#WHICH COULD MEAN NOTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[reasonsforhope]

A mountain in New Zealand considered an ancestor by Indigenous people was recognized as a legal person on Thursday [January 30, 2025] after a new law granted it all the rights and responsibilities of a human being.

Mount Taranaki — now known as Taranaki Maunga, its Māori name — is the latest natural feature to be granted personhood in New Zealand, which has ruled that a river and a stretch of sacred land are people before. The pristine, snow-capped dormant volcano is the second highest on New Zealand's North Island at 2,518 meters (8,261 feet) and a popular spot for tourism, hiking and snow sports.

The legal recognition acknowledges the mountain's theft from the Māori of the Taranaki region after New Zealand was colonized. It fulfills an agreement of redress from the country's government to Indigenous people for harms perpetrated against the land since.

How can a mountain be a person?

The law passed Thursday gives Taranaki Maunga all the rights, powers, duties, responsibilities and liabilities of a person. Its legal personality has a name: Te Kāhui Tupua, which the law views as "a living and indivisible whole." It includes Taranaki and its surrounding peaks and land, "incorporating all their physical and metaphysical elements."

A newly created entity will be "the face and voice" of the mountain, the law says, with four members from local Māori iwi, or tribes, and four members appointed by the country's Conservation Minister.

Why is this mountain special?

"The mountain has long been an honored ancestor, a source of physical, cultural and spiritual sustenance and a final resting place," Paul Goldsmith, the lawmaker responsible for the settlements between the government and Māori tribes, told Parliament in a speech on Thursday.

But colonizers of New Zealand in the 18th and 19th centuries took first the name of Taranaki and then the mountain itself. In 1770, the British explorer Captain James Cook spotted the peak from his ship and named it Mount Egmont.

In 1840, Māori tribes and representatives of the British crown signed the Treaty of Waitangi — New Zealand's founding document — in which the Crown promised Māori would retain rights to their land and resources. But the Māori and English versions of the treaty differed — and Crown breaches of both began immediately.

In 1865, a vast swathe of Taranaki land, including the mountain, was confiscated to punish Māori for rebeling against the Crown. Over the next century hunting and sports groups had a say in the mountain's management — but Māori did not.

"Traditional Māori practices associated with the mountain were banned while tourism was promoted," Goldsmith said. But a Māori protest movement of the 1970s and '80s has led to a surge of recognition for the Māori language, culture and rights in New Zealand law.

Redress has included billions of dollars in Treaty of Waitangi settlements — such as the agreement with the eight tribes of Taranaki, signed in 2023.

How will the mountain use its rights?

"Today, Taranaki, our maunga, our maunga tupuna, is released from the shackles, the shackles of injustice, of ignorance, of hate," said Debbie Ngarewa-Packer, a co-leader of the political party Te Pāti Māori and a descendant of the Taranaki tribes, using a phrase that means ancestral mountain.

"We grew up knowing there was nothing anyone could do to make us any less connected," she added.

The mountain's legal rights are intended to uphold its health and wellbeing. They will be employed to stop forced sales, restore its traditional uses and allow conservation work to protect the native wildlife that flourishes there. Public access will remain.

Do other parts of New Zealand have personhood?

New Zealand was the first country in the world to recognize natural features as people when a law passed in 2014 granted personhood to Te Urewera, a vast native forest on the North Island. Government ownership ceased and the tribe Tūhoe became its guardian.

"Te Urewera is ancient and enduring, a fortress of nature, alive with history; its scenery is abundant with mystery, adventure, and remote beauty," the law begins, before describing its spiritual significance to Māori. In 2017, New Zealand recognized the Whanganui River as human, as part of a settlement with its local iwi.

How much support did the law receive?

The bill recognizing the mountain's personhood was affirmed unanimously by Parliament's 123 lawmakers. The vote was greeted by a ringing waiata — a Māori song — from the public gallery, packed with dozens who had traveled to the capital, Wellington, from Taranaki.

The unity provided brief respite in a tense period for race relations in New Zealand. In November, tens of thousands of people marched to Parliament to protest a law that would reshape the Treaty of Waitangi by setting rigid legal definitions for each clause. Detractors say the law — which is not expected to pass — would strip Māori of legal rights and dramatically reverse progress from the past five decades.

-via NPR, January 31, 2025

--

Note: The article doesn't get fully into the implications of the broader, global "rights of nature" movement (of which this is part), which is powerful tool for not only recognizing Indigenous ways of relating to the world, but also preventing ecological damage.

Examples of rights of nature include rivers having the right to not be polluted, etc. Powerful tool for leveraging the courts and legal frameworks against environmental destruction.

[keferon]

“I've done something wrong again. It's not moving.”

There was a lot of stuff spread out in front of him. Old spare parts, pieces of armor, tools. Lots of warped plates.

And his creation. A real golem. An entity woven of metal and magic.

Shockwave walked around the table and stopped right above the head of the figure lying on it

“Golems exist to serve, my friend. It won't move unless you ask it to.”

Orion clutched his servos. The figure remained stone still. There was no ventilation noise, no engine sound, not even the barely audible spinning of a spark. It could just as easily have been a long-cooled dead body lying in front of him.

“Wake up.”

___________________

Magical Golem Prowl anyone? ‘,:) This story exists in the same universe as Spellbound au. and Monster hunter au and ties them together so I highly recommend you read all of them.

The fic under the cut⤵️

He seemed to be nothing.

The emptiness that infinitely defined his nonexistent self bounced off the metal plates and glinted in the droplets of still-warm energon. He was nothing, but there was so much around him that the space was like an infinite buzz of cluttered noise. The voices above him sounded excited. The metal slab beneath him was cold and hard.

“Good. Now you need to put a piece of your armor on this. Somewhere it will be in plain sight and easily reachable.”

“Oh...wouldn't it make more sense to hide it under the armor? I mean, it's an obvious weak point.”

He idly thought, his hands felt numb.

“No no, that's the whole point. You're using an artifact you haven't fully studied and you don't know exactly how it's going to turn out. If it goes crazy and becomes dangerous, you should have an easy way to destroy it. Where's the artifact by the way?”

The tinkling of metal.

The sound of a crystal clattering against armor.

Warm hands on his head.

“Here.”

“Excellent. Now. This will be the base on which the entire spell will be held, so you want to hide this artifact very well and secure it carefully so it doesn't break by mistake.”

Did he have hands too? He was nothing, why did he have hands? It didn't make sense.

Orion took a couple steps away from the table and stood pensively.

“I've done something wrong again. It's not moving.”

There was a lot of stuff spread out in front of him. Old spare parts, pieces of armor, tools. Lots of warped plates.

And his creation. A real golem. An entity woven of metal and magic.

Shockwave, hitherto distracted by an almost invisible spot on his shoulderplate, glanced leisurely over Orion's shoulder

“Golems don't need much to function. You made a good shell. The magical structure is strong as well, I see.”

Orion hesitantly pointed to the golem's forehead, decorated with a neat sharp chevron.

“I added some things that weren't in your instructions and I think I made a mistake somewhere.”

“Golem making is a complex skill, don't give up if it doesn't work right awa...you know what, actually no, you did everything right.”

Orion shrugged in frustration.

“Then why won't it move?”

Shockwave walked around the table and stopped right above the head of the figure lying on it

“ Golems exist to serve, my friend. It won't move unless you ask it to.”

Orion walked back over to the table with a quiet “oh” and nervously clutched his servos. The figure remained stone still. There was no ventilation noise, no engine sound, not even the barely audible spinning of a spark. It could just as easily have been a long-cooled dead body lying in front of him.

“Wake up.”

The emptiness that forever defined his nonexistent self stammered. He wasn't nothing. He had a purpose and that purpose shaped him, put strength into his numb limbs and molded his lack of thought into naked intent.

He wasn't nothing. He was a void, but suddenly that void had a direction, no matter how meaningless it sounded.

He stopped being just nothing. He became his purpose. And it felt so right that it was unclear how he could ever have been anything else before.

He opened his optics.

Orion, who apparently hadn't expected that the thing he'd made specifically for it to move would move, jerked back with a funny sound.

On the opposite side, Shockwave nodded proudly, returning to the spot on his armor that even in the bright lights of the workshop only he could see.

“I believed in you.”

_________

“Oh my god! How do you sneak up on me so quietly every time?”

He wasn't nothing anymore. He was a whole long list of instructions and rules. His creator sat him down at a table and meticulously listed everything he could and could not do. Handed him many books and ordered him to attend a huge number of lectures. He now knew who to bow to if he passed them in the hallway and who to avoid. He had learned hundreds of names and thousands of titles. Learned how to pretend to be a real Mech, even though he wasn't.

The world around him was complex and confusing, but he found that this complexity had its own patterns, linked together in a bizarre web of systems and sequences. It was worth pulling on the right end, and the meaningless facts organized themselves into something much more manageable.

Everything made sense. The planet revolved around a star. Mechs rejoiced when they got something that improved their quality of life. Energon burned, producing energy. Big things tended to be heavier than small things.

The world was divided into Mechs and monsters...and him.

He was inclined to be...quiet.

His creator - he'd asked to be called Orion - twitched when he found his creation standing right behind him.

He was very talented at finding Orion wherever he was. And very light compared to most things his size. Like everything else it made sense. He wasn't a Mech, he was just an empty shell. An armor summoned to life by magic. His footsteps were as quiet as a mini bot's. Whatever Orion called it, he wasn't 'sneaking' on purpose.

A few cycles later, Orion accidentally bent one of its finals when he turned around too quickly, startled by the quiet footsteps behind him.

He named him Prowl. It was...not exactly logical, but there was a certain sense to it. Prowl nodded and agreed. He always agreed with everything Orion said, even if it didn't make sense at all. Orion's opinion took a higher priority than anything else.

Until it didn't.

Until Orion gave him a focused look and told him that he should argue if he thought it was necessary.

Until Orion put the servo on his shoulder and said something along the lines of....

“You can disagree with me if you think my opinion is wrong. I'm not asking you to go against me. I'm not perfect and I can't be the one absolute point of reference for everything. You can and I'm sure will be smarter than me about many things. I want you to tell me if I'm wrong and what I should do about it.”

Like…well….like an absolute fool.

This concept was new. Prowl wasn't built to argue. He was made to obey orders and to serve a function.

Orion smiled slyly. At least it was probably a smile behind his mask that made the corners of his optics lift.

“It wouldn't be considered a disobedience of my order if I ordered you to disobey it. Don't you think?”

Prowl opened his mouth to agree out of habit, but then changed his mind mid-motion and closed it back. It...it didn't make sense. It made sense that was breaking under its own weight. It was mercilessly mixing up all of his pre-learned patterns for talking to Orion. If he agreed with that logic now, it would mean accepting its use. If he protested, it would also mean accepting it, but in a bit more embarrassing way. Just when he was thinking of simply retreating silently to the nearest shadow and banging his head against the wall, he heard a quiet chuckle and realized that Orion had been amusing himself for some time now, watching him struggle.

Prowl decided that verbal responses might be overrated and frowned his face in the most believable expression of displeasure he could portray.

Orion broke out into laughter.

________

“What exactly is my goal?”

Orion looks. Curious. He stops talking to Shockwave and leans back on the bench.

“Right now, to study these journals. I already told you.”

Prowl nods to indicate he heard him and continues

“Studying serves a future purpose. Studying for the sake of studying would be meaningless to me. What is my final goal?”

“To assist me” Orion says slightly confused. ”Within the best of your ability of course.“”

“Аh. Assist in the fulfillment of your goal.”

“Well. I'd say so, yes.”

Prowl nods

“And what is your goal?”

Shockwave, who has been sitting next to them the whole time looks like they're a couple of previously unknown to science species he's just personally discovered.

Prowl ignores him.

“I...you remember the separation between Mechs and monsters, right?” asks Orion cautiously.

“Yes.”

“Mechs...are unfair to monsters. Monsters are cruel to Mechs. It's a needlessly violent situation that I want to...try to. Fix.”

Prowl frowns to indicate that the information isn't completely clear.

“You're a member of the order of hunters. And...” he shakes his head toward the nearest window ”...you have a considerable number of hunters under your command. Your job involves destroying monsters.”

Shockwave makes some sort of quiet amused sound and props his chin up with his hand.

Prowl ignores him harder.

“My job is to bring peace.” says Orion “You don't have to kill monsters to do that. You can negotiate with them. Find a compromise. Coexist. I...I guess basically, I'm trying to make the world a little better?”

Prowl doesn't look impressed. He's actually making a special effort to not let Orion think in any way that he might be intrigued by the whole endeavor.

“You do realize that's a disproportionately large goal for just one Mech, right?”

Orion shrugs awkwardly

“That's why I made you.”

__________

Ratchet puts aside his tools and critically examines his work.

“Don't touch that and it will heal normally.”

Orion smiles gratefully

“Thank you.”

Ratchet is important to Orion. They are close and very valuable friends to each other. The two of them look peaceful now, despite the fact that Ratchet threatened Orion when he first showed up in Sick Bay, so Prowl decides it would be a socially acceptable moment to start talking

“Orion, you're wanted at the Council.”

The second half of his line is drowned helplessly in two startled exclamations at once. Orion, to his honor, calms down almost immediately, but Ratchet continues cursing for a while.

Prowl doesn't wait for him to finish. The Council meeting is earlier than usual today and Orion has already had a few occasions of misbehavior. It's in his best interest to at least show up on time this time.

“Shockwave asked me to tell you to hurry. I will add that showing up at the last minute will not be good for your reputation if you are still hoping to convince the council to let you take more units.”

Ratchet .....stares.

“Primus' rusty hinges, Orion, who's that? Did they assign a nanny to you?”

Orion twitches his finals playfully and immediately crinkles in pain, remembering that one of them should have been left to heal.

“Remember when I wanted to find an assistant? Well...”

Ratchet casts an increasingly more suspicious look at Prowl. Prowl decides that friendliness is overrated and limits his expression to a barely perceptible tilt of his head in response.

“...Shockwave recently helped me figure out how to create golems and I figured if I couldn't find anyone I could trust, I might as well...make one. So. Ratchet meet Prowl.” finishes Orion awkwardly.

Ratchet glares at Prowl for a while longer. Then he turns away and starts tidying up Sick Bay.

“I'm not buying it. I don't know where you found this guy, but you're not playing me. Nice poker face by the way.”

One of Prowl's wings twitches

“He wasn't lying.”

Ratchet snorts grumpily.

“Those...” he waves toward the next room ”...are golems.

There, behind the wall, several golems scurry around. They have medical staff symbols painted on their shoulders, and there is not a trace of thought in their eyes. Two are scrubbing the floors, another wiping the shelves and window sills clean of dust. They occasionally mumble softly under their noses or utter an inane “excuse me” every time they accidentally bump into each other. Prowl knows that if you ask any of them a question with more than one variable, they start babbling guiltily and shrugging their shoulders. They're stupid, but they themselves don't seem to care about that at all. They are their purpose. And their purpose is to keep things clean. They are pride because they are good at their job.

Prowl frowns. He's a headache. Because his "purpose" has been distracted by his conversation with Ratchet and will probably add another tardy to his list in the near future.

Orion begins (thank goodness) to move toward the door

“I've made improvements. There might have been...some not exactly allowed artifacts.”

Ratchet rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. Prowl can see that his face is already starting to wrinkle in that spot. Patient antics probably age Ratchet far more effectively than the passage of time itself.

“I...you know what...go before the Council sends a search party to look for you.”

Orion sighs and without further distraction finally walks out the door.

Prowl decides that Ratchet might be a good ally when it comes to managing Orion.

He nods politely goodbye before leaving.

______________

“I am different from them. Why?”

Orion puts down the document he's been working on and looks first at Prowl and then, over his head, at the other golems scurrying down the hallway with brooms and rags. He doesn't need to interject exactly who he thinks Prowl is different from.

“Do you want a philosophical answer or a technical one?”

Prowl reaches out and pokes somewhere in Orion's document

“ You missed a comma. Both.”

Orion obediently puts the comma in and folds up the document. His finals are twitching faintly. It could be a sign of concentration as well as distraction. Prowl has already figured out that Orion's body language is a double-bottom trap. For a Mech with this level of expressiveness, Orion is surprisingly difficult to read.

“Sometime quite a while ago during one of my expeditions, I found a unique artifact. A fascinating item, granting wisdom to anyone brave enough to use it.”

“I have a feeling a ‘but’ is coming.”

“You're right. The artifact's unique gift was also its curse. It fed so much information through the Mech's heads that it literally caused the processors of its owners to melt.”

“Oh. Good thing I don't have a processor then.”

Orion laughs quietly

“Indeed. You won't have that problem. And about the other part....Think of all the Mechs you know who are savvy enough about politics and available to work together at the moment.”

Orion gives him a moment before continuing.

“ What is the likelihood that the most trustworthy of them would betray me, for their own gain or out of fear?”

“ Twenty-eight percent,” Prowl informs.

And then hesitates a moment.

Orion is obviously a smart Mech. Not smart enough to single-handedly dominate the political arena, definitely not with his ideals and ideas of what's right. But smart enough to realize it. He knows what he wants and he also knows he can't achieve it alone.

Prowl looks at Orion, who just stands there, eyeing him, without in any way trying to continue the conversation.

Orion is idealistic, and therefore often mistaken for stupid. He isn't. Orion doesn't just know that he can't succeed alone, he knows that everyone else knows it too. He thinks this knowledge will be used against him when the opportunity arises. He's right. By Prowl's count, at least three suspiciously clever Mechs were going to sweet-talk their way into becoming Orion's assistant one way or another before... he appeared.

One of the janitor golems runs past them down the corridor. He doesn't turn around, doesn't even slow down or cast a curious glance. His only goal, his only interest is cleaning. The rest of the world might as well not exist at all.

Prowl thinks he's not that different.

Orion apparently reads the understanding from his face, because he nods contentedly and starts walking further down the hall.

“You didn't take yourself into account when you made the statistics, did you?”

Prowl follows him silently on his heels. Not close enough to be familiar, but not so far away that the conversation stops being private.

“The sampling condition was all mechs. I am not one.”

“That's true” Orion shrugs “You have no loved ones that the Council could use to influence you. You have no desires to be bought by their fulfillment. And while I cannot say with absolute certainty that you will never be capable of going against me...” Prowl starts to open his mouth to object but Orion gestures him to stop, “...no no no no, let me finish. And while I can't be sure you'll never betray me, I at least know for sure that before you met me you had no reason to do so. Do you understand?”

Prowl understands. It makes sense. He still feels the need to argue back, because it is part of his function to do that.

“I would never betray you. I'm not capable of it.”

Orion twitches his finals. Without seeing his face Prowl assumes it is a sign of doubt.

“You are a creature of intellect, Prowl. I am a Mech of ideals. Those two things don't always combine well.”

______

“Foolish and presumptuous.”

Prowl ponders that his function could be much easier if he didn't have to constantly try to balance what is right and what is right in Orion's eyes.

“If you were spotted, the Council would have good reason to assume this isn't the first time you've done something like this.”

“No one noticed,” Orion tries, but Prowl doesn't let him finish that thought

“No one has seen you, because you're lucky. You can't count on it being a permanent occurrence! You undermine your own position by giving the Council grounds for suspicion, you...”

Prowl stops, still pointing his finger accusingly somewhere on Orion's chin. Shockwave, who has witnessed the scene, makes an impressed face and steps closer.

“I swear, you're probably the most capable golem maker I've ever had the pleasure of teaching, Orion. If I hadn't seen that guy on your assembly table, I would never know.”

Prowl takes the statement as a compliment, but doesn't feel the need to show it outwardly. Shockwave, as one of the few who knows about him not being a real Mech, doesn't take offense to it in any way.

“Did I interrupt something dramatic?”

Prowl snorts, because the gesture maintains just the right amount of judgment for his situation.

“Orion is once again harboring a monster instead of killing it or letting it escape.”

This news immediately enlivens Shockwave's posture. Prowl knows he's an even bigger fan of collecting suspicious side projects than Orion. Their friendship, frankly, will one day bury either one or both of them. Prowl just hopes his presence will be enough to sway the percentages when that happens.

Orion doesn't try to deny anything.

“One of my squads encountered a ghost near the northern border. I couldn't... listen Shockwave, he's a good guy. He just needs to be given a chance to show it.”

“Can he talk?” there's almost visible stars in Shockwave's eyes..

Prowl slumps his shoulders helplessly, already knowing what's coming next. These two have done this dance a hundred times before. One of Shockwave's favorite side projects was a school for, as they called them, magically gifted and extraordinary Mechs. In fact, it was the largest den of various monsters that Prowl had ever seen. Every time Orion's hunting squads found a monster that could even remotely resemble a normal Mech, Orion would rush with happy optics to hand it over to Shockwave for care. There, the monsters were taught everything they needed to fit into the society of normal Mechs, but more importantly, they were given documents. Precious pieces of paper that granted their holders rights, freedoms, and protections as Shockwave's apprentices.

Prowl could appreciate the noble endeavor. He could also see clearly that with each addition, this school would become more and more of an inconvenient thorn in the Council's side. Just like Orion, Shockwave was happy to paint a brighter and brighter target on his own back for many cycles.

Orion, insensitive to danger that is not immediate, cheerfully begins to recite

“Can read, write, speak, even makes music.”

Shockwave nods happily

“Introduce us?”

Prowl wonders how far Shockwave can stretch the definition of “magically gifted Mech”. One day Orion will pick up a Kraken on the street and then they'll both probably have to do a lot of mental gymnastics to make it's documents. Ugh.

When Orion had asked him to calculate the probability of betrayal, the most reliable mech he was evaluating at the time was Shockwave.

Twenty-eight percent...

Prowl wonders how many students must be on the opposite side of the scale from Orion for Shockwave to choose in their favor. Speculation is actually useless. If the Council decides to nail Shockwave, they will of course use his entire school at once.

In fact, they probably won't even have to force Shockwave to choose between the school and Orion, because Orion himself will choose a bunch of monsters over himself.

This ridiculously dangerous social construct they call friendship rests entirely on their reputation as honest and honorable mechs. Prowl stares at Shockwave's back and wonders how one mech could have so much charisma, that he gets away with keeping a huge number of Council enemies right under the noses of that same Council.

_________________

Orion gently lifts the now graying shell of what was once a monster from the ground

He doesn't even turn toward Prowl.

"Did you kill him?"

Killing...it's a stretch. Does the act of helping a murderer qualify as murder? Or the lack of action that could have saved the now murdered person? In most cultures and languages, “murder” refers to the act of ending someone else's life, but the context implies a physical act. Did you put a knife in his back? Did you push him off a cliff? Did you cut him with a sword?

By those criteria. Well. Prowl never killed anyone. Nor is he likely to, for he has neither the skill nor the strength to do so.

Did he cause death? Absolutely.

Orion's always had this heroic streak that wouldn't let him just pass by the distressed and disadvantaged. Orion has always had a great spark of kindness and principles as strong as titanium alloy as to what is right and what is wrong.

In Orion's world view, murder is wrong. And murder in conditions where it was possible to solve everything by peace is immoral and unacceptable.

Prowl's worldview tells him that Orion could do much better if he stopped wasting his potential on helping those who will only drag him down in the long run. Orion's life depends entirely on the Council's opinion of him. A Council that has been watching him closely lately. Even if Orion doesn't like it, it's Prowl's job to make sure they like what they see.

Orion turns to him, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"Prowl. That mech tried to escape. Past you. And now he's dead. Were you the one who killed him?"

"No," says Prowl, "he ran into one of the patrols."

That statement is missing a good half of the details. Like mentioning that the patrol wouldn't have been there in the first place if Prowl hadn't sent them an anonymous lead.

Orion doesn't need to know that. Orion lives under the idea that every life is precious and, even more inconveniently, equal.

Prowl sometimes feels like yelling at him for it. Because that shiny perfect picture is simply unsustainable outside of Orion's head. The monster, whose graying body now lies on the ground, would be of little use to society. Likely left free, he would have simply continued to attack and kill travelers.

Whereas Orion spends his life making the world a better place. This is an objective fact confirmed by numerous observations.

They are not equals. And they probably never will be. Orion's life is much. Much heavier on the imaginary scales of statistics.

Orion squints at him suspiciously. He's clearly hesitant.

"You could have just let him go instead of killing him."

The trap is honestly too obvious.

"I didn't kill him" Prowl repeats "he ran into a patrol. You can't blame the hunters for doing their job."

Orion places a hand on the dead creature's forehead in a respectful gesture of regret while simultaneously averting his gaze. It's a habit by now.

Look the other way, don't let the council know what you're doing. Sympathize but not in plain sight, help but in secret.

"They had no right to attack him.This is neutral territory. He has the right to run wherever he wants."

Prowl's mouth is twisting with the urge to argue. To say that according to existing information, this monster would have just continued the attacks if he'd stayed free.

He says nothing. Orion is clearly in no mood to argue right now, and he's already questioning Prowl's claim. It's not worth pushing any further.

Prowl only nods, showing that he's heard Orion's point of view.

__________________

He is surprisingly good at lying.

Of course the skill doesn't just come naturally, but he's been known for his straightforwardness. Mechs automatically expect him to either remain silent or tell the unpleasant truth.

All he has to do is give only certain bits and pieces instead of coherent information without changing his usual behavior in any way and the mechs won't be inclined to verify it, filling in the gaps themselves. As a golem, he can't lie, but he can get others to lie to themselves.

He exploits this a lot. Probably more often than Orion would approve, but Prowl doesn't ask him to confirm. Conversations with Orion tend to narrow down his list of options. Because Orion is a real living mech. With a spark. With feelings. And his complex moral code revolves entirely around what he feels to be right.

Prowl has no spark. Prowl has an empty armor that he considers his body and a wisdom artifact that he considers his worth. Both his and Orion's understandings of what is right...overlap...sometimes.

Not always.

______________

"I saw a demon in person for the first time today."

Prowl politely shifts his posture to show he's listening

"A …demon?"

"Demon" Orion repeats "When...when a mech commits especially terrible crimes against the will of Primus, the very magic of their spark rises up against them and turns them into a demon. And I just learned today what a...demon looks like."

Prowl remains silent, waiting for a continuation that never comes. Orion seems gone in his thoughts....

"And what does it look like?" prompts Prowl.

"Creepy. It looks creepy and unnatural and terrifying. Primus' wrath has a very ugly shape..."

"Ah...I see...what did that mech do to be met with such punishment?"

Orion frowns

"I'm not sure. But what we're doing can't go against Primus' will, right? I mean, all beings are his creations! He can't condemn us for trying to make peace between mechs and monsters..."

Prowl is familiar with the concept of punishment for wrongdoing. But something about the very idea...the idea that punishment will find you no matter how well you hide because you can’t run away from your own spark...he has to admit it's disturbing.

"I hope he doesn't."

——————————

Thoughts?👁

Ahsjfjfj

This is the first half of the fic btw because I don’t have enough time to translate the whole thing in one day. I’ll try to post the second half tomorrow🤞

[spirit-lanterns]

HAVE A SEAT!

synopsis: co.ckwarming various hsr women

featuring: ruan mei, feixiao, lingsha, herta

rating: 18+ smut (men and minors dni)

warnings: sub! afab fem reader, dom character, strap on usage, strapwarming, co.ckwarming, feixiao and lingsha have d.icks, lingsha has two di.cks, lap s.ex, semi-public se.x, pene.tration, unprotected se.x, riding, oral, slight degradation (herta), slight exhbition (lingsha and herta), established relationship, might be ooc.

art credits: superstar rivalry

RUAN MEI

“Subject Delta’s brain waves are normal. Their behaviors are normal. A change in diet may be necessary however, as th— darling will you stop squirming?” 

Ruan Mei sighed and stopped her recording, looking down at you writhing in her lap as you tried to get comfortable. It was a long day in the lab for Ruan Mei, nothing out of the ordinary as she just had to get through the list of reports for the week. Unfortunately, (or fortunately) for you, whenever the biologist was starting to get bored in her office, she would always call for you to soothe her boredom.

And in this case, it seems that Ruan Mei had wanted you to get out the strap she loved using and sit on it while she did her reports. You never pegged your girlfriend as the type to be into something so risqué —especially in her lab of all places— yet she was adamant on you cockwarming her while she worked. 

“R-Ruan Mei I can’t…” your voice cracked as she nestled her strap deeper inside you, the girth of her cock stretching you open as slick pooled at the base of the toy. Ruan Mei had definitely noticed the sticky mess, but rather than being a clean freak and wiping it away, she gathered a bit of the essence on her finger instead. “Please move…I need it…” 

“I am not finished with my recordings. We still have to go over six more stages.” She comments curtly, admiring the consistency of your slickness by seeing how far she could stretch it between her fingers. The eyes behind her reading glasses were fogged in what appeared to be pure lust. She really was lost in the sight of you gripping her strap so needily, tightening around her while your nails dug deeper into her thighs. “…What did I say about your nails?”

“Mmngh…sorry…” you could barely contain the urge to bounce on her. Ruan Mei was just too mean… 

“Apology accepted. I should cut them for you later…” Ruan Mei made a mental note for herself and took one of your hands into hers, gently pressing against your nails —which had grown a bit long— and aimlessly began thrusting. 

At the sharp bounce of Ruan Mei’s strap bulldozing its way in, you resisted the urge to cry out in utter bliss. Ruan Mei ignored your obvious struggle and just stuffed her fingers into your mouth, slathering your precum over your tongue and making you gag.

“I need to start again. Please do be quiet this time.” 

She turns the recorder back on, the red light flashing mockingly in your face while Ruan Mei shoves her fake member deeper into your hole, back to being cold and calculating while your walls spasmed over her toy.

“This is take two.”

FEIXIAO

“Don’t grip me so hard…” 

Feixiao groaned and squeezed your waist as you nestled comfortably in her lap. The General thought it would be a fun idea to have you cockwarm her while she worked out, saying that she needed a “spotter,” but the General forgot to anticipate just how good you’d feel tightly squeezing her member. Maybe you’d be even more of a distraction than she thought…

“But General…you’re the one who asked me to—”

“I know what I said!”

She gave your hips one last squeeze before raising her arms to grab the bar above her, keen on doing a few chest presses while her cock was stuffed inside you. This was definitely unprofessional and dangerous by any means, but Feixiao was a strong woman. You trusted her to be able to handle herself during a workout, even if she might be distracted by your fluttering pussy.

“Alright, don’t move. Let me show you how strong your General is…” Feixiao purred and took the bar off the handles. The weights, intimidatingly massive, posed no threat to Feixiao as she pushed them up and down with no struggle. From where you were sitting, the sight of Feixiao flexing her muscles was just drool-worthy, watching as a thin sheen of sweat made her muscles glisten, the way they rippled with each pump of her arms. Not to mention how with each push of the weights, Feixiao’s cock throbbed inside you, almost as if it were aching to thrust with each rep. 

You felt as if you could get pregnant just by watching her workout.

“Babe, babe…” Feixiao grunted, her teeth gritting together. “You’re squeezing me…” 

You snapped out of your daze and looked down, watching as your pussy was practically clamping down on Feixiao and milking her. Though Feixiao hadn’t come yet, it sure as hell felt like it to her. “Sorry!” You exclaimed, trying to relax, though it was difficult to achieve as you couldn’t stop yourself from bouncing slightly on her dick. 

“It’s…fine…” Feixiao’s chest heaved as she stared down at you squeezing her length, some of your slick pooling at her base and forming a creamy ring. “…Fuck.” 

Your girlfriend suddenly lifted the bar up to the holders and set it there, carefully shimmying down so she can sit up and grab your hips. At the sudden movements, her heavy cock dragged wonderfully against your walls and caused you to let out a whine. “Maybe today should be a leg day instead.”

She chuckled and firmly grabbed your ass before making you bounce up and down on her lap. The sudden propulsion of your pussy getting pistoned by her dick had you throwing your head back sharply. “Feixiao…!” 

Your beloved General simply flashed you a wolfish smile before leaning in to bite your neck, deciding right then and there that fucking you incoherent would be a better workout than chest presses. At least for today.

LINGSHA

“Yes, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible once the results come back. How does an appointment in four weeks sound?” 

“Sounds good! Thank you Miss Lingsha!”

Your girlfriend smiled and waved off another customer coming to her for her remedies. However, despite her calm exterior, her thighs were quivering under the desk, all tension leaving her brow as she exhaled shakily and reached under. There, hiding just below her desk was you, pumping one of Lingsha’s cocks in your hand while your mouth pleasured the other. Just feeling the way you licked and stroked her two members had Lingsha whining and dropping her pen, unable to resist pushing your head down to bob further along her length. 

“You really have no shame, do you?” She sighed, running her fingers across your scalp and moving down to tilt your chin upwards. Your eyes flitted up to meet hers, lips still suckling greedily on her cock as your hand paused its motions. Both of Lingsha’s hemipenes were erect and dripping with precum, spilling onto your lips and fingers as she resisted the urge to just take you on the table. 

“Sawhy…” you said in a muffled voice, mouth too full of cock to respond properly. Lingsha just chuckled at your attempts to apologize, gently pulling you off her length so you could speak. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.” 

You swallowed the saliva and precum that had built up in your mouth and groaned, clearly drunk off Lingsha’s scent now. You tried to go back to sucking her off, opening your mouth to take her in again, but Lingsha playfully pushed you away with a finger to your forehead.

“Ehh?”

“Calm down, I need a break…” Lingsha heaved, her cocks twitching with need while she steadied herself. “I have another appointment soon. I don’t want to make a huge mess under—”

There was a knock at the door, causing Lingsha to groan. “Yes, come in.” She responds, casting a glare towards you so you don’t get any ideas. You simply smile at her and lick your lips, trying to play innocent as the next customer comes inside. As Lingsha is talking however, you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off her, her cocks throbbing tantalizingly in front of you just begging for you to touch her. 

It didn’t take long for you to grasp one of her shafts again and take the other one in your mouth, causing Lingsha to stutter mid sentence.

“Is something wrong Miss Lingsha?”

“N-No— nngh…everything is fine!” 

Her thighs twitched as she felt your mouth engulf her bulbous tip, biting her bottom lip as she shot a messy load down your throat while the other one completely coated your hands in her cum. It was a miracle she even managed to keep quiet as she did, especially in front of another customer.

“Oh, alright then. So, I was looking for a remedy…”

As the customer trailed off, Lingsha subtly shot a glare at you from above the desk, watching as you licked up traces of her cum and cleaned her cocks up. Nevertheless, it was still quite a mess down there, but Lingsha had bigger things to worry about. 

It will be a long day before her lunch break with you under there.

HERTA

“Madame Herta! Are you in there? Madame Herta?”

Furious knocks rapped at Herta’s office door, but the scientist didn’t utter a single peep. Too engrossed in showering you with affection as you sat on your mistress’ lap, all Herta could hear were the cute whines that left your throat and the lewd squelches of your cunt gripping her strap like it was the last one in the universe. 

“Madame Herta! Your meeting is in half an hour!” 

Herta simply rolled her eyes at her assistant’s frantic words. The other society members wouldn’t dare start the meeting without her, they could wait a little while longer while Herta busied herself with you. Yes, there’s no need to rush. Herta is just going to sit right here and have you squirm on her cock until you can't take it anymore. It had been weeks since she finally had the chance to be alone with you, and she wasn’t going to pull out anytime soon. 

“…Herta?”

“Quiet now.” She tsks and drums her fingers against her desk, not even facing you as she was staring directly at the way her strap sucked deeper into your cunt. She chewed her bottom lip and noted how much slick was gathering at the base of her cock, the white ring surrounding the silicone making her imagine you cleaning it off with your mouth. ‘Her lips would look beautiful sucking me off…’ Herta wonders to herself ‘Maybe I can hide her under the table at the meeting…no, too risky. Ruan Mei would notice easily.’

“Herta…” You whine again, wanting her to pay attention to you. She was, technically speaking, but you wanted her to look at you instead of drooling over your pussy. “What is it, you needy girl?” Herta exhaled sharply, finally looking up at you and pinching your cheek. “I’m just admiring you for a second and you’re already complaining. Honestly, I should leave you here right now and not even bother to make you come.”

“No!” You exclaim desperately, clinging to her shoulders and looking up at her with big, teary eyes. Herta could be so mean to you sometimes! You just wanted her attention, and it didn’t help that she kept edging you instead of moving like she promised. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Now you’re going to make me look like the bad guy.” Herta sighed and cupped your face, giving your cheek a small pinch. “I am merely teasing, little one. But I can see when you’ve had enough.” 

She kissed your pouting, plump lips and shifted her hips, the snuggled strap on starting to plow into you at a shallow pace. The tip of the faux cock pounded relentlessly against that little bundle of nerves that had you arching your back. Oh how pretty you looked whining in front of Herta…your girlfriend had to hold herself back from reaching for her phone and taking a few photos of you bouncing. Tits in her face and your pussy creaming around her cock, Herta was starting to lose her cool. 

“Mm, that’s right…bounce on my cock little one, you need to come don’t you? Come for me…” Herta gave your rear a tiny pat and pulled you in for a kiss, lost in tasting your tongue and swallowing up any moans you let out. 

“Miss Herta!”

“Mmmph…five more minutes!” Herta pulled away from you with a growl in her tone, glaring at her assistant through the door as the string of saliva connecting you broke. “Tell the other members to wait just a little longer, I am finishing something important.” 

Right on top of the papers that Herta needed for her meeting, she grabbed your waist and hoisted you up to sit at her desk, pounding you into the table and soiling her precious reports with your cum. She didn’t care, honestly. So long as she had proof of your private time together, Herta was satisfied. 

[simnopke]

The Sims 2 Legacy Collection: shadow fix

The rerelease of The Sims 2 introduced a fix for the black rectangles under Sims. You may have experienced this bug in the Ultimate Collection version.

As the creator of the Sims Shadow Fix, I was curious to know how it was done. But first, I'd like to explain what the problem with Sim shadows is.

What's the cause of the shadow bug?

When the game works as intended, a Sim shadow texture is a light bluish blob on a white background. It also has transparency, but it's unused. It looks like this:

However, many modern graphics cards render the texture as plain black with transparency:

That's why black rectangles appear under the Sims.

What does my mod do?

My mod is only a workaround for the bug. It uses the transparency to recreate the shadows.

The first versions released in 2015 and 2016 were achromatic, while the original shadows were bluish. Back then I didn't even know why and how my mod worked.

On 2 January 2025 I released new versions based on my research into shaders. I also recreated the original bluish shadows.

How does the Legacy Collection fix the shadow bug?

Thanks to @ivycopur I was able to examine the code. It uses a workaround, just like my mod.

In fact, it looks almost exactly like the really not misty 0.4 version of my mod, which, ironically, is now legacy. The shader code in the Legacy Collection contains the same nonsense. And a bit more.

Code comparison

The left side is the original code extracted from the Materials.package file in The Sims 2 Ultimate Collection. The right side is my code or the Legacy Collection code:

The differences between my code and the LC code:

the debug part: I removed it from my code as players will never see it. The LC has this feature untouched.

alphaBlend srcFactor: despite the difference, it actually changes nothing. Explained later.

The identical changes:

alphaBlend dstFactor,

the same colorScalar has been added,

textureBlend.

Nonsense #1: textureBlend

The textureBlend defines how the colors of the incoming texture are transformed. The first argument is responsible for the color channels, the second – for the transparency.

Originally it's just:

textureBlend select(texture) select(texture)

And it means that the texture is taken as it is.

My and LC code transforms it though. The colorScalar is defined as a partially opaque (40%) black color. The transparency argument takes the transparency of the original texture and darkens it with the 40% factor:

multiply(colorScalar texture)

And this makes sense. The color channels argument takes the transparency part of the texture and makes it pure black, because the color scalar is black:

multiply(colorScalar texture:alphaReplicate)

It's pointless. I could go:

select(colorScalar)

instead. It would be effectively the same.

The texture after the transformations looks like this:

Nonsense #2: alphaBlend

The alphaBlend defines how to mix the source colors (in this case the transformed texture from the textureBlend step) with the destination colors (in this case, the ground under Sim's feet).

The srcFactor argument defines the source color transformations, the dstFaction – defines the destination color transformations. And then they're put together.

Originally it's:

alphaBlend srcFactor(destColor) add dstFactor(zero)

The srcFactor says that the shadow colors are darkened with the ground colors. The dstFactor doesn't really matter because it's multiplied by zero (black). Also, transparency isn't used.

If I understand correctly, you could achieve the same effect with:

alphaBlend srcFactor(zero) add dstFactor(srcColor)

And the final effect is:

My and LC code had to do it differently. The dstFactor says to darken the floor color with inverted transparency:

dstFactor(invSrcAlpha)

It sounds complicated, but the inversion actually means that black becomes white and vice versa. So the transparency texture, which is a dark gray blob on a black background, becomes a light gray blob on a white background.

The srcFactor is actually useless because the shadow texture (from the textureBlend step) is black. So it doesn't matter if you use:

srcFactor(one)

like I did, or:

srcFactor(destColor)

as in the LC code, it will always be black because you can't make black any darker. To make the intention clear, I'd personally go with:

srcFactor(zero)

instead. The final effect would always be:

It's different from the original intended effect. You can even see the difference in the official screenshots:

Source 1 | Source 2

Conclusion

It doesn't look like a coincidence. The cause of the shadow bug hasn't been fixed, and I doubt that an experienced shader creator would come up with such a workaround. There are better ways.

Before you point out that it's against my terms of use to take my code and sell it, especially without credit, hear out. It doesn't matter – EA's policy allows it. And I'm not even angry. It's just funny that they trusted such a messy code. I wouldn't be surprised to see other creators' fixes in the Legacy Collection.

The good thing is that EA has addressed the shadow issue at all. 🙃

[cherrygirlfriend]

⟡ ₊ . ༄.° postcards under the bed

pairing: dean winchester x reader synopsis: how dean became a part of reader's little family. tags/warnings: fluff, fwb, reader has custody of her 5yo niece wc: 1k a/n; your girl was craving fluff!!!

dean winchester masterlist ♡

when you and dean first started going out, you knew that he was always traveling and never really stayed in one spot for too long, which was more than fine with you; you were too busy working and taking care of your niece for a proper relationship, anyway.

so, whenever the man came back to kansas and you managed to get a babysitter, the two of you would get tangled up in your bedsheets for a night. until things started changing.

what started as dean calling you up when he was back in town slowly turned into him texting you when he was gone, asking you how you were doing and telling you he couldn't wait to see you, coming over as soon as he was back in kansas.

what started as dean coming straight to your place and almost immediately taking you to bed slowly turned into pots and pans clanging in the kitchen as he cooked you dinner while you simply watched him with a glass of wine on your hand, the man telling you all about whatever monster him and his brother had been hunting while he made you his so-called specialty.

what started as dean leaving before you had even woken up slowly turned into waking up to his snores, spending lazy mornings tangled in each other's arms while the two of you talked about everything and nothing in hushed voices, exchanging small, nearly feather-light kisses.

he started bringing you postcards from all the places they'd travel to, the back of them filled with chicken scratches about what they were hunting, and although he always gave them to you in person, he made sure to write your name on the lines meant for your address with what was dean's attempt at cursive, the shoe box under your bed soon filled with postcards from different places.

neither of you called it what it was; when sam queried dean about where he'd disappear off to the moment they got back from their cases he'd mumble something about 'going to see someone', and when your friends wondered who was the guy picking you up from your girls' night in the black impala you'd just shrug and grin before making your way outside, straight into the arms of the man leaning against the car.

"i'm gonna have to cancel tonight." you said into your phone, using your shoulder to hold it up to your ear as you used your hands to decorate a bunch of cupcakes.

"what? aw, come on." dean's voice rang out, "i got popcorn and sour patch kids, and you finally agreed to watch terminator with me. are you bailing on me because of that? because if you really want to, we can watch one of your chick-flicks. again."

you let out a small laugh and rolled your eyes, a small smile now lingering on your lips, "it's not that. my sitter has a fever and had to cancel. so instead of our planned explicit date night i'm gonna be playing board games with aurora."

"ah, damn." dean sighed on the other line, "i really wanted to see you, sammy and i are probably gonna be back on the road tomorrow, we found some vamps up in duluth."

"i'm sorry." you say with your lips turned down in a slight frown, "let's take a raincheck, 'kay? i should go get rory, i finished decorating our cupcakes."

"oh? what cupcakes did you make?"

"red velvet. they're her favorite."

dean let out a small chuckle before humming, "hey, i was thinking... if it's not a girls-only night... maybe i could join you."

"really?" you raised your brows, "you wanna spend the evening playing monopoly with me and my niece rather than, i don't know, go to some bar and spend the evening with some hot chick?"

"i mean, you do have cupcakes. and board games are no fun with just two people."

you hummed, your lips pursed as you thought about his suggestion for a moment, before swallowing, "yeah. you can join."

after that evening, it seemed like things changed all over again.

dean no longer texted to ask you how you were, or to tell you how much he wanted to see you. he no longer cooked for you while you got to relax. you no longer woke up next to him. you didn't receive postcards addressed to you.

instead, he'd call you, checking in on you and aurora, saying how much he couldn't wait to see both of you again. he cooked for you while you were busy coloring with your niece. by the time you woke up, led zeppelin was blasting in the kitchen and the entire house smelled of pancakes, and when you got up, you'd see aurora dancing clumsily while dean was making pancakes. and the postcards were no longer addressed to you, but to you and aurora, and instead of ending up hidden under your bed, they were displayed on the fridge, until you no longer had enough magnets.

you were laid on dean's chest, your fingers drawing slight patterns on his skin, until his own hand came to stop you, bringing your hand to his warm lips, pressing a kiss on it.

"what are you thinking about?" he asked against your skin, and you looked up at him, wondering if you should tell dean what you were really thinking about or just brush him off. but the look in his eyes was reassuring, almost pleading you to tell him what was on your mind.

you took a deep breath before locking eyes with him, chewing on your lower lip, slightly anxious about what he was going to think.

"i don't think i can live without you."

dean's eyes widened slightly in surprise, before he let out a soft chuckle, the feeling of his breath on your hand causing shivers to run down your spine. he let go of your hand and moved his hand to your cheek, and you almost automatically brought your face closer to his.

"that's good, sweetheart, because i don't think i can live without you, either."

[charmedimsure]

Warmth || kang dae-ho

pairing: Kang Dae-ho x f!reader

summary: Dae-ho drags you outside to enjoy the snow

word count: 1.5k

warnings: just fluff :)

A/N: i put up a post saying i needed requests and then instantly thought of this and wrote it in like 3 hours. i got some good requests though so those will be out at some point. if you find any mistakes no you didn't <3

You groan as your doorbell is rung again. Wrapping your warm blanket around yourself, you trudge over to the door, pulling it open to glare at whoever is disturbing your lazy day.

You're met with the face of your friend Dae-ho, the usual bright smile lighting up his face. He's all bundled up in a heavy coat and scarf, a warm hat covering his head. It would've warmed your heart had you not been hoping to avoid contact of any type with the entirety of humankind today.

"Hey, Love!" he beams at you.

"What do you want?" you grumble.

He chuckles, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "It's so beautiful outside today! I thought we could spend some time outside."

You cock an eyebrow at him. "You know there's at least a foot of snow out there, right?"

He nods enthusiastically.

You sigh. "Dae-ho..."

"Before you say no," he cuts you off, "just come out with me for a little while. We'll go to the park around the corner. If you hate it we'll come right back."

You bite your lip as you weigh the options. On the one hand, you get cold very quickly. On the other hand, you've never been able to say no to Dae-ho. "Fine."

Dae-ho cheers, making you chuckle.

Thirty minutes later you arrive at the park. You changed into your thickest pair of jeans, put on your fuzziest socks, and slipped into your puffiest coat. You turn to face Dae-ho. "Okay, we're here. What do you want to do?"

"Well, we obviously have to build a snowman," he says matter-of-factly.

You chuckle. "Of course, how naïve of me to think otherwise."

Dae-ho works on making the first snowball for the base while you roll the balls for the middle and the head. As you're rolling the middle piece near where Dae-ho is, you let out a laugh when you see the massive snowball in front of him. "Dae-ho, that thing's huge!"

He just smiles over his shoulder at you. "Well you took too long, Love."

You chuckle, crouching down to put your arms around your snowball. You try to lift it, but it barely budges from the ground.

"Do you need help with that?"

"No!" you shout. You try a few more times before giving up with a sigh. "Yes."

Dae-ho laughs, walking over and picking up the snowball like it weighs nothing, plopping it perfectly in the center of the base.

"Show off," you grumble at him, making him chuckle. You go back to pick up the head, bringing it over and carefully placing it on top of the snowman. "Do you have anything for it's face?"

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a few acorns. "I found these over by the trees." He sticks them into the snowman's head, making two eyes and a smiling mouth.

You run over and grab two sticks, sticking them in the middle to be the arms. Dae-ho takes off his hat, putting it on top of the snowman.

You both step back to admire your work.

"I gotta say," you speak up, "this is probably the best snowman I've ever built." You point to the base. "Definitely the one with the biggest ass."

"What should we name him?" Dae-ho asks.

"Dae-ho."

"What?" he asks.

You chuckle. "No, I mean we should name him Dae-ho. He is wearing your hat."

He laughs, walking over to stand next to the snowman. "Do we really look that much alike?"

You look between him and the snowman. "Wait, which one's the real Dae-ho?"

He rolls his eyes as you laugh at yourself.

"I'm just kidding," you say. "Of course I know you're the real Dae-ho. Your ass is bigger than his."

Dae-ho's eyes widen as you laugh. "Oh, you're in for it." He scoops up a mound of snow.

You run away, unable to stop the laughs that are escaping you as Dae-ho chases you through the park.

You squeal as an arm wraps around you, pulling your back flush against Dae-ho's chest. You turn your head to look up at him. "Dae-ho, no!"

"Sorry, Love, but you asked for it," he smiles. He pulls at the back of your coat, shoving the snow down your back. You let out a scream as the cold sensation envelops your body.

You quickly bend down and pick up a handful of snow, throwing it in Dae-ho's face as he's still laughing at you.

Before he can do anything, you push him backwards, making him fall back into the snow. On his way down, he's able to grab the front of your coat, bringing you right down on top of him with an 'oof'.

You look at him, both of you falling into a fit of laugher at the state you're in.

"Get off of me," Dae-ho whines.

You wrap your arms around him. "No, you're so warm," you say, snuggling into him. "You're like a furnace."

Instead of him pushing you into the snow like you expect, he wraps his arms around you, hugging you tightly.

"Thank you for coming out with me, Love," he says.

"Thank you for forcing me outside," you return. "I'm actually having a really good time."

"Well you're with me, so of course you're having a good time," he says, rubbing your back.

You chuckle, pulling your head away to look at him. "That's true."

You both spend the next few moments looking at each other, smiling like madmen.

"Are you cold?" you ask him.

He shakes his head. "How could I be cold when you make me feel so warm inside."

You roll your eyes, pushing yourself off of him. "Oh, shut up."

He laughs as you stand up, brushing the snow off of you. You look down and see a familiar piece of clothing.

"Oh crap, my hat fell off." You pick it up, attempting to put it on your head but the gloves you're wearing make it nearly impossible. You grunt. "Stupid gloves."

"I got it," Dae-ho says, standing up and taking off his own gloves. You hand the hat to him and he pulls it over your head. You smile at the warmth it provides, but your smile falls as Dae-ho yanks the hat down to cover the majority of your face.

"Damnit, Dae-ho!" you yell, hearing the man laughing in front of you.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't resist," he says, taking the bottom of the hat and folding it over so you can see again.

"You're so mean to me," you complain. "I'm nothing but a perfect angel and you just bully me."

"Says the girl who pushed me in the snow!" Dae-ho scoffs, a smile lighting up his face.

"You deserved it!" you defend, a small laugh laced into your words.

"You're just upset that I'm prettier than you," he shrugs.

"The girl is always better looking than the guy," you state.

He smirks. "So we're together now, huh?"

You hiss. "I was referring to me and the other Dae-ho," you say, pointing to the snowman.

Dae-ho pulls back with an offended look on his face that almost makes you burst out laughing. "Him over me?!"

"What can I say, he's a great kisser," you say.

Dae-ho takes a small step closer to you. "Bet I'm better."

You try to ignore the way your heart is pounding as he gets closer. "Alright, let's make a bet. If snowman Dae-ho is a better kisser, you have to make me hot chocolate when we get back to my place."

"If I'm the better kisser, you have to make me hot chocolate and lay with me on your couch while we watch a movie. My choice, of course."

You chuckle. He sticks his hand out. "Do we have a deal?"

You nod, shaking his hand. "We have a deal."

You move to pull your hand away but Dae-ho tightens his grip, pulling you toward him. He brings his other hand to your jaw, angling your head so he can place his lips directly onto yours.

You close your eyes, smiling against his lips as a warmth spreads through you. Your lips move in sync, fitting perfectly against each other as your arms wrap around his neck, trying to pull him even closer.

You feel him smile against you as he wraps an arm around your waist, tilting you back to kiss you even deeper. He pulls away, pressing one last kiss to your lips before fully pulling back.

"So," he says. "Who's better."

You suck in a breath through your teeth. "I don't know, it's a tough decision."

Dae-ho rolls his eyes, making you laugh. You grab onto his scarf and pull him down to you, pressing another kiss to his lips. "Come on, big guy, I'll go make us some hot chocolate."

Squid Game Tags: @thebiggestigurosimp @vvnbxz @lov3yy @miltzzy @l5byrinth @come-as-you-are-111 @starkeyszn @learninglinesintherainn @galactict3a @sawlover353 @jspidey5 @skywalker0809 @zannispppp @lianobody @ihrthoney @machii-d3arr

Dae-ho tags: @whatthefuckeryfuckityfuck @ally1uvsu @hiphip-horray @k1michii @tpwkcaryslizb @louissst28 @sshwaa @jennwonwoo @sunnysurvives @lalalaa2210 @tayshs @sunshinethatlooksalive @plntmxrss @lxnnrobin @mariaxman @alexx-iia @batty-barty-crouchjr @kxsm3t @takuma-talkz @peacemakersbeloved @skywalker0809 @soobinbunnie5 @dragons-h0ard @silas-222 @putrescentpoet @chrisgetsmewetter @sunhyeswife @smile1318 @casually-simping @slvtforfakemen @ang3licbabydolly

lmk if you want to be added to the taglist (pls specify which one) (and if you want to be removed don't be afraid to ask)

[shy-writer-999]

1-800-LONELYCHEF . ₊ ⊹ .

Summary: The same man calls you every Friday at 11:30PM. It seems like he has nothing better to do. After months of the same routine, you've started to take a liking to him, which is a problem, considering that he's your client... and you work at a phone sex hot line. WC: ~7k. CW: NSFW content! ANGSTY! Afab reader w/gendered language (she/her pronouns). Masturbation, oral sex. MDNI plz!

“Hello?”

You’re very familiar with the caller on the other end of the line. He calls you once a week—every Friday, after his shift at the bougie restaurant he works at, 11:30PM on the dot.

He must be very attractive, or at least that’s what you’ve garnered over talking to him for many months.

At first, he was evidently too shy to make use of your more… explicit services. This is a phone sex hotline, after all.

He honestly sounded like he just needed someone to vent to. So, you listened, as was your job. After the first few months, you both got more accustomed to one another. His shyness melted away. He got friendlier.

It’s been six or seven months since he first called. You’ve become very fond of him, but you have no idea what he looks like. So, one day, you decide to ask.

“Your voice is so sexy,” you start, giving him a line that you gave everyone, except this time you mean it. “I can’t help but wonder what you look like, Sanji.”

With other callers, you’d have to check what their name is before you say it. But you’re far past that point with him, and every time you say his name it makes his heart flutter.

“Well,” he says. “I’m blonde. And my eyebrows have a little… curl to them. I’m a decent height and I have a bit of a goatee.”

“And what color are your eyes?” You ask, trying to get the full picture.

He notes that question. It’s a thoughtful one. You’re thoughtful, in general. He knows that you are just being nice to him because, well, it’s your job, but also… he can’t shake the feeling that you have a soft spot for him. Do you talk to everyone like this?

“My eyes? Hmm. It depends on who you ask. I don’t know, really. Some people say they’re black, other people say grey, I’ve had a few tell me they’re blue. I’m not sure.”

You hum in response. There’s a beat of silence.

“What sort of eyes do you like?” He asks. He’s cheeky like that. You have the feeling that he has a real soft spot for you, too. Why else would he call you every week? There are plenty of others he could call. But he just sticks with you every time.

You respond. “It depends on who you ask. But historically I have liked guys with black, grey, or blue eyes. Do you happen to know anyone who fits the bill?”

He can tell that you’re smiling. He finds himself blushing, getting giddy for a few moments before he realizes that oh, right, you are at work, and oh, right, he is paying you to talk to him, like the loser he is.

His voice falters a bit the next time he speaks, a couple of seconds later. You know the exact thought that just went through his head. It’s something you are well aware of but… it does make you a bit sad with him. You like him far too much for your own good.

You wonder if you would like the look of him in real life, painfully single as you are. You wonder if he would like the look of you.

You might have a teeny tiny crush on this guy you’ve never met. Teeny tiny is a massive understatement. Just because he’s so consistent—you’ve never met a man as consistent as him—and so kind, and such a gentleman, even on the phone.

But tonight, the call ends earlier than usual. It seems that your open flirtation was a bit too genuine for him. Hit a bit too close to home. He finishes the conversation and dodges your attempt to take it farther.

“Thank you as always, beautiful. It’s a pleasure to talk to you. See you next week.” The phone hangs up abruptly. He’s gone now.

He always calls you beautiful, like everyone else does, but… it just means something coming from him. Maybe because he’s the only caller who has ever wanted to truly know something about you. And every time he hangs up, he says ‘see you next week,’ even though you never see each other. It’s cute.

You find yourself wishing he was still on the line. You’re a bit bummed that he hung up this early, not because you’re going to be left wanting for money (he always overpays), but because you always look forward to talking to him.

When you take the next caller, you’re quickly reminded that Sanji is by far the youngest and kindest of anyone who has ever called you.

---

“Hello?”

He’s on the line again. It’s Friday again, 11:30PM sharp.

You respond, tone warmer than it needs to be, given that you’re speaking to a client. “Hi.”

You’re glad to talk to him. Very realistically, this is the only interesting thing you have to look forward to—it’s not like you can afford to go out and party on the weekends. Or any day, for that matter. He’s your Friday night date every week. That doesn’t escape him.

“How was your week?” He asks, like he always does. He’s the only client who has ever asked you that.

You respond as frankly as you can without overstepping. “Hmmm. It was alright. Pretty boring, in general. It could have been better. How was your week?”

He pauses for a moment. “It was pretty good.”

“Tell me about it.” You prompt, and he begins detailing his week for you, as is your routine.

The things you know about this man’s life are random and vast, among them, you know that he lives in the city next to yours, he eats oats every morning for breakfast, and that he chain smokes as often as he can get away with (which is almost 24/7). You’ve been privy to him trying to cut back on his nicotine intake more than a few times, and he has never forgotten that you cheer him on every time he tries.

Among other things, this week he had to go to work on his usual day off (Wednesday) because the sous-chef called out (again). You can hear him roll his eyes when he says that. You roll them too, even though he can’t see.

He vents about that, and you hear him out.

“The sous-chef sounds like a real asshole,” you say. “Always has. Didn’t he call out a couple weeks ago?”

He laughs out loud at your honesty. “I fucking know, right? And yes, he did. It’s ridiculous.” Then his heart skips a beat. You really do pay attention to what he says.

“They don’t appreciate you as much as they should, Sanji. I bet I could talk some sense into them.” You say, and you both chuckle for a moment.

“What else happened this week?” You follow up, genuinely wanting to know. This man fascinates you. With how charming and sweet he is, it’s a wonder to you that he’s single. Also, the life he lives is quaint. He is a man of routine, a hard worker, and he’s driven. He has a strong and warm personality.

When he replies to your question, you can’t quite make out the tone of his voice—is that reluctance? Hesitation? Shyness? Or awkwardness? It’s hard to tell.

He responds to your question. “Well… I went on a date last night.”

Before you can wonder why, your heart starts to sink. Fuck. You really do have a crush on this guy, don’t you?

You regrettably (internally) acknowledge your disappointment. You do have a massive crush on this guy. And he’s your client. So, get a grip.

Your acting skills have to be excellent for this job. You make good use of them now. “Oh, a date?” You emanate the pinnacle of excitement for him. “How was it?”

This has happened maybe half a dozen times before. The dates always go well but the follow through rate is bad. Obviously. Or else he wouldn’t be here. But every time it has happened, your heart always sinks. Not a fun feeling.

“It went really, really well.” Sanji’s voice is happy. “Might have been the best date I’ve ever been on.” You know he’s smiling right now. Positively beaming. Your heart breaks a bit before you reprimand yourself. You have no right to like this man the way that you do.

He probably wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot-pole if he met you in real life (you tell yourself this, and you know it is a lie, but you try to say it to make yourself get a grip… needless to say, this strategy doesn’t work.)

“How was she?” You ask because you know he wants to talk about it.

“She was thoughtful, kind, and considerate. Very sweet. Kind of like you, actually.” He says, not realizing how much those words make your smile fall. “One of the cooks set us up. Like a blind date. I had no idea what to expect but she was gorgeous. Wow. So funny, too.”

His voice trails off. It’s your turn to talk.

“Awh, Sanji, I’m so glad. You deserve some attention.” Your voice is sugar coated like usual and his heart patters.

The conversation wanders into various topics. The woman he went on a date with is a veterinarian. That sours your mood. She must be real swell. Caring for sick animals and all that stuff. Ugh. The whole topic is forcing you to accept the fact that you like this guy wayyyy more than you should. You have no business having this intense of a crush on him, having this intense of a crush on a man who is, ostensibly, and for all intents and purposes, using you as his rent-a-girlfriend.

The pair of you then talk about relationships—has he ever been in one? (Yes, ages ago.) What is his love language? (Physical touch and acts of service.) What’s his type? (Essentially, you.) You ask him questions and he asks you them back. It’s a nice conversation, an intimate one, one that would have you feeling better if not for the fact that he just happened to have an amazing date.

After a while, the conversation dwindles. You know that he’s in the mood to do what this whole thing is really about—phone sex. When Sanji is in a really good mood or a really bad mood, he takes advantage of your expertise in this area. Tonight is the former.

“Is there anything else on your mind, handsome?” You ask, gauging what he’s up to tonight.

“Mmmm, there is. What are you wearing, gorgeous?”

You smile. He’s cute. Usually, you lie when men ask you this question. But with Sanji you tend to be a bit more truthful. Maybe it’s the fact that you feel like he’s going to get taken off the market soon and never call you again one day, or maybe it’s something else, but you’re getting the urge to be more candid and flirtier with him than you’ve ever been before. Real flirty, not work flirty. You’re getting the urge to step out of whatever character you put on when you pick up the phone.

“Do you want the regular client answer, or the Sanji answer?” You say, bold and not giving a fuck. Why not? He can have the real answer, hell, he can have some realness because you’ve talked for so long, and because you like him so much. Like you said, he deserves some attention.

“Oh. How about both?” He’s tickled and intrigued. “I’m flattered that I have my own option.”

“You always do. Well, the regular client answer would be that I’m wearing a babydoll slip dress made of black mesh… with a black lace thong and thigh-high black stockings. Do you like that?” Your voice starts to transform; it starts to drip pure lust, candied in honey and flattery. It’s a well-trained skill. Sanji gets hard almost immediately, tenting his pants and widening his thighs.

“I like it very much.” His voice is getting huskier, thicker. You love it when he sounds like that. His voice really is sexy. He continues. “Now, tell me the Sanji answer.”

“It isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

He nods, but it’s not like you can see him. “Of course.”

“I’m wearing a black tank top and blue plaid sweatpants. No bra, but I actually am wearing a black lace thong.” You laugh. “Very sexy, right?”

His voice comes out raspier this time. “It is, though. I much prefer the Sanji answer.”

“You’re sweet.” You say, and he can tell you mean it. “Now, what are you wearing?”

Sanji blushes and his erection strains against the fabric of his boxers. “Do you want the regular client answer, or the You answer?”

You laugh again. “How about both?”

“Well,” he continues. “The regular client answer is that I’m in black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone and my sleeves are rolled up to my forearms. I’m wearing black loafers and black socks. Now, the You answer isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t have a shirt on and I am coincidentally wearing blue plaid sweatpants as well. Can you believe that?”

“No way. Really?”

“Yep.”

“Anything underneath?” Your voice is coy and his erection pulses.

“Yep. I have boxers on. Boring black ones.”

“And what’s going on underneath of those?”

He dryly chuckles and reaches down to rub his hard on for a second. “A lot.”

“Just what I wanted to hear.” You practically purr and he runs his palm over his bulge in response.

He lets out a soft groan that make you feel some sort of way. “Oh yeah? Y’know, even though I don’t really know what you look like, I just know that you’re looking sexy in your pajama outfit right now.”

Your witty reply is stopped short. He’s the only one who is this real with you. Most of the men on the other line tend to be creepy, old, and just downright weird. This is a dying profession, after all. Sometimes the other clients are rude and dismissive, too. But Sanji… you know he really means what he says.

“You’re adorable, Sanji,” you say. “I’d venture a guess that you look pretty good right now, too.”

“Mmmm.” He hums, heartbeat rising as he continues to palm himself. “I wish I could see you right now.”

You can’t tell if this is part of the fantasy. You really did wish you could see him, though.

“What would you do to me…” your voice is smooth as silk. “If I peeled off my tanktop and shimmied out of my sweatpants?”

Sanji’s breath hitches. Something feels realer than usual about this—knowing what you’re wearing right now, what you’re really wearing, is turning him on beyond belief (assuming that you’re telling the truth, but he always chooses to believe that you are).

“If I was there, I’d kiss you, actually.”

His answer catches you off guard. You’re not sure he’s said something like this before.

There is silence for a second. You don’t know how to respond, really. You decide to just respond honestly, without appearances. Fuck it. He’d probably be off the market soon if his amazing date was anything to tell for it, so might as well.

“Wow, that’s really sweet. I’m not sure anyone has said something that nice to me in years.”

He tuts. “That’s my lowest bar of sweetness. I can go much sweeter than that, my love.”

He’s never called you that before, either. You’re starting to forget that this is a work call. It feels distinctly different than one.

“I’d like to see how sweet you can get, Sanji.”

His cock twitches again. Fuck. You really have a way with words. You get him more riled up than anyone he’s ever met before.

You continue. “After you kiss me, what would you do to me?”

“I would kiss every inch of you.”

Your heart melts. Fuck. Is this guy a saint? Where does he get off being so suave?

“Mmmm. That sounds nice. I’d like to return the favor.” Your tone, to Sanji, is effortlessly erotic. The thought of you kissing every inch of him—yes, even those inches—has him grinding the palm of his hand over his cock.

“Sounds even better. Then, if you let me, I’d go down on you.” The blonde is starting to get worked up. You can tell from his voice—when it gets all husky like this, you know he’s about to start touching himself, if he isn’t already.

Also, the fact that he said ‘if you let me’ really struck you. No one had ever said that before in your line of work. He has the tendency to say things you’ve never heard before, and he always surprises you.

“Of course I’d let you go down on me,” your voice gets softer. “What exactly would you do?” You wonder if he’d be any good. Maybe his answer will be elucidative.

“I’d start by kissing up your thighs, one at a time. Then I’d very slowly, very gently kiss your clit. Hopefully it would feel good. After a while, I think I’d be able to tell if you liked it. I’d run my tongue downwards and taste you. And tease you as much as you’re willing to put up with.”

“Mmmm. I think I could put up with a lot.” You let out a breathy sigh. You’re starting to warm up between the legs. With that voice, and those words, and that mental image… it sounds divine. You’re about to let yourself get carried away. It’s tempting.

“Is that so?” Sanji decides to keep going with the fantasy as long as you’d let him. Frequently, this happens the other way around. You usually describe to him, in great detail, what you would do to him. Apparently tonight it would be the other way around.

“In that case,” Sanji continues, “I’d take my time with you. I’d push my tongue inside of you delicately at first, then harder, and switch between that licking your clit.”

You can feel that you’re getting wet. It has only ever been with Sanji that you’ve actually gotten aroused while talking to a client. Usually, you’re as dry as the Sahara when talking to clients. But this man does things to you. Sinful things.

“What else?” You ask, biting your lip and sneaking your hand lower. You decide that, just this once, it’s okay to get carried away.

He can hear it in your voice. The synthetic, sugary (but still very much erotic) tone is dissipating and he’s hearing, for the first time, your voice bathed in genuine arousal. Your breaths are quicker than usual, your tone is less composed, and he can tell that you’re hanging onto his every word.

At the same time that his hand goes under the waistband of his boxers, yours goes under your underwear. He starts to stroke himself, relishing the first ripples of pleasure from his hand, and you do something similar. Each movement of your fingers is accompanied by his voice, by some filthy image he puts in your head.

“When you’re moaning loud enough, I’d press my middle finger into you slowly, to make sure you’re comfortable. After a moment, I’d move my finger and caress you inside a bit, and if it seemed like you liked it, I would press my ring finger into you.”

You start to mimic what Sanji is describing. It feels dangerously good. A barely audible sort of gasping sound falls out of your lips and Sanji hears it. His fist goes faster. He hasn’t ever heard you make that sort of noise before—he’s heard fake moans, sure, they were still hot (and he always told himself they were real). Anything you did was hot. But this sort of noise was the sort that could only be caused by one thing—pleasure.

Sanji’s fist goes a bit faster when he concludes that you may be touching yourself. The idea makes him feel like he’s on fire.

“I’d curl my fingers inside of you and find your g-spot… draw circles around it and press it while I place some kisses on your clit. Would you like that?”

His question catches you off guard—you’re getting lost in the act of fingering yourself.

“Mmmm. I would like that, Sanji.”

“How would I know that you liked it?”

“I’d, fuck,” another soft moan slips out of your lips and Sanji squeezes his cock tighter. “I’d run my fingers through your hair and pull you closer. Buck my hips into your tongue so you, ah, get deeper.”

“What would you say?” His voice is low now, and you can hear a faint sound in the background. He’s fisting his cock to your conversation, which is nothing new, but it brings you more of a rush than usual right now because you’re touching yourself too. “What would you say if you liked how I ate you out?”

“Don’t stop,” you shudder, and it sounds like it would if he was actually eating you out. The noise makes his heart flip. He can hear wet sounds from your end of the phone, too. He can hardly believe his ears, but sure enough, he can make out the noises of you bringing your fingers in and out of yourself.

“I wouldn’t,” Sanji says and then groans. The obscene noise goes straight to your aching core. You’re going to orgasm soon. “I wouldn’t stop until you came all over my face and I licked you clean.”

“Fuck,” you mewl. “That sounds, ah, sounds like it would feel good, Sanji.”

“Does it feel good?” He counters, twisting his hand over the head of his cock. His fist brings down the precum that has been beading at his tip, and the sensation makes his hips rock up inadvertently.

“Mmmmphhh, I—yes, it feels good, Sanji. Feels so good.”

You curl your fingers inside, searching for the spot that Sanji mentioned before. You press on it as you speak. You know he’s going to love the noise you make.

He grunts and throws his head back. He’s going to cum soon. He’s going to cum if you say his name some more. He wants it. “Say that again.”

“Fucckkk, Sanji. Feels so good.”

“I love hearing you say my name. I’m—hah—‘m gonna cum if you do it again.”

“Sanji. Sanji. Sanji, fuck, Saannnjjjiii.” On repeat, you moan his name through your orgasm, which you finally allow to wash over you. He can hear it in your voice, can hear you trying to force his name out of your mouth between keens.

Your voice has never sounded so good. He’s sure now, sure sure, that you’ve been touching yourself this whole time and that you just came. It’s a first for him. He’s suspected your arousal at other times, but this time, it’s a confirmed fact. In an instant, the fantasy fades and he can see the moment for what it is—you’ve thrown away the pretenses, acting skills, and flattery, and, for a handful of minutes, you’ve been 100% yourself with him, more so than ever before.

That’s what makes him cum. Your unreserved sincerity and desire. It’s the hardest he’s cum in a long time—and that’s a high bar, considering the fact that any time he broaches these activities with you he cums hard.

When you’re both panting in the euphoric aftershocks of your orgasms, Sanji whistles. “Damn.”

You hum in agreement. “Wow.”

He cracks a joke. “So, am I supposed to send you an invoice after this one?”

He’s hilarious in general, and this one makes you laugh. “I might allow it.” Your tone is uncharacteristically bashful. You’re about to say something you’ll later regret. “I think you’re the only person who has ever gotten me off over the phone.”

Sanji is taken aback for a second. “Really? I’m honored. And surprised.”

You almost instantly regret oversharing, chuckling awkwardly before you realize that this is a work call, and you should act accordingly. But it’s hard to pull yourself out of the intimacy of this moment and you don’t want to. So… against your better judgment, you don’t.

“I’m impressed, Sanji. Maybe we should do this more often,” you say, and Sanji’s heart thumps again. “You don’t have to only call me once a week, you know.”

“As long as you won’t get sick of me, I would love to. And we can do this again any time, gorgeous. It’s seriously my pleasure. You don’t know what you do to me, it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

While he’s saying the last part, Sanji realizes that this isn’t a favor, really. He tries to brush off that sad feeling for a moment but finds himself wondering what you really think of him.

It’s time for him to go to sleep, he concludes. He’s exhausted after a long shift and a hard orgasm.

“So, same time next week?” His voice is chipper.

“Mhm. I look forward to it, Sanji. See you later.” When the words leave your mouth, you wonder if he feels butterflies, too.

“See you later, sweetheart.”

Sanji hangs up the phone.

In your respective bedrooms, you’re both wondering what the fuck just happened. This call was full of lots of firsts and, little do you two know, the other feels elated.

But Sanji thinks about it more. He weighs his feelings for you against the practical understanding that he is, presumably, nothing more than a client to you. His heart aches at the thought.

And then he looks at his phone. The person who he went on a date with texted him while he was on the phone with you—she’s asking for another date. She says she looks forward to seeing him.

---

A week passes.

It’s Friday again.

11:30PM comes and goes. No call from Sanji.

In a span of over six months, this is the first time he hasn’t called you.

As you sit and wait for him, passing off other phone calls in case he decides he wants to speak to you tonight, your heart starts to sink.

Was last time a mistake?

Ten minutes go by.

Twenty minutes go by.

Many minutes go by. The time is now 12:30AM.

You’re left to conclude that last time was, indeed, a mistake.

You decide to take the night off. Your tears are making it hard to get any work done. You can’t put on that sultry voice and moan at old men in your current state.

There’s no denying it—his absence hurts you. Bad. Especially after last week. Especially after you admitted to him that you had never orgasmed over the phone before, and that you wanted to talk to him more often.

Why hadn’t he called you?

You wrack your brain for possibilities, but one major thing stands out. That date he went on. Maybe he went on another one and decided he liked them better.

Liked them better? You ask yourself after realizing what you just thought. He’s paying you to talk to him on the phone. Get over it. He isn’t going to keep calling you forever. What did you expect after last week? That he would just confess his love, offer to pay all of your bills, and that would be it?

You frown harder, hurting yourself deeper with your own rhetoric. The tears won’t stop.

It’s excruciating to realize that you like Sanji this much. You really like him. You know almost everything there is to know about him, too. And as much as you generally try to avoid giving out personal information, he knows a large chunk about you. Maybe that’s why it hurts so bad.

No, you tell yourself. Don’t kid yourself. You know it hurts this bad because you were hoping he liked you for real. You were hoping that this man, who you had never truly met before, who you had never seen, would, against all odds, decide that he wants you, even if he hadn’t seen you.

Fat chance, you tell yourself. Never do that with a client again, and this will never be a problem again.

---

Sanji does not call you back the next week.

Or the next week.

Or the week after that.

Or the month after that.

You are over it by the time the second month rolls around.

It’s pretty good timing, on your behalf. You think you’re really over this huge crush on a man you’ve never seen before. By the fifth month, you’re still telling yourself that you’re over this “crush”.

But that’s a delusion—any time you’re in public and there’s a blonde man, you find yourself scanning his face. Does he have a goatee? Could those eyebrows be considered curly? What color are those eyes?

When you see one that you think might be him, you always work up the courage to speak to them. But it never is Sanji. You would recognize that voice anywhere.

You wonder what you will say to him if he ever calls you again. Or if you see him in person. You decide that if he ever calls you again, you’ll either curse him out or break into tears.

In your most down-bad-hour, you contemplate showing up at the restaurant he is the chef at. You contemplate asking if you can see the kitchen. You just want a glance at him. A glance will keep your heart quiet.

But the joke’s on you—his restaurant is too expensive for you. Truly. You couldn’t afford a drink there if you tried. Okay, maybe just one. But you refuse to stoop to that level of desperation.

You’re a call away from him. He just has to dial your number.

You, on the other hand, have no way of calling or texting him. The service you work through scrambles client numbers before they’re patched through to you. The only way you know it’s Sanji is when he calls, at 11:30PM on the dot, on Friday nights. That’s Sanji time.

But it seems like Sanji time has come and gone.

You can’t shake the feeling that he did you dirty—but then you remember that he doesn’t owe you anything. This is your line of work. Phone sex. And that’s what you had. You just stepped over a boundary that you usually stay far away from. Whose fault is that?

No amount of logic can shake that feeling, though. You develop a little grudge against this man who you will never meet.

That’s what you tell yourself—that you’ll never meet him. But there’s a nugget of hope inside that, someday, he’ll call you. Someday he’ll kiss you. You try to obliterate that nugget though, as it is antithetical to the remedy to your lovesickness that you’re seeking.

Which will come first, him calling you, or you quitting this job that you’ve been meaning to quit for months at this point?

You hate to admit this to yourself, but he’s the only thing that was keeping the thoughts of quitting at bay. Maybe you really will quit this time around.

---

It is a Saturday night and you’re working again. It’s an unfortunately slow night, which sucks, because you really could use the money.

You’re scrolling on your phone, waiting for the next call to come in. It has been three hours with no calls. Guess all the creepy old men have plans tonight, which is such a shame because you need to pay rent soon. Sigh.

Time passes. You check the clock. It’s almost 11:30PM. The time doesn’t remind you of him anymore (well, much).

Maybe if you channel some of your good karma, ask the universe to cut a check of it right now, someone will call you for one long, lengthy conversation. You can help get them off as many times as they want. Five times in a row. You’ll break that record and go for six times if they just pay you. No questions asked.

Sure enough, a call comes through. You check the clock again. It’s been moving at a snail’s pace tonight. It’s 11:35PM. Hopefully whoever this is feels like talking.

“Hello?”

Your heart stops.

It sounds like Sanji for a second. But there’s no way. It’s been five fucking months.

“Hi.” You respond in your sugared up, sultry voice.

“It’s been a long time, gorgeous.”

It is Sanji.

Your heart flutters and your stomach flips. You’re speechless.

Don’t forget your game plans: curse him out or cry. But you can’t bring yourself to do either now that he’s waiting on the other line. You’re about to hang up the phone. You owe this man nothing and he owes you nothing—it’s that simple.

As you go to press the end call button, he speaks again.

“I’m sorry.”

The tears start now. The dam inside of you breaks. Hot tears pour out of your eyes and down your cheeks.

You didn’t think that hearing his voice would have this strong of an effect on you. But the heartbreak that you once thought faded away is now back in full force.

He’s waiting for a response before he hears shuddering breaths from you as you cry. Your tears are all the confirmation he needs—he knows that he was right months ago when he worked up the courage to confess to you. He should have done it. He knows that he was wrong to take the coward’s way out. And he knows he was wrong to tell himself that you didn’t care about him and wouldn’t care when he disappeared, because he was just a client to you. He was so terribly wrong. The sound of your sobs shatters him.

“I should have called you before. I’m so sorry. And maybe you hate me for waiting this long to call you again. I understand if you do. I just couldn’t keep it inside anymore, I—”

“Where the fuck were you?” You cut him off. Your anger is starting to seep through the tears. Maybe the first game plan can still happen. “I waited for you, Sanji.”

He doesn’t even try to think of a comeback or excuse. He tells you plainly what happened and, even though it breaks your heart some more, it makes sense.

“Well… I finally found someone. Last time, after I hung up, I had another date with that person I mentioned, and it went really well. So, we just kept going on dates. It didn’t feel right to keep calling you when things with her were progressing so quickly. We got together, and—”

“I understand, Sanji. That’s all I wanted to hear. Thanks.”

You slam your finger down on the hang up button. Your heart is broken enough as it is. He can keep all that yapping to himself. Good for nothing heartbreaker.

So what, he was with whoever that was. So what, they love each other and have been together almost half a year at this point. So what, he was just a client the whole time and you had gotten your hopes up for nothing and—your catastrophizing is stopped in its tracks when your phone starts to buzz again. You feel like it’s Sanji.

You pick up the phone. It is.

“Wait, wait, don’t hang up, please let me finish, please.”

“What, so you can tell me how much you love your girlfriend? I get it, Sanji. You paid me to talk to you for so long that of course you got sick of it and finally got what you had been after the whole time, a loving, very real partner. I understand that I’m just a service to be used and discarded later. That’s fine. Goodbye.”

“No. Listen to me.” Sanji’s voice is stern and harsh, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. “We got together and then she very quickly dumped me. Do you know what she kept saying to me? She said I was too absentminded. She thought I was thinking about someone else. Dumped me after two months because I couldn’t give her what she wanted. Absentminded.”

His words hang in the air for a few moments while you try to process why the fuck he’s explaining any of this to you and why it matters. He continues. His voice is emphatic, hurried, and nervous sounding.

“And if I’m being honest, I was absentminded. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know this sounds fucking ridiculous because we’ve never met, and I understand if you tell me to go fuck off because I’m sure this happens to you all the time, but… I can’t get you out of my head. I’ve tried to for months. Three months. I told myself that I was an idiot for falling for someone out of my league. And the crazy thing is, I don’t even have to see you to know you’re out of my league. The way you act is out of my league. YOU are out of my league. You’re thoughtful, and kind, and considerate, and you pause before you respond whenever you talk because I can tell you’re really thinking over your response. And you’re funny. And witty, and charming, and you never once made me feel weird or less than for calling and finding solace in you. I’ve been lonely for years. I make the first move all the time, but it never works out. And I know I fucked this one up, and I know I didn’t have a chance in hell with you to begin with, but I just, fuck, I had to get this off my chest. I love you. I fell for you the first conversation we had. Now please tell me to fuck off.”

You can tell that every word he is saying is sincere and earnest. You can hear the emotion in his voice. While you wipe your tears dry and mend your heart together, you take deep breaths. He can wait for your response. Like he just said, you’re intentional about your responses to people. Every word matters. Especially with Sanji.

“Do you know how bad it hurt after our last conversation to not hear from you again?” You start.

He winces. He knew that was coming.

“I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. It was disrespectful of me, and callous, and if you hang up and never want to speak to me again, I understand and I deserve it.”

“You do deserve it.” You say, regaining some composure. “You really do, Sanji.”

“I’m sorry.” You can hear his frown. It’s a cute one. Fuck. His cute words are playing back in your ears too. So, he loves you?

Should you tell him how you feel? How you’ve felt for a long time?

One part of you is screaming at you to get a grip. But the other part—all the other parts—are finally, finally hearing what you’ve been wanting to hear for around a year at this point. That he likes you for you. That he sees you as you, and not some dolled up object of affection that’s only there to get people off and talk dirty to them. It has never been like that between you.

“If I accept your apology, Sanji, what then?”

“I—I actually didn’t think I would make it this far. But if you accept my apology, my next step is to ask you out to dinner with me. And to ask for your phone number. Your real phone number.”

You let out a long, deep sigh. “Sanji. My love. You could have told me these things months ago. It would have saved both of us so much heartbreak. I was devastated. Do you know that?”

You know that he already profusely apologized but you feel like driving it home a bit more. He deserves it. But while you talk, his hopes start to rise. You’ve never called him ‘my love’ before. Maybe that bodes well?

“I’m so sorry. I really am.” He sounds like he means it. You trust him enough to know that he does. Well, fuck it.

“Don’t think I’ll just forget about this because I’m head over heels for you, okay?”

“You—what?” He’s caught off guard. “You are?”

“Sanji. Yes. And you could have found out ages ago. Now, when are we going to dinner? You can apologize to me again then, too. And even if you don’t like what you see, you have to pay for everything. I’m getting an appetizer, an entrée, a dessert, at least two drinks, and whatever else I want. Okay?”

He laughs in relief. “Yes, okay. Yes. Holy shit, I didn’t think you would say that. I wish I could kiss you.”

“Wait—one last thing. If you decide you don’t like me after our date, Sanji, you have to tell me there on the spot. You can’t leave me waiting for another five months. You just can’t.”

“I promise, I won’t leave you waiting. I promise.”

When you hang up the phone a few minutes later (after more twisting the knife), you’re so thrilled that you can hardly breathe.

You can’t believe this is real life. You also can’t believe how quickly you just forgot your dignity, but you’ll unpack that later.

Dinner is set for tomorrow night. 7:30PM on the dot. Sanji is calling out of work, and he’s taking you to the (second) nicest restaurant in town (his is the first, obviously, and he wants to save that for a night where he can really plan ahead and spoil you).

---

When you get to the restaurant, Sanji is already there, waiting outside with a large bouquet of flowers.

He’s more handsome than you could have imagined. Of course he is. You do have great intuition, and you knew from the start that he was sexy. But… goddamn, he is sexy.

It makes sense now what he meant by curly eyebrows. He’s dressed well, too. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. He has black loafers and black socks. And he smells good. And he smiles good.

He’s so nervous he could puke. He hopes that when he sees you the nerves will melt. But they get 20x worse because he’s enamored with you. You’re beyond his wildest dreams—no number of fantasies could have led him to guess that you look like this.

He’s so obsessed that he starts to stammer before you tell him to calm down, and that he’s making you nervous.

Over dinner, you catch up on everything you’ve missed in the past few months of silence. You fill him in on details in your life that you previously kept to yourself, and he sees a whole new side of you.

At the end of the date, he tells you that he still loves you, that he loves you even more now, and that he’s so so sorry. He says that he’s mesmerized by you, that you’re more than he could have ever dreamed of, and that you can count on him for anything.

You seal the night with a kiss. A long one. It’s so romantic that you feel a bit disturbed with how happy you are after.

And it turns out that yes, this is your big happy ending. You make a perfect pair.

Epilogue: The day that Sanji finally shows off the techniques he told you about long ago, you’re more than satisfied. In fact, it seems like he was actually underselling himself there. You always knew he was the modest type.

thanks for reading! this was inspired by a whole lot of laufey! i hope you liked it. i love sanji so much it hurts me ;(

here's my masterlist if you're interested!

divider courtesy of @cafekitsune tag list @eggrollforyou

[ducktoo]

Getaway

Jo Yuri x M!Reader

Note: here’s to the hamster girl that got the big bag from the squid 🫶

It started with excitement. A group chat buzzing with memes about sunsets over the ocean, lists of must-try cruise activities, and an unhealthy number of debates over how many swimsuits one person actually needs. This was supposed to be the trip—five days of relaxation, laughter, and memories with your closest friends.

Then the excuses started rolling in.

First, it was Jihun. “Sorry, man, work’s piling up. I can’t take the time off.” His message was punctuated with a sad face emoji, as if that would soften the blow.

Next, Minji dropped out, claiming some vague “family emergency.” You tried to sympathize until you saw her Instagram story of her at a café with her dog, captioned Much-needed chill day.

By the time Seungmin admitted he “forgot” about his cousin’s wedding, you were already resigned to your fate. One by one, your friends bailed, leaving you holding the metaphorical bag—and the very literal cruise ticket.

Cancelling wasn’t an option. Non-refundable, non-exchangeable, non-everything, because you’d been too cheap to spring for the insurance. You’d planned for the luxury cabin, imagining yourself waking up to ocean views and feeling like royalty with your close friends. But with everyone else backing out, your budget evaporated faster than the group chat notifications.

Which led to this: you, booking a shared cabin with a stranger. It was either that or throw away the money you didn’t have to lose.

“You’ll be fine,” you told yourself as you stared at the confirmation email. “It’s just five days. How bad could it be?”

-

Yuri tugged the strap of her duffel bag higher on her shoulder, sighing as she handed over her cruise ticket at the check-in counter. She was supposed to be here with her family—her parents, her older sister—but life had a way of throwing curveballs.

Her sister had come down with the flu two days before the trip. Nothing too serious, but enough that her parents decided to stay home to take care of her. “You should still go,” her mother had insisted. “We already paid for your ticket. Think of it as a break.”

Yuri didn’t argue. A break sounded… necessary.

After Squid Game Season 2 aired, her world had been flipped upside down. Fame was exhilarating, sure, but it was also overwhelming. Endless interviews, promotional events, fans recognizing her on the street. It felt like she was constantly on, with no time to just breathe.

She’d thought about cancelling. Spending five days alone on a cruise ship wasn’t exactly her idea of fun. But her mother’s words lingered: You need a break, Yuri. Go.

So here she was, trying to convince herself that five days of ocean views and buffet dinners could somehow make her feel like herself again.

The only catch? She’d been bumped to a shared cabin because of a last-minute shuffle in bookings. “It’ll be fine,” the cruise rep had told her over the phone. “It’s just a roommate. You’ll hardly notice them.”

Yuri rolled her eyes at the memory. Hardly notice them?

Yeah, right.

If this was anything like her recent luck, her roommate would either be a chatterbox who didn’t know the meaning of personal space or some fan who wouldn’t stop asking about the show.

She stepped into the tiny cabin, already dreading the next five days.

-

The cruise ship looms large in the harbor, its pristine white exterior gleaming under the midday sun. You pause for a moment, clutching your duffel bag, letting the salty breeze wash over you. The idea of going on this cruise solo still feels surreal, but with all your friends bailing at the last minute, you weren’t about to let the ticket—and your deposit—go to waste.

The fact that you’d been downgraded to a shared cabin? Well, that was a bitter pill you were still swallowing.

Cabin 512A. The number taunts you as you make your way down the narrow, carpeted hallways.

The luggage wheels behind you squeak, the only sound in the otherwise quiet corridor. You grip the keycard tightly, your heart thumping faster than it should. Sharing a cabin with a stranger was bound to be awkward, but you’d convinced yourself it couldn’t be that bad.

The door beeps as you slide the keycard, and you step inside. It’s… snug. Two single beds crammed into a space that feels more like a walk-in closet with delusions of grandeur. One bed is already claimed, judging by the neatly folded hoodie and headphones resting on it.

You hear a faint sound—a soft hum—from the bathroom. Your brows knit together. It’s familiar. Too familiar.

The door creaks open before you can dwell on it further, and your new cabinmate steps out. She’s small, dressed in an oversized sweater and denim shorts, her hair casually tied up. For a moment, her gaze locks with yours, her eyes wide and questioning.

“UH…hi,” she says, her voice soft but steady. “You must be my roommate.”

You nod, but you’re not really listening. Your brain is short-circuiting, trying to process what you’re seeing.

Jo Yuri.

Not just your cabinmate—Jo Yuri, the breakout star from Squid Game Season 2. You’d binge-watched the entire season when it came out a few months ago, captivated by her performance. She played one of the more appealing characters: the underdog who managed to power through the entirety of the season. People online had been calling her the “puppy of the season.”

And now, she’s standing in front of you, looking more ordinary than you ever thought possible. No makeup, no stylists, just a girl with messy hair and an easy smile.

“Uh… yeah,” you finally manage, trying to play it cool. “That’s me. Roommate. Hi.”

She chuckles, her smile widening. “You okay there? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You shake your head quickly, attempting to compose yourself. “No, no. It’s just… you look really familiar.”

Her expression shifts slightly, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. “Ah,” she says, her tone light but guarded. “You’ve seen it?”

You don’t need her to elaborate. “Squid Game?” you ask, careful to keep your voice neutral.

“Yeah.” She shrugs, leaning casually against the wall. “That’d do it.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you scramble to fill it. “You were great in it,” you blurt out, cringing internally at how fanboy-ish you sound. “Like, really great. One of the best parts of the season.”

Her lips quirk into a smile, but there’s a hint of weariness in it. “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

You sense there’s more she’s not saying, but you don’t push. Instead, you gesture to your bed. “Uh, mind if I unpack?”

“Go for it,” she says, stepping aside.

The awkwardness lingers as you start unpacking, but you catch her glancing at you a couple of times, like she’s sizing you up. It’s weird—sharing a room with someone who’s been on your screen, who people have written essays and theories about online.

Finally, she breaks the silence. “So… what made you come on this cruise?”

You hesitate, debating how much to share. “Friends bailed,” you admit with a shrug. “Didn’t want to waste the ticket. What about you?”

She snorts, perching on the edge of her bed. “Needed a break. Too many people. Too much noise.”

“Isn’t that ironic?” you tease, surprising yourself with your boldness. “Considering, you know… you.”

Her laugh is light, genuine. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

The conversation eases after that, flowing like a gentle current. You don’t mention Squid Game again, and she doesn’t bring it up either. Instead, you talk about the ship, the itinerary, and the overly enthusiastic cruise director you’d both spotted during boarding.

But in the back of your mind, you’re still reeling. Jo Yuri, in the flesh. And somehow, you’re supposed to survive five days of sharing a cabin with her without making a complete fool of yourself.

-

You’re still reeling from the whole “roommate with a stranger” situation when Yuri suggests exploring the ship. It feels like the right thing to do—anything to avoid sitting in the cabin together, surrounded by the thick air of awkward silence.

“Uh… sure,” you say, scratching the back of your neck. “Lead the way?”

Yuri raises an eyebrow at you, her expression somewhere between amused and unimpressed. “You’re really going to make me decide everything, huh?”

“No, no, I just—uh—thought maybe you… had a plan,” you mumble, stumbling over your words.

Her lips twitch into a small smirk. “Relax, I’m not gonna bite.”

You try, you really do, but relaxing is easier said than done when you’re walking shoulder to shoulder with someone like Jo Yuri. She’s effortlessly cool, with her confident stride and casual yet chic outfit that screams “I’m too cool for this, but I’m here anyway.” Meanwhile, you feel like a bundle of frayed nerves, overthinking every step and every word.

The first stop is the promenade deck. It’s lined with shops selling overpriced souvenirs, jewellery, and random knick-knacks you definitely don’t need.

“Look at this,” Yuri says, holding up a sparkly snow globe with a tiny replica of the ship inside. “A whole fifteen dollars for something that’s going to collect dust on a shelf.”

You laugh nervously, unsure if you’re supposed to agree or argue. “Yeah, it’s, uh… it’s definitely not worth it.”

She narrows her eyes at you, clearly catching on to your awkward vibe. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

You blink, feeling your ears heat up. “I talk! I just… don’t want to say anything dumb.”

Yuri tilts her head, studying you for a moment. Then, to your surprise, she bursts out laughing. It’s not mocking—more like she finds your honesty refreshing. “You’re not as scary as you look.”

“I don’t look scary,” you protest, though your voice comes out weaker than you’d like.

“Mm, debatable,” she teases, nudging your arm.

You’re about to respond when the two of you pass by a small café on the deck. The smell of fresh pastries wafts out, and Yuri stops abruptly, sniffing the air like a cartoon character.

“Okay, we’re going in,” she declares.

Before you can protest, she grabs your wrist and pulls you inside. The café is cozy, with warm lighting and a display case full of pastries that look almost too good to eat. Yuri walks up to the counter, her eyes scanning the options with laser focus.

“Two croissants,” she says, turning to you. “And you’re paying.”

“What? Why?” you stammer, fumbling for your wallet.

“Because I’m cute and you’re trying to make a good first impression,” she says, deadpan, though her eyes twinkle with mischief.

You have no comeback for that, so you hand over the money and follow her to a small table by the window.

Yuri takes a bite of her croissant and lets out a satisfied hum. “Okay, I’ll admit it. This is worth the overpriced cruise food.”

You nibble on yours, trying to act casual. “Yeah, it’s, uh… not bad.”

After finishing your snacks, the two of you wander out onto the open deck. The sea stretches endlessly in every direction, the horizon blending seamlessly with the sky. The sound of waves and the salty breeze are oddly calming.

“So,” Yuri says, breaking the silence. “What’s the first thing you wanna do tomorrow?”

You glance at her, surprised she’s asking. “Uh… I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

She groans, throwing her head back dramatically. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to be polite!”

“Polite is boring,” she says with a smirk. “But fine. How about karaoke? I saw a lounge near the theatre earlier.”

You immediately feel a pit in your stomach. “Karaoke? Like… singing?”

“No, like interpretive dance,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Yes, singing. Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” you lie, though the thought of embarrassing yourself in front of her is already giving you secondhanded anxiety.

“Good,” she says, her grin widening. “Because I’m definitely dragging you tomorrow.”

-

You wake up to the sound of waves gently lapping against the ship and faint footsteps outside the cabin. It takes a moment for you to remember where you are—and who you’re sharing the space with.

Rolling over, you see Yuri still fast asleep, her face buried in the pillow and her hair a chaotic mess. It’s oddly endearing, watching her like this, but you quickly snap out of it before she wakes up and catches you staring.

Not wanting to linger in the tiny cabin, you freshen up quietly and head to the deck to catch the sunrise. You don’t expect Yuri to join you, but just as the horizon starts to blush with orange and pink, you hear her voice.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asks, leaning on the railing beside you, still in her oversized hoodie. Her hair is slightly more presentable now, but you notice a faint crease on her cheek from the pillow.

“Something like that,” you reply, offering her a small smile.

For a while, the two of you stand there in silence, the morning air crisp and salty. The awkwardness from yesterday lingers faintly, but it feels more like background noise now, drowned out by the tranquillity of the moment.

“I’m starving,” she finally says, breaking the quiet.

You laugh. “I think they’re serving breakfast already. Want to head down?”

She nods, and the two of you make your way to the dining hall. It’s bustling but not chaotic, and you manage to snag a table near the window. Yuri piles her plate with fruit, eggs, and enough toast to feed a small village.

“Do you always eat this much in the morning?” you tease, gesturing to her plate.

She narrows her eyes at you, mock offense dripping from her tone. “I’m stocking up for the day. Don’t judge me.”

You chuckle and take a bite of your food, the atmosphere between you two finally starting to loosen.

After breakfast, the day unfolds naturally. You both decide to explore the ship, starting with the pool deck. The sun is warm, the water glistening, and you’re surprised to find how easy it is to talk to Yuri now.

“I can’t believe how big this place is,” she says, spinning in place to take it all in.

“Yeah, it’s like a floating city,” you agree.

She grins at you. “Still down for the karaoke? I’m kind of amazing at karaoke.”

“Oh really? Amazing, huh?” you reply, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t believe me?” she challenges, her tone playful.

“Surely someone here among us is not a singer, huh.”

The two of you continue wandering, checking out the shops, the gym, and even a small art gallery tucked away on one of the lower decks. Yuri lingers in front of a painting of a ship caught in a storm, her expression thoughtful.

“What’s on your mind?” you ask, curious.

She shrugs but doesn’t look away from the painting. “I was just thinking… it’s crazy how people used to travel like this all the time, not knowing if they’d make it.”

“That’s kind of a downer,” you joke lightly, trying to break the mood.

She laughs softly and nudges your arm. “Sorry, I get weird sometimes. Let’s go find that karaoke bar.”

By the time evening rolls around, you’re both sitting in the lounge, sipping on mocktails with tiny umbrellas in them. Yuri sips hers thoughtfully, the sunset casting a golden glow over her face.

“I’m glad I didn’t cancel this trip,” she admits, almost to herself.

You glance at her, surprised. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

She shrugs, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “It’s not so bad having a decent person to share it with.”

For a moment, you’re caught off guard, unsure how to respond. But then you see the way her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, and you realize she’s being genuine.

“Yeah,” you say softly, feeling the awkward tension between you two finally dissolve. “It’s not so bad.”

As the night stretches on, the ship seems to come alive with laughter and music, and you and Yuri find yourselves in the karaoke bar after all. She picks an upbeat song you don’t know but belts it out like a pro, her confidence infectious.

When she finishes, breathless and laughing, you can’t help but clap louder than anyone else in the room. She bows dramatically, blowing you a playful kiss before hopping off the stage.

“Your turn,” she says, sliding into the seat next to you.

“Oh hell no…” you protest, shaking your head.

“Too bad,” she replies, grabbing your arm and dragging you up to the stage. “We’re doing a duet. Here's a private lesson with a professional.”

And just like that, day two ends with the two of you laughing so hard you can barely breathe, the awkwardness from yesterday now nothing more than a distant memory.

-

Day three begins with a comfortable silence between you and Yuri as you both sip your morning coffee on the balcony. By now, you’ve grown accustomed to her quirks: the way she furrows her brows when she’s deep in thought, how she adds a ridiculous amount of sugar to her coffee, and how she taps her nails rhythmically on the table when she’s bored.

“You’re staring,” Yuri says without looking up from her phone, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

“Am not,” you reply quickly, turning your gaze to the horizon. The sun is already high, and the shimmering ocean stretches endlessly.

After breakfast, the ship announces its arrival at a nearby island, and Yuri excitedly suggests signing up for the snorkelling excursion. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing,” she says, practically bouncing in place.

You agree, not entirely for the snorkelling but because her enthusiasm is contagious.

The excursion is a dream. The guides take you to a secluded reef with crystal-clear waters teeming with marine life. As you put on your gear and dive in, the world beneath the waves feels magical. Schools of vibrant fish dart around coral formations, and the water is so clear you can see every detail.

At one point, Yuri taps your shoulder underwater and gestures wildly to a sea turtle gliding gracefully past. You laugh—or at least try to, but it comes out as a muffled gurgle. Yuri seems to find this hilarious, and even with her snorkel on, you can tell she’s grinning.

When you resurface, she flicks water at you playfully. “Did you see how close it was?!”

“I did,” you reply, trying to shake the water out of your hair. “But you nearly scared it off with your flailing.”

“I was pointing, not flailing,” she retorts, sticking her tongue out.

The day ends with a quiet dinner back on the ship. You both opt for a small, cozy restaurant instead of the bustling buffet. Over plates of grilled seafood and pasta, Yuri shares more about her life—her dreams, her fears, and the little things that make her who she is.

“You know,” she says, twirling her fork absentmindedly, “I didn’t expect to actually enjoy this trip. I thought it’d be awkward sharing a room with a stranger, but… it’s been nice.”

Her words catch you off guard, but you nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, it has.”

By day four, you and Yuri have become a dynamic duo. It’s no longer just about sharing a cabin—it’s about sharing the entire experience.

The morning starts with a group yoga class on the deck. Yuri insists on trying it, claiming it’ll be “relaxing.” You’re skeptical, especially when you realize how uncoordinated you are compared to her.

“Downward dog,” the instructor calls out.

You glance at Yuri, who’s already in perfect form, her movements graceful and fluid. Meanwhile, you’re struggling not to topple over.

“Need help?” she whispers, barely holding back her laughter.

“I’m f-fine,” you mutter through gritted teeth, your arms trembling. Don't even mention the fact that your back cracks with every slight movement.

Suffice to say, Yuri had a lot of fun holding her laugh when glancing at you.

After yoga, the two of you grab smoothies from the ship’s café and spend the rest of the morning lounging by the pool. Yuri pulls out a book she brought along, while you scroll through your phone. Every so often, she nudges you with her foot, pointing out something funny in her book or making a sarcastic comment about the poolside drama happening around you.

In the afternoon, the ship hosts a trivia competition. Yuri’s eyes light up when she hears about it, and she drags you to the event.

“You’re good at trivia, right?” she asks.

“Uhh…Define ‘good,’” you reply, already regretting your life choices.

The game is chaotic, with questions ranging from history to pop culture. Yuri surprises you with her knowledge of obscure facts—she nails the question about 18th-century composers but completely blanks when asked about the capital of Switzerland.

“It’s Zurich, right?” she whispers to you.

“No, it’s Bern,” you reply, smirking.

She glares at you, whispering back, “If you’re wrong, I’m blaming you.”

Despite a few missteps, you manage to place second. Yuri proudly dons the sailor hat prize and refuses to take it off for the rest of the day.

That evening, you attend the ship’s formal dinner. Yuri, dressed in a sleek black dress, turns heads as she walks into the dining hall. You’re about to compliment her, but she beats you to it.

“You clean up nicely,” she says, eyeing your outfit.

“So do you,” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant, but the warmth in your cheeks betrays you.

The night ends with the two of you sitting on the deck, watching the stars. The silence between you is comfortable, filled with the sound of waves and the occasional laughter of other passengers.

“This trip’s going to feel too short,” Yuri says softly, her gaze fixed on the sky.

You don’t respond immediately, unsure how to put your thoughts into words. Instead, you simply sit there, hoping the moment will stretch just a little longer.

-

The final day arrives with a bittersweet air. Breakfast feels quieter, and even Yuri’s usual sarcastic remarks are softer, almost hesitant.

“We should make the most of today,” she says, her voice determined but tinged with sadness.

And so, you do.

The two of you spend the morning doing all the things you hadn’t tried yet—arcade games, mini-golf, and even a cheesy photo booth where you both don silly props for the camera.

“Smile!” Yuri says, throwing her arm around your shoulder and holding up a fake moustache.

The resulting photo is ridiculous, but it’s one you know you’ll treasure.

In the afternoon, the ship docks at another island, and you both decide to go for a casual hike along the coast. The trail is quiet, with stunning views of the ocean. At one point, Yuri stops to take a photo, the wind catching her hair just right.

“Send me that one,” you say, pretending to be casual.

“Why? Planning to frame it?” she teases, but her cheeks turn pink.

The final evening arrives too soon. The ship hosts a farewell party, and the two of you join the crowd on the deck, dancing to live music. Yuri’s laughter is infectious as she spins you around, her energy lighting up the night.

And with the ship nears the port, reality sets in. The two of you return to your cabin to pack, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken words.

Finally, as you stand by the railing one last time, Yuri hands you a folded piece of paper.

“In case we don’t run into each other again,” she says, her voice quiet.

You unfold it to find her phone number.

“Yuri—”

“Don’t say anything cheesy,” she interrupts, though her smile is soft.

When the ship finally docks and you part ways, you can’t help but feel like this is only the beginning of something bigger. But for now, you're contented with the short getaway with your lucky cabinmate, already reminiscing about it as you look at her back slowly disappearing to the crowd.

And hopefully, she enjoyed your company as much as she enjoyed yours.

[brazenautomaton]

People sometimes bring this up when discussing the salaries of elected officials -- yes, most politicians are paid more than most "regular people," but they're not paid enough to sustain the expensive lifestyle politicians have to maintain, and that's on purpose. It's not an oversight, and it's not primarily about cost-cutting. It's a deliberate barrier to ensure that only rich people can run for office.

I mean counterpoint: basic observation of what people say and think about elected officials being paid, which is that they hate elected officials being paid and don't want elected officials to be paid because of how much they hate the idea of elected officials being paid. They don't want only rich people to run for office, they want elected officials to be poor because they aren't paid, and haven't thought their position through at all.

When nonprofits brag about how little of their budget goes to "overhead" and "salaries", as if those terms were synonymous with "waste," what they're really saying is "All our employees are financially comfortable enough that they don't worry about being underpaid. Our staff has no socioeconomic diversity, and probably very little ethnic or cultural diversity." ***

No, it's because when people donate to a nonprofit, they want that money to go to the cause the nonprofit is for. That's why they donated the money. They didn't donate the money in order to give it to someone who works at the nonprofit, unless the nonprofit is about "our employees will be paid to go do something valuable to others, like digging wells or something." When people hear "overhead" and "salaries" they think "administrative costs" and then they think "evil greedy executives robbing the money meant for children because they are so evil and greedy."

"In it for the money" is the worst thing a worker could be, of course. Heaven forbid they be so greedy and entitled and selfish as to expect their full-time labor to enable them to pay for basic living expenses. I get this all the time as a public library worker, when I point out how underfunded and underpaid we are. "But... you're not doing it for the money, right?" And I'm supposed to laugh and say "No, no, I'd do it for free, of course!"

Because people who hate the concept of money don't think that you need to have money to pay for your living expenses. They think you Have Enough Money, like, it floats in a nebulous cloud over somewhere, and comes out of somewhere, and you just have it. This is an emotional position that has not been thought through. This is not people who think that only the rich should be able to do work. This is people who, on an unconsidered visceral level, think that anyone asking them for money must already be rich, and money isn't a real thing, and only greedy people care about it.

Like, you have identified emergent properties of how people think about things, tendencies created by unspoken assumptions about the evil and corrupting properties of money. Lots of people have pointed out the idiocy and counterproductive nature of the leftist idea that "if money got involved at any point, it's evil." And it's definitely more pronounced among leftists but you see it everywhere. "Not in it for the money" means someone is virtuous, and "in it for the money" means someone is greedy, venal, corrupt, suspicious.

Then having identified this emergent property of how people think about money, you... claim it is an intentional and agentic scheme by The Rich, based on literally nothing other than "it exists, so it must have been agentic." No, it's not on purpose. Barely anything about our societal outlooks on things is on purpose, and those that are, are just minor influences on how people already thought about things or attempts to reframe things so that the natural patterns of how people think about things will produce different results. And the natural pattern of things is that people hate the idea of other people being paid money.

You can see this most easily when the worker is someone who provides a service and a bill directly to the consumer, like an artist or a contractor or a plumber. People who want money are money-grubbers who are already well-off and just greedy for more. Why do you care so much about money? You have enough money! You could afford to give this to me for free! You're trying to rob me, you greedy thief! Private therapists have stories about how their patients think that they want to, or should want to, see as few clients as possible because it doesn't click with them until pointed out that the therapist makes their living by seeing clients and if they stop doing that they can't pay rent.

People say these things about "the corporations" and then believe and behave the same towards people who aren't "the corporations" because it's how they think about money and paying people. Look at how people react to a large corporation raising the price for something, all the hatred and outspoken anger at corporate greed, everyone Sticking Up For The Little Guy. Then look at how people react to a small business raising their prices and it is exactly the same thing in every capacity. Civit.ai, an independent startup company that has operated at a loss for its entire 2.5 year existence, just raised the cost of generating images with lots of different support models (they're called "lora") because it's more computationally expensive and costs them more. Entire comment section, wall to wall "This is corporate greed, nothing but corporate greed, you didn't need to charge more, your greed is disgusting, you're charging me so much more that I know it's just greed," etc, etc. It's all over the goddamn place! Anyone who wants money is greedy and has enough money already!

You could say that this is a complete lack of empathy for anyone outside a comfortably middle class life, "I don't have to worry about money so obviously nobody else does," and I'd agree with you, though I'd add an element of "when I need money it's due to an unfair attack on me, but other people obviously don't have that happen to them unless I personally know them and feel bad for them." But you just had to go with "It exists, so it's an agentic scheme by The Rich."

This is a semi spinoff of this post, but really its own thought.

When a job pays less than a living wage, it generally attracts one of two types of employees:

Desperate people (usually poor and/or otherwise marginalized or with barriers to employment), who will take any job, no matter how bad, because they need the money, or

Independently wealthy people (usually well-off retirees, students being supported by their families, or women with well-off husbands*), who don't care about the pay scale because they don't need the money anyway.**

And sometimes, organizations will intentionally keep a job low-paying or non-paying with the deliberate intent of narrowing their pool to that second category.

People sometimes bring this up when discussing the salaries of elected officials -- yes, most politicians are paid more than most "regular people," but they're not paid enough to sustain the expensive lifestyle politicians have to maintain, and that's on purpose. It's not an oversight, and it's not primarily about cost-cutting. It's a deliberate barrier to ensure that only rich people can run for office.

The same is true, albeit to less severe effect, of unpaid internships -- the benefit of "hiring" an unpaid intern isn't (just) that you don't have to pay them; it's also that you can ensure that all your workers are rich, or at least middle-class.

When nonprofits brag about how little of their budget goes to "overhead" and "salaries", as if those terms were synonymous with "waste," what they're really saying is "All our employees are financially comfortable enough that they don't worry about being underpaid. Our staff has no socioeconomic diversity, and probably very little ethnic or cultural diversity." ***

This isn't a secret. I'm not blowing anything wide open here. People very openly admit that they think underpaid workers are better, because they're "not in it for the money." This is frequently cited as a reason, for example, that private school teachers are "better" than public school teachers -- they're paid less, so they're not "in it for the money," so they must be working out of the goodness of their hearts. I keep seeing these cursed ads for a pet-sitting service where the petsitters aren't paid, which is a selling point, because they're "not in it for the money."

"In it for the money" is the worst thing a worker could be, of course. Heaven forbid they be so greedy and entitled and selfish as to expect their full-time labor to enable them to pay for basic living expenses. I get this all the time as a public library worker, when I point out how underfunded and underpaid we are. "But... you're not doing it for the money, right?" And I'm supposed to laugh and say "No, no, I'd do it for free, of course!"

Except, see, I have these pesky little human needs, like food. And I can't get a cart full of groceries and explain to the cashier that I don't have any money, but I have just so much job satisfaction!

And it's gendered, of course it's gendered. The subtext of "But you're not doing it for the money, of course" is "But how much pin money do you really need, little lady? Doesn't your husband give you a proper allowance?"

Conceptually, it's just an extension of the upper-class cultural norm that "polite" (rich) people "don't talk about money" (because if you have to think about how much money you have or how much you need, you're insufficiently rich).

*Gendered language very much intentional.

**Disabled people are more likely to be in the first category (most disabled people are poor, and being disabled is expensive), but are usually talked about as if they're in the second category. We're told that disabled people sorting clothing for $1.03 an hour are "So happy to be here" and "Just want to be included," and it's not like they need the money, since, as we all know, disability benefits are ample and generous [heavy sarcasm].

***Unless, of course, they're a nonprofit whose "mission" involves "job placement," in which case what they're saying is "We exploit the poor and desperate people we're purporting to help." Either way, "We pay our employees like crap" is nothing to brag about.

[mameillieureennemie]

i had been thinking about this all day at work.

fwb!vi x f!reader - 1

summary: looks say far more than words can.

when you and vi first started this arrangement, the way she looked at you was different.

it was a look of hunger; a look that a mountain lion would possess as it laid its eyes on an innocent lamb. to say she wanted to eat you was too kind—she wanted to devour you, tear into your flesh with sharp, and wet her gullet with your blood.

it was possession that drove her to throw you on the bed before mounting you. the desperate urge to keep as she swallowed you whole, bones and all, until there was nothing left of you.

that was months ago, when the arrangement was still fresh. when you firmly stated that this was nothing but downright filthy sex, and vi agreed.

but everything has changed.

vi doesn't look at you the same.

except she does, but it's worse somehow.

while she still pins you down with that gaze of raw possession, it's...softened.

no longer is it harsh and jagged, slicing through your flesh with serrated edges. now, it cradles you, like gentle hands holding the delicate body of a baby bird. cautious, easy...

fond.

it terrifies you.

vi's nestled in the cradle of your thighs, hiding her face in the plush of your stomach. her arms are locked around your waist, tight and assured, and she's humming a tune. it's muffled, but it's familiar; a song that she lets loose when she's happy.

when she's happy with you.

there's a heavy rock in your stomach, pulling you down towards the ground. it may drag you through the earth, suffocating you in the terrifying heat of the earth's mantle. maybe the heat will kill you first, but you'll be killed nonetheless.

this is what your fear feels like. this is what you were afraid of.

vi's shifting on your lap momentarily draws you away from your inevitable breakdown. she's now lying on her back, baring her face back to the world—back to you.

the smile on her face is tender; it's what some might even call loving. the rock in your stomach gains five pounds, nausea pooling at the back of your throat.

no.

"hey, pretty girl," vi murmurs, low and slow, as if those words are her secrets. "what's going on in that head of yours?"

the words sit at the tip of your tongue, scrambling for freedom. they seep into your taste buds, leaving behind the most sour of tastes.

we need to stop this, is what yells to be said. we said no feelings. this was supposed to be about sex and nothing else. so why does it feel like you're in love with me?

why does it feel like i'm in love with you, too?

"nothing," you say instead, mimicking the low and slow, like you're also telling secrets. "just wondering about what i should do tonight."

you stress the i a little too harshly, but vi doesn't notice. or maybe she does and refuses to care. maybe she's acting on her own will, doing what feels right by her standards.

which is unfair; she isn't allowed to do this to you.

"well, if you don't anything in mind," vi says easily. "we could go catch a movie or something? maybe go and grab something to eat from jericho's?" the way she says we is too simple, as if it's always been we and not you and her.

you stare down at her for a moment, really take her in. the slope of her nose, the scar on her upper lip. the soft pinks of her cheeks, and her eyes. wide and power blue and far too expressive of their own good because she's looking at you with that look again.

that look that means way too much.

when you open your mouth, all that falls out is a lie.

"actually, i have to wake up early in the morning." you lie through your teeth because you need to get away from this—from her.

the look in vi's eyes changes, slips into something foreign; something unknown. you've never seen this look before, but you can't find it in yourself to worry about it.

when vi leaves, she presses a lingering kiss upon your lips. her hands grasp at you a bit too tightly, as if feeling you for the last time. then she's gone without a word, and a part of you wonders what that could have meant.

but as the weeks go by and vi goes unheard of, you suddenly realise on a deathly cold morning.

vi was saying goodbye.

[nhlclover]

FALLING FOR YOU WILL SMITH

pairing: will smith x marleau!daughter!reader

summary: a visit to the guest house, in an attempt to comfort will after a grueling loss, brings you two closer together than ever.

warnings: friends to lovers, pretty detailed make out scene, talks of being insecure

wc: 2.02k

notes: !!IMPORTANT!! i absolutely do not agree with the politics of the marleau family, they are simply being used as a plot device in this. pretend for the sake of this that the family are not bigots.

The house is silent except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of old wood settling in the night. Shadows stretch long and languid across the hallway, cast by the dim glow of the streetlamp filtering through the curtains. You move with practiced stealth, each step careful. Years of navigating this house have taught you exactly which floorboards creak under a footstep, which door hinges squeak in protest when nudged too far. Even still, your breath stills in your chest as you slip past your parent's bedroom door, past your brothers' rooms, your heart beating a steady rhythm of anticipation. The guest house isn’t far — just across the backyard — but trying to tiptoe in absolute silence past your parents' bedroom door and past your brothers' doors makes it feel like an eternity away.

Will had looked wrecked when he came home. The Sharks game had been brutal, a 7-2 loss to Florida, and not even his highlight-reel goal could shift the dejection that settled over him like a heavy coat. You saw it in his posture the moment he stepped off the rink: the slump of his shoulders, the tight line of his mouth, the way he avoided the gaze of everyone in the locker room. You had seen it in the post-game debrief he always did with your dad, his fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against his thigh. You didn’t have to ask to know what was running through his mind. You felt like you knew his thoughts as though they were your own.

It wasn’t always like this. When Will first moved in, things had been awkward. He was polite — too polite. He made his bed with military precision, thanked your mom after every meal, and practically sprinted out of the room whenever he sensed he might be intruding on family time. You weren’t sure if it was out of respect or if he was just trying to survive in an unfamiliar house. Either way, it took weeks before he loosened up, before the sharp edges of his formality softened into something more comfortable.

Somewhere along the way, he had become your closest friend. He was the person you whispered late-night confessions to, the one who could tell when you needed someone to listen rather than someone to talk. And it went both ways. You had spent hours sprawled across the couch in the guest house, talking about everything and nothing. You told him about school, about how you weren’t sure if biology was what you actually wanted to study. It was supposed to be the safe, responsible choice, the thing that made sense. But the more you immersed yourself in it, the more it felt like wearing a sweater that didn’t quite fit. He listened, really listened, in a way that made you feel like you weren’t overthinking things. And in return, he let you see the parts of himself he hid from the world.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he had admitted one night, voice rough with exhaustion. “I mean, I know what I should be doing. I know what’s expected of me. But every time we lose, every time I don’t produce, it feels like — I don’t know. Like I’m letting everyone down.”

You had seen the articles, heard the analysts questioning whether he was adjusting well enough to the NHL, whether he was living up to expectations. You knew he heard them, too, no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise.

Will knew he was living with Patrick Marleau so he could be moulded into a better player, something like what the Sharks legend once was. But some nights, it felt like you had done more for Will than your father ever had.

The guest house is dark except for the thin sliver of light spilling beneath the door. You knock, softly. A pause. Then the rustling of movement before the door swings open, revealing Will standing in the dim glow of the lamp inside. His hair is damp from a shower, curling at the edges, and he’s wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, surprise flickering across his face before he steps aside to let you in.

“You should be asleep,” he says, voice rough with exhaustion.

“So should you.” You cross the room, your socked feet near silent against the hardwood. “But we both know that’s not happening.”

He exhales, a ghost of a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. He collapses onto the couch, the television murmuring in the background showing a post-game analysis droning on about the Sharks’ mistakes. He doesn’t mute it, but his focus is entirely on you as you settle beside him, pulling your knees up to your chest.

The room is heavy with unspoken words, the kind that settles in the air and refuses to dissipate. Will’s eyes flick to the television, then back to you, his jaw tight.

“Tough game,” you say softly.

Will’s jaw tightens. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it. I know I played like shit.”

You tilt your head, watching him carefully. “I don’t think you did.”

Will shakes his head, eyes dark with frustration. “We lost by five. Doesn’t matter if I scored, doesn’t matter if I had the best shift of my life. We still lost.”

Your heart clenches. “Will, the team is rebuilding. You knew that coming in.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think I’d be a part of the problem.”

“You’re not.”

He shakes his head, jaw tight. “It doesn’t feel that way.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he leans back, tilting his head against the couch cushions, eyes slipping shut. His breathing evens out, slow and measured, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t fade.

You shift slightly, resting your chin on your knees. “You’re a rookie in the NHL. You’re playing against the best in the world every night. No one expects you to carry this team, least of all yourself.”

He scoffs but doesn’t argue. “You’re getting better every game,” you continue, voice gentle but firm. “And the guys in that locker room? They know that. This season isn’t about wins, it’s about building something. And you’re a part of that foundation.”

Will lifts his head and shifts slightly, angling his body toward you. His eyes search yours, dark and unreadable. “How do you always know what to say?”

You shrug, offering a small smile. “I pay attention.”

A beat of silence. Then you notice it — the way his gaze lingers on your face, tracing over your features with something heavy and intent. You suddenly feel warm, hyper-aware of the fact that he’s shirtless, toned torso on full display, and the way his breathing has changed, now slightly uneven.

“What?” you ask, your own voice quieter now.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his tongue flicks out, wetting his lips, and his head tilts slightly. His gaze lingers, sweeping over your face with an intensity that makes your pulse stutter. The air between you shifts, thickens, as if something unspoken has settled into the space, waiting to be acknowledged.

“Will,” you say softly, trying to decipher the look in his eyes. “What?”

He exhales slowly, shaking his head with a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t make me spell it out for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “Spell what out?”

His eyes darken, and his fingers twitch slightly where they rest against his thigh. He leans in just enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the heat radiating off his skin, the scent of clean soap and something undeniably him.

“You know I want you.”

The words send a shiver down your spine. Your lips part slightly, but no sound comes out. He watches you, waiting, giving you a moment to react, to pull away if you want to. But you don’t. You can’t.

Because you want him too.

The realization hits you with startling clarity, and before you can second-guess it, you close the space between you. It’s tentative at first, a brush of lips, a question unspoken. But the moment his mouth moves against yours, the hesitation dissolves. His hand comes up, cupping the side of your face, his thumb skimming over your cheekbone as he deepens the kiss.

Your fingers settle against his bare shoulders, the warmth of his skin beneath your touch making your head spin. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this, like he’s thought about it just as much as you have. There’s something desperate in the way he pulls you closer, something that tells you he’s afraid this might not be real.

You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Will.”

His forehead rests against yours, his breathing uneven. “Yeah?”

Your heart hammers against your ribs. “I want you too.”

His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you again, slow and deep, like he wants to memorize the shape of your mouth against his. Will pulls away, but barely, his eyes searching yours.

“You sure about this?” Will’s voice is rough, barely more than a whisper, his breath mingling with yours in the space between you.

You nod, barely, but it’s enough. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes. He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, and then he’s kissing you again. This time, there’s nothing hesitant about it. It’s deep and slow and intoxicating, like he’s savoring every second, like he’s afraid to rush something he’s wanted for so long.

His hands find your waist, warm and firm, fingers flexing as if grounding himself in the moment. You shift instinctively, moving closer until your knees are brushing his solid thigh, until there’s no space left between you. Your hands slide over his shoulders, tracing down to his chest, resting on him as you lean closer. He shivers under your cold fingers, just barely, and the realization that you affect him just as much as he affects you sends a thrill through your veins.

Will’s hands move down to the backs of your thighs, pulling you into his lap in one fluid motion, his strength effortless. You let out a surprised gasp, breaking the kiss for just a second, but his hands splayed against your back, holding you close. He grins, eyes dark with something wickedly fond.

“Better?” he murmurs, voice dripping with amusement.

Your lips curl into a grin, but your heart is racing. “Shut up.”

His laughter is quiet, a vibration against your chest, but it fades as his gaze dips to your lips again. He kisses you like he means it, like he’s wanted to do this forever. His hands trace slow, soothing patterns against your back, anchoring you to him.

The television drones on in the background, forgotten, the post-game analysis long past. The only thing that exists at this moment is the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the way his hands cradle your face like you’re something precious. He kisses you with an aching sort of tenderness like he’s memorizing you, like he never wants to forget what this feels like.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to look at you properly, his expression is unreadable — something caught between wonder and disbelief. He exhales a quiet, breathy laugh, shaking his head slightly.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” he admits, voice rough with emotion.

You run your fingers through his hair, smoothing the damp curls away from his forehead. “I can.”

Will's lips curve into a slow, lopsided smile, something soft and unguarded. His fingers trace lazy patterns against your back, like he’s committing the moment to memory.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

You nod, brushing your nose against his. “Yeah.”

For the first time all night, the weight of the loss seems to ease off his shoulders. He exhales, a quiet, content sound, and lets his forehead rest against yours.

“Stay?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “With me… tonight?”

You don’t hesitate. “Always.”

And as he pulls you closer, the Sharks' loss feels like a distant memory — because for once, in this tiny, quiet moment, Will Smith isn’t thinking about hockey at all.

[cybrasigilism]

Nothing Like A Sharp Dressed Man (Nam-gyu X F!Reader ONESHOT)

warning: smut | not proofread | lowercase intended | roommates to lovers(?) | light choking | degradation | oral (m! receiving) | PiV (wrap your willy if your gonna get silly) | nam-gyu’s a bit of a dick (shocker i know) this is my interpretation of the character, please be respectful even if my opinion on the character differs from your own

character: nam-gyu (player 124)

A/N: saw a drawing someone made of nam-gyu in his work attire pre the squid games and my mind got straight to work. i know this is not requested but i need to indulge in some OG works from time to time. enjoy!! (THE SMUT PART IS A BIT SHORT I FEEL, I APOLOGIZE)

MDNI! 18+ content beneath the cut, reader’s discretion is advised

your experience with roommates was interesting, to say the very least. it truly was luck of the draw when it came to the array of characters you’ve shared a space with— but hey, anything to stay afloat and pay rent, especially in this economy.

when you first met your latest roommate, nam-gyu, you were certain the two of you would not get along. he was smarmy, standoffish, and just plain rude. not to mention he was a complete hypocrite; whenever you had a friend over at any point of the day, you would get texts from him telling you to keep it down (or rather “shut the fuck up”, if you were going to quote him directly) due to him having to work later that night. but whenever he had friends over at ungodly hours of the night, making all sorts of noise and blaring music, you weren’t allowed to comment on it. he wouldn’t fight you on it, but you may as well not say anything because it truly is in one ear and out the other with nam-gyu.

you two never agreed on anything. you were almost always at each others throats, it even got to a point where you would go out of your way to spite one another— for example, one of you might use the last of something without replacing it, or say if you wanted to watch TV in the living room; you had better make it snappy to claim your spot or else nam-gyu will have “spontaneously” decided that he wanted to watch TV too. i mean, god forbid you two actually watch something together, that would require tolerating each other’s presence for more than 3 minutes and that was definitely out of the realm of possibility.

or so you thought.

up until a certain point you actually had no idea what nam-gyu did for work. all you knew was that his shifts were at obscene hours, and he would always wake you up when he got back home with the ridiculous amount of noise he made coming in the house. you were mystified when you caught a glimpse of him all dressed up in his full-black business attire. you didn’t really get a chance to take the view in though, because he was out the door before he noticed you staring. you remember feeling your cheeks heat up, butterflies in your stomach— oh my god,

did you find him.. hot?

you doubted these feelings at first, telling yourself that even if this was how you felt about him dressed like that— nothing would ever come of it. as far as you knew, nam-gyu hated you just as much as you did him, right?

right?

you tried to remind yourself that this was your combative, hypocritical, asshole roommate. this was the guy who always got the last slice of pizza just as you were about to grab it; the guy who uses up the hot water before you take a shower; the guy who.. looked really good in those dress pants from the glimpse you got at him—shit. you were completely cooked. you knew you were cooked when you caught yourself waiting to hear nam-gyu leave his room, so you could sneak a peek of him in that damned uniform before he left for work; you definitely knew you were cooked when you found yourself fantasizing about him. you had to fill in some details with your imagination, which was the worst mistake you could have made because god that just made you crave him more. you should have been completely ashamed with your actions when he started coming to mind while you fucked yourself; imagining his hands in place of your own between your legs, wondering what his moans sounded like. fuck, you knew he would kill you if he found out about how perverse you had become. but that would never happen. i mean, you were being discreet…. right?

unfortunately, you weren’t being as discreet as you apparently thought. one faithful night, while you were trying to sneak a peek at nam-gyu getting ready to head out the door, he noticed you. fuck, you thought, whipping around the corner so fast you hoped he hadn’t realized what you were doing. the feeling of butterflies was more-so out of nervousness now, you tried to rationalize to yourself as you paced in your room, biting your nails anxiously. “maybe he won’t suspect anything, i mean how could he? it was just this once..” you tried to think critically here, how would he be able to deduce that you were undressing him with your eyes just then— and had been for the past dozen nights? you figured it would be best to just sleep it off, and hope he didn’t ask any questions in the morning.

⟢

a loud knock jolted you awake. you glanced at your phone. “4:22?” you knew who it was, but why was he knocking on your door at 4:22 in the morning? nam-gyu knocked again, to which you drowsily said “i’m coming, i’m coming.” as you threw on your sleep shirt, baggy enough to shield your lack of pants. you opened the door to see nam-gyu, still in that uniform. you must have been giving him quite the look, because he raised his eyebrow and snapped his fingers almost in your face. “hey, my eyes are up here dipshit.” you jumped, making direct eye contact with him, not realizing where you had just been looking. “what the fuck what was that earlier? didn’t take you for a stalker.” damn, he was onto you.

“a stalker? no i was just..” “just what?” he cut in, causing you to purse your lips in frustration. “just getting more visual material to jack off to later?” your eyes widened when he said that, causing him to laugh in a way that you knew was at your expense. “god.. i had a feeling that was it.” he scoffed, you felt your cheeks grow warmer by the second with embarrassment. “you really didn’t think i could hear you moaning my name through the wall? hell i’d be surprised if the neighbours didn’t hear..” you couldn’t bear to look at him anymore, you were humiliated. had you really been so fucked out of your mind that you didn’t catch yourself moaning his name? “look, i’m sorry… i should have never even—“ you started, actively avoiding his eyes. he did something then that caught you off guard entirely. he grabbed your chin, redirecting your gaze to meet him. “sorry? shit, if you’re gonna be a dirty little slut, don’t apologize for that.” you were confused, even more so because that little name he called you made you feel.. something.

nam-gyu knew what he was doing to you, and he was about to take full advantage of that. for some reason, having you at his mercy like this was totally turning him on. he couldn’t deny the way his pants tightened when you looked at him like that— fuck it. “oh..” he noticed the way you pressed your thighs together just then. “oh, you like it when i call you that.. don’t you?” you nodded instinctively. his grip shifted from your chin to your throat, squeezing lightly as he moved in close enough to whisper to you. a light moan leaving your lips as he did so.

“then why don’t you show me how much of a slut you can be.”

⟢

you don’t know how you got into this situation, having nam-gyu’s dick shoved between your lips, but you really couldn’t bring yourself to mind. his grip on your head was almost strong enough to be painful, but you were too focused on the sounds he was making to be bothered by it.

“oh fuck… fuck, your lips—“ he groaned, bucking his hips up into your mouth. you whined around him when the tip of his dick hit the back of your throat, but that only egged him on. “yeah, you like being used like this, huh?” he was enjoying this way more than you thought, hell he was so eager to have your mouth on his cock he didn’t even take his clothes off. not that you minded, of course. “you’ve been waiting for me to fuck your mouth like this, haven’t you?” nam-gyu’s words were broken up by moans and whimpers he failed to mask; you really had no idea the effect you had on him up until this point. just then, he pushed your head down as far as you could go, mustering a gag out you.

“it’s rude to ignore people when they ask you a question.” he said through gritted teeth, chest heaving from how good your mouth felt on his dick. you looked up at him, eyes watering. “answer me, bitch.” whether it was the way he looked so. damn. good in the uniform, or the way he was ordering you around like a dog; you felt your pussy clench around nothing, god you needed him right were he wasn’t so bad it hurt. you nodded, hoping that if you did what you were told, then he would finally cut to the chase and fuck you. “oh, so you can follow orders.” he smirked, pulling your head off his dick and sitting back onto your bed. “in that case, ride me.” your eyes widened, but you did what he said without a word, straddling him as though you were in a trance.

both you and nam-gyu made an indescribable sound of pleasure when you sunk down onto his cock. his gripped your hips as you did so, sliding you down even faster. you cried out, and he kept you bottomed out on his dick for a moment. you thought for a second that it was to allow you time to adjust to the full length of him, but he wasn’t that nice. you were just getting used to him when he began to move you up and down his dick, biting his lip as he did so. “oh my fuck!” you moaned out, planting your hands onto nam-gyu for balance. his grip on your hips was so firm you were positive he would bruise you, but you didn’t really give a shit then; too focused on how fucking amazing his cock felt inside you then. “shit, you sound like such a whore—“ he was one to talk, becoming less and less able to cover up his own slutty noises. “it’s good i’m fucking you like the little slut you are then—fuck.”

even on top you were completely at his mercy, and you loved it. you loved the way he fucked up into that tight pussy of yours almost carelessly, you loved being able to take in the full sight of him in his work clothes while he did it to. the way his shirt, unbuttoned down his chest, looked disheveled as he used you this way; the way you knew you were making a mess of his pants when your hips collided; the way he was so desperate to put you in your place like this that he saw no time to change out of the outfit he knew got you off in the first place. everything that was happening to you right now under any other circumstance would have not turned you on this much, but for some reason that outfit changed everything.

and you definitely didn’t want it to stop anytime soon.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

thanks for reading! i apologize for the lack of dialogue, this was just an idea i had and i wanted to put it to “paper” as soon as possible! thank you guys for putting up with my self-indulgent nonsense again :P

as usual, any advice/constructive criticism on how i can improve my writing is appreciated and requested! have a fantastic day/night lovelies 💋

tags: @gongyoosgf @kouzih @strangelife122 @gabbystinks

[megumismyhusband]

megumi has seen you a thousand times before. he knows your face like the back of his hand, could probably pick you out of a crowd with his eyes closed. so why does he feel like he’s seeing you for the first time right now?

you’re just getting ready, nothing crazy, just fixing your dress, smoothing out the fabric, adjusting your makeup in the mirror. and somehow, it’s enough to floor him.

he doesn’t even realize he’s staring until you catch his reflection in the mirror.

“what?” you ask, a little amused.

megumi blinks, like he’s snapping out of a trance. he opens his mouth, then closes it, then finally manages, “nothing. you just…” he exhales a little, almost in disbelief. “you look really nice.”

which is such an understatement, because in reality, he’s completely mesmerized. he doesn’t even know how to describe it. it’s not just the dress or the makeup—it’s you. it’s the way your eyes shine when you smile, the way you move so effortlessly, like you belong in every beautiful place in the world. 

which is the dumbest way to put it, because what he really means is that you look unreal. breathtaking. like if he stared too long, he might forget how to breathe.

but he doesn’t say all that, because he’s megumi, and he’s bad at this. so instead, he just looks away, shoves his hands in his pockets, and hopes you don’t notice the way his heart is absolutely losing its mind.

maybe he’s being ridiculous, but for a second, he feels like the luckiest person alive just getting to stand next to you.

[kxtsukixoxo]

pro!hero dynamight is known for his explosive nature, fans second guessing if they should really approach the hothead. is it really surprising when you aren’t scared of him?

𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 ᥫ᭡ 𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗩 ᥫ᭡ 𝗡𝗘𝗫𝗧

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝗢𝗡𝗘:

“goddammit.”

the pro hero never willingly attended meet and greets, he found it a waste of time. he could be out on patrol, or saving someone’s life instead of all this fan consumed ‘bullshit’ as he stated, but his rankings were decreasing faster than anything, and in order to keep his public image somewhat neutral, what’s better than interacting with his fans? 

katsuki handed out plushies to hundreds of kids that gawked at his hero suit, he’d be lying if he didn’t find their giddy smiles adorable, he counted down the seconds til this was over but it seemed to drag on end for hours.

“next!” 

you approached the man, jumping and all. katsuki looked at you confused, how could someone have this much energy? you were so enthusiastic about seeing him, you didn’t quiver or approach him with caution, you weren’t scared.  

“oh my god!! it’s really you!” you squealed as your hands covered your mouth, katsuki didn’t find it annoying, surprisingly. infact he found it cute, which surprised him more than anyone. 

“i have so many questions!!�� you rambled away about all his huge rescues, the recent drug bust he helped the police with, fights with villains that not many people knew about. you knew everything about katsukis work, he couldn’t help but smile, finally being recognised for something other than his hotheaded nature or looks. he answered all your questions, in detail as you took down notes, muttering underneath your breath. 

you remind me so much of someone i know 

“h-huh” you stopped writing and looked at him. fuck. he didn’t mean to say that out loud. “it’s nothing, hey you’re holding up the line” 

“oh i didn’t even realise! i’m so sorry, ill get going then” 

“wait-“ katsuki grabbed your arm, realising what he had done, he let go, “how about i give you my number, we can sit down and chat hm?” 

the pro hero you’ve looked up to most of your life, just offered you his number. you’d be a fool to say no! 

“yeah that’s perfect!”

“it was nice meeting you.” 

“yeah, you too” you smiled at the blonde hothead, unable to control your happiness, you waved at him. he picked his hand up and gave you a subtle wave, chuckling at your burst of energy

•••

you waited in anticipation for his text. you figured it’d take awhile for him to text you, he was a busy man right? but to your surprise, he texted you no later than an hour after you left the meet and greet.

[** *** ****] is this the pretty girl who loves to ramble?

[cthulhus-curse]

Demonic Nature

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3,153

Warnings: Demon!Wanda, Angel!Reader, Smut, Strap-Ons, Breeding, Fingering, Oral Sex | 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: In which you test the ownership a demon has over you, an act which earns you quite the delicious 'punishment'.

Perfection has always come easily to you. It’s not like you ever had to try or strive to be something you weren’t. At the end of the day, you were an exemplary being of good and light. You could never do any wrong. Sins did not exist in your being as you lived on happily among other angels. For your god, you’d do anything – you’d be anything. 

Then Wanda came along and turned your existence around.

You should’ve known at first that it would only take a demon to infiltrate the heavenly land which you resided in. Time stood still there, nonexistent for that matter. It was you and your fellow angels who bestowed greatness among humanity, saving its people from the sins that live deep in their society. 

At first you thought Wanda was nothing more than another angel, a newly crafted being who was to join your little family. She seemed quite soft, almost a mirror of yourself down to your personality of mannerisms. You didn’t know it then, but it was all on purpose. Pretending to be a deeply crafted imagery of your being was her way of making you feel more comfortable and as the gullible little angel you were, you fell for it. Unlike Wanda, you had never seen evil up-close. 

Once her fangs had sunk deep into your mind, you were hers. You couldn’t explain it, but there were times your mind felt fussy around her, almost as though you were free of any thought, your brain only carrying distorted images of Wanda. She was a magical being capable of immeasurable destruction; you were the angel she had chosen to corrupt for her own amusement. 

“We should visit the humans. I mean, aren’t you curious to see them? See what they look like? How they act?” Wanda once said to you. Of course you had been curious, but there was no place to have freedom of thought among the angels. You were to be a carbon copy of everyone else, a pristine entity. 

After having been pressured constantly by Wanda, you accepted her terms. You were to visit the humans only for a few hours, to study their behavior, perhaps even pretend to be one of them. Your fellow angel had promised she had been before and never got into trouble, so innocent as you were, although knowing it was barred to visit the humans, you went along with it. 

It’s how you ended up stranded in a room with Wanda. The place was called a hotel, she said. You were to rest there, to recharge your energy, which you didn’t lack, and wait for the following day to pass given it was night. There were even adorable little things called ropes on the bed that you jumped over just to play with. Running your hands through them, you smiled. 

“Do you like them?” Wanda asked as she came up behind you. When you turned, your smile fell as you grew silent, frowning at the scene before you. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Don’t you like how I look?”

Her angelic presence had disappeared. The previously white feathered wings were replaced with broken, dark red ones, holes upon them and all. There was no halo over her head as it was instead substituted for a pair of horns along with a tail that was shifting along her leg, the end of it pointy and harsh. With eyes that glowed red, head tilting, you were more than enthralled. Embarrassment set aside, you admitted to yourself she was even more enchanting than before. 

You were scared at that moment, but using her magic, Wanda didn’t allow you to run. Instead she carried around a state of nudity that she wished to mirror upon you, getting your robes to disappear and leave you with nothing but your wings and halo to show. Licking her lips, the red headed demon was hungry. 

“This will be our little secret, honey. Just for the two of us to keep,” she whispered with a husky tone while walking forward. Although you knew to run from the one you could see was a demon, you remained in place. The curiosity of what she’d do to you was far too much to ignore. “It’s just us now, Y/N. There is no one that can find you. Whatever happens in this room, I promise it’ll stay here. Now, don’t you want me to teach you some new things?”

You hesitated to even speak. “What is this? This isn’t right, Wanda. I’m not supposed to see you…like this. You’re- you’re a demon!”

“I thought you believed all creatures to be pure,” she shot back. When crawling over the bed towards you, you noticed the animalistic nature of her, red eyes commanding you without the need of words to be spoken. “I’m not a monster, sweetheart – I’m your owner. There’s a difference.”

“I’m not owned by you or anyone!”

“Really?” She giggled at that, shaking her head with disbelief and adoration – you were far too innocent for your own good. “Then what’s this?”

Running her hand over your abdomen made a wave of pain shoot through your body. You squirmed and attempted to get away, but the pain was much worse if you dared resist. A beautifully crafted marking settled itself over your skin. It simulated an image like that of a crown which glowed deep red as it was ingrained into your body. Whether you liked it or not, you were now property of Wanda Maximoff. 

“You know, I’ve spent centuries trying to find a willing pet. It’s always been failed attempt after failed attempt, too much red on my ledger. You’re the first one to accept my gift,” she grazed her fingers over your womb tattoo. “You’re the first survivor and no offense to the other lab rats, but after the little time we’ve spent, you’re my favorite.”

“Wanda…” you mumbled with fear. 

“Shhh don’t be scared, little one. I don’t bite,” she stopped for a second to amuse herself. “Well, not yet at least.”

Your willingness to give in didn’t surprise Wanda. If at any point you dared misbehave, to refuse her, the tattoo would make it so that your body went through an immeasurable amount of pain. It wouldn’t settle until you obeyed your master’s orders. With the way Wanda controlled your mind, it wouldn’t be difficult to keep you stuck in place. 

Her mouth explored your body with adoration. Hands were everywhere, teasing your sides, nails digging into your skin to leave beautiful marks, along with her lips which kissed their way up your body as you simply sat there and took it. You knew it was wrong, that sinful activities filled with lust weren’t allowed as angels, and yet you loved it. With Wanda’s tongue exploring the expanse of your skin, you were finally in your true heaven. 

“You’re thinking too loud. Stop,” the redhead ordered before taking a nipple in her mouth. She scratched her nails over your midsection a bit, sucking tenderly over the erect bud, tongue swirling around it, before she moved on to the other one. “You need to remember that this isn’t bad. I’m not hurting you, sweetheart. All I’m doing is clearing you of your sins. Once I’m done with you, you’ll be untouchable. A pure angel that can never do anything wrong. It’s what you want, right? To make your stupid little god proud?” You nodded. “Good. Then you can do it if you sit there like a good girl and listen. I’m not here to hurt you. I promise I just want what’s good for you, baby.” She kissed the swell of your breasts, exploring everything in sight with just her mouth and devilishly split-tongue. “You know that, right?”

You nodded once again. Wanda didn’t want to hurt you, you mused. All she wanted was to save you. Perhaps demons had changed for once. “I understand. Could you…make it better now? I can’t explain it, but it feels weird down there.”

The beam that overtook her features couldn’t be easily described, but the closest thing would be of pride. 

Wanda got you to relax over the bed, your wings comfortably spread apart so as to not cause you any discomfort. She traveled down your body using only her mouth to embrace your skin, lingering over the tattoo she had given you to strengthen its bond with you. After she was done with you, you wouldn’t easily rid yourself of it, if ever. 

“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?” she questioned with her head buried between your legs. Her tail wrapped itself around one of your ankles, making it so that you couldn’t easily close your legs. When you shook your head, she huffed with disapproval. “They’re all missing out. You’re truly a fucking angel, darling. Fuck, just look at you. If I had known you were this perfect, I would’ve taken you eons ago.”

As her split tongue first touched your cunt, you shuddered. The feeling of pure arousal and need shot through you faster than light. A hand gripped the bed sheets as the other went to the first place it could find: one of Wanda’s horns. 

When first merely grazing it, the demon moaned against your pussy. She had your legs pried open in front of her, nails digging so deep into your skin they drew blood. Her one weakness was her horns and tail, especially when you so tenderly held one of her horns and ghosted your hand over it at times. All Wanda saw was the red of her passion for you. 

“Tastes to fucking good,” she cried out while lapping at your slit furiously. As her fingers inched closer to your hole, Wanda drew lazy circles all over your clit. She could feel you pulsating against her, cunt throbbing against her mouth violently. “Such a perfect little whore for me.”

She didn’t hesitate to begin easing a finger in your tight hole. Never had you had anything inside you in such a way. You were painfully tight even for a single digit. Wanda licked you thoroughly, simply pumping the tip in you until you relaxed yourself enough to take the whole thing. It did the trick as you slowly were stretched out, your pussy taking in all which she gave you. 

Her focus wasn’t just on bringing you to your climax. Wanda wanted to torture you, to destroy every last bit of sanity and innocence that lay beneath you only to make it her own. She would be the one in charge of every single thought running through your head, praising you always for being such a willing pet who didn’t peg any questions. So quiet and loyal to the demon just as she wished. 

Thrusting her finger in and out of your hole made her grunt. There was an unshakable hypnotism she underwent while watching you ache just for her touch. Sloshing sounds filled her ears as she lay constantly tasting your wet pussy. Even sweet, yummy juices ran down your shaky inner thighs. Each little drop she saw needed to be against her tongue without hesitation. 

“I know you’re close, sweetheart,” Wanda breathed out deeply. It was quick, she knew, and yet neither of you cared. The faster she got you to cum, the easier you’d submit constantly. “You can cum for me, sweetheart. Do it right now just for your master. Be the good girl I know you are.”

You didn’t know what to call it, but there was a wave of relief shot through your body. The knot previously formed on your lower belly, right underneath the skin that carried the beautifully crafted tattoo, finally loosened. Wanda didn’t stop though. She curled up her finger inside of you, still inching it as deep as she could while very lightly sucking on your clit, then pushing harshly against it until you screamed. 

Once you were left a mess, Wanda filled herself with pride. “It’s what He wants, sweetheart. What we’re doing is just to keep all those pesky sins away,” Wanda explained as she sat between your legs. The demon licked her lips clean, her split tongue long enough to reach her chin and gather up all of your juices. “Now I’ll give you one last thing before letting you rest. Think of it as a reward for being such a good little angel.”

She was dripping between her own legs, pussy aching for you to make it all better, and yet wanda ignored it for the sake of more playtime. Her hand flicked and immediately the rope previously over the bed was wrapped around your wrists. It was rigid enough so that you couldn’t move your hands away even if you wanted to. Although it wasn’t your primary focus as you felt something poking at your stomach only to look down and frown with confusion. 

There was a unicorn dildo nestled between Wanda’s legs that was attached to her waist with black straps. The demon was far too busy checking your bindings to notice the curious look you gave the colorful horn, giggling a bit at its cuteness. 

The redhead tugged at the ropes admiring her handiwork. “Hmm nice and tight,” she muttered, taking a pause just to hold your gaze. “Just like you.” 

You gulped, but rather than fear, you were aroused. As bad as lust was of a sin, you couldn’t help the way in which you entirely handed your sanity to Wanda. She could easily control you, making you do anything she wished after having exerted such blissfulness over you. Although given how wondrous of a feeling it had been, you knew it wasn’t anything evil, but instead pure as the hands that groped your breasts, nipples being tugged and pinched between her fingers as she laughed. 

Once again, a flick of her wrist made it so another item appeared. Wanda undid the cap before oozing drops of the mysterious liquid all over her strap, throwing the bottle to the side. She grabbed herself and hummed, green eyes turning red as she watched herself jerk the faux cock up and down. When it was finally fully lubricated, she got to work. 

The tip of the unicorn horn dildo pressed against your cunt. Wanda slid it up and down your slit, its head spreading apart the slick folds that let out adorably wet sounds. You were still rather sensitive, and yet you ached to have her inside once again. It only made matters better to see the toy was much larger than her finger. You’d be all nice and full for your owner. 

Given what was inside, the toy was slightly heavier than others. It required to be held tightly before being slapped over your clit, Wanda mocking the way you wiggled away. She swirled it over your clit before dragging it back down to your entrance, teasing it slightly until she found you to be ready enough to take it all. 

When Wanda first thrust her hips forth, she had to groan. She could still feel the ghosting hand over her horns urging her arousal forth. For you, she was dripping. Her cock had lubricant all across it, the adorably colorful ridges from the unicorn shown off. 

“Such a good cock whore. Fuck, look at how pretty your pussy is. So hungry and desperate for my cock,” Wanda grunted as she began moving her strap inside of you. She was uncharacteristically slow, her hips holding themselves back while your pussy was adorably stretched out. She took everything from you — your soul, your mind, your innocence, and your being. Then again, you could never complain. “That’s it, angel. Take it all. Every—fucking—inch.” 

The room was filled with the stench of sex and your shared moans. You were much louder than she imagined, your noises all hoarse from the propensity of them. Being fucked by Wanda was all you longed for. The demonic nature of it all made you drip. You couldn’t notice, nor care, the way your wings began tinting dark, the edges all black similar to the fingertips of the demon. 

“That feels amazing. Oh my-”

Once you had grown used to her relentlessly large toy, the redhead was sure to claim you as her own. She kept her tail in place prying your legs open, pumping her cock in and out of your cunt while your inner walls hugged her tight. Hands were placed on your lower stomach for support right near your tattoo. Such a beautifully corruptible angel, Wanda thought. You were perfect. 

“Yeah? Well you’re doing such a good job, honey. Taking it all so well. Hmm I am so proud of you,” she commented while licking her lips hungrily at the sight of your bouncing tits, her split tongue making you drip. “The most perfect angel across the universe. You’re one of a kind, sweetheart, and so mine. Never fucking forget it.” 

Wanda slapped a hand over your tits, groping the mound tightly until she left marks on your skin. Never did she stop fucking you rough, your bodies slapping together accented by the sounds of pleasure that escaped your throat. In the hell that the demon created, you realized she was truly your savior. 

When you came for the second time, Wanda was there right with you. For a moment you were disappointed with the eventual emptiness you felt as she pulled out her dildo slightly to allow herself to squeeze it tightly. Then once white spurted drops oozed into your cunt, you were relieved.

She spent countless eons filling your pussy up with her cum, breeding you like the nice little slut you were, taking all of her seed. Movements only grew sloppier, and yet Wanda found it in herself to fuck the cum back into your pussy. She couldn’t allow even a drop of it to go to waste. You were at her mercy — her breeding bitch. 

“Shhhh that’s it, angel. Just like that. Take all of my sweet cum right in your pussy like a good pet,” she whispered. Hands kept slapping at your breasts and leaving them all nicely bruised. For a few extra moments she pumped her cock in you, the ridges of the horn making you scream. Soon enough, when her movements stopped, all you could witness was Wanda hovering on top of you while breathing raggedly. “My pretty one.”

“Hmm yours, Wanda,” you happily replied.

Whether it was the magic she used to control your thoughts, the womb tattoo, or out of your own volition, you still found yourself willing to remain by Wanda’s side. During all your existence you urged yourself to find more perfection with the angels, but never realized it was all to be made better by one particular demon. As sinful as you knew it to be, your newfound lover made it all worth it.

[rosetyler42]

Not to Tumblr elder here, but I mean...sounds less to me someone forgot and more...like, people have been saying for DECADES since 9/11 that the TSA is basically useless political theater and does nothing to stop terror attacks. Even those that take the event seriously. Even those that REMEMBER 9/11. Few people LIKE the TSA. There's even been multiple tests that show the TSA sucks at screening for the things it's supposed to keep out. This sounds like an argument for going back to the time you could visit an airport without a ticket and meet people at the gate and didn't have to limit liquids on planes as much. Not to mention the discrimination against trans/intersex and POC, all of which...seems like a good thing?