very kind folks who follow me on the Internet. But it’s caused other debts to exacerbate. And tonight I realized that I am at the end of my rope. I can’t do this anymore. I won’t sit here and say that I’ve done everything right; certainly, more than one bad decision made out of desperation has put me here. I won’t make excuses for that. But I’m tired of being here, in this position. I’m tired of waking up in the middle of the night with heart palpitations because I got an alert from my bank that I’m in the negatives. I’m tired of getting emails and phone calls from debt collectors. I’m tired of living in basic survival mode with no discernible path forward. I’m tired of being tired, of not having the energy to be creative and do the work I’ve built an online presence around for five years. And paradoxically, I’m tired of asking people on the internet for money. 

So I’m going to ask people on the internet for money, one final time. 

I’ve set the goal at $10,000. This is far more than I’m honestly expecting to get, but if I get even a fraction of that I could finally obliterate my debts in a meaningful way. I do have specific milestones that I basically need to meet, otherwise this GFM doesn’t hit its maximum effectiveness, but otherwise the sky is the limit. If I reach the whole amount… I don’t really know what I’ll do. Cry, maybe. 

Milestones – bolded are high-priority

Milestone reached! $750 – gets my old bank account out of the negatives. Eliminates one vector of harassment, allows me to close that account and move on. 

Milestone Reached! $1800 – does the above and allows me to fully pay any late or past-due loan payments missed as a result of the bank issue.

Milestone Reached! $6000 – does the above and allows me to fully pay off all installment loans 

$8000 – does the above and allows me to pay off any remaining debts. 

$10,000 – does the above and allows me to start saving. 

$10,000+ – basically a moonshot, I have no idea what I’ll do with extra. 

I fully do not expect you to donate to this. There are people trying to escape genocides, much more abject poverty, crushing medical debt, and so much more that feel – at least to me – so much more worthy of your attention and money. But just know that if you dodonate something, you have my undying appreciation. I will quite literally owe you my life. 

I’m going to post this now before I get too emotional or lose my nerve entirely, but again: thank you. Even if all you do is read this. 

—Kaile

[maddness-time-bby]

So does anyone know why so many "New Age" shops are like... the way they are?

I mean at this point I feel like most witches who have spent at lease a year or two practicing/researching the craft have had the experience of walking into a store recommended to you by someone well meaning because "you like witchy stuff, right?" only to be hit with the strongest incense imaginable, "smudging sticks", overpriced goods, books by Silver RavenWolf, and crystals you just know weren't sourced ethically. If there was only a small handful of shops like this, I wouldn't be making this post. The problem is, however, that most "witchy" stores only promote and cater towards an audience of beginner witches that don't know better, and people who genuinely don't care about appropriation. Why is this the norm. Genuinely. I know the obvious answer is "because they make money and we live in a capitalistic society", but still. I want to be able to not have my expectations in the Earth's core when it comes to "witchy" shops. I want these stores to not set such bad examples for beginners. And most importantly, I want better for our community. These stores drag the reputation of witchcraft and magic through the mud, when they really shouldn't be. Like do any other communities have the problem? Do fishing shops suck this badly? Or am I just going insane again.

[puripurin]

— Recently, well, with in the past 10 years, the government has been trying to integrate humanoid monsters into society. This was because many of these monsters had unique traits that ended up being very beneficial to many people in power, and by integrating them into society, more of these specimens would appear and join government jobs.

So they tried pushing out incentives to integrate into society, such as paying people to live in an apartment building with them. That's where you come in. You have a stable job, but guess who was a pain in your ass?

Your crazy and unprofessional landlord.

She had tried all sorts of stunts to you and the other tenants. On several occasions, she would lock all the tenants out of the building. If any of the bins were overflowing or litter was on the ground, she would raise the bills by random amounts every two weeks, then get mad if you were to call out her bullshit. Nobody wanted to say anything because the last tenants were slapped with an NDA and got threatened by here with a chainsaw.

You couldn't even leave before due to how ridiculously expensive she made it if you were to break the leasing contract. So you had to save up for the past 2 years. Sometimes, you felt like a cartoon character living there with the amount of antics that happened there.

So that's why you immediately took the offer to live with monsters in the building. Plus, it was a really good deal because there were several accommodations and incentives to live there, so you broke off your lease and paid the stupid fees. So finally, you could leave that insane woman's place.

Now you live in Terico Hights, a stress and mad woman free apartment where you live with monstrous neighbors who are literally more humane than your ex-landlord.

And now that you've been here for a couple of months now, you can officially say, you think that your harpy neighbor likes you.

He was one of the original monsters who was assigned to live here and has been living here ever since. His name was Nirico, and his 4 year old disabled daughter, Nira, lives with him. The reason why the mother isn't in the picture is because she literally nearly mauled the poor girl because, apparently, the mother thought that by having a female child, Nirico wouldn't love her anymore and took drastic measures.

You were well acquainted with his child after you were the only one the building who could take care of his child when he was going to get inspected. At first, both him and his daughter were weary of you, but his daughter quickly warmed up once you gave her some mixed nuts.

Nira was absolutely cute, and her scars just made her unique. Over time, you were able to give her kisses on her forehead and brush her hair, which slowly turned into feathers, just like most harpy species, and gently brushing her wing feathers with a toothbrush. Nira absolutely loved doing these things with you and constantly asked her father to join in because it felt really nice.

Nirico was extremely distrustful at first, and when you were alone, threatened you. So you didn't get on the right foot, to say the least. You and him would constantly argue with each other when Nira was around, and the tension between you two was enormous.

That was until one day when you came out of Nira's room after she fell asleep and saw Nirico drinking so much. He was heavily intoxicated and was babbling to you before it once again spiraled into an argument that turned into a heated make-out session, which turned into you both going into his room and fucking like animals.

This turned a switch on in him and started being near your side constantly. It was so obvious that his daughter and neighbors called him out on it, but he didn't care. And he, just like his daughter, wanted to brush your hair and brush his hair and feathers.

When you mention it to your neighbors, they only look at each other with a knowing look before saying congratulations, which left you confused.

Soon enough, those days when Nira wasn't there turned into the times when you'd both go at it like rabbits. After those sessions, he'd give you kisses, clean you up, and brush your hair.

When you try to bring a male co-worker, he'd get aggressive, and you'd have to apologize to him for Nirico's behavior when he eventually leaves. Every time he does this, you'd try to scold him, but he'd always corner you with his arms saying,

"Well, who are you to scold me when you brought a man in my territory. I should be the one scolding and punishing you, my dove."

You really want to know how to get out of this situation, but too bad he'd already marked you as his mate and made your apartment his territory.

And they didn't say that humans and monsters having relationships are illegal, so there should be no fuss, dove.

Idk what to say. 213 followers. I am flabbergasted. I don't know what to say. Oh mah gawd. I have no idea what to do for a special, so give a reccs and i have so much stuff i need to write. I am so grateful that yall enjoy my shit. Thank you! (Ps, nit proofread, also i js wanted a dilf harpy, sorry if the beginning doesn't make any sense mb)

[gremlingottoosilly]

The art of hospitality (Nanami Kento x fem!Reader)

Life wasn't that good after you dropped out of college. Luckily, a friend of a friend of a relative was willing to take you to live with him so you could watch over his weirdly big house while he was away on endless work trips. Nanami never thought that investment in the kindness of his heart would pay out like this. He is not complaining.

Tags and CW: Yandere, mild dub-con, non-consensual masturbation, Nanami is a panty stealer, light age difference, power imbalance, housewife kink AO3

Some people are just not built to fend for themselves. Nanami can name a few, even though the sentiment leaves a bitter, bun-haired taste in his mouth. He shouldn’t think like this – like him – but it’s as impossible as not thinking about a panda bear after you just been prompted with hot imagining one. 

He can only repeat that he isn’t like this. It isn’t like him. Some people are just not built to fend for themselves, so people like Nanami are doing everything in their power to protect them. Weak are ruling the society and this is exactly how it is supposed to be. Strong should be content with not having any gratitude, happy that they were able to help. This is exactly how it’s supposed to be, and yet… — Thank you so much for letting me stay here, Nanami-san. With the lease and everything coming up, I just… His cheeks aren’t dusted red because this won’t be a normal answer to the situation. He isn’t blushing because he is somewhat not used to receiving a little thank you from a nice girl next door that he allowed to live with him and watch over the house while he is away on the missions(dumb, dumb girl got kicked out of the apartment after a failed lease renewal and found him through a friend of a relative). He knows how grateful you are – not having many things or a lot of money saved, you probably would have moved back to the countryside if it weren’t for him. For a girl like you, it would be kissing your dreams goodbye. Not like sleeping on his couch is any better for someone your age. There is curry on the kitchen island. He recognises the packaging – generic brand from the convenience store he sometimes walked passed during missions in Asakusa. Hm. Last time he touched your cooking(four days before, when he actually managed to drag himself to the house without losing too much sweat) it was made from scratch. He isn’t complaining because he still wasn’t the one to cook it. Asking a girl in dire circumstances to play housewife would be… You don’t pay rent, you get half of the groceries from him(ever-lasting meal planning for everything, even when half of it gets thrown away after a nasty curse hunt is leaves him on the other side of the prefecture for few days in the row) and you don’t sleep on the couch. He has a perfectly comfortable guest bedroom with fresh sheets for you. 

Maybe, you could play housewife a little bit. It’s so stupid for someone in his position, but the packaging of a store-made curry almost made him question the decision to help you in the first place. He didn’t…didn’t expect you to cook for him, of course. He only took you in because being a young adult is tough and not having any friends in a city as expensive as Tokyo can crush a girl like you. He doesn’t know what is this feeling blooming in his chest. Maybe, the remains of the last exorcism are still clinging to him. — You found a job? You tilt your head, your (adorable) lips in a surprised impression. You probably never thought he’d give someone like you this much of his mind – not with how little you talked before. He might come off as too harsh – but he still looks you in the eyes, his gaze only softens because of the glasses he still insists on wearing even inside the house. Nanami promised to himself to not bring work home – but it’s hard to even determine what is home anymore. Maybe it’s a space on the couch, right next to your sprawled legs. Maybe it’s his bedroom. Maybe it’s… — Yes! It’s a convenience store, so it’s part-time, but… He frowns. You close your mouth immediately, lips pursed. Nanami doesn’t want to intimidate you – it’s just six thirty, already too late to be in a serious work mood – but it’s hard when you look simply divine with that scared impression of yours. He shouldn’t bully non-sorcerers, but some people are making it hard. Impossible. He almost understands Satoru. — This is all? — Well, they allowed me to pick more shifts, so I could actually start paying rent. N…not all, but just to thank you for letting me stay with you. You’re kind, he must give you that. Most people in your situation would already make him feel like overstaying their welcome, breaking the simple comfort he found in living on his own, and deflecting his family’s worries about not having anyone to settle down with. He isn’t thirty yet, he shouldn’t worry about it – yet, the thought itches at the back of his mind, Empty house. Most of his older coworkers were itching to ditch overtime because they wanted to meet with their families. He did it because after fighting curses(and returning to doing so) normal human life isn’t something he’d give much thought to.

— You don’t have to pay. I thought we established that. — I have to start somewhere, right? M…maybe I could save up and get a proper apartment. Still, Kento doesn’t like the idea that he might come home one day and won’t find you sitting on the couch and watching TV. Not because you just went out for a quick girl walk, or decided to go shopping – but because you got a big job, a normal job, and you won’t rely on his kindness anymore. 

Some people aren’t made to fend for themselves. Nanami wonders what would you look like if you ever saw a curse. If you were affected by at least one. He…he shouldn’t think like this. You’re lucky that you’re normal. — Paying for three months' rent, the key, and the debt would be impossible with a part-time store job. — I could live with a roommate! Or three… — What difference would it make for our current situation? He puts a hand on the back of the couch. Mere inches from your head – and he can see the surprised expression on your face only getting…more surprised. You are cute for a dropout – ahe he certainly doesn’t mind having you sleeping here. Taking care of the house for him. If he only knew that you also weren’t fully against the proper commitment to this place. Like that little job of yours has any value in terms of experience and…

— I don’t want to intrude too much, Nanami-san. I’ll just get out of your hair as soon as possible, yeah? He would love for you to get into his hair, come to think about it. He had some terrible headaches lately – maybe it’s the job taking its toll again, maybe it’s a lingering curse that he is too exhausted to notice. He doesn’t sense anything besides the overwhelming need for you to come around – and yet he knows he can’t expect you to do that. — I can pay you. 

— What? He wonders if the surprise on your face is going to be embedded in your features forever. He wonders what expression would you have if he’d proposed something more provocative. With something that would leave you panting and gasping and gaping. He shook his head. Too early for this – and too late, also. He already loosened his tie and it made the headache less permanent, but if he’d proceeded to imagine how your pathetic, useless (normal, college dropout) mouth wide around the base of his cock, he would have to excuse himself from the house altogether, Preferably moving back to the countryside you tried to run away from. — If you insist on working…there instead of taking time to actually improve yourself, I could pay you to watch over the house. You gulp, tensing up immediately. He must have come off too strong – but he is way too tired to control his tone, and you should be mature enough to handle the conversations like this. He wasn’t kicking you off – quite the contrary, in fact. But, young adults should take the time to be young. But, young adults should be serious enough to behave like adults – and you shouldn’t bury your ambitions while living with four roommates and their boyfriends and college and drinking and… Sometimes he forgets how not much older he is than you. Maybe this is why you’re so hesitant towards getting help from him – someone that you could imagine in the position of a boyfriend instead of a providing and caring figure. That’s bad, really. Nanami would like for you to see him as your husband. — I couldn’t accept it, Nanami-san. You’re already…already doing so much. “Too much” he can get from your frowned expression. Too much of a lonely man with a big house and no one to watch over it. Too much for a man who doesn’t acept any form of payment from you – a man who didn’t even insist on having you cook and clean, since he got a system that would be too much bother to teach someone other than him. System that you cracked in first few weeks, almost making him believe that the salryman dream he lost after returning to Jujutsu Tech, can be still obtained. Still within the reach of his fingers. 

The woman of his dreams – if a man like him allowed to have them – is sitting on his couch and gushes over paying him for letting her stay. Like he isn’t the one who should beg for her to not run away. Alas, even dream girls can be a bit…dumb. Stupid. Pathetic in a way that would be insane to anyone else. 

Nanami is ought to be a bit more firm with his dumb girl that still thinks she isn’t his. — I would appreciate you cooking way more than any money I’d have to take out of your savings. — But… — You shouldn’t rush into jobs just because you think I would throw you out. I won’t. — It’s…funny. In a way. 

— What is so funny? His hand creeps over the edge of your seat, edging on taking a handful of your hair and tugging. Not because he wanted to hurt you – but because setting you in place would be the desirable option right now. Your inability to believe in the kindness of his heart is almost adorable, if it weren’t also so frustrating. It’s a smart choice, although – would be insane to ask you to believe that a man who took you in did so out of the kindness of his heart. But, Kento doesn’t want for you to be smart and make choices that would benefit you. But, Kento wants for you to rely on him – and making smart choices isn’t going to include that. He could just force you, your weak points already accessed – he knows where to push, where to cut, where to ass a little pressure, so you’d stop being so stubborn. He doesn’t want to hurt you, but sometimes you need to crack a few eggs in the process. Sometimes being good doesn’t mean being nice. — I thought you really wanted to get rid of me at first, Nanami-san. He has been stealing your panties since you first stepped foot into his house. It was a mistake at first – neither you nor him knew how to live with someone so close after reaching adulthood and moving out of dorms where the social boundaries are much, much less permanent. You were silly and forgetful, sometimes mixing your laundry with his. Something as small as a pair of panties, no matter clean or not, were prone to get lost in the laundry area, forgotten in a pile of clothes you already washed – and if Nanami was a lesser man, he would have scolded you for not having the basic courtesy of keeping your things away from his. If Nanami was a bigger man he wouldn’t have slipped a lacey pair into a pocket of his pants, fidgeting on the fabric while you gushed over having to buy so many necessities all of a sudden, or apologized for wrecking havoc in his bathroom. Even now, when you’re embarrassed and warm, trying to explain your point of view to him, he is still playing with your underwear, buried deep within the pocket of his work clothes. He luckily didn’t run into Satoru today – he doesn’t really want to know if his Six Eyes could detect something as scandalous. Not in a normal sense, of course – you’re an adult, if a bit irresponsible – but in the form of him having connections. Someone to return to. 

Nanami wants to push you on your knees and take his rent right out of that surprised, open mouth of yours. You don’t wear any makeup, you’re at home, after all – but he would buy you some adorable lipstick, some sweet lipgloss, just so you could smear it all over his cock, choking and drooling. He wants to be a good man, a patient man, but he has your panties in his pocket already, and it’s always a fresh pair every few weeks – not enough to make you suspicious that this isn’t the washing machine eating it, but also desperately low for someone like him. 

He wonders if you would be even softer than the tender silk of the things you wear. — Why would you think I accepted you, then? 

He knows why you might be nervous – his attitude isn’t the most welcoming one. He can be soft if he has a reason you – but being soft for too long will make you spoiled. Bratty. He likes women with character, but not women with attitudes he can’t control. Even your sitting position, with both of your legs on a couch, is something he could change with a few spanks on the bare skin he can clearly see from under your shorts. Wearing this when there is a man in the house – how scandalous. How precious. He wonders if all the lingerie sets he already bought for you (getting exact sizes is quite easy when he already knows your proportions divided by 7), will be a nice look on you. For you. 

— Maybe it was your one good deed for the month, but then you’d get annoyed and… He touches you – for the first time in weeks. Maybe the first time since he shook your hand all those time ago. The first time he touched you while you weren’t sleeping, at least. Fully conscious, aware of the man in front of you. (Nanami liked to watch you sleep, sometimes. Stressed people have a bad habit of attracting curses, and he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t invite anything in the safety of his house. It’s what he keeps telling himself when he inevitably ended up at the food of your bed, hands on his cock, stroking it slowly, knowing a dumb girl – naive girl – won’t wake up even if he’d decide to finish on your face. He never would – not until you’d ask him to, at least. He hopes that he will be a good person even after you do) Nanami’s hand is on your cheek, holding you softly. Gently. You’re surprised because this is the first time he touched you so softly – so intimately. You’re blissfully unaware of the fact he was touching you so, so much already. Stroking your ass, your tits, your face when he felt particularly tender – when he knew you were too tired of whatever you were doing while being unemployed and having everything catered to you to notice that he is touching you. — I won’t get annoyed with you. 

You press your face against his hand, taking in his touch. He has soft hands – cared for, manicured carefully. He takes care of his appearance and you’re embarrassed to appreciate that about it. To even notice – he isn’t yours, probably doesn’t want to be, but he allows you to live in his house even though you suck at being a proper housewife, and it should mean something. It does mean something – you smile and close your eyes. You want to do something for him because he already did so much for you. The possibilities are making your ears burn. — How can I repay you if you don’t want rent then? He can think of a few ways. The possibilities will make your ears burn. — You can start by actually cooking. 

And he will call in to fire you later. 

[yanderemommabean]

Yandere red room idea

The Red rooms. It’s not something He really thought he’d find himself using but here he is, walking up the corridor with a key card in his pocket. It’s definitely a secret society type of deal, code words, secret hand gestures, one use keys, all the security one could imagine. The first time he even heard of such a place like this, he assumed it was dark internet fetish mumbo jumbo. 

But after he found you, well, the right people found him and led him to the right place. Not a room of pain, but one of pleasure, to show his darling all of his intense love and emotion and then some. 

He hasn’t even booked a room yet, he’s here as a sort of consultation visit. To see if he really has the balls to do this and show that yes, he adores you, and that his love outweighs anyone else’s. 

Sliding the card into the door brought him into an empty room besides a desk, a few chairs, and two large filing cabinets. He takes a look around, quickly surveying the area, before stepping inside fully and sitting in the chair facing the large office chair in front of him. Before he can let his shoulders relax, a man follows in behind him, followed by a woman as well, both dressed professionally and seeming very…happy. 

“Ah! It’s good to see you, Mr-” 

“Lee, you can just call me Lee. And you are?” He asks, gesturing to the woman standing beside the man in the suit as he begins to open a manilla envelope, spreading the papers out on the table. 

“Victoria. We can leave it at that. I can tell that you know secrecy and customer privacy are our top priority with this business” She says with a knowing smile, sliding the papers over to face them towards the doctor.

“Now, Lee, What we have here is a very basic outline of what we can do for you and that love bug you’ve found yourself. We celebrate rather than punish our loved ones here, and want them to understand that to their core! We find that the red room experience helps!” The man exclaims with excitement, but has yet to really introduce himself. 

Lee was told to expect that however. The leader behind this all was kind enough to reach out but he wasn’t to expect anything too personal. “All business” was his very aura, and Lee could respect that. He nods along as Victoria took the reigns, explaining some of their core beliefs before getting to what Lee really wanted to know. 

“We can make the room however you please, lease it for up to four days at a time with personnel who checks in every four hours with their own special keys, for the darlings sake. As much as we wish to fully trust our customers, we will not take the risk of them dying or being seriously injured in any way. As stated, this is a way to show love and we give you the tools to do so! “ Victoria then spreads apart the papers, pointing here and there as she explains a bit more, intriguing Lee with every bit. “We have romantic layouts like at a hotel, we have BDSM specialist rooms, we have very highly rated toys and devices that we inspect and clean before each room is ready, and we have a live stream option if you’re the type who thinks everyone should see the pleasure you’re darling is receiving! I personally recommend the tribbing machines with the black rose theme if you prefer the dom and sub type of vibe, but we can personalize however you like!” 

Huh. Wow. They’re very thorough aren’t they? 

The business man nods, sitting back in his seat as he adjusts his tie. “I started many companies in my life, all based on bringing smiles and joy, and it’s my personal belief that there needs to be a company looking out for your lover! Love, adventurous or more mellow, is a beautiful thing that our darlings need to be showered in as much as possible. If you’d like, this can also be set up in a way to just calmly express your love to your darling, but I will clarify that it isn’t guaranteed to go well…I advise getting our crews to pick them up and deliver them for you, with every person being given a  background check of course! Safety and security is what comes first for your darling” 

Lee was a bit flabbergasted to say the least. They talk so professionally, have such a strange ethic to them, and they act as if he’s about to buy a company or large house rather than finally get ahold of the love of his life. It’s…Odd but charming. He can’t say he’s turned away from this, in fact he has a few ideas for his own red room. 

“Are they CPR trained and do they have basic first aid knowledge?” Lee asks as he looks over some more of the photos, liking the array of toys they had up for use to add to the room, each one costing extra of course but for what he had planned…it wouldn’t be too bad. 

Victoria smirks, laughing lightly in amusement “I can see we’ve caught even more of your attention. We can make sure these personnel are trained for the pick up, but our permanent staff are already trained in first aid help and some, even small surgical emergencies. You know, always needing to be prepared and all”. 

They talk  a few more things out, Lee deciding that if these people were serious, then he could trust them. If they crossed him in any way, he’d easily rid at least a handful of them. He didn’t get that gut feeling he usually does when people are lying to him however. This felt thorough and legit and well…Professional. 

“It’s a pleasure doing business with you Mr Lee. We’ll be getting in touch with you shortly! You wont regret setting this up-” the business man says with a firm handshake, smiling in an almost uncanny way. “And remember, when you’re in a bind, one of our smiles will ease your mind"

-Mommabean (This was so silly but I hope you enjoyed nonetheless!)

[apas-95]

Couldnt it be argued that the US is still a slave republic? Domestically, there is slave labor through the prison system, human and labor trafficking, and only a few decades ago, if at that, systems such as convict leasing, share cropping, and debt peonage. Internationally, there is also the fact that for conflict minerals, coffee, chocolate, and other commodities, a portion if not the majority of it is sourced from slave labor.

The use of slavery in and of itself doesn't constitute the slave-society stage of production. Slavery continues to exist under feudalism and capitalism, but not as the driving force of society as in the ancient slave republics. Politically, in the modern USA, it is the bourgeoisie that are in power; and economically, it is the exploitation of waged labour (much of it overseas) that is the basis of production.

Further, slaves in the US are owned either by the state, in state prisons, and leased to private companies; or owned by large companies directly in private prisons. The individual or smallholder ownership of slaves was done away with in the USA's previous civil war: carried out between the industrial haute-bourgeois of the developed north, and the agricultural petty gentry of the southern hinterland. Slaves in the US today are the exclusive property of the bourgeoisie, through their corporations or bourgeois state.

While large amounts of raw materials are sourced through slave labour, as are agricultural goods, slave labour in the broadest sense is not applicable to industrial production of the type required by modern capitalism - if for nothing else than reasons of profitability. The slave labourer is effectively themselves human capital, part of the machinery bought wholesale - while they still effectively carry out labour, they fundamentally do not produce surplus value in the same manner as a wage-worker; it is necessary for their food and other reproductive labour to be given to them without cost, in the same way one carries out maintenance on equipment - whereas a wage-worker is only purchased and employed as capital for the duration of the workday, and then is responsible for their own food, housing, and reproductive labour. The principal exception to the use of slave labour in industrial production (which already has an exceedingly high fixed-capital cost compared to agriculture) is in the historical case of fascism, where primitive accumulation and war industry led to conditions favourable to industrial slave labour, which was carried out en-masse by e.g. German industrial syndicates using concentration camp labourers.

While the earlier USA, as a settler nation, made heavy use of both slavery and primitive accumulation, this was necessarily a historically-contingent process, one carried out by the European empires precisely because the Americas had not been 'brought up to' the level of social contradiction they had. Slavery's profitability necessarily fell as the USA industrialised, and remains now only in certain key industries like agriculture and military production. Historically, again, the movement to make slavery a profitable general venture in the era of capitalism is the fascist movement, which attempts generally to replace the proletariat at large by mobilising the higher strata upwards, into petty-bourgeois smallholders (e.g. wehrbauern), converting the middle strata into slaves, and exterminating the lower strata - a movement that fundamentally requires both large swathes of cleared land as well as mass depopulation, due to the lower population density such an essentially backwards mode of production can support. Ultimately, it is a project doomed to failure, due to the impossibility of turning back history - but one the bourgeoisie are inevitably driven to attempt when capitalism starts nearing the end of its profitability.

In the USA, historically, the exploitation of indigenous nations and external colonies has provided a source of profit and primitive accumulation that has rendered a genuine fascist movement effectively unnecessary, despite the middle-class yearning for it, but these systems are themselves drying up, and the US, while not a slave republic, will soon start attempting to fashion itself into one by carving up its population.

I hope this has answered your question, thank you for writing in!

[hard--headed--woman]

"I had to fight to be myself and to be respected. I'm proud to say I'm a lesbian. I don't talk about it too much, but I don't deny it. I've had to confront society and the Church, which says that homosexuals are condemned. It's absurd! How can they judge someone who was born that way? I didn't learn to be a lesbian, nobody taught me to be the way I am. I was born this way. I've never slept with a man. I've never slept with a man. Yes, I'm a virgin and I'm not ashamed. My Gods made me this way"

- Chavela Vargas

Chavela Vargas (María Isabel Anita Carmen de Jesús Vargas Lizano) was a Mexican singer of Costa Rican origin, born in 1919 in Costa Rica and died in 2012 in Mexico.

She is considered a leading figure in ranchera music, which she sang with strength and emotion. Her voice, rough and warm at the same time, served her theatrical, passionate and human interpretations of standards from the traditional Mexican repertoire.

"And since I have to say it almost everywhere, I'll say it: my parents didn't want me. I suffered for it".

She has an extremely difficult and conflicted relationship with her family, who do not accept her in any way. As a teenager, she left her country and her family for Mexico. The young woman rejected and criticised the ultra-conservative society in which she lives. Once in Mexico, she began singing in the streets.

In the 1940s, she became friends with the painters Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, staying with them for a while and becoming Frida Kahlo's lover.

At the age of 30, she was noticed on Mexico City's Avenida Insurgentes by the composer and famous rancheras singer José Alfredo Jiménez, who became the author of her main hits. With his help, she performed in the cabarets of Mexico City in the mid-1950s before embarking on the road to success in Acapulco, an international tourist destination, where she sang at one of Elizabeth Taylor's weddings.

Chavela Vargas rose to fame in the 1960s and 1970s, touring the world. She became a well-known figure in ranchera song, to which she gave a new lease of life.

Dressed like a man, smoking and drinking like a man, carrying a pistol, "the lady with the red poncho, silver hair and brown flesh" as the Spanish singer Joaquín Sabina described her, is characterised by her red sarape.

In a television interview in 2000, she came out as a homosexual woman. This is where the text at the beginning of the post is from!

Chavela's career reached its peak from the recording of her first album (Noche de Bohemia) in 1961 until the end of the 1970s. This was followed by a long period of fifteen years, during which the singer, suffering from a heavy addiction to alcohol, interrupted her musical career, which she did not resume until 1991.

Encouraged by her friend, the director Pedro Almodóvar, who compared her to Édith Piaf, Chavela embarked on a world tour, performing at the Olympia in Paris and Carnegie Hall in New York. Among her most outstanding performances was Tú me acostumbraste by Frank Domínguez in Pedro Almodóvar's film Babel. Being a close friend of Pedro, she has appeared in several of his films, including The Flower of My Secret.

Following a final concert in Madrid on 10 July 2012 to present her album (La Luna Grande), she was hospitalised in the Spanish capital with serious respiratory problems. She died on 5 August 2012, aged 93.

I am sure you know at least one of her song, La Llorona !

In any case, Chavela was an immense artist who had a profound impact on music, and I'm delighted to have discovered her, or rather re-discovered her. I listened to some of her songs and they're amazing if you like that kind of music ! And please look her up yourself, she was such an interesting person, I couldn't talk about everything in this post or it would have been too long !

[probablyasocialecologist]

Then comes the problem of ensuring that the settler state and society replacing that of the indigenous Arabs is “Jewish.” Even in the pre-state period when the Yishuv was wrestling with the British authorities over immigration, the Jewish Agency and other Zionist institutions vetted the immigrants by their Jewishness. With the establishment of Israel, the Law of Return applied solely to Jews. Now Israel had another problem: How to present itself as a liberal European democracy while preventing the return to their homes of 720,000 Palestinian refugees from the 1948 Nakba? Population management in the form of technical legalisms provided a solution. The Citizenship Law of 1952 permitted everyone who had Palestinian nationality to return, but with a caveat: they had to have been registered residents of Israel in 1949. With that sleight of legal hand all the refugees were “legally” barred from returning to their homeland. Those that remained – 150,000 out of more than a million – were subject to some 184 laws that limited their civil rights. Some were symbolic, like the Jewish Nationality Law of 2019 that demotes Arabic from an official language to one of “special status.” Others more disenfranchising. Palestinian citizens of Israel, for example, are forbidden to buy, rent, lease or reside on land or buildings on land that are defined as “Jewish” – lands on 94 percent of their own country.

Jeff Halper, Decolonizing Israel, Liberating Palestine: Zionism, Settler Colonialism, and the Case for One Democratic State