#and gender is complicated as ALL hell

[juney-blues]

when a cis person gets medical surgery and treatment to allign closer with their coercively assigned gender at birth, that is in fact, different, to when a transgender person does it.

yes, even if they're the same surgeries! and yes, even if the cis person is intersex!

that does not make a cisgender person meaningfully "trans" in any way what are you people talking about?

being transgender is kinda, fundamentally about being a different gender than you were assigned at birth! and the societal pressures that come with being that are always going to be different than someone who has the same gender that society assigns them!

like this line of thought implies that, being transgender is just a process of surgeries and hormones and medicalization? which, i shouldn't have to tell you that's transphobic but it kinda fuckin is !

i'm sorry but this is just a nonsensical concept and following it to any of its logical conclusions implies really weird things about transgender people and intersex people.

[problemnyatic]

so does putting "men dni" in your shit actually reduce the number of shitheads you get or does it just filter out the dudes who actually care about boundaries in the first place

[uchiha-gaeshi]

Oh fuck not another existential crisis…

[micechicken]

I feel like the only person that just doesn't give a shit about any of the lifesims people are coming out with. I think Inzoi is ugly and uses AI shit, Life by You is dead, I never hear about Vivaland, and Paralives seems to never update on anything. It's not that I'm a shill for Maxis or that I can't play other game in the genre (I love playing more than one just look at my farm sims), I just don't care?

I'll look into them when they release (aside from Inzoi 🤮 and Life by You) but I'm not really interested in a watching the development or waiting for them.

[donttouchtheneednoggle]

shout out to thomas from ghosts for yoinking me out of a panic attack before it could really get going

[frostgears]

officer's ball

If there was one thing that eventually turned you against the aristocracy, it was the yearly humiliation of you, your handler, and your entire ground crew being forced into beribboned beyond-antique pre-starflight fashion every year for the Officer's Ball. They insisted. They said the nobles needed the human element. They said it'd justify your funding.

"Ammo doesn't grow on trees," the woman who directed your every combat action said. "And if it did, they'd be found growing only in First Landing family gardens. I hate this. I hate these people. Every fucking year, just to keep the program running. Don't they get bored?" and then she burst into tears and you had to do her makeup again, from the beginning.

You didn't mind it so much for yourself. The entitled fat old perverts of every gender trying to grab your ass and catching a handful of hoopskirt were entertaining. So was being forced to sample a continuous mix of canapés, sherry, cocaine, chocolate, PL-2141, and further canapés. If you really worked at it, you could approximate a slight buzz, the faintest echo of what interface drugs did on an average mission day.

But your poor mechanic wasn't used to being groped by the nobility or plied with anything stronger than hangar coffee. By two hours in, she was looking green around the edges and ready to puke in the nearest potted palm. Your avionics specialist, parted from her usual headphones and overlay glasses, was rigid with sensory overload and unable to dissociate because some third son of some electronics bureau minister had her cornered about a harebrained idea and wouldn't let go.

Your handler was worst of all: thoroughly miserable in her tightly corseted dress and constitutionally unsuited to any kind of discomfort inflicted upon her own person, rather than yours. She jumped at the slightest touch, gritted her teeth even more noticeably with every introduction. Your signed or whispered attempts to quietly reassure her that the "mission" was on track and would be over soon caused her to twitch and on one occasion even yelp, startling the admiral responsible for your fuel allocation. You smoothed it over as best you could, insinuating something about "combat nerves" — the old fool might have actually thought she was a pilot! But you didn't feel the need to explain, not that night.

The next day, as you hunted down a rebel tactical element in the hills above Seyan's Folly, she was still hung over. Not hung over enough to not notice when the pinned-down rebel lieutenant started in on an honest-to-God "you're not so different, you and I" speech, but hung over enough that she told your comms operator to cut the audio feed to Command, not your cockpit speakers.

"We're listening," you boomed over external PA speakers, forwarding her orders. "Wait? We're listening? Apparently we're listening."

"Shit. I mean. We're not that different, really, but obviously there's, uh, you're part of a system, and there's, redemption is on the table, I guess, maybe you'd like to, uh… honestly, I was just buying time."

"Don't get cocky, I've had your reinforcements bracketed by smart mortars for the last two minutes," you said. "You never had any time to buy. But… tell me about your side's command structure. Does it have a yearly ball?"

"Are you fucking joking?"

Things got complicated after that, with the improvised extraction, but what the hell, your team already worked well together.

You've had to work for every round and every joule and every mole of active nanomachinery since (much of it wrested from lesser units sent from your homeworld to drag you back) and you share a tiny, noisy cabin with your handler above the large bay of a rebel assault transport.

Maybe you're on the right side. Maybe there isn't one. But they're still letting you pilot, and your handler has happily returned to a tank top, fatigue pants, and what's left of her battered leather jacket, restoring her confident growl over the tactical link. The liaison officer they've got watching you has assured her that there's not a single brocade ball gown in the entire fleet. □

[chrisevansonly]

Playing With Fire

Max Verstappen x Female Reader

summary: you and stella are max’s world, and he’d be damned if he let his father speak ill of either of you.

warnings: angst, jos (ew), angry max, slight mentions of crying, fluff at end

a/n: this is a re-upload to see if it shows up in the tags 🥲

When Stella was born, it was one of the best days ever for Max, seeing his baby girl come into the world, and the way she practically latched onto him from the minute she was welcomed into the family. He knew right then and there he would be the absolute best father to his daughter, just as he was the best husband to you, and always had been.

If there was one thing Max nor you completely enjoyed it was family events when everyone got together, including Jos. Max’s father.Max and his father have a complicated relationship, in a way they seem close but there’s always that edge to his dad that keeps all of you on the edge of your seat. You in particular seemed to still be an issue to him, and every once in a while, you’d become the punching bag at the dinner table.

Stella was sleeping in your arms as you sat next to Max at the dinner table, Jos across from you both and his mother on the other end with the rest of his family and some friends that had joined for the monthly get together.

“So when is the next Verstappen coming?” His father asked looking at you. Stella was only 6 months old so you and Max were happy to just enjoy the time you have with her now, not even thinking about another baby.

“Oh, well i’m sure someday we’ll have another…”

“We’re in no rush” Max butted in, assuming it would stop his father’s line of questioning.

“Yes well, it’s just you had a baby girl…there has to be a boy in the equation…”

You furrowed your brows, fixing Stella’s blanket as she continued to sleep, oblivious to the rising tensions in the room.

“I don’t think so? There’s nothing wrong with having girls..”

“Who’s supposed to carry on the name?”

Max sat up straighter, his hand squeezing your knee gently

“Stella will just as our next baby will eventually, regardless of their gender.”

Jos shook his head taking a sip of his water as he sighed, before looking back at you.

“All i’m saying is you should be trying for a boy.”

“Well it doesn’t work that way.”

The table was getting quieter as the father and son squared off, Jos not backing down and Max not about to let his father attack you in anyway. Not on his watch.

“I knew the second you had a daughter it would make you weak, let alone marrying her and having that baby! She’s useless if she can’t have a boy! You’re wasting your time Max, I knew from the second I met her it would ruin our family.”

Used to his harassment you didn’t cry, but it didn’t stop tears from welling up in your eyes as you almost deflated in a way, hugging Stella closer to your chest. The minute your eyes looked to Max, long gone was his soft stare and gentle smile, replaced was a look almost predatory as he looked to his father.

“Watch your fucking mouth when you’re talking about the mother of my child.”

“Max-”

“No, get out.”

“Excuse me?” Jos’s eyes widened and he shook his head

“GET THE HELL OUT!”

Max yelled, slamming his hands down on the table, seconds later Stella stirring before whimpering in your arms. The dutchman froze and looked apologetically at you as you excused yourself to go up to the nursery, only then turning back to look at his father.

“If you ever so much as think about speaking about my wife and daughter again, it’ll be me coming after you. Now get the fuck out.”

Jos didn’t even offer to say anything else, pushing back his chair and storming out, effectively cutting the dinner to an end as everyone left, Max’s mother sticking around to help clean up and of course comfort you afterwards. She had always been close to you and Max and in a way she was like a mother to you too.

“Baby?”

Turning at the sound of your husbands voice you smiled, still holding Stella in your arms, only this time she was much calmer, her eyes lighting up as she spots her dad.

“Hi, everything okay?”

“I should be asking you that…”

Shrugging you let him take Stella from you, his demeanour much more relaxed with his baby girl in his arms as he placed a few kisses to her cheeks.

“I know what your father is like, yes it hurts but I love you and you love me and that’s all that matters…we have a beautiful baby girl, and that man will never be able to change what we have.”

Max nods, bringing you into his side and leaning down to kiss you softly

“You’re right, he can’t. I’ll never let him ever disrespect you like that ever again. No matter what I have to do.”

“I know you won’t Maxie…and I love you very much for it, Stella too, huh baby?”

Stroking her cheek gently she babbled happily, leaning on Max’s shoulder, her hand patting his chest gently

“My girls…I love you both so much, i’ll always protect you both, with my everything.”

Nothing else needed to be said in the moment, all Max needed was his girls and he felt whole. Nothing else mattered because to him he had everything he’d ever wanted in his life. Despite what he went through growing up, Jos had never made his heart turn cold, he made it big enough to hold the love he had for you two, and would always hold, no matter what happened.

Besides, everyone knew messing with the Verstappen girls, was playing with fire.

[funlovingfuzzball]

Never mind that if you’re a trans man, you might get top surgery. So now incorrectly assuming the same number of people do each of these things (to simplify matters), there’s two breasts unaccounted for per binary trans person, not just trans women! That’s a lot of breasts being taken by that middleman! Someone needs to look into this!

- Raie

Logically, if you were a trans woman on hormones, you'd grow breasts.

And then many trans women get breast implants.

And yet, even after going through these two things that give you breasts (HRT and Implants), they still only have two breasts, not four!

Someone's skimming off the top. There's some middleman out there with all the spare breasts, I bet.

[genderkoolaid]

tbh my opinion isnt so much that trans men cannot have male privilege. its that the way we understand male privilege is based in cis women, specifically otherwise privileged (esp. otherwise-gendered privilege, i.e gender-conforming/straight/perisex) cis women's understanding of gender as something static and inherent to who you are, rather than something fluid which is, in part, constructed by society and placed onto you separately in every moment.

can a trans man experience (cis) male privilege? yes. can a trans woman? yes. and so can a cis woman! hell, a femme perisex cis woman with a gender neutral name could if she's assumed to be a cis man on a resume. male privilege is not an on/off switch. the idea that it is stems from cissexist understandings of male/female as entirely separate and static categories which everyone can and must be understood through. trans people in feminism are expected to constantly defend and deflect accusations of being Privileged Male Oppressors by promising cis perisex women that our experiences are just like theirs! we don't have any scary opinions that don't align with their worldview! we swear we won't ever make them have to reflect on how being cis+perisex has biased them and potentially made their analysis of gender at all inaccurate! trans experiences are only considered valuable to cisfeminism to the extent that they reaffirm what cisfeminists already hold true. thats why they only ever want to talk about a very simplistic narrative around wages pre/post-transition. its extremely unthreatening to cis people because it presents transness in patriarchy as just going from one cis role to another; it doesn't ask cis feminists to expand their paradigm to include the ways in which trans people are treated as a class and their own complicity in transphobic oppression.

which is why trans men have been getting fucked over by trans-affirmng cisfeminism. because by virtue of having our gender acknowledged, we are expected to forfeit our place in the feminist movement and adopt the role of outsider along cis men*. and its also why trans women and MTX people get fucked over the minute they cannot or refuse to describe their experiences through the one or two approved narratives. cisfeminism cannot tolerate transness-as-transness. it has to be compressed and reduced and diluted into something that fits within a cis-centric framework. we aren't allowed to have nuanced and intersectional conversations about trans men & other trans folks relationship with male privilege, the things we have to sacrifice to there, how fleeting it can be, the fact that for some of us being read as "biologically male" is actively more dangerous than being read as female... if it isn't familiar to cis women, then it means you aren't really oppressed.

*cis men should not be outsiders in feminism either btw but thats another post

[witherby]

how would the batfam have gone about Flit's initial presentation of their secondary gender? (as in when they first showed signs of presenting and presented).

Oh, great question!

Early signs:

You're developing a slight fever and your scent is changing. Gone is the milky, powdery, pup scent everybody has when they're young, and now it's developing into something noticeable.

Tim immediately starts placing bets on what you'll become. He thinks you'll be another beta. Dick is factoring in your spunky little attitude and assumes you'll become an alpha like him. Bruce does not know or care; he just wants you to have a healthy presentation with no complications. Hal already instinctively knows what you'll be. Something in his gut is already aware you'll be an Omega and he's gathering nesting materials for you to ease the transition.

You start scenting your family members more as your secondary glands develop. Has your dad always had this really strong, dark chocolate scent? Has Alfred always smelled like the tea he drinks? You're quickly learning how to discern their moods from their scents as well, and whatever sensations or feelings they're trying to push through them. Jason gives you a big squeeze and you smell lovepacklove, and you cry because that's so nice that it can be conveyed so instinctively!

The Shift:

Your fever reaches a crescendo and your body feels unbelievably sore. You can do little else but lie in bed and breathe through it. Your scent is sharpening and developing further as your caste reaches maturity.

Hal nests you with clothes pilfered from the entire family. Everybody takes shifts keeping an eye on you and ensuring you're healthy and hydrated through the process. Their scents all keep you comforted and help you feel safe while you're in such a vulnerable condition for the next day and a half. At this point, it's clear that you're presenting as an Omega, and only two of them are really surprised.

Post-Presentation:

It's a bit of a sensory overload for a while. Everything feels like it's been shifted a little to the left, and you now have to navigate the world of scents and deferment and challenges and heats. God, you didn't realize how fucking annoying a heat was until you started experiencing them for yourself.

But you don't mind the change overall. In a family of emotionally-stunted vigilantes, now you can read them a hell of a lot better with a quick whiff. Your dad is not indifferent to you wanting to start a cafe that caters to heroes, civilians, and villains after all — he's actually broadcasting panicpupdanger pretty fucking loudly in his scent despite the straight face.

Your family helps you navigate this new layer of the world, too, gently correcting your mistakes when you accidentally keep challenging Dick for the TV remote (it's not an accident, you wanna put your fucking show on!) or keep deferring to Tim over what you should eat for dinner (it's not an accident, you can't make up your mind between tacos or spaghetti and want him to pick).

All in all, they're very supportive of your changes and want to help you become a confident Omega!

Bonus: Conner

This boy did not go through a natural presentation. Lex Luthor implanted information about secondary sexes in his mind when he was cooking in the tank, but not how to navigate them. He's the freakiest alpha to ever alpha when he pops out. Deferring to people he shouldn't. Deferring to objects he shouldn't. Challenging everybody and everything unintentionally. Ignoring actual Challenges posed against him. Unsure how to mask his scent so his emotions are on full fucking display 24/7/365. Ruts are a confusing mess for him. Conner needs some help.

"I'm sorry, I'm not Challenging your bat plushy on purpose I just don't know how to reel these instincts in. I've been alive for two months. I also think we're meant to be together forever. Can I bite you? My body is screaming at me to bite you. You can bite me back. Maybe. You might break your teeth trying actually. I'm so sorry. You smell amazing btw. That was weird to say? I'm sorry. I'm Conner what's your name?"

[freak-accident419]

party 4 u

Rocco Gauthier x Reader

Summary: You attend a frenemy's pool party, only coming because your boyfriend Rocco was invited and wanted you to tag along. He doesn't know you're uncomfortable with the host because you didn't want to seem like the obnoxiously jealous partner. With only a few drinks to impair your judgement, you finally tell him what's wrong. Ensuring that you don't doubt him like this ever again, he finds a convincing way to reassure you. (Riff Raff Rocco x GN!Reader)

Word Count: 2.8k

Content: 18+ Smut, MDNI, gender-neutral reader, gender neutral language for reader, Lewis Pullman's Character Rocco from Riff Raff 2024, few uses of Y/n, graphic depictions of smut, pool party, jealousy, missionary, penetration (no specific genitalia for reader), creampie, reader is a bit insecure in here, random made-up side character for the sake of the plot, half-inspired by Charli XCX's 'party 4 u', I haven't finished the movie so I'm sorry if he is slightly ooc

Taglist: @funkyfable Happy reading! <3 Reblogs, comments and likes are much appreciated!

-

You didn't even want to come here in the first place.

As you looked around the colorful fluorescent lights that were reflected across the pool's surface, you felt like you were being judged. Watched. It made you feel so self-conscious.

Rocco was your boyfriend of several years. He loved and cared for you like any man should for his partner, except he was blind to one predicament you faced.

Your friend group was complicated. Well, not the whole group, but just one person in it. You didn't really get along with Leah. You tried to, you swore it, but it was just not meant to be. Complimenting, conversing about things you had in common, and friendly smiles just didn't seem to work. The primary issue was her crush on your boyfriend. She specifically despised you for dating Rocco, as you entered the friend group late as a result of becoming his partner.

She liked Rocco. Who wouldn't, though? He was charming, sexy, and incredibly sweet. You didn't blame her for crushing on him, after all she probably knew him longer than you did. However, respect goes both ways. She would flirt with him shamelessly, as if you weren't already his. And that terrified you. Leah was different. To you, she was prettier. Funnier. More extroverted and outgoing than you were. She could easily steal his heart with her charms, taking him away from you.

You never spoke to him about your concerns, however. You didn't want to seem like the typical jealous and insecure partner with major trust issues. Even when she would drunkenly admit to you how much she feels that she deserves your boyfriend more than yourself, you still felt like you didn't have the authority to call her out. You didn't want to be obnoxious. You didn't want to seem insecure. You didn't want to lose him.

So you stood there on the patio with your hard seltzer in hand, watching the two interact in the hot tub with the rest of your friends. You could see them laughing, joking, and it made your heart burn more than your throat did from the alcohol.

You didn't want to be here because of this. It was Leah's party, celebrating God knows what, and she invited Rocco. You even tried to give him excuses not to come with him, but he insisted, practically begging you to accompany him. Of course, you felt like you couldn't tell him about the whole Leah-wants-him-and-hates-you situation, so you eventually gave up on refusing. You were only here at this stupid party because of him. Not for her. Not for whatever the hell she was celebrating. But for him.

Your feet were sore. You hated distancing yourself like this, just standing here and being a witness to an imminent crime of thievery.

As the evening progressed, you drank enough alcohol to be more tipsy than before. From afar, you continued to see her flirt with your boyfriend, and you couldn't do anything about it. You felt glued to the ground. Stuck. As if your throat was restrained by barbed wire and your lips were sewn shut. It wasn't right for you to talk to Rocco about your concerns. You were just being dramatic. It wasn't a big deal. You were being a stupid, jealous, insecure partner. And if he found out about these feelings, he would break up with you and run into Leah's arms.

You couldn't handle watching this anymore. Her touching his shoulder, their shared laughter. Dammit. You dried your feet as you walked back inside the house.

After snickering at a joke, Rocco turned his head and noticed you disappearing inside. He barely interacted with you tonight, feeling both guilty and needy. Earlier, you told him how your migraine weakened any desire of entering either pools, so he didn't question your isolated state. But enough was enough, and he missed you. So he stood up, excusing himself out of the bubbling jacuzzi.

Inside, you gripped the handle of the refrigerator, opening it to find a bottle of water. Before you could take the cap off and hydrate yourself, you felt a pair of warm, large hands grasp your waist, as well as peppered kisses on the back of your neck. Rocco's chin rested on your shoulder, letting out a soft hum. "How're you feeling, baby? Better?"

You sigh in relief, enjoying the short-lived comfort of your boyfriend's affectionate embrace. "I'm fine," you answer quietly, finally sipping some water before placing it back in the fridge.

"Are you sure?" He presses a kiss to the side of your neck. "You look like there's something on your mind, babe."

You knew he wasn't the one at fault, you knew he was concerned for you, so you should've been kind to him. But just thinking about how he and Leah interacted with each other in the hot tub compelled you to be cold towards him. "I said I'm fine," you repeat indifferently, walking away from his arms.

Rocco huffs irritably, rushing after you. "Y/n. Don't be like that. Come on, you've been quiet and distant all night, what's wrong?"

"I told you, it's nothing," you run a hand through your damp hair in exhaustion, entering one of the guest rooms as you wished he would just leave you alone.

Suddenly, he grabbed your wrist gently to make you look at him, his deep blue eyes burning through yours. "I know when something's up, I'm your boyfriend, for fuck's sake. Just be real with me. Please," he nearly begs, eyebrows furrowed in desperation.

“Rocco, there’s nothing—”

"No, no, don't give me that 'nothing' bullshit—"

"I'm telling you the truth, there is no—"

“Y/n—"

“I’m serious, there’s nothing—”

“Goddammit, Y/n, just tell me what’s going on!”

“It’s Leah!” You exclaimed, the alcohol in your system and the intensity of the moment making it easier to confess. You felt a tinge of instant regret, knowing that Rocco would disapprove of your jealousy, and therefore be tempted to break up with you. Your eyes shut tightly in shame, sighing from fatigue. However, that scornful reaction you were expecting just didn’t happen.

Rocco pauses silently. "That's what this is about?" He mutters, searching your eyes for clarity.

“Yeah... I just..." you mumble before raising your voice, beginning to pace back and forth, "She likes you! And hell, everybody in our friend group knows that! And I really, truly, desperately tried getting along with her, but she's always hated me, and that’s because I’m dating you! And—and I don’t want to seem like the paranoid, jealous partner, but god, if only you heard the things she told me when you weren’t around!”

You finally ceased your pacing, standing in front of him with glassy, bloodshot eyes. “I didn't want to tell you all this because you would think I'm jealous and possessive, and then you would leave me for her... Hell, I'd get it if you did. For starters, she's known you longer than I do. She’s pretty, and charming—”

“Y/n—”

“And funny, and cool—”

“Y/n—”

“And I just can’t be at her level, so I’m sorry that I’m not good enough for—”

Rocco silences you by pressing his lips against yours in a brief, yet strong kiss. His face was close to yours as he spoke, "You're always gonna be good enough for me. Shit, you're way too good for me. If anything, I don't deserve you."

His hands were still gripping your shoulders from the kiss. “Look, I know that Leah likes me. It’s fucking obvious. I just figured that as long as she was respectful about our relationship, then we can keep being friends. But clearly, she hasn’t been, and I’m glad you told me about this. I’ll go talk to her soon. And if shit goes down, we’ll stop hanging out with her—the both of us. Okay?”

You frown, feeling a shameful pang of guilt. "I don't wanna be the reason your friendship with her is ruined, I don't—I don't want to affect your relationships just because you're with me."

"Baby, she's always been kind of an issue. I dealt with it in the beginning because I thought I could see past it, but clearly it's affecting you. And I don't like knowing how she makes you feel, directly or indirectly. You said she tells you about her feelings for me?"

You nod hesitantly, recalling the conversations you had with her. "Yeah. I mean, sometimes she would even make jokes about her stealing you from me—"

"Babe!" He exclaims, almost chuckling from how ridiculous that was. "Are you serious? You should've told me about this, I didn't know she says these kinds of things to you behind my back!"

"Yeah, well, that's why I didn't want to come. Just being around her makes me feel, I don't know... shitty about myself. I only came for you," you explain reluctantly. "I didn't want to seem paranoid and jealous to you, so I kept all that to myself. She knew I thought that way, too, so she always felt permitted to say anything about you to me... Riling me up on purpose."

Rocco huffs in exasperation, rubbing his forehead. "Fuck... I'm so sorry, baby, I should've seen the signs... I should've—should've—"

"Rocco, it's okay—"

"No, it's not! I didn't know how terrible she was treating you! Whatever bullshit she fed you, it isn't true." He cups your face. "Baby, I would never leave you, not for anybody, let alone for her, okay? There is no one else in this world that is more beautiful, funnier, and intelligent than you. I love you. You're everything to me, you know that?"

"Yeah," you mumble, your faltered response not convincing him.

He scoffs, looking back at the crack of the slightly open door, then at you. "Do I seriously have to prove it to you?"

"No, no, I do know, it's just..." He silences you once again with a deep kiss, his hands dropping to your waist with a light squeeze. You kissed back without hesitation, feeling him back you up against the door so it slammed shut behind you. He expertly locks the doorknob beside you before grabbing you by your thighs to lift you up, laying you down on the bed.

His lips don't leave yours as he undresses you and himself, which was a simple procedure due to the skimpy nature of swimsuits. He was used to seeing your naked body after having sex with you multiple times over the years, but he couldn't help but run his palms down your skin as if experiencing it for the very first time.

Rocco's lips traveled to your neck, leaving wet kisses there. You giggled softly at the ticklish sensation, in which he smiled, crashing his lips against yours once again. He was in love with the sound of your laugh. In fact, he was in love with everything about you. Obsessed, even.

Your eyes shut gently as you sighed deeply, feeling his hand reach between your thighs. You loved the way his warm, slender fingers would caress your flesh, knowing every place and stroke that made you feel good. He smirked to himself as he felt his fingertips dampen when they came in contact with a specific area.

With the smallest time possible in making you wait, his fingers finally slipped into your warmth, making you moan softly. You could never grow tired of that liberating feeling of Rocco's fingers stretching and exploring your tight walls. He didn't just use his digits to prepare you for his length, but he also wanted to simply please you. He enjoyed massaging your velvety insides, fingertips reaching the places his cock barely grazed. And he knew it drove you wild.

"I'm all yours, you know that?" He mutters, nipping your neck before his eyes looked into yours.

You were too much focused on the pleasure to fully comprehend his words, only nodding in your dazed state. When his words finally reached your brain, you sighed, "mm—Mm-hm..."

A soft whine escaped your lips as his fingers left you, Rocco now positioning himself between your legs.

The shocking thing about Rocco was that his favorite position was missionary. Well, not necessarily shocking, but ridiculously unexpected. Everyone he could have told would be surprised to hear it, considering it was too much of a vanilla position for a guy like him. It was Rocco, for fuck's sake.

The 'why', however, is essential. The main reason why Rocco loved missionary was because he got to see your face every time he made love to you. The wrinkle in between your furrowed eyebrows, the way your eyes went half-lidded, the way your lips parted to let his name leave your throat. It was the most intimate position he could be with you, and he didn't give a flying fuck if that made him a vanilla loser. Sure, he was always open to exploring the most wacky and kinky positions with you, but nothing could top missionary. Compared to every angle you two experimented with, missionary made him cum the fastest. It was just so good to see every single facial expression caused by the pleasure he brought onto you.

Your legs wrapped around his waist as his hands propped himself on the mattress. Rocco kissed you passionately on the lips before you felt his girth stretch you open, making you let out a lustful gasp. Your hands gripped his forearms as you feel his cock enter completely inside you. He could never get over this feeling. Your body was incredible, and never failed to make him feel amazing. He was obsessed with every aspect of you. Obsessed with making love to you.

Rocco grunted as his hips pulled back halfway just to push against you again, starting to thrust at a steady, back-and-forth pace. You loved the way his length moved in and out of your hole, making your insides flutter.

"Fuck, baby... You feel so fucking good," he murmurs under his breath, "there's no way I could ever think of leaving you, fuck no..."

Eventually, his pace increased to the point where the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the small bedroom with every thrust. The loud, wet plaps turned Rocco on, driving him to move faster. Both of you were pretty vocal, and you usually were when it came to sex; something your friend group would complain about if they ever had the misfortune of being in the area. As Rocco slammed into you roughly, the bed creaked repeatedly, its frame hitting against the wall.

"This bed sucks ass," you snicker under your breath, making him chuckle in response.

His hands moved from your hips to your limp wrists, holding them in place on each side of your head against the pillows. You whined softly, enjoying the control he had over you. Being under him was always a moment you indulged in.

Rocco's movements never faltered, his cock hitting deep spots that made you cry out his name. You felt yourself closer to the edge every time his length would piston in and out of you. Sensing how close you were with the way you pulsed around him, he released one of your wrists to bring his hand down, touching your sensitive flesh. Your body nearly spasmed, moaning louder than before as these overlapping feelings of pleasure drove you to the edge.

"I—I'm close," you whimper, clenching around his thick girth.

"I know, baby, I know," he mumbles, burying his face into your neck, "me too."

You both panted and breathed heavily, letting out lewd groans of arousal. Rocco's thrusts began to stammer, growing unsteady the closer he got to his orgasm.

"Fuck," he huffs, desperate to cum at the same time as you, "oh my God..."

"Mmm," you whine, out of breath, "I'm cumming, I'm cumming—"

"Fuck!" Rocco groans, spilling deeply inside you as you cum at the same time, your tightness gripping his cock. The sensation drove him insane as his release concluded with brief, remaining spurts that coated your walls. He held you tight, pressing his body close to yours, still snug inside of you.

He loved being inside of you. He loved cumming inside of you. He felt like it meant something much more than sex or lust. Like it meant something greater.

He slowly pulled out, huffing in disappointment at the loss of your warmth. He kisses your lips deeply, continuing to hover above you, tasting you sensually. His tongue parted your mouth, carefully slipping inside to move with yours. Your taste was addicting. The two of you had then made out for a long, breathless time, a passionate way to come down from your highs.

Soon enough, the kiss ended as Rocco finally rolled off of your body. Unable to function without your touch, he brings you in close with your head resting on his bare chest. You heard his heartbeat, unintentionally adjusting your own breathing to sync the rhythm.

His lips touched the top of your head, lingering for a bit. His palms stroked your bare shoulder and bicep affectionately. “I love you so much, baby...”

You kissed his chest gently, overwhelmed with reassurance and satisfaction.

“I love you too.”

[bunnygirllover45]

— VIVISECTION IS ANOTHER WAY OF SPELLING LOVE. ﹑◌﹒WARNINGS﹕Graphical descriptions of the body, Seth wants to study you like you're a computer or something, MC has few to no dialogue, gender neutral MC. Very bizarre at certain points. Medical bullshit and philosophical stuff. Bad English.

♱ ✧ ⤷ Word count: 1,6k words. (This one is a long mf)

The nights always brought the same dream with them; four walls and a room that belonged to an old movie, the walls were decorated with shelves filled with pots, pots with colorful flowers on them, some of them were carelessly placed on top of each other, pressing on top of the poor flower that was under the crushing weight of the other.

This room only had two big windows that illuminated the whole room, illuminating it in a red hue, no matter how much you tried to stare out the window nothing but red was visible. It seemed like if you stared too much into that void for a second, it would swallow you whole, making you part of the bloody landscape.

The furniture was scarce. A table, something that resembled a bookshelf that contained a few books, but the letters were illegible to you since you couldn’t move from your assigned seat; a chair by the aforementioned table. In the center of the table, was a small vase filled with fresh poppies.

The ambiance was a little theatrical, to be honest, you couldn’t even imagine someone living in a place like this, it didn’t look like a place where you could have plants either, most of them were placed against a wall all the way in the back of the room, shrouded by darkness. Not even the crimson light from the window could reach them.

“The light of this place isn’t good for them, I have checked it countless times. Instead of giving them life, it kills them.” You heard the voice of your companion seated in front of you, and when you turned your face to look at him you found the crimson again, but it wasn’t from the window this time, it was from his eyes.

Red. Red. It looked like it wanted to swallow you whole. Those spirals were like the circles of hell, one by one looking at your movements with caution. You tried to answer his words, maybe with a question, maybe with an affirmation, but it was always complicated talking when you entered this ‘dream’ and Seth knew it.

“You know.” he started. 

Standing up from his seat and dragging his fingers across the wood of the table he began to circle it, never breaking eye contact for a second. “I have been reading some very interesting books lately.” he continued, his voice dragging across the whole place with an ominous echo to it, which was impossible due to the small size of the place. “They're medicine books, vivisections, that’s what they call it.” a small smile formed on his lips.

“Vivisections?” you managed to ask, your voice merely a whisper. Seth sharpened his gaze, pleased with the sweet sound of your voice, and then he nodded. 

“Yes, vivisection. It’s like… taking an organism that’s still alive and opening it, to learn how they function on the inside.” 

Seth continued, his leather gloves dragging across the table from side to side while he continued to circle the table, like a vulture, though it looked like a mere distraction, a small gesture he did while talking. It didn’t stop it from being spine-chilling though, the elegance in his movements wasn’t natural. “It seemed interesting to me, sounds nasty, it probably is.” he laughed.

One blink was enough to make him disappear from your sight, but when you felt two hands resting on top of your shoulders you knew he was still there. “Seth?” you called out his name, and he responded with a gentle squeeze against your frame, then you felt his hot breathing against your ear, it made you shiver.

“I’m here,” he reassured, you couldn’t see his expression but you were pretty sure he was still smiling, it was rare to see him without that grin on his face. “Can you close your eyes for a second?”

His petition made you nervous, the fact you couldn’t even turn to look at him worsened the uneasy feeling, your survival instinct screaming for you to not close your eyes, to not give in. But Seth was always good with you every time you came here, so why not? “Please.” Seth whispered against your ear when he noticed you still didn’t close your eyes, the sound of his voice so close it made you tremble.

Going against all common sense you closed your eyes. Feeling Seth’s hands pulling away from your shoulders you almost opened them again unconsciously, but for some reason, it was like they were closed shut by an invisible force, heavy like lead.

“How obedient. How precious. This is one of the many reasons why I like you.” 

First, you felt his gloved hands on your face, the sensation now multiplied thanks to one of your senses being removed, the leather felt softer, the sounds louder, and Seth’s breathing hotter. “The brain is like the body’s computer, an insistent and adaptive little thing, it’s truly fascinating.” 

“I think your mind is the thing I like the most about you. From the small unconscious movements you make while you’re asleep to the most trivial conversations are born in this beautiful place. It never stops to amaze me.” 

Now his voice came from the right, his fingers slipping from your face to your back, your breathing quickening as soon as you felt his hands slipping under your clothes, Seth traced invisible circles on the now exposed skin. “From here I can feel your breathing, you moved a little, do my gloves feel cold?” 

Seth removed his hands and the next second you could feel the touch of his fingertips on top of your skin, it seemed like he had taken off his gloves. “Better~?”

His voice sounded a little playful. “Skin-to-skin contact is even more pleasurable, no? I imagine having your eyes closed makes the experience even more intense.” 

“I can hear your breathing more clearly. Your lungs are closer to my hands.” And you could feel his breathing, even hearing how we swallowed heavily, like trying to hold back any unwanted sounds from escaping. “What a celestial sound.”

“If I put my mouth on top of you right now I could kiss you until you ran out of air. Then you wouldn’t have any other option than breathing the air I give you, that way each particle of oxygen that enters your system would have my name written on it.”

You tried to move, expecting your legs to crash against the table in front of you, but again. you couldn’t move, but you could feel like… everything around you disappeared for a second.

“You like that? You want that?” And when you heard Seth’s voice coming from in front of you it was unmistakable, everything felt like a small space where only you and Seth existed. “Ask me. Ask me and I’ll give it to you, I’ll give you everything.” 

Then everything fell silent, eerily silent. Then his hands felt like they were back again in all the places he previously touched at the same time, your face, your back, your shoulders, his touch was hot, enveloping you like he wanted to swallow you, like the red color outside the window, like the red in his eyes.

“Here.” His fingers moved like snakes against the skin in your chest, you took a deep breath unconsciously, and Seth laughed. “Here’s your heart.” 

“Sometimes I want to push my fingers under your skin, I don’t want to hurt you, of course I don’t, but I would love to see how beautiful you’re from the inside.”

“Like a computer with all its parts exposed, I would like to grab them and build you again like a puzzle, no — like a beautiful statue.” 

Now his fingers moved up and down across your skin, just like the way he had touched the table before, it seemed like he had anticipated this moment from much before, what a macabre little thing his brain was. “Mhm…” you felt Seth’s soft hair against your chest, he was drinking the sound of your heart beating like he was in the middle of the desert and you were the most beautiful oasis. “This sound is even more beautiful.” 

“It’s beating fast, the little thing, how adorable. Is it fear? Is it love? What kind of feeling is accelerating your beautiful core? Is it me? It must be me, there’s no one else here.” 

“Hey, do you love me?” You couldn’t answer, Seth knew that. “I love you too, I love you too much.” 

“I want to grab you in between my arms and squeeze you so hard you’d break, I’ll kiss each piece while I put you back together. I would call you my most beautiful creation, there’s nothing more charming than being God’s favorite creation, no?” 

Now his voice didn’t come from the left nor the right, it felt like you were being enveloped by him, all your senses, your body, Seth wanted to kill you with soft caresses and sweet whispers of eternal devotion. He wanted to swallow you. He wanted to vivisection you.

“When you wake up from this, please remember my touch, remember these sensations, remember our vivisection. You’ll give me that, right?” 

“When you come back I’ll be waiting, I promise I’ll hug you so sweetly you’ll never want to wake up again. I’ll give you a paradise so sweet you’ll want to poison yourself in it.” 

Finally, you opened your eyes, but you weren’t in that eerie room, nor was Seth there anymore. You stared at the sheets of your bed, everything looked too white, it made your eyes hurt. Taking a deep breath you held your hand against your chest.

You could still feel him there. His touch was still present, tingling against your skin.

And when your eyes fell to the skin of your chest you could see it better, the red marks, like the light coming from the light from that room, like the color of the blood flowing through your veins.

The marks of Seth’s fingers were still there, in your skin.

[tossawary]

There's something... tremendously funny and bewildering to me about AU choices in fanfiction that are distractingly irrelevant to the story. I'm going to pick on omegaverse here for my example, because my feelings on it as a setting are complicated and nuanced and also often petty as hell. But it can apply to any other AU type.

I view omegaverse as, essentially, a speculative science-fiction concept. It asks questions like "What if there were these 3+ accepted genders?" and "What if people had THIS weird feature of biology?" and then it runs with that, creating and exploring new worlds and, in doing so, making statements on our own world's relationships to sex and gender and sexuality and bodily autonomy and so on. There are many, many different ways to do omegaverse, some of which admittedly squick me out personally, some of which I just don't like.

Sometimes, the world building is fascinatingly intricate and thoughtful. Sometimes, the world building has the painted-cardboard quality of a "Star Trek" episode: it's just there to make a heavy-handed statement about sex and gender discrimination and it'll fall apart if you poke it too hard. With fanfiction, it also generally becomes a tool with which to examine a specific character's relationship to sex, gender, sexuality, and so on.

Sometimes, the main purpose of omegaverse as an element in a story is sexual titillation. It's a vessel for kinky stuff, like power dynamics and fantasy sex characteristics, uninterested in the broader world implications, and that's fine! Great! "Porn without plot" is still a purpose! It's very relevant to the story!

One of the many ways omegaverse settings can squick me out is when... hmm... it feels anti-feminist and anti-queer, like the author is uncritically creating "Bioessentialist Cisheteronormative Amatonormative Anti-Abortion Patriarchy Nightmare Scenario 2!" worlds, in which they've given no thought to what it would mean to be intersex or transgender or aromantic or asexual or sex-repulsed or polyamorous or disabled or childfree or infertile/sterile or adopted or mentally ill or a victim of abuse or a victim of assault, and so on. (Or the author outright states that all cultures around the world view sex and gender the exact same reductive way in this world, which is pretty racist and also very boring.) Yikes.

Like, uh, feels weird sometimes when you take a homosexual couple of characters and then turn them into an alpha/omega relationship, which is not only socially accepted but the equivalent of straight in this particular world, so that they can have bio-babies together. Feels bad when the author starts outright insisting that omega/omega and alpha/alpha couples are biologically impossible in this world and always doomed to failure. Feels absurd when the author is so into these exaggerated fantasy dominant/submissive concepts, such that there could apparently NEVER be a dominant omega and submissive alpha couple, that they accidentally imply that this world doesn't even have the cowboy/cowgirl sex positions. What the hell.

Like, you're using the weird sex world concept and insisting that people are only having this world's equivalent of vanilla, straight, reproductive sex? And also actively shitting on other stuff? Like the basic concept of sex toys??? Fuck off!

But, you know, even the bioessentialist reinforcement of gender roles, even uncritical enthusiasm for benevolent sexism, is still a purpose for a narrative element? I hate it, but the omegaverse is still actively doing something in this story even if I think it's doing something bad.

It gets REALLY confusing to me when omegaverse is included but irrelevant. Character 1 and Character 2 are in a Modern Coffee Shop AU, having a very basic romance, and they just also happen to be an alpha and omega. No, there are no heats or ruts or weird sex. No, there's not even any weird scenting things going on. No, there's not really any commentary on gender roles or discrimination. The story is just doing a full-world gender-bend with fantasy genders for... no clear reason?

Maybe it's to assure us that the characters won't face any societal homophobia and will be able to get married and have bio-babies down the line without issue? (Again, yikes.) But even that's unclear.

Like, damn, might as well make up a new set of fantasy genders based on star signs and apply that to your AU just because. Might as well make up new irrelevant genders based on the four seasons. If you're going to go "Imagine an AU where the characters are Red Gender and Blue Gender!!!" then I kind of expect you to have an answer if I ask, "Why, though? What's the appeal? Is it relevant to your story? Is the world changed in any meaningful way?"

I am not approaching anyone's self-indulgent fanfiction in this way, to be clear. If I don't like it, I just leave.

The answer to "Why is this story element here?" can be: "I just like it." But I do think it's funny and weird to encounter AU elements that, in my opinion, are actively dragging a story down.

Omegaverse generally doesn't even have a great aesthetic going for it. "Imagine this character as a modern punk!" or "Imagine this character as an enjoyer of gothic lolita fashion!" at least gives me some mental visuals and character self-image study thoughts to chew on, even if the author isn't explicitly using those fashion choices as a tool to examine a character's relationship with gender and to a community and to broader society.

With irrelevant omegaverse, what the author has written might be some otherwise interesting character thoughts or a meet-cute, but I can't focus on that because I'm too distracted wondering why the fuck the speculative kink genders are here.

[triptychgardener]

i saw you mentioned that transfem!calliope was practically canon, could you maybe elaborate on that? (im not dissing your hcs btw im just confused on where its suggested in canon)

Hey so it took me a while to get to this just because I wanted to solidify some thoughts about it! Won't go into as much detail wrt my other posts, but we can at the very least start with her handle: uranianUmbra

Uranian is an old-fashioned term, generally used for gay men, though also used in different ways to describe other-gendered people or ways of being, occasionally used as a catch-all similar to how Queer is used today. Its history is complicated and occasionally uncomfortable, as a lot of queer history can be, but notably, one potential root of this idea came from Urning

Now obviously conceptions of gender and sexuality were a lot different then, and I don't want to simplify this, but in Homestuck, it's pretty undeniable that Calliope is a woman stuck in a man's body, and this is likely why Hussie used that very specific word in the first place: to foreshadow the eventual Cherubian Twist.

And not that framing: a woman trapped in a man's body. Cherubs (at least as we are told) have two equal halves who can predominate. But the framing of their entire dynamic makes it very clear that this is Caliborn's body, not Calliope.

Callie's ideal self, in Callie Ohpeee, her Trollsona, is positioned as something to be taken off to reveal her true self. She feels that she needs to conform her exterior to match her interior self, something Caliborn never has to do.

Hell, even as she goes to sleep for the last time, she removes her jacket to reveal Caliborn's shirt underneath. It's his body, not hers.

Not only that, but throughout the story, we see that Callie experiences something close to either dysphoria or body dysmorphia. She hates the way she looks, and affects an especially sweet demeanor in order to not scare people away. She sees herself as a monster because her body becomes the most hideous masculine monster the story has ever known! Literally Lord English.

And shockingly, even though it (in my opinion) handles it poorly, the Epilogues do give us a brief insight into cherub gender, where it basically illuminates that Aranea was kind of talking out of her ass about cherub reproduction, and that Cherubs have no actual biological sex or gender. Meaning that somewhere along the way, Caliborn and Calliope CHOSE their genders, likely influenced by the human and troll internet they were permitted. Callie perhaps forming her own gender in opposition to her brother. This also probably created the ouroboros through which gender became a thing in the first place but thats besides the point. Point is, Callie was likely not a woman until she chose to be a woman. I.e. transgender.

Now the epilogues took it in what I find to be a kind of boring direction, i.e. "well cherubs have no real biological sex so that means I have to be nonbinary now" which is just such a lukewarm take on the imposition of gender but whatever. Point is that Callie is transgender end of story goodnight!!!!!

[fligniuz]

your building’s on fire (and i’ll catch you)

luigi mangione x reader

｡𖦹°‧ your boyfriend feels bad. you take care of him. ‘nuff said.

word count: 3k • sfw • read on ao3

tag list : @mangionebabymama , @mangobabygirl , @jenisaswift13 , @mangionesdaisy , @iinfinitelimits , @daydreamingwithluigi , @nephris

warnings : none really! gender neutral reader; some language; hurt/comfort; soft sweet fluffy good times :-)

notes : this was written after gi’s feb. court appearance and i think that mullet had crack in it or something like i was on one…also title frommmmm:

Luigi has been down lately.

It only makes sense, of course—the past few weeks have been nothing to write home about. Work is slow and family is still as complicated and annoying as before and sleep has not come easily of late.

And his back, as is typical, has been of no help whatsoever. His back, as is typical, has made his problems worse, rubbed and irritated them, like salt in a wound; some might think he would be quite used to his entire mood being hampered by his condition for a month or so, a slump every once in a while, but the truth is that it’s never “familiar” for him. His pain is not “familiar”, not a daily obstacle he manages to break through—it’s invasive, violating, downright sadistic. It’s overbearing and petty. It sucks the passion out of him, locks even his dearest comforts far, far away from him, leaving him to bang against the cage with his fists and chew his way through its metal bars to escape.

What is one blessed with a jacked-up spine and a heart that yearns for activity meant to do? Fuck all, apparently, since there’s no magic pill he could take that can fix a slipped vertebrae, and getting his back sliced open for a fusion sure as hell hasn’t proven itself to be of much use (so far). Luigi has always been welcome to a challenge, but chronic pain is a beast with no solution, and he’s had about enough of dealing with it.

So much for pain management.

It’s safe to say that Luigi has quite a lot to complain about—but Luigi doesn’t complain. He internalizes. He carries his burdens deep inside of him.

You find him on the couch when you come downstairs, curled up on his side and mindlessly watching Seinfeld reruns on the television. This was nothing unusual, but still never any less heart-wrenching to see; you’ve always tried to be as supportive of Luigi as you can be, especially during his dark days—you accompany him to his appointments, remind him to take his meds when needed, massage him with your gentle hands, encourage and reassure him every chance you get. But the one thing you can’t do is take his pain away from him.

“Hey, babe,” you greet softly. “Whatcha doing?”

Luigi makes a sound between a grunt and a sigh, a little harumph. “Moping,” he says simply.

Kneeling down to meet his height, you ask, “bad day?”

“Not a bad day,” he clarifies. You cup his face with one warm hand and he burrows into your palm, long lashes fluttering. “Just feeling bad.”

“Hurting?”

He nods, meekly. “A little.”

In Luigiese, “a little” tends to mean “a lot”. And there isn’t much that helps him when he hurts a lot. Not much but you.

“Why don’t you let me run you a hot bath?” you offer, smiling tenderly. “You can relax and I’ll wash your hair for you.”

Luigi usually does quite like it when you join him in the shower and help him care for himself—but right now he slumps further into the couch, looking sort of guilty.

“You don’t have to do that for me,” he says.

You sigh. “Sweetheart, I want to.”

He cringes, like it’s physically too much for him to come to terms with how much you love him. Truly. Not the fake, choreographed shit in movies and romance novels and even Seinfeld, for god’s sake—whatever it is you feel for him is as real as the heart in his chest, beating with an intensity that could stand a chance against a tsunami.

“But it’s weird,” he protests. “I’m not a baby.”

Your eyebrows furrow.

“It is not weird for me to take care of my boyfriend, Luigi.” You tilt his chin up slightly so that he can look you in the eyes, watch your lips move as you speak. “And you’re not a baby. You’re a grown man with a disability and you deserve to be tended to when you need it, and you certainly shouldn’t feel wrong for accepting that from someone who cares for you.”

Well, he feels a bit like an idiot now. Sometimes you say things that leave him speechless, which is rare—but it’s one of his favorite traits of yours. Always has been. You blow him away.

“Oh, and another thing:” you add, “so what if it’s weird? I’m weird; you’re weird; we’re fuckin’ weirdos, baby. We’re the weirdest people in the world and I love it. Why should we be normal?”

Luigi smiles. Chuckles to himself. Kisses you. “Go start the water.”

And you do, skipping to the bathroom to turn on the faucet and prepare some towels for him. You grab his Sun Bum shampoo and conditioner from the tub to have them closer to you and when you leave briefly to grab a cup from the kitchen you pass him with a grin—but ultimately you beat him back to the bathroom, fingers testing the water as he walks in.

“Hi,” you greet. You’re sitting on a stool right next to the bathtub, sleeves rolled up above your elbows.

He blushes under your stare. “Hi, baby.”

It takes him a minute or two of lingering and looking around, like he’s never seen his own bathroom before, but eventually he starts to strip, ducking shyly into the filled tub.

“How’s the water?” you ask as he sinks into it.

Warm. Warm and like a salve for his spine, holding him tight between invisible arms.

“Good,” Luigi nods. “Splendid.”

So you come closer to the tub with your cup and scoop some water up, guiding him to tilt back so that you can wet his hair. He winces slightly at first as you begin to pour it over his head, but he eases quickly, eyes closed and pretty face rested. Yes, this is nice. The water is the perfect temperature, enveloping his strained skull, soothing the headache that’s been slowly building all day long—and your hands are like magic, so delicate and kind. He could almost fall asleep right here in the tub, but he resists the urge so as not to drown. You would be quite upset if he were to be so clumsy during a moment like this, he thinks.

And sleep will come later. Easily. Always does when you take care of him like this, when he gets to fall asleep in your arms knowing that even if the world were crumbling to pieces you’d be right here, in this apartment, waiting for him.

When his hair is sufficiently wet you set down the cup and reach for the shampoo, squeezing a dollop into your palm and then rubbing your hands together. You work them into a lather quickly and slather your fingers through his curls—you can only guess that he hasn’t paid himself such attention in a very long time, so you make sure to wash him right, scrunching the froth into his hair thoroughly, sluicing each individual lock until not a single spot on his head is left untouched. Eventually you move your hands up to massage his scalp, curling your fingers slowly, and you smile with pride and overwhelming fondness when Luigi’s eyes flutter shut in tranquility.

“Lean back, my love,” you murmur, coaxing him with a soapy hand on his chest.

And when he does you collect water in your cup again, dousing his curls and taking extra care to rinse the shampoo meticulously. With his face so close to you and his eyes closed you can admire him all you want; you resist the temptation to trace the light freckles on his cheekbones, his strong nose, further down, just to feel the uneven stubble growing on his jawline against your palms. His furry eyebrows are neutral and his soft lips are set in a straight line, pouting slightly. If you weren’t bathing him you would be kissing his face all over.

You dip your hands in the bathwater to rinse them clean before you reach for his conditioner, again working it into his hair, just a little at a time. As you brush it through his curls from top to bottom he speaks up:

“You’re very gentle,” Luigi says, hardly more than a whisper.

“Yeah?” you smile. “Is that a good thing?”

He hums, a soft mhm rumbling in his throat. Then:

“I’m sorry about what I said before,” he adds. “This isn’t weird. It’s really nice.”

He’s the sweetest boy with the most tender heart. You hold his head steady and lean forward to press a kiss to his forehead, catching soap on your lips.

“You can have this anytime you need it, sweetheart,” you whisper.

And then you rinse your hands again and stand, turning towards the cabinet.

“What’re you doing?” Luigi asks.

You retrieve his shaving cream and razor, smiling. “You’re getting hairy. You need a shave.”

He blinks, heart swarming with the knowledge that you’re willing to dedicate so much of your time to grooming him and helping him look his best. “You’re not going to rinse my hair?” he asks.

Sitting next to him again, you shake your head. “Not yet. The conditioner needs to sit for a few minutes.”

“It does?”

You nod.

“I guess I’ve been using conditioner wrong until now,” he says, grinning. And he soars when you smile back and lean forward to kiss him, this time on the lips, quick and soft.

His face is somewhat damp from having washed his hair, but you dip your fingers into the bathwater and bring them up to his cheeks, jaw, and neck, wetting his stubble to your liking. Once the lower half of his face is sufficiently slick, you grab the can of shaving cream and pump foam along his jawline, smearing it into his skin.

Luigi has never had anyone shave him before, most certainly not you—and he likes this quite a lot. It feels candid, domestic, sickly sweet like nothing he’s ever experienced before, and he’s starting to think that he might be perfectly fine with letting you shave him all the time, for as long as you’re together. And he feels more like himself when he’s clean-shaven; crisp and handsome. He’s definitely not complaining if it’s you helping him.

You hum a little tune as you drag the razor along the slope of his jaw—something that’s been on the radio recently, for sure, because it sounds fresh to his ears. He relaxes under your touch and puts all his effort into sitting still, more so for his sake, but your hands are careful (if not a little shaky) and slow, moving with utmost caution.

“You don’t like me when I’m hairy?” he jokes when you move to swirl the razor in the water.

“Babe, I’d like you if you were a werewolf,” you laugh. “It just gets in the way sometimes. You know?”

With two fingers you tilt his chin up so that you can stroke his throat with the razor.

“I’d be a very hairy werewolf,” Luigi says.

You make a quizzical face. “Do you think your wolf self would carry over your Italian genes? Like, would you be an Italian werewolf?”

“It’s not like I’d lose them when I transform.”

Smiling, you shave the other half of his neck and ask, “well, would your fur be as curly as the hair on your head?”

“It would have to be,” he answers, like it’s obvious. “My hair type wouldn’t just change, just like my genes wouldn’t change. I’d be a curly Italian werewolf and I’d howl at the moon for you.”

“You’ve thought a lot about this,” you quip.

He smirks. “You’re the one who brought up werewolves.”

Shaving him does not take long. You finish up the other side of his face easily and wipe him clean with a damp washcloth, admiring the smoothness of his skin under your hands. There’s already much more light and color in his face than when you found him sulking on the couch—the thought brings a pleased smile to your lips, and at the sight Luigi leans forward to kiss you, now bare-faced and feeling back to himself again.

“Mmm,” you hum with delight when you pull away. “Now I don’t feel like I’m kissing a cactus.”

Luigi giggles like a child. “You’ll never guess what my Reddit username is.”

“What? Something about cacti?” You roll your eyes playfully. “You’re a dork, babe.”

“That’s Mister Cactus to you.”

“Oh, I see,” you nod with faux disapproval painted on your face. “I suppose I’d still love you if you were a cactus.”

He kisses you again. And again. And again. Until you pull away.

He whines.

“Hold on,” you whisper. “You can kiss me as much as you want once I get you out of this bathtub.”

You grab your cup again and fill it up, guiding him back and soaking his slick curls in water. The wild hairs at the nape of his neck and over his scalp get the most attention as you rinse him, stroking his sensitive skin with your blunt nails, and Luigi can’t help but smile to himself at the feeling of it. Everything you do to him feels so right. Feels like it’s meant to be, like he’s never known anything else other than this, you taking care of him. He feels silly for trying to deny himself this peace when you first offered it to him—he had never imagined how much relief your loving hands could provide.

“All done,” you announce, running a hand through his clean, wet curls, glistening under the bathroom light. “Feeling better?”

“Good as new,” he confirms. For the most part, it’s true. You can’t take away his pain, but you can make it easier to forget about. And you’re really, really talented at that.

“Want to stay in the bath a little longer?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Water’s getting cold. And I want to cuddle you.”

“Okay, sweetheart.” You plant a kiss on his lips and grin at him. “C’mon. Let’s get you dry.”

Luigi stands up and you are quick to hand him a fluffy towel, giving him room to step out of the bath. He sweeps over his arms, legs, and torso and wraps it around his hips, sitting down onto the toilet seat as you come close to him with another clean towel.

The sound of the tub draining fills the room as you speak. “Let me know if I hurt you,” you urge him, and he nods.

And then you bring the towel up to his hair and ruffle it over his head, working it in your hands like you’re drying a wet dog. His giggles are muffled under cotton. Precious. You want to bottle them, wear them around your neck like a music box. After a while his curls begin to lose their moisture, so you throw the towel into the hamper and disappear quickly to grab some comfy clothes for him—but not without muttering a “be right back”, of course.

When you come back to the bathroom he’s looking at himself in the mirror, smiling like an idiot.

“What are you giggling about?” you ask, handing him his clothes—boxers and lounge shorts first, “You had me at Hello World” shirt next.

“My hair,” Luigi says, pointing at it simply, like the humor is right in front of you. “I look like Kramer.”

“That the one who dresses like a thrift shop?” you ask.

“Kramer?” He looks at you curiously, then shrugs. “I guess he dresses kinda weird. But he’s got crazy hair. Looks like he got struck by lightning.”

“I like your crazy hair,” you say, reaching up to thread your fingers through it. It’s still a little damp and leaves your hands feeling slimy. “You’re cute.”

He blushes, blooming mauve pink in his cheeks and his marked nose. One of your favorite views in the whole world. “Whatever. Let’s go to bed.”

You lead him to the bedroom by his hand, not even bothering to tidy up the bathroom—it can wait until tomorrow, because it always can. When the two of you are tucked away in your safe space you go to pull down the covers, gesturing toward the bed, and he follows your directions without question, laying down on his back.

And as you pull the sheets and the duvet on top of him, he asks, “are you tucking me in?”

Chuckling, you shush him. “I’m making you comfortable. Don’t be a grump.”

Once Luigi is settled in bed you shuffle around the room to get changed yourself (your shirt is quite damp by now), sneaking glances over your shoulder between each article of clothing you pull off and on; he’s already quite cozy, eyes shut, blanket rising and falling with the force of his breathing. When you’re finally in your pajamas you crawl into bed next to him, and he flips onto his other side to face you instinctively.

“Hi,” you smile, pulling him close to you under the covers.

He smiles back. “Hey.”

For a while the two of you bask in the silence—Luigi particularly enjoys the feeling of your hands in his hair, petting softly, the sound of your own breathing slowly lulling him deeper, deeper, deeper into sleep…

But before he’s out entirely, he speaks:

“Thank you for tonight.” He nuzzles into your warmth, presses his forehead against yours. “Thank you for caring so deeply. Not that you don’t always care, but tonight it felt especially strong for me.”

And, after a beat, he adds, “I really appreciate that you take time for me. I’m not used to that. I’m trying to handle it better, I guess.”

Your thumb traces his brow bone, strokes over his cheek and beside his eye. “I love you, Luigi. I love taking care of you.” You kiss him and conclude, “I hope you let me do it for as long as we live.”

A lazy smile spreads across his face. “Love you,” he murmurs, already closing his eyes again.

Your hands still brushing through his hair doesn’t help keep him awake much longer.

^ divider by cafekitsune

[finalgirlmorgue]

·:¨༺ ♱ HS! AU BATBOY HCS♱ ༻¨:·

𝜗𝜚 Genre: Fluff-ish 𝜗𝜚 Warnings: Obsessive Tim Drake brainrot 𝜗𝜚 Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake 𝜗𝜚 PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REQUESTS || Highschool au, the boys are 16-17 here or u can pretend its college idk Gender Neutral reader °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

DICK GRAYSON

Dick Grayson is a frat boy in training. He's showy in your attendance, loud and boisterous with his antics. Look at him! spare a little glance his way, and watch him chug two water bottles back to back… That's impressive, right? He craves you soon enough, he wants that dumb high school sweetheart love story, that 'what if' romance, one where they get married in secret because their parents don't approve of their relationship. With Bruce being inadvertent towards his emotional needs he seems to fantasize about being in your arms for a night.

His courting starts after he watches you at lunch. Picking out a snack from the vending machine. He jots this down mentally and stores the information for the next day. He thinks he's sly, sliding your favorite calorie intake across your desk. "One of these bars was stuck between the shelves and the glass, so I figured it was a sign to do a good deed today. I ended up knocking it down with the other one. Anyway, it's all yours." He says brightly as you smile and reach forward for the bar. It's a little crushed and… oddly sweaty.

Dick won't tell you that he paced around outside of the classroom in passing time, clutching the second chocolate bar he had purchased, and not luckily acquired from the vending machine. His friends may call him "Big Dick" but he is nervous as hell. So when you finally look up and thank him with another smile, he almost collapses with relief and takes off in a light jog to his seat. He's so focused on trying to breathe normally that he can't see the smirk you're wearing. You take a bite and hum approvingly before returning to the book open on your lap.

JASON TODD

Jason is like a stray cat. You don't know how to react initially because he's so abrasive. Contrary to popular belief, he is very kind. Alright, you can borrow his jacket to make your way across campus to your next class, but that's only because it's pouring rain. And he doesn't mind helping you with your books (or even giving you a ride home once.) So he… stays close by. He likes hanging out with you, but he wants you to want him to stay. The fact that you seem to appreciate both sides of Jason makes him hopeful. At least a little bit. If he didn't know better he'd say there's something more going on here than just a budding friendship. Or maybe you just find his company amusing? Regardless he's patient though, and he'll wait until you've made your move to make his.

He's content with life if you're around. You're easy on his eyes, soft and gentle with him when you need to be, and so extremely lucky that he let you in. It started with him avoiding you at all costs, he had probably shoulder-checked you once or twice in the hallways without saying a word. Just that stare with the thinly veiled hostility of a moody teenage boy, and now it has progressed to him following you to classes, his worry for you has him waiting outside your building to make sure you’re safe, watching you walk to your car.. It would have been so much easier if he'd tried a little harder to hate you, to loathe your presence in his existence, but he hasn't done either, he lets himself admire how stunning you are and wishes he could be more like you.

He wishes you two would've met as kids when things weren't so complicated. He was soft back then, and he wasn't nearly as cynical and hard as he is now. Maybe then he wouldn't have become the guy that he is today.

Despite everything maybe you could have fixed him.

TIM DRAKE

Tim may be a bit obsessive. He writes your initial and his own in pen, surrounded by crooked little hearts. He spends most of his classes looking at you, thinking about looking at you, making up scenarios he knows will never come true. He saw you spray some type of perfume or cologne on yourself after gym once. He spared no time looking for it, online, in stores, everywhere. By the end of the month he had it. It was a nice scent. It suited you. Yes, its creepy and weird, but he swears its innocent in nature.

His pillow is soaked with the sent.

He knows he's got it bad. But, how can he just… talk to you? He has a perfectly healthy parasocial relationship!

It's drizzling early in the morning. Since Tim shares his first period with you he catches a glance of you, hair lightly dampened, a few waves falling against your cheek. You catch his attention instantly and awkwardly wave at him. It startles him, and he quickly turns away, burying his face into his textbook. He pretends to read the chapter aloud to himself to avoid any further eye contact. Tim looks up at you through his lashes again. He silently tears a piece of paper from his notebook, scribbling something down. He then pretends to get up to blow his nose, silently slipping the paper on the corner of your desk. He walks past you without a word, and sits down with an audible sigh. Your name appears on the paper, accompanied by some sort of lopsided smiley face.

'You're pretty'