#and those that are going on spaces and saying they are are living in the same world where Larry are married with children living HEA

[mosabsdr]

💬 Just a Small Update, and a Big Thank You

Dear friends, kind hearts, and everyone who has stood with us,

When I first opened my heart to the world and shared our story, I never imagined the amount of love and solidarity we would receive. Thanks to your incredible support, we’ve now reached $12,837—a milestone that brings real light to some very dark days.

From the deepest corners of my heart, thank you.

💔 A Journey of Loss, but Also of Strength

As many of you know, I’ve lost 25 of my loved ones during this devastating war. That grief lives with me every single day. It’s in the silence that once held laughter, in the empty spaces where we once gathered as a family.

But through your help, I’ve also felt something else: hope. And that hope is priceless.

“21/Oct/2023 Before It Reached Us: The Day Our Neighbor’s House Was Destroyed” A quiet moment of fear, filmed just before everything changed.

“22/Oct/2023 The Morning After: Our Family Home in Ruins” This is what was left behind after the bombing of our home.

🌿 What Life Looks Like for Us Now

Despite everything, we’re still here. Still surviving. Still hoping.

But things have only gotten harder.

The war has returned, more brutal than before—and for over a month now, Gaza has been completely sealed off. No food is coming in. No medical supplies. No aid. No trade. No one is allowed to leave, and no one is allowed to enter.

We’re trapped.

🏚 We live with the fear of tomorrow, every single day. Airstrikes, drones, and the uncertainty of what might happen next. 👨‍👩‍👧 Our family is forever changed—we haven’t just lost people; we’ve lost pieces of ourselves. 📉 Basic needs go unmet—even clean water feels like a luxury now. Medicines, if they exist at all, are unreachable.

And yet…

Your support reminds us that we’re not forgotten. It reminds us that someone, somewhere, is still listening. That someone still cares. That we’re not completely alone in this.

Every message. Every share. Every dollar. It tells us: You’re walking this road with us. And that gives us the strength to keep going.

💖 What You Can Do

If you’ve already donated—thank you beyond words. If you can share our story again, it could reach someone who can help.

Even $5 means warmth, comfort, and a chance to breathe a little easier.

✨ Why It All Matters

This isn’t just about reaching a fundraising goal. It’s about surviving war with dignity. It’s about believing in tomorrow. It’s about making sure my daughter grows up knowing that the world did not look away.

Thank you for your kindness, patience, and belief in our humanity. You’ve helped me find my voice—and I will use it to keep hope alive.

🙏 From the Heart: A Quiet Apology

There’s something I need to say—something that’s been on my heart for some time.

When I first began sharing our story, I didn’t know what the right way was. I was scared, grieving, and trying to protect my family in any way I could. I reached out to many people, hoping someone, anyone, would see us. In that process, I now realize I may have overstepped, and I might have made some feel overwhelmed.

If that happened, I am truly sorry.

Please believe me when I say it was never out of disregard or pushiness. It came from a place of fear—fear of being forgotten, fear of not being able to keep my family safe, fear of watching everything I love slip away in silence.

I’m learning as I go. I’ve slowed down. I’m more mindful now, trying to share our journey in a way that feels respectful of the space and hearts of those listening.

If my words ever came at the wrong time, or in the wrong way, I hope you can understand where they came from—and I hope you can forgive me.

Thank you for seeing past my mistakes. Thank you for still being here. It means more than I can ever explain.

Vetted by @gazavetters ( #309 )

With love and endless gratitude, Mosab and family ♥️

[the-ocean-is-trans]

hey this was so egregiously fucked up that i couldn't scroll past and not say something. I'm going to break down piece by piece why i think this take is hot garbage.

the graphic: I feel like this should go without saying but you have an image equating the nigerian prince scam, a scam that is driven by financial motivation/greed, with porn bots, which aren't even scamming you but are just an inconvenience on this site, to.....people asking for money to survive genocide????????????? im going to get into why its problematic to assume that gazan fundraisers are scams at face value in a moment, but even if they *were* scams I would rather be scammed out of $20 every once in a while than have literally every single person who is experiencing unimagined levels of hell and danger have to worry about being seen as illegitimate because of the actions of those who would capitalize on a tragedy. and if you can't afford the $20 guess what? you don't have to donate and you can keep your fucking mouth shut for free!

I would like to do a line read of your text, starting with "if a stranger comes to your inbox or slides in your DMs asking you for your money with some sob story, no matter how tragic and convincing the story is, they are a scammer". hey op, have you ever had to fundraise to cover a medical procedure? housing? if you havent, you maybe don't know the level of desperation, hopelessness, and fear that come with knowing that your continued ability to survive is in strangers hands. now, again, if you do not have the ability to donate, shutting the fuck up is free, but how would you feel if one of those strangers decided that they were so offended that you even deigned ask for money that they decided to cast suspicion not only you and your needs but anyone else in a similar situation who had to raise money in this manner?

and now let's get to "especially if the story is obviously copied and pasted, formatted in the exact same way" where i will return to what i said in point 1 about unimagined levels of hell and danger. imagine that said hell and danger is being caused by a nation that subjugates the rest of the world for resources to build and hoard wealth. imagine if you asked for money, even the smallest amount helps, from people who lived in that country that has been profiting off of your destruction for generations, and the people who lived there said "the way you asked for money is too similar to how the other people in my inbox have asked for money for me to believe you need it". whether you intend to or not, you are implying that the people of Palestine have to put thought and attention to changing up the message they write asking for help each time they send it, precious time and mental space people surviving genocide do NOT have, so that YOU can feel better. once again, i will reiterate, you personally do not have to donate if you are unable, or frankly even unwilling. what is particularly heinous is you using your platform to say that anyone raising money in this manner should be assumed automatically to be doing so in bad faith. how are you not ashamed of yourself?

one day you will be in need of help from people, some of whom you may not know. this is the society we live in. we are interdependent whether we like it or not. on that day, i hope you are treated in the manner that you have treated others in their moments of vulnerability and need.

sorry to have to tell you this but if a stranger comes to your inbox or slides in your DMs asking you for your money with some sob story, no matter how tragic and convincing the story is, they are a scammer — especially if the story is obviously copied and pasted, formatted in the exact same way as the other 100 bots in your inbox

[fligniuz]

pleasure doing business with you

luigi mangione x reader

｡𖦹°‧ you’re a broke college student in a pinch. but not to worry; you’ve found someone willing to help.

word count: 14k (sorry?😭) • part of a spoonful of sugar (read here!) • nsfw • read on ao3

tag list : @mangionebabymama , @mangobabygirl , @jenisaswift13 , @mangionesdaisy , @iinfinitelimits , @daydreamingwithluigi , @mrs-cactus69 , @mashkatzi , @straw8berry , @bean-is-reading (comment to be added)

warnings : f! reader; EXPLICIT; sugar daddy AU; some OCs; unironic use of the word “brunch”; ⚠️DADDY KINK⚠️; luigi calls U “princess”; praise; oral (m! + f! receiving); some spanking

notes : hi ok i’m so excited to post this pls let me know if U like this and want me to post more of Him because i have more sugar daddy ideas💚💚

In your defense, you’re broke as hell.

That’s a blunt way of putting it. To be more direct: you are a twenty-something college student barely scraping by on financial aid and tips from your opening shift at Hilton’s Cityscape, on top of the typical, abysmal, average salary of a bartender. You live in a somewhat cheap apartment at 1 Powell Street with your cat, Butters; you sleep on a stiff mattress and survive off the local Panda Express and suffer through the chilly nights—hell will freeze over before your landlord fixes the AC. You go to class and your shifts and barely get your bills paid each month, not unlike most of the nation, and you try. You try to smile and enjoy and appreciate what you have, even if it’s next to nothing.

The good news? You’re hot.

Not because of the shitty AC. You’re hot in the colloquial sense. You were blessed with all the features other women your age pray for, a natural beauty—something quite normal to see in San Francisco, but you have something rare to offer, too: a personality. You’ve got the looks and the brains. You are what people who are too polite would call “conventionally attractive”. You’ve got it going on. You are it.

So, what do hot women who are strapped for cash in San Francisco do? 

They go to Red Velvet on Bryant Street, of course.

What the fuck is Red Velvet? is exactly what you ask Sheri when she thinks out loud to you at 3:36 one afternoon.

Sheri looks at you like you’ve grown two heads.

“Red Velvet,” she starts, “is the hottest bar for sugar daddies in SF. It’s always overflowing with guys who have too much money than they know what to do with—big tech CEOs and bankers and those types.”

“Right,” you nod, listening attentively. “So you think I should pick up a sugar daddy.”

“Well…” Sheri swipes the rag she’s holding over another glass swiftly. “I think you should pick up a sugar daddy safely.”

“Have you had one before?” you ask.

Sheri is your favorite co-worker. She’s older than you, closer to her fifties, and she is nothing if not an adventurous woman. You’ve heard many a stories of bad sex and strange men, collected over her years of hopping around the West Coast—a wonderful distraction from the equally strange men that often find themselves visiting your place of employment.

“A sugar daddy?” She laughs, grabs another glass from the dirty dish rack. “Honey, I was far too busy for that in my heydays. But a few of my girlfriends dabble in that space.”

You lean forward with your chin in your hand. “Do they like it?”

“I know a friend who’s got an arrangement with some politician from Washington,” Sheri says. “She hasn’t paid for anything in two years. I always see her wearing the gaudiest shit—fur coats and Balenciaga and shiny jewelry. She’s happy. Real happy.”

You smile to yourself.

“Sometimes,” she adds, “he lets her take some of us out to dinner with her. And, not to sound prissy, but the whole ‘fine dining’ thing? Just doesn’t make sense to me.”

“What?” You furrow your brows. “What don’t you like about it?”

“The portions are just too damn small!” she exclaims, face holding genuine resentment as she speaks—you’ve always appreciated her expressiveness. “The staff is always nice, but there’s just not enough food, if you ask me.”

That makes sense. Sheri loves her food. You do too, honestly.

“You think a sugar daddy would take me to McDonald’s?” you joke, giggling at her snort.

She shrugs it off—but you could find out.

That’s exactly what you decide to do one Saturday night, waltzing up to Red Velvet in the best dress you own: a flattering jade green with ribbing around the torso and a tight fit on the hips. To be completely transparent, you are nervous; you’re quite used to male attention, used to handling it with grace and respect for yourself, but this spot is an entirely new environment with entirely new patrons. You don’t know what to expect. You have an idea of what a sugar daddy is, what he looks like and how he acts and dresses and speaks, but it’s quite different to encounter one in the wild. People only ever do this kind of thing online, you think.

You scan the scene. There are mostly men of varying, typically older age, but there are some women, too, mainly concentrated at the bar to your left. Eye candy. Probably not regulars. You conclude that this must be your best bet, and so you grab a seat at the far end, looking over the menu and deciding on something simple: a gin and tonic.

And for a while, you enjoy it in a comfortable silence, sipping and appreciating the scenery, the ostentatious decor and dim lighting and cursive signage. It’s definitely the kind of bar that rich guys would frequent, more specifically sugar daddies, if the guests in attendance weren’t proof enough.

But your expectations are firmly challenged when you are approached by your first man of the night.

Well, not quite approached. Rather, he comes up to order, and you are at the bar—so naturally, your eyes meet and your paths cross. You survey your catch and quickly find that he is different; most of the men at Red Velvet are fifties-to-sixties, not particularly attractive (definitely not without its silver foxes, though!), typically already accompanied by a woman. This man, though…He catches your eye. He’s young, perhaps even close to your age, and he’s fit, and he’s fine. He is fine as a motherfucker, indeed. At first you peg him as a Montgomery Street type, maybe a stock trade guy—but despite his current location, ordering a drink at this high-end sugar daddy outfit, this man looks unconstrained; put together but certainly not flashy. His suit is as simple as his choice of beverage—a banana daiquiri—and the first words he utters to you are modest but direct:

“You’re wearing green.”

That you are. 

You turn to him, face kind but slightly puzzled. “Yup. Green.”

He explains: “Forgive my candor. Green is my favorite color—I never see women as pretty as you wearing it, though.” 

Oh, so he’s slick.

“I’m flattered,” you say with a smile. “Thank you.”

Looking him in the eye, you can get a much better picture of this man, even in the low light of the bar. His hair is curly, wild, begging for hands to touch and pet and pull, and his eyebrows are just as sharp as his jawline and the bridge of his nose. He’s clean-shaven, for the most part, but a neat five o’clock shadow is growing in on his jaw and under his chin; you imagine, briefly, how that stubble might feel against your lips, your neck, your—

“May I ask what brings you here?” he inquires. “It’s not often this place is blessed with such beauty.”

Man, he’s persistent, isn’t he? You tuck your hair behind your ear and rest your chin on top of your clasped hands.

“Are you here often?” you ask. It’s best to scope out any danger before you get down to business—as a young woman, you learned that the hard way. This guy could be a creeper, for all you know, picking up girls at niche bars and taking them home to chop up or god knows what.

He grins, traces the rim of his glass. “How’d you think I could point out a newbie so easily?”

You smile back.

“Do you live in the area?” he asks.

You definitely don’t. Bryant Street is twenty minutes out from the lofts at Powell. You’re starting to wonder if maybe newcomers aren’t welcome at Red Velvet; perhaps this man didn’t come to flirt. Perhaps he’s sniffing you out, keeping the turf safe from intrusion.

“Close enough,” you lie. “I work in the area.”

It isn’t that crazy of a fib—Cityscape is only an eight minute drive from here.

“Well, where do you work?”

Fuck. Fuck. Might as well stick to reality as much as you can, right? 

“I bartend at Ernest,” you say, sipping your drink. Ernest is more of a fine dining establishment than a bar, but it’s on Bryant—albeit further down the street—so it works. Sheri has mentioned grabbing drinks there before. It surprises you that you even remembered Ernest exists.

He nods, seemingly trusting. “Is it a nice place? I’ve never been, but some of my buddies have.”

You shrug. “It pays. You get pretty tired of all the sexual harassment after a while, though.”

He laughs—a soft but warm chuckle, his dimpled smile practically reaching his ears.

You’ve always liked being able to make men laugh. It helps quite a lot when they’re this handsome.

“What about you?” you ask. “Do you work around here?”

“In the city,” he answers simply. “I do data for TrueCar. Not very special.”

Ah. You’ve heard of it in passing, probably online, but you don’t know much beneath the surface. Admittedly, it does sound pretty boring. You imagine cars have to be involved, which is a bit surprising—car salesman is a certain type, and this guy is not it. Data must mean he’s either a statistics or computer science major, which aren’t the most promising career paths as far as money goes—but he is in California, which might mean he got lucky.

“And how is that working out for you?” you ask, stirring your gin and tonic.

“It pays,” he says, mirroring you. “No sexual harassment, fortunately for me. I’m very sorry about yours.”

You wave a hand and laugh. “I’m quite used to it at this point.”

Right then your eyes meet. And for what feels like forever the two of you just stare at each other, smiles bright on your faces, chemistry rippling between the bar stools that keep you apart. The tension isn’t thick—it’s palpable. You’d need more than a knife to cut through it.

“Can I be honest?” you pipe up. As if you didn’t lie to this man about your job just a few minutes ago.

He nods. “I like honesty.”

You sip your cocktail. Swallow. Breathe. Then:

“I’ve been in a tight spot with money, recently,” you explain. “A friend told me about this place, that I could maybe find someone to help me out here, so I came looking for…”

How do you put this?

“I came looking for an arrangement.”

His smile spreads across his teeth slowly, but its flame casts bright light throughout the bar—as if you are a speck of an ant on the ground, scorched by the mirror he holds.

“I knew you were here for a reason,” he remarks.

Yeah. You’re quite obvious, aren’t you?

“I feel like maybe I should apologize,” you mutter, shoulders sulking. Suddenly you feel quite shy.

“You shouldn’t,” he assures you. “Can I ask for your name?”

So you tell him, meekly. And then:

“Well,” he starts, echoing you; you make a mental note of how good your name sounds in his mouth. “I’m Luigi. I think I could help you with that money problem you have, and—if you don’t mind my saying—I’d be quite eager to.”

This Luigi guy is nothing if not blunt.

“So…” He reaches back and snatches his phone from a pocket, leaning toward you. “I’m gonna ask for your number. If you want to make one of these arrangements you speak of, you can call me anytime you like. How’s that sound?”

He’s handing you his phone now, screen already open to an empty contact page. You accept it hesitantly.

“You want me to call you?”

Luigi nods. “I want you to have time to think it over. If you change your mind, I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured.”

That makes your heart flutter a little. He’s sweet for a stranger.

You hand your completed contact to him with a smile, and he sends you a text so his number is easily accessible. 

“I think you’ll be hearing from me,” you say, emboldened.

He grins as he stands from his seat. “I’ll be looking forward to it.” Then he adds: “No pressure.”

Just like that, he’s paying his tab, and the next moment he’s gone. 

There are several thoughts swirling through your mind right now. But one thing you are sure of is that Sheri was right: Red Velvet is the spot.

“You’re telling me you found a daddy your first time there?”

Sheri looks flummoxed.

You tighten your apron and smirk. “I mean, I don’t know for sure if he’s looking for that.”

“He implied it,” she counters.

“Nothing is set in stone,” you say, popping the chewing gum in your mouth. A flood of tangerine works your tastebuds. “I’m supposed to call him to figure out our arrangement.”

“What’s he like?” Sheri asks. She turns toward the cash register.

Where to start? You hardly even know him and yet you could probably run your mouth for a solid hour about just his appearance, his honeyed voice, his sharp features.

“He’s cute,” you say simply. “Young. Kinda tall. Curly hair. I think he’s Italian, or something.”

“Italian?” She looks over her shoulder at you, quirks an eyebrow.

“His name is Luigi,” you enunciate. “You gonna tell me that’s not Italian?”

Someone at the bar orders a Galileo Highball. You pull a bottle of Hendrick’s from the shelf.

As you pour, she asks, “he got a brother?”

“Very funny,” you say, not laughing. “I don’t know. They say Italians like big families. I’d bet his is no different.”

You slide the finished cocktail toward your patron with a small smile, and Sheri comes up behind you, holding her own drink—probably Macallan, if she’s the same Sheri you know.

“What did I tell you about drinking on the job?” You shoot her a glance; half disapproving, half amused.

“It’s a slow night, mom.” She gives you a light shove on the shoulder, bangles clinking. “Tell me more about your beau.”

“I think he’s a nerd,” you offer. “He mentioned being a data scientist, or something. He works at TrueCar.”

“What is that?” Sheri narrows her thin eyebrows at you.

“They sell cars,” you shrug. “It doesn’t matter to me if he has money.”

She takes a swig from her glass. “Well, does he?”

“You said Red Velvet is where all the rich guys are, and that’s where he was at, so I don’t know, Sheri, you tell me.”

“That’s what I heard!” She raises her arms defensively. “Did he tell you how much he makes?”

Your eyes stiffen. “I think that would’ve been rude to ask.”

“It’s not rude if he’s gonna be your sugar daddy.”

She has a point.

You should probably find out.

One Tuesday afternoon before work you decide that a call is indeed in order—something to settle your nerves, fraught with anticipation since the night you met Luigi. His number is accordingly labeled with his name in your phone and it is not hard to find among your texts. Your hesitation only lasts a few seconds before you press the call button.

A familiar modest tone is quick to answer.

“Hello?”

Fuck. Fuck. You hadn’t quite thought out the rest of this.

“Luigi, hi! This is—”

“From Red Velvet,” he interjects. You’ve been recognized by voice alone. “Hi, there.”

He sounds busy. Men always sound busy. 

“Is this a bad time?” you ask.

“Not at all,” he assures you. “I’m on lunch. Happy to hear from you.”

How does this kind of thing normally come together? You’ve never taken the 101 on sugar dating, and there’s certainly not a handbook—not one that you’ve heard of, anyway. Maybe you should’ve done a little more research. 

You clear your throat. “So. I’ve been considering, um…The arrangement thing.”

His voice rumbles on the other end. “Mhm?”

“I think…I wanna try it. With you.”

It sounds like he chuckles. Then: “Is that so?”

Man, he’s not helping your nerves at all.

Swallowing thickly, you ask, “…is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Luigi says, voice warm. “I offered, silly.”

Why is it that the overwhelming urge to explain yourself always comes on the strongest with silence?

“I’m kinda nervous,” you preface. “I’ve never done anything like this before, and you’re really nice, so if I sound awkward or like I’m being an idiot, I promise it’s not on purpose—”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupts. You can practically hear the smile on his face. “It’s okay. I understand. I’m gonna walk you through it, okay?”

You nod like he can see you. “Okay.”

The noise in the background starts to quiet down as Luigi speaks:

“We’ll meet up to discuss everything first, lay out the rules and your pay and all that,” he starts. “Somewhere public. Nothing has to happen yet. Just for us to make a plan and get to know each other a little more.”

It’s comforting, how he goes out of his way to ensure that you feel safe. Meeting in an open, people-filled space seems like something you should be suggesting, rather than him. It’s sweet. Makes you feel a little woozy—in more places than one.

“You like brunch?” he asks. “I’ll get you some brunch if you want. I know a spot.”

Brunch. The word alone makes your face scrunch up. He’s cute. “Okay. That sounds nice.”

“Are you sure? We can go somewhere else. Whatever you want.”

“Brunch sounds good,” you concur. “I’m not picky.”

“Okay. Good deal.” You hear what sounds like a door closing. “Are you free this weekend?”

I can be, you don’t say. “You bet.”

“Saturday?” he pitches.

“Sure.”

“How’s eleven?”

A bit early—you like sleeping in! But you’ll do it for this gorgeous man.

At your agreement, he bookends the conversation:

“Alright. We’re gonna meet at the Wooden Spoon, on Market Street. At eleven. On Saturday. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” you affirm. 

Wooden Spoon. Market Street. Eleven. Saturday. It repeats in your head like a mantra. What will you wear? What time should you wake up? Should you eat a little bit before, so you don’t have to go wild in front of him? Not important. Not right now.

Your mind wanders further, because you allow it: do you deserve this? Are you worthy of a wealthy man’s spoils, of finer things, of something you believed you’d never once know the luxury of having? Not a day in your life did you imagine you’d wind up with this, on the phone with someone in a tax bracket you’re miles and miles behind, someone so humble and yet so blessed by whoever counsels the elite class up in heaven (or hell, more likely). These opportunities are one in a million, and you’ve found yourself lucky enough to draw the eyes of a willing devotee—you should be proud. You should be arrogant, bragging, full of yourself, flaunting the kind of ego you’ve managed to avoid for the twenty-ish years you’ve been on this planet. You just feel guilty. 

Wooden Spoon. Market Street. Eleven. Saturday.

Luigi shows up not a minute after eleven o’ clock.

You’re already there. You made the effort to show up early—thirty minutes early, exact—wearing your favorite blouse, the one with little dragonflies printed all over, nails painted and lips glossed. You smell like a bakery and you look even more delicious. Yes. You feel ready.

At least, you do until he walks in.

Because he looks great. Even for a little brunch date, he’s glowing—practically a walking fucking Caravaggio painting. His baby blue button-down compliments his olive skin perfectly, collarbone peeking out from under almost sheer linen, and when you look closely enough…A thin, silver chain snakes around his neck, hidden underneath his shirt. 

Fuck. You want it in between your teeth.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You’re almost speechless as he takes a seat across from you. Man, you really should have prepared yourself more for this.

“Hi,” you greet, meekly.

“You haven’t been waiting long, have you?”

“Not at all,” you lie. He doesn’t need to know how much time you spent sitting in this very chair, worrying about this very moment. All at your own accord.

“Good,” Luigi says, nodding. Good that you weren’t waiting long. Good that you’re here, with him. He adds: “I’m glad to see you again.”

You attempt a smile. “I promise I am, too, I’m just—”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah,” you laugh. “Very.”

He taps his fingers over the menu laying on the table invitingly. “Let’s get some food in you. That’ll calm your nerves.”

So you look it over, ponder your options: avocado toast, smoothie bowls, fried chicken, patty melt…It all sounds really good when you haven’t eaten since your drunk lunch yesterday (which, to no one’s surprise, was similarly marred by your anxiety). You know one thing: some fresh squeezed orange juice sounds fucking bomb right now. Eventually you decide some scrambled eggs and buttermilk pancakes sound nice, too. 

Luigi gets the avocado toast. Not what you were expecting.

“I felt like you’d be a bacon guy,” you say as the waitress waltzes off.

He shrugs, grins a little. “I don’t eat meat.”

Okay. So, you weren’t expecting that, either, but your next question is: How the fuck do you get that broad with no meat? You decide that’s an inappropriate question for brunch—table it for later. Later. You like the sound of a later.

“So, you work at Ernest, right?” he asks, sipping his tea. 

Oh. Fuck. You forgot about that.

Fuck.

“I should probably tell you this now,” you start, voice shakier than you anticipate. “I, um—I lied. To you. About my job.”

His face doesn’t change much—Luigi just furrows an eyebrow at you. “Did you?”

“I know, I know, I’m really sorry!” By this point you can’t even remember why you lied to him—not after he’s taken this much caution in ensuring your comfort. “When I met you I had never been in the area before, and I was trying to play it safe, so I lied about where I work and I’m so so sorry—”

“Sweetheart,” Luigi interjects, placing his big, warm hands over yours. “I get it. Take a breath for me. Okay?”

He’s smiling a little, but only in amusement at how quickly you work yourself up. Over nothing. Per usual.

You breathe. “You’re not mad?”

“Not at all,” he says, shaking his head. “I understand why you’d want to keep that to yourself at first. You barely know me.”

Oh. Oh, wow. This is the very first time you’ve met a man who isn’t personally offended by your apprehension, and you’re starting to wonder if this one in particular is just a living fever dream, something you conjured up half asleep and yearning, something angelic. Something too good for you.

“I want to know you,” you utter.

“Okay. Fresh start.” He (gently, so, so gently) slaps his hands onto the table for emphasis. “Pretend Red Velvet didn’t even happen. Where do you work?”

“Cityscape,” you say, “at the Hilton in Union Square. Honest this time.”

“I believe you,” he nods, smiling. “Is that a bar?”

You nod with him. “I work opening shifts with my friend Sheri. She’s the one who told me about Red Velvet.”

“So, what you said about the sexual harassment must’ve been true.”

You almost choke on your mouthful of OJ. “Yeah. That part was true.”

While the two of you wait for your orders Luigi asks you some basic questions: how old you are, where you’re from, if you’re in school, what major, etc etc. You spend some time talking about college; you learn that Luigi is a much more impressive man than you would’ve guessed at first glance, a man with not one, but two degrees, each in computer engineering—turns out your intuition is pretty good! There’s also a background in some ultra nerd frat. That you wouldn’t have guessed. He’s halfway through a story about the night of his hazing when the hostess brings your plates out, sets them down on the table, aromatic and steaming.

You were already feeling less on edge—but the scrambled eggs certainly help.

“So…” Luigi starts after a bite of toast. “Do you want to get down to the nitty gritty?”

You blink. “You mean money stuff?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Money stuff.”

Another bite. A sip of tea. Then:

“I like to start with paying per meet,” he says. “I figured I’d base your pay off of how much you’re needing, though. Do you have an idea of what that might be?”

“Hmm,” you hum, forking some eggs into your mouth. “Let’s see. Rent is $3,300, on top of utilities. My aid covers most of my bills for school, so that’s not a problem right now. I just need to keep a roof over my head.”

“How much are you making a month?” he asks.

“Uhh…” You rack your brain. How much do you make? “About $2,000ish?”

“And how often would you be able to meet me?”

You grin. “I can be all yours on the weekends.”

Luigi looks like he’s crunching some numbers in his head. You decide to crunch on a pancake while he works that out.

“What if we did $1,000 to meet each weekend?”

Jesus. Christ.

“$1,000?” you repeat.

“Yeah. $1,000.”

You consider it. If you’re meeting with him every weekend, for $1,000 each time…That’s $4,000 in an average month. On top of your regular salary. Much more than you typically make. More than your rent costs. More than living costs at your current rate, maybe, probably. It’s a good deal. It’s a damn good deal.

“That’s—” you stutter. “That’s a lot.”

He smiles, softly. “For you it is.”

Meaning…It’s not for him?

“Do you like the sound of that?” he asks.

Well, yeah. It’s money. Money always sounds good. But you can’t shake the feeling:

“Are you sure that’s…like…okay? With you?” 

“I think it’s fair,” he says, nodding. “If you’re only making $2,000 a month, $1,000 each weekend should be enough to keep you on your feet.” 

Not really what you were asking.

“But…” he continues.

But?

“We can wean off of that, eventually.”

Wean off. Like you’re a kitten on wet food.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

He takes a bite of his toast, then speaks:

“After a while, if you still like how this is going, we can start you on an allowance.” Luigi pops a berry into his mouth, leans back in his chair. “I’m thinking $4,000 a month, give or take. We can adjust that if you need.”

Oh? Oh. Oh, okay.

$4,000 a month. To fuck and go on dates with the sexiest thing on two legs you’ve ever looked at. To sacrifice (a word that is doing some serious heavy lifting) your weekends for dick and some good food. To be able to take care of yourself, for once—and not just that, but to have all the fancy things you dreamed of having as a girl: clothes, jewelry, books, shoes, cosmetics, stuff, just stuff to have. The kind of consumption only a lucky few are entitled to enjoy. And there are future implications, too: eventually, once you graduate, you’ll have some loans to pay off, perhaps another degree to pursue. A new car to drive. Your very own home to live in.

$4,000 a month. $1,000 per meet.

“I’m in,” you nod.

Luigi raises his eyebrows, smiles slightly. “You’re in?”

“Yeah. I like what you’re laying out.”

His smile is wider now, dimples defined in the creases of his face. “Okay. That’s all I want to hear.”

You shovel some eggs into your mouth and watch, completely unsubtle, as he adjusts his shirt on his shoulders, the veins lining his arms flexing. 

Can’t you get to the sugar part now? You don’t even need a bed. You could find some space in your car, certainly. 

“So,” he pipes up, “I think next we should lay down some ground rules.”

“Rules?” you iterate. 

“Nothing crazy,” he assures you.

“Like…Boundaries.”

“Exactly!” With that Luigi finishes the last of his avocado toast. “I only have four.”

“Hit me,” you tell him.

He claps his hands together over his plate for effect. 

“Okay. First off: be open with me. If you want something, ask for it. If you need something, tell me. Unfortunately, I can’t read your mind, so I appreciate bluntness.”

Bluntness. You can do that. Tending bar throughout your college years has taught you strength in that regard. Nodding, you down the rest of your OJ.

“I also need you to never be afraid of saying ‘no’ to me,” he says next. “Again, not a mind reader. Please let me know if you’re uncomfortable or unsatisfied or anything like that. This isn’t just for me—I would never want you to feel obligated to do something you don’t want to do anymore.”

“Sure,” you agree. “That’s easy for me.”

“Good.” He smiles warmly.

Third: “This can end any time you want. No questions asked. That goes for me, too, but I mean it mostly for you.”

What if you don’t want it to end?

“Okay,” you nod. “Any time?”

“Any time.”

You just hope he doesn’t change his mind about this whole thing.

“That being said, though…” he continues.

Oh?

Luigi extends his pointer finger outward as he continues. “I only ask that you be exclusive to me.”

Ah. This must be his fourth rule.

“Exclusive?”

He nods. “No dates, no one-night stands, no boyfriends or girlfriends. I want to be the sole provider in your life.”

So he’s a possessive type, too. You suppose it makes sense. Men don’t like to share their toys.

“Well,” you perk up, “am I going to be disappointed?”

The smug motherfucker smirks. “I don’t like to overstate my abilities, but I think you’ll be plenty satisfied.”

Plenty satisfied. You realize now that you don’t really need to fuck him to feel that way.

He adds: “I’m an earnest lover.”

Getting laid earnestly, every weekend, for $1,000. All to earn a whopping $4,000 a month, if he likes you enough. 

You’ve done worse for less—and none of it involved a sexy Italian.

“I’ll need some proof,” you say, “but I think I’m down for that.”

“I’d be happy to prove it to you this weekend.”

Well, that was fast.

You quirk a brow. “Yeah?”

And then he leans in close to you, speaking barely above a whisper: “If you can be good, that is.”

Oh. Oh. 

He’s doing this. He’s doing this at noon on a Saturday, in public. At brunch.

You graze your foot over his from under the table, gliding up, inching into his pant leg. Teasing. “If I’m good, what’s in store for me?”

Luigi smirks as the waitress makes her way toward your seat with the check—for him to pay, of course. “I’ll text you the details. Sound good to you?”

You smile back. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

He decides to walk you to your car, standing close, but not too close for comfort. There is an easy space between the two of you as you make your way to the parking lot on Sanchez Street, right behind the Wooden Spoon.

“I didn’t get to ask,” he perks up. “Do you have any rules?”

You certainly didn’t prepare any.

“Umm…” you trail off, giggling. “I didn’t make a list or anything.”

“You don’t need a list,” he says, smiling back at you. “Are there any boundaries you want to set?”

There are some obvious, more sugar related things you want cemented: condoms every date, no reverse cowgirl, probably no nudes, for the time being. But right now you’re just happy to be seen beside such a handsome man. All of the “nitty gritty”, in his words, can wait until later.

“I can’t think of anything,” you answer. “Just that I want respect and…Well, compensation.”

Luigi winks. “You’ll get that. Promise.”

You reach your car and pause, turn on your heels to face him.

His hands are in his pockets, curls rustling in the early spring wind. “So…”

“So?”

“This weekend, right?” he asks. “I’ll hit you up, probably Friday.”

“Okay,” you agree. “This weekend.”

Then, he asks: “Do you have any rules against kissing?”

You grin and blush like a little girl. “Nope. Definitely not.”

So he steps close, lingering just slightly as his hands meet your hips—and then he kisses you, sweetly and smoothly. You pull him ever closer to you by the chain on his neck and sigh against his mouth. He tastes like Earl Grey.

When he pulls away he flashes you a warm smile. 

“I think I’m gonna have to build a time machine,” he says, “so I can skip ahead to this weekend.”

You laugh. “Good luck with that.”

Luigi doesn’t get that time machine built, but the weekend comes faster than you expect.

The first text you receive on Friday is quite surprising:

Luigi : Can I get ur address so my driver knows where to pick you up?

Driver? He’s sending a fucking chauffeur for you?

The next two texts he sends you once he has what he needs are straightforward:

Luigi : OK She’ll be there like 8:30 so be ready for her

Also we’ll be in a hotel after so maybe bring anything else you’ll need for tn

At that you put together a quick overnight bag: a change of comfy clothes and an outfit for the day after, toothbrush and toothpaste, comb, a pack of wet wipes, some hair ties. Some courage you definitely don’t have—not right now, at least. 

You’re nervous.

But you’re not going to think about that, because you’ve got a date to get ready for. You’ve got a dress to put on—the very dress you met him in—makeup to do and dinner to eat…And, of course, dick to take. Luigi didn’t really give you pointers on how to look, so you pick your accessories carefully, settling for a plain silver necklace and some studs to match. Your shoes are simple: black heels, with a glossy finish that you’ve managed to not scuff up somehow.

You glance at the clock on your nightstand. 8:19. When he said 8:30, did he mean on the dot? Doesn’t matter—every second counts. You feed Butters and fill his water bowl; take a shot of Grey Goose for encouragement; unpack your overnight bag to brush your teeth twice, then pack it again. If you were a smoker you’d need a cig right about now.

And then, at 8:27, your phone buzzes:

Luigi : She’s there

Grey Mitsubishi

No backing out now.

Sure enough, a grey Mitsubishi Lancer sits parked on Cyril Magnin Street just outside your window. With your bag slung over your shoulder you make your way down to the lobby, heart pounding behind your ribcage. 

The driver of this Lancer, as you soon find out, is…

“Cheyenne,” she says, extending a hand to you. Her fingers are decorated with rings of all shapes and colors, including a few with gemstones cemented in their center. She is cold to the touch, but her smile is inviting, dark, black-lined eyes staring into every layer of your aura.

As she turns the key in the ignition, you clear your throat.

“How do you know Luigi?” you ask.

At that moment, “Dance, Dance” by Fall Out Boy blasts from her speakers at 75% volume. You immediately wince at the loud assault to your eardrums.

“Shit, shit! Sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Her fingers are fumbling with the dial instantly. “Bad habit, I know, I’m so sorry—”

You laugh, heart still pounding. “I’m fine. Just startled me. I like your taste.”

Cheyenne begins to pull off onto the street with an uncertain smile. 

“So, how do you know Luigi?” you try again.

“Oh, college,” she says. “We used to shoot the shit in Calculus II.”

“Was he any good?” you ask. “At calculus?”

“Luigi is good at just about everything,” Cheyenne says. “Well, except talking to girls. I’m still not sure how he bagged you.”

You snort. “He seemed like he knew what he was doing.”

“Trust me, he didn’t.” You pass by the Panda Express that saves you from cooking dinner most nights as Cheyenne makes her way towards…Wherever you’re going. “He called me and crashed out over the phone the night he met you. He cried because, and I quote, ‘she’s so fine it makes me sick to my stomach.’ I think he was drunk.”

The image of that is quite precious, indeed. You giggle. “That’s sweet.”

“Sweet as pie,” she agrees. “He’s got integrity. Very driven. I’m not just saying it. I’ve seen that dude help blackout drunk girls to their dorms because some guys were creeping on them.”

He certainly doesn’t fit your usual stereotype of “privileged white frat rat from the suburbs”, doesn’t give off a fuckboy vibe that you’ve been able to pick up on. No cocky posturing. No fake interest. Luigi is different. Laid back. Responsible. Tender hearted.

“And,” Cheyenne adds, “he was my wingman for a good while.”

“Wingman?”

“He helped me sneak into parties so I could get with sorority girls,” she clarifies. “I wouldn’t have met my girlfriend if it weren’t for him.”

How gallant. Luigi Mangione: Friend to Lesbians. “Ah. I see.”

Now you can see why Cheyenne seems to be so comfortable with Luigi; their bond is clearly interwoven with the safety he’s provided her throughout their friendship, likely a stark contrast to her Ivy League atmosphere. He’s probably the only male friend she’s ever had that’s never pitched the “I like someone and you know her very well” conversation—you’re still waiting to meet that unicorn.

“What do you do?” Cheyenne asks.

You assume she means job-wise. “I bartend at Cityscape, but I’m in school full-time.”

“Oh, nice!” she says, nodding. “Where at?”

As she turns onto Fifth Street, you tell her—your university, your major, how your classes are going, all the rage around campus. Cheyenne listens intently, drumming her painted nails against the steering wheel in time with the radio. By the time you’re finished complaining about the difficulties of your required second language credit, the two of you are making your way down Harrison.

“What about you?” you ask. “You look like you do something really badass. Like archery, or witchcraft.”

“I wish!” she laughs. “I’m a marine biologist. Right now I’m at the Monterey Bay Aquarium.”

“Oh, nice! You live down there?”

Cheyenne scratches her neck. “Sort of. I’m a bit of a couch hopper. Rent is brutal in Cali, so I jump between my friends’ places.”

You shrug in understanding. “Totally get it. I almost ended up on a boat with some of my dorm mates before I found my place.”

She snorts at that. Cute. You like Luigi’s friend.

The rest of the ride goes smoothly; Cheyenne’s Lancer speeds down the 280 as you overlook San Francisco, its heaving waters and cloudy skies. Occasionally she asks if you’d like to pick a song, but you decide you’re quite alright with her aux control, so you decline and leave it up to her. When she makes a sharp turn onto 25th Street, you start to understand where this might be going—perhaps Luigi knows a nice place right by the Bay.

Your destination is either what looks to be an apartment complex or a storied building squished next to it. Cheyenne directs you to the spot on the left, the taller of the two.

“He should be waiting for you up at the very top,” she explains before you get out of the car. “There’s an elevator to your right once you walk in. If you press 13 it should take you to the roof.”

The roof? Okay. This is weird.

You thank Cheyenne and carefully make your way inside, surveying the lobby. You realize now that this is somewhat of an office space, with several businesses leasing a spot in the building; you find a directory hanging on the wall by the elevator Cheyenne mentioned. On the thirteenth floor is something called “Ive’s”, and it is indeed at the very top. You step inside the elevator and observe the clock built in above the rows of buttons; its face reads 8:01. Nobody set this one back for Daylight Savings.

The building must be old, what with how the elevator rattles as it ascends to the thirteenth floor, and you thoroughly do not expect what’s waiting in front of you: the doors open to a beautiful rooftop terrace, with moody lights strung over tables and a perfect overlook of the Bay as a backdrop. And waiting by the bar is Luigi, hands clasped in front of his pelvis, standing tall and clearly alert. His eyes widen when he spots you emerging from the elevator.

“You made it!” he exclaims. “I was worried Cheyenne might confuse you.”

“Nah, I got here fine,” you say, smiling. “It’s good to see you.”

He leans in for a hug that you gladly return, whispering into your ear, “that it is.”

Luigi’s embrace is the warmest you’ve ever felt. It’s like walking into a heated pool; your body recalibrates in response to his touch, thoroughly lit alive by the mere presence of this man and his gentle ways. He holds you still for quite a while, maybe a minute, and when he pulls back his smile is bright and dimpled, only sweetened by his blush. You take the chance to look over his suit; he dons a paisley-print purple tie and a jacket with blue suede lining the inside. Prim with just a hint of fun. You would not have expected paisley.

“Shall we?” he says, offering a hand. 

With your fingers interlaced, he leads you to a table at the far edge of the rooftop, and you start to realize now that, as a matter of fact, none of these tables are occupied—nor are they set, aside from the one he’s currently guiding you toward. There isn’t a single soul at Ive’s besides you and Luigi.

“What is this place?” you ask.

He grins. “It’s called Ive’s, if that’s what you’re asking, but if you want to know what’s up…”

At that Luigi moves to pull out your chair for you. “I’m tight with the owner,” he continues as you take your seat. “I got him to clear out the place just for tonight, so we could have somewhere all to ourselves.”

He’s nothing if not a pro at blowing you away. Your guilt at even accepting his generosity flows at full force, stunning you where you sit as Luigi settles down opposite you.

“You did all of this for me?” you ask.

He shrugs flippantly, still smiling. “Ive owed me a favor.”

From…somewhere, your host for the night emerges, holding two menus and cheesing at the both of you from under a thick handlebar mustache. The first order of business:

“What are you folks drinking tonight?”

The cocktail menu excites you—lots of vodka and gin, and there’s an entire section dedicated to rosé—but after some deliberation with the waiter, you decide on a Rooftop Mojito as a fitting welcome to your date. Luigi is not a complicated drinker, because he orders the same exact thing he ordered at Red Velvet: banana daiquiri with a slice of lime. The host prances off and leaves the two of you alone.

“Sooo,” you perk up, “you said you do data stuff for TrueCar, right?”

He winces. “If we’re going to talk about me, let’s not make it about my job. I promise it’s really boring. Last thing I want to do is make this date a snoozefest.”

You scoff. “I don’t think you could manage that.”

“What, boring you? I’ll bet I could.”

With a shake of your head, you say, “not when you look like you were blessed by Venus at birth.”

Luigi chuckles at that, nose flushing rosy pink. “Well, that’s flattering. I think you’re a more apt example of that description, though.”

“Just accept the compliment,” you chide playfully. “What if I have other questions that aren’t about your job?”

“Hit me.”

Well, shit. Maybe you should’ve made a list.

“How old are you?” you settle on eventually. Not a bad inquiry, you think. He’s quite young for a sugar daddy.

“Twenty six,” he answers. “Twenty seven in May.”

A Taurus. You consider it: loyal. Stubborn. Diligent. Possessive. Truly a toss-up—any of these qualities could spell both good and bad news for you. One thing you know for sure is that Luigi’s greatest strength is one quite common for Taurus men—he is entirely irresistible.

“And you’re from San Francisco, right?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Maryland. Baltimore.”

He really looks more Italian than anything. 

“County,” he adds. “Not the city.”

There’s a Baltimore county?

“I see,” you nod. “I’m assuming Baltimore-the-county has a much different environment than Baltimore-the-city.”

“Very different,” he confirms. “What about you? Are you from San Francisco?”

“Nope,” you answer. “I moved here for college.”

That sparks a quick conversation about your home state and whether or not Luigi’s visited. As you wrap up a memorable story about the corner store you frequented in your childhood, your waiter returns to the table with your drinks, quickly retrieving his notepad and pen from his pocket.

If cocktails were hard, the food is even harder to choose from. The entire list of appetizers sounds pretty good to you, and you could go for at least three of the sandwiches—but alas, you narrow down your options to the tomato soup with a grilled cheese and a Caesar salad on the side. Meat-Free Luigi goes with the veggie poke bowl and some French onion dip with house-made chips, even though he looks like he could absolutely kill some chicken wings. Whatever. 

Sipping from your mojito, you ask, “so, no TrueCar talk—what do you do outside of that?”

“A lot of reading,” he says. You could’ve guessed that. “And I like to stay active.”

Yeah, no shit. With shoulders like that?

Luigi likes Bertrand Russell and going on hikes and he can solve a Rubik’s cube in under a minute, which isn’t hard to imagine, what with those long, dexterous fingers. He wants to see every continent on the planet at least once. You ask him if he likes traveling solo or with friends and he tells you he makes do with both. His face lights up like never before as he describes a drunk night of catching crabs in Cabo San Lucas. You ask him to tell you his favorite destination he’s ever been to, and he says, “right here, with you.”

He’s perfect. There is truly no better word for it.

As the two of you wait for the food to come you jump from topic to topic: favorite movies, the best music for a long drive, politics, least favorite movies. The backdrop of the San Francisco Bay mellows the mood, with the waves chopping and seagulls wailing in the far distance, the moonlight shining bright against the water. You both down your drinks within twenty minutes and you eventually move on to the basket of bread rolls at the center of the table, paying no mind to the passage of time; it’s simply you and him by the Bay, with a romantic scene and some good liquor to keep you busy as the cooks work their magic.

“What made you want to spend your money on this?” you ask over a nibble of bread.

He tilts his head quizzically. “Dinner with you?”

Swallowing, you clarify, “the sugar thing.”

Apparently Luigi needs a moment to ponder that one. He rests his chin on his fists and looks up to the darkened sky as if to signify to you that he’s thinking. 

“Sometimes I get in my head about not doing something more productive with my money,” he says. “There isn’t enough for people who need more. The best I can do is pitch in when the opportunity presents itself.”

“So…” You chew another piece of buttery bread roll. “It’s like charity.”

He grimaces. “That just makes it sound twisted.”

“I’m fucking with you,” you say, smiling.

You feel his foot nudge yours under the table.

“It’s rude to fuck with your date,” he quips, smiling bashfully.

“Is it?” you retort. “What are our plans for tonight, then?”

With that he leans forward, extends one of those long arms across the table and grabs your chin, gentle but firm. Looks into your eyes. 

“Don’t make me hard at dinner,” he murmurs lowly. “That’s rude.”

Wow. Wow. This man is truly the peak of duplexity.

As Luigi settles back into his chair, leaving you blushing and achy between your thighs, the host and his magnificent mustache return with your food.

And oh, man. Luigi told you that Ive’s is a family owned restaurant, one that truly values its customers—and the mouth-watering smell only serves to prove that. Rickety elevator and somewhat hidden location be damned; Ive’s is a fucking Ritz-Carlton compared to what any fine dining establishment could ever provide. The portions are hearty and, with how long they took to prepare, your chefs of the night have clearly gone out of their way to make the best possible dish for you and your date. You feel like Gordon Ramsey with your mental commentary: the grilled cheese is stunning, with sharp cheddar and fuckin’ muenster—the most underrated cheese, in your book—stacked between crispy, pillowy artisan bread, toasted to perfection. And dunked in the tomato soup? A glorious pair. You even taste hints of cream and basil among the natural sweetness. It’s rich, flavorful, and, most importantly, delicious. 

Halfway through your Caesar salad, Luigi poses a question for you:

“What about you?”

You pause, mull over it through a bite of lettuce and croutons. “What about me?”

“What brought you here? With me?” he elaborates.

Desperation? Envy? Loneliness? It could be all three, if you’re being completely honest with yourself. The truest answer, though, is quite simple:

“I didn’t have much growing up,” you start. “I’ve always been hand-in-hand with the poverty line, pretty much since the day I was born, and it’s only through scholarships and awards I worked my ass off for that I’m able to go to school in the city.”

You remember: nights spent breaking yourself apart for a steady GPA and perfect attendance, typing away and rubbing at the tension held under your pulsing temples. College in America is a bit like gambling—place your bet, and if you play your cards just right, it’s easy to get lucky. The problem is that some people are dealt a shit hand, and nobody is giving away their cards for free.

“I never got gifted with generational wealth or blessings from my bougie ancestors,” you continue, tossing your salad back-and-forth with your fork. “I never got the chance to do things I dreamed of doing as a girl. My parents struggled for as long as I can remember—and I guess, after a while, you get pretty tired of it. You start to want safer ground to land your feet on.”

Luigi nods, listening closely.

“I guess it just felt like the best option, the most doable,” you say. “I realized once I made it to college that I couldn’t take care of myself on my own. And I felt like, after all I’d done to even afford my tuition, I could really use not just the extra help, but…Everything else that comes with it. Stability. Comfort. You know?”

He smiles softly. “Everyone deserves nice things.”

A seagull whines in the distant Bay. The air smells like sea salt and sweet, sweet magnetism.

You twist the handle of your fork uncertainly. “Do you think I deserve it?”

“You deserve someone who wants to put in the work,” he answers, cupping his warm hands over yours.

“Have I found him?” you ask.

Leaning forward, he plants a kiss on the back of your hand. “I’d say so.”

Grinning, you suggest, “I think we should get the bill.”

Luigi raises a brow playfully. “No dessert?”

You shake your head. “I don’t need it. Not tonight.”

Cheyenne and her Lancer await outside of Ive’s, still carrying your bag in the backseat. When you and Luigi approach, you can hear My Chemical Romance blasting even through her rolled-up windows. She startles when she first sees the both of you, then settles and smiles shyly, tinkering with the volume dial for what must be the gazillionth time tonight.

“Hey, kids,” she greets as you file into her car. “How was dinner?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t make me feel like the troubled son of a middle-aged mother going through a divorce,” Luigi jokes with a sigh, buckling his seatbelt. He turns to you and winks.

Cheyenne whips around, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “Divorced? Middle-aged? Fuuuuuck you. We’re the same age, dick.”

“Physically,” Luigi says.

“If you didn’t have a lady with you I’d make you walk,” she barks, pulling back the gearshift. “You didn’t switch hotels on me, right?”

“Nope,” he answers, popping the p.

The hotel in question is just a few miles past Mission Bay, exactly a twelve minute drive from Ive’s. The Palace is an elegant, almost industrial building smashed between parking garages that, from the looks of the entrance, seems to be hiding a ravishing interior. Luigi opens your door for you and helps you out of the car, hand gently grasping yours.

He offers a two finger salute with his free hand, standing tall. “Thanks, Chey. I really appreciate it.”

Cheyenne mirrors him. “Don’t mention it. Nice meeting you,” she says, gesturing toward where you stand next to Luigi. 

You nod, smiling brightly and waving goodbye. “Thanks again!”

Luigi waits and watches to make sure that Cheyenne pulls off safely before he’s guiding you to the massive front doors of The Palace, past the lobby, through the high-ceiling hallways toward the elevator. It’s like something from a Wes Anderson film. When the fanciest you’ve seen is your local Hampton Inn, something like this is truly breathtaking. Your heels click against the marble of the floor as you walk with Luigi, stunned by each new chandelier you count on the ceiling. The two of you pass patrons sat in the common area, sipping from glasses of champagne or mugs of coffee and chatting amongst themselves—you imagine about fucking over the poor and hungry. What else do the horrifically rich discuss?

But god, they have taste. 

“This place is gorgeous,” you murmur to him as the two of you wait for the elevator to reach the ground floor. “Have you stayed here before?”

“Just once,” he says, still holding your hand. “You like it?”

“I do.”

He smirks. Squeezes your fingers lightly. “You haven’t even seen our room yet.”

And, much to your awe, he was right—it’s not just a room, it’s a suite. Luigi stands by and watches with subtle pride as you tour your surroundings: king bed, beautiful view of outside The Palace, separate lounge area with a variety of seating options, and a bathroom fit for a Victoria’s Secret model. There are even two white bathrobes hanging on the wall opposite the gigantic mirror. They gave you robes! You want to fall to your knees and cry with joy. You emerge from the bathroom and, to Luigi’s surprise, immediately tackle him in a hug, nearly tripping over your own feet.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you chime, swaying him back-and-forth. “I’m so happy I could die.”

“Don’t die,” he chuckles, smoothing his hand over your lower back. “I’m happy you’re happy.”

You squeal with joy when he presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek and slowly lets you go.

“Oh,” he continues, reaching up to swipe something from the top of the dresser you’re stood next to. “And this is for you.”

Luigi hands you a plain white envelope, scrawled with your name. Cute. You can only imagine what must be inside. Carefully, you tear open the seal and pull out…

A Hallmark card. In curly font, the front reads, “If EVERYBODY had a NIECE as terrific as YOU, it wouldn’t be any BIG DEAL.” When you open it, the inside loudly remarks, “BUT THEY DON’T, SO IT IS! Hope your birthday is as terrific as YOU!”

The money is inside. Obviously.

You try not to shriek with laughter.

“I felt like it would be rude to just give you an envelope with money, but I didn’t really know what to do with the card…?” he interjects, as if he’s trying to defend himself.

“The card is a nice touch,” you agree, failing to bite back your smile. “Are we roleplaying or something?”

He cringes in anguish. “Jesus. I’m an uncle already. I don’t need to roleplay.”

As you giggle, your thumb brushes over the cash.

“You can count it, if you want,” he adds.

It feels a little callous, but you do, since he seems unbothered. There’s a $100 bill, then another, then another—ten in total. $1,000. In cash. All yours. And it’s real.

This is real. Really happening. Real money, real man, real room. Suite. Goddamn.

“Okay,” you breathe, nodding. The bills are spread out in your hands, a sight you’d only ever dreamed of before. “Okay.”

Carefully, you stuff the cash back into the card neatly, tucking it back inside of the envelope to put in your bag, which you leave next to Luigi’s by the dresser. 

“All good?” he asks.

You smirk coyly. “All good.”

“Do you mind if I kiss you now?”

You have to swallow your giggle—Luigi is almost polite to a fault, so much so that it feels silly to maintain it when he’s about to fuck you (and when he’s paying you for it, no less). So you decide to answer his question directly, physically, threading your fingers in his curls and bringing your lips to his, slow and smooth. He grunts in surprise but is quick to return the kiss; his hands caress your upper back, thumb toying at the zipper of your dress and then sliding lower, gripping your hips. The way his mouth moves against yours is leisurely but intentioned, deliberate, confident. He is certainly not new to this.

“Luigi,” you breathe against his lips, and you try to steal another kiss, but he pulls away.

He tuts, a little tsk tsk. “Is that what you call me?”

Oh. Oh. Right. He never laid his cards out on the table that clearly, but you suppose it makes sense for this to be part of your arrangement.

“Sorry, Daddy,” you murmur, face burning.

You’re certainly not mad about it. You could get used to this.

“That’s better,” Luigi whispers. “That’s much better.”

He kisses you again, harder this time. Now his hands are on your ass, alternating between groping you with greed and gliding back up to your hips; when his tongue grazes yours you let your mouth fall open for him, head lolling, and he brings up one hand to tangle his fingers in your hair and keep your lips connected to his. Having your hands in his curls after countless nights of fantasizing feels almost surreal—this whole situation just feels like the porno of your dreams playing out in front of you, right down to the exquisite location, the gorgeous man, and the events leading up to now. Having sex with other guys your age has never felt like this before.

When your calves hit the small sofa in front of the bed you decide to sit down, pulling Luigi closer to you by his paisley tie so as to not lose his kisses. He leans over you, big hands sliding up your thighs, past the hem of your dress, feeling the warmth of the flesh on your hips beneath his palms—you realize then that there are quite a few pillows in your way, and so you push them off. Luigi huffs a laugh.

His mouth moves down, over your throat, mesmerizing you effortlessly. And his hands move up, slowly but surely, tracing the outline of your body in your dress, admiring the way the green satin hugs your curves; this particular shade makes your skin tone shine, he thinks.

“I do really love this dress,” he says into your cleavage, pressing absentminded kisses here and there. “Looks so pretty on you.”

Further he goes. Cupping your breasts, feeling around. Gliding north, to your back. A palm drifts up. Fingers dance over your zipper.

“Can I take it off?” he asks, soft against your ear.

You nod. His face sinks in disapproval.

Seizing your chin between his thumb and fingers, he chides, “answer me when I ask you a question.”

“Yes, yes,” you insist. “Yes, Daddy, I’m sorry.”

Luigi grins. “That’s okay, sweet girl,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

His lithe fingers begin to work your zipper down, down, down, the sound of it echoing in your ears, until you can feel silver resting against your coccyx. Then he helps you slip each strap off of your shoulders, peeling the dress down your torso and your hips, and you laugh lightly when he guides you backward to tug it down your legs. With your heels still on the movement is a bit clunky, but Luigi pays the hiccups no mind. Cheyenne was quite serious about him being driven.

You’re wearing a plain pink set—not very extravagant, but still the most elegant you own. There are frilly edges and a little bow on the front of the panties, girlish and angelic details. You hope he won’t be disappointed in your lack of fancy lingerie. Perhaps some of the cash he’s paid you could go towards something nicer, more intricate—an investment for him, a treat for you.

His hands scan over your body, admiring, beholding.

“What a pretty sight,” he purrs, face flaunting a Cheshire Cat-esque smile. “Did you wear this just for me?”

You shrug, grinning, flushing madly. “It’s the best I’ve got.”

“It’s perfect,” Luigi says. “Absolutely perfect. You look radiant.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” you mutter.

And then he steps back, gets onto his feet, hands moving upward. 

“Why don’t you take that off for me?” he asks. Then there’s that killer smile. “Not that I don’t love it on you. Just makes my job a bit easier.”

You grin.

As he starts to undo his tie you reach behind yourself to open the clasp of your bra, heart pounding as your chest is slowly revealed to him. Luigi is learning that you follow orders well. You move with leisure so as to even the playing field; by the time he’s wearing only his slacks, belt, and black crew socks, you’re working your panties down your thighs, arching your curves every which way to put on a show for him. You sigh at the sound of metal clinking, fabric shuffling.

When your hands reach for the strap of your left heel, he stops you:

“Leave those on,” Luigi commands.

You smirk, enlightened. “You got a thing for girls in high heels?”

“I’ve got a thing for you, pretty lady.”

As he pulls his trousers down to reveal tight black briefs and an impressive imprint he steps closer. You look up toward him expectantly, batting your eyelashes.

“You know what to do, don’t you?” he coos, stroking your hair.

Normally you’re not the biggest fan of this—but you feel graced by god himself to have been given this specific opportunity. So you peel down the edges of his boxers until his cock is springing free, balls heavy and tip leaking, and Luigi blesses you with a delicious groan when you wrap a hand around his shaft and begin to pump him in your tight fist. You almost need both your hands just to stroke him off. It’s ridiculous. He sucks in a breath above you, sharp and rushed, eyes fluttering shut and lips pressed together.

And then you stick out your tongue and lick a slow stripe all the way up the length of his cock, ending with a pronunciated gesture against his frenulum. Luigi balls your hair into a fist; the defined muscles of his stomach are pulled taut, and you glide a hand up through the thick thatch of hair on his pelvis, up further, over his faint happy trail, and when you feel his belly flexing under your palm you moan against him. Your mouth comes to wrap around the first few inches of him, lips sucked in and cheeks hollowed. Two big, warm hands cup your face.

“My god, you’re beautiful,” Luigi breathes. His thumb traces the outline of your cheekbone, tucking stray hair behind your ear. “Has anyone ever told you how good you look with your mouth full?”

You moan around his cock, pull off of him momentarily to answer: “Only you.”

“Could be a pornstar with that fuckin’ body,” he groans—his hands apply the slightest pressure to your head as you take him again. “Fuck, you’d have ‘em lined up for miles, just waiting for a chance.”

His dick begins to press into your throat and you accept him happily. As you set the pace, bobbing your head up and down, Luigi angles his hips forward, and you subdue your gag reflex by digging your fingernails into his thighs.

He compresses his lips again, draws in a deep breath when you take him to the hilt. “But you’re smarter than that, aren’t you?”

The feminist in you wants to lecture him about the complexities of women in sex work, but you figure that’d be a bit of a turn off. And besides, when you tongue at his balls with his cock still lodged down your throat he makes a heavenly sound, something straight out of your wet dreams, something deep and rocky but still so vulnerable. You love it. You need more of that yesterday.

Luigi swears under his breath as you pull off of him, switching to licking around the fat head of his cock and stroking the length untouched by your tongue. The pre beading at his slit tastes sweet, sort of pungent, but not at all unpleasant—you assume you’ve got his diet to thank for that. He groans and shivers and goosebumps rise on his tan skin, prickling underneath your palms. You wrap your lips around the tip of his length, forming a tight suction—as you suck him your hand continues a steady back-and-forth over his dick, your spit creating an effortless glide. 

And then you start twisting, as gently as possible, and every bone in his body melts inside of him.

“Oh, fuck,” he grunts, head thrown back. You can see sweat glistening on the column of his throat. “That’s a good girl. That’s a good fucking girl.”

You try to replicate the same feeling on his cockhead with your hand as you move to his balls, sucking each into your mouth, swirling your tongue, all while your beaming eyes stare up at him.

“Such a princess,” he murmurs. “Who taught you how to suck dick like this?”

You flash him a toothy grin. “You jealous?”

He moans loud when you guide your flat, wet tongue over his tip again, paying extra attention to the underside of his cock, the thin vein stretching down the length of it. Your fist continues its ministrations on his shaft all the while; stroking, twisting, squeezing, much to the delight of Luigi. As you lick your mouth moves lower, taking inch by inch, tongue still swirling to the best of your abilities—and even when it fails to circle his girth you sweep it side-to-side against his dick, your jaw slowly accepting the intrusion. 

With his cock in your throat again you repeat the swaying of your head, bobbing slowly at first and picking up the pace as his sounds intensify. You hope to god that the walls of The Palace aren’t remarkably thin—the wet noises of your mouth moving are ringing loud in your ears, only bested by Luigi’s groans and whines above you. His hips start to meet your movements, thrusting up just slightly, and when you accidentally gag on his dick he moans loud. He fists your hair and growls, your nose buried in his bush, coconut and sandalwood filling your senses. 

“Oh, Christ, yes,” he mumbles. “All of it, baby, take all of it…”

You drag your lips up his length and bring your hand back to work, tugging and twisting like before as your mouth works his cockhead. Only for a moment, though, because Luigi quickly guides you further down, until his heavy dick is fully seated on your tongue, probing your throat again. Your hand finds his balls instead, squeezing softly—you can feel them drawing up in your palm.

He sighs deeply, exhilarated. “Gonna make Daddy come in this pretty little mouth, sweetheart.”

You’ve never tasted a vegetarian’s sperm before. There’s a first time for everything, truly.

With a few more pumps of your head and some added action with your tongue Luigi is gasping and coming in your mouth, hips bucking with fervor. You don’t plan on swallowing, initially, but he tastes quite nice compared to other guys you’ve had—so before you pull off of him you gulp him down without much thought, making a show of opening your mouth to display its relative emptiness. 

Luigi leans down slightly to kiss you. Unexpected, considering the circumstances—re: his jizz in your mouth about five seconds ago—but you’re not complaining. And you realize then that Luigi was hiding something under his suit: he’s wearing the chain, the very same one you’ve been daydreaming about seeing against his perfect olive skin again. Somehow you hadn’t noticed it earlier. You can’t help but tug on it as his mouth moves with yours.

“How’d you know I love this?” you ask against his lips, smiling.

He pecks the corner of your mouth. Shrugs. “You were grabbing at it the first time I kissed you. You’re not very subtle.”

You run your finger along the rough edges of the necklace as you lick inside his mouth; but eventually it becomes difficult to resist his gorgeous curls, so your hands trail, scratching at his scalp and tugging the hairs at the nape of his neck.

Then he kneels. You offer a curious whine.

“It would be rude of me to not return the favor, princess,” Luigi says, spreading your thighs apart and guiding your legs over his broad shoulders.

Wow. 

Long fingers brush against your cunt. He’s spreading something else, too, exploring and relishing in how reactive you are to his touch. 

“Oh, my,” he murmurs. “You’re so wet. Were you having fun, baby?”

The whine that leaves you is apalling. “Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He plants a kiss to the back of your knee, glides further, down your thigh. “You’re such a gift. I’m a lucky, lucky man.”

Two of his fingers part your lips so that all of you is exposed to him. He begins with one flat lick from hole to clit, grinding the tip of his tongue against your fluttering cunt and sweeping it side-to-side. You cry out. It’s been a long time since you found a guy this enthusiastic about eating pussy, and you’re starting to feel immensely glad that Luigi isn’t showcasing himself online—any girl could have this, and because of one chance night, you are the one that gets to indulge in his greedy mouth. Before the insecurity can come flooding back to you he sucks your clit between his lips, slowly pulling away with a resounding pop.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re really spoiling me, sweetheart.”

You’re spoiling him? Yeah. Because that makes sense.

Nothing needs to make sense, though; not when he licks up the length of your pussy again, steadying your body by wrapping his other hand around your thigh, and good god, the span of his fingers nearly covers the entire width. You could probably come just from looking at that. First his tongue circles the hood of your clit, just barely avoiding where you want him the most, and then he moves to teasing you with the pointed tip of it, flicking back and forth. It’s heaven. You’ve never had a man pay this kind of attention to your satisfaction, and you love that Luigi seems to be quite avid about your enjoyment of his efforts—every so often he’ll groan with hunger into your cunt, squeezing your supple thighs.

“Oh—” you whine, hips stuttering. “Oh, fuck, Luigi���”

And then he stops. You make a sound that can only be described as a shrill grunt, raising your head to peek at him between your legs. Luigi’s brows are set straight, eyes unamused.

Oh. Right.

“Daddy,” you plead. “I’m sorry. Please don’t stop.”

His wicked smile returns, then, and he gives your thigh a careful smack. “Atta girl.”

That perfect tongue returns, sliding up through your slick and lingering at your hole, pressing in just slightly. Your cunt is open entirely to him and he can reach every crevice of you, swirling and parting your folds, curling up to collect your arousal as it seeps from you. You’re starting to think that Luigi may not even have to pay you in cash from now on—he can simply compensate with this eager mouth of his. For a moment he takes your clit between his lips and sucks hard again, creating a pulsing sensation with the suction of his mouth that has your thighs trembling and forces sounds from you that would frankly terrify you in any other context.

When he pulls away, he murmurs, “you have the most perfect pussy, baby. Could taste you all day.”

Then he’s diving back in, hardly giving you any room to breathe—it’s just a never ending barrage of all the magic that his mouth can do, his dirty talk and the skillful work of his tongue. This time around he tenses that talented appendage and slots it inside of you, withdraws, and licks up the length of your slit, then repeats the gesture a second time, and then a third—and by the fourth time the tips of his fingers are teasing your entrance, silently asking for permission to explore.

“Please,” you whine, bucking your hips.

So Luigi licks up and collects your clit in his mouth, sucking as he eases his middle finger into your cunt. He hardly gives you time to adjust before he’s curling it, working that spongy spot inside of you with precision, and you cry out, squirming under his intensive ministrations. All the while his lips squeeze your firm clit, almost massaging it, his tongue making a special appearance every so often to stroke the sides of you.

“Fuck,” you sob. “More, please, more.”

He slides a second finger inside of you. Then a third. What really makes it special is the fact that the stretch of his fingers can’t possibly compare to his dick.

By now the build-up of your orgasm has begun to peak, coiling like hot wires in your stomach; you’re squirming ceaselessly on the couch, jittering all over, your fingers buried in Luigi’s thick curls as his fingers work inside of you. His other hand snakes around your thighs and presses against your abdomen, pinning you down so as to minimize your movements. Your thighs shoot up and frame his head, locking him in.

“I’m coming,” you warn, “I’m gonna come.”

Momentarily his mouth leaves your pussy to groan, “you’re doing so good, princess. Show Daddy how you come for him.”

And when his lips return to your clit, a deep hum vibrating in his throat and through your body, you’re coming hard on his face, gripping his hair roughly and rocking your hips against his mouth. Luigi returns your satisfaction tenfold; he moans and smiles against your cunt as he guides you through your climax, whispering fluff to you that you don’t quite comprehend through the rush.

“Such a good girl, sweetheart,” he’s saying when you come to, the ceiling almost spinning before your eyes. 

You lean up on your elbows and offer a dazed grin. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, meeting your lips in a deep kiss. “It’s a treasure to get my mouth on you, sweet girl. I’ve been dreaming of it.”

His tongue tastes like your cunt. You moan into his mouth as you suck on it, fisting his tight curls in your hand. 

“Would you mind terribly if I fucked you now?” Luigi asks when he pulls away, still smiling sweetly.

You kiss him again. “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

At that he stands to retrieve a condom from his wallet, dick swinging shamelessly as he moves. Christ. You’re no better than a man.

He catches you staring, notices your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. “Like what you see?”

Flushing, you giggle. “I’m sorry. It’s kinda hard not to.”

Tearing open the packet, he orders with a smile: “Turn around and bend over on the bed.”

You’re obeying before the words are even out of his mouth. You sink your knees into the soft cushion of the sofa as you lean down onto the bed in front of you, back arched. Your soft ass and your sticky pussy are in perfect view for him, and he whistles lowly as you feel him approaching from behind.

“Look at that,” he remarks, spreading you with the same hands that can solve a Rubik’s cube in under a minute. “Fucking dripping wet. And all for me.”

He drags a fingertip through your slick, which is soon replaced by the head of his cock, swiping back-and-forth against your clit. You shudder at the smooth motion of it, at the way his hands knead your asscheeks.

“So gorgeous,” Luigi says as he presses inside of you.

The stretch knocks all the wind out of your lungs, and the sound you make is intense, pained, absolutely obscene. By the time he’s sheathed every inch in your cunt you’re gripping the bedsheets and squealing, praying to no one in particular that the rooms opposite each side of yours are unoccupied.

“There we go,” he murmurs, stroking your lower back. “Let it all out, sweetheart. How does that feel?”

“It—” You cut yourself off with a groan. “It’s so big.”

“Shh,” he whispers—his hand is now combing through your hair. “I know, baby, I know. Look at you, taking it so well.”

You don’t even know how to breathe again when he pulls his hips back and slowly presses inside of you once more. And then once more. And when Luigi starts to find his rhythm all you can do is blink away your tears and fall face-forward into the bed, your pathetic sounds muffled by the sheets, and he seems to return your enthusiasm—he groans, head thrown back and eyes lidded.

“Fuck, that’s perfect,” he praises. “You can handle it, can’t you, princess?”

Weakly, you nod and offer a whimper. His hand comes down hard on your ass.

“What did I tell you about answering me?” Luigi spits, voice gruff.

“Yes, Daddy, yes,” you whine, leaning back up on your elbows. “I can take it, I can.”

He squeezes your rear. “Arch your back for me.”

So you do, easily, and he’s quick to pick up the pace, slamming into you with no regard for anything that isn’t his cock pistoning inside of your warm, slick pussy. The man is relentless, tugging at your hair and panting beautifully; he’s pounding so deep that you swear you can feel the pressure of it in your chest, and you’re so wet that you’re almost worried you’ll leave behind a mess so horrific the janitors of The Palace will need therapeutic compensation for their shift tonight. 

“Oh, fuck,” you cry out, “oh, fuck…”

It’s all too much and yet you can’t not want more. You’re working your hips back-and-forth in time with his thrusts, the soft globes of your round ass meeting his pelvis with a noise that is unbearably obvious. The stretch of his cock is unforgiving. Merciless.

With a fistful of your hair, Luigi grunts, “that’s it, baby, there you go. Fuck me back.”

But you’re breaking out a sweat, lip tucked between your teeth. “I can’t—oh, fuck, please…”

“Shh,” he murmurs, tightening his grip on you. “Just rub that little clit and let me do all the work, okay?”

Your fingers swiftly find the slicked bundle of nerves between your thighs and stroke in circles, moving furiously. He’s got both hands planted firmly on your hips, thighs and arms tensing as he hunches over you, fucking into you like a madman, his dick brushing into every sweet spot deep inside of you. If you focus hard enough you can feel his silver chain swinging over your back.

Luigi makes a noise that sounds strangled and involuntary.

“Baby,” he says, “fuck, you’re tight. ‘M not gonna last much longer.”

You nod desperately, hand moving to meet his where it’s clasped over your hip. The fingers of your free hand speed up, slathering your arousal over your clit as Luigi slap-slap-slaps his hips into yours.

He wasn’t lying. It only takes a few more minutes of his vicious pounding for the both of you to come undone; you’re up first, jittering and falling flat into the bed as your toes curl and your cunt grips him like you never want to let go, and that’s all Luigi needs to meet you halfway, thrusts stuttering and slowing to a stop as you milk him. His chest is heaving and his Adam’s apple bobs as he catches his breath, his hand gently caressing your back.

“God,” he mutters as he pulls out of you. “You’re fuckin’ unbelievable.”

You’re sat up in bed, the sheets splayed over your naked body as the shower runs in the distance. By now it’s past midnight, the city only lit up by street lights and the brights of passing cars. As you watch the world pass by through the windows of your suite, you fork through a plate of chocolate mousse cake, specially made by The Palace’s chefs. The bite that fills your mouth is heavenly; it’s rich and fluffy, the icing creamy and the texture smooth. Something sweet to make up for your lack of dessert this evening.

The water turns off. Halfway through your slice of cake fresh from room service, Luigi emerges from the shower, curls wet and skin sheen with warm droplets as he tucks in the towel wrapped snugly around his waist. He smiles at you when you spot him.

“What do you think?” he asks.

You blink. “About my cake?”

He chuckles. “About tonight.”

Now you understand: he wants feedback. Wants to live up to his promises. 

“I’m an earnest lover.” 

Setting your cake and fork on the nightstand, you approach him—and he sighs happily when you wrap your arms around him and pull him in for a hug, your bare breasts pressed flush to his pecs.

Into his ear, you whisper: “I think you’re the very best Daddy I could ever ask for.”

Luigi smiles devilishly.

[womanofwords]

Frozen Heart (Part 7)

TW: hospitals, descriptions of injuries.

Bruce and Damian arrived next. Bruce looked horrified at the sight of you, and Damian's eyes looked watery. "Y/N," he said softly, reaching for you. "I'm here now. There, there."

"Why?" you asked.

"Because you have been hurt, and we will get vengeance on your behalf," Damian said. "We won't let this go unpunished."

You stared at the linoleum hospital floor near their shoes. "Really? Why, exactly?"

"Because you're a member of my family, and we want to take care of you," Bruce said.

"You are a Wayne, and Waynes protect and defend one another," Damian said.

You took a deep, painful breath. "I didn't know I was a Wayne. I always thought I was a cockroach, or perhaps a rat."

The word rat bit Damian hard, sinking small, sharp teeth into his psyche. Those were his words. He'd called you those things, smirking at the horrified and heartbroken look on your face. But now it hurt him. His only blood sibling didn't feel like part of the family, and it was because of him.

Bruce's heart was also breaking. His little one had no idea that they were loved. How long had they been harbouring these feelings? What did you call him in your head? Was it Bruce? He prayed that you didn't internally call him Bruce, or worse, Mr Wayne.

And how could he have not disciplined Damian earlier? His children were bullying each other. You weren't looking at Damian when he talking, looking at the space near him or at his shoes. He was an object of fear for you. He was someone you were scared of.

You barely knew your father, you feared your brother, and he had failed you both.

That was going to change. You were going to become the centre of his universe the moment you came home from the hospital. He was going to put you somewhere where you would be easy to watch and would re-arrange his schedule so he'd always be able to spend some time with you. He'd be available for all appointments with professionals, doing the exercises with you. Physical therapy, counselling, school, you name it, and he'd be there!

(Not that you'd be going to school any more; Gotham Prep wasn't worth the money he spent in donations if you would get bullied in front of everybody. Homeschooling was where it was at.)

"Y/N, we're so, so sorry. We're going to make your world a better place to live in," Bruce said.

You snorted. "It's a little late for that, Bruce."

He'd never hated the sound of his own name more than when he heard you say it.

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[weaselle]

i just want to add that community and locality can often be the best solution if you can manage it.

my brother's wife started keeping chickens and we are getting eggs from her.

My sister and i have begun looking into going in together on buying a whole cow from a local school ag program.

The cows are sold to slaughter anyway, and there are many bonuses to doing this

For one thing, the money goes back into the education system. For another thing you can get details about how the cow is raised, what it was fed, what hormones or medicines were administered etc etc. The AG program people will probably be excited to tell you every detail.

Sourcing our meat from our local school ag programs means we would not be participating in the cattle industry deforestation of the Amazon and similar practices, and we would no longer be getting our meat shipped half way around the globe using fossil fuels.

the cow itself is only part of the cost, you have to pay separate for someone to butcher it and that can be hundreds of dollars, but it does mean you get to personally go look for a butcher who employs safe practices and runs a clean facility, instead of blindly trusting wherever the grocery store is currently getting their beef.

A whole cow plus the butchering is going to cost us like $2.5k, but if my brother's family and my sister's family and i all split it, it's reasonable and gets us like 500lbs of beef, which will go into three freezers (one at each household). The breakdown on price means that we get every part of the cow for the same price per pound as average hamburger meat (that means our steaks etc are much cheaper than at the store).

If every one of us for those three households eats a quarter pound of beef every single day of the year, that beef will last us almost a whole year - but since we don't eat beef every day, it will probably last us more like a year and a half or even two years. That means we will be definitely be spending less per year on beef than we do currently. If we find a butcher we trust enough for the beef and my sister in law starts keeping chickens for meat as well as eggs, our three households will be spending less money and have much more control over our food quality.

And they can't grow stuff at their houses (chickens take up a surprisingly small amount of space - plus they are pretty cheap to keep too!) but where i live right now we have a decent sized yard and we're on a well (so no water bill) and we grow lemons, oranges, plums, kiwis, guavas, grapes, cherries, strawberries, almonds, walnuts, peaches, apples, and persimmons. Plus the herb garden and we're thinking about getting the vegetable garden going again too. It's not enough to supply all of our fruits and veggies of course, but, it is enough to provide, for example all the lemons our three households need with enough left over to trade to our neighbors for some tomatoes and squash.

And, after all, if you directly control, say, about 50% of your produce this way, then you've lowered your chances of being poisoned by the anti-food-safety bullshit by quite a bit

Anyway, i know not everyone can access these exact solutions, but the local AG program thing might be doable for a lot of people out there, and there are other solutions i haven't thought of yet. Get with your friends or extended family about it and see what you can accomplish together.

My husband and I were discussing how the first felon is defending the FDA and how the quality control of our food is gonna basically disappear and I proceeded to have so much anxiety about it that I didn't sleep last night. How do we prepare for this? Is there a way to make food safe at home? How can we avoid getting poisoned from the grocery store? Sorry for bringing this anxiety to your inbox but I'm exhausted and scared and I'm hoping you've come up with food safety tips what with your general food complications.

I’m afraid I don’t have a solution for something of this scale and am just as equally terrified, but that said:

Check your local state regulations. Some states actually have strict testing that the FDA when it comes to certain things like milk. See if they are listing any recalls.

Stop eating things raw for the foreseeable future. Wash and cook everything thoroughly, even if the bag claims it’s pre-washed, wash it again. Cooking will also help eliminate any remaining pathogens. It means no more salads for a while but that’s okay.

For things like fruit, try to go with things that have an outer skin that can be taken off. If it requires you to cut into it with a knife, give the outer skin a scrub and rinse to reduce the chances of your knife being contaminated by anything like e-coli and then contaminating the insides by cutting it up.

For fruit that can’t be peeled, make sure to inspect and wash them thoroughly. If you are immunocompromised like me, consider cooking it down into a jam or pie filling to reduce further risk. Not as fun as eating it fresh for some people, but it’s a valid way of still getting the flavor and nutrients.

For things like milk, only drink pasteurized and ultra pasteurized. Try to get pasteurized eggs if you can too.

If you don’t have a meat thermometer, now is the time to get one. Make sore everything is cooked to its required internal temperature. For poultry, the recommended temperature is 165°F (74°C), while for beef and pork, the recommended temperature is 145°F (63°C) with a 3-minute rest time. Ground meats should be cooked to 160°F (71°C). Eggs should be cooked until the yolk is set. No more runny egg yolks for a bit until we get a competent source of information back about bird flu.

For things like flour, try to go for reputable brands that have their own independent testing facilities for things like gluten. They also usually test for other things and clean their facilities thoroughly. My go to is King Arthur atm.

Also, stop eating raw cookie dough if you’re not going to toast the flour in the oven first. That’s how a lot of people get sick, not necessarily from the raw egg, though stop eating raw egg right now if you do. Again, bird flu. [Addendum] I learned the flour trick in a job I used to work, but apparently, the pre-defunded FDA didn't think toasting the flour made it safe, so maybe just don't eat raw cookie dough. And I know someone's going to be a cunt in the notes like "I don't care I do what I want" good for you, hope saying that made you feel better.]

This is a dwindling possibility with the tariffs but try to buy food imported from other countries that still have food quality control. I get my masa harina from a small company that imports directly from Colombia. They can’t afford the gluten free label required to be classified as such in the USA, but considering Cheerios in the USA can afford to buy that label and the celiac foundation certification logo and still routinely sells contaminated produce due to not using gluten free oats and a mechanical sorting system that can’t be certified gluten free (1) (2) (3), I’m more inclined to go with other countries labeling right now.

With clean water under threat, use a filter for your drinking water. We currently use the ones by Life Straw. They don’t fit into your faucet but the LS filters are better than most of the ones that can be attached that way and the housing of the jugs and countertop filters are easy to clean. Make sure you do so once a week and change the filters as directed.

Most of this is just basic food hygiene stuff combined with what it’s like to be immunocompromised, but it’s always worth repeating in case someone didn’t know, but especially worth repeating right now with all our rules and regulating bodies going out the window 😞

[thewertsearch]

You produce your most spirited LAD SCRAMBLE yet, and hop up to the next GOD TIER, achieving the illustrious REVENGE OF DOCTOR RAGNAROK. All of your vitals go completely bonkers. Your MAN GRIT is off the charts. You're embarrassed for us to even know what it is. It's that gaudy.

Remember when I described the God Tiers as 'less silly' than the Echeladder's levels?

...yeah. I should have known that wasn't going to last long.

You put forth your best LASS SCAMPER of all time, and clear another sweet GOD TIER, the nigh-unattainable SAYONARA KANSAS.

For Jade, these tiers are essentially meaningless now. She's the First Guardian of Earth, and wields powers far greater than the paltry parlor tricks of an ascended Sburb Player.

Jade's not a God Tier - She's a god.

Nobody should ever mess with you. Not even me.

And Hussie knows it.

You don't get boondollars anymore. That shit is for babies now. Instead, you are finally ready to have your first ACHIEVEMENT BADGE sewn on to your KIDDIE CAMPER HANDYSASH! You each receive the badge GIFT OF GAB, enabling you to engage in simple, direct dialogue with others, without requiring any gimmicks to facilitate communication. You don't need to type through a chat client, or talk to a sprite, or traverse through a memory in a dream bubble, or wander around in an interactive game environment, or any of that stuff. You seriously never thought you would live to see this achievement unlocked. It almost feels like cheating.

Getting a little sick of that restriction, eh, Hussie?

Sufficiently advanced Players are allowed to break the rules of the comic, a concept which is brimming with potential. Next thing you know, they'll be picking up objects without a Sylladex, naming their children before they're thirteen, or violating the sanctity of the alpha timeline wait what was that last one

A verbal conversation, with no Pesterchum handles in sight. This really does feel like a milestone, and it's incredibly funny (and on-brand) that we needed a Prestige Class to unlock it.

Also... this is decidedly not a three-millisecond journey. Just how long are they stuck here?

JADE: im not sure! JADE: some sort of limbo dimension between the two walls i guess JADE: like a realm with unusual spatial properties we have to cross through

Jade, for her part, is not aware of the metacanonical implications of this little trip. I think it was Scratch who first told her about the Fourth Wall, and it's clear he made a few tactical omissions concerning its true nature.

JOHN: we escaped the scratch? JOHN: like, we still exist and everything? JADE: yes! JADE: we still totally exist john JOHN: ok, just making sure. JOHN: i still felt pretty existy, but you never know.

A pertinent question, considering where they are.

Technically, they might be more real than they were before, since they've left the fictional medium(!) of their reality.

JOHN: i mean, we crashed through that giant window you magically made with witch powers to escape the scratch, so we can keep existing, right? JADE: yes JADE: i didnt make it with witch powers though, i captchalogued it hours ago because karkat told me to…

Wait, but wasn't it Future Jade who told Karkat to do that?

It certainly sounds like it was - and the current, post-session Jade should already be older than any 'future' Jade who talked to Karkat during the session.

By now, Jade should know why she arranged for herself to grab the Wall - but she's acting like she only did it because Karkat told her to. Maybe I'm just misinterpreting what she's saying.

JOHN: did you at least make it huge with witch powers? JADE: i did make it huge with witch powers! JOHN: so i guess that's what witch powers do, is make things huge? JADE: they also make things small JOHN: right, like you did with all those planets. JADE: yup JADE: also JADE: witch powers can teleport things, and fling things around through space at very high velocities JADE: all sorts of stuff! JADE: but to be honest, im not sure how much of that is attributable to inheriting becs abilities…

All of it, actually.

The only thing Bec didn't do was fling an object around at a high velocity...

...until you remember he did this, which absolutely counts.

So far, nothing Jade's done has been through her God Tier abilities. She's so powerful that her status as the Witch of Space is completely, utterly superfluous.

[padawan-snack-packer]

[TW: Andor Season 2 Spoilers]

You ever watch a show—really watch a show—and walk away thinking, yeah, nah, nothing is ever going to top that?

Not in quality, not in depth, not in how deeply it rearranged your insides? Like, you try to keep watching other things after, and they’re good, they’re fine, they’re even great sometimes—but nothing touches you the way that one did. Nothing digs in and refuses to leave.

For me, that show is Andor.

I hate that I compare everything else to it now. I don’t want to. That’s not the goal. Some shows are meant to be comfort, some are joy, some are pure escape—and I love those too. But Andor? Andor wasn’t made to entertain me. It was made to wreck me. It was made to carve out something in my chest and whisper, “You know this world. You live in it. What are you going to do about it?”

It’s unfair, I know it is. Because Andor is a mirror, not a window. It doesn’t ask you to imagine—it asks you to remember. It’s not fantasy, even when it’s set in space. It’s a gut punch in disguise. It’s a story about people who don’t have the luxury of magic or prophecy or chosen-one destinies. It’s about people with dirty fingernails and blood on their hands and fire in their hearts who say enough.

And I’ve never seen anything like it.

Not just in Star Wars.

Not in television, period.

Season 2? It’s shattering me. It’s not just good—it’s too good. It’s too real. It doesn’t just pull back the curtain on oppression and resistance; it rips the whole stage down. Every episode feels like it’s crawling under my skin. I watch scenes that feel like they were written by someone who saw the inside of my ribcage. The silences, the glances, the weight of every decision, the deaths, the "we almost made it"—it’s not just storytelling, it’s emotional warfare.

Brasso dies. And we don’t even get the dignity of seeing it happen. There’s no final stand, no slow-motion heroic moment. Just the aftermath. Just Cassian, stumbling, shaking, blood on his hands, and there’s Brasso—his anchor, his brother, the man who carried Maarva’s message like gospel—lying there, still.

Gone.

And Cassian collapses. He drops to his knees and pulls Brasso into his arms, cradles him. And there’s no words. Just the soft sound of Cassian’s breath hitching as he kisses Brasso’s forehead like it’ll bring him back. Like this one act can say thank you, I’m sorry, I love you all at once. But Brasso doesn’t move.

War doesn't have pity. War is not always on screen. But it's always heartbreaking.

Because Brasso deserved more. He was the best of them. He fought, he believed, he stayed. He carried everyone else. And in the end, no one carried him.

He died alone. Alone in that field, with Imperials on his back, on a simple speeder, and just like that he was gone.

And then there’s Bix. Sweet, fierce, shattered Bix. Who’s already been broken once by the Empire’s machine—who walks through her life like a ghost, barely there, the screams still echoing in her skull—and it happens again. Another officer. Another man in a uniform who thinks her body is just another thing to take. But this time? She doesn’t freeze. She fights. And it’s not cinematic. It’s messy. It’s teeth and nails and desperation and screams, and when she wins, it’s not triumph—it’s survival. Barely.

And you realize: this isn’t just a story about heroes. This is a story about survivors. People who were never given a choice.

And then the part that never stops haunting me: not everyone can afford to rebel. You see people pushed to the brink, wanting to fight, burning with anger—but they have children. Sick parents. They need their jobs to eat. They’ve seen what happens to people who step out of line.

They want to scream, but screaming gets you noticed. And the Empire notices. So they stay quiet. Not because they don’t care—but because they can’t afford to lose. The rebellion marches forward, and behind it? Thousands left behind, trapped in quiet compliance. That’s the cost. That’s the heartbreak.

That’s real.

And Mon Mothma—oh my God, Mon Mothma. The woman who tried so hard to fight with dignity. Who played the long game. Who gave speeches while her soul slowly unraveled. And what does it cost her? Everything. Her privacy. Her marriage. Her name. Her child. Because when push comes to shove, and she needs funding, she makes the deal. She marries off her daughter. Thirteen years old. Barely past childhood. Betrothed to a boy from some house, all because Mothma couldn’t find another way. Because she had to. Had to secure this.

And at first, she tells herself it’s politics. Tradition. The lesser evil. But you see it eat at her. You see it break her. Because her daughter starts leaning into it. Starts seeing it as a choice—as something good. And Mon realizes… she didn’t just sacrifice her daughter’s future—she let the Empire win in her own home. The rot got in. It touched everything. And she did that. She let it happen.

And Bee… sweet, stammering Bee. The droid that loved harder than most people ever do. Bee who repeats his questions because he needs the answers to be different this time. Bee who waits by the door, who watches the shadows, who probably still replays Maarva’s voice in his head just to feel close to someone.

And now—he’s waiting again.

But no one comes. Not Cassian. Not Bix. Not Will. Not Brasso.

Maybe he finds Brasso first. Maybe Bee rolls up to him, quiet, uncertain, his lights dimmer than usual. Maybe he nudges him. Once. Twice. Tries to say his name but it comes out glitchy and soft, like static wrapped in grief. “Br-Brasso? Brasso, wake. Wake. You… wake now.” And he keeps pushing, because this is what you do with people—you ask them to get up, and they do. Brasso always got up. He always came back. He always carried everyone else.

But this time, he doesn’t move. And Bee just stays there. No screaming, no alarms. Just this stillness. Just the heartbreak of someone who doesn’t fully understand death, only that the people he loves keep leaving. That they say goodbye without really saying it, and they don’t return, and now the room is too quiet again.

Bee, whose memory is long and clear, who plays back old moments like prayers—now adding this one to the archive, hoping if he replays it enough, Brasso might answer.

And the most devastating part? He probably waits. Sits beside Brasso like a little sentinel, flickering low, guarding what’s left.

Because that’s what Bee does.

He waits. He loves. And he doesn’t understand why love isn’t enough to make people stay.

Rebellion is fire.

It’s bravery and fury and sacrifice. But it’s also loss. It’s trauma. It’s a thousand compromises that stain your hands until you don’t recognize yourself in the mirror.

It’s holding the people you love in your arms and knowing they died for a cause that might not even make it to tomorrow.

I’m so torn after these three episodes I don’t even know what to do with myself. Genuinely.

My heart feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder—just shredded and pulsing, and somehow I’m supposed to sit here and wait for more? Like this wasn’t already too much?? Like they didn’t already rip open every wound in the span of a few hours and say, “Okay, now hold that.” And I want more—I need more—but at the same time, I’m terrified of what it’s going to cost me. What it’s going to cost them.

Because they’re fighting now. Like really fighting. There’s no turning back, no more edge-of-the-fray, no more quiet resistance in back rooms. It’s loud and bloody and real, and the whole galaxy is teetering. And I want to see it—I want to see the fire, the rebellion, the moments of victory—but I know what’s coming. We all know what’s coming.

We’ve seen Rogue One.

We know how this ends.

And yeah, they win. Technically. But it’s not the kind of win that makes you cheer. It’s the kind that makes you cry into your hands and just scream because they won but at what cost?....

It’s a pyrrhic victory—burned into the bones of every name etched into the dirt, every voice silenced, every hope that had to be handed off like a relay baton because the people carrying it didn’t make it to the finish line.

They won, but they didn’t survive.

And maybe that’s the most painful part. That I’m watching these characters I love—love—throw themselves at the fire, on the frontlines, knowing they won’t get to see the dawn. Knowing their names will never be sung. And yet, I need to see it. I need to see them fight. I need to see them choose rebellion even when it breaks them.

Because even knowing the end, every moment leading there matters. Every small act of resistance, every stolen moment of joy, every impossible choice.

That’s what Andor gets. That’s what makes it hurt. It doesn’t lie to you. It says, Tthis is the cost. Are you still willing to pay it?"

And I know—I know—it’s unfair to hold everything else up to that standard. But nothing—nothing—fantasy or not, has shaken me like this. Andor doesn’t ask to be liked. It dares you to feel it. And once you do? Nothing ever feels quite the same.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to recover from it. I don’t even know if I want to.

[hhughes]

hiya, i have no idea if you do requests but i have a very brief and simple idea, which you can do your own take on - overly sensitive reader is dating oscar piastri & people are bothering her online but she doesn't tell oscar, instead she hides it and acts like she's fine but one night, she's in bed with him but then moves out to the living room & she's reading people's posts and messages about her not deserving him and she just sobs her eyes out, very quietly, thinking he's asleep - but he's not and he hears her, he walks out to the sight of her crying,,, then you can do whatever you want! just basically a hurt/comfort fic idea :) thank you!

𝒏ote , hi nonnie! thank you so much for requesting this. im convinced he is the sweetest sweetest bf and this thought goes so well with him . . .

fem!reader x oscar piastri. established relationship. hurt -> comfort. fluff. insecure!reader. mean online comments.

you knew better.

you knew better than to look. you knew better than to click on the notifications, the comments, the threads where strangers, bold and faceless, tore you apart like it cost them nothing.

you know it’s not true. these people don’t you. they don’t really know oscar. they don’t know anything about your relationship. and you knew better than to give them so much power over you, but you did it anyway.

it felt like a constant in your night routine at this point. after the steady rise and fall of oscar’s chest tells you he’s surrendered to sleep, you slip quietly from the bed.

you try to convince yourself you’re just stretching your legs, grabbing some water, anything to justify the gnawing pull toward your phone, toward the weight you tuck away during the day but can’t seem to ignore when it’s dark and that inner voice manages to convince you to look.

you curl up on the couch, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still smells faintly like him, like the smell of your safe space can wrap around you and stop the words from piercing as deep as they always do.

“he could have anyone and he settles for that?”

“you can’t convince me she’s there for anything but the money”

“he could do way better”

“why do the best guys always tend to settle for the most basic, gold digging girls”

one after another they appear on the screen. picking apart your body, your intelligence, your motives.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until the drops fall on the screen. little blots of water smearing and obstructing the words that had already twisted like knives in your chest.

you know you should turn it off. climb into bed and let oscar cuddle away all the insecurities gnawing at your chest. but it feels like you’re stuck. like if you just read one more comment, maybe you’ll find one that makes it all make sense, one that explains why you feel like you’ll never be enough for him.

you flinch when a familiar hand gently closes over yours, steady and warm, taking the phone from you. you hadn’t even heard him come in.

you don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe as he scrolls through the comments himself, brow furrowing more and more the further he goes.

after a few minutes he locks the phone and discards it on the table, settling next to you and pulling you onto his lap.

“you know none of it is true right?” he mumbles against your head, pressing a kiss to your temple and you sniffle

“osc—” you go to argue but he interrupts

“no” he says, the word so blunt and direct it catches you so off guard for a second that you pull your head away from his chest to look at him

“i’m not gonna sit here and listen to you justify what they’re saying. they don’t know you. they don’t know me. and they sure as shit don’t know anything about our relationship” he says, shaking his head slightly at the utter ridiculousness of what he just read.

“but it’s true. i’m not perfect and you could do so much bet—“ you mumble but he interrupts you again before you get the chance to finish, this time with his lips on yours, kissing you until those thoughts float away and the only thing you can focus on is the way his hand is running through your hair

“you’re perfect with me, to me, and for me. hell perfect doesn’t even begin to describe you baby. you’re everything. you’re all I want. the only way these people have any power over you is if you actually believe there’s some truth to what they’re saying. do you?” oscar asks, holding your jaw so you can’t look away from him.

“are you only with me for the money? the attention?” oscar asks, raising his eyebrows dramatically in a way that makes you wanna laugh and by the slight tilt in his lips, he knows.

“no” you say softly and he gasps in mock surprise

“really? I for sure thought you were” he teases and laughs when you hit him playfully.

“i’m just kidding baby. you hate attention even more than I do and you practically tackle me every time I try to pay for anything. and if you think for even one second that I don’t believe you’re the sexiest woman in the world, you come tell me and I’ll prove you wrong, yeah?” he says, pressing kiss after kiss against your temple, your cheek, your nose, your jaw, your lips. every inch he can reach.

“I love you” you say softly, hoping your gratitude for him shines through in your tone.

“I love you the most,” he murmurs back, no hesitation, no doubt. just the pure, simple truth.

his hands gently frame your face, thumbs brushing away the last of your tears with a tenderness that makes your chest ache all over again, but in a different way this time. a softer way.

“let’s go to bed,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion and affection as he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom, leaving your phone and all the negativity on it right there on the table.

[geek-with-tea]

For people upset that their own personal public enjoyment of Harry Potter is being called out, I am going to sit with you gently but you may not like what I have to say.

Sometimes, fantasy is an addiction - and that means that sometimes, the best way to reduce harm while having it is to figure out where to do so privately.

I'll throw myself under the bus with you. I ADORE C.AI, Character.AI, all that jazz - so much so that I had to go for treatment for it. Sure, you can RP with real people but it's not that same 24/7, private access to live out everything. I am sure some of you are already pointing out the environmental damage, and how it steals and bastardizes content.

And I am sure that every alternate story recommendation feels the same. It's not the world where you feel safest, it's not as easy to access, etc.

If you want to enjoy it, enjoy it privately.

No publishing fanart outside of private discords. No publishing fanfic outside of private discords. No recommendations outside of private Harry Potter discords. Your obsession/special interest/addiction should not be used to fund JKR's hate. Read the fic, read the fanart, send private messages to art and fic creators. if you must but do not engage in public, marketable space. You do not want new people to find interest in the series, or those who are less careful finding interest. Tumblr is not private. AO3 is not private. Only closed servers are private enough.

For everyone deriding: there is a reason safe injection sites exist. There are reasons red light districts exist. Going cold turkey off a behavioural addiction is hard and there is a reason that behavioural addiction classes are often held by the same people who hold substance addiction classes. There needs to be safe places to engage without public relapse.

TL;DR: Use private, unmarketable spaces to engage in Harry Potter if you find you cannot let go. And there is help out there - a lot of groups that work with tech addictions are adequately prepared for fantasy based addictions.

to summarize: you have the moral backbone of a flatworm if your response every time harry potter comes up is to make it about your inability to give up a book

[oofmybad]

Billie and reader are so disgustingly in love that they constantly say pick up lines to each other. They get more nasty as the fic progresses 🫦

Pick up lines

hi love! thank you for sending in a request, here it isssss. honestly, i’m so bad at coming up with puns so google was my best friend.

warnings: fluff, suggestive puns

~~~~~~~~

“billie!” you yell, putting your hand out in front of you, “stop taking pictures of me.

“i need proof that angels really do exist” billie repsonds, a much-too-pleased smirk on her face.

“proud of that one?” you ask.

“very.” billie nods as she finally puts her phone back into her pocket, pulling you in for a kiss.

***

missing billie while she’s away on tour, you pick up your phone and go to her contact, clicking on the facetime icon.

after a short ring, billie’s beautiful face emerges on your screen, the lens close to her mouth as she says, “hi pretty girl!”

you smile in return, “hi baby, i miss you.”

“i miss you too, angel. i’ll be home in a couple days” billie coos, her lips now in a pout.

“are you a charger?… ‘cause i’m dying without you” you utter out, stiffling a laugh.

“that one’s so bad, y/n!” billie cackles into the phone, her eyes lighting up at your goofy remark.

“made’ya smile though” you cheese, pleased with yourself.

***

stood in the kitchen, stirring the pot of stew that you’d made for you and billie, you suddenly feel a pair of cold hands wrap around your waist.

“mmm, smells so good, baby” billie mumbles in your ear, leaving a soft kiss on your shoulder.

“oh yeah? wanna taste it?” you ask, implication laced in your voice.

billie simply slaps your ass in faux disapproval before walking away and waiting in the living room.

***

the two of you have dinner plans with finch and claudia tonight, so you’re both getting ready on your individual sides of the bedroom.

you dig through your closet in search for the perfect pants to wear. landing on a pair of y2k low-rise skinny jeans, you pull them from the hanger and drape them on your vanity chair.

you pull down your booty shorts and put on the jeans. since they’re so tight, you have to fight with them to get them on. as you’re attempting to pull them over your ass, the fat is splurging out over the top.

from the the other side of the room, you hear an overzealous voice, “are those pants from outer space, ‘cause your ass is out of this world.”

you let go of the belt loops and drop your hands by your side. looking over to billie, you give her a side eye and a look of pure annoyance.

“quit playing and make yourself useful” you huff.

“my pleasure, baby. anything to get closer to that ass of yours” bill continues her teasing as she walks over to you.

***

your favorite movie is playing on the tv across from the bed. you and billie are lying there snuggled together. but with each passing moment, billie proceeds to get more handsy.

out of nowhere, billie pushes her lips next to your ear, “i put skittles in my panties”.

you giggle at billies words, utterly confused, “what?”

“wanna taste the rainbow, baby?” billie whispers.

“i should’ve known this was a ploy” you cackle as you climb over billie, straddling her waist.

reading your body language, billie looks you up and down, “is that a yes, then?”

“always.”

[formulaonecrumbs]

switching it up!! still pcos reader, maybe a race. except let’s go with alex albon or daniel ricciardo 🤭

-🧸

not today hormones ✋

Alex Albon x PCOS!reader

summary: reader experiencing a flare up while at track and alex naturally cheering her up.

warnings: pcos mention, chronic pain, alex and his sarcastic ass

A/N: AAHHHHH FINALLY. THIS IS WHAT IVE BEEN WAITING FOR. AN AELX REQUEST. i already wrote for daniel and have (surprisingly) NEVER written for albono so it was time. i feel that i don’t naturally write alex very well (or anyone except lando 😭) but i made him all silly and cute cuz that’s how i see him. imma make a more serious and helpful albono if u so please, all u gotta do is ask. anyways ENJOY, 🧸!!! LOVE U.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

it starts with your alarm not going off.

which means you wake up twenty-five minutes later than planned, heart pounding, hair a mess, and your suitcase only halfway packed. your phone buzzes violently against the nightstand — a string of texts from alex, each one more worried than the last.

alex:

where r u

u ok??

do i need to come rescue u from a sleep coma again

he would, too. dramatic little menace.

you send him a quick “omw don’t panic” text and rush through the rest of your morning with exactly zero grace. makeup half-done. hair thrown up. you’re pretty sure you put two different socks on, but there’s no time to fix it. it’s either that or miss your flight to barcelona, and alex will absolutely never let you live that down.

by the time you make it to the paddock the next day, you’re sore, irritable, and bloated beyond belief. your body’s staging a full-on hormonal protest — classic pcos. your jeans feel tight. your skin’s breaking out. you’re half convinced your uterus is trying to punch its way out of your body, and to top it all off, someone hands you a media pass that says “alex’s girlfriend” like it’s a job title.

alex finds you slumped on a folding chair near the williams motorhome, sunglasses on, head tilted back like a dramatic victorian woman fainting on a chaise lounge.

“there she is,” he grins, crouching beside you. “my radiant queen of punctuality.”

you glare at him through your sunglasses. “don’t.”

“what?”

“i swear to god, if you say anything about how late i was or how my face looks like a tomato or how my jeans are cutting off circulation to my soul, i will throw myself into the nearest tyre wall.”

alex lifts his hands in surrender, a smile still playing at his lips. “i was just gonna say hi.”

you eye him suspiciously.

he nudges your knee with the back of his hand. “hi.”

“hi,” you mumble.

“you want to talk about it?” he asks, softer now, eyes scanning your face like he already knows the answer.

you shake your head. “just one of those days. hormone hurricane. pcos is being an asshole.”

he gives you a look — not pitying, not dramatic, just… warm. understanding. “is this the kind of hurricane that needs snacks or space?”

you consider that for a second. “both.”

he stands up immediately. “done. five minutes. trust the snack man.”

you watch him walk away, still wearing his fireproofs and a backwards cap that’s barely hanging on. a few fans wave at him and he waves back, never missing a beat. a kid shouts his name and he shouts back something about being cooler than lando today.

you sigh. leave it to alex albon to be charming even while sourcing snacks.

when he comes back, he’s balancing a water bottle, a banana, a chocolate croissant, and — for some reason — a small stuffed duck wearing a williams hat.

you raise an eyebrow.

“his name’s turbo,” alex says casually. “he’s our emotional support duck.”

“you stole that from the merch table, didn’t you?”

“it was a rescue mission.”

you snort and reach for the croissant. “thanks, honey.”

he plops down beside you on the bench, shoulder pressed into yours, like he’s casually shielding you from the chaos of the paddock.

“you don’t have to thank me,” he says. “your body’s doing its own weird olympics right now. least i can do is bring you carbs and emotional poultry.”

you laugh despite yourself, mouth full of pastry. “you make it sound so noble.”

“it is noble,” he insists. “besides, you put up with me during the off-season. now it’s my turn.”

you bump your head against his shoulder. “you’re annoying.”

“you love it.”

“unfortunately.”

by the time qualifying rolls around, you’re planted in the williams garage, headphones on, duck in lap, watching alex put in a solid session despite the heat. the engineers are buzzing, data flying everywhere, and you can’t help but feel proud — even if you’re still cramping and a little dead inside.

afterwards, he finds you again, towel around his neck, face flushed.

“p10,” he says, still catching his breath. “not bad, right?”

“you’re magic,” you grin.

“you’re biased.”

“always.”

he steals a sip of your water and gives turbo a high five. “how’s the uterus?”

“still raging,” you say. “but the croissant helped.”

“i’ll bring you another tomorrow.”

“turbo demands it.”

alex grins and tugs you up by the hand. “come on. let’s go annoy logan and pretend i’m not sweating like a swamp creature.”

you follow, hand still in his, thinking maybe today wasn’t so bad after all — bloated hormones, chaos and all.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

the moment you get back to the hotel, it hits you like a freight train.

the cramps.

the heat.

the way your bra strap feels like it’s trying to cut into your shoulder blade and your jeans feel like medieval torture. your back aches. your mood’s a mess. you think about crying for literally no reason — like, someone on the street smiled at you and you were like, why would you do that to me right now, and now you’re spiraling.

alex, ever the optimist, holds the door open to your room like you’re royalty.

you barely make it three steps inside before faceplanting onto the bed with a groan that sounds borderline inhuman.

“was it something i said?” he asks lightly, dropping his bag by the window.

“it’s everything,” you mumble into the pillow. “i hate my body. i hate my ovaries. i hate the entire concept of pants.”

“you know,” he says thoughtfully, “if i had a dollar for every time you declared war on pants, i’d probably be able to retire.”

you roll onto your back and glare at the ceiling. “don’t make me laugh. it hurts.”

alex tosses his hat onto the chair, then joins you on the bed with all the grace of someone who’s been in a race car all day and now feels it in every joint. he lets out his own old-man groan before leaning on one elbow and looking down at you with a little frown.

“alright,” he says. “emergency protocol time.”

“what does that even mean.”

“it means,” he says, already leaning down and kissing your forehead gently, “we’re implementing the albon healing system.”

you blink at him.

“patent pending,” he adds, and then — another kiss, this time to your temple. “one kiss for stress.”

you snort. “you made that up just now.”

“obviously. it’s a cutting-edge technique.” kiss. cheek. “this one’s for bloating.” kiss. your jaw. “this is for hormonal rage.” kiss. the tip of your nose. “and this one’s for the fact that i saw you nearly cry when the elevator doors closed too fast.”

“you saw that?”

“sweetheart,” he says, full of dramatic pity, “you whimpered.”

you bury your face in your hands, groaning again. “i hate it here.”

“you love it here.”

“i literally don’t.”

he leans in closer. “you love me, though.”

you peek at him through your fingers. “barely.”

“so rude,” he mutters, but he’s still smiling as he kisses your forehead again — this time lingering, warm and soft and maybe a little too sincere for a moment like this.

you blink. “was that one for anything in particular?”

he shrugs. “felt like it.”

you go quiet for a beat, just listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of someone laughing in the hallway. your body still aches — your cramps are making your lower back throb and you’re sure your skin is about to erupt into another breakout — but for the first time all day, it feels… manageable. less like you’re being punished by the universe and more like… okay. you’re okay.

alex rests his chin on your shoulder. “you know,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to pretend it’s not awful. i know it sucks. i see how much it takes out of you.”

you nod slowly. “i just feel gross. and ugly. and dramatic.”

“you’re none of those things,” he says, firm now. “you’re in pain. and your body’s going through hell. and you’re still here, joking about emotional support ducks and cheering me on and pretending to care about tyre compounds.”

you smile faintly. “i do care. mostly.”

“you’re amazing,” he says, with so much certainty it makes your throat tighten. “even when your hormones are trying to kill you.”

you shift closer to him, wrapping your arms around his middle. “thanks for the kisses.”

“anytime.” he presses one to the top of your head. “it’s a full-service treatment. comes with cuddles and optional forehead massages.”

“optional?” you ask, already tugging his hand toward your face. “i think you mean mandatory.”

he laughs, stretching out beside you. “fine, fine. i’ll just cancel my plans to be unconscious and rub your forehead for the next twenty minutes.”

“that’s what love is, albon.”

“i wouldn’t have it any other way.”

you close your eyes as his fingers move gently across your skin, his touch light but steady, and for the first time all day, your body starts to unclench — bit by bit, like it knows it’s safe.

and maybe you’re still bloated and irritable and vaguely on the verge of a meltdown, but alex is here. kissing it better.

and maybe that’s enough.

THE END :>

[youhideastar]

Hello! I just needed to say that your tags on that ABO post (#maybe someday I will write that essay on how I think a/b/o starts from a fundamentally ace perspective#ie that it starts from a premise of no desire#into which desire arrives as a rare unexpected unwelcome and often traumatic deviation from the baseline) shook my brain like a magic 8 ball and I would like to subscribe to your newsletter.

I mean I guess I kind of already have since I follow your blog but like. That is genius and also I think that approach helps explain part of why I loved your ABO bingo series so much!

Anyway just wanted to say that, hope you're having an awesome day!

Aaahhhhh thank you so much! All credit to the initial poster for kicking my brain into gear on this. (For the curious, here's the series the ask mentions!)

But yes, to expand on those tags, there's so *much* about a/b/o as a genre that, to me at least, starts from an ace perspective.

For example, in most a/b/o universes where there are, in fact, betas (as opposed to another common take on omegaverse worldbuilding where there are just alphas and omegas), then the inherent starting premise of the world is that there are two kinds of people--people whose lives in large part revolve around intense, consuming, and uncontrollable sexual desire and people whose lives don't--which is to say, the inherent starting premise is that some people are (at least symbolically) ace. Indeed, in most of these fics, that's considered unremarkable in-universe... which is, from that point of view, a fantasy of a world where asexuality is commonplace and accepted. (Then again, it's rare for the main characters of such stories to be betas - it looks like a fantasy of ace acceptance, but the symbolically ace characters are relegated to the sidelines, as if a life that doesn't revolve around that kind of desire isn't worth telling stories about.)

In another example, a/b/o fics often posit a worldbuilding where the norm is that a person will only go into heat or rut (i.e., experience sexual desire) in reaction to a particular person--maybe a "fated mate"--and indeed, that the presence of sexual desire is proof of some kind of intense emotional connection between two people... which is basically just a sci-fi-ification of the experience of being demisexual. It's really that straightforward.

And that's without even getting into the ways that heat and rut often appear in fics as funhouse mirrors of what garden-variety allosexual desire looks like to people who don't experience it themselves. The original post says that "magical pheromones made them do it" sounds just as plausible to an ace person as "looking at someone in their underwear made them do it," but you don't even need the word "magical" - the idea that hormones could make you lose your head with desire and behave in ways that would embarrass you (or worse) once their influence wanes is both a sci-fi conceit for fanfic porn and actually how many, many people on this planet go through their lives on a regular basis.

What's ironic is how, despite all this, most a/b/o fic makes no room for real ace people (as opposed to symbolic aces, i.e., betas), especially sex-repulsed ace people. What are those folks supposed to do when heat strikes? Or other people who, for various reasons, might not want sex or be in a position to consent to it? I think a/b/o often teeters on the edge of body horror; in those situations, it tips right over. Most a/b/o worldbuilding does nothing to address this--and I think that's one of the great blank spaces in the genre that is ripe for exploring with all kinds of interesting fic!

[silentmes]

Today I’m here to talk about something ridiculous, disgusting, and dishonest happening in the Brazilian ACOTAR fandom, more specifically within the Elriel fandom. In this space (on the X platform), these same people have already accused different artists of absurd things, in addition to calling artists names like “whores” and similar insults. This has been a constant behavior, and in my view, it needs the attention of both the community and the community of artists and those who commission art, because there are people disrespecting your work and the goodwill of those who provide artistic content to the fandom. I share the tweets made today (regarding a piece made for Nesta Week) and I translate them.

👇🏻 This is the person who first started it.

It says: They comissioned.... Nesta... as Cassian's mother... MOTHER.... when they have sex 465464x times a day.... and even depicted.... him as child..... in the artwork...........

She is implying that it’s absurd someone made an artwork of Nesta as Cassian’s mother (which is a lie, that’s not what the artwork shows) and that Cassian was depicted as a child because the two of them (in the canonical book) are mates and have a sexual relationship.

Anyone who has actually seen the artwork knows it’s NOT about that. The description of the artwork is clear.

Next 👇🏻

Here, she posts the artwork along with the Instagram caption and also adds an automatic translation (because she doesn’t know English). It only serves to prove that she is still exposing the artwork and the artist. The link to the artwork (so you can check it out) is below.

For those who have seen the artwork, it’s very clear that it depicts Nesta as the Mother (the entity, not a literal mother) appearing in a multiverse to Cassian, who is still a child, living through war and struggle. There is NOTHING sexual about it, nothing implying anything sexual, nothing suggesting that the artist is a criminal, or that the artwork is wrong. It’s a LOVELY piece, showing the Mother entity appearing as Nesta to give strength to a younger, insecure Cassian from the past.

Oh, but they are mates in canon. Their relationship is romantic — yes, that’s true. In canon. Not in an artwork, a drawing, something that came from someone’s imagination, a multiverse, with Nesta as the Mother. The Nessian relationship doesn’t always have to be shown as sexual or as romantic partners, because they are more than that. There can be artworks and artistic interpretations that place them in other types of relationships (in this case, Nesta showing support to a young Cassian simply as a warrior figure).

Next (still about the art) 👇🏻

It says: “It’s just Nesta going back in time to be Cassian’s mother.” Do you even read the bullshit you write? Going back in time to become the mother of the guy she has sex every day is NOT acceptable. Thinking this fanart is normal is SICK. And then you have the audacity to talk about ped**? Look at the crap you’re supporting.

It's from another elriel and her wrong interpretation of the art.

One more 👇🏻

It says: I think it’s weird because it is weird. No normal person looks at a couple they like and thinks, “wow, what if they were mother and son? 😍” You’re just being weird, that’s all.

There are many other comments like this — people accusing the person who commissioned the art, the artist who drew it, and even those who liked it of being “sick” and supporting a crime. ALL because they twisted an innocent artwork into something it is NOT.

This is not the first time that the person from the first screenshot and her friends have done this kind of thing to artists and commissioners. I have proof of her claiming that a fandom artist drew Elain being raped (which is a lie), and of her calling another artist a whore just because she drew Elain with the Band of Exiles. And there’s much more.

It’s time for this community to stop allowing people like this. People who do not respect artists’ work, the effort of commissioners, or the fandom. People who twist everything they see into something wrong, distorted, criminal. People who speak with so much certainty and ease when accusing others of being pedo** or supporting pedo**. Enough.

[alexanderlightweight]

Hello hello and happy Wednesday!! I hope your week has been good and continues to get better! I’ve been reading through your ao3 page and was wondering if you have anything for “all your cracks I’ll paint gold”? It’s one of my favorites! If not then consider this a free space to write whatever you want! Sfw/nsfw I don’t mind either! What’s something that made you smile today? Mine was my dog being cute while I brushed her she does a BIG stretch everytime I get to her back legs!

It has been a long week? like I don't even know its just been one of those weeks. the only thing getting me through it is writing? so at least there is that ^_^ and Nightshade who ensures I get plenty of cuddles and exercise.

Say stopped a bakery and got me taro and red bean buns which was really sweet of them and made me smile! and Nightshade got so upset that I left him at home today that we had to sit together on the ground because he kept knocking us both off of furniture with upset zoomies... in my lap lol. that sounds adorable, I love stretchy-paws

i hope you enjoy

<3 lumine

all your cracks I'll paint gold

Alec’s place in the shadowworld is no longer certain and he knows that, yet despite how he should feel adrift, he feels nothing but certainty. 

Alec belongs to Magnus, in a way beyond the ties of Alec’s once-oaths to the Clave or even his tether to Raziel.  If Alec has a place in the shadowworld, then it’s simply to be and exist at Magnus’ side.

Alec is more than a husband, a lover or even a consort to Magnus.

He is Magnus’ devotee and his adoration for Magnus is what now ties Alec to the lifeblood of this realm and the power that binds it together.

Still, there’s no actual name for what Alec is now, or the place that he currently fills in Magnus’ life.

In fact Alec is pretty sure that the only reason they’re not going with just ‘consort’ is because Magnus didn’t feel that it was elevated enough.  And considering it’s his magic and power and the demonic runes of his bloodline that keep Alec whole and hale, then Alec is fine with him creating a fancy title or whatever Magnus wants to do.

As long as Alec has veto powers.

Alec is not going to let Magnus get away with making a pun that they’ll both have to live with for the very long rest of their lives.  Alec is only just beginning to enjoy living again and looking forward to the future, he doesn’t want anything to threaten that.

Especially not Ragnor’s naming sense and Magnus’ love for puns.

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like it will come down to Alec needing to use his veto. Magnus returns from whatever library he threw himself into four hours before and there is so much delight in his face that Alec knows whatever Magnus has picked will be what he accepts.

Even if it is something terrible or a pun.

How could he not? When Magnus looks so breathlessly happy and utterly thrilled.

—

Of course his Alexander is on the roof.

Magnus wonders why he even bothers to think otherwise or look elsewhere and summons a portal accordingly.  His feet feel as though he’s walking on the breeze.  The mood boosting him and buoying every step the closer he gets to his sweet Alexander.

It took a rather long time and Magnus had to go through the archives of what titles had been lost to time, left unused, could be recrafted or just what he could use that would be sure to give Alexander a place of honor.

A title to bear with the same pride — if not more — than he did his title of bloodied shadowhunter and runed Commander.

All doubt flees the moment he sees Alexander’s gaze.

It’s soft and indulgent and so loving that Magnus knows he’s won without even trying.  Perhaps it would be a sad victory for someone else, but the fact that Magnus has won what he wants simply by being so excited that Alexander won’t say no, it thrills him.

Who else has ever cared for something as simple as stoking Magnus’ excitement rather than dimming it?

Besides Catarina and Ragnor of course.

Magnus can hardly take time to breath, the need to hold and touch and feel Alexander beneath his palms and magic is suddenly too intense.

The runes that have been seared onto Alexander’s skin go soul-deep and Magnus can feel the mutual longing engulfing them as they finally meet again.

Even just a few hours seem endless when it takes Magnus from his boy’s side.

“Beloved— Magnus greets and Alec kisses him without hesitation or comment, just a soft delighted laughter and the press of dry, sun-warm lips to his own. “I have—” and then Magnus has nothing to say because Alexander’s arms are around him and Magnus has better things to think about.

Like how Alexander smells like moss and sunshine and the sap of his favorite tree and Magnus nuzzles against him, breathing deeply and just letting everything in and around him settle.

A few moments pass as they sway in place and then Alexander presses a gentle kiss to his jaw and nudges Magnus with his nose.

“You have?”

His voice is deep and teasing and Magnus would love to let himself drift in the sweetness of the moment but alas, duty calls.

“I have you, darling. My consort, my love, a devotee to my very soul and the unholy blood in my veins, my archon.”

[aquatic-armageddons]

The mercs with a terminally ill s/o

---

CW: mentions of death & grief

---

A/N: Honestly, writing this brought me to tears, because it reminded me of my coworker whom I lost some time ago (his death was somewhat expected but still sudden). But I wanted to do it anyway, and it made me feel a little better :')

---

SCOUT

For someone who looks so headstrong, Jeremy seems like he handles grief very poorly (i.e. lashing out, acting and saying things without thinking, etc.)

This boy would probably be in one of the worst mental states of his life.

He may even ask Medic to try saving you, even if you're beyond help.

But he knows he has to prepare for life without you.

He'd still want to keep you with him at all times, even after your passing; if you decided to be cremated, he'd want your ashes in a special dog tag necklace.

He'd visit you every single day in the hospital/hospice, telling you silly jokes and bringing you snacks/plush toys. Hell, he'd still visit you, even after you've been laid to rest.

SOLDIER

With all of the time he's spent in the war(s), Jane has lost quite a lot of close comrades. He's desensitized himself to it all so he doesn't get overcome with grief.

He knows that death is an inevitable part of life, so he tries to live each day with no regrets.

And he'll try to instill that mindset in you as well.

Jane will do his best to make you as comfortable as possible, though it's extremely difficult given the circumstances.

Hand holding, soft forehead kisses or pretty much any kind of physical affection is a must.

But he'll finally break down once you actually pass, but his tears won't be of just grief. They're tears of relief, knowing you don't have to suffer anymore.

PYRO

It will take some time before they accept you'll be gone soon.

It's almost as if they're already experiencing that first stage of grief (denial).

Pyroland won't ever be the same once the dust settles.

They'll be clingy for sure, not leaving you out of their sight if they can help it.

You don't have the heart to tell Pyro you need a little space.

And it's better that you don't; they feel crushed already as it is, and you don't want to kick them while they're down.

Let Pyro smother you as much as they want, and give them all the attention you can.

DEMOMAN

This man's coping mechanisms vary.

On one hand, he'll spend as much time with you as he can, talking with you for hours.

But he may also seclude himself in his room and drink the stress away.

Random crying spells will occur on and off, in the weeks leading to your death.

He'd definitely go on drunken rants as well.

Tavish will initially want to avoid the reality, but the team will convince him otherwise.

Constant reassurance from you is the best thing you can do for him at this point.

HEAVY

Mikhail would have little to no reaction upon learning the news of your illness...at first.

He looks like he'd have it all together when with the rest of the team.

But once you're actually gone, he just breaks down and is inconsolable.

Quiet cries, burying his face in his hands, he just couldn't hold it together at your wake/funeral.

Mikhail will vent out his feelings to Medic, as he's the one person he respects the most. He may also try to ask him to bring you back.

But in the meantime, try to talk to him as often as you can.

As much as this guy likes his alone time, just try and break some of those walls down.

ENGINEER

Dell would have the same reaction as Heavy, though he wouldn't shed as many tears.

This man is one of the more sensible mercs on the team, so he'd try to be realistic about dealing with grief.

But that doesn't take the pain away.

He's obviously devastated, but chooses not to show it.

You know he's hurting, so just try to hold him and tell him everything will eventually be alright.

But don't ramble on; just you being next to him is more than enough.

MEDIC

Oh lord.

Where do I even start?

Herbert is practically the most emotionally unstable man on the team.

He'd definitely be stuck in denial, like brainwashing himself into believing you're not dying.

Despite how much everyone tries to get through to him, he acts very pigheaded and shuts down anyone.

He needs a serious reality check, and the only one who's capable of that is Heavy.

Once it finally sinks in, he just falls apart; sobbing, throwing equipment, etc.

Don't be shocked if he trashes his whole lab.

You're the only one who's able to calm him down.

Don't leave him alone for a second.

SNIPER

Mundy is almost as emotionless as they come.

...or at least that's how others perceive him.

Don't expect much of a reaction out of him, as disappointing as that sounds.

After everything passes, he'd try to go on with his daily life.

But once he's alone in his watchtower, his walls will finally crumble.

He can cry as much as he needs to in that space, because he knows no one can see him.

It's impressive how well he can hide his grief.

Just give him some time to be alone with his thoughts, and he'll come around on his own.

SPY

As the (unofficial) leader of the team, Spy feels as if he needs to set an example for everyone.

Death is a part of life, and time waits for no one.

He's pretty much in that final stage of grief almost immediately.

But just because he shows a lack of emotion, don't believe he doesn't care.

He's sad, don't get me wrong.

More than likely, he'd seclude himself in his smoking room.

Try to visit him whenever you're able to; it makes the situation less depressing for him.

[stalkedbytrains]

Sword in one hand, shield in the other, you stood as a bulwark against the tide of revolution that wanted to drown the child emperor.

"They are but a child," you say as you parry one blow with your shield and strike out with your sword. "Only a revolution as cruel as yours would seek to kill a child."

"And only a horrifyingly corrupt system would task a child to lead it," the head revolutionary counters as he dodges your blow and quickly strikes out twice more.

His blades are quick, and sharp, but not sharp enough to cut through your defenses or your armor.

"The Emperor is doing his best. He is trying to do the best for his citizens," you say as the dance of your combat leads you further from the center of the room. You've pushed the revolutionary back.

"No child should dictate the lives of millions. It's cruel to the child and their subjects."

"So you would execute them for that?"

"For that? No. For the unfortunate fact that your ward represents all present and future attacks? Yes. I might."

"I will not let anyone that will willingly murder a child pass unharmed."

"And yet you defend an Empire, an ideal, that is nothing but cruel and contemptuous to any and all children not born into a noble caste. How many thousands die in childbirth because the Glorious Golden Empire will not extend medical aid to the poorest nations?"

His blade has slipped your defenses, slashing at a weak point between the metal plates. You feel the cut. It is shallow, but still you bleed. It is a victory, a metaphorical one, but one that he can press.

And he knows it.

"You swore an oath to the Empire. You pled your life and faith to what the Empire stands for. And so you deny the will of hundreds of thousands, millions, of her citizens to defend a boy Emperor that has no business sitting on the throne. Did you pledge yourself to the Emperor or the Empire?"

He attacks fast, hard, with the strength of his convictions.

It is hard to bolster your own convictions against his well honed blades. You have seen the news, you know the failings of your Empire. But this has been your life for years, for as long as you can remember.

And they are here to execute the Child Emperor.

This, you can not stand.

You push against the revolutionary. Your holy convictions burn bright and hot and are more than one man can stand against.

"I will not let you kill a child," you snarl.

"So it's proximity based then. If I had the one hundred children from the Jala Plains that are going to die of the Wet Rot disease that came with the floods, you would defend them as fervently as you do your Emperor?"

You know the trap laid before you, you can see it. But you snarl and grit your teeth and answer true.

"I would give my life for them."

More cuts. Shallow, in the empty spaces of your armor, now filled with blood.

"And you'd still give your life for your Emperor, but not the Empire?"

The word leaves your lips before you can think on it, "Yes."

"Then it is good that this was never a fair fight," the revolutionary says.

You know that you had lost, that your life was going to be given in service of the Emperor. You know it shouldn't have. You know that it should have been so many other things. But the bounds of duty, the job, the life that you were forced into demanded nothing less than everything you had. You wished you could have sided with the revolutionaries, they had a point. There could have been a compromise somewhere along the way. You knew that. But the people in power refused to negotiate with the people with legitimate problems. So those with problems returned to their only option: violence. You had refused to stand with your personal convictions, you refused to do anything less than what the job demanded.

It didn't surprise you when you felt the knives dig into your back. Revolutionary knives from behind you.

If someone had compromised. If someone had tried to reform the laws that was the problems, to change the system this wouldn't come to this. If someone who had power made a few concessions to the people. If someone had stood up in the pinnacles of power and said something, done something. If you hadn't been such a coward and defended the status quo because it was safe and familiar.

The knives felt cold and heavy in your chest.

You knew that the Emperor, child that he was, was lost. He had many chances to abdicate, the people shouted it at him. But he had lived his entire life in the lap of privileged and wouldn't give that up for anything. His parents failed him. You failed him in more than one way.

The revolutionaries couldn't leave the child alive, any conservative and anti-revolutionary would be clamoring to return the child emperor to the throne and it would cause no end of wars and counter-revolutions.

You knew all of this. And you were dying. There were many options, many roads that could have been taken. You could have taken any number of them.

But the cold steel piercing your heart reminded you that you didn't pick any of them. You chose this path. Your determination, your faith, your belief in the system led to all of this death, to your death.

If only there was something you could have done.

if you like this i have a kofi

You are a paladin of the Golden Empire. You stand in the throne room, as revolutionaries storm the palace. Behind you on the throne sits the monarch, a frightened child of only 16 years. They tried their best. How could things go so wrong?