#and so so so many more those are just the ones i have in a pile on my floor waiting to be reread but for some reason i CANT im going INSANE

[kutepik]

Eyes on you

(nsfw 18+) Caleb has hidden cameras all over his house, and you've decided to put on a show for him.

2k words. posted also on ao3!

stalking, obsessive behavior, voyeurism, fem!reader.

Cameras. There were hidden cameras all over his house. There wasn't a bookcase or a mirror that didn’t have a little dot on it, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye. You only knew they were there by accident: when you took the elevator to Caleb's apartment, you bumped into an excited boy wearing a cap and uniform of a security company. 

"Are you Mr. Caleb's girlfriend? What a pleasure, I only saw you in pictures!" The boy waved, taking you by surprise. 

"No... I'm just a friend." You said a little confused, and the energetic boy explained himself.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I saw so many photos of Mr. Caleb with you the day I went to install those cameras that I thought you were dating. He also said he was installing the cameras to protect someone he liked." Cameras? What cameras? You thought, but before you could say anything, the elevator door opened and the boy jumped out. "Let me know if any of them stop working, I've installed so many I've almost lost count! Bye!" And so he disappeared down the hall.

Now you were in the living room, standing there in the middle, feeling the weight of your body and your movements, self-conscious about yourself and alert to the fact that you were being watched. Was he watching you? Now? Right now? That’s fucked up. Jail worthy. Caleb was obsessed with you and if your recent reunion hadn't already proved it, the dozen or hundreds of hidden cameras scattered around that room were proof that Caleb was sick. 

But we know the saying: When you point one finger, there are three fingers pointing back to you. More sickening than knowing that you were being watched, from every angle and probably in every room, was the fact that you were aroused. The spot between your legs throbbed, excited by the situation, by the fact that Caleb had probably seen you naked, had seen you sleeping, had seen you showering... It was so fucking wrong that, despite being against everything he had done in Skyhaven right after the reunion, you still delighted in remembering the possessiveness and obsession that melted at the words of your friend, oh, dear friend. 

In addition to the burning sensation between your legs, there was this tingle in your stomach at the thought of a man - not just any man, we're talking about Caleb - being so concerned, so devoted to you that he would kill and die for your happiness. In fact, a man who returned from the ashes and survived for you and you alone. He was no longer your sweet childhood friend... But that wasn't a bad thing. Now he became a man who had eyes (many, it seems, all over the house), only and exclusively for you. Caleb was crazy about you, and, oh shit, you loved it, which made you as crazy as he was. 

So you had two options: the first was to confront Caleb about why the fuck he had installed so many cameras in the apartment if the only person who spent time there apart from him was you; the second was to pretend you didn't know anything and carry on with your life as if everything was normal. 

You always chose the second option when it came to Caleb, ever since you were a teenager and in college. Whether it was sneaking around his room and finding your panties secretly hidden in the back of his closet, or listening to him masturbate while calling your name when he thought he was alone, you always pretended everything was normal. But ever since, and even more so now that you've found each other again, there was nothing normal about it, and no reason to carry on in the same way. After all, if he had changed, there was no reason for you to remain the same or pretend you didn't know anything. 

Then there was a third and new option: pretending not to know anything, but taking advantage of the situation to play with Caleb. Basically, make him taste his own medicine. If he wanted to see you, well, he would.

Pretending to be normal, you sat down on the sofa and took off your coat, throwing it on the coffee table. You took out your cell phone and called his number. 

"Is my favorite guest home yet?" Caleb answered in his usual animated voice. 

"Yeah. I'm bored. Still working? Is it break time?" You remembered that around this time he was most active on social media, so it should be the best time to put into action what you had in mind.

"Ah…You've always been very clever. Yes, I'm on break. I'll be home in two hours and we can do whatever you want. Don't get bored, you can turn on the TV or play a game on the console I have." Caleb was always like that, attentive to you, always wanting to please you. He wasn't much of a gamer, but because you liked games, he had bought a console with the excuse that he was getting interested in games. But now you weren't going to play with the console. You were going to play with something else. 

"Oh, no..." You put the phone on speaker and placed it on the arm of the sofa. You lifted your shirt and brought your fingers up to your bra, massaging your nipples. "I want to relax, not play." You said, holding your right breast while spreading your legs, slipping anxious fingers into your pants, brushing the fingertips against the wet panties. 

The call went silent. Bingo. He was indeed watching you, like the pervert he was. 

"Caleb?" You asked innocently, keeping your voice steady as you started moving your hand in circles, making it obvious what you were doing inside those tight pants. 

"A-ah, yes. Relax..." His breathing was heavy on the other end of the line, and suddenly you heard the sound of a zipper being opened. You had to stop yourself from moaning just then. He was starting to touch himself while watching you. "Why don't you, uh, take a shower in my bathroom?" His voice was a little choked. He was probably pumping himself slowly, staring at your live image through the screen in his office. Your pussy throbbed and suddenly your pants were too tight and too hot. You stopped stroking your own breasts and took both hands to the waistband of your trousers, sliding them down your legs. Then you took off your shirt, leaving only your panties and bra on. You positioned yourself again, this time with your legs spread wider and your heels resting on the table in front of the sofa. Your fingers returned to the soaked fabric of your panties, touching the sensitive clit through the wet cloth. 

"Yeah, I'll have a shower, I'm just finishing something up." With your middle finger, you moved your panties to one side to touch yourself directly. You bit your lip, holding back a moan, and squeezed your breast with your other hand. 

"Fuck..." he swore. 

"All right?" You replied innocently, holding back your unsteady voice as you carried on stimulating your clit at a steady pace. You wanted him to think you didn't know about the cameras, so you had to stay as normal as possible on the phone.

"Yup... I- I just hit my finger," he lied, slurring his words. 

"Caleb-" You said, catching your breath. "I miss you,"

"I miss you too." He sounded almost breathless. "I can come over now."

"No, you can't. There's work. Or is there something urgent you need to do here?" You quickly pulled down your panties, leaving them between your thighs. Then, out of the blue, you heard the unmistakable sound of a camera zooming in. He must have been eating you with his eyes, and now he wanted a closer look. You opened your folds, circling your fingers around the soaked entrance, like a pervert. You slowly moved the fingers up to your clit, stimulating yourself obscenely again. The other end of the line was completely silent, only a few low sounds and grunts were audible. "Caleb, is there something urgent you need to do here?" 

"Uh-" He stammered, and you raised your hips a little, grinding against your hand. "Fuck, fuck," he said. He didn't bother with sentences anymore. 

"What’s up with you? I'm feeling lonely and bored here. Can't you entertain me?" You teased innocently, but your legs were already shaking. 

"I can entertain you. Ah-" For a second, you heard the wet, rhythmic sound of his thrusts against his own hand. Oh my. Caleb had his pants down, sat somewhere in the FAA, and was touching himself like a teenager while he watched you. And you fucking loved it. "I can entertain you... I can be so, so good for you, if you let me." His voice was raspy and breathless. If you weren't so close to your orgasm, you might've asked him if everything was alright and put him in a tough spot again, but you couldn't even think about that. You were too caught up in your own pleasure. One hand was on your nipple under your bra, the other was all over your clit, and you arched your back on the sofa.

"I- I know you know how to entertain me. You're so good to me, always." You gasped, no longer caring that he was probably listening to the sound of your quick fingers against the wet flesh of your vagina. 

Suddenly, you heard a muffled cry on the other end of the line and several "Fuck, fuck, fuck" being whispered like a mantra at a low volume, as if he had his hand against his own mouth. He was coming. And that was all it took for the tingling at the base of your belly to explode and flow out of your pussy in an obscene and intense orgasm. 

You had just squirted all over the living room table and carpet, and had probably wet the sofa as well. The two of you were silent, only the audible gasp of your breaths as you caught your breath. 

"Caleb? Are you still there? It seems the connection was cut." You lied, still pretending you didn't know anything. He coughed and the sound of things being adjusted or stirred could be heard in the background. 

"Yeah, yeah… Probably disconnected or something." 

You got up and stood next to the sofa, looking at the mess you had left there. 

"Caleb I think I spilled...something on your sofa and carpet. Is there any cleaning cloth so I can clean it up?" You looked around. 

"NO!" Caleb almost shouted from the other side. "I mean, it's no problem, pipsqueak. You don't have to clean up. You must be tired from all this, right?" He cleared his throat. "From the trip, and everything. Just rest more, like I said, you can use my bathroom and take a shower if you want."

"Hm, where's that cleaning freak from before? Who are you and what have you done with my Caleb?" You heard a laugh on the other end of the line. 

"That's why. I'll take care of it. Please" The last word sounded as if he was begging. "I'll be home soon, and I'll be able to...entertain you, as you wish. We can, huh, relax together, too."

You laughed and picked up your cell phone, walking to the bathroom while dropping your bra in the hallway, knowing that he was watching here too. You picked up your wet panties and placed them on the bathroom door handle. In an instant, you could see a small dot hidden next to a painting, pointing directly at where you were standing. You stared directly at it, smiled and winked. 

"I'm waiting for you then, Caleb."

[yugsly]

I think you should do a little more research on the development of YIIK and it's developer :(

So here's the thing- YIIK and it's developers (just two brothers) have been the targets of nasty hate campaigns and misinformation since the launch of the original YIIK in 2019. Since the very beginning- it barely had a chance to live before people deeply mischaracterized things. People perpetuating rumors based on random things folks were saying on the internet, not fact checking anything. Can you imagine that? Working on a passion project for so long, only for people to dunk on it and lie? A game made by just two young people, trying to make art? A pretty substantial part of the targeted hate was because the game was calling out a certain type of guy -a privileged, entitled gamer drunk on nostalgia to put it the most simple- and so, people didn't like that the game was making them look in the mirror- many didn't even understand that. They didn't get it, so they attacked anything they could. A lot of the hate was spread by people who hadn't even played the game. They just took these posts and ran with them. They didn't bother to form their own opinions. A lot of the "rumors" are addressed in this interview. I recommend you read it! On the internet, it's incredibly easy to buy into misinformation for the sake of "justice". To feel like you're doing good for "warning others". But you really, really, have to take a second look at what you're spreading around, what you're repeating. At times it can be correct to spread warning, but other times can be extremely damaging and traumatizing. This is one of those cases. It's really really sad to be honest. Over the past couple of months I've gotten to know Andrew (one of the two devs), and he's great. I was genuinely so disgusted to hear what had taken place when they both put their game out there. It's sad and horrifying. In today's internet, dunking on things, calling them out, has become social currency in a way. I think we need to be really careful about that. It's up to us to stop misinformation. This is the last time I'm gonna comment on this 'controversy' I think.

[hannie-dul-set]

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — ONE.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this. 

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is. 

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 9k.

NOTE. my goal for this fic is to make as many male characters either detestable or unesttling, and make you like them against your will. in other words, meet mark and doyoung HAHAHAHAH. this is mostly still exposition!!! establishing facts and relationships and dynamics and whatnot. more jaemin next chapter. too much jaemin, even. anyway, enjoy! NEXT CHAPTER TO BE PUBLISHED.

IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR OFF DAY TODAY. You’re on sick leave— that is, sick and tired of drafting legal papers, meeting clients, reading piles and piles of documents every single damn week, so you decided to use your once-a-month get out of jail free card to stay in bed playing Stardew Valley. It’s pre-planned. You’ve already faked sneezes and coughing fits at the office yesterday. You’ve already called your Division Chief this morning. Kim Doyoung can’t do shit when you’re allegedly bedridden and downtrodden with a fever. He can eat his own ass and suck it.

“You have a new case,” he informs you over the phone. “It’s from Nalkkeutta.” 

Or so you thought.

“Hah,” a weak wheeze squirms out of your throat. “Sure. Okay. Got it.”

Motherfucking son of a bitch. Those two lines spring you out of bed immediately as though your bones have just been tased. God dammit. You’ve just managed to snag Sebastian into wedlock. How dare he throw another job at you right now? How dare he ruin your sweet, sweet honeymoon with the emotionally constipated 2D man of your dreams? 

Still. It doesn’t matter if you just got married or have a collapsing lung right now. You haul your ass, get dressed, get out, and get into your car to drive to your district’s police station in a hissy fit, as per your boss, Kim Doyoung’s, instructions. This damned firm is working you like a dog, but you can’t bite the hand that feeds you. And neither can Kim Doyoung.

“Yes, sir, I’m on my way. Are the files ready? Can you send them to me?”

This case came from Nalkkeutta. NCT. Nal. Day. Kkeut. End. Ta. To burn. The day ends in flames. It’s a name that haunts the streets of Yeongdeungpo. It’s a name that’s synonymous with loan sharking, weapons dealing, and coughing up protection fees unless you want to get your shit rocked on an unfortunate walk home— under the guise of an honest to goodness security company to service your protective needs. 

In the early 90’s, the government had a massive crackdown on gang activity and organized crime, subsequently snuffing out any emerging organized crime presence by officially criminalizing the mere act of joining a gang under the Revised Penal Code. But Nalkkeutta is relatively new. That scorching sunset symbol suddenly emerged in the district one day, around eight to nine years ago, and it’s marred the district of Yeongdeungpo with burn marks ever since.

And your life. You haven’t been lucky enough to be spared from that damned gang’s mess. In fact, you’re currently entangled with one of their messes right now.

The glass doors of the Yeongdeungpo Police Station shut behind you. You’re smacked hard in the face far too artificial lighting and sickly white walls and the words Patriotism, Justice, Honor mocking you in embossed silver. You grimace, cross your arms, divert your eyes with an impatient tap of the foot— and your arrival doesn’t exactly come unrecognized by the front desk and the others scattered around the lobby. One officer takes immediate initiative upon seeing your familiar sour expression, rustling out of a conversation to attend to you. 

“Hey, attorney. How may we help you?”

You eye the man. You’ve come to know him by name— Jung Jaehyun— even without needing to take a peek at his uniform’s name tag. You spare him and yourself the small talk and jump straight to business. “I’m here to see my client,” you inform, followed by under-the-breath swears as you fumble through your phone for the e-file Doyoung had just sent because Nalkkeutt had the gall to demand you to run and fetch the bone they left behind here without even giving you the chance to look at it. Seriously. If they want you to do a good job, they should be more punctual than this. “His name is—”

Huh. You read the top line of the document. A lump forms in your throat. You read it again. Once more. And the letters neither shift nor fold, confirming with absolute certainty that you read the name of your client correctly.

It’s a name you haven’t heard of in a while. It’s name that stalked the corridors of the place you’d bid good riddance to eight years ago with a spit on the concrete ground. 

“Na Jaemin.” There’s a bitter taste on your tongue when you pronounce his name— like your very digestive system can’t stomach it, rejects it, and wants to vomit it right back out. “His name is Na Jaemin.”

A nod from Jung Jaehyun. He turns his heels and leads you further into the station.

Empty footsteps echo against the slowly dimming hall leading to the private visiting rooms. The silence pricks at your memories— an uncomfortable sound you’ve grown accustomed to in the two years you’ve spent at Ganghak High School. It’s been eight damn years since you’ve graduated, yet one mention of a name reels you back into the past with a vividness that’s still as clear as the present.

In your memories, Na Jaemin was the guy who carried with him a pungent air of animosity and violence in his wake. On paper, he is your client, a member of the power-drunk gang that you’re tied by the noose with, and someone you have to defend. At present, he is sits right before you— tight-browed, tight-lipped underneath the singular light bulb hovering above the center of the table, looking as though he’s one clock tick away from flipping the table over (the only thing maintaining a safe distance between the both of you), and leaving on his own accord.

Your eyes meet. Your head snaps down to avoid his gaze.

“Good day, Na Jaemin-ssi,” you manage to choke out. “I will be your lawyer for the case against Yoon Naksung and company.”

You’re not sure how you feel when there isn’t even a click of recognition on his part when you introduce yourself and mention your name. You realize that what you’re feeling is a mixture of fear, relief, and absolute revulsion when he responds with, “So, when the fuck am I getting out?”

There’s a ring in your ears.

It’s the sound of your heart trying to escape from your chest.

You inhale sharply. Fuck. You’re not sure if you have the willpower to push through this, and you can’t even ease your nerves or melt your frozen bloodstream with a sigh because he’s staring right at you— impatient, as though he’s counting down the seconds in his head after a one-sided declaration that you have a limited time to willingly answer before he forces it out of you by the throat.

That fucking looking in his eyes. That damned stare that instinctively triggers you to look down, look away, look anywhere else but directly at him. It’s a habit that everyone in Ganghak used to have. It’s a habit that’s still deeply instilled in your psyche, in your muscles, in your instincts to the point that despite being the person in authority at the moment, you have your head down, throat dry, and doing your damn best to read his case file despite the letters looking all wobbly from your anxiety.

Disturbing the peace. Three counts of physical injury. Less serious. Thank fuck. That makes things a little bit more hopeful, but that doesn’t mean you’re free from hell. Hell is sitting right in front of you, handcuffed because the cops have deemed his very existence a threat to public order and safety. You muster up a bit more confidence knowing he can’t reach over the table to sock you in the face.

“You’re an alleged offender, Na Jaemin-ssi. You’d have to be detained until the trial.”

Na Jaemin sneers, a kick against the table leg with a grunt. “Fucking useless,” he spits. His chair is tipped back, head turned away. You firmly press your lips together. You wish he’d just completely tip over and crash his skull and die.

For someone currently detained for a possible criminal offense, Na Jaemin sure seems very much unbothered yet annoyed at the same time. He sits relaxed on the foldable chair, shoulders slumped as if he owns the place, and he stifles out a lazy yawn— drawing attention to his busted lips and handful of scratches littered all over his cheekbone, temple, and forehead— a stark contrast to the vibrant purple splotch painting over his right jaw. You make a mental note to schedule a physical examination on his ass to record his injuries. 

“But…I can make sure you don’t get arrested” You proceed with caution. His evident annoyance is flecked with momentary interest. You suck in a deep breath. “Were there any other people involved besides you and the three witnesses? Was anyone else there?”

You’re not sure what you were expecting as a response. Whatever it’d be, you just hope you get some useful information. Any sort of information. However, it seems like you just asked the wrong question.

“The fuck? Hell, if I know.”

All that interest is eradicated by a sharp glare. Na Jaemin lets out a huff and a sneer. You’re stressed. You’re beyond stressed. This is impossible. Of all people, why did it have to be him? Back then, you’d always had a feeling that he was part of something sketchy, whether it be some ragtag juvenile group or whatever the fuck. You didn’t care enough to find out. But, christ jesus, he just had to be in fucking Nalkkeut. 

That sun tattoo sprawled on the back of his impatient hand— the gang’s symbol, sun rays etched into the bumps of his veins and calloused skin— tap, tap, tapping on the table with the clunk of his handcuffs tells you that he isn’t just some disposable grunt either. The urgency in Kim Doyoung’s tone when he called earlier confirms that dreadful conjecture as well. He’s up there. Way up there, and you have no choice but to fight back the urge to swallow your own tongue.

“I—I understand. That’s fine. Then…can I ask what events led to the incident?” you tentatively try to prod, taking a peek at his expression to see if you’re greenlit to ask this. His face brightens up. One corner of his mouth twitches upward, revealing a sliver of teeth. You flinch. He looks deranged.

“That bucket wearing dumbass looked me in the eye,” he starts, smiling. “So I punched him right in the socket. Then his friends decided that they wanted a beating too.” 

Na Jaemin is leaning back on the flimsy plastic chair as if he’s reminiscing a happy memory. Jesus christ. He’s always been like this, but it never fails to scare you shitless. You’ve always wondered why he was so insane, but the fact that he currently is and has been in Nalkeutta explains a lot of the things you’ve seen in high school. No high schooler had any business pulling up the gate with a BMW, nor was it reasonable for anyone at your age at the time to afford at least five Cartier watches considering the neighborhood you were in. Yet Na Jaemin and his lackey’s always showed up in the days that he thought was convenient in some sort of Chanel tracksuit and dozens of gold and silver accessories.

You were lucky enough to have never gotten punched in the nose with the absurd amount of rings on his fingers— a taste which he seems to carry until today, you notice while keeping your eyes down and trained on the table. They aren’t allowed to keep any personal belongings in the holding cells, jewelry included, fucking obviously. How this guy managed to keep his is beyond your imagination. 

“So, it wasn’t one-sided,” you try to confirm, try to get a good enough testimony to help his and your sorry ass in court. “Can you testify their participation during the trial?”

Wrong move. Very wrong move.

You jump in your seat when he suddenly lurches forward, chained palms slamming against the rocky table with a loud thump and a clink. “Hey, Little Miss Attorney. Listen very carefully,” he rasps. He’s leaned in closer now, making it a hundred times more difficult to keep your head down and not look him in the eye. “I beat all three of them half to death, and that’s all that matters. This question and answer bullshit is pissing me off. Are we done here? Can you fucking leave now?”

You’re scared shitless. You really are. It’s two years worth of trauma suddenly jumping you from behind a wall and throttling the air out of your lungs— of course you’re fucking terrified, and Na Jaemin can smell it like the rabid dog he is.

The problem is, he isn’t the worst of your fears. This mutt is leashed to an owner that would have your head as a dinner treat if you don’t manage to get him out of this stupid cage. So you don’t have much of a choice in the matter. Damned to hell if you do, damned to an even deeper hell if you don’t.

“Na Jaemin-ssi,” you start. Your jaw is tight. It takes everything in your power to force it open and speak. “I need you to cooperate with me so I can get you out of here. Help me help you, alright?”

You’ve really been trying your best to phrase your sentences in a way that doesn’t sound demanding, that you’re leaving it hp to him because you know this bastard doesn’t like being told what to do. But your careful attempts don’t matter against a volatile son of a bitch. “Why’d you even need my help? Ain’t that shit your job?“ he barbs, a slight scoff hanging off at the end. “Seems like Mark hired a useless fucking lawyer.”

Twice. He just called you useless twice. The sheer level of offense you feel momentarily overpowers your nerves— a biting tick near the side of your temple, and you dig your fingers into the clothed skin of your thigh. 

The Mark he’s referencing did not hire you because you’re useless. In fact, that guy regularly asks for you specifically whenever his gang is caught in any civil or criminal trouble because you’re the only damned attorney willing to get her hands dirty to find an out— and competent enough to pull it off in exchange for an extra zero on your commission. 

Meaning, this bastard is at your mercy. And he has the audacity to piss you the fuck off.

“Strike a nerve?”

Apparently, you failed to hide the scowl polluting your expression. When you sneak a glance at Na Jaemin, he appears to be amused at his successful non-attempt to get under your skin, a lazy, lopsided grin on his face. 

You get it together. Mark Lee, that fucking bastard. It had been fine for the past few months when all you’ve had to mediate were petty settlements and bails and lesser criminal offenses, but you’ve never had to deal with one of his executives directly before— who just so happened to be your high school bully, at that. You close your eyes shut, press your lips together, and release a deep breath from out of your nose as you stand up.

“I’ll handle it. There’s nothing for you to worry about, but I will need to arrange a meeting with you again before the trial.”

Na Jaemin simply shrugs and waives you off. Your tight lips force themselves into a smile as you nod and stomp your way out.

Fucking bastard, fucking piece of shit, fucking, god damn it—

You leave the station with a jumbled up head and with all your five senses screaming themselves into oblivion. Shit. Fuck. What the fuck. Had Kim Doyoing emailed you the file a lot earlier, you wouldn’t have gone here and welcomed yourself directly into hell. You could try to settle with the victims, but in case they won’t agree to a compromise, you’d have to pull a defense out of your ass considering that your client is the most uncooperative asshole you’ve ever been cursed to deal with.

It doesn’t help that spending two years in high school with Na Jaemin is reopening pages and pages of trauma that you thought you’d successfully managed to file away— stored in a safety vault in a little corner of your head that need not be reopened. But just meeting him— talking to him directly when you’ve never even dared to before— brought a rusty crowbar to that vault, mercilessly ripping it apart.

Having cancelled your off day, the car ride to your office building is spent thinking about how to scrape up a case to defend the bastard you thought you’d finally been freed from eight years ago. The bastard who’d made the last two years of high school a literal level hell of dread and desperation.

Even for Nalkkeutta, this has got to be the worst kind of torture anyone could ask for.

*‎

The next morning, Nalkkeutta’s boss is gracious enough to answer your request for a meeting. 

Mark Lee shows up to the conference room of JSS’s Criminal Division, accompanied by a polite knock on the already open door, a humming smile, and a Kim Doyoung— who you very clearly don’t remember inviting to this meeting. Mark enters the room with a good morning. You nod and your eyes skip over him, flitting over to meet your boss’s gaze by the door instead. “You must be very busy, sir. What are you doing here?”

The wrinkle that forms between Doyoung’s eyebrows signifies that he very much understood your polite version of a fuck off. “I just wanted to escort our client,” he replies, adjusting his glasses. 

You smile at him. “The escorting usually ends when the client has arrived at their destination.” 

Doyoung’s jaw stiffens. Mark seems to be sufficiently entertained by the exchange, attention hopping back and forth between you and your boss. The latter surrenders and ends the episode with a sigh and a nod, completely glossing over you to speak to Mark instead. “Mr. Lee, please let me know if you need anything.”

You hear Mark respond in a pleasant tone, “Don’t worry, I know I’m in good hands,” but you don’t look at him yet. You force the gravity of your gaze onto Doyoung— an unwavering smile that creeps him out just enough to finally give up and leave the room, shutting the door behind him with a click, and finally allowing you to relax your shoulders and sink into the glossy, wooden table.

“Ugh.”

Stuck-up prick. The bane of your fucking existence, had it not been for the reappearance of Na Jaemin, the other capricious asshole in your life. Your head cocks up, hearing the scratching noise of a chair being pulled out. Mark sits right in front of you, maintaining a smile. “Bad morning?” And you finally speak your first words to him, in the form of a raging rant about his hot mess of an executive.

“Hey, be honest, do you want me fired? Do you want me to make my first ever loss? Your employee, Na Jaemin, told me he got into this mess because Yoon Naksung and his friends were looking at him for too long. Does that make sense to you? Is that how a sane man operates? How the hell am I supposed to defend that in court? How the hell am I supposed to defend his ass when he gives me fucking nothing to work with, and all while having the balls to call me useless?”

You’re out of breath by the end of it. Whew. That felt so freaking good. 

“Sorry.” You eject yourself out of your tantrum upon hearing Mark’s not-so-apologetic apology. You leer at him from across the table, watching the stillness of his apparent pleasant expression. “Jaemin can be kind of rude sometimes.”

This guy is Nalkkeutta’s boss, you remind yourself. He’s the source of your fattened up bank account and worsened sense of justice and morality for the past five months—

“Rude is an understatement. He’s a fucking piece of shit.”

—and he’s also somewhat your friend.

“I’ve never seen you this angry.” Mark laughs, relaxing into his seat. “Was he that bad?”

Nalkeutta and JSS Law firm’s partnership has existed prior to your employment here. However, you’ve know Nalkkeutta’s boss even before you’ve entered law school, much less started working here. Kim Doyoung doesn’t know this, obviously. Their background check on you did not go as far as finding out your regular patrons throughout the four years you spent working at a run-down cafe-bar downtown throughout the entirety of your undergrad.

The cafe’s name was The Hangman. Pirate-themed, which was used as a frequent justification by your boss to never fix the broken chair legs, unkempt storage boxes, and occasional leaky ceilings. They add to the aesthetic, he says. 

Anyhow, it was then that you first met Mark Lee, around three weeks into your first shift. He’d usually come in at around 10 p.m., order an old fashioned at the counter, flash you a pretty and boyish smile, then quietly read on the same spot until one in the morning before thanking you and leaving. Each time, you clock the hardbound cover titles. The Laws of Human Nature. Man’s Search for Meaning. Leviathan. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man. 

Frankly, the crap he regularly reads worked better to make him look more daunting than his overall appearance. Mark Lee wore the visage of a cute, college literature major— covered in knit beanies and warm cardigans and all— but carried books and ordered drinks that made him seem like he was fifty-seven years old. The only time you found an opening was the time he finally brought a long something other than self-help or pretentious nonfiction. Kafka on the Shore. “I didn’t peg you as a Murakami guy.” 

Mark Lee was taken aback when you first talked to him. He asked what made you say that. 

You referenced the previous books he’d been carrying along. He blinked, laughed, then said that he actually preferred reading fiction. He’d only been reading all that obnoxious bullshit (your words) because he was fascinated with the mental gymnastics (his words) some people were capable of, and he was just compelled to read more. You’re still not sure how much of that defense was true, but that doesn’t really matter because your conversations gradually strayed away from books to your daily life instead— your classes and readings and the annoying customers you’d regularly had to deal with at work. It’s mostly you doing the talking, and it’s mostly because you otherwise had no one else to talk to to kill time during your night shifts at The Hangman.

“Was he that bad?” you parrot, sarcastically. “He said that you did a shit job picking a lawyer. You tell me, Mark Lee. Do you think your executive is a stellar guy?”

Mark only laughs. You grunt and slump in your seat, arms crossed as you observe Mark’s expression from across the table. It seems like he doesn’t mind you talking shit about his people this much. His lips are pressed in a perpetual, easygoing smile as he eyes the set of folders and documents on your side. You bite the inside of your cheek. From his appearance alone, you wouldn’t have guessed him to be the head of the most notorious gang in the underbelly of Yeongdeungpo. In fact, you would never have guessed it if you didn’t take an extra shift one day at The Hangman. 

You ended up staying later than your usual 2 a.m. to cover for a co-worker. It was a weekend, so you didn’t mind much. Mark Lee hadn’t shown up that night. That is until you saw him come in at the store thirty minutes after two— deviating from his usual routine in more ways than one when he didn’t stop to order a drink, when he was with someone else who you were frankly too intimidated to look at for too long. When he went in and up the staircase at the back of the bar that was otherwise off limits because it led to your boss’s office in the upper area— and none of your supervisors came to stop him nor even attempt to look at him when he came back out with his big, scary companion walking three steps behind him while carrying a large and heavy looking black bag.

This happened a few more times. And Mark Lee would always smile at you when he’d pass by the bar counter. That’s when you knew something was up. But you knew better than to dig your nose into that kind of business. 

Unfortunately, you didn’t have the ability to see the future back then.

You look at the guy sitting in front of you right now. Mark Lee’s eyes flit up from your documents to look at you again, hands clasped together and resting gingerly on the conference table. “I’d sincerely like to apologize on his behalf,” he starts. You feel a thump in your chest.  “But I hope his uncooperativeness isn’t making it impossible for you to win the case, attorney.”

Yup. That was a threat. Get my errand dog out of jail— even if he bites you in the process, is what he’s trying to say. Mark Lee may have been your bar regular and friend at some point, but right now he is your client— the most important client your firm has ever had the pleasure of receiving. He is not your friend right now. He is your high school bully’s boss. He is the head of the biggest organized crime group in the district. And your law firm is just one of the many cogs running his criminal machinery. One slip up, and he could just wrench you out without a second thought.

“Of course it’s not impossible. What do you think of me?”

You slide the first file you have down the table. Even if Na Jaemin is fucking useless, you’re not letting him ruin your flawless performance record. You’re not letting him give Mark Lee a reason to throw you away.

“What’s this?”

“The witness list. Yoon Naksung, Hong Hyunjae, and Ma Gildong,” you start. “Your dog fucked them up really badly. I already met their lawyer. He was being dodgy about it, but I doubt they’d let him off with a simple settlement.”

A glint flickers in Mark Lee’s eyes are your introduction.

“I already have another meeting scheduled with him this week. I’d like to talk to the three victims personally, but you know I’m not allowed to do that.”

He hums, glossing over your file before setting it back down on the table, fingers pressed firmly on the page as he looks up with a pleasant smile. “When should I take care of them?”

A shiver crawls down your spine. “I’ll let you know depending on how the second meeting goes,” you answer. “Even if the three of them testify, there won’t be enough evidence to prove his guilt beyond reasonable doubt based on what the prosecution has so far. I don’t know why the fuck their counsel is even bothering with this. Na Jaemin would effectively be acquitted from his criminal charges.”

Your client appears to be satisfied, but you’re not done yet.

“However, that won’t absolve him from civil liability.”

No way in hell.

“Yoon Naksung’s party can still sue for damages. And they have enough evidence to guarantee a win. Na Jaemin would be fined at most, and I’m sure it’d be very easy for you to cough up a couple thousand for him. But that’s still a loss for me. And I can’t have that stain on my record.”

Your brows wrinkle. You release a breath.

“Talk to Yoon Naksung. Or Hong Hyunjae. or Ma Gildong, or whatever. It doesn’t matter. It might be hard to get through Yoon since he’s the one fighting the most for this, but the other two would be pretty easy. I hear Ma Gildong’s business isn’t in good shape lately. The address is on the file.” You rise up, leaning forward to reach an arm over. You drop an index finger on the exact spot on the document you were referencing, landing a firm thump on the table. “If the court hears that all of them were all equally beating the shit out of each other in a drunken episode, not remembering who started what, instead of it being a one-sided beating from your exec just because they looked at him wrong—”

Your eyes flit up. You meet Mark’s gaze— unblinking and dilated. You clear your throat and look away.

“Then—then, their case won’t be merited. The court would dismiss it in pari delicto.”

Mark Lee seems pretty fucking happy to hear that. He’s all smiles and applause and it stresses you the fuck out. “I knew I could count on you, attorney.”

You sigh, slumping back down in your seat. “I already have Na Jaemin’s medical report. If you could get at least two of the witnesses to cooperate, that would be great.” Mark responds with a nod and a hum. You sigh again. “We have so many competent lawyers here. Why do you keep specifically asking for me? Next time, go ask Doyoung, or something. I’m tired.” You’d give up this illegal but lucrative money machine just to see Kim Doyoung experience the life-or-death stress you’ve been experiencing these past five months. You really would.

“Because you’re good,” he responds lightly— genuinely. A little too genuine for your liking. Mark shoots you a smile as he tucks his abandoned seat back under the conference table. Uh oh. Here he goes again. “How about officially joining Nalkkeutta as the head of our legal department?”

“Hah,” you snort. “My hands may have gotten dirty, but I can still wash them, Mark Lee.” The look on his face tells you that he isn’t taking you seriously. You leer your eyes. You’re serious. You don’t intend on being Nalkkeut’s clean-up dog forever. Five months ago, you just happened to have shit luck with the desperation to match. Both bad luck and desperation are bound to run out at some point. You just hope they manage to burn out before this guy could burn you alive. “I’ll get back to you once I’ve met with their lawyer again. For the meantime, just keep an eye on the witnesses. Let me know if you find anything of importance.”

His eyes linger on you for a while, still smiling. You know where his head is at. Your grimace— even harder when he asks again to confirm, “So, is that a no?”

“Hell no.”

Mark clicks his tongue. “Worth a shot.” At this point, he’s already halfway out of the conference. “See you again, attorney,” he bids farewell

“God, please, no,” you respond with a grunt. He laughs. The door clicks shut. You groan and become one with the almond table.

How many times has he tried to recruit you already? You’ve lost count. You’re already being regularly run through the wringer at JSS, how much more under Nalkkeut? Jesus, you don’t even want to entertain the thought. So, you busy your head with your  current main stressor: the Na Jaemin case. You force your face off the table with a grunt and pull out your ipad to double check the trial schedule. Two weeks from now. Thursday. Fuck all. How did you end up here?

In retrospect, maybe it was actually all your fault. Three months ago— two months into working at JSS Law Firm— you decided that you were sick and tired of being trapped in Kim Doyoung’s legal counsel team as an associate, without being granted any personal recognition or accolades. You wanted to prove your worth. You wanted to get your credit. This time, you’re going to get  your first fucking big girl case. Even if it meant discourteously bulldozing into Kim Doyoung’s office like a chihuahua looking for a fight.

Which you did, only to be shell-shocked and surprised to see the face of your old bar counter friend— who might also be a gang leader— in the middle of a very…confidential conversation with your supervisor.

“Attorney, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Too late. You’ve already overheard their conversation. They were discussing a case much like your current one— one of Mark Lee’s executives got caught in the middle of an illegal firearms deal, and Doyoung was having trouble looking for a lawyer stupid enough to take the case. 

He shooed you out, but you stayed. You simply had no choice. You had to bite the bullet. This was a spring-loaded opportunity, and you didn’t intend on feeling from it.

“I’ll do it. I can handle it.”

You did get your big girl case, alright. You won. But you also had to book a full body spa session after your first time shaking hands with a criminal— just to feel somewhat cleaner. Obviously, you’ve become a lot more jaded now. Your boss has decided to dump all of Nalkkeuta’s major cases onto your desk since then, and Mark Lee has been trying to poach you ever since.

JSS. Jinsilseong. Integrity. What a load of bullshit. Where’s the integrity in working as criminal clean up dogs? There’s neither integrity nor justice here. Yet you’re able to afford a decent apartment because of that tarnished integrity. Dirty money. You make yourself sick, but drive home and back to work again for the next few days with the car that money bought you, because there’s no way in hell integrity can give you a comfortable life.

*‎

“How’s your Nalkkeuta case going?”

Kim Jungwoo comes over to greet you at the division breakroom while you’re in the middle of making yourself a cup of instant coffee after three fucking hours of being hunched over your cubicle the whole day. You jolt upon hearing his voice, flitting your head over to the direction of his voice, and you’re greeted by a face that clearly has gotten his eight hours in.

Unlike you. Jungwoo and you joined the firm at about the same time, yet somehow you look as though you’ve been trapped here for a good ten decades. He bats his eyes at you with a pretty boy smile while waiting for your response. You grunt. 

“Dreadful. Horrible. Do you want to take it from me and liberate me from this misery?”

The laugh he gives you in response probably means a no. You click your tongue, grunting as you set aside to give him space on the counter. “Is it that bad?” he asks, rustling through the cabinets for a coffee stick somewhere. Kim Doyoung should restock and feed his poor laborers better.

“Yoon’s party won’t settle. They’re dead set on pursuing a cIass action.” Jungwoo manages to fish one stick out. “Not to mention my own fucking client refused my visit. I miss the days where all I had to do was summarize court transcripts and deliver correspondences for Doyoung. You never really know what you’re missing until you lose it.”

That was a lie, but you’re miserable. You were able to meet all three of the witnesses last week, in the presence of their lawyer, obviously and unfortunately. Yoon Naksung seems to be their leader, because the moment you uttered the words ‘settlement’ and ‘compromise,’ he nearly jumped off his seat to full-on throttle you. You’d ask why the hell he’s so hostile, but you read their written testimony on the day of the incident. He recounted all the heinous crap Na Jaemin spewed out while he beat the shit out of them. Things you’d rather not repeat out loud. The other two witnesses didn’t seem as passionate as Naksung, like they just wanted it to be over with and forget how much Na Jaemin humiliated their asses by wiping their faces on the ground and proceeding to call them a bunch of bitch babies.

Anyhow, you have your last attempt of negotiation this afternoon with their lawyer. Honestly, it doesn’t even matter at this point. You just want to let the court know that you’ve done your due diligence of attempting to reach an amicable settlement. You’ve got other cards up your sleeve— you’ve always had.

Which is why Kim Doyoung doesn’t buy your whining and complaining when overhears it in the breakroom.

“Get a grip.”

You flinch. Doyoung makes an appearance by shoveling in between you and Jungwoo to the coffee storage. You two step aside. He releases a silent swear upon realizing there’s no more instant coffee left. So, he decides to release his pissy attitude onto the innocent cupboard door by slamming it shut with a loud bam!

You and Jungwoo look at each other. Bad executive meeting. Very bad, you two mentally agree, sharing a look and a nod. JSS has been dealing with negative press lately. Director must have dumped the burden of fixing it onto him. Poor guy. He deserves it.

Doyoung manages to compose himself in a matter of seconds. He inhales, chest rising, then adjusts his crooked glasses with a huff from lips, finishing it up by giving you a lowered stare. “I’m not really worried about your performance,” he carefully pronounces. “Nalkkeut always asks for you for a reason. Mark Lee gets along well with you, too. So, quit being dramatic.”

He gets along with you because you both like Haruki Murakami, never dug your nose into his business, and always cleaned up his messes. You doubt you’d get the same grace if you fucked this one up, especially considering it concerns one of his executives. Sure, you’ve managed to weasel your way out of your previous cases without much trouble besides your inherent workload. The problem this time is your client.

Ugh. Na Jaemin. That bastard. How dare he decline your visitation request when his freedom is on the line here? You need to brief him for the trial, make sure he doesn’t do anything fucking stupid that would jeopardize your case and fuck not only himself, but you over as well. His freedom isn’t the only thing on the line. Your record is. Your freaking license is. As much as you really don’t want to see his face again, you have to. And the only comfort you can find at the prospect of meeting him again is the very clear evidence that he does not remember you— whereas your bones are already shaking at the mere thought of having to face him again.

It sucks. This sucks. But even if it does, you force yourself out of the office later in the afternoon to meet the witnesses’ lawyer at a cafe downtown. 

His name is Jung Sungchan from the District Prosecutor’s Office. He’s baby-faced. He still has the light in his eyes. You’ve never even heard of him before this case. Meaning, he’s far too irrelevant to have the gall to strut into the cafe, say his piece, then leave without even buying a freaking coffee.

“See you in court, attorney.”

Of course this meeting ends the same way as your other meetings have had: no settlement, no compromise, no nothing. You release a scoff once he sees himself out with a cocky ass grin and a pep in his step. Hah. Fucker thinks he’s winning. This bitch is a toddler in the field compared to you. You’re gonna show him just how ruthless the law could be in the hands of someone that could bend it. He has no idea what’s coming for him.

You pull out your phone. You text Mark a go signal. [Give me an update tonight]. You stare at your string of texts you’d just sent, squint, contemplate for a second, then bring up your phone to your face. [Also, please send a message to your locked up exec that I really have to meet him soon. Tell him to stop rejecting my visitation requests. Please. For the love of god]. You hit send again. You exhale. That does it. You fix up your things and prepare to start leaving.

While you make your way to the cafe’s exit, you unfortunately overhear a conversation. Not that you’d even tried to overhear. There are two girls sitting next to the counter— one with straight black hair and blunt bangs, the other one with a very bad bleach job— and they’re both just talking really, really loudly. 

“That’s what you get for fucking my man, you tramp,” sneers the fake blonde.

“I’m telling you, I really didn’t know he was taken!” straight hair screeches back.

Oh, fuck. You didn’t want to hear this drama. You try your best to maneuver past them quickly, quietly, but you end up hearing more information as you walk by. “I already broke it off and apologized! Please just take down the post already—”

“There’s no way you didn’t know, and there’s no way in hell I’m taking your disgusting texts down. All your friends and family deserve to know how much of a dirty, manipulative skank you are. So that they’d know to keep their boyfriends away from you!”

“Look, I’d get down on my knees to apologize, but you posted not only my private texts, but my fucking nudes were in them, you bitch! I’m not fucking proud of hooking up with a man I didn’t know was taken, but you’re going too far! I—I could sue you for this!”

“Hah! As if! If anyone, I’m the victim in this situation! Not you! You’re the affair partner who seduced my man!”

Goddammit. You jerk back after a sudden stop six feet away from the exit. You shit your eyes, mutter a silent breath as you continue to listen to the high-strung argument behind you. Normally, you’re not one to butt into these things. It’s none of your business, and quite frankly, you could give less of a fuck. But maybe it’s because you’ve yet again been subject to do something that desecrates the very principles of your occupation— the very notions of what is just and lawful and good— that you find yourself spinning your heels and stomping back into the opposite direction before you could even reconsider.

“Excuse me. I apologize for interrupting without consent, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

You just want to balance out the scales of your negative karma— even by just a little bit. You’re doing this for no one’s good but your own. The two girls snap their heads at you, one visibly more annoyed than the other. You gloss over it.

“The right to privacy of communication is heavily protected by our laws and Constitution,” you begin. Blondie furrows her brows at you, a loading symbol practically spinning above her head. Straight hair looks at you, confused. You keep a straight face, digging into your bag. “Prying into the privacy of another’s conversation is a civil offense and a cause of action for damages. That’s one thing. Posting someone else’s sensitive and explicit conversations is another story.”

You pull out a card. “Who the hell are you? Why the hell are you butting in?” she snaps, the sound of her chair scratching the ground as she stands up in a huff to level you. You set your business card down onto the table, the words ATTORNEY AT LAW, all caps, facing right side up. 

Blondie’s eyes look down. Her face pales. Then she looks up to meet yours. You almost snort.

“It is a criminal offense punishable by three to seven years imprisonment, or a fine not exceeding twelve million won. Or both.” You could very well be jumping the wrong ship here, but you got a fair sense that Blunt Bangs was telling the truth from how desperate she looks, and that Fake Blonde is simply high on a vengeful power trip over the wrong person. “And, considering the fact that you publicized it online through a post, if I heard correctly, it would also be considered a cybercrime. Meaning, you could be charged for both.”

You didn’t think she could get any paler. You’re proven wrong.

“Wow. That’s an impressive feat considering you had no idea you were committing those crimes. Amazing.”

It doesn’t take much longer for her to sputter out something incoherent and stomp out in a panicked frenzy while mashing something onto her phone, most likely trying to delete the post. Sometimes witnessing firsthand the dredges of humanity gives you a little bit of comfort that you’re not the shittiest person in the world. You release a breath, readying yourself to leave once more, only to be stopped by a quiet excuse me from the same table.

You look down. You’re met by the way too happy smile of Blunt Bangs. She looks cheerful. Oh, god. You’re not used to this kind of positivity. You feel a shudder down your spine and force down a lump in your throat.

“Hi,” she starts. “Thanks for helping me. Jeez. What a psycho.”

The girl asks if she can buy you a drink as a thank you. You have not known kindness ever since you started working at JSS, and, by proxy, Nalkkeutta, so you were possessed with the inclination to say yes even though you’ve just had an americano with three shots. You settle with a warm jasmine tea to spare your stomach lining. The girl introduces herself as Natty, and starts giving you an unsolicited rundown of how Fake Blonde just suddenly started sending her swears and death threats the other day alongside the revelation that she was apparently her fling’s girlfriend.

She came here all the way from Mapo just to apologize again and beg her to take down the post. And then you witnessed how that went down. “I really had no idea,” she huffs in complaint for the nth time. You take a sip from your half-empty cup, glancing at the time. It’s 4 p.m. Sweet. Doyoung still thinks you’re having the meeting right now. One more hour before you have to clock out. You decide to pay a bit more attention to Natty as a thank you for allowing you to slack off on the job. “Oh, by the way. Can I ask something?”

You set down the cup on the saucer. “Sure.”

“Did you maybe go to Ganghak High School? Around eight to nine years ago?” 

And then you nearly choke on your own fucking spit. What the hell? You stare at her, wide-eyed in both surprise and innate fear. “Why...why do you ask?” Natty takes that a yes and immediately lets out a squeal, followed by the squeal of your name, followed by a very slow process of recollection on your part of a girl with similar blunt bangs in your repressed high school memories— then it clicks.

“I recognized your name on your business card, but wasn’t sure if you were the same person! Whoa! You’re a lawyer now! That’s amazing!”

Blunt bangs. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Pretty smile. You remember being classmates with a girl with that same description. You think they both have the same name. You don’t get the chance to second guess yourself because she starts talking about more people you vaguely remember in Ganghak— the class president who’s apparently on his third try at taking the Civil Service Exam, that one couple who apparently recently got married just two months ago in Jeju, that one kid who had once gotten his head dunked into the trash can on the first day of senior year because he came in without knowing the rules of the school.

He didn’t know who ran it. You did. Natty did. And that confirms the fact that you two had indeed been in the same hell once. 

“Hey, do you have any idea what happened to Na Jaemin? I haven’t heard a single thing about him since we graduated and I moved towns.” 

You look at her, a stiff smile on your face. She was your classmate. She was his classmate. If she can remember all those other people and what their roles were back in Ganghak, she’d very clearly remember yours as well. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard about him either.”

Natty gets the realization and immediately flinches out an apology. “O—oh, haha. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring him up.”

“No, it’s alright,” you hum, smile softening. “I haven’t heard of him, either.” 

Christ. This man really haunts you everywhere you go. Natty is great at conversation, and manages to smooth over that one bump as quickly as she can and proceeds to ask about any new hot places at Yeongdeungpo, ask about your job, you asking about what she’s up to in turn under it hits five in the afternoon and you have to return to the firm to clock out.

The both of you exchange numbers. You look at Natty’s saved contact on your phone with conflicted feelings.

Now that you’ve managed to slot the memories into place, you do in fact remember her. She was your classmate throughout the two short years you spent at Ganghak. On your first day, she was the first person who’d come up to talk to you— the only time she’d ever talked to you and vice versa. It took nine years for the both of you to have a conversation again. And there’s really only one person to blame.

*‎

(“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—!”

It’s Monday. You race down the now emptied hallways, eyes quickly scanning each door label that you zoom past in the off chance that you got carried away running and missed your room. To think this is how your year starts. You were looking forward to using the opportunity before homeroom to introduce yourself and make some new friends, but no— you just had to doze off because you spent the entire yesterday unpacking. 

It’s a new neighborhood, new school. You’ve heard that most of Ganghak High School’s students came from Ganghak Middle, meaning almost everyone already knows each other here. They’ve already formed their respective cliques and cohorts and groups. You’re currently an outsider, and you need to put in the effort to change that. You need to make a good impression to get some god damned friends and not spend the rest of your two years here as a loner.

Which is why you feel a splashing wave of relief drenching your bones the moment you make it to your assigned class for the rest of the year— slamming a palm against the door, just in time for the bell to ring.

“Whoo! Safe!” 

At least fifteen sets of eyes immediately zero in on you. You stand there by the door. You smile and nod.

“Hi, good morning.”

No one responds. They all look at you— some stares lingering longer than the others— but they all eventually divert their eyes before five seconds, releasing what you could only assume were sighs of relief, and then proceed to drown the classroom in a silence that’s so, so unnatural for a large group of fifteen to sixteen year olds. 

That should have been your first sign that this school was far from normal.

What a great start, you mentally huff, scanning the classroom the seat you’ll be stuck with for the next two years, and you eventually clock a pair of empty desks in the middle of the back row. You walk over to the available seat, waiting to see if anyone calls out saying it’s theirs, and after a few moments of no objections, you sit yourself down on the wooden chair.

The moment you hook your bag on the left side of your new desk, you swore that the heavy silence pervading the classroom just got heavier. 

You look up. You see someone from the center row, peeking over her shoulder at who you assume is you with a somewhat nervous jitter— as if she’s having an argument with herself in her own head and for some reason, you’re involved. That should’ve been your second sign, but despite your confusion and frustration, you sit still. You sit still until one side eventually wins the girl’s mental argument and she rises up from her seat, tentatively stalks up to you as the class’s eyes follow her short walk with anticipation, including yours.

“Hi, uhm,” she practically squeaks out, hesitant, eyes quickly flickering over to the classroom door before looking back at you. She inhales and smiles. Her bangs are covering her eyebrows. “I’m Natty.”

You greet back and introduce yourself. This is a really fucking weird first interaction, but you take what you can get. “Hi.”

The expectation would be that she’d ask you if you’re new here, if you’re a transferee, if you’d like to join her and her friends for lunch, but no.

Natty completely diverts your expectations by saying, point blank, “This may sound weird, but…you should maybe pick another seat.”

You blink. What the hell? “Why?”

The answer comes in the form of the sound of the classroom door violently swinging open, followed by a series of hushed exclamations, and Natty’s suddenly paled face snapping away from you within the same moment, scampering to return back to her seat at the center, without even giving you the grace of a response. 

You didn’t think the room could get any quieter, but it does, even with the sound of graveled footsteps marching their way over to you— the only thing you can see of the late student’s arrival because for some damn reason, everyone has their head down, and you felt compelled to follow and shut up and catch up to your confused and bated breaths as you listen to the chair next to you screech against the tiled floor, and feel the presence of someone plop themselves down with a rattle and grunt, and at that moment, you feel like you were given the subconscious permission to look up again.

So, you do. 

And when you do, you immediately lock eyes with Natty. Sorry, she mouths with a hand up her cheek, then just as quickly turns back to the front, leaving you to think— what the hell just happened?

Hesitantly, you crane your head to the right, sneaking a glance at the person who just yanked the atmosphere down into hell with just his arrival, the person who you’d be stuck with for the rest of the year by virtue of your seating arrangement. 

Much to your surprise, you’re not met by a face. You’re met with someone hunched over, a mop of messy hair with his face buried into crossed arms over the desk with an aura that immediately repels you from prodding even an inch closer. You nudge your seat away to the left, making sure not to cross the invisible mark marked by the gap between your two desks. The only sign of life you glean is the rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders— invisible to anyone but you solely because of proximity— which leads you to the conclusion that he’s sleeping.

Sleeping. Something tells you that it’s better that he stays this way. That something is the sigh of relief from the person sitting right in front of you as your homeroom teacher finally walks in.

At this point, you still haven’t seen your seatmate’s face. The only time you know of his name is during attendance, when your teacher calls out a hesitant, “Na— Na Jaemin…?” after double-taking at her class list, answered by nothing but a heavy silence despite having all seats in the classroom filled. She quickly nods in acknowledgement and moves forward after that. Just who the hell is sitting right next to you?)

*‎

Beyond your control, memories from that time of your life continuously flash behind your eyes as you drive back to the firm. A buzz from your phone momentarily interrupts you. It’s from Mark Lee.

[Thanks, attorney. We’ll take care of Ma Gildong first tonight. You can see Jaemin on Monday, next week 🧑‍🎓].

Na Jaemin on a Monday. You grimace. What a load of crappy poetic irony. You reply with a thanks and a middle finger. Mark Lee beeps back with a bright grin in emoji form.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

[that-gay-jedi]

There's this kind of cultural clusterfuck right now where people combine outdated assumptions about scifi and fantasy with the new and fashionable revulsion for "people who only watch kids' shows" and so on.

There are very pertinent and valid reasons to be frustrated and angry behind it- strong critical thinking and media literacy skills ARE a lot rarer at this crucial moment in human history than they should be and it IS making the literary landscape especially shitty if you like controversial or highbrow or otherwise challenging books and we DO often become better company when we're well-read- but they're looking for causes in the effects.

I can't help feeling like a big missing piece of the puzzle is that the vast majority of fiction is of malleable depth. The same work that might be pure escapist id-candy if you read it with your id can provoke you to think and grow if you put in the effort to analyze it. Something crafted with authorial intent as either one can come out as the other to the reader.

I've posted before about how a lot of childrens' media is at least still intentionally made for developing minds, while a sizable amount of entertainment for adults presumes you don't want or need to develop any further and avoids challenging you on that basis.

Sure, if you're an already well-read adult actively looking to grow your capacities you should probably look for something closer to your own level, but let's not form another simplistic goddamn binary around it.

A similar thing happens where books designed to be challenging are sometimes just trying so damn hard to impress you that they ultimately don't yield the food for thought a piece that's trying to express to you does. You don't even have to be cursed with a social circle who thinks the only point of intellectualism is bragging rights to have this happen, though of course it increases the risk.

Let's not forgot how changing contexts can alter whether something is perceived as "for smart people" or "for posers" in these kinds of binaries either- I find myself often stereotyped IRL as more of an intellectual than I care to be because I happen to like really old schlock, things like Shakespeare and Homer that were in many ways intentionally id-candy to a different audience but are studied now at least partially on their historical merits.

Some of the smartest animals are those who dig through trash, while those with more discerning palates might be sheep.

my creative writing prof also HATES fantasy. as in if she asks for an example of symbolism in a book, and you give something from a fantasy novel, she’ll ask for an example from a “non-commercial book” instead.

I dunno man, people can have preferences, but the second you discount the artistic merit of sci fi and fantasy I stop taking your opinion seriously. and there’s such a big culture in Canada of only valuing literary fiction, to the point where one of our biggest authors, Margaret Atwood, refused for a while to classify her books as sci fi or fantasy. she said they were “speculative fiction”, which is entirely separate and very highbrow (sarcasm).

and I could go on about how Octavia Butler and Ursula Le Guin wrote books every bit as intellectual (and honestly, even more so) than their literary counterparts, but I am also an enjoyer of schlock!! I think there’s artistic merit in animorphs, and in isekais where a japanese schoolgirl reincarnates into a magical spider who has to level up like it’s a video game! it’s like with everything, you can’t draw a clean line that separates ‘art’ from ‘non-art’ or even ‘lesser art’, and pretending you can do so just makes you look ignorant and goofy. in my opinion.

[baepsays]

𓇢𓆸 I'D GIVE YOU EVERYTHING (I JUST WANT TO SEE YOU WIN)⸻ clan head Gojo

Chapter One: Lord Gojo

𓍯𓂃 pairing⋙ post Shinjuku clan leader Gojo x non-sorcerer reader

𓍯𓂃 description⋙ navigating a married life is hard enough, it is harder when you know nothing about your husband other than his heroic scars and dizzying smile.

𓆰𓆪 cw in this chapter⋙ canon divergence, nsfw, MDNI, clan and jujutsu world politics, arranged marriage, husband Gojo, Gojo with scars, one sided conflict, one sided pining, suggestive stuff, they are both a little stupid about e/o, misogyny (not by Gojo), internalized misogyny on reader's part, insecurities, dysfunctional families, fem oriented reader, use of she/her pronouns, self deprecation on reader's behalf, angst, some fluff, condescending Gojo, they do stuff in bed idk how to explain, manhandling, love bites, hickeys and marks, teasing, so much teasing, very lowkey dirty talk, talk about virginity, mentions of breeding, there is reluctant consent, emotionally detached Gojo, Gojo is just a bit mean, sexual tension in the air or just need to runaway? reader in her early thirties, Gojo is in his mid thirties.

𓍯𓂃 a/n: hope you have fun reading <3 if you'd like to be added to the tag list, refer to the series masterlist<3

word count: 7.5k

The world of jujutsu was reformed drastically following the events of devastation that took place during the Shinjuku showdown. Many lives were lost, and many were left alive with the misfortune of living with the memories of the events. One such person happened to be the strongest himself, Gojo Satoru.

Gojo Satoru basically came back from touching death himself. 

The sheer surprise of his life being spared after all that he went through to have his students win a losing battle, and live a better life as a sorcerer—was enough to have rumors circulate that perhaps the now scarred up Gojo Satoru is just a shell of a man from who he used to be.

The intensity of his powers were apparently dulled, especially the six eyes. The great blessing and curse on Gojo Satoru’s name, his six eyes, were left intact, but rendered basically powerless. 

But it did not matter how much Gojo Satoru has weakened, how the current state of him could not compare to who he was. Because this was a man who has escaped death time and time, any fear that may have been there in those glowing eyes, was gone to say the least.

If one does think of it, Gojo Satoru is just as much of a changed man as everyone thinks of him to be, the nights he used to sleeplessly spent were now spent with a better sleep schedule. False pretenses were dropped. He was older, wiser, a man who has been struck with grief all through his life, and was now living a more predictable life. Now he just spent his days looking after his estate, staff, and helping his students as much as he could as a more powerful figure, in terms of not only his physical but also political capabilities.

The gruesome news of what took place in the room of the higher ups before the Shinjuku showdown was the first of such help. Just whispers were heard about the state of the room, if he was ever bravely asked of what exactly happened that day, the eerie smile was enough, on top of his now mostly left uncovered eyes.

The need for silence was more needed than boasting what he had done, with no remorse, as he never felt any for the vile people present in that room that day. As the jujutsu world was more or less at peace, the clan politics was still present, silently fuming away from everyone’s eyes. And as the head of the Gojo clan, he had to step up to his role more proficiently.

And with the newfound responsibilities and increasing age, the pressure to find a wife was becoming more and more vital. 

Hope was not something you relied on usually, or at all. As a person born with no actual cursed energy to wield them in a battlefield, other than being mildly able to see horrifying entities float around, it was hard. 

It was hard as it is to be a non-sorcerer born into a family of jujutsu sorcerers, it was probably harder as an unmarried woman, now in her thirties, surrounded by people who deem women nothing more than a womb on a pair of legs.

It was no concern to them if the world was burning down or if you were dying, your apparent reproductive clock was better understood by them than you. At least as a child it was a hush hush, and tease of sorts when the topic of your future husband was brought up, which was more often than not. This went on until you graduated university like any other normal human being, as the world of jujutsu did not seem to work out. 

You liked that life. The normal life that these people looked down upon, making normal friends, falling out with them over petty reasons than losing them to some blood hungry curse, going on trips them them, stressing about exams, pulling all nighters to submit a assignments, getting asked out on dates, growing plants, spending weekends by reading books and binge watching some show. 

There was nothing significant in the lifestyle these people aspired for and maintained.

And you did not want to end up in an unfamiliar house having to start from scratch, how to mind yourself and navigate the unprovoked stares of disgust. Especially by a man who was supposed to love you for better and for worse, til death does you apart—if it were up to you, you would not like to bind yourself to this man, to begin with. 

But then again, that was all wishful daydreaming. Especially when you are already sitting in a reserved private room at some fancy place, waiting to meet another prospective husband. At this point you have met at least over ten or hundred possible husbands, you have lost the count. To your parents and clan they were either too obnoxious, not as affluent as them, too egregious, not influential enough, or not as powerful as them. But this was no ordinary prospective meeting. After all this was the potential meeting that could tie your family to the Gojo clan.

He was everything they wanted to be, had all the qualities they were looking for in your future husband, and everything they despised. He was too egregious, too obnoxious, too condescending, righteous to a fault, and too giving. Yet, it did not waver their desire to have you tied down to this man. That was the effect of Gojo Satoru. It did not matter how much he had weakened in terms of physical strength compared to the new generation, it was how he boasted of that weakness and walked with his head higher than ever.

You did respect the man immensely. But you could not help but hold grudges against this man, whom you are yet to even meet. Grudges over how freely he lived. You have never in your life felt jealous of your peers’ powers, surely you have felt resentment. But that was over your own blood. But this man in particular you could not escape, probably even to the pits of hell he will follow you there to agonize your life.

The thought of possibly calling him your husband made your stomach fill with bile. 

Your silent thoughts ran wild as you waited silently, sitting opposite an empty chair, surrounded by people chattering anxiously about the absent man in question. Your parents, a few important members of your clan, and a few members of the Gojo clan started to become more and more weary about the clan head’s arrival. 

The clamour in the room stopped way before the doors to the room slid open. That was the sort of energy he exuded. Enigmatic and formidable. 

The man who walked in, adorned in the most finely made white haori, complementing his hair, with a scarf around his neck. He looked almost the part of the groom, with half the outfit already hanging off his shoulders. But it was not the careful stitching of the jacket, or his sculpted body peeking through the compressed shirt beneath his jacket, or the piercing blue orbs set on you, that made you static in your seat—breathless even. 

The three big scars that cut through his left cheek, under his right eye, and the one stretching from his chin down his jawline, accompanied by more scattered and faded out smaller scars, spread through every visible part of his body—that is what had your mind standing still in awe. 

“Ah! Greetings Gojo-sama. Such an honor to be in your presence, finally.” Your father’s voice brought you out of the blue pupils assessing every single cell on your body. The realization that you had dared to hold gaze with Gojo Satoru of all people, that too on your first meeting, ran your throat dry. Quickly training your eyes on the table in front of you, as if it was the most interesting piece of furniture, you reached for the glass of water served to you. Hoping, praying, begging that you did not just offend him. 

“Why? I made everyone wait too long.” The tone of his voice suggested anything but a polite question. Maybe steadiness and jest, but no place for ease. 

“No! Of course not, in fact you are right on time!” One of the Gojo clan members quipped beside him. Looking ever so slightly from the edge of your eyelashes, you presumed this was the usual. 

“Really? Then do you mind telling me if I'm actually on time or not? ” The question was directed to no one in the room but you. 

“Gojo-sama, how can she-” Satoru cuts off your mother before she could finish the poor excuse she was about to make, “I was clearly not speaking to you, was I? Now, are you able to answer my simple question or simply too fascinated by the table?” A calculative smile stretched across his face. 

“It is made out of cedar wood if you are wondering about that.”

The tone of his voice and that smile irritated something in you. All your life you have been a compliant decorative doll made out of unmoving porcelain, yet the sheer change in the inconspicuous inflection of this man’s words, pissed you off beyond everything. 

“You are 24 minutes late.” The words came out unusually harsher than your usual voice. “Gojo-sama.”

The last bit of that respect came from the instant realization of what you did, followed by your mother’s eyes almost popping out of its sockets and your father’s disappointed sigh. They were as sure as you were, that this meeting is not going to work out in their favor. You were, on one hand ecstatic to have ensured that you were never going to be called this man’s wife, on the other hand the anticipation of what was to follow this meeting once you get home, made your stomach drop.

The members of either clan were already engaged in a dispute of words. “How dare a woman born with no cursed energy speak in such a tone with the head of the Gojo clan!” one of the members of his clan spoke with displeasure, slightly sitting up in his seat.

“Please excuse her insolence, she does not know any better. Apologize. Right this instance.” Your father urged you with his teeth pressed together. 

You should’ve noticed the anger in his tone, but you were too busy observing the man sitting in front of you, from the curtains of your eyelashes as you held your head low. He sat with his grinning face held in his hand, the elbow of the said hand rested on the table, as he took a big sip of his tea. All the while boring his gaze in your, already itching with discomfort, skin. 

The sound of the cup of tea pressed between his shining lips, being set down on the cedar table made everyone stop their sharp words thrown your way. It was definitely not the sound that the cup made, but rather whose cup it was, that made them halt their charges.

“I see. Then I must apologize to my wife to be, for making her wait that long for me.”

Weddings are difficult.

It takes a lot of preparation. Mentally and physically, it is extremely straining and of course the preparation, just organizing a lot of things all at once, drives one insane. The venue, the guests, the font for the wedding invitation, gifts for the guests, flowers, color of the silverware etc. meticulous things. And it takes a lot of people to have two people unite, in the name of the law and society, with God as the witness. But it is particularly harder to realize the significance of the act of being wed to a person, when you have no idea who that person is beyond the whispering gossips and scars of battle adorning his pretty face.

When you had no contribution to the choices made for the wedding preparation, or the person you are to be wed, it all feels less magical and more of a fever dream. The days before the wedding, you spent them holed up in your room, not really doing anything more than what you were required to do. So you solemnly spent those swift days contemplating things over and over again. 

You thought you might not want to see your husband to be, before the wedding itself. But when the week before the wedding your father informed you that Gojo Satoru himself seeked out to have dinner at your house, you could not help but anticipate the sight of him. Wondering if he might show up in more casual clothing than his formal getups, wondering if the scar under his eye is still the same or did it somehow morph its shape, even if it has only been three weeks since you have seen him.

So you could not help but feel disappointment when he never showed up. All the food that was decorated on the dinner table was already cold, when an informant came to tell that, ‘Gojo-sama has sent the word that he cannot make it, and he is deeply apologetic to his fiance.’ 

Your shoulders sagged down as quickly as your father just asked everyone to start their meal. You did not understand the loss of appetite when everything before you was so delicious. It was all very confusing, maybe you just wanted to see him one last time before the wedding to reassure yourself. But then again, you cannot get rid of the doubt that did not stem from worry, but is fostered by fear.

“Are you ready?” your mother's voice made you look away from the reflection of yourself and instead your eyes focused on her. Because at least the harshness in her voice was more familiar than your own reflection.

“Time for you to enter. Everyone is waiting.”

The idea of being a married woman, to the strongest, at that—made the weight of the ceremonial kimono feel heavier than any piece of clothing you have ever dawned. The hood of the wataboshi  partially covering your face felt like a shield, because while walking down the aisle it hid your eyes from peeking a glimpse of your groom. As much as it felt like you were dying, with the way your throat was constricting, making it harder for any air to pass—you could not help but take a peek at your groom, from below your hood, who was already standing there waiting for you.

His back was facing the shrine’s altar, and his eyes were trained on you. He looked like no other groom. Probably because no other groom has ever welcomed his bride with such a huge grin, while showing his back to the altar. It was Gojo Satoru after all. When has he done anything the usual way?

“Goodness, felt like you took forever sweetheart.” 

His extended hand reached for yours, to pull you up to the podium, to have you stand beside him. The sight of his palms practically swallowing your entire hand, felt foreign. But the coldness emitting off his touch was worse. It was weird that he was touching you, but at the same time, it felt as if he was far away from your grasp. The distance and the coldness was far too sharp for you to keep holding his hand. And he probably understood that as well, as he loosened his grip to let you slip your hands out of his as soon as you could.

How the entire thing happened was beyond you. Your head was too occupied with how gorgeous he looked in his groom’s wear. Or maybe his blinding hair, or the scars scattered all over him, making him look more commanding than terrifying. It was all just very swift, if you had to describe it.

One moment you are contemplating whether you should make a run for it, not that it would help you. And then in another few seconds you two are already on your third cup of sake, completing the san-san-kudo ceremony, uniting yourself to him and joining your name to his.

“Still want to make a run for it sweets?”

You just looked at him, slightly horrified. “Anyone with two eyes can tell what you are thinking if they can catch a glimpse behind that hood, and I have six of them.” There was a tone of jest in his voice and the grin on his face.

“No. I, am just not feeling that well since this morning.”

“Then we must do something about that.” In one quick second, you were suspended in the air in his arms, your body was held close to his chest with the help of his arms. 

The yelp that left your lips sounded louder than it should have, because that room full of relatives and influential people fell silent to the ordeal in front of them. But your astonishment was not due to the fact that your newly officialized husband has decided to embarrass you in a shrine where god witnessed your union—it was rather how contrary to the earlier, he felt warm.

“You feel warmer.” you could not help but let your thoughts slip out in a murmur. “Surprised?” you nod hesitantly realizing how that slipped out in a murmur.

“My infinity was up earlier, I noticed how you got startled. And how dare I make Lady Gojo flinch. ” There was a sense of tease in his tone, but also laced with pride and maybe some joy? He never fails to leave you perplexed. You had nothing to answer to that. Lady Gojo. That is who you were. The weight of your title made your head spin as Gojo walked you two out of the shrine, with you still in his arms.

The reception went as smoothly as it could have. Honestly coming to the reception was harder than the reception itself. Being in an enclosed space with Gojo was really more scary than marrying him in front of thousands of people. Now you just have to do exactly that for the rest of your life, or until your services are required. 

He did not say or do anything much for the better part of the car ride to the location, other than handing you a water bottle and some packed riceballs, which were kept in the car before you two got there, with his instructions you presumed. You took it without any reluctance.

“Eat well. Who knows how much you might be able to eat there.” He was not wrong, you were expected to look and act as the perfect newly wed bride to the Gojo clan head, and that meant sitting there pretty and smiling at everyone. So you silently ate what you were given, unperceptive to those blue eyes staring at you with the intention of noting down every little detail about you, as a grin involuntarily stretched across his face, unbeknownst to either of you. Just Ichiji saw that in the rear view mirror and felt some relief for his employer. 

With congratulations coming left and right, the title of Lady Gojo, being thrown at you at the end of every sentence, you could only think that your husband was right. Even the people of your previous clan were more respectful to you than they ever have been. As nice as they all have been, the pressure still hung suffocatingly high in the air. And you understood it had everything to do with the Gojo name being attached to you now. Or maybe it was Gojo Satoru himself, attached to you at every step, who made them hold their tongue. Your groom made it his mission to follow you around wherever you went, and loomed over every conversation you had with every familiar or unfamiliar individual. 

“Will you let her breathe in peace?” “You really thought he was not going to be too much at his own wedding?” Two people chimed, with another man following them closely with solemn eyes.

“Sure, make my wife hate me . Some friends you guys are.” Never in your life you thought you would see Gojo Satoru pout. He was formidable, smug, maybe petty, and condescending, but the only thing you could think for a second was, cute.

Upon introduction you acquainted yourself with Geto Suguru, Irie Shoko, and Nanami Kento. Few of Gojo Satoru’s friends and comrades. They were probably the only people you had a sound and relaxed conversation with. Satoru seemed more at ease around them as well. They were in fact, the first bunch of people you felt were nice to you without any incentive hanging over them. The individual dynamic they have with your husband, and just all four of them together made you feel jealous of their bond. But again, that is something one only gains by growing up together or almost dying beside each other. And they have all of it.

The night ended soon after with everyone taking their leave, and the hall slowly becoming desolate. Satoru was ready to retire for the day as well. As he went to have the car fetched for you two to take your leave, your mother took advantage of that chance to catch you in the hallway, before you could leave after your goodbyes. 

“You do know what you have to do tonight. Yes?”

The grip she had on your arm became increasingly tighter as each second passed without an affirmative answer from you. “Yes.”

“Do as you are instructed. And just let him take it.” Those were the last words you heard from your mother. Any sane person would gag at such interaction, but it was no more a  surprise to you. Seeing your mother put on a faux smile as she entered the main hall, with one last glance at your way, ‘take it’ , that is all that you heard. You have been taught to just take it, all your life. If your male cousin likes your things, they can just take it. Your father is scolding you for speaking an octave too high, you just have to take that. You have to simply take all the snide comments and slimy suggestions, they are for your own good. When people made fun of your lack of powers, you were told to just take it as a lesser being. And now as you sit beside your newly wed husband, while being driven to his estate, you have to mentally prepare yourself to just let him take it.

After all that is all you were made for, that is all you are worth.

“Still not feeling well?”

The sudden question made you look at the source of the voice sitting beside you on the plush leather seats. “Yes?”

“Yes, you are not feeling well? Or yes, you were not listening to me?”

“Oh. I am sorry.” “Was that either of the options? Hmm?” The smile on his face was oddly comforting, and genuine. But that made it all more sickening.

“I did not hear you, I was just distracted.” “I guessed as much.” He did not say anything more, he looked away and went back to facing his side of the window, as did you. Or so you thought.

Satoru has been observing you since he came back from getting Ichiji to get the car up in front of the hotel, where the reception was held. He followed you closely from behind sensing the cloud of distress making its way back above your head. He somehow managed to get rid of them during the reception, and something or someone ruined all his hard work. And he did not appreciate that. 

Right now he was trying to get a glimpse of your reflection on his side of the window. It was not slick. Nor was it very effective. Trying to find your eyes in the dark tinted glass was making him annoyed. He just wanted to hold your face in both his hands and stare down in your irises to draw out all the unspoken answers from the depths of your soul.

But that would effectively scare you off more than you already were.

So the next best thing was showing concern through more subtle actions. Like running out of the car just as it stopped on the stone driveway, in front of the huge doors of the main entrance. He made his way over to your side before you could even open your door. And in a blink of eye you were back in his arms. Now without the Haori, his skin was much warmer through the fabric of his Montsuki.

“Don't want you to tire yourself out more." He mumbled, way too close to your face than you would appreciate, his eyes were focused on the stairs leading into the entrance of your new house. 

“Who am I if not your most obedient servant, Lady Gojo.” 

Now it felt like he was trying his best to embarrass you. Was he trying to patronize you? 

“You should not say something like that Gojo-sama, what if someone heard you?”

“If someone dared to eavesdrop on words meant for my wife, in the privacy of my arms— they know better than gambling with their lives.” The chuckle that left him was anything but humorous. The threat was very real behind those words, probably more present in his voice than his words.

The walk to the bedroom was long, it took many turns at long hallways to reach what seemed like the opposite end of the entryway. Where stood two sliding doors proud and all alone in that entire hallway. And every step he took to get closer to them felt like a sigh of breath leaving your throat to never return. And he probably felt that with the gripping dent of your nails in the back of neck, but he welcomed that. He felt nothing but contentment in you losing your composure in his arms. And he wished for nothing, but a lifetime of you letting yourself express your most hidden self in his arms, and have you leave your mark on him.

The bedroom was huge. And it was decorated with more than hundred candles, to perceptive eyes. All the expensive decoration, furniture, painting and scroll went invisible to your eyes—because there was only one thing in that room that caught your interest.

The bed. It stood on all its strong legs, near the huge windows overlooking the outside. It was surrounded by more candles, scented ones. And it smelled like the ocean and sweet tropical fruits. There were bouquets of roses and Lilies on each side of the bed, on the bedside tables. As Satoru placed you down on the fluffy and soft covers, the mattress almost engulfed you in itself. And it all became too real.

You might be Lady Gojo now. But the man hovering above you was Lord Gojo.

He can joke about being at your beck and call all he wants, but he was not the one married off to serve you. It was you who was instructed to just be a good wife and take it. You were here, on his bed, to serve him. To let him take you, take your virginity, and claim you as one of his many conquests. All you were good for, was to lie there and take his seed, to give him an heir and silently sit in a corner unless you are spoken to.

So why was he walking away from you? 

“You are not- going to?” the hand you used to hold onto his wrist, to prevent him from walking away from you, was shaking. 

“What do you mean?” The scrunch of his eyebrows made you think for a second he might be genuinely confused about what you might be referring to.

“You should know what I mean.” He truly is such a cruel man.

“If you don't speak to me clearly, I am afraid, I am too dumb to understand.” The smirk on his face said otherwise. “You are so mean.”

“How am i being mean to my own wife, if i don’t even understand what she is implying, hmm?” 

“How will it be any more helpful if I say it out loud?” “I don’t know? You might have to find out for yourself.” He was annoying you now.

“I am trying to perform our duties and get over this, Gojo-sama.” Hopefully your stern voice camouflaged your nervousness and fear.

“Do you want to consummate our marriage that bad, Gojo-sama?”

The incredulous look on your face upon being addressed by the same title as him, by Gojo Satoru himself, was the last thing you expected out of this conversation. 

“You- you, just- cannot address me like that!” “Why not? You are also a Gojo now. In fact, you are the lady of the clan now.” His argument was making more sound sense to you than your own head.

“I would have to argue your position is much more important than mine. From this day forward you are also Gojo-sama whether you like it or not. I hope you get used to it. And I don’t want to be called out by some title by my own wife.”

“You keep saying ‘my wife, my wife’, yet you are acting oblivious about our marital duties!” Suddenly the air was much heavier than how lightly it was circulating through the huge room. “You might get away with putting up a front, but my position in this marriage has been set in stone. So please spare me the questions and put an heir in me as soon as you can.”

You anticipated an array of reactions after such audacious proclamations. You guessed as much, the very second your tongue stopped speaking, the emotions on his face might be anything but that humorous and kind softness he has, oh so graciously, offered you up to this moment so far. And that made you look away from his face, which looked more halted than stoic, and in your experiences, surprises are almost always followed by anger or joy. And you were definitely not expecting him to clap his hand and offer you a big smile.

Your hand on his hand felt more foreign than before, so you pulled it off him. And it allowed him the satisfaction of at least not feeling your miserably shaking and soaking palm. And there it was, the anger. 

Just as you let go of him, his own hand grabbed a mean grip on your wrist. It was confusing to understand what exactly happened in the moments after that. One second he is pulling you off the bed towards himself, next he is bending down to reach you half way across and pushing you on the bed with the weight of his body. You were essentially pinned onto your new marital bed. Both hands pinned on either side of your head, with a mean grip on your wrists by his huge calloused hands, and you were sure that you were done for.

“Since you have already cooked up these false ideas about what this relationship might look like, how about I show you a little glimpse into these imaginations?” 

His face was probably close to yours by no more than half of one centimeter, you could feel his eyes searching for something in your own eyes, and you had no confidence to fake it. So you just shut your eyes real tight and waited for what was to come.

Satoru’s right hand glided itself from your wrist, to your forearm, under the sleeves of your kimono, until it reached up to your arms, where the bunched up clothing did not allow him any more access over your skin. The loud gulp you took, out of some sort of relief, was gone in a second.

Satoru was not a man to give up on the first hindrance, and people learn that usually the hard way. His eyes were more concerned with how your eyebrows were scrunched up, how tightly your eyes were closed and how your eyelashes were looking longer like that, or how you might end up making your lips bleed if you keep on biting down on them that hard. And how beautiful your neck looked, with the little knot in your throat going up and down with nervous gulps. 

His right hand started working to get rid of the belts on your kimono, and his hand was slipping past every layer of clothing to reach your body. While his mouth made itself useful on your neck, peppering the most delicate kisses from the base of your neck, collar bones, along the column of your neck, up to your chin. And with several little scattered kisses on your jaw, Satoru’s eyes found your mouth open in a small gasp. Thankfully your lips did not bleed. But your eyes remained closed, too afraid to see what was going on, in the dim light of the candles illuminating the room in an orange hue, you were too scared. 

You did not want to think about how his hand felt so cold and soothing on your burning skin or how his lips felt so warm and comforting. You did not want to see those blue eyes, or those scars spread all across his skin, particularly the one under his eye—it made you train your eyes back into those dilating pupils every time.

Satoru's hand was just below your breasts, it just stayed there. Sometimes moving an inch too close and then just going back to drawing circles around your torso, squeezing your waist at times—all while his teeth and lips worked all over your decolletage. Little bites and long intervals of his lips sucking marks around your neck, drew out hisses of pleasure out of you.

Who knew that being under your husband could make one feel this much pleasure?

His left hand never left its grip on your right hand. The platinum ring on his finger became warm over time, just like his cold hand, as it remained intertwined with your fingers. While his right hand found its way down your stomach, on the waistband of your panties. It was nothing impressive, not the sort of underwear one expects a newly wed bride to wear. It was a simple cotton panty, the bare minimum. Your family forgot that detail probably.

But Satoru absolutely did not mind. He liked the slightly loose elastic, it felt like any moment he could slip it off you, or slip his own hand inside. And it felt worn in, soft and malleable. He could tear it off you in a millisecond. 

“Get it off already.”

“Ordering me around already, Gojo-sama? Hmm?” You were losing your patience. Who could’ve predicted that? 

“Stop that.” “Stop what?” “You know what.” 

“Again, Gojo-sama, if you do not tell me how will I know? Your poor, poor husband is not that sharp.” His patronizing voice vibrated in the crook of your neck. 

“Stop. C-calling m. Me. Gojo-sama.” 

“I don't know? Should I?

“Yes! You sound ridiculous!” Your eyes finally shit open and you rose up to now lean on your elbows, to get a better look at him. The unfastened kimono slipping off you and pooling under you in the process. 

His eyes remained trained on you, hooded and shadowed by storms and turmoil in the blue sea, as he found refuge between your open legs. He was practically lying on your breast, with your bra on the verge of slipping off and giving him easy access to them, to mark them all over in pink and purple. Because clearly the plethora of lovebites on you, were not enough.

He did not say anything. Just the hand which was previously on your waistband, glided downward until it reached the back of your knees. His fingers worked with stealth while his eyes distracted you, like a predator. He grabbed onto your knee and pushed you back down on the bed, as both his hands found their place back on your wrists. While he cozied himself between your legs, and sat back on his knees.

He leaned in close enough to hover his own set of lips just above your own, just as they barely made contact—he moved his neck to glide those lips across your cheek, to your ear. 

“I am glad we agree.”

“Then I can count on you, to not call me by that title again, right sweetheart?” 

You did not have to see his eyes or his face to nod an instant yes.

“Use your words. Lady Gojo.” His voice came out harsher than ever.

“I won't call you that again.”

“Ah. What an obedient wife you are. Hmm? Your parents will be proud.”

With those last words dripping with nothing but sarcasm, he got off you. He silently fixed your kimono, tucked you in, and kissed your forehead with a whisper of goodnight. Right before he left you there to contemplate what just happened, and locked himself in the bathroom attached to your bedroom, for what felt like more than an hour. You did not really know if you were supposed to wait for him or not, what was he going to do when he came back? 

All sorts of thoughts raced through your head, as you drifted into sweet slumber, on the most soft and comfortable bed you've ever come across in your life.

While Gojo Satoru hunched over the sink, looking like a freshly ripened tomato. He stared at himself into the mirror, with nothing but disbelief at his own audacity. 

The morning came faster than it should have. It felt particularly premature to you when you spent the rest of your night, after the events that took place on your marital bed, by watching the ceiling above you with a blank stare. You did pass out for a brief while, but that was out of being overwhelmed to the point of losing consciousness. You were not sure if this was ok, to sleep in this huge room by yourself. But you could not, or maybe did not want to stop Satoru from storming out of the bathroom, and then speeding out of the room without sparing you a single glance. You wanted to enjoy one night peacefully in this bed, to compensate for many tumultuous ones to inevitably follow. 

Even when getting off your bed to pace around the room, to maybe tire yourself out, sleep did not come. But if getting married was not tiresome enough to knock you out, then maybe walking around the room won’t do you any good as well. So you decided to take a walk in that huge garden sitting outside the floor to ceiling windows nearby your bed. 

You did not make it much far into the huge garden. After the neatly arranged traditional garden, laid vast lands of grass and wild flowers, and bushes, and an arrangement of trees, including two cherry blossom trees sitting across each other, along the edge of a lake. It was lit with the reflection of the moonlight, falling on the surface of its water, scattering everywhere in a chaotic rhythm, because of the busy fishes moving around in it, probably enjoying the serene night.  You would have liked to go take a seat near the lake, on one of those benches placed around it. But when you approached the nearest bench, under one of the cherry blossom trees, you found your husband already occupying it. 

Maybe in another world, you went up to it and sat down beside him silently, maybe you spoke with him and tried to start a conversation. Maybe you two just sat together in silence, or maybe he saw you and walked away. But in this world, you could not even cross the five feet of distance that laid between you and that bench. Instead you walked back to your room, as silently as you could. You spent the rest of the night trying to get some sleep, as you laid on your side, and stared out of those huge windows by your bed, until the dark sky became blue.

Who knows what the outcome could have been if you walked up to that bench last night. Who knows what could have happened if only Satoru turned around and asked you to sit down instead of patiently waiting for you to come up to him. I mean, you should know better, five feet of distance is not that much for their presence to go unnoticed by him or his six eyes. Especially when it is you. 

The morning itself was more uneventful, compared to last night. The shower was particularly soothing. ESpecially where he touched you last night. Maybe it has something to do with his powers you told yourself, but you knew better. Why it was burning everywhere he touched or why those marks of his teeth and lips stung so sweet—was not something you really wanted to think about, as it made you go weak in  the knees.

It was all very uneventful, until you came out of the bathroom after your shower, to find Satoru sitting at the end of the bed. He was still in the black kimono from the wedding. He looked like he did not get any sleep either, or so it seemed, because this time around his eyes were covered with his blindfold. It was eerie, for most people to see Gojo Satoru without his black blindfold, but for you it was probably the other way around. It was weird to see him with it for once. And that person felt like an entirely different person, than the one you married yesterday. 

“Goodmorning, Goj- Satoru-san.” His given name did not roll off your tongue the smoothest. But he appreciated that you listened to him. 

“You can drop the honorifics as well.” There was an appreciative smile on his face as he spoke, but even with his blindfold on, you could tell that smile did not reach his face. “I do not know if I can.”

Satoru did not push you. One step at a time, right? Even if these steps did not come out of your own volition, but his petty threats, he still welcomed them with a humorous smile. 

“I wanted to apologize about yesterday.” He did not suit humility, that is what you thought when a grin stretched along your face. Seeing him squirm and look so uncomfortable was new, even when his eyes were covered, you imagined them to look more sorry than body language. Satoru really was just not familiar with saying sorry, but he never backed away from apologizing when he needed to.

“I really crossed a line there, just to prove a point.” you did not say anything back but just stood in front of him with your freshly out of shower wet hair dripped droplets of water on the carpet. “I would understand if you do not want to forgive me, I would like to make it up to you however.” He was trying his best. His best to not stare at you blatantly in that silken baby blue robe clinging to your body, that he personally picked out for you. Or the peeking marks he left on you, that made him go dizzy. It was all him.

“It is alright.” you went to sit beside him, but instead of sitting just by him, you sat on one of the corners of the bed, keeping the distance between you two. “Really?”

“Yes. I do not think I would have minded if you went all the way. I do not really have any say in that.” 

“What?” He genuinely looked confused for a few first seconds. Then something else creeped up on him, something close to pity or disgust. 

“I was wedded off to you to serve you and your bloodline. It is my purpose.”

Satoru felt disgusted. By everyone and anyone who has ever made you think about yourself like this. But he was mostly disgusted by himself.

“I do not know how much more plainly I can put it, and it is not just some opinion of mine, it’s just the truth. But you are wrong to think that.” He got off the bed, to stand in front of you. At an arms length he looked further away than he actually was. His shoulders looked stiff and his jaw was tight. You have somehow managed to piss him off by saying things you were instructed to say all your life, to not piss off your husband.

“You are wrong.” 

That was all he said before he stormed out of the room without a second glance. Exuding the sort of energy that said he might erupt like an angry volcano any minute.

SERIES MASTERLIST ‖ <<PREVIEW . NEXT CHAPTER>>soon!

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE.

divider by @/omi-resources. header is from jjk manga, and watashitachi wa douka shiteiru adaptation

honestly i have been cooking this for almost a month and i am so indecisive about what i wanted to do with him i do not want to make an angsty story where the angst if because of Gojo being an ass, lol i think there are plenty of those, done far better than wtv i can do. so this guy is still very canon adjacent, emotionally unavailable in a way you know the people you think you have all figured but then suddenly you are like wtf??? i do not know anything about you. so lol i am using my own emotional constipation as heavy reference. he has many many layers, i want to explore his death in the shinjuku fight, his powers which i have left intact mostly but in a more weakened state than his students and what not. i want to explore his thoughts on that. reader's insecurities i wanted to make them as real as possible so if i make anyone sad, it was the goal, also i am sorry. it will get sadder just saying. even though i will make them have so many suffocating with tension scenes. it will be happy eventually!!! and i hope you gusy likeee itttt

tag list (1): @cheralith @slayzzz @madamechrissy @gojosperms @naomigojo @cuntphoric @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @fushitoru @rriwyu @arcanarix @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @indiewritesxoxo @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @emyyy007 @ineedbetterhobbies0809 @littlemisswitch67 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @tabalugax @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @thetiredcollegestudent @tokyolhtl @emochosoluvr @moncher-ire @hyunjinspdf @younjunie @howmanytimesamigoingtotrythis @em0cleo @novaisbebita @hisarmsaremycocoon @wise-fangirl @sheep-infog @arrozyfrijoles23 @ppejmurde @miizuzu @ricecake-mochi @tushkiiiiiii @ovela @69-gojos-wife-69 @fariylixie0915 @lxxnour @mereniss

[helenoftroydidnothingwrong]

Ok I'm gonna go through this because, while i think it comes from a good place, some of this is misleading (my qualifications is that I have a bachelors in classics and am currently getting my masters, focusing on making classics more accessible to the general public). I want to be so so clear, I am NOT coming for OP, their heart is in the right place obviously, this subject just happens to be what I have devoted my entire life to. If I say something here that is incredibly wrong and you have evidence, PLEASE tell me. Just be nice. Disagreements and wanting to prove someone wrong is the backbone of scholarship. If anyone wants specific sources for what I'm saying, just hit me up.

- this is true, though that doesn't mean that the actual myths will be non-recognizable or anything. The themes you enjoyed from that media will likely still be present. Just remember that Greek mythology was (and still is in some cases) a religion, not a story, and that it was first attested during the bronze age (3300 BCE)

- No myth you know is 100% accurate to Greek mythology, because there is no canon. There is no "original" myth that is the correct one. Ovid did do what he wanted (during the roman republic) with the stories he wrote, but that does not mean none of those elements were present in certain aspects of ancient Greek culture. I could say the same thing about the idea that Perseus killed Medusa.

- It is not a "tumblr invention." This idea is much older than tumblr and also grafts a modern view of morality onto ancient religious figures. Absolutely read the homeric hymn to demeter, as the modern perception of Demeter within the Hades and Persephone story is absolutely sexist. But also consider that there are theories that Persephone (or Kore, to be more specific) went to the underworld and became the queen of the underworld before Hades as a god existed (this is not confirmed; it's a theory, like much of our understanding of Greek mythology). The story has much more depth than "sheltered girl escapes overbearing mother to be with cool bad boy death god" OR "Evil patriarchal god of death kidnaps young girl to be his bride in hell"

- this one's completely right. there's some idea that it is a cognate with a sanskrit word, but there's no definitive evidence

- yeah that's true, but remember that it is often unhelpful to view ancient cultures and stories through a modern moral lens. Not always, but often

- this one too.

- yep. They did often have things that were their "main thing" (Hera and marriage) but also had many aspects that they were worshipped under (Hera Alexandros: Hera protector of heroes). Again, they aren't characters, they are figures in a religion that was practiced for thousands of years.

- Saying Apollo and Artemis' main thing was music and the hunt is misleading. It's true their sun and moon god stuff came in pretty late, but Apollo's connection to prophecy was as strong if not stronger than music, same for Artemis with her patron of young women thing.

- There is some level of difference, but in general yeah. The nuances are pretty small in the grand scheme of things, but also know that Titans didn't just disappear from myths and worship with the olympians showing up. Again, it's a religion, not a novel.

- I mean, yeah? Do people make Hector out to be a villain? Even in Song of Achilles, he wasn't particularly villainous. I might just not have the context for this one

- Wild way to put this, sorry. I once again will hammer home, THERE IS NO GREEK MYTHOLOGY CANON. I don't care what Hesiod says, he is not the be all end all of Ancient Greek religion. There is no Greek Mythology bible. Also the Wikipedia article linked is not entirely accurate when it comes to divorce. It says that divorce was not looked down upon in ancient Greece, which 1. not how ancient Greece worked, it wasn't a single country, it was a bunch of city states linked by common language and culture, with different laws and values. In Medea, she talks about how it was shameful to be divorced because men didn't want a divorced woman. Maybe it was different for men, but yeah. Also, I could find no evidence for a divorce between Hephaestus and Aphrodite. He is said in the Iliad and in the Theogany to be married to Algaia, but the Odyssey says Aphrodite. (this isn't the most reliable source, but it does give line numbers). This could mean about a million things, tbh. It could mean that Aphrodite was syncretized with Algaia, it could mean that an earlier tradition had Algaia as Hephaestus' wife, and Aphrodite was a later one (based on the estimated dates of the Iliad vs Odyssey). It could also mean that there were two different traditions at once. It is near impossible to make a timeline of greek myth that makes sense, but saying that Algaia was Hephaestus' wife after he divorced Aphrodite is misleading at best. Also I know that the google ai thing says that but it is wrong all the time. If you have ancient sources that actually mention a divorce between Hephaestus and Aphrodite, PLEASE send it to me that sounds really interesting.

- sure, that's true. But also do whatever you want. It's more accurate to say asexual, but remember that THEY AREN'T REAL PEOPLE THEY'RE RELIGIOUS FIGURES. Different stories have Artemis falling in love with men and women sometimes. It always ends tragically but it does exist. These aspects were not worshipped everywhere. Do what you want with a modern interpretation, just remember that modern labels for sexuality/gender/etc (and race but we don't have time for that) didn't exist, but can be helpful when looking at ancient figures.

- Ok, yeah, this is what I've been saying. But also "greek and roman versions" imply that they are completely distinct. The end of the Ancient Greece as we think of it overlapped heavily with the beginning of the Roman Republic (and i mean hundreds of years overlap). We can TRY to distinguish older and newer versions but it's not typically helpful. the timeline is long, and the changes are blurred at best, if not completely obscured. If you're interested in seeing how some gods evolved, check out some of Overly Sarcastic Productions vids on youtube. I like the Aphrodite one.

- Sure I guess? So is what you know about Athens, Crete, Corinth, etc. Idk why Sparta is called out here. I guess yeah, don't use 300 as your basis for understanding historical spartan culture?

- I mean yeah, definitely. But also there's a million translations, and everyone is fighting over them all the time. Don't feel bad about choosing an "accessible" or "easy to read" translation. I like the Emily Wilson ones, they sound good and are less sexist in their translation. But also if you're looking at Greek plays (I'm partial to Euripides) watching a production can go a long way to understanding them.

We all go into things with preconceived notions, it's inevitable, but don't let them stop you. Greek mythology and its study are incredibly complex; there are a ton of contradictions, and the experts rarely completely agree with one another. Be open to being wrong, be open to changing your mind, and be open to new evidence being found and wrecking your whole idea of something.

a quick psa to anyone recently getting into greek mythology and is a victim of tumblr and/or tiktok misconceptions:

-there is no shame in being introduced to mytholgy from something like percy jackson, epic the musical or anything like that, but keep in mind that actual myths are going to be VERY different from modern retellings

-the myth of medusa you probably know (her being a victim of poseidon and being cursed by athena) isn't 100% accurate to GREEK mythology (look up ovid)

-there is no version of persephone's abduction in which persephone willingly stays with hades, that's a tumblr invention (look up homeric hymn to demeter)

-as much as i would like it, no, cerberus' name does not mean "spot" (probably a misunderstanding from this wikipedia article)

-zeus isn't the only god who does terrible things to women, your fav male god probably has done the same

-on that note, your fav greek hero has probably done some heinous shit as well

-gods are more complicated than simply being "god of [insert thing]", many titles overlap between gods and some may even change depending on where they were worshipped

-also, apollo and artemis being the gods of the sun and the moon isn't 100% accurate, their main aspects as deities originally were music and the hunt

-titans and gods aren't two wholly different concepts, titan is just the word used to decribe the generation of gods before the olympians

-hector isn't the villain some people make him out to be

-hephaestus WAS married to aphrodite. they divorced. yes, divorce was a thing in ancient greece. hephaestus' wife is aglaia

-ancient greek society didn't have the same concepts of sexuality that we have now, it's incorrect to describe virgin goddesses like artemis and athena as lesbians, BUT it's also not wholly accurate to describe them as aromantic/asexual, it's more complex than that

-you can never fully understand certain myths if you don't understand the societal context in which they were told

-myths have lots and lots of retellings, there isn't one singular "canon", but we can try to distinguish between older and newer versions and bewteen greek and roman versions

-most of what you know about sparta is probably incorrect

-reading/waching retellings is not a substitute to reading the original myths, read the iliad! read the odyssey! i know they may seem intimidating, but they're much more entertaining than you may think

greek mythology is so complex and interesting, don't go into it with preconcieved notions! try to be open to learn!

[hkthatgffan]

So, I was thinking. In Dipper and Mabel and the Curse of the Time Pirates' Treasure! (super underrated book btw), there's an option where as a way to deal with a dragon the twins and Blendin encounter, Mabel suggests they talk to him. The option then sees Mabel talking to the dragon and letting him vent out all his frustrations and such to her, asking how he feels and giving him advice on how to work through it and grow...almost like a therapist.

The more I look back on this as the years have passed, the more I've found this rather wholesome of a thing to have in the book. Not just cause it shows Mabel trying to help out someone per her kind nature, rather than the other option in the book for the dragon (being medieval battle, lol), but also due to the fact it can also be seen as a small reference to the fact that Mabel's inspiration, Ariel Hirsch (Alex Hirsch's twin sister), is in real life, a licensed Marriage and Family Therapist.

And in the story, some of what we hear the dragon talking to Mabel about are things like his family and life issues. It gives one an interesting thing to look into regarding Mabel and how maybe, becoming a therapist is a path she may go down, just like her IRL inspiration (kinda like how Dipper in the show mentioned he wants to make his own TV show, like Alex did). And while yeah, Time Pirates is not a canon book, it is still wholesome to consider. And now, we have kinda seen hints of that in stuff that is, like recently in The Book of Bill when Mabel mentions how she has Waddles sorta play her own therapist with who she talks out her problems with.

In the midst of all else we learn in the book, it's a bit of a small and forgotten detail but one when looked at this way, is rather telling IMO. Add on the hints at their parents marriage issues and similarities that shows with Alex and Ariel Hirsch's life we have heard from them about, and I honestly feel pretty strongly about the fact Mabel may grow up to be therapist, perhaps like Ariel, in the family and marriage field.

It's kinda interesting. For years, so many of us when headcanoning Mabel's future ambitions, look at stuff like her being an artist or maybe something similar, given it sorta seems about what you'd think she'd pursue (and I mean, the amount of headcanons and Gravity Falls AUs out there where Mabel is an artist when she's grown up, really show how prevalent the belief is). And while yeah, like all headcanons, it's just that and as valid to be true or not as any of those other ones are, I think all things considered, it's a rather wholesome and pretty Mabel outcome for her to pursue.

She's always got the best intentions at heart no matter what and wants people to be happy and comfortable with who they are. And as she gets older, she more than likely would be the type of person who'd wanna pursue that as a life ambition and career and see being a therapist as one way to achieve that. Maybe I'm thinking too much into it, but I can't lie, therapist Mabel sounds pretty interesting. It's not the usual Mabel headcanon that fans come up with...but maybe it's the start of something.

[zolass]

Lust and Envy Top Male Reader x Perv Male Best Friend Oc I don't know where I wanted to go with this but I'll probably drop a part 2 because I do have some ideas to continue ngl. Also I'm mostly experimenting with those TvT and yes they'll fuck bc I'll make em. content/warning: smut, p in v, does it count as dub-con?, cuckolding, protected sex, perverted best friend, toy and cum and lube, if there's more I'm sry.

1.6k words

You’ve been friends with Nathan for quite a few years, you also heard weird shit spewing from his lips or him asking you a few weirdish requests, yet never something remotely close to this.

“You want me to do what?” you asked in utter disbelief– he couldn’t possibly be serious. Your brows were furrowed together, your jaw working as you grind your teeth a bit in irritation. Nathan’s blue eyes looked slightly up at you, nervous at your reaction, “Well– I just want to see what it’s like to see–” your palm hit your forehead as your eyes closed and you counted down from ten, before you opened your eyes again. “Nathan sometimes I’m questioning why I’m still friends with you– fucking your girlfriend while you watch?” you repeated his request.

This was the with utmost certainty the stupidest thing your best friend ever requested. Nathan shrugged his shoulders, “You’re like the only one I could’ve asked–” “Nathan I’m not even interested in women like that, I wouldn’t even get a boner at seeing a pussy in front of me,” you said. Truth to be told, you did in fact already did something like this before– yet you were actually fucking the boyfriend while the girlfriend watched, to be fair you only did it after making sure you wouldn’t get any smoke from whatever might happen after the experience.

But with Nathan it was different, he wanted you to fuck his girlfriend, it wasn’t a random couple that you probably never see again, it’s someone,despite the many times you questioned yourself being friends with him, close to you. “What if you simply think it’s a guy– come on I’ll owe you one,” Nathan said, grabbing onto your arms while putting on the puppy eyes.

Closing your eyes, you sighed in defeat, “You look stupid with that look on your face,” you simply stated before opening your eyes and glancing down at Nathan, who had a goofy smile on his lips, “Where and when?” 

This was how you found yourself two days later on a saturday, early evening in your best friend's apartment. You stood in the bedroom with the couple, already naked. You looked at the woman standing across from you, before your eyes landed on Nathan who sat in a chair close to the bed, then back to Lexie.

Without a word, the woman kneeled in front of you and took your soft dick in her hands, giving it a few strokes while you tried really hard to imagine it was a guy. Already regretting saying yes, but Nathan this little fucker knew you rarely said no to any of his requests, but before Lexie could take your dick in your mouth you stopped her, “Let’s not– I’ll just do it or else it’ll probably stay limp for the rest of the night,” you said. The woman only glanced at you with a raised eyebrow before she shrugged and stood up.

You grabbed your dick and gave it a few strokes, added with a bit extra help of memories of your past hook-ups you got your cock to be semi-hard, you bit your lip as a grunt was about to leave you, before you opened your eyes and quickly grabbed the condom you took with you. As you glanced over to Nathan, you already saw he had his pants slightly shuffled down, and his dick hard against his stomach. 

Whatever flows one's boat.

You ripped the condom open with your teeth, before you made quick work on rolling it onto your length. The bed queked under the pressure of one person, as you looked over you saw Lexie’s ass facing you, so maybe she did know that you were gay or whatever, at least you didn’t have to see her face. When you took a few steps over to the bed, placing a hand on the curve of her ass, you lined up your cock up to her pussy before you pushed in you, trying your best to trick yourself that it was simply a guy. 

As you pushed in, you didn’t feel as much tightness as you thought, yet the moment her moan sounded, you grabbed her nape and pushed her face into the sheets before thrusting your entire length in. The muffled moan made it easier for you to forget that it was a woman, as you started to harshly thrust your hips while your eyes were squeezed shut. Small grunts started to erupt from you, as you picked up the pace, the light stimulation of the clenching while your mind was somewhere else helped quite well. 

It didn’t take long for a load moan to erupt from Lexie, as her body shuddered and her hole clenched around you as she came, you quickly pulled your dick out, even if you wore a condom, and all that her moans made it painfully obvious that she wasn’t a guy. “I’ll jerk off in the bathroom,” you spoke bluntly, before leaving the bedroom to go into the bathroom, closing the door behind you.

You didn’t want to be blue balled after all of this, so you took your hard cock in your hand and started to give it long strokes, before quickening the pace. Small groans left you, until you came in the condom. Resting your forehead against the cool wall, you shaky breaths as your orgasm welled down and the last spurt of cum landed in the condom before you pulled it off and tied a knot at the top and threw it in the bin. 

Before you tugged your cock back in, you cleaned yourself before stalking back to the bedroom where your pants, and other stuff was. As you walked inside the bedroom, you were rather expecting the two of them to go at it like jackrabbits, but both of them were in the same places they  were before you left the bedroom. 

Pursing your lips, feeling rather awkward and out of place now, you quickly put on your boxers, pants and shirt, before you grab all the necessities you brought wherever you go, you looked at your best friend, whose legs were spread with a white substance all over his shirt and stomach, you couldn’t help the slight snort escaping you gaining the attention of Nathan, “Seems like you really owe me one now, I’ll be going,” you said after putting on your shoes and ready to walk out, “Where’s the condom?” the stupid question came from your friend, to which you looked back at him with your eyebrows knitted together, “In the bin where the hell else?” “Oh–” a dumb smile formed on Nathan’s lips to which you only rolled your eyes, “Take care– both of you.”

With those words you were quickly out of the apartment on your way back home. Yea you were quite stupid for going along with your friend, a dry chuckle left you. Unknownst to you, it didn’t take long for Lexie to also leave her boyfriend’s apartment, saying something about a late ‘girl’s night weekend’, leaving Nathan alone.

Nathan had his head leaned back on the back of the seat, as he simply stared at the ceiling. He remembers clearly how you looked with your eyes closed, small grunts coming through your lips, a frown on your face as even with your eyes closed you seemed focused as you thrust your hips so vigorously. The loud clapping of skin hitting skin, had him wishing it was him underneath you instead of Lexie, just the thought alone of getting his asshole pounded into the mattress by you, had him climaxing.

Then he suddenly remembered the condom you had used, he bit his lip as he stood up before almost making a dash to the bathroom. As he looked into the bin, he saw the tied condom beside some papers you’d used, biting his lip he fished the condom out as he felt the blood rushing to his dick.

He swiftly walked out of the bathroom, to the kitchen in which he grabbed a pair of scissors, only to rush back into his bedroom to grab a box from underneath his bed, after he put the condom and scissors on the bed. Unlatching the handle and opening the top, only to reveal the pink dildo, which basically had the same size as your own.

Nathan bit his lip as he grabbed the dildo and put it on the bed, hastily undressing himself, he snatched the condom and the scissors before cutting the knot off and throwing the scissors into the box in which he hid the dildo. His hole clenched and unclenched in excitement while his cock was basically weeping, dirtying the sheets even further. Slowly he arched his back his ass sticking out, while he looked concentrated back as he slowly let a bit of the white liquid inside the condom drop onto his cheeks, feeling it run down his crack making his dick twitch, before he emptied the rest of your cum on the dildo lubing it up with it.

He couldn’t help but swallow as he simply threw the now almost empty condom somewhere, as he quickly grabbed onto the dildo, keeping it as steady as he could while he lined up his hole with the tip. Shaking with excitement, he basically plunged the entire length inside of his hole, like he did quite a few times before. Nathans back arched, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and a loud shameless moan rippled from his throat.

The tip pressed right against his prostate, as a spurt of cum shot out of his tip. Not wasting any more time, Nathan started to ride the toy with eagerness imagining it was you, all the while the knowledge of using your cum as lube, thrilled him. He pulled one orgasm out after the other, just wishing it was you ruining him instead of a toy, until he passed out on the drenched sheets with the dildo lodged in his ass. 

Nathan didn’t know how long he could continue, until the greed ultimately got to him.

[sleepylittlestarwrites]

♡ ∩_∩ („• ֊ •„)♡ ￣U U￣ ⤷ 21 days ✰ pairing: soft!dom⌇xavier ⤷ fem!sub⌇reader

✰ cw: mdni, graphic sexual content, based on xavier's 21 days card, fingering, marking (bites/hickeys), oral: ꒰f&m receiving꒱, possessive behavior, no protection, slight spoilers to xavier's shooting stars myth, loss of virginity (both xavier and mc), consensual somnophilia at the end (if you squint), so much squirting, cum... slurping? (so cringe I’m sorry, idk what to call it😩), dry humping/cumming in boxers, self-pleasure, mild dirty talk compared to my usual xavier, multiple orgasms, overstim, angel/sweet girl/good girl used sparingly

• wc: 10.3k 🌸

• tags: @kodaswrld & @issysh3ll - as always; thank you for the dividers! :))

Xavier sits on the edge of the bed, lost in thought as he gazes at your sleeping form. The moonlight filtering through the window casts a soft glow on your peaceful face, making you look even more breathtaking than usual. He settles for simply drinking in the sight of you—the way your lips slightly part, the fan of your long lashes against your cheeks, the soft swell of your breasts beneath the sheets. Tomorrow, this mission ends, and who knows if or when he'll get to be this close to you again.

Over the past 21 days, Xavier has poured every ounce of his being into making this assignment memorable for you. Each day, he’s gone out of his way to pamper and spoil you, hoping that somehow, someway, you'll realize the depth of his feelings. Cooking your favorite meals, planning surprise outings, and even indulging in your love for anime marathons—he’s done it all.

And there were moments… fleeting yet precious, where Xavier dared to hope his feelings might be reciprocated. Like during one of the many days spent lounging around in front of the TV, when you fell asleep in his arms, your head resting comfortably on his chest… Or the soft giggle of your laugh echoing in the kitchen as he taught you to cook one of his ancestral recipes. 

Each interaction feels like a precious treasure, a fleeting glimpse into a life he desperately craves but fears he can never fully have—your head tilting back in that laughter, free and carefree in a way he rarely sees. Your slender fingers brushing against his arm as you reach for popcorn, sending sparks of electricity racing across his skin. The tender expression on your face as you watch him train, pride and something much softer simmering in your eyes.

It’s the quiet moments that speak volumes, though. Like the time you caught him stargazing on the balcony, and instead of interrupting, you simply leaned against the railing beside him, following his gaze to the vast expanse above. “It's beautiful,” you murmured, your voice barely louder than a whisper. Almost as beautiful as the stars I see in your eyes.” Those words had lodged themselves in Xavier’s heart, a beacon of hope amidst the uncertainty eating away at him.

But as the moon makes its way to the tip of the sky, signaling the end of your time together, reality and doubt come crashing down on him full-force. Maybe you really do just see him as a friend, an ally, nothing more... And that knowledge brings a bittersweet pain to his heart, a sting sharper than any blade.

As the faint whisper of your voice floats through the air, Xavier's heart skips a beat, drawn towards you like a magnet. He can only watch in stunned silence as the sheet slips from your body, revealing your bare breasts covered only by a thin white tank top. His breath hitches in his throat, heart pounding wildly against his chest as his eyes catch the outline of your nipples, perking in the cool air around them. It's almost like seeing you vulnerable for the very first time, a sight reserved only for his dreams until now.

You start to stir slightly under his gaze, instinctively nuzzling closer to his warmth without waking up, and Xavier swears he feels time stop completely. Unable to resist, his eyes trail slowly down your neck, taking in every inch of exposed skin, the graceful curve of your collarbone, leading down, down to where the flimsy fabric pools between your breasts. 

With a strangled groan, Xavier forces himself to tear his gaze away from your tempting form, feeling like he's ripping his own heart out in the process. A final, shuddering breath later and he’s slipping from the room, gently clicking the door shut behind him. He moves through the space on autopilot, his body acting on instinct as his mind reels. Upstairs, in the spare bedroom he's been using, he spots the workout equipment set up in the corner. Perfect.

He moves through the motions of his workout with a single-minded focus, sweat dripping down his lean form as he grips the pull-up bar. His muscles strain and flex with each movement, a testament to the rigorous training regimen he's maintained for centuries. The burn in his arms is a welcome distraction from the storm in his heart, but even as he pushes his body to its absolute limit, he can't shake the image of your sleeping form from his mind.

So, still shaken, Xavier drags himself into the bathroom adjacent to the guest room. He turns the faucet to the coldest setting possible, bracing himself as the icy water cascades over his heated skin, trying desperately to clear his mind of the intoxicating image of your nearly nude form tangled in the sheets downstairs.

But even as the frigid spray assaults his senses, he can’t shake the vivid memory... His imagination starts running wild, conjuring up scenarios of how the sheets might have slipped even lower while he'd been lost in his workout. Perhaps exposing the delicate curves of your hips, the cute little junction between your thighs...

He grips the tiled wall with trembling hands, knuckles turning white as he fights to regain control. Each droplet of ice-cold water seems to caress his body like ghostly fingers, mimicking sensations he aches to experience with you.

Desperate for distraction, Xavier starts reciting equations, ancient alien languages, anything to occupy his thoughts. But he can’t stop imagining your melodious laugh echoing off the tiles, your slender arms wrapping around him from behind...

With a strangled groan, he allows his resolve to crumble, letting the water grow hotter, his traitorous hand already roaming over his slick, chilled skin. He bites back a groan as his hand drifts, fingers splayed wide as if trying to map every contour of muscle, grazing the soft silvery curls that lead down to...

Xavier hisses through clenched teeth, grip tightening on the tiles as his fingers curl around his hardening length, and with a shaky exhale, he opens the floodgate of forbidden images—phantom touches, whispered words, shared breaths. 

His eyes shut tight as if to block out the temptation, but he's already lost in fantasy, letting his mind wander to what it would feel like to have you pressed against him, your soft curves molding perfectly to the hard, wet planes of his body… He imagines trailing reverent kisses along the elegant column of your throat, tasting the salt of your skin, relishing the quickening pulse beneath his lips…

He murmurs your name then, the sound swallowed by the rush of water. In his mind's eye, you’re looking up at him with hooded eyes, your lips parted invitingly, silently begging for more. Slowly, sensually, he’s exploring every inch of your body, mapping out the constellations of freckles and beauty marks that he's only glimpsed before.

But suddenly, like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head, realization crashes over Xavier. He snaps out of his fantasizing, horror and shame flooding through him as he registers what he's done—what he was about to let himself do. Cursing vehemently under his breath, he wrenches open the glass door and steps out of the shower, nearly slipping on the wet tile in his haste. Even if only in his mind, every single time it feels like a violation, a betrayal of your trust.

Heart hammering, he yanks on fresh clothes with shaking hands. Everywhere he looks, he can practically see echoes of his sinful imaginings taunting him.

“I'm supposed to protect you, not...not defile you in my head like some kind of depraved monster.” Self-loathing laces his heated whisper as he stalks to the dresser, slamming his fist against it in frustration. 

Feeling like a caged animal, Xavier needs to do something else, anything, really, to distract himself from the thoughts rampaging through his mind. So he heads towards the kitchen with determined steps, quietly pulling ingredients and pots from their rightful places. But his hands aren’t steady, thanks to the sudden surge of adrenaline, and the knife he uses to chop vegetables makes jerky movements at best before nearly slicing his finger off. With a muffled curse, he settles for just dropping everything into the frying pan. He doesn't know whether the anger with himself or sheer stupidity made him believe he could cook this time, but within minutes, the room is filled with the smell of burning food.

Just as the smoke detector begins to shrill its warning, a soft, sleep-addled voice pierces through the chaos. “Xavier? What's going on?”

His head snaps up to see you standing in the doorway, a thin, bunny print robe wrapped loosely around your frame. Gratitude surges through him at the sight—at least you're covered now. Still, he can't help but let his gaze linger on the pretty curve of your neck, the way your hair is tousled from sleep.

“I...ah…” He clears his throat awkwardly, realizing he must look like a man possessed. “I was just trying to...distract myself.” The words come out quiet, tinged with embarrassment.

Without thinking, he’s reaching out to brush a lock of hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing your cheek. Your skin is still flushed and warm from the pillow, so impossibly soft… He wants to touch more, to gather you into his arms and soak you in, but he restrains himself.

“We both know I'm not very good at it, though," he mutters dryly, gesturing to the smoking mess in the pan. 

Taking in the scene before you with drowsy eyes and a quirked brow, a mixture of amusement and concern flickers across your features. You definitely walked in on Xavier amidst what seems like some intense self-reflection. Or perhaps a nervous breakdown? Either way, your heart can't help but soften at the adorably disheveled sight of him. The stressed set of his silver brows and the way he nervously avoids eye contact only confirms that something is indeed on his mind. Honestly, you don't think you've ever seen him so flustered before...

“Distract yourself from what?” you ask, taking a step closer, the ties of your robe swaying as softly as your voice. The floral scent of your perfume mingles with the smell of burnt food, creating a strange but oddly comforting aroma.

Reaching out, your tiny hand comes to rest on his forearm, and even through the fabric of his shirt, your touch feels electric, sending sparks racing along Xavier’s nerves. “Is everything okay, Xavier?” Your voice is tender, searching, full of genuine worry.

Xavier stiffens under your touch, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. He's definitely in trouble now… His lips part to respond, but for a moment, no words come out. How exactly does one explain their straying thoughts, their wandering hands, without sounding like a pervert? Or worse, confirming the fact that he might just be one? 

When he finally meets your gaze again, he's acutely aware of the fire in his blue eyes, the smoky haze having replaced his usual calm demeanor. He clears his throat again, a futile attempt to rid himself of the sudden dryness. “I, uh...I had some...um, troubling thoughts.”

Confusion clouds your eyes as you search his face, noting the flush coloring his pale cheeks and ears and the conflicted look in those piercing blue depths. Troubling thoughts? At this late hour? You furrow your brow, unconsciously leaning closer to him as if proximity alone could unravel the mysteries hidden within him.

It strikes you then, as inconvenient as it is untimely, the absurdity of the situation: 21 days later, you are still dancing aimlessly around each other, locked in an endless loop of 'what ifs', both refusing to breach that invisible barrier between you. It's almost laughable, really, in a bittersweet sort of way, how oblivious you both seem to be.

Desperate to ease the tension, to pull you both out of this uncomfortable silence, an idea sparks to life. “I know! Why don't we watch a movie?” You suggest brightly, internally cringing at how forced your enthusiasm sounds. But you forge ahead nonetheless. “We can make some popcorn, get all cozy on the couch… It might help take your mind off whatever’s bothering you.” Your gaze darts to the clock on the wall then, noting the late hour with a twinge of sadness. Only a few precious hours left together before you need to get ready to leave… 

The corners of Xavier's lips twitch into a weak smile as he nods. “Yeah, that sounds really nice.”

Hurriedly, he moves to help you prepare tea and snacks, gathering the necessary items onto a tray while stealing occasional glances at your profile. Something as simple as making tea together feels oddly intimate now, knowing it's possibly the last time he'll be doing it with you like this.

Once everything is ready, Xavier follows you to the living room, placing the tray carefully on the coffee table before settling down next to you on the couch. As the opening credits roll, he finally allows himself to lean back against the cushions, breathing in the calming scent of the tea mixed with the soothing floral notes of your perfume. 

Lost in the movie, your body betrays you, instinctively seeking his warmth and comfort. Gradually, imperceptibly, you allow yourself to drift closer to Xavier, until the mere inches between your bodies are insignificant.

Suddenly, a particularly terrifying jump scare blares from the speakers, causing you to jolt violently. In your panic, your hands fly up to clutch at the first solid thing nearby—in this case, the firm planes of Xavier's chest. Soft breasts press against his arm as you wedge yourself against his side, face burying itself into the crook of his neck with a startled gasp.

“Oh absolutely not!” you exclaim, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Your racing heart pounds erratically, but you can't tell anymore if it's solely due to the scary scene unfolding on screen since the musky scent of Xavier’s skin fills your nostrils, the rapid thrum of his pulse matching your own. For a moment, you simply revel in being this close to him, wishing you could stay enveloped in his protective embrace forever.

Then his quiet laughter fills the room, warm puffs of air tickling the top of your head as his hand slides over your back in a soothing rhythm. He watches as you huddle into him, heartbeat gradually returning to normal but fingers remaining firmly clasped onto his shirt. 

With a gentle touch, he lifts his free hand to cup your cheek, thumb lightly tracing the curve of your jawline as he gazes down into your wide, scared eyes. Your breath hitches as he starts tracing feather-light patterns along your jaw, setting your nerve endings ablaze with every delicate touch. Those striking blue eyes hold you captive, boring into your soul with an intensity that steals the very air from your lungs.

Almost unconsciously, your tongue darts out to wet your suddenly dry lips, and you watch transfixed as Xavier's gaze zeroes in on the movement. Time seems to stretch and warp around you, narrowing down to this singular, pivotal moment hanging suspended between you both.

“I-is… is everything alright?” Your voice emerges as a trembling whisper, scarcely audible over the pounding of your heart as it picks up in speed once again. But beneath the shy uncertainty in your tone, there's an undercurrent of longing, a desperate plea for him to take this chance, to finally shatter the invisible walls keeping you apart, because you're not so sure if you dare to do it yourself.

“Honestly? It’s everything but alright.”—that would be Xavier’s answer to your question, were he actually able to speak. His gaze shifts down to your mouth, the sight of your plush pink lips stealing the last reserves of his sanity. Despite the desperate need coursing through him, he feels surprisingly shy, almost uncertain. “I…” he pauses, swallowed by the weight of the confession hovering on the tip of his tongue. “I want to kiss you...” The words end up tumbling out in a hushed murmur, laced with hope and longing.

A single, very trembly nod is all you can muster up, a myriad of emotions playing across your delicate features—surprise, joy, nervousness, and above all, overwhelming desire. You hardly even dare to breathe, scared your sudden movement might shatter the moment completely.

As if moving through a dream, Xavier leans in with painstaking slowness, giving you every opportunity to pull away, to rethink. But you remain rooted to the spot, pulse fluttering wildly in your throat as anticipation coils tighter and tighter in the pit of your stomach.

The first brush of his lips against yours is impossibly soft, almost tentative. A question seeking permission, the search for confirmation that this is truly happening. Slowly, savoringly, he deepens the pressure, one large hand coming up to cradle the nape of your neck as he angles your head to better fit his mouth to yours.

He kisses you like you're the most precious thing in the universe, reverent and ardent in equal measure. And the way his lips move against yours… you feel like you could combust on the spot from sheer ecstasy. When he finally pulls back, it's only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, sharing the same air in your mutual, blissed-out daze.

“I… I can't tell you how long I’ve wanted this.” The hushed confession spills from him like a secret hoarded too tightly for too long, an admission laden with unspoken meaning.

Cradling your face in his hands, he examines your features up close for what feels like the very first time—every freckle, every delicate curve, the soft parting of lips slightly reddened from his kisses. And then, like a whispered prayer, Xavier sees the single syllable fall from your lips in a breathless entreaty: “more.”

The whispered plea has his breath catching, heart pounding harder in his chest. Without breaking eye contact, he takes a deep breath and slowly pulls you onto his lap, cradling you like a precious treasure, one he's finally being allowed to rightfully claim.

He starts peppering your face with tender kisses, trailing from your forehead down to the tip of your nose before capturing your lips once more. With one hand buried in your hair and the other tracing lazy designs across the small of your back, he drinks you in like a man finally being fed a feast worthy of his insatiable appetite.

Soft moans escape his throat, mixing with your own needy whimpers as he tastes and trails his lips down the sensitive skin of your neck. Each flick of his tongue against your jugular vein, each graze of teeth against the lobe of your ear sends waves of pleasure rippling through you, making you arch into his embrace and tremble in his hold.

Suddenly, he’s picking you up, your body molding perfectly against the plush rug as he gently lays you down, the heat from the crackling fire casting a warm glow across your flushed skin. He hovers over you, drinking in the sight of your disheveled hair fanning out around your face, cheeks rosy from his kisses, those captivating eyes glazed with desire…

Slowly, reverently, he traces the outline of your parted lips with his thumb, marveling at how they quiver under his touch. "So beautiful," he murmurs, voice low and rough with barely restrained hunger. 

Your hands fist in the silky strands of his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as you tilt your head back in clear invitation. The feeling of his lips searing a trail down your throat is indescribable every single time, like a flame licking at every nerve ending, leaving a path of molten desire in its wake. “So good,” you whisper breathlessly against his ear, hands tightening their grip on his hair as he continues painting vibrant streaks of pleasure across your body with his mouth.

Large hands skim reverently up your sides, pushing the robe off your shoulders until it pools uselessly at your sides, revealing every inch of the tantalizing expanse of silky skin underneath. But it's the sight of that thin, straining tank top that makes his breath catch, pupils blown wide with sudden, all-consuming lust. Rosy peaks push insistently against the flimsy fabric again, betraying your body's arousal as you tremble beneath his heated gaze.

“May I?” The words are a low, strained rasp, quietly requesting further access to your body laid out so trustingly before him.

“Yes," you whimper breathlessly, lost to everything but the press of his skin against yours and the building ache between your thighs. "Please, don't stop..." His name tumbles from your lips then like a plea, a desperate cry to lose yourself in the madness consuming you both. And losing himself is exactly what Xavier does.

He takes his sweet time, drawing slow, wide circles around your nipples with the pads of his thumbs. He listens to your breathy whimpers, the little sounds you make as he toys with the hardened peaks beneath the fabric, goading you into a state of adorably flustered impatience. 

He finds himself growing increasingly entranced by the heat in your gaze and the tremors running through your body. Watching you squirm in his lap is quickly becoming his new fascination, an intoxicating blend of ecstasy and agony that he just can't resist. 

“Please…” The breathy plea tumbles from your lips unbidden, half-formed and threaded with desperation. Your hips twitch restlessly, chasing the phantom touch of his hands as they skim teasingly along your ribcage. The ache between your thighs starts pulsing with increasing urgency, dampening the thin fabric of your panties.

Impatiently, almost roughly, you yank your tank top over your head and toss it aside. Cool air pebbles your exposed flesh, rosy nipples standing at attention in the warm glow of the firelight. “Touch me," you demand, voice ragged with need. "I want to feel your hands on my bare skin, Xavier. Please..."

Xavier sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of you sprawled out, skin flushed prettily from the heat rolling off the fire, eyes darkened with unbridled desire, begging for his touch. For a split second, he simply stares, almost drunk on your beauty.

Then he's leaning in, a hand coming up to cradle one of those delicious swells, his thumb sliding teasingly over the taut peak again. “So incredibly perfect,” he murmurs reverently. An eager little moan parts your lips as he kneads the other breast just as delicately, drinking in every gasp and whimper that tumbles from your lips. “Like rose petals wrapped in silk…”

His mouth descends upon yours again, inhaling that adorable little noise, greedy for your taste, drunk on your pleasure. One hand strays lower, tracing the luscious curve of your hip, slipping under the elastic band of your panties, sliding back and forth over the smooth, bare skin of your ass.

“Oh f-fuck,” he groans against your lips, burying his face in the hollow of your throat, panting against your pulse. “You're so soft, so warm…”

Lowering his head, he drags the flat of his tongue along the underside of one breast before drawing the peak into the wetness of his mouth. He suckles gently, flicking the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue as his hand continues its sensual massage on the other side.

His eyes never stray from yours… molten blue darkening with barely restrained hunger as he drinks in your every reaction. His control frays visibly with each roll of your hips, each needy sound that falls from your lips. It's clear the leash on his restraint is going fast, slipping another notch as you arch your tit into his mouth with a breathless keen. Soon, Xavier won't be able to hold back the tidal wave of long-suppressed desire crashing over him. Gods, he's almost terrified he might lose control and hurt you...

He pulls back slightly then, studying you for a brief moment before blurting out the first thing that pops into his head. "Are… are you sure about this?" he rasps, almost choking on the words.

“Because...because I'm barely hanging on by a thread here.” Confessing this to you leaves Xavier feeling almost naked, vulnerable in his own skin. It's both a frightening and exhilarating feeling. “I don't want to do anything you'll regret when we leave here,” he admits hoarsely, the fearful admission lining his words with raw sincerity.

Your hand cups his cheek tenderly, fingertips brushing lightly over the edge of his jawline. In this moment, you can feel the tension coiled tightly within him, see the vulnerability swimming in those mesmerizing blue depths. It takes your breath away, the depth of emotion, the sheer weight of his concern for your wellbeing.

“I've never been more certain of anything in my entire life, Xavier," you murmur, voice soft yet filled with conviction. Shifting closer, you nuzzle your nose against his, bringing your forehead to rest gently against his own. "I want this. I want you. And I could never, ever regret being with you. It just isn’t possible.”

To emphasize your point, you pepper feather-light kisses along his cheekbone, down the line of his throat. Each press of your lips is a whispered promise, an affirmation of your desire. “Let yourself go,” you breathe against his pulse point. "I can handle whatever you have to give me.”

Your free hand slides down his chest, fingertips tracing the rigid planes of his abdomen before coming to rest just above the waistband of his pants. You look up at him through lowered lashes, eyes smoldering with blatant lust. "Show me," you purr, voice dripping with honey and sin. "Show me how much you want me, Xavier."

His eyes bore into yours, a storm of emotions swirling in those cerulean depths—desire, adoration, disbelief, and a fierce intensity that steals your breath. For a long, suspended moment, he simply stares at you, as if committing every detail of your face to memory. The air between you feels so charged… practically electric with the weight of this pivotal moment.

Then something shifts, a subtle change in his demeanor. The gentleness remains, but it's now tempered with a steely resolve that sends shivers racing down your spine. Large hands come up to frame your face, thumbs stroking reverently along your cheekbones as he holds your gaze captive.

“Just remember: you asked for it.” In one fluid motion, he surges forward, claiming your lips in a searing kiss that steals the very air from your lungs. It's a kiss of possession, of raw need, his tongue delving past your parted lips to stroke against yours in a blatant imitation of much more intimate acts.

Then he breaks the kiss, only to descend upon your exposed breasts. His mouth latches onto one peaked nipple, suckling hungrily with a roughness that wasn't present earlier. He alternates between showering it with hot, wet kisses and scraping his teeth lightly over the hardened bud, earning delicious whimpers from your parted lips.

Meanwhile, his hand is hard at work on the other, squeezing, fondling, as if trying to etch the very feeling of you into his skin… His grip is almost punishingly firm, but it only serves to stoke the fire of need smoldering in your belly, urging you to beg and plead for more.

And just when you think you can't take it any longer, that he's going to leave that nipple just as bruised and needy as the last, he suddenly releases it with a soft pop, dragging his mouth up the center of your chest, over your collarbone, until he's level with your ear.

“I couldn't sleep earlier, you know,” he confesses quietly, large hands continuing their sensual exploration of your curves. “So I came to check on you, and…” he pauses, swallowing thickly. “The sight of you lying there in this thin little top, your nipples practically begging for my touch…”

One calloused palm cups your breast, thumb circling the stiff peak. "It took every ounce of my control not to crawl into bed with you then, to wake you up with my mouth all over these perfect tits..." The crude words from his typically sweet mouth, combined with the heat of his gaze boring into you, makes your stomach flutter uncontrollably 

“I even had to jerk off in the bathroom because I couldn't control my thoughts.” His words send a shiver of delight down your spine, fueling the growing heat in your core. “Because I couldn't stop thinking about fucking you, right there in your bed, your cute little body wiggling and gasping beneath mine.”

Holy hell… the imagery that invades your mind as he speaks sets your blood aflame. You can't help but picture him, flushed and panting, gripping himself with a white-knuckled fist against the cool tiles of the bathroom. Stroke after stroke, reliving the fantasy of having you splayed out before him, aching and needy, as he sinks into you…

Tearing yourself away from the erotic mental image proves difficult, but you force your gaze to lock with his, drinking in the molten blue fire consuming those icy irises.

“I wish you had,” you rasp, reaching up to thread trembling fingers into silvery locks. Your other hand maps the defined expanse of his back, nails raking lightly before digging in. “Woken me up like that, that is. I would've let you do anything you wanted.” The words are barely a whisper but they're weighted like a solemn vow.

Something in Xavier seems to break with your admission—the dam holding back centuries of restrained emotion crashing and shattering in a mere instant. Gone is the brooding tension, the tightly leashed control that defines him. In its place blooms unrestrained delight, shining through his face with luminous joy. He looks at you with an expression that seems to say 'Is this real? Do you truly want me that much?' His almost boyish grin somehow manages to be disarmingly innocent yet still sexy as sin. 

Slowly, reverently, he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, knuckles grazing your cheek. "Is that so?" he murmurs playfully, nose brushing against yours. 

This pure happiness radiating from him, his usually stern features transformed by that boyish smile, makes you feel all warm and squishy inside. Impulsively, you tilt your chin up to capture his lips in a sweet, fleeting kiss. “Mmhmm,” you hum against his mouth, punctuating the affirmation with a light peck to the corner of his lips. Trailing your fingers through the soft strands of his hair again, you take time to marvel at how it feels like cool silk sliding over your fingertips, like moonlight turned tangible.

“Let me put it this way…” you murmur shyly, ducking your head to hide the fierce blush spreading across your cheeks. The idea of admitting the depth of your desire for him aloud fills you with giddy nerves and liquid heat swirling low in your belly. But the adoring look on Xavier's face, the sheer happiness you’re bringing him, emboldens you.

Slowly reaching out, you trace the elegant line of his jaw, marveling at the texture of his smooth skin beneath your fingertips. Your thumb skims across his lower lip and catches there.  “I want you so badly sometimes that it physically hurts," you confess, voice lowering to an awed whisper thick with longing. “Like...like a constant ache, thrumming through every cell.” Your free hand fists in the front of his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer. 

“This proximity we've shared this past month, not being able to touch you the way I craved?" A little noise escapes you as he presses in, large hands coming up to bracket your ribs. With a shaky inhale, you risk one more statement heavy with meaning. “I was dreaming of you tonight, when you came into my room to check on me. I dream of you every night, Xavier… Asleep or awake.

This soft confession of yours causes a soundless explosion to ignite in Xavier's chest. There's so much pent-up emotion clawing for release… he barely knows where to start or how to even begin to articulate everything he wants, everything he's never even admitted out loud. But what he can do is react. Without either thought or grace, he moves. Leans in. Claims your lips in a powerful, bruising kiss.

There's a fierce desperation in the way he touches you now, an urgency that ignites like a forest fire threatening to consume all in its path, spreading from one acre to another, unable and unwilling to be tamed until there's nothing left but charred remains and ashes in its wake. 

Even in the dancing glow of the fire, you can see the intensity smoldering in his icy blue gaze as it rakes over your body. Calloused fingertips skim down your sides, your hips, leaving tingles in their wake. Dipping into the waistband of your panties, Xavier hooks his thumbs under the delicate lace, slowly beginning to drag the scant fabric downward.

“The dreams…” he murmurs, the soft words laced with barely restrained lust. “They’ll be nothing compared to the real thing. And I'm going to make each and every one come true... Starting right now.”

With a final tug, he strips your panties away completely, baring you fully to his hungry gaze. Then his mouth is trailing scorching kisses down your throat, pausing to suck lightly at your racing pulse point. Lower and lower he goes, mapping the swell of your breasts with lips and tongue, dipping into your navel teasingly. Finally, thank the gods, he settles between your parted thighs.

For centuries, Xavier has trailed in the shadows of your life after life, an unseen protector, a quiet admirer, a devoted lover. Ever patient, ever steadfast, his focus on you has never once wavered.

And now here he is, reverently tracing his tongue along your dampened folds, worshiping your pussy as his fingers dig deep into your thighs to hold you down. He buries his face deeper, lapping at your sensitive flesh with firm strokes. 

As Xavier's skilled tongue paints swirls around the sensitive bud, your fingers tangle desperately in his hair. Hips bucking into his touch, shameless moans spill freely from your lips as jolts of pure pleasure radiate through you.

Through hooded eyes, you watch him work, face flushed and eyes feverishly intense, completely enraptured by your reactions. Each shudder and keen is met with a low groan that vibrates deliciously against you.    

Lost in a haze of sensory overload, Xavier grinds his cloth-covered erection desperately against the plush rug below. Each roll of his hips and swirl of his tongue around your throbbing bud brings him closer to the edge.

“Fuck, angel,” he rasps between long, languid laps. "Your taste...I could drown in it." Strong hands grip your thighs harder as his grinds against the floor grow almost frantic. The sight of this incredible man reduced to dry humping the ground, clearly wild with need for you, sends a dark thrill zinging down your spine.

But suddenly, he pulls back, panting harshly. Eyes glazed with lust meet yours, a telltale flush high on his cheekbones, spreading up to his ears. "I..." Xavier begins hoarsely, voice strained. “This is a first for me...”

In the midst of confusion over such a mind-blowing revelation, his hot mouth closes over your clit again and sucks HARD.

Panting, moaning, your senses spinning out of control as the pleasure becomes almost overwhelming, you blink at him in a daze of pure delight. With no hope of words if he keeps on, you reach for him and tug at his hair, trying to bring his eyes back to yours.

Gasping, you manage to force words past the desire clogging your throat, soft but laden with importance. "Me too," you admit to him, almost embarrassed to do so, somehow worried that this knowledge might scare him off. 

But Xavier's eyes just widen in shock, a myriad of emotions playing across his lovely features as your confession sinks in. Disbelief wars with elation, awe with relief, as he processes this precious gift of information.

“Wait... you..." His voice emerges rough with feeling, barely even there at all. Slowly, reverently, he crawls back up your body, settling between your splayed thighs without putting his full weight on you. Large, calloused hands cup your face gently, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks.

“You’re saying that I would be...your first, too?" The question hangs in the charged air between you, practically trembling with scarcely contained emotion. Wonder colors Xavier’s tone, and he can’t help but feel that maybe this is the universe's way of making up for all the years of unrequited yearning and pain he’s suffered.

A hushed noise, desperate and needy, spills from Xavier as his mouth descends onto yours, swallowing down the breathy confirmation spilling from your lips. It's an intoxicating melody that drives him wild, a song he wants to hear over and over again.

Slowly, deliberately, his fingers continue their sinful torment, a tantalizing dance that's only purpose is to have you writhing and moaning beneath him as he catalogs each quiver, every cute little sound..

They trace maddeningly slow paths over your skin, turning your soft whimpers into full-fledged gasps of pleasure. The longer he does this, the louder you get, the more it fuels his confidence, his satisfaction.

Two long fingers steal through your slick folds and begin making lazy circles around your throbbing clit, the sensation sending shudders rippling through you. 

His thumb slides down to your entrance, circling and teasing. Then suddenly it thrusts inside, followed by a second finger, penetrating you deeply in a slow and torturous rhythm, testing your readiness. “Oh god..." he groans against your lips, feeling you spasm around him.

“So fucking tight…" With his thumb still hooked inside you, he presses upwards to massage your g-spot while his fingers fill you up perfectly. 

Your back arches off the plush carpet, head thrown back in ecstasy. Electric pleasure courses through every nerve ending, building to a crescendo with each perfect stroke.

"Yes, oh god yes!" you keen breathlessly, hips rolling wildly to meet his thrusts. The obscene squelch of your arousal fills the room as he works you skillfully towards your peak like he’s prepared for this moment his entire life. Every nerve ending is alight with blissful fire, muscles starting to quake and tighten.

Through half-lidded eyes glazed over with lust, you watch him work, drinking in the sight of this magnificent man coming undone for you. Sweat gleams on his brow, muscles straining as he holds himself back from simply fucking you into the ground.

On his own lust-fueled cloud, Xavier feels the tight, squeezing pull around his fingers, an unmistakable sign that you're giving in to the tidal wave of pleasure crashing over you.

“I can—I can feel it. Oh god, angel, you're—" The breath gets knocked out of him as pleasure sweeps over him, clouding his vision, fogging his thoughts as his cock pulsates, spilling hot seed between his thighs, filling up his boxers and soaking through his pajama pants.

The sight of him coming undone is just too much, your world shattering into a million tiny pieces. Throwing your head back with a silent scream, your pussy clamps down HARD on his pistoning fingers, fluttering wildly as wave after wave of mind-melting ecstasy consumes you. Clear fluid gushes out, soaking his hand and your inner thighs, trickling down to the rug beneath you.

The intensity of your climax, coupled with his talented fingers milking every last throbbing pulse of pleasure from you, leaves you drained and sobbing, the absolute sweetest sort of broken. Panting heavily, limbs jelly-like, you collapse back onto the carpet with a shuddering sigh.

His eyes catch yours again as you peek up at him sheepishly, mumbling an embarrassed apology, and immediately that trademark smile lights up his face. And the look in his eyes? Pure male pride and delight at the mess he's reduced you to, a satisfied grin curving his full lips as he shakes his head.

“Don't you dare apologize," Xavier murmurs firmly. "Never apologize for being perfect." 

And then he does something that blows your mind even more, if that's even possible. Ever-so-slowly, he brings his soaked fingers to his mouth, parting his lips, letting you see the tip of his tongue snake out, tasting what belongs to him. His moan echoes yours.

Then he’s leaning in, tongue lapping at your messy slit with unrestrained hunger. He groans at the taste, relishing the evidence of your pleasure like the finest wine. Strong hands grasp your hips, holding you steady as he eats you like a starving man, determined not to waste a single drop. 

All thoughts of embarrassment scatter entirely as new tingles of arousal bloom under his relentless ministrations. The wet glide of his tongue drags along your sensitive folds, delving deep to lap at your clenching hole.

“Do it again," Xavier all but growls against your pussy, the vibrations stoking the growing flames. "Wanna taste it straight from the source this time."

He seals his lips around your throbbing clit and sucks HARD, two thick fingers plunging back into your sopping cunt.

Squealing in shock and ecstasy, your second climax crashes over you mere moments after the first. Back arching nearly painfully, you fist your hands in his hair, grinding yourself wildly against his hungry mouth.

Xavier is like a man possessed… greedy noises rumbling in his chest as he laps up your newest flood. The obscene slurping sounds fill the room, punctuated by your keening cries. He seems determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from your shaking form.

Before you've even started to come down, he's already working you towards another peak. Fingers pump in and out rapidly, thumb curling just right to hit that magic spot inside you with every thrust. His tongue swirls and flicks mercilessly over your sensitive bundle of nerves, alternating between kittenish licks and powerful sucks.

"Too...much...oh god!" you babble incoherently, overwhelmed by the sheer onslaught of sensation. Drool leaks from the corner of your slack mouth as your brain short circuits from overstimulation. The pleasure is edged with a hint of pain, pushing you to your limits.

But he still just won’t stop… growing bolder, more demanding. Groaning into your pussy, he adds a third finger, stretching you deliciously. Barely registering his husky murmur of “need… to get you ready for me... Just a little more, I promise," cuts through the haze of blinding pleasure clouding your mind, and you can only whimper and moan helplessly. Your body is no longer your own, entirely at the mercy of Xavier's wicked mouth and fingers…

And gods, he plays you like perfectly, a willing instrument in his hands, coaxing out ecstasy with seemingly endless stamina. Sweat glistens on his brow, muscles flexing beautifully as he worships your quivering sex with single-minded focus.

“It’s just… you taste so good…" Xavier groans appreciatively, briefly releasing your swollen clit briefly. “Could feast on this pretty pussy for hours…” To punctuate his statement, he dives back in, lapping and suckling like a starving man.

His tongue delves deeper, spearing into your fluttering channel, fucking you open with filthy slurps. Then his fingers are slipping back in, pumping faster, harder, stretching you exquisitely as they curl over that magic bundle of nerves.

“Yes! Oh fuck yes!" you keen wildly, much too far gone to care about volume or composure. The coil in your belly winds tighter, tighter, ready to snap at any moment.

Xavier still can't quite believe what's happening, his fingers buried deep in your slick heat as his lips and tongue continue their torturous assault. His name echoes around the room as a chant in response to his efforts, music he plans to listen to every goddamn night if he has anything to say about it.

He's aware that you're close again, cries and whimpers ripped from your throat like a desperate plea for salvation. And so he begins his final crescendo, pulling out all the stops for your finale. His tongue performs lazy, teasing circles around your throbbing clit while his fingers piston in and out in tandem with his lips. 

A particularly sharp nip catapults you over the edge into sheer ecstasy. Pleasure, pure and molten, sears through every nerve ending, your back bowing sharply off the floor as you come undone again with a ragged cry of his name.

With a triumphant groan of his own, Xavier follows suit, hips jerking erratically as he spills hot and heavy into his clothing.

As the waves of euphoria gradually ebb, leaving you limp and twitching in the aftermath, you sense rather than see him sit back on his haunches. His breathing is harsh and labored in the charged air between you. When you finally do manage to focus on his face, his expression makes your heart flutter—adoration mingled with possessive hunger, like a wolf eyeing its prey.

"I...we should probably..." he starts quietly, voice hoarse with exertion and residual need. "Maybe we should stop here tonight…” But even as he says it, there's clear reluctance underlying the words, his hands twitching with the urge to touch you further.

Blinking up at him dazedly, eyelids drooping from post-orgasmic bliss, you slowly shake your head in soft disagreement. The tenderness of his voice, that note of reluctance as he suggests stopping purely for your wellbeing, only makes you want him more.

Smirking softly, your body humming with contentment, you move to straddle his lap. Ruffling fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, your gaze softens as you take in his features. Cheeks flushed from pleasure and exertion, pupils dilated to near-black pools in a way that sets all your nerves alight… His lips are red and slightly parted, panting softly in the otherwise quiet room.

“I know you want more, Xavier…” you whisper playfully, half-teasing, but also completely sincere. "I can see it written all over your face.” One hand caresses down his jaw to his neck, urging him closer until you can claim his lips in a languid kiss.

Your fingertips trace delicate patterns along the strong column of his throat, savoring the rapid thrum of his pulse beneath the pads of your fingers. Breaking the kiss with a soft nip to his bottom lip, you pull back just enough to meet his smoldering gaze head-on, a mischievous glint dancing in your own.

“I know I want more,” you breathe out, the words sending shivers racing down your spine as you say them aloud. "I want to feel every thick inch of you inside me, filling me up until I'm stuffed full and aching from it…”

To emphasize your point, you roll your hips, grinding your slick folds along the prominent bulge tenting the front of his pajama pants. The fabric is already damp with his release, providing delicious friction against your sensitive flesh.

“And you're still so hard for me already," you purr approvingly, circling your hips in languid figure-eights. "Like your body knows exactly what it needs...what we need.”

Freeing his impressive length, you watch with hooded eyes as it springs forth, long and thick and so deliciously messy. A thrill of anticipation shoots through you at the sight, your inner walls clenching hungrily around nothing.

“I mean, we both knew that wasn't going to be enough, didn't we?" you murmur playfully, giving him a firm squeeze before sliding down his body and settling between his spread thighs.

“Not when we have all these pent-up desires finally coming to a head," you continue breathlessly, placing feather-light kisses along his length as you speak.

“And not when being with you is all I can even think about anymore…”

Peering up at him through lowered lashes, you maintain unwavering eye contact as you extend your tongue, circling it around the swollen head and flicking over the weeping slit teasingly. Your free hand splays out, mapping the chiseled planes of his abdomen, feeling the muscles jump and flex beneath your palm.

“And you taste so good, Xavier…” you murmur with a pout, “you won't make me stop, will you?"

“No, of course I won't make you stop…" Xavier rasps, large hands coming to rest on either side of your head. His fingers thread through your hair, not pushing or pulling, but resting there like a promise and a plea all at once. 

“Not now, not ever," he promises, voice rough with barely restrained need. His cock twitches insistently against your cheek, begging for attention.

Emboldened by his desperate pleas, you part your lips and take him into the wet heat of your mouth inch by delicious inch. Your tongue swirls around his thick shaft as you sink lower, lips stretching obscenely around his considerable girth as you swallow him down. "Mmmph!" A muffled moan vibrates around his shaft as you begin to work him over with enthusiastic bobs and slurps.

“Fuck yeah… just like that sweet girl, take it all for me," Tears start streaming freely down your face as Xavier suddenly snaps over the feeling of your hot mouth on his cock and takes complete control, roughly fucking your throat with powerful thrusts of his hips. Drool escapes the seal of your stretched lips, dribbling messily down your chin to splatter on your bouncing breasts. The obscene sounds of his flesh slapping against yours fill the room, punctuated by your choked gasps and gurgles and Xavier’s own guttural groans of pleasure.

“Such a good girl, taking me so pretty on your knees like this,” he grunts, his fingers digging painfully into your scalp now as he uses you like his own personal doll, making you swallow his length over and over until you nearly choke on it.

Despite the intensity and roughness, there's a deep satisfaction burning within you at having such a powerful effect on him. His loss of control, the primal desperation in his touches and thrusts, it's like a drug—intoxicating and addictive.

With a final few forceful thrusts, Xavier reaches his breaking point. His body tenses, muscles locked as his balls draw up tight, fingers digging hard into your scalp as the first jet of his cum spurts into the back of your throat, hitting the reflex point that has you coughing and gagging. But he doesn't stop fucking your mouth, driving himself home again and again until he's milked himself dry.

Then, falling limp on the plush rug, completely spent and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, he pants loudly, his cock twitching against his stomach.

Raising himself up on an elbow, he gazes down at you with the softest expression. One hand reaches out to gently caress your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear as he speaks, voice barely a murmur and laden with emotion. "I… I didn't hurt you, did I?" He asks it like it's the most important question in the world, his anguish like a palpable thing in the air.

Drained and panting heavily, you take a moment to compose yourself before crawling languidly up the length of Xavier's trembling form. Straddling his hips, you grind your dripping core along his rapidly stiffening shaft, coating him in your slick arousal. “Never,” you breathe as you gaze into his eyes, pupils blown wide with renewed lust and emotion shining bright.

As you position yourself over Xavier, grasping his shaft and rubbing the broad head teasingly along your soaked slit, his hands come to rest on your hips, stilling your movements. "Wait, let me... " he says softly, blue eyes dark with affection and desire as he looks up at you.

In one smooth motion, he lifts you effortlessly, positioning you just above where he needs you most. Slowly, reverently, he begins to guide you downwards, the flared tip of his cock parting your dripping folds as he lowers you inch by excruciating inch. “That's it, just like that, angel. go slow... let me feel every bit of you taking me in," Xavier coaxes, voice low and heated as he watches your face intently, committing every fleeting expression of bliss to memory.

Halfway in, he bottoms out, his cock knocking right up against your cervix. For a few seconds, he simply stays still, his hands cradling your hips and his head falling back onto the floor with a soft sigh. Then he begins to move. Rocking your hips gently in sync with his so that each slow withdrawal drags a gasping moan from your lips, and each deep reentry has you throwing your head back with a sweet sob of pure rapture.

Lost in a haze of sensation, Xavier can’t even breathe as he revels in the exquisite feeling of your slick, velvety walls gripping him so tightly he can barely think past the pleasure.

Picking up the pace slightly, he rolls his hips, grinding against you as he pulls you down to meet each upward thrust. "So perfect," he groans brokenly, "taking me so well, like you were always meant to be filled by me." The dirty talk spills from his lips unbidden, his usual restraint shattered by the mind-melting pleasure of finally claiming you.

Soft, breathless praises fall from your kiss-swollen lips. "Mhmm, so good," you gasp out, tilting your hips to take him impossibly deeper. "So big, so hard inside me... stretching me so perfectly."

Moaning shamelessly, you drape yourself over his chest, peppering fervent kisses across his neck and jaw. "Made for me," you echo, nipping at his earlobe before sucking it between your teeth. 

Your back arches off the floor as Xavier suddenly flips your positions, looming over you with a predatory gleam in his eye. "Yep, all for you," he agrees breathlessly. Gripping your thighs, he pushes your knees toward your shoulders, spreading you open completely and slipping back inside you with a sharp snap of his hips. 

"Oh f-fuck yes!" you cry out, the new angle allowing him to hit impossibly deeper, stoking the inferno building low in your belly.

Xavier sets a relentless pace now, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room as he pounds into you. Each thrust rocks your entire body, breasts bouncing with the force. Panting harshly, he leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, greedily swallowing your desperate mewls.

Breaking away, he peppers hot kisses along your jaw before nuzzling into your neck, inhaling your scent. “Say it," he whispers against your skin, hips never faltering in their merciless rhythm. “Tell me who you were made for… tell me… that you’re mine." Fingers wrap loosely around your throat as he gazes down at you, blue eyes blazing with need, silently begging for your affirmation.

Although each pounding thrust steals your breath away, you force your lips open and moan out the words that he so desperately needs to hear. "Yours, Xavier," you gasp out, "Only yours... Now and forever.”

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you arch up to meet him as he pistons into you. The slight pressure he applies on your throat sends an electrifying bolt of lust through your system, forcing a strangled moan from your lips.

"You're so hard... S-so deep inside me…" you whimper, your voice music to Xavier’s ears as it echoes around the room. 

“Mine,” he whispers against your throat, punctuating the word with a sharp nip to your pulse point. His hips stutter, losing some of their rhythm as he nears the edge. "A-angel, I'm not... Gonna last..." 

The words tumble from your lips in a breathless, urgent tumult. "Xavier, please..." your voice trembles on the edge of a sob. "Come inside me, please, please... I need it…”

At the sound of your needy, wanton pleas, something in Xavier snaps. With a hoarse shout of your name, he hilts himself fully inside you and stills, every muscle locked in place. Hot spurts of his release paint your inner walls as he pulses and throbs, pumping what feels like endless streams of his cum deep into your spasming cunt.

And with one final grunt, Xavier gives you the final shove you need, setting off a ripple effect that carries through your system, dragging you under with its force. You writhe beneath him, riding out the tide of ecstasy as he continues thrusting, almost brutally hard. "So good…" he grunts, eyes blissed out and unfocused as he takes your body in reckless abandon.

Just when you're sure you've rung every last drop of satisfaction from him, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, spreading your knees wide as he reinserts his half-hard cock, resuming right where he left off.

“I need more," he murmurs, hands grasping the firm globes of your ass, spreading them deliciously wide as he drags the velvet head along your slick, puffy folds before slamming home again.

“Oh… oh god, Xav-" your protest cuts off into a keening cry as he hits a particularly sensitive spot, his sudden aggression and dominance shocking and thrilling in equal measure. He seems insatiable… still so hard even after coming so many times, the wet squelch of his cock churning up his own release filling the air obscenely.

As another climax swiftly builds, you bury your face in the plush rug, whimpering and mewling shamelessly into the fibers. The dichotomy between his outward gentleness and the barely restrained beast within is borderline frightening in the best possible way.

A fresh surge of heat floods Xavier's chest as you arch against him, demanding he fucks you harder. His hips pull back until only the thick head of his cock remains nestled against your sopping cunt, before slamming home over and over again, the *thwump* of his pelvis smacking against the lush curves of your ass. The impact has ripples spreading outward, causing the muscles in your thighs and lower back to quiver as you come again.

But as the last of your tremors fade away, Xavier still refuses to let up for a single moment, instead driving into you harder, faster. One hand tangles in your hair, pulling back until your entire body is arched impossibly, offering yourself completely to his ravaging thrusts. The other snakes around to roughly palm your breast, thumb pinching and swirling the sensitive bud in an echo of the way his cock fucks into you.

"P-please," you whine brokenly, pushing your hips back even more to meet his increasingly erratic thrusts. Your brain feels fuzzy, overloaded with sensation as he wrenches your body into a bow, presenting yourself to him so wantonly. "I n-need... More..."

Drool leaks from the corner of your slack mouth as he uses you ruthlessly, his movements growing clumsier and more desperate by the second. Panting heavily, sweat-dampened strands of silver hair clinging to his forehead, Xavier keeps that same relentless pace as he pounds into you from behind with a reckless abandon that only hints at the barely restrained desire eating him alive from the inside.

His blunt nails dig crescent shapes into the soft plush of your ass as he spreads you wider, allowing him to sink impossibly deeper. Leaning over your arched back, he brings his lips close to your ear, hot breath ghosting over the shell as he breathes out, "Didn't think... I had this in me... but the way you look... sprawled out... taking everything I give you..." 

He punctuates his words with a low groan, sharply biting down on the junction of your shoulder and neck. "Mine..." The word slurs slightly, breath fanning your cheek in warm gusts. “Only mine... ruin you for anyone else... won't ever crave another's touch... just... just mine..." He promises in a heady mixture of boyish excitement, desperate adoration and dark satisfaction.

As dawn breaks, painting the sky in brilliant streaks of orange and pink, Xavier finally relents, pulling out of your thoroughly used hole with a wet pop. He scoops you up into his strong arms, carrying you bridal-style towards the car, pausing occasionally to pepper your face with tender kisses. Once home, the moment your apartment door closes behind you, he pins you face-down against the kitchen counter, kicking your legs apart impatiently.

“Can’t wait another second," he murmurs, grinding his stiffening length between your ass cheeks. "Need to... fill you up 'til it takes." Strong hands yank your pants down, baring your dripping folds to the cool air. Then he's pushing inside you again, stretching you open around his thick girth. "Missed this already... missed the feeling of you squeezing me..."

He continues his ruthless rhythm, kneading the tense muscles in your back with eager hands as his hips meet your pliant form with unrestrained aggression. One particularly forceful pump pushes you up onto the tips of your toes, eliciting a throaty cry from your parted lips. “So pretty like this... marked up... covered in my cum…”

All day and night, Xavier ravages your body with a seemingly insatiable hunger, bending and folding you in every imaginable way. On the bed, on the couch, even pressed up against the shower wall as steam fills the room, his hard cock never stops moving within you. Whenever you feel yourself starting to go limp with exhaustion, he seems to find a fresh surge of energy, determined to wring every last ounce of pleasure from your spent form.

As the second day bleeds into a third, with your body aching deliciously and your thighs painted with his copious releases, he finally succumbs to sheer physical depletion. Still nestled deep inside your fluttering walls, he collapses sideways, pulling you flush against his sweat-slicked chest. Mumbling incoherently into your hair, he manages to get out a drowsy "love you,” the words slurred and heavy with spent passion and emotion.

Curling protectively around your smaller form, he nuzzles into the nape of your neck, seeking your comforting scent and warmth. His breathing evens out, drifting into a deep, sated slumber, the steady thump of his heartbeat lulling you into peaceful rest within the shelter of his embrace.

[lilac-scrapbook]

*screams in old hyperfixation*

They locked. The fucking. Door.

One of the only viable escape routes in any kind of emergency.

Just... locked.

To prevent theft, they said to justify it. Because profit was more important than safety.

I learned about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire in college and it has continued to hold an iron grip on my soul for years. It may seem a weird and morbid thing to obsess over, but it's so interesting (and awful) just how fucking preventable it was. So many underpaid, poorly-treated immigrant workers (mostly women) died horrific deaths (burning alive and jumping out of windows) because those in power were greedy and paranoid and they just didn't care. The fire itself was an accident iirc but it was the inevitable result of unsafe, exploitative working conditions.

There had been protests prior to the fire, people trying to raise the alarm and push for change, but not much came of it. No one listened. Not really.

Not until after the fire, of course. When the public was forced to see and read about the carnage, the loss of human life, and the terror that the victims must have felt. It was a terrible spectacle. The company at fault looked like the villains they were. There was, finally, public outrage. And only then did things change.

It was too late for those who died, and it wasn't enough, but it was a start.

The shirtwaist factory fire wasn't even the last time Triangle was caught pulling that shit, either. It's just the example people remember.

Triangle rebuilt their factory somewhere else and were caught locking the doors again.

So, even when a tragedy is a catalyst for positive change, we still have to be vigilant and hold people in power accountable.

[stardustcentral95]

I was watching Sneegs stream, and he made some great points for the server and its longevity. Sneeg has been on multiple servers and has seen servers pop up and die out. He says that the main reasons smp's die is because the creator no longer is interested in playing.

Sneeg is right as well when he says it isn't right to force someone to play something they don't want to, and Tubbo is doing his tubbothon, so he's more focused on that and so is the smp admins who a majority are helping with Tubbos streams.

Tubbo also does things that he thinks is fun or cool in that moment and doesn't really think about the aftermath or what is necessarily best for the server overall. He wanted to add a hostile faction, which many of the new players did not want to participate. He wanted to make new players fight for a spot, leaving those who lost to not be able to join with only one opening for the winner. He wants to add bounties that would directly oppose the Keepers wanting the factions to work together in lore. Another reason adding bounties wouldn't work is because with Joe's smp it has infinite lives whereas in The Realm smp those lives are finale and when you lose them all you are reset to the very beginning as a consequence and hate might spread to the players who reset another player.

The realm isn't really doing its best with only a few dedicated people logging on every day, and with its creator wanting to work on another server for create it feels like throwing the old toy out for a new one. The only problem is that there are still people who play with the old one and don't want it to die.

So what can be done so Tubbo is doing what he wants and the server stays alive for the people who want to play? Well, from what I've seen, it would probably be best for Tubbo to pass on either ownership or put someone else in charge of the server temporarily. Tango is already in charge of a lot on the realm and he seems rather passionate about it, other ideas could be some of the dedicated players who have stuck around, such as Bad, Ros, or Sneeg. Understandably, they might not want to or have the time either, but I would still think that they should have a say in the direction of the server. Sneeg and Bad are some of the highest players, and through their leveling, they have discovered what works and doesn't, the suggestion server on discord is mostly one of them saying a new bug they found or some ideas to leveling. Ros has great ideas when it comes to events, and she was recently asked by Tango to make a list of some possibly new members and add more women to the server. She also talked about adding some members from the qsmp and life steal to incentives current players who don't log on like Clown.

This is just from what I've seen, so i might be wring about some things, and others might have better ideas on how to help keep The Realm alive, but this is what I noticed.

[zepskies]

(Not a fanfic request) Imagine spoiling Ben and/or kissing him stupid. Just getting through all the machismo stuff and becoming his safe space. Doing mundane tasks but they never feel mundane because you’re with your best friend. Imagine him growing as a person. Imagine him looking at you with nothing but adoration. Jensen Ackles has so much to atone for— How dare he be so talented. 😭💕

Ahhh you're giving me the warm fuzzies, anon! 🥰 I definitely think this would be the vibe between SB/Ben and the reader in my series Break Me Down, and I've tried to give that sense of them being each other's safe space in many of the sequel stories.

In that story-verse, Ben's the one who makes you feel safe, who gives you the support you need so you don't have to be so strong all the time. While you're the one who makes him feel like there's someone in the world who understands him, accepts him for who he is, but also takes him to task when he needs it.

More domestic headcanons with Ben:

(Whoops, my hand slipped. 😂💚)

You and Ben watch old movies together and argue about the plot, with your modern, feminist view vs. his "traditionalist" view. But he also gives you behind the scenes info whenever he actually knows the actors, directors, etc. -- like the best movie commentary ever.

Ben won't easily admit it, but one of his favorite things is just chilling on the couch with you, flipping through channels, drinking a glass of whiskey or snacking on junk. You using him as a body pillow, basically. Or him with his head in your lap while you scratch his back or run your fingers through his hair. You like playing with his hair, the soft strands.

You also like his hands, long fingers and wide palms. But he likes the gentleness of your hands.

Ben likes taking you out to dinner, but he also likes going grocery shopping with you because he likes picking out new things to try (even as he makes fun of all the "oatmilk this" and "quinoa that").

Late at night, if either of you can't sleep (or after a few rounds of keeping each other up), Ben starts to open up.

He tells you about his life before Compound V, about his mother, about his father, about the world he grew up in, and sometimes, very rarely, about that Russian lab.

Those are the times that you have to hide how much your heart breaks, because you don't want him to instinctively close back up, not wanting to be pitied or seen as less of a man for being honest about what he went through.

He also admits to things he did when he was the "leader" of Payback -- his "glory days." What he doesn't admit, but you can tell just by his tone and demeanor, is that he's less proud and yearning those days than he used to be.

Actually, he wouldn't go back to those days even if he could.

Because now, he has you. He has a real family. That's the main thing that's real to him now.

AN: Again, didn't mean for this to become a mini HC, but there ya go! loll 💚

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[paper-starz]

S-M-I-L-E Everyday!

OH THESE WERE SO FUN TO DESSSIGNNNN!! AAAA THEYRE MORE 80s NOWWWWW

Ehehehe catnap comes with his own lil nightcap and pillow!!

Lore below!

The Smiling Critters were Playtime Co.'s most popular, if not most well-known toyline ever produced in the factory. First appearing on greeting cards in the late 1970s, they were suggested to Playtime Co. in 1981 by the chief of marketing, Jimmy Roth, to turn these beloved greeting card characters into lovable, huggable toys. This suggestion then became a reality after Playtime Co. produced the first ever Smiling Critter plushies in 1983.

In the summer of that same year, the Smiling Critters took the world by storm. From selling their own books and magazines, to even debuting on television with specials like “The Smiling Critters and the Forest of Frowns.” and “The Smiling Critters’ Winter Wonderland.”

By 1985, not only did the Smiling Critters receive a TV series that aired for 4 years, but they had theatrical releases that became the highest-grossing animated film at the time of its release.

By 1983 to 1987, the Smiling Critters sold over 60 million plushies and gained over 3 billion dollars in sales during the 80s. With such a commercial success, Playtime Co. introduced 2 of the most popular Smiling Critters, Dogday and Catnap, into Playtime Park in 1985!

When asked why they didn’t just introduce the entire cast of critters, Leith Pierre, head of innovation at Playtime Co. responded with “Well, introducing all of these toys at once might overwhelm our staff and our guests. Both of these toys are one of our newest and most experimental creations, so, if everything goes well, then we do have plans of releasing the rest of the Smiling Critters into Playtime Park. However, our guests’ safety and happiness is our utmost concern here at Playtime Co., and we prioritize that above all else.”

The two critters each had their own little place to take care of. Dogday, being the leader of the Smiling Critters, was in charge of watching the younger guests and making sure everyone was having a great time at the park. Catnap, on the other hand, was in charge of Home Sweet Home, a quaint little area built for kids and parents who just need some time to relax and take a break from all of the ruckus at the park. Home Sweet Home has many beds for little ones to rest and even quiet activities such as drawing and reading for kids and people to enjoy (and with such affordable pricing, who could ever say no?) Catnap can even read to the little ones and for those who have trouble sleeping, Catnap comes equipped with Playtime Co.’s “Sleepy Lavender Scent” to help you relax (guaranteed to knock even the most hyperactive of kids right out!!)

However, not everything was all sunshine and rainbows as tragedy struck in mid 1989. There was a factory error where all of the “Sleepy Lavender Scent” cans for the Catnap plushies were instead replaced with Poppy gas, making kids who owned this factory error experience vivid hallucinations, excessive sleep, and even nightmares. While all of the toys were recalled, this error followed them to Playtime Park, where Catnap was given that same gas. The Home Sweet Home incident occurred in 1989, devastating the Smiling Critters’ reputation. Because of these controversies, the Catnap toy was pulled from the lineup and all promotional material afterwards, and Playtime Park decommissioned Catnap soon after.

Since then, Playtime Co. has done its best to try and repair the Smiling Critters reputation, with Playtime Co. issuing an apology statement the following week. Currently, while the Smiling Critters are still sold in toy stores, they will never reach the popularity they once had in the 80s.

[worrywrite]

This is something that speaks to the real and correct way to talk to people of opposing political stands as you. It is never about facts, it is never about studies and what we know, I is never about science, and it is never about God. What it always boils down to is values.

You need to distill down your beliefs into a set of core values and examine what those values mean in regards to your political stance. For instance, you need to asses whether you actually value the lives and experiences of other people, if you value life, if you value equality and equity, and so on. And when someone says something like "I don't know how you can call yourself ____ and vote ____" you need to figure out what it is they value in order to respond. And even more so, you need them to figure out what it is they value, because they usually don't want to say it if they know.

If someone says "how can you call yourself Christian and vote for the party if the gays" (which is a real thing I've heard) a good response might be "I value human life, and gay people are human, and I think they should be alive." And this is a good response because it is simple, straightforward, and if someone challenges it they are automatically facing a very core value to modern civilization. Life is valuable.

And if someone were to to the above statement, you should try and assess where that sentiment is coming from. Usually, it comes from an angle of learned hate that they don't fully understand. Most people are secondhand vectors of hate, at least, sometimes they're even further down the line. Many people don't know what they repeat the talking points they do, they just repeat them because other people who they morally align themselves use those talking points. So when they conflate Christianity with hating gay people, they're saying something about their values. Typically they're repeating these things because they value their standing among their peers, they value their purity in regards to their faith, and they value law over life. The first two are fairly self explanatory, but the last one is the big problem. Law over life is a value expressed by many Americans, they want to trust that the systems they support--whether it be a specific group in the government, the criminal justice system, their church, religion in general, etc.--have the greater good in mind whenever they do anything. This idea of a greater good, a good that supercedes the individual desires and wants and needs, is something they trust other people to decide without really questioning if those other people care. They believe that law, the enforcement of principles by those chosen to carry out the greater good, can supercede the value of any individual life. But they fall short of considering that they are an individual, they have a life that can be undervalued and eliminated or exploited.

And there are even a subset that have thought of this and insist that they wouldn't care if they were killed or similarly ruined by a force for the greater good--after all it would still be a good outcome. And, frankly, I don't know how to respond to those people. I don't know how you can express a value to them that they care about which might supercede their nihilistic viewpoint. If they genuinely think that their death or the death of literally any one person is sufficient to provide the happiness of many more people, I don't know how to express to them that their values undermine the value of life itself.

And it's tricky, because valuing life isn't always the answer. We often feel comfortable drawing lines around who and what we think deserves to exist. There are, indeed, times when the greater good must be considered, but we cannot let the greater good become a default position. Violence which supercedes the right to life (whether that means death or slavery or another condition) should only be considered as a last resort, not the rule of law.

The trickiest part is that they can respond with, "well that's your opinion." And, in truth, they're right. There's no universally acknowledged and objective answer to the question "what is valuable?" Likewise "good" and "morally correct" can be ambiguous at their hearts. And the pitfalls that arise from trying to find these things is where many of us become truly divided. It is also why many I use choose not to look for answers ourselves and instead choose to trust that others have found them.

So when you talk to someone with different values than you, consider what those values actually are and communicate with them based on those values. Look for common values, things you share, and build on those. Ask them whether they also value those things and what valuing those things means to them and why. And once that why has been answered you will know whether that person is someone worth talking to at all.

Might I give some advice:

Not everyone has (or needs to have) the energy to thoughtfully respond to republicans on the Internet. You do not have to do that.

But some people do, and can. And I think we gotta let them.

An example:

I have a former teacher, I'll call her Grace, who is an incredibly kind woman in her 70s. Devout catholic, had voted for various parties over the years, but has been pretty strictly democrat over the past 15-20 because that aligns with her values of kindness and service.

She shared a post about the pope's recent letter and expressed that she agreed with his concerns about how trump is treating immigrants. A friend of hers commented a long paragraph basically saying "dear Grace I care for you but I don't understand how you can be a Christian and a democrat. Blah blah abortion blah blah gender blah blah drugs."

Grace replied "I'm very busy right now but I am going to respond to you soon with my thoughts". When she did it was an incredibly generous, rational monologue that connected with this person's humanity, their shared religious values, and made a beautiful case for why she supports who she does. I didn't agree with a good half of what she said as I am not a Christian, but the result was an expression of values that I think put her on the side of justice and compassion.

The person replied and thanked her and said she had a lot to think about. It was probably the best case scenario for a Facebook politics conversation

You know what came very close to ruining it? A bunch of (mostly younger) people piling on with "fuck you you racist maga pos" and "no one has to explain anything to you, go to hell" etc etc. Even after Grace wrote that she intended to reply herself.

I watched this republican respond to all the easy, quick insults by saying "this is why I don't think any democrats can be Christian, this is how you all speak to me." If Grace hadn't put so much work into writing her response in a way that was tailored to fit this person, I would not be surprised if that person left Facebook doubly certain that Christian nationalism is the way to go.

I'm not saying we can't cuss out jackasses. I'm not saying everyone needs to respond to bad faith arguments like Grace did or use their time like she did.

But this was on Grace's Facebook page, and interrupted the work she already volunteered to do. Just so these individuals could feel like they "did something" and got a shot off at an enemy.

I think that's selfish and childish and unproductive. They could have said anything they wanted in their own space, but they made grace's job harder for no fuckin reason. And then "loved" her reply and said "that was beautiful Grace, thank you for sharing your thoughts"

Like... Buddies. Pals. If someone volunteers to scrub the toilet fucking let them.

[cuntyji]

HOW TO LOOSE YOUR DIGNITY IN FIVE SECONDS: A HOLI SPECIAL ౨ৎ JJK MEN HEADCANONS

synopsis: holi, the festival of colors, love, and inevitable regrets, has finally arrived. you’ve been waiting all year for this, but the real highlight of the day? your boyfriend’s first holi. whether he’s excited or absolutely dreading it, well… that depends on which one you’re talking about.

content warnings: gender neutral reader, jjk men headcannons (gojo, nanami, geto, toji, shiu, choso, no sukuna this time rip). mentions of hemp. lots of crack, based on many true stories <3

author's note: tell a friend she's back!! thank u for being patient with my break. happy holi if you celebrate, stay safe and have fun :)

gojo’s white hair is a warzone. not a single strand has been spared from the riot of colors that have taken him hostage. you can practically map out the battlefield on his head—electric blue from nobara’s ambush, a blotchy green courtesy of megumi’s grudge, streaks of pink and yellow from random kids who saw an opportunity, and, of course, the deep purple near his roots that is just part of him. his blindfold was a victim early on, ripped away in the opening skirmish, which left his poor six eyes to fend for themselves.

but does he regret it? absolutely not.

“this is the best holiday ever,” he announces, lying on the ground, looking like a pack of expired skittles. he’s positively beaming, grinning wide enough to blind anyone who still has uncolored vision left. “i am beauty. i am art. i am suffering.”

he sits up, running a hand through his hair, then pauses when some of the color transfers onto his palm. his grin falters for half a second before he recovers with a nervous chuckle. “this’ll come out, right? right?”

you don’t have the heart to tell him that some of these colors might have permanently altered his hair. it’ll be fun when he washes it and realizes his shampoo is an accomplice in ruining his life.

nanami thought he was prepared. in his mind, he had planned the ultimate holi defense strategy. crisp white shirt (because nothing says class like a man in white), sunscreen slathered on every inch of his exposed skin (because he would rather die than let the sun and colors double-team him), and a last-minute decision to invest in contact lenses because, well, the alternative was his glasses being held hostage by a bunch of lunatics.

big. mistake.

he comes back looking like a broken man. his shirt? unrecognizable. the white fabric has been violated in every color of the rainbow, some areas more aggressively attacked than others. his hair? streaked with color despite his best efforts to avoid it. and the worst part? the contacts.

nanami rubs his temples, his face twisted into a deep frown. “never again,” he mutters, looking like he’s reliving chapter 120 in real-time. he blinks rapidly, eyes irritated beyond belief, and you realize his biggest mistake was trusting those flimsy lenses to protect him.

you try—really try—to hold back your laughter. “so… the contact lenses?”

he lets out the slowest, most exhausted sigh. “i thought they would protect me.” a pause. then, bitterly: “i was wrong.”

you take in his utterly defeated state, the way he looks more emotionally drained than physically tired, and pat his arm sympathetically.

“on the bright side,” you offer, “you don’t have to worry about wearing white ever again.”

nanami closes his eyes. inhales. exhales. then, in a voice heavy with regret, says, “i miss my old life.”

toji fushiguro is that guy—the one who shows up to holi in all black like he’s at a funeral, fully aware of what’s about to happen to him but too stubborn to dress accordingly. maybe he thought he’d intimidate people into leaving him alone. maybe he thought the dark clothes would somehow hide the damage. either way, he thought wrong.

his face is mostly untouched, purely because no one can reach him. at his height, the average holi enthusiast doesn’t stand a chance. the few who dared to aim for his head either missed or got that look—the one that made them rethink all their life choices up until that moment. but his torso? completely massacred. the black fabric of his shirt has been ruined by every color imaginable, soaked through and weighing him down like a second skin.

toji tugs at his drenched shirt, scowling. “this is bullshit.”

you raise an eyebrow. “it’s literally holi. what did you expect?”

“not to be walking around in clothes that feel like they weigh twenty kilos,” he grumbles. he shifts uncomfortably, flexing his arms like that’ll somehow shake off the moisture. “shoulda just taken my shirt off.”

you glance at his utterly destroyed torso, streaked with a chaotic mix of colors, and smirk. “probably wouldn’t have helped. they went straight for your chest.”

toji knows. he can smell the disaster on himself—especially that horrible silver paint someone had the audacity to slap onto him. it’s clinging to his skin like a bad memory, and the worst part? it’s shiny. he feels like a failed art project.

he huffs, rubbing at a stubborn stain. “if i gotta be drenched, might as well be in red. at least then i can scare the little brats off and tell ‘em it’s blood.”

you give him a look. “so your solution is to traumatize children?”

toji shrugs, unapologetic. “ain’t my fault they’d believe it.”

geto approaches holi with the grace of a man who thinks he can organize chaos. he is all about class, aesthetics, and, most importantly, justice. while others run around like feral animals, flinging colors with reckless abandon, geto has meticulously arranged brass plates filled with neatly piled color powders. the water? prepared in large buckets, not for anarchy, but for people to responsibly fill their water guns. everything is meant to be orderly, beautiful, a functionable and fun holi experience.

he forgets that during holi, no one cares about any of that.

the moment he turns his back, all hell breaks loose.

one person—an absolute menace to society—takes a single look at the perfectly filled water bucket and dumps the entire thing on him. and just as geto is still processing the betrayal, the rest of them follow suit, overturning the entire mountain of color onto him like an avalanche.

it’s a spectacle.

he is left drenched, color clinging to every inch of his soaked clothes, dripping down his face in thick streaks. his once dignified, elegant aura? gone. instead, he’s standing there, utterly stunned, spitting out what can only be described as liquid rainbow.

you approach cautiously, trying—failing—to suppress your laughter.

geto wipes a hand down his face, looking at the sheer amount of color that comes off. he then glances at you, eyes filled with the weary realization of a man who should’ve known better.

“i’m going to have blue teeth by the end of this, aren’t i?” he mutters.

you nod, absolutely delighted at his suffering. “at least you made holi… functional.”

he exhales sharply, color still dripping from his chin. “never. again.”

shiu kong is the epitome of holi with class. while others are running around like headless chickens, he’s standing off to the side, nursing a drink that could only be described as delectable. a perfect mix, smooth, refined—enhanced, of course, with a liiiiittle hemp, because holi is about tradition. he’s not here to get drenched like some peasant. he’s here to enjoy himself.

or so he thought.

he doesn’t even realize the impending disaster until it’s too late. a horde of parched, wide-eyed kids approach him, looking up expectantly, their little hands outstretched. and shiu, in his blissfully buzzed state, barely registers what’s happening before he just hands over the drink with a lazy flick of his wrist.

there’s a beat of silence. then, chaos.

within minutes, he has unleashed the apocalypse. half the kids are suddenly hyperactive, screaming like banshees, running at inhuman speeds with fully loaded water guns, soaking anything and everything in their path. the other half? slumped against walls, swaying slightly, looking like they just saw the secrets of the universe and were not prepared for it.

shiu blinks. realization dawns. he looks down at his now-empty glass.

“…ah, shit.”

you stare at him, half-horrified, half-amused. “tell me you did not just give bhang to an army of children.”

shiu drags a hand down his face. “…i was feeling generous.”

a high-pitched, manic shriek cuts through the air as a color-streaked child launches a water balloon with the accuracy of a trained assassin. shiu watches it fly in slow motion before it smacks a poor soul across the face.

he exhales, stepping back like a man about to abandon ship. “alright. time to leave.”

choso is excited. painfully so. he’s that guy—the one who stations himself in a corner of the arena (or wherever the battlefield of holi has been set) with mountains of snacks and drinks, ready to distribute them at a moment’s notice. hydration is key, he insists. everyone should be well-fed. he’s got an entire system set up, like some kind of holi hospitality committee operating out of sheer enthusiasm.

but when people call him over to actually play, he gets all bashful. he waves them off, shaking his head, mumbling stuff like, "i’m good! you guys have fun!" like he’s some self-sacrificing monk who exists solely to ensure the well-being of others.

that is, until he joins in.

the second he steps into the fray, it’s like something possesses him. the bashfulness? gone. the gentle, food-distributing guardian? replaced. choso goes feral. suddenly, he’s dual-wielding a water gun and a hose pipe, simultaneously, with the skill of a trained marksman. he’s unstoppable. entire groups of people scatter in sheer terror because how is he this accurate?! even those his age shriek and flee for their lives when he mercilessly drenches them.

“WHAT HAPPENED TO BEING SHY?!” someone screams, barely dodging a ruthless stream of water.

choso, entirely deadpan, reloads his water gun. “i changed my mind.”

it’s absolute carnage. colors flying, people falling, screams ringing out—until the moment food is announced.

the instant he hears the words "lunch is ready!" the switch flips right back. suddenly, he’s all smiles again, cheerfully walking toward the food like he wasn’t just waging war seconds ago. he’s even helping people up, brushing color off their faces, offering them a drink like he didn’t just personally destroy them.

you stare at him, still catching your breath, completely drenched. “you’re insane.”

choso beams, already stacking his plate with food. “want some snacks?”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

The difference between Leah appearance and her brother Heinrick is so funny. (Wait I just realized Heinrick is silver biological uncle 🤡)

So sad we didn't get more about her I want to know if her personality is as kind as her appearance.

HEINRICK IS FR SO GROSS 💀 I don’t mean his appearance (although let’s be real here, he is not nice to look at either), but his character is so rancid. I get the sense that the Dawn Knight must have tried to protest the invasion of Briar Land so many times, only to be shut down, gaslit, and pressured by his brother-in-law. And when Heinrick was cackling about how he’s always wanted his own dragon steed (implying he would have raised Malleus from the egg as nothing more than a domesticated animal for him to ride on), I got so ill 🤢 The lore implies that the dragon form is the "true" form of a dragon fae, and we are told that it took Malleus time to learn how to shift into a more human-like body. So??? What would have happened if Heinrick HAD gotten his grubby fingers on Malleus's egg (assuming that he somehow had a way to hatch it)??? Would Malleus just never have learned how to change forms, never have learned human language??? (And with how nasty Heinrick acts, I wouldn't be surprised if he went further and hurt those under his "care" if they disobeyed or lashed out at him in defense 😭) Thank god that wasn't what actually happened to Malleus 💦

I wonder if Heinrick and Leah just take after different relatives?? Or maybe Heinrick started off “good” or decent looking but then over time his rotten attitude twisted his looks to being as grotesque as they are now. (Like he just gorged himself on food or he sneered so much his face stayed that way, etc.) Of course, looking “ugly” doesn’t automatically mean your personality is the same, and the same goes for those who are beautiful or average. It just so happens that Heinrick’s ugly both inside and out 💀

It's a shame we didn't get to learn more about Leah or even put a voice to her. She seems like a kind lady (and I assume she is, not solely because of her looks, but because she is the one the Dawn Knight married).