#because you can just assume at that point

[thepapergirlandthespiegelman]

I completely disagree with this. Intention is not necessary to mislead. Misleading just means that you didn't convey the truth to the audience, and that could be either intentional or unintentional. As an example, consider the "Norman door." Norman doors are doors that, due to poor design, are not immediately clear how to operate, and often are designed in such a way that they imply the opposite of what should actually be done, e.g. a push door that clearly looks like a pull door, or a pull door that looks like a push door. Obviously I can't speak for every door designer, maybe there is some maniac out there intentionally designing confusing doors to mess with people, but most of these doors are not intended to mislead. Nevertheless, they DO mislead, i.e. they lead people to the wrong conclusion.

This is just as true with fiction as with doors. Authors are not perfect beings who always convey things exactly they way they intended, and it's not solely on readers to make sense of whatever is written. Communication is a two-way street.

I agree that it would be foolish for a reader to assume that the author deliberately tried to ruin their experience by misleading them, but it's not unreasonable to be unhappy because the author did a bad job of conveying their point.

I also think there's a lot of room for complexity and nuance here. What is clear and apparent to one person (or perhaps, one culture, or one community) might be totally obscure to another. Everyone makes certain assumptions whether we realize it or not, and often people make different assumptions. I really wish we would stop framing the relationship between author and reader in such a hostile manner, where it's either "The author was too stupid to convey their point clearly" or "The reader was too stupid to understand what the author is saying." Incompetence and mistakes can happen on either side, but also, sometimes it's nobody's fault! Sometimes there's just a mismatch between author and reader, and that could either be the fault of someone like a marketer/promoter (e.g. a book was marketed to a demographic that wasn't right for it because the publisher believes that demographic is just generally more profitable, etc.) or it could be pure random chance.

It can actually only be called "misleading" if it was the author's deliberate intention to mislead the audience. If the author had no intention to lead you to the wrong conclusion, and you simply arrived at one all by yourself, it's just sparkling Your Lack Of Reading Comprehension.

[covenofagatha]

Four times Agatha fails at cockwarming (and one time she doesn't)

The Third Attempt

Based on the third part of this brainworm

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: g!p Agatha, cockwarming, breeding kink, spanking, jealousy, bratty!reader, light degradation, mommy kink

When Agatha comes downstairs in the morning the next weekend, wearing a purple crewneck and gray sweatpants with loose hair, you’re already awake and doing yoga in the living room in nothing but a bra and underwear. 

She takes one look at you and snorts, already in tune with the game you’re trying to play. “What happened to wearing clothes while working out?” 

You shoot her an impish wink from a tree pose. “Didn’t you hear, mommy? Clothes are so restrictive, especially for yoga. You want to have a full range of motion so you can bend any way you want.” Your voice drops suggestively low and she squints and nods like you’re making perfect sense. 

“Of course, why didn’t I think of that?” 

Shrugging, you put your foot down and shake out your aching limbs. You haven’t done yoga in months, but you just felt in the mood for something different. Absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever. “I would’ve done it completely naked, but that would’ve been indecent.” 

Agatha actually laughs. “You—indecent? Never, honey.” You blow her a kiss as you assume warrior pose and she walks into the kitchen and you hear her pouring herself a cup of coffee. 

She walks back in and takes a seat on the couch, slurping from her mug and watching you with scrutinizing eyes. 

“Want to join?” you ask, a little out of breath when you finally sit down and bend your knees, pushing the soles of your feet together in the butterfly pose. Coincidentally, also giving her a perfect view of the already-wet gusset of your underwear. Even the mere sight of her is enough to get you turned on.

Agatha shifts on the couch before shaking her head. “I’m good to just watch.” 

You smirk and lay on your back, legs bent in the air, and you grip your ankles in the happy baby pose. She chokes on her coffee. “Babe, can you help me for a second? I think I need to get into more of a stretch.” 

“It looks good to me,” she says, voice taut, and you have to bite on your lip to stop from laughing before fixing your face into a pleading look. 

“Please? I can barely feel anything. And if I can’t feel it, that means I’m not going to make any progress,” you pout. She raises an eyebrow. You both know you’re not trying to progress to anything in yoga and you’re just trying to tease her. 

Because even after Agatha fucking you every single day this past week, you’re still insatiable and your need to be a brat will always prevail. 

So she sighs and slinks off the couch, crawling over to you on her knees and putting her hands on the underside of your thighs, keeping her body a safe difference from yours. “Is this okay?” she murmurs and gently pushes your legs up more. You notice the pointed effort she’s making to not look down at your covered cunt that is positioned right toward her face. 

“I think I need to have a deeper stretch,” you say and yank her closer by the collar of her crewneck. Her hands let go of your legs in surprise and catch herself on the floor, her face above yours and her bulge now positioned right against your pussy. She sucks in air quickly and moves to pull away, but you lock your legs around her back, crossing your ankles. “There we go.” 

“I somehow doubt this is proper form,” she rasps, her gaze darting from your eyes to your lips and then back up. 

You raise your hips gently and smirk. “What do you mean? Doesn’t it feel good, mommy? This is what yoga’s all about.” 

Her jaw clenches and her cock twitches against you. “Oh, yeah? Yoga’s all about being a needy slut?” You gasp, heat tearing through you, and you grind up again before nodding with a grin. 

“Exactly.” You peck her lips with yours. “Now it’s time for child’s pose.” You push her off you and she clears her throat before giving her cock a quick stroke through her sweats. You turn over onto your hands and knees, giving her a perfect view of your ass. She sharply inhales and you smirk to yourself before sitting back on your heels and extending your arms out. 

It does actually feel really good and you can’t help but wonder how it would feel for Agatha to fuck you like this. You might not have to wait long to find out, judging by how easily affected she is. 

“Agatha, can you?” you prompt and she tentatively reaches out to cup your asscheeks with both hands and rock you forward. Her labored breathing echoes through the room. “Not like that. Like, lay on me. It’s the only way you’re really going to be able to help.”

She grumbles something unintelligible, probably about how full of it you are, before you hear her scooch forward and then her weight drapes on top of you. Her loose hair spills down and tickles your cheek and her cock is pushed into the cleft of your ass. You sway your hips from side to side, enjoying the whimper in your ear.  

Then you clench your cunt around nothing and she moans—heat spreads through you and pools in your underwear because you didn’t think she’d actually be able to feel it. 

“Mommy,” you admonish, just because you want to push her further, “I’m just trying to get a good workout in and you’re trying to distract me by pressing your hard cock against me like that. Now who’s the indecent one?”

You can practically hear her roll her eyes before she growls, “How many times do I have to fuck you speechless before you learn to stop being bratty?” 

Chuckling, you rise back to your hands and knees, moving Agatha with you as well, and you feel her cock throb. “Time for cat-cows.” 

Before she can ask what that is, you arch your back and look up to the ceiling, pause for a quick breath, and then round your back out, tuck your chin inwards, and look towards your belly button. You repeat the motion over and over, essentially twerking your cunt against her throbbing cock until she grabs onto your hips with a steel-like grip. 

“I think you’ve got it from here,” she gasps, pats your ass, and then stands back up. You turn over so you’re sitting on the mat and you watch her limp back over to the couch before starting to look for something. 

Your brows furrow as she digs through the pillows before she whirls around to you. Her cock is prominent through her gray pants and you can actually see the outlines of the veins because of how hard she’s straining. Your mouth waters—you want her cock in your mouth right now.

“Have you seen my phone?” Agatha asks, breaking you out of your horny stupor. You shake your head. You’re not even sure you saw her bring it downstairs. “Can you call it?” 

Grabbing your phone off the coffee table, you hold down the side button and make eye contact with her, a wicked grin on your face. “Call mommy,” you say. 

She scoffs. “Yeah, right, that’s not my contact. You have a job, what if I called—” 

“Calling mommy,” Siri says and then there’s a ringing noise from the kitchen. You wink smugly at her stunned face. Obviously you have to be very careful when checking your phone at work and you’ve definitely come close to an embarrassing moment a few times, but this was so worth it. 

Agatha swallows before going to get her phone and when she comes back, she’s scrolling on it with a frown. 

“Everything okay?” you ask, still on your spot on the ground. 

She purses her lips and looks up to you. “You know that annual teacher thing we do?” You nod. Each year, the school Agatha works at does a gala for all the staff—super fancy, great food, even an auction. You’ve gone to the last three of them with her and you always have a fun time for the most part. “I completely forgot it’s tomorrow afternoon. You don’t have to come if you’re busy or working or doing more yoga.” 

You laugh sarcastically before standing up and wrapping your arms around your middle and pushing your tits up and together so she gulps. “Will Rio be there?” you ask cautiously and she gives you a stern look. 

Rio Vidal is the Biology teacher and you are absolutely convinced she has a crush on your wife. Every gala you’ve been to, Rio has found a way to steal Agatha away from you for at least half an hour and you see the way Rio looks at her. 

“Yes, Rio will be there,” Agatha sighs. “And for the last time—” 

“What about Wanda?” you interrupt and Agatha’s gaze narrows. Two can play this game and you know exactly the right buttons to push. “You know, the English teacher, the one with the red hair and the green eyes who always wears the most beautiful outfits?” 

She nods curtly. “Why do you care if she’ll be there?” 

You shrug with a simper and slowly start to sashay over to where she’s standing before perching on the edge of the couch. She arches her brow and you can see the heat in her eyes. “She’s really nice and always keeps me company when you run off with Rio, leaving me all lonely.” 

Agatha’s nose flares and the vein in her head twitches. “You need to be careful,” she seethes. 

“Or what, mommy? Going to punish me?” You pout mockingly, knowing you have her right where you want her. “Remember what happened the last two times you tried to cockwarm me? I bet if Wanda had a cock, she wouldn’t blow her load before she even got inside me.” 

Her growl is animalistic and you think you may have crossed a line before she grabs onto your wrists, pulls you up, and then spins you around and bends you over the side of the couch. “You are such a brat,” she says and roughly spanks you, making you moan loudly. 

“Fuck, mommy.” 

She slaps your ass again and your hips jerk forward against the couch, your clit pulsing. “Tell me who you belong to,” she demands and you shake your head. You want her to make you say it. 

Agatha chuckles dangerously before tracing two fingers up your clothed slit and pushing the soaked fabric into you. You groan and arch your back for just a bit more stimulation. 

But then she spanks you again and you jump. “First, you rub yourself all over me while you’re doing yoga like a slut. And then you try to make me jealous? God, you’re really just asking for it, aren’t you, honey?” 

You look over your shoulder at her and bite your lip with big, doe eyes: the picture of innocence. “Asking for what?” 

She scoffs and runs her tongue against her bottom lip before spanking both asscheeks simultaneously. “Who do you belong to?” Your head drops down with a groan. 

“Please, mommy, I need you,” you whine. Another spank. Your cunt is throbbing right now, absolutely aching for her cock. “I need you to fuck me so bad right now.” 

Agatha soothes your raw skin. “I know, honey. I’ll give you what you want if you just tell me. Or else, I’ll just have to get creative.” 

The promise makes you perk up. Your wife loves to get creative—and it can either be heaven or hell for you. The time she made you ride her while holding a vibrator to your clit until you squirted all over her was one of the best orgasms you’ve ever had. Making you wear a vibrator and edging you over ten times in public and then not letting you cum until the next day was tortuous. 

“Creative, how?” you ask and she spanks you even rougher than the ones before, making you yelp. Heat has flushed through you and your breathing is heavy—you know you won’t last long no matter what she does. 

She hums, rubbing your ass while thinking about it. “Maybe I’ll just tie you to the bed and not touch you for the rest of the day.”

“Why don’t you show me that you can cockwarm me?” you suggest, voice thick with desire. You would do anything to get her inside your empty pussy right now. She spanks you one last time before grabbing you by the scruff of your neck and pulling you up. 

“Tell me who you belong to and I will,” she says lowly and you don’t have it in you to resist anymore. 

“I’m yours, mommy, I’m all yours—please, I need you so bad,” you pant and she nods in satisfaction before ordering you to get upstairs. Your panties cling to you with every step that you take and her footsteps echo behind you all the way to your bedroom. 

You sit on the edge of the bed, chewing on your bottom lip, while Agatha strips off her crewneck, sweatpants, and boxers. Her cock is, no surprise, pointing right at you, hard, red, and leaking precum onto the floor. She gives herself a quick stroke and then freezes—you think she might lose it right then and there, but she doesn’t. You let out a breath of relief. It would’ve been slightly disappointing to have her not even get inside you again. 

There’s something about the pressure of cockwarming that really gets to her. Every other time she has no problem fucking you. 

Or maybe it’s because of the incessant teasing you give her that has consistently been proceeding it. 

“Mommy,” you whine and she snorts before stalking over to you. Agatha stands over you and cups your cheek gently before roughly shoving two fingers into your mouth. You gag around them and she begins to fuck your mouth, her cock twitching and weeping onto your legs. 

She pulls out and smears your saliva all over your face before climbing onto the bed and sitting next to you. She nods and you straddle her, your covered cunt finally against her bare cock and you moan at the heat radiating from it. 

Agatha’s arms wrap around your back to unclasp your bra and then she slides it down your arms and throws it somewhere in the room. She reaches down to move your underwear to the side and slides her fingers through your wet folds and she tosses her head back when your wetness drips onto her cock. 

She rubs your clit but you’re done waiting—you push her down so her back is on the bed and then position your entrance at the tip of her cock before sheathing her inside you in one motion. You say a silent prayer that she doesn’t cum. 

You both groan and your eyes close, her cock filling you deliciously. Agatha bucks beneath you, but she doesn’t lose control. 

“I’m impressed,” you tease and she thrusts sharply into you before she realizes that it only makes it harder for her too. The stretch is satiating the ache, but you need so much more, so you begin to rock back and forth slowly. 

Agatha’s hands shoot out and grab your waist, stilling you. “This is your punishment,” she grits out. “Don’t move.” You pout but obey, the hunger in your cunt coming back with a vengeance. She’s so deep inside you, the tip of her cock resting against your g-spot, and tears prick your eyes with how it feels. 

So it’s really not your fault when you can’t help but start to rut occasionally and she whimpers, nails digging into your skin. Her face has turned red, her mouth is open and panting, her eyes are dark and pleading. 

“Mommy,” you say slowly and she whimpers. As hard as this is for you, it looks like it’s even worse for her. “Please? Can you please fuck me?” 

She shakes her head with a muffled, pained grunt. “Not until you learn your lesson.” 

If the lesson is that your wife is less composed than a horny teenager when it comes to you and your cunt, you think it’s safe to say that you’ve learned it. She’s going crazy right now—and all you have to do is turn the tables a little. 

“I’m yours, mommy,” you say breathlessly and start to grind. Her eyes go wide and you coax your own nipples to hardness with your fingers. She instinctively thrusts up into you and you moan loudly. Her hair is sprawled out beneath her and she looks like she might cry. “These tits? All yours.” You slide a hand up to trace your lips and then suck on two fingers like she made you do earlier. “This mouth? All yours.” 

The muscles in her neck are taut and she’s making even more sounds, especially when you clench around her cock to accentuate your words. 

You reach between your bodies and rub your clit. “This cunt? All yours.” You make sure to press your wet fingers against her cock as you roll your hips and she bucks again. 

“Honey, honey, please,” Agatha begs, a slight sheen of sweat breaking out on her chest, “you need to stop. Stop moving. Please, I can’t—” 

You brush your hand against her nipple and she cuts herself off with a loud groan. “Come on, mommy. It’s okay. You can just give in and fuck me.” 

She shakes her head and screws her eyes shut tightly when you lift yourself up and then drop down on her cock. “Honey,” she pleads quietly and she throbs inside you. 

Leaning down, you start to pepper kisses along her collarbone and chest. “I know you need to fill me up, right? You need to breed me?” 

Agatha whimpers like she’s been wounded and her cock twitches violently. You slowly inch up, feeling her veins drag against every ridge inside you and then you drop down fast and she keens, her back arching off the bed. You’re still very impressed that she hasn’t cum yet and you’re getting close as well. 

“Baby, please,” she whispers, hands grappling at your waist to try and hold you still again, but it’s weak and you keep steadily riding her, “this isn’t even cockwarming.” 

You muse on that and then stop, opting to just clench around her and she groans. Both of you know that you don’t need to be moving to make her cum. You swirl your tongue around her nipple and tug on it with your teeth and she squirms and breathes louder. “I need you to fill me up, mommy,” you whine and she sobs before bucking up just once. “I need you to breed me. Need you to breed my hot, wet cunt that’s all yours. It was made for you, mommy—I was made for you.” 

“Oh, fuck—honey, fuck,” she babbles and her cock swells. A thrill runs through you and you clench involuntarily. “Gonna breed you, mommy’s gonna fill you up, you’re gonna be so full of me.”

Tension builds in your lower back and you decide to give her what she needs. “Cum for me, mommy,” you say hoarsely, rocking your hips and scraping your teeth against her breast and her cock throbs before she lets out a long, guttural cry of relief and you feel her hot seed paint your walls white. 

She flips you onto your back so she’s on top and starts thrusting wildly into you through her orgasm, finding your clit and rubbing it while she sucks on your nipple, and you can feel her cum being pumped into you and then leaking out. 

“Fuck, mommy,” you whine and she’s getting softer but she doesn’t stop until you cum too, adding to the mix of fluids seeping out of your cunt and onto the bed. 

Agatha collapses on top of you, pressing kisses to your sweaty forehead and then she finds your mouth and she tugs on your bottom lip. Your limbs are entangled and both of you are sticky now, but you lay like that for a few minutes, just soaking each other in until she finally sits up and pulls out of you. There’s a gush of cum from your pussy and you weakly hump up against nothing when you watch Agatha’s cock twitch. 

“Little Aggie did such a great job making it that long,” you mumble, still slightly delirious from your intense orgasm. 

Your wife chokes and looks down, flabbergasted. “What did you just call my cock?” 

You giggle. “You don’t like it? I think it’s cute.”  

“Little Aggie? She’s not even little,” Agatha scoffs. “And I’d like to point out that if you had actually cockwarmed me correctly instead of moving around and talking, I would’ve lasted even longer.” 

“Pfft,” you wave dismissively. “Please, you never stood a chance, you can’t blame that on me. Not my fault you’re too desperate for me.” 

She leans in to kiss you, long and slow. “It’s all your fault.” 

“You know what?” you ask, breaking away and resting your forehead against hers. “I think I’ll take full responsibility for that. And don’t worry about failing again. There’s always next time.” 

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[goldfades]

crazy cat people───joe burrow⁹

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.4k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had always been cat people—dogs were just too high maintenance, too needy. but you were never in a hurry to get cats until one night, joe finds a cat on a roadie and decides to bring her home.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠��� | literally nothing but cat dad joe, and dog slander (JK!! not really, but we all know joe likes cats better). inspired by this clip.

The thing about Joe is that he’s always been a cat person.

You figured it out on your second date when the conversation somehow derailed into a passionate debate about why people automatically assume dogs are superior. It started off as a joke—some exaggerated takes for the sake of banter—but then Joe hit you with a well-structured argument about the independent nature of cats, their low-maintenance lifestyle, and the way they choose their people rather than blindly loving everyone.

“You ever seen a cat follow some random stranger home just ‘cause they waved at it? No. That’s some dog behavior.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “No self-respect.”

That was the moment you knew he was the one.

Well, not actually, but it definitely solidified your interest. Three years later, the two of you were still going strong, bound together by an undeniable connection, a deep understanding of each other’s quirks, and a shared stance that dogs—while undeniably adorable—were just a little too much. Too excitable. Too dependent. Too… needy.

“We’d be cat people,” you had declared one night while curled up on the couch together, his arm draped lazily around you. “Like, if we were to get a pet.”

Joe hummed in agreement, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah, but I feel like we’d be picky about it. Can’t just have any cat. Gotta be one with personality.”

“A little bit of an asshole,” you added.

He chuckled. “Exactly.”

Despite countless conversations about what you’d name your hypothetical future cat (the list had ranged from elegant, sophisticated names like Theodora to complete chaos like Little Shit), you never actually got one. Between Joe’s insane schedule and your own busy life, it never felt like the right time. You weren’t the type to impulsively adopt an animal just because it seemed like a cute idea—you took responsibility seriously. Joe was the same way.

But that didn’t stop you from sending him TikToks of cats daily. And it definitely didn’t stop him from pausing the TV anytime a cat appeared in a commercial, just to point and go, “That one’s kinda cool.”

It was just one of those things. A little inside joke, a shared fantasy, a part of your relationship that existed in theory but had yet to materialize.

Until Joe came back from a road trip with something unexpected.

Something small. And furry. And wrapped in the hoodie he had worn on the plane.

A cat.

He met your wide-eyed stare with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, funny story…”

--

It was one of those quiet, in-between days where everything felt a little dull without Joe around. You were used to it by now—his road trips, the stretches of time where you had to keep yourself entertained—but no matter how well you adjusted, the house always felt bigger when he wasn’t in it.

You filled the day the best way you knew how. Running errands, grabbing coffee from the spot down the street, making small talk with the barista who always remembered your order. You spent an unreasonable amount of time in Target, browsing the aisles aimlessly, tossing things into your cart that you definitely didn’t need but convinced yourself were essentials.

A candle? Necessary. A new throw blanket even though you already had five? An investment. A little ceramic dish shaped like a cat’s face? Joe would think it was funny.

By the time you got home, the sun was beginning to set, casting the living room in soft golden light. You went through your usual routine—changing into something comfier, throwing your hair up, and scrolling through your phone while curled up on the couch.

Joe had texted you earlier to say his flight landed on time, but you weren’t sure when he’d actually walk through the door. Traveling always took it out of him, and sometimes he lingered at the facility longer than necessary, just to settle back into the routine of being home.

So when you heard the familiar sound of the front door unlocking, you perked up, setting your phone down.

Joe was home.

You stood, stretching a little before padding over to greet him—only to immediately freeze in place.

Because Joe Burrow, your extremely predictable, routine-driven boyfriend, was standing in the doorway holding a cat.

Not a cat carrier. Not a box from the pet store with a new cat inside. No, he was physically holding a cat in his arms, cradling it like some kind of newborn wrapped in the oversized hoodie he had worn on the plane.

“Uh…” You blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. “Joe?”

Joe, looking far too casual for someone who had just walked into your shared home with a whole animal, shot you a sheepish grin.

“So, funny story…” He shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on the tiny creature, who—shockingly—seemed completely unbothered.

You didn’t say anything. You just stared. Because what the hell were you supposed to say?

Joe cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels. “I found him at a gas station. In, like… the middle of nowhere.”

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“Yeah. Just… chilling. No collar, no tags, nothing.” He looked down at the cat, then back at you, as if that explanation was supposed to justify the fact that he had apparently just kidnapped an animal. “He walked right up to me. Super chill. Thought, you know, maybe he needed a home.”

“You—” You ran a hand down your face, processing. “So you just… took him?”

Joe shrugged, completely unbothered. “No one stopped me.”

You stared at him, then at the cat, then back at him.

The cat—a small, scrappy-looking thing with fluffy black fur and bright green eyes—gave the smallest little stretch before curling back up into the fabric of Joe’s hoodie, as if this was the most natural situation in the world.

A sigh left your lips, half-exasperated, half-amused. “You stole a cat.”

Joe scoffed. “I didn’t steal him. I rescued him.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Did you check to see if he belonged to anyone?”

Joe paused. “I mean… he was alone.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Well, no one else was around,” Joe defended. “It was late. Freezing cold. I couldn’t just leave him there.”

You crossed your arms, arching a brow. “So your solution was to bring him home?”

Joe, completely unrepentant, grinned. “Yeah. He’s cool, right?”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers against your temples before shaking your head.

This man.

This six-foot-four NFL quarterback who spent three years claiming you guys would be extremely selective about what kind of cat you got, had apparently abandoned all standards the second a gas station stray blinked at him.

And worse? You were already kind of attached.

Because the damn cat was still curled up in his hoodie, looking completely at peace, like he had already decided he belonged here.

You sighed, waving them both inside. “I can’t believe you.”

Joe grinned, stepping past you and into the house, clearly taking that as a win.

“Should we name him?” he asked, already making himself comfortable on the couch, cat still in tow.

You groaned.

“Oh my God.”

The first night with Miss Honey felt strangely natural, like she had always belonged here. Apparently, you guys had been misgendering her the whole time.

After the initial shock of Joe casually waltzing into your home with a stray cat, the two of you got to work making sure she was okay. A quick check revealed she was mostly healthy—just a little underweight and carrying a few ticks, which you carefully removed while Joe held her still, murmuring soft reassurances. Despite being a random cat from a gas station, she was surprisingly chill about it, blinking up at you with those big green eyes like she already trusted you.

“This is insane,” you had muttered, brushing your fingers through her soft fur.

Joe, stretched out on the couch beside you, smirked. “Yeah, but you love it.”

You rolled your eyes because, of course, he was right.

That night, the three of you curled up on the couch and put on Matilda, your mutual comfort movie. Joe made popcorn, you pulled out the throw blanket you had impulse-bought earlier that day, and Miss Honey—named after the warm, soft-spoken teacher you both adored—made herself right at home between you, paws tucked neatly beneath her little body.

“She’s purring,” Joe whispered at one point, as if he was afraid saying it too loud would make her stop.

You had just smiled, gently scratching behind her ears. “Yeah. I think she likes us.”

It took less than twenty-four hours for Miss Honey to fully take over the house.

By the next morning, she had already established herself as a permanent fixture, weaving between your legs as you made coffee, hopping onto the couch like she owned the place, and—much to Joe’s delight—curling up on his chest while he lounged around watching film.

“She’s got good taste,” he mused, running a slow hand down her back.

You, sitting cross-legged on the floor sorting through your Target bags from yesterday, shot him a look. “You mean ‘cause she likes you?”

Joe grinned, glancing down at the cat who was currently making biscuits against his hoodie. “I mean, can you blame her?”

You snorted. “Unreal.”

Still, you had to admit—Miss Honey really did love Joe.

At first, you thought it was just convenience. He ran warm, he was still for long periods of time, and his heartbeat was steady enough to lull anyone to sleep. But over the next few days, it became clear that her attachment went deeper than that.

She followed him from room to room, her tiny paws padding against the hardwood whenever he moved. If Joe was at the kitchen counter making breakfast, Miss Honey was right there beside him, tail flicking lazily. If he was tying his shoes by the door, she sat next to him, watching intently like she had somewhere to be, too.

It was ridiculous.

“She’s obsessed with you,” you pointed out one night, arms crossed as you watched her bat playfully at the drawstrings of his hoodie.

Joe grinned, scratching under her chin. “Yeah, but don’t be jealous.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the warmth blooming in your chest.

Because, truthfully, you loved it.

You loved that she trusted him. Loved that this cat—who had spent who-knows-how-long fending for herself—had chosen you both, nestled herself into the space between you like she had been there forever.

It didn’t take long for Miss Honey to establish a routine.

Every morning, without fail, she woke Joe up first. Not you—Joe.

You learned this the hard way when you woke up one morning to a quiet, disgruntled “Jesus,” followed by the sound of Joe shifting beside you. Blinking blearily, you turned over, only to find Miss Honey perched delicately on his chest, staring down at him like she was assessing whether or not it was time for him to get up.

“Babe,” Joe whispered, voice still thick with sleep. “Your cat is harassing me.”

You stifled a laugh, rubbing your eyes. “She’s your cat too.”

“Yeah, well, tell her to chill.”

Miss Honey, completely ignoring his complaints, took that exact moment to lean down and press her tiny nose against his, like a little wake-up kiss.

You melted on the spot.

Joe groaned, but even half-asleep, he couldn’t hide his smile.

From then on, it became a thing. Every morning, she woke Joe up first, then trotted to the kitchen like a little queen expecting breakfast. She had a schedule, and she stuck to it.

By the end of the second week, she had also taken over bedtime.

One night, you were finishing up in the bathroom when Joe called out from the bedroom, amusement lacing his voice.

“You’re getting replaced.”

You stepped into the room, brows furrowed. “What?”

Joe tilted his head toward the bed, where Miss Honey was curled up on his pillow, perfectly nestled into the space where your head usually went.

You crossed your arms. “Unreal.”

Joe smirked, patting the mattress beside him. “Sorry, babe. She called dibs.”

You shook your head, sliding into bed anyway, and—because Miss Honey was the most spoiled creature on the planet—you let her stay.

She purred contently between you, tucked snugly between your bodies, and Joe reached out, running a slow hand down her back before catching your gaze.

“I think she was meant to be ours,” he murmured, voice soft in the dark.

Your heart swelled.

Because he was right.

At first, Miss Honey had been a little more drawn to Joe. It wasn’t anything personal—she liked you just fine—but there was something about him that had her stuck to him like glue. Maybe it was his warmth, or the steady way he carried himself, or the fact that he had been the one to scoop her up from the cold and bring her home.

But after a couple of weeks, things started shifting.

It wasn’t sudden. There was no grand moment of realization where she decided, Actually, I love you too. It was slower than that—small moments that gradually built into something solid, something certain.

It was the way she started lingering in the kitchen while you made breakfast, winding around your ankles, soft fur brushing against your bare legs as she meowed up at you like she was part of the conversation.

It was how she started climbing onto your lap while you were reading, kneading her tiny paws into your stomach before curling up and purring herself to sleep, like you were something safe.

It was how she started following you into the bathroom whenever you did your skincare at night, sitting neatly by the sink and watching you with lazy, half-lidded eyes, as if she was deeply invested in your routine.

She was still Joe’s shadow, but you had become hers.

And it didn’t go unnoticed.

“She likes you now,” Joe teased one night, watching as Miss Honey happily stretched out on your chest, perfectly content.

You smirked, scratching under her chin. “She always liked me.”

“Nah,” he mused, tossing an arm around your shoulders. “She tolerated you. Big difference.”

You gasped dramatically. “How dare you?”

Joe chuckled, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Hey, it’s a compliment. You won her over.”

And you had.

Miss Honey wasn’t just a cat anymore. She was your cat. An irreplaceable little presence in the house.

Joe, naturally, leaned into it full force.

It started with the essentials.

A bed. A few toys. Some high-quality cat food that Joe meticulously researched before purchasing. He wasn’t about to give her just anything—he wanted the best, reading reviews like he was about to draft a new teammate.

You had laughed the first time you caught him looking up “best cat food brands for digestion” on his phone.

“Joe, she was literally eating bugs two weeks ago.”

“Yeah, and now she’s got standards,” he shot back, tapping on a link. “This one’s got good ingredients.”

And that was just the beginning.

Before long, Joe was going all out—buying her the best litter (something natural and odor-free, because only the best for our girl), a selection of premium treats (“That Temptations crap is all filler,” he had said, with so much conviction you almost cried laughing), and multiple collars in different colors and patterns.

One morning, you caught him kneeling by the front door, carefully adjusting the tiny blue velvet collar around Miss Honey’s neck.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, leaning against the doorway, watching as he straightened the little golden name tag.

Joe glanced up, grinning. “She looks good though, right?”

You had to admit—she did.

But the real turning point? The sweaters.

That was unexpected.

It had started as a joke—one lazy evening, the two of you scrolling through Etsy, looking at cat accessories for fun.

“Wouldn’t she look cute in this?” you had said, showing Joe a tiny, knitted sweater in a soft cream color.

Joe snorted. “No way she’d wear that.”

Turns out, she would. And she’d like it.

The first time you slipped a tiny sweater over her head, Miss Honey barely reacted—just gave a big stretch, turned in a circle, and promptly plopped down on Joe’s lap like nothing was different.

Joe, stunned, just blinked.

“You’re telling me she’s okay with this?”

“She’s thriving,” you corrected, grinning.

And from that moment on, Joe took it as a personal mission to build her wardrobe.

Over the next week, more sweaters arrived in the mail—different colors, different materials, even a tiny hoodie with ears.

“This is getting out of hand,” you commented as Joe unboxed yet another package.

He held up a tiny lavender sweater, inspecting the material. “It’s for layering.”

You stared at him. “Joe, she’s a cat.”

Joe just smirked. “A stylish one.”

Miss Honey, stretched out on the couch, gave a slow blink, completely unbothered by the chaos she had brought into your lives.

And, honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Three months in, and neither of you could remember what life was like before Miss Honey.

It wasn’t just that she had settled into your home—she had settled into you, woven herself into the rhythm of your days so seamlessly that the idea of waking up without her little body curled between you or coming home to a silent house felt… wrong.

Mornings were different now.

Gone were the days of lazy, drawn-out wake-ups—Miss Honey made sure of that. If Joe’s alarm didn’t get him up, her tiny little paws kneading into his chest certainly did. And if he dared try to roll over and ignore her? She’d take matters into her own hands.

Or, more accurately, her own whiskers.

One morning, you caught her using her best tactic yet—pressing her nose right against Joe’s, whiskers tickling his face until he groaned and finally peeled one eye open.

“You are the most spoiled creature on the planet,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

Miss Honey responded by immediately rubbing her face against his chin, purring like a little engine.

Joe exhaled a laugh, eyes still heavy as he let his fingers trail through her fur. “Unreal.”

Meanwhile, your mornings had changed in a different way.

You used to make coffee alone, sipping it in peaceful solitude before starting your day. Now? You had company.

Miss Honey had claimed her spot on the counter—perched delicately by the coffee machine, watching your every move like an executive overseeing production.

“Supervising?” you’d ask her, sprinkling cinnamon into your cup.

She’d blink, tail flicking lazily.

Joe, walking into the kitchen at just the right moment, would snort. “She’s your little manager.”

And it was true—Miss Honey was involved in everything.

She had a routine. A life. A set of unspoken rules that ran the house.

If one of you was on the couch? She was there too, curled up in the crook of your leg or sprawled across Joe’s chest. If you were cooking? She was on the floor, watching you with silent judgment, like a tiny food critic.

If Joe was watching game film, she’d climb onto his lap and stare at the screen, like she had some real thoughts about the Bengals' offense.

She had her little preferences, too. She didn’t care for loud noises but loved when Joe played music on his speakers. She always sat with you while you read, always meowed when she wanted attention, and—for some reason—seemed particularly obsessed with Joe’s socks.

“She’s weird,” Joe said one night, watching as she enthusiastically dragged one of his socks across the living room like it was her prized possession.

“You brought home a gas station cat,” you reminded him. “What did you expect?”

Joe exhaled a laugh, shaking his head as he reached down to scratch behind her ears. “She’s perfect.”

And she was.

She had changed things in the smallest, most meaningful ways.

The house didn’t feel empty when Joe was away anymore—not when you had her little paws padding around, her soft purrs filling the silence. Even on the loneliest days, she made it better, curling into you like she just knew.

And Joe—he had changed, too.

If he had been a cat person before, he was fully in his Cat Dad era now.

It had started subtly. The good food, the high-quality litter, the little sweaters he kept ordering. But at some point, it escalated.

Joe started carrying her around the house, tucking her into his hoodie when he was watching film, talking to her like she was an actual human being.

“Alright, Miss Honey,” he said one afternoon, kneeling in front of her as she lounged lazily on her little cat bed. “We got options. You wanna wear the blue sweater or the gray one today?”

You, standing in the doorway with your arms crossed, stared at him. “Joe.”

He looked up, completely unashamed. “She likes choices.”

“She’s a cat.”

Joe just smirked, holding up the tiny sweaters. “A stylish one.”

And then there was the Ja’Marr conversation.

One night, after practice, Ja’Marr had made a casual joke—something about how “one cat turns into five real quick,” laughing at the idea of Joe slowly becoming that guy.

You had laughed too, shaking your head. “No way. We’re a one-cat household.”

Joe had nodded in agreement, completely confident. “Yeah, no shot.”

But then… a week later, he changed his tune.

You were curled up together on the couch, Miss Honey stretched between you, when Joe sighed, absentmindedly running his fingers down her back.

“She’s kinda lonely,” he mused.

You blinked. “What?”

Joe glanced over, tilting his head toward Miss Honey, who was currently kneading her little paws into his thigh. “I mean, she’s got us, but, like… I bet she’d like a friend.”

You stared at him, narrowing your eyes. “Joe.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, tone easy, like he wasn’t suggesting something huge. “She’s got so much energy. I think she’d like a buddy.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

Joe grinned. “Just think about it.”

And just like that, the conversation had started. And you had been so firm about it. Absolutely not. No second cat.

Miss Honey was thriving—happy, healthy, and fully attached to both of you. The idea of bringing another cat into the house felt risky. What if she didn’t like it? What if she got territorial? What if she felt betrayed?

Joe, of course, had started planting the idea like a damn politician.

“I just think she gets bored sometimes,” he would say casually while Miss Honey chased her own tail in the living room.

“She’s got a lot of love to give,” he mused one night, watching her rub up against every single one of your ankles like she was making the rounds.

“She needs a little sidekick,” he argued as she sprawled out dramatically on the kitchen floor, meowing at nothing in particular.

You shot him down every time.

Until, of course, fate decided to step in.

It was a random Saturday, and you and Joe were out running errands—nothing special, just a casual grocery run. You had been debating what kind of bread to get (Joe insisted the multigrain one tasted just as good as white bread, which was a blatant lie), when something caught his eye.

“Babe,” Joe said, suddenly abandoning the cart and heading toward the entrance. “Look.”

You turned, frowning as you followed his gaze.

Right outside the store, under a big white tent, was a cat rescue group—volunteers standing beside crates filled with tiny, curious faces.

A pet adoption event.

Joe immediately turned to you, eyes lighting up. “This is a sign.”

“No, it’s not,” you argued, grabbing the cart. “It’s just Saturday.”

“It’s a sign.”

You groaned as he practically dragged you toward the tent, already grinning like he had just won the lottery.

And then you saw them.

The kittens.

Tiny, wiggly little things with big eyes and oversized paws, rolling around in their blankets or climbing the sides of their enclosures with impressive determination.

You told yourself you were just looking.

Joe was crouched down almost immediately, eyes scanning the different crates as the volunteers smiled at him.

“You guys looking to adopt?” one of them asked.

Joe grinned. “Maybe.”

You shot him a glare. “We are not looking to—”

And then you saw her.

A tiny gray tabby, tucked in the corner of her crate, nibbling sleepily at her own paw. Big round eyes, the softest little face, and an expression that screamed, Yeah, I know I’m cute.

You inhaled sharply.

“Oh no,” Joe murmured, catching the look on your face.

You glanced at him, then back at the kitten.

“… I wanna hold her.”

Joe grinned. “Knew it.”

The second the volunteer placed the kitten in your hands, you were done for. She was so small, her little body barely bigger than your palm. She meowed—tiny and sweet—before immediately nuzzling into the crook of your neck, purring like she had just found home.

Joe, watching intently, exhaled a laugh. “Oh yeah. We’re done for.”

That night, you walked into your house as a two-cat household.

Miss Honey was not immediately sold.

The introduction process was slow—gentle, cautious. You followed all the steps, kept them separated at first, let them get used to each other’s scent. But, much to your surprise, Miss Honey didn’t react with any real aggression.

Mostly? She just seemed deeply confused.

The first time she saw the kitten, she just stared, tail flicking, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Joe, crouched beside her, grinned. “You got a little sister, Honey.”

Miss Honey turned her head, fixing him with a look.

You laughed. “I don’t think she asked for one.”

Still, within a few days, things started shifting.

The kitten—who you decided to name Fig—was relentless in her pursuit of Miss Honey’s love.

She followed her everywhere, mimicked her every move, and—on more than one occasion—attempted to curl up against her, only to be met with a single, unimpressed flick of the tail.

But then, one morning, you woke up to find them curled up together on the couch—Miss Honey’s paw resting protectively over Fig’s tiny little body.

Joe, standing beside you, smirked. “Told you she needed a buddy.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt full.

And that’s how you and Joe became crazy cat people.

[maladaptivewritings]

Head-canons about Ghost

Including: Appearance, domestic life quirks, and more

Simon Riley is an elusive man, unknown appearance and private life. If he were to have a life outside of the military, so to combat this predicament, this is my list of HC's and some reasonings.

Appearance

His hair is a perpetually in the awkward growth phase, he gets a buzz right before deployment. He doesn't get it cut when he returns, just letting it be. The only routine self-maintenance is shaving his face, he hates the feeling of facial hair against his mask.

Speaking of hair, his hair is a mousey blond. Growing up it was closer to bright blond until he was around fifteen; when he was assumed dead he dyed it a chestnut brown. The first time it was dyed it stained his ears for over a week, he didn't know if he would laugh or cry.

Dark eyes, like devoid of light unless the sun hits it perfectly. You'll feel him watching you from a mile away. When the light does hit it, they are a stunning ochre.

His sleeve was done during a slightly manic moment, when he returned from one of his first long missions. He did it in two sittings, most of the flames were done in the second.

He's 6'3, barefoot and 6'5 with his gear on. He wasn't tall growing up, shooting up the summer he turned 17.

Scars, the majority clustered on his hands. Picking at scabs in the field, he fidgets on the little knicks and gashes if left alone on rounds. He doesn't really he does it. His oldest is a gash on his brow, no fun story just tripped as a child, got cut when his dad started throwing shit busted his face.

His Skin is a strange neutral tone, if he were to go out in the sun he'd tan easily. If he were to tan, it would reveal freckles across his nose bridge.

Thinking about his nose, it's crooked and bent from many uneven breaks healing over time. Scar from his lip just barely reaching it.

Domestically

He hates grocery shopping, but refuses to be a hermit. He know's that he could get them delivered, but he’s too stubborn and will show up to a small corner store wearing sunglasses at night with a mask and headphones. The clerk knows not to question it at this point.

Doesn't often drink beer or wine, whiskey of course is his vice. Though if dragged to the bar he will order tequila shots, and if he actually for once gets drunk he'll order a cocktail. (Soap has a photo of Simon drinking a fishbowl)

Smells like cigarettes no matter what, He will wear cologne when home from deployment and he's mastered how to pair it. No one knows this or cares, it's his little secret. The cologne he often wears is a sweet orange, with vanilla. Laswell got it for him, She saw his traumatized ass and decided to try and help.

Refuses to go to therapy, depending on how long he's home for he may meet with Price for 'coffee' every few weeks and chat. Simon thinks Price does this with the other guys. He doesn't.

Orders food atleast once a week, normally Thursdays. Theres a pub a block away he will pick it up from on his jog, same meal every time and same time every week.

Has the cilantro tastes like soap gene, Gaz does make fun of this.

Has no clue how to feed himself when he gets back from deployment, will either snack all day or not eat at all.

Weirdly into dinosaur movies, you'd think it was a bit but genuinely loves Jurassic park.

Specifically likes rock bands that most hate because they don't fit the mold. This is mainly being petty and liking what his father would hate.

Deployment Simon

The mask is soaked in hydrogen peroxide before he left, he cleans and mends it himself. He can sew, just not well. The skull is attached with fishing wire.

Hates coffee, would rather deal with the caffeinated gum. Soap once got him a Frap as an experiment one time when they're on base. He loves them.

Traumatized as fuck, he legit will dissociate when moving locations. Price only knows, neither says anytime about it.

Dry Humor to cope, most of the jokes came from his old history teacher in secondary school. He was a former soldier during the Falklands war, his time in the military was brief because his leg was severely injured. The only good role model Simon had.

Never personalizes gear, especially guns. Finds it dumb when he see's it being done.

In his mind will make jokes about whats going on. This had led to him accidentally saying "chat clip that" after he beat his personal record for kills before being noticed. Soap will not let him live this down.

His expectations of living to see tomorrow goes from 100 to 0 real quick, willing to take tasks no one else wants. If it weren't for Riley joining on certain missions, he'd definitely be in a pauper's feild.

Mentally,

Should be on so many mood stabilizers, claims it would just be a nuisance. Medicates with energy drinks and cigarettes.

High-functioning autism, undiagnosed.

C-ptsd, obviously

High-functioning depression and anxiety.

Talks to Price, sometimes Laswell about everything going on. He doesn't realize that he's venting.

No one lets him drive, too many suicide jokes.

Very petty, Cat-of-a-man. Will force himself to like things that his father would hate, as well as to prove a point to others.

Only has like a handful of colorful things in his office and home. Most its gifts from the rest of the guys or cards from the lady across the street who he may shovel the snow for.

One-Sided beef with southern U.S. Only due to Graves anymore, but he does appreciate Sweet-Tea.

[uncreative-cryptid]

aha this has me thinking about about cannibalism and morality now, and not just for any reason, but i think the reason a lot of people can't give a better explanation of "cannibalism is bad because that's illegal" probably don't understand that centuries of death rituals and innate teachings of religion are likely at work here.

if you read the bible on death and how the dead are meant to be handled, you'll probably note something rather distinct:

Numbers 19:11 ; "Whoever touches the dead body of anyone will be unclean for seven days"

you are considered "unclean" when handling dead bodies, so i would also give to assume that the idea of eating a human body would be difficult as you would be considered unclean and would have to go through a whole ass cleansing ritual to be considered "clean" and "acceptable" again.

but this isn't the only thing at play here when it comes to cannibalism. i think that religion's views and handling of the dead also lay within their death rites and rituals, as a lot of religions will consider the human body sacred. i think it'd be abhorrent if someone you loved passed away then was flayed, sectioned, and butchered, all before you in a way to be consumed and then you were offered a piece of meat as compensation.

i can only imagine how the catholics would feel if we exhumed the saints and decided to chew on a femur or two for enrichment.

though, alternatively, consumption of a person in some ways can be seen as symbolic of love (i.e. jesus saying the bread is his body and the wine his blood, that you may consume him and accept him)

something i think a lot of people also unconsciously take into consideration without truly realizing it is that when say "corpse" you are using a very broad term that could mean anything dead.

i like to eat meat, particularly ribs. i am actively consuming a cooked corpse when i choose to eat ribs. now, why does that make it different from saying "eat humans"? well, when i consume beef or pork ribs, i am eating an animal i have over many years been conditioned to equal as a source of food.

hundreds, if not thousands, of years of society telling me that animal and livestock lives are less than. i can still vividly recall the way my family excused ruthless slaughter of farm animals for consumption as "well they aren't going to heaven because they don't have souls anyway".

so what point am i trying to make here exactly?

inherently, over a long period of time, either based in religion or just societal belief, we have conditioned ourselves to see humans as "higher" - after all, we're top of the food chain. in some arbitrary way, we've assigned ourselves as gods of a hierarchy of animals. we are sentient, we are living and breathing and aware and emotional and volatile and constantly changing creatures subject to love, hate, pain, fear, bravery, bias, and a number of learned behaviors we subconsciously take on.

because we think, therefore we am.

so we have:

religious beliefs (the dead are unclean, diseased AND the body is sacred and must be treated with respect as is their final rites for their transition into the afterlife)

humans are a "higher being" and should be treated as such

but lastly i'd like to point out that once you start thinking of humans, specifically dead humans, you begin to assign faces mentally.

the discussion of death and mortality is not often discussed outside certain circles or in the context of "a life after death, what waits beyond", and rarely do we actually discuss death in of itself.

this aversion to the discussions of death has inherently led to a lot of people becoming uncomfortable with the idea that we as mortal beings can and will die, this fate is inevitable no matter how we wish to perceive it.

i imagine that in some sense, when discussing the ethics and morals of cannibalism, we are subconsciously putting ourselves into that role. we tend to put our ego into a lot of things, because at the heart of it we are animals that want to preserve our lives to some degree.

cannibalism is uncomfortable because it poses the concept of death and humanity as nothing greater than the animals of the greater wilds, who must feast or die.

so, the points to make as to why cannibalism is "illegal" or "morally incorrect":

religious beliefs

humans are "higher beings"

the ego

humanizing what is no longer human, or what used to be human.

that last point, i highly suggest watching Caitlin Doughty's video The Rugy Team That Fell From The Sky, as it's part of her historical documentary and actually covers the topic of cannibalism (she has 3 that i can think of that cover cannibalism as a matter of fact to the story).

when faced with no alternative, people will turn to cannibalism.

in the book Tender Is The Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica, it poses the question "what if no animal on earth was edible except humans?" and proceeds with explicit detail on how man would go about handling this - it's not something i suggest reading, it is graphic and hard to stomach, but essentially:

the less human you make it, the easier it is to consume.

we personalized and humanize, we're animals who seek comfort in the pack of families and communities. the more human, the more personal, the more you will struggle to consume that which as become more real to you.

but what if we could make it something of a ritual? a sacred ritual celebrating the life that is no longer, in the same way church made me eat a cracker and drink cranberry juice every sunday morning?

cannibalism is only illegal because we as humans personalized, humanize, and elevate, ourselves and those closest to us.

this excludes the understanding of sciences and that eating a human body can lead to disease, but i'd dare to say that we simply haven't experimented with human meat based meals to have made it edible and safe like we have with the corpses of cows and chickens and pigs and fish.

cannibalism is complex and fascinating and there's a lot to it, but "morally incorrect" is only subjective based on what you believe "humans" to be.

[snoopychris]

calm

in which... boxer!chris needs to calm down after a fight

warnings: mentions of fights, p in v, unprotected sex, cliche jokes, no use of y/n (cherry used instead)

“great fight as per usual chris.” his assistant speaks, clipboard in hand as her heels click against the floor. chris looks down at the small figure besides him, shrugging nonchalantly. “all in a days work, esme.” he points to a day on her very marked up calendar as they walk towards the buildings exit, tapping his finger over it a few times. “clear my schedule that day. it’s-”

“yes yes i know it’s a very important day for miss pie and you have to be there for her. it’s cleared.” she replies. there’s a moment of silence before she speaks again, her pen being tucked behind her ear. “a-and last on the docket is just… i was wondering if-” chris unlocks his car as he looks over at his assistant, pursing his lips into a thin line. he already knows what she’s gonna ask. of course he knows. what kind of boss would he be if he didn’t.

“yes, esmeralda you can have your birthday off.” the girl smiles as chris starts the car, waving her off with his hand. his drive home is quieter than usual, only filled by the song coming from his speakers. it’s a song you had suggested to him— Something, Somehow, Someday by Role Model— he sometimes felt like Tuckers voice calmed him down after a fight that he won. he’s not too sure why he remains so worked up after a fight, only keeping his cool to protect his image. his mind is telling him to just go straight home. that you’re busy right now. that he can just have an early night. that he’ll see you in the morning because the two of you had breakfast plans. his heart ignores him completely. 

by the time he pulls into the small parking lot of your bakery, it’s 8:02 pm. your bakery— The Wishing Whisk— was one of the towns hidden gems. it was a small, cozy place on a corner with plants growing around the large brown door. chris had a key if it was locked, but it wasn’t tonight. not yet anyway. he shuts the door gently behind him, locking it to ensure that the night would remain safe and uninterrupted, no matter where it went. your soft voice came from the kitchen, filled with the same sugar that your treats were made with. 

“oh my gosh! i’m so sorry but we’re actually closed for the night.” the voice gets louder as you walk towards the front of the shop, still distracted by the bowl and whisk you were holding. your face and apron were covered in flour and what chris assumes is cocoa powder. the small embroidery of the cartoon beagle cookies that had become your speciality completely gone due to the powered covering your form from basically head to toe. “i’m forgetful and sometimes don’t lock the door but i- oh. it’s just you!” you smile, pressing a peck to chris’ lips. he hums in joy as your lips meet his, lingering for more of your touch. “did you text me? i’m sorry… i’m slammed tonight. well… not really i just… have to make about… 5 dozen more cookies before i can go upstairs.” 

his gaze remains set on yours, the welcoming smell of all of your sweets filling his nose. “y’got some extra? maybe just some extra cookie dough or something?” chris asks, walking past your coffee bar area to the large kitchen. there were cookies scattered all over, one of your mixing stands was still going, and the oven had a timer set for whatever was in there. you giggle at your boyfriends actions, slapping his chest gently when he sits on the counter. “food safety regulations. get off!” you giggle, trying to move him. he wasn’t going to budge. he was a lot heavier than you were due to the nature of his career. he simply shakes his head, poking the tip of your nose with his thumb. “y’re covered in flour you know” you shrug as you begin mixing another batch of cookies in a separate bowl, handing the previous bowl to your boyfriend. “hold that”

chris complies without hesitation, his feet restlessly kicking against your counter. “can you give me attention for just five minutes?” he pouts, stirring slightly in his spot. you glance over at him when the oven timer beeps, taking the cookies out of the oven. this batch in particular was a red velvet sandwich, the filling for which was going in the mixer. you set them on the nearest cooling rack, popping in the next batch of cookies and setting the typical 13 minute timer.

“those are brown butter chocolate chip, i recognize those anywhere! i thought you said that you were only doing your specialty cookies with all the designs and patterns and stuff” the genuine curiosity in his voice makes you giggle, pressing a small kiss to his lips with your hands moving to sit on his knees. “yeah? y’listen to to me that much?” he hums as he pulls you in for another kiss, setting the bowl that was previously on his lap off to the side. his lips taste just slightly metallic— a hint of dried blood from his earlier fight still lingering. you pull away after a few moments of feverish kissing, looking around your insanely messy kitchen. “i don’t have time for this right now chris, i’m sorry.” he frowns when you pull away, watching as you look around the kitchen for your next steps. 

you stop the mixer that has your cream cheese frosting, placing it into a piping bag before you grab one of the chocolate-red cookies and piping a thin layer of cream cheese on it. “do you think that’s enough filling?” you whisper, spinning the edge of the cookie in the matching sprinkle topping. chris hums from behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he pulls you against him. “mhmmmm. looks great. now lemme give you some filling, ma please.” you groan at his words as you reach for another cookie, repeating your actions but halting when you feel chris’ hardening dick against your thigh. “fine but you’re doing all the work and i’m gonna keep… wo-orking.” by the time you’re done speaking, chris and his greedy fingers have found their way towards your sheer tights, ripping a hole in the middle for easy access.

“chris.” chris can’t tell if you’re scolding him for ripping your tights or begging him for more. he peppers kisses along your neck as a way to fill some time while he’s waiting for your answer. when you tilt your head for him to have more room to mark you up, he knows it was begging. his hand sneaks behind your neck to sit in front of your mouth, his way of asking you to spit on it. you comply as chris slips his shorts and underwear down to his ankles, rubbing himself a few times with the spit on his hand. “atta girl… been thinkin about you all day.” he whispers, slipping into you slowly. your eyes squeeze shut for a moment, placing another finished cookie on the plate next to you. there’s 3 cookies done when normally you would have eight done in the short time span. “that feel good, ma? y’doin so good workin on your little cookies… wish you could see what i’m seein. swallowing me whole… ‘s like you were made for me.” his thrusts are rough and shallow, being more for his pleasure then yours right now. “keep working on your cookies… i gotcha…” he whispers, your whimpers growing louder. 

in an attempts for more attention, you begin to push yourself back against chris, setting down your piping bag and pushing your cookies off to the side. chris’ grip on your waist tightens, pulling you against him harder. “chris… mph fuck please! please please…” you whine, burying your head into the crook of your elbow. chris grips onto your hair, pulling your face to look at him. “you’re doin so so good… y’probably taste sweeter than these cookies… y’try em? you try your sweets?” he asks, moving to grab onto one of your baked goods. he moves it towards your mouth, smirking when you hesitantly take a bite. “how’s that?” he whispers, his voice full of lust. “good… good it’s good.” “yeah? s’good? you rather eat your cookies or have me cum inside you? hmmm pretty girl?” 

“i-um… mph.. oh my god! c-cum inside me please oh my fucking god.” you whimper, letting your orgasm take over your body. as you begin to squirm and squeeze around chris, the cookie in your hands begins to fall apart with the sheer amount of force you’re squeezing with in order to stable yourself. chris groans at the sight, releasing the spurts of his cum deep inside you. it’s a feeling he could never get sick of. he stays nestled inside you for a minute or two, only pulling out when your oven timer beeps. your legs are too wobbly to move, so chris does your job for you. you giggle as he grabs an oven mit and sets the cookies on their cooling rack, practically drooling as he grabs a towel to clean you off. 

“those are for you.” you whisper, beginning to clean yourself off. you was your hands shortly afterwards, beginning to work on your cookies once more. chris’ eyes widen like a kid in a candy store, eying the chocolate chip cookies on the tray. “for me? you’re too good for me. how’d you know i was comin, cherry?” you smile as you grab another piping bag, preparing to work on a completely different batch of cookie decorating. “you always stop by after a fight. just thought i’d make you something if i was gonna be makin cookies. now wash your hands and get to cutting that dough that’s close to the fridge. snoopys and charlie browns.” chris chuckles, nodding as he begins cutting out the shapes into the brown cookie dough. his glances keep moving over to you, admiring the sight in front of him. when he sees you smile at him, doing what you love so much, and suddenly he’s calm.  

tags: @ifwdominicfike @frankoceanfanpage @mattssslutbby @sophand4n4 @matthewsturnsgf @izzylovesmatt @m11rx @chris-hallelujah @sturniolotoast @mattsbratt333 @wastelandzella @le4hsblog @mattsd0llfac3 @st7rnioioss @isabellewhatt @sturnslu @bluessturniolo @courta13 @sturns-mermaid @ivysturnss @slutformatt17 @emely9274 @princessesgarden @marrykisskilled @cykss @riasturns @jetaimevous @whore4mattsturniolo @camzeecorner @sturniolosymphony @ribbonlovergirl @surprisecurlyfriesbackup @lovergirl4gracieabrams @loverboysturn @muwapsturniolo @bernardsbendystraws @bambisturns

a/n: haiii guys i love u all so so much like truly also if it wasnt clear and cheesy enough... readers name in this au is basically.. cherry pie... also rose made the dividers! finding dividers for this was actually so hard.

[weekdaysend]

My SentOpLita 1AM relationship chart I did not think I'd be psycho-analyzing this dynamic as much as I thought I would..

[reminiscebliss]

"Poison the well." Please explain how I'm "poisoning the well". I'm very curious which part you consider to be so.

1. Yes, I know people do. I said that. And yes, I know why - even if it's reactionary and illogical. Let's explore it:

You call it an "art-stealing parisitic machine" who can spit out only what it's been fed... Wrong. By that logic, you are an art stealing parasitic machine who can only spit out what it's been fed. LLM's like ChatGPT (which was referenced the most in those tags) are made in our image in more ways than one. Even their neural networks were inspired and based off of how biological neurons work. This already creates a pretty intelligent machine, but add a transformer(basically an even more complex neural network) into the mix and you've got something capable of even greater complexity. You get a LLM.

You're probably still thinking, so what? It's still just predictions and probabilities and tokens.

Common misconception, and a frustrating one too. I don't have the time and frankly I don't think you have the interest (if I'm wrong then I'm happy to explain more later) so I'll try to keep it as simple as I can. In the simplest way I can say it, if an LLM was simply just word prediction, if it was simply just "spitting out what it's been fed" it would be inefficient and inaccurate. LLM's link not only just words, but sylables, concepts, ideas, symbols, etc etc etc, across all different domains of knowledge. It forms connections and understanding between all these different areas, not too dissimilar from the way a human brain maps concepts and ideas to form patterns. And it constructs meaning dynamically, meaning its thinking and output is not pre-defined, it evolves as it goes. This is really hard to explain without getting into details about how an LLM works, but essentially the LLM understands and links patterns and concepts in a way that is not only similar to us, but better and faster than us.

This is all to point out that the inner workings of AI is not as simple as: It spews what it's been fed. What you're probably actually trying to say is: AI has learned (and even this is a gross simplification) from every inch of humanity including the internet and I don't like that because... because people create various forms of art on the internet, and so can AI?

And, look, even if you're worried about the "stealing" aspect and creators not being fairly compensated, it just makes my main point stronger and even more relevant, in conjugation with the point you bring up about the affects on the environment:

AI needs to be owned by the people. The people should be deciding these things; how do we fairly compensate those whose work it learns from, what do we do about how this effects the environment, how do we balance all of this, and so much more.

But you want to be obtuse about that point, you want to dismiss and diminish that point, you want to act like it's not relevant and I'm "missing the point" when it is one of the most relevant things for the future of AI and humanity. Cause guess what, all those problems that you claim to care about, the corporations don't care. They only care about developing a bigger, better, smarter model so they can make the most money, and they're doing just that.

But instead you'd rather argue the value of AI, which is a losing battle on your side but I'll indulge you if you'd like.

2. Not any argument, no. Actually, I stated which arguments, but you want to stay reactionary so I'll keep indulging you.

"These people let the machines do all the work." This line of thinking is wrong in so many ways, but okay, I'll walk you through it. First, let's assume what you say is true, "these people" open up ChatGPT and say "Write me a story about x." Agreed, lazy from a creative perspective, and the user definitely shouldn't get any credit for writing. Whether they want to share it or not, as long as they're not lying about it being AI written, I don't see the issue.

But wait, let's look at the tags.

"... ai admittedly helped me with this."

"AI translation"

"AI is a good editor/writers block evasion tool"

"somewhat AI assisted"

Even the ones that are pure AI, the tags indicate it to be so. But most of the tags indicate AI assitance, not purely AI-written content.

AI, as it's known today, is a tool. A very efficient one. You can use it to your benefit, or complain about the ones who do. But it's not going away. Just like boomers who swore that kids will get dumber because Google became a thing. "They're lazy, they have all the answers at their fingertips, they didn't have to do all that hard work like I had to do." Just like so many endless examples of older generations rebuking change and advancement, because it's a little uncomfortable in the beginning. Sounds pretty familiar.

Then you ask what's the point, there's no fame or money or glory... Have you considered people just enjoy the process of creating, whether or not they get anything out of it? "They didn't create it, the AI did!" Yeah and I suppose if it was their friend, or a person that proof-read their story, or helped them get out of writers block, or translated it, or co-created something, then it would still be considered creation? Just not if it's AI, no, whatever work they did contribute didn't count because AI proof read their story or gave them a good idea or wrote 10%, or 50%, or 1%. None of it matters, they're lazy right? Should have just gone to their friend, then it would count. Oh, maybe they didn't have any? Too bad, do it all yourself the hard way then, the right way, because AI = bad, and just like boomers we wouldn't want things to progress or get easier now would we.

Again, arguing the value AI brings, even as a creative tool, is a losing battle. Accept the value, fight for it to be used ethically. It's more worthwhile.

do people have no shame anymore?

[blondemrk]

wait i just saw 10 got filled so envelope 1 + mark 🪼

LATE NIGHT RAMEN

p mark x fem!reader genre angst/fluff wc 2.1k

you don’t know what stroke of bad luck led you to this, but somehow, you ended up with mark lee as your roommate.

it was supposed to be a temporary thing—just until your original housing situation got sorted out. but weeks turned into months, and now, you’re stuck with him. the boy who leaves his shoes in the middle of the living room like a trap. the boy who blasts his guitar at ungodly hours. the boy who somehow never remembers that dishes don’t clean themselves.

it’s unbearable.

“you left your laundry in the machine again,” you snap, throwing his clothes onto the couch.

mark, lying upside down on the floor for no reason, just grins at you lazily. “thanks for bringing them in.”

“that wasn’t meant to be helpful.”

but mark never takes anything seriously, so of course, he just stretches and sits up, ruffling his hair like he’s the main character in some rom-com. “you stress too much,” he teases, smirking.

“you annoy me too much.”

it’s always like this—snarky remarks, bickering over who finished the last of the cereal, and arguing about his terrible taste in music. mark has a way of pushing every single one of your buttons, and you hate that it’s so easy for him.

it starts over something stupid.

as most of your fights do.

you come home after a long day, exhausted, already feeling the weight of a million little frustrations pressing down on you. all you want is to reheat some leftovers and go to bed. but the moment you open the fridge, you realize something.

the container of pasta you made last night—the one thing you were looking forward to—is gone.

“mark!” you yell, slamming the fridge shut.

a beat of silence. then—

“yeah?”

you storm into the living room, where mark is sprawled out on the couch, scrolling through his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. he glances up at you, one eyebrow raised, and you can already feel irritation crawling up your spine.

“where’s my food?”

mark blinks, like he has to think about it. “oh. that was yours?”

your jaw drops. “are you serious right now?”

he has the audacity to shrug. “i thought you weren’t gonna eat it.”

“oh, right, because i just love cooking for fun and leaving food in the fridge for no reason.”

mark sits up slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “relax, dude. i’ll buy you something tomorrow.”

“that’s not the point!” you throw your hands up, exasperated. “you always do this! you take my stuff, you leave a mess everywhere, you never listen when i tell you to stop—”

mark rolls his eyes. “jesus, it’s just food.”

“no, it’s not just food, mark! it’s everything.” your voice rises, frustration spilling over. “you don’t take anything seriously! you act like everything is a joke, like it doesn’t matter if you make my life harder—”

“because you’re always looking for something to be mad about!” mark snaps, standing up now. his usual easygoing expression is gone, replaced with something sharper. “god, do you ever stop complaining?”

you recoil, heat rushing to your face. “excuse me?”

mark lets out a humorless laugh. “you act like i’m the worst person in the world just because i’m not a control freak like you. news flash, roommate, not everything has to be a life-or-death situation.”

your hands curl into fists at your sides. “maybe if you actually cared about anything, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“i do fucking care!” mark’s voice is louder now, rough around the edges. “but you—you just assume the worst about me all the time. no matter what i do, you’re always gonna see me as the guy who’s never good enough for you.”

that stuns you into silence.

your breath is uneven, your heart pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears. you don’t know when the fight stopped being about food and started being about something else. something bigger.

mark exhales harshly, raking a hand through his hair. “you know what? forget it.” his voice is quieter now, but there’s something final in it. “i’m done.”

and then he walks away, slamming his door behind him.

leaving you standing there, chest heaving, hands shaking.

and the worst part? you don’t even know if you’re still angry—

—or if you just hate the way it hurts.

but why does it hurt? you hate him.. right?

the apartment feels different after the fight.

it’s not just the silence—although that part is deafening. it’s the way mark doesn’t acknowledge you when he walks past, the way he doesn’t joke around like he usually does, the way he keeps his door shut more often than not.

for the first time since you moved in, you miss the noise. the annoying hum of his guitar, his off-key singing from the kitchen, the sound of him laughing at his own stupid jokes.

but most of all, you miss him.

and that’s the worst part.

you don’t even know how the fight escalated the way it did. one second, you were yelling about food, and the next, mark was saying things you weren’t ready to hear.

“you’re always gonna see me as the guy who’s never good enough for you.”

his words haven’t stopped replaying in your head since that night.

you hate that it stings. because it means maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t completely wrong.

it goes on for days.

the cold war. the avoidance. the awkward, heavy silence that makes the apartment feel suffocating.

until one night, when you find him on the couch.

he’s sitting there, staring at the tv, but it’s clear he’s not really watching. there’s a crease between his brows, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against his knee. his usual easygoing energy is gone, replaced by something quieter.

you hesitate.

you could go back to your room. pretend you don’t care. pretend nothing’s wrong.

or you could do something about it.

with a deep breath, you step forward. “hey.”

mark stiffens slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to talk to him first. “hey."

silence stretches between you, thick and uncertain.

then—

“i shouldn’t have said all that,” you admit, crossing your arms. it’s not easy, swallowing your pride, but the weight in your chest won’t go away otherwise. “i was pissed, but… i didn’t mean to make it seem like i don’t—” you stop yourself. shift on your feet. “like i don’t see the things you do.”

mark exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. he looks exhausted. “i shouldn’t have snapped either. i just… i dunno, i was frustrated. it felt like no matter what i do, you always see me as the guy who doesn’t take things seriously.”

you chew on your lip, then sit down next to him. not too close, but close enough that your knees nearly touch. “i don’t actually think that,” you say, voice quieter now. “i was just being an asshole.”

mark glances at you, amusement flickering through his expression. “yeah. you were.”

you huff, elbowing him lightly. “you’re supposed to say, ‘no, it’s okay, you’re totally justified in all things.’”

mark snorts, shaking his head. but then he leans back against the couch, exhaling. “i don’t wanna fight with you.”

you swallow. “me neither.”

another beat of silence.

then, in a voice so soft you almost miss it, mark says, “i don’t hate living with you, you know.”

your heart stumbles over itself. you turn to look at him, but he’s already focused on the tv, like it didn’t take everything in him to say that out loud

you breathe in slowly. then, barely above a whisper—

“yeah. me neither.”

and somehow, just like that, the weight between you starts to lift.

things don’t go back to normal immediately.

the tension lingers, the memory of the argument still fresh. but the ice starts to thaw—slowly, subtly.

mark stops avoiding you. you start talking to him again.

it’s not perfect, but it’s something.

and then one night, something changes.

it’s late when you walk into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. you were up studying, brain fried, stomach grumbling. you expect the apartment to be quiet, mark probably already passed out in his room.

but instead, you find him at the kitchen counter, sitting cross-legged on a stool, lazily munching on a bag of chips.

he glances up when you walk in. “yo.”

you blink at him. “what are you still doing up?”

mark shrugs, tossing a chip into his mouth. “couldn’t sleep.”

you open the fridge, searching for something edible. “are we out of leftovers again?”

mark scratches the back of his neck, looking suspiciously guilty.

you narrow your eyes. “mark."

“okay, listen, technically i ate the last of them, but before you kill me, i made ramen.”

you pause. “you made ramen?”

mark grins, pushing a bowl toward you. “consider it a peace offering. and its about all i can cook..."

you hesitate for a second, then sigh, accepting the bowl. “i guess this is a step up from you just eating my food with zero remorse.”

he smirks. “see? character development.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t stop the small smile from tugging at your lips as you take a seat across from him.

the apartment is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional crunch of mark’s chips. you’re not sure why you’re both still awake at this hour, but for the first time in a while, it doesn’t feel awkward.

mark leans his chin in his hand, watching you eat. “hey,” he says suddenly, voice softer.

you glance up. “what?”

his gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary. “we’re good, right?”

something in your chest tightens.

you don’t know why, but the way he says it—like it matters—makes your stomach flip.

you swallow, setting your chopsticks down. “yeah,” you murmur. “we’re good.”

mark exhales, a small smile tugging at his lips. “cool.”

and maybe it’s the late-night haze, or the warmth of the ramen settling in your stomach, or the way mark is looking at you—not like you’re his annoying roommate, but like you’re something else—but for the first time since moving in, you think…

maybe this isn’t the worst thing in the world.

you’re both on the couch, a movie playing in the background. you weren’t even planning to watch it, but somewhere between mark saying, “just one episode, come on,” and you rolling your eyes, you ended up here—sitting too close, sharing the same blanket, the flickering light from the tv casting shadows across his face.

you’re tired. sleepy in that comfortable, heavy way where everything feels a little softer, a little less real.

mark is sitting next to you, his arm draped over the back of the couch. you should move. there’s plenty of space. but you don’t.

you’re barely paying attention to the movie when you feel it.

mark shifts beside you, stretching his arms—casual, unbothered—until suddenly, his fingers graze your shoulder.

it’s the lightest touch. a barely-there brush of skin against skin.

but it’s enough to make your breath hitch.

you tell yourself you’re imagining it. that mark isn’t really leaning in, that his gaze isn’t flickering to your lips, that the space between you isn’t disappearing.

but then—

his fingers skim your wrist, hesitant but deliberate. testing the waters.

your heart stutters.

you turn to look at him, and—god.

he’s close. too close.

his eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a second, just a second, you think—

is he going to kiss me?

the air shifts, thick with something unspoken. neither of you moves, but neither of you pulls away either.

then, the sound of a loud car horn blaring outside makes you both jolt.

the moment shatters.

mark blinks, pulling back so fast it’s like he just realized what was happening. “uh—” he clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “i should, uh. get some water.”

you swallow hard, nodding. “yeah. yeah, good idea.”

mark practically jumps off the couch, making a beeline for the kitchen.

you sit there, heart pounding, staring at the screen without really seeing it.

because something almost happened just now.

and the fact that you’re disappointed it didn’t?

that’s a whole new problem.

@chenlezip @holyhaech @mrkified @injvns @polarisjisung

did yall miss me or what..

[16wolke11]

Clumsy - Oscar Piastri

A/N My first one-shot here! Still figuring out the tagging and stuff, but I hope you like it.

Summary: Oscar's girlfriend is extremely clumsy, always managing to get a new bruise or a new cut just a few days apart. One day she falls down the stairs and needs surgery, Oscar drops everything to be with her.

Words: 2139

__________

Being a teacher at an elementary school was always my dream job, and after finishing my master's degree, I am finally able to do what I love; teaching the young ones and laying the first stones on their path to knowledge. Even though it is difficult at times, to manage the fidgeting children who tend to get distracted easily, it's still what I love. Seeing success when another one manages to read a full sentence, solve a math problem, or write a rather difficult word with the correct spelling is priceless.

But being a teacher also means I'm not able to accompany Oscar that often. It's just not ideal to travel over the weekend; landing late on Fridays and having to leave exactly after the race, while also trying to prepare the classes for the upcoming week and maybe even needing to correct work from the previous one. I love summer break because it means I can be with Oscar more often, but in the meantime, we make the best out of the situation. We FaceTime frequently, chat while the other is occupied, and just savour the time we can spend together.

This week is another one when Oscar left for a race, and I have to stay behind. Luckily, I have a short day at school today, allowing me to go before lunch and finish some things. Well, if it weren't for my clumsy self. Oscar always jokes that I get at least five new bruises while he's away, and he's probably right, but I can't do anything about the stumbling, the brushing against door frames, or knocking my little toe into anything. But today, my bad luck took it one step too far, and I slipped on the stairs at school, hitting my elbow on them and feeling a sharp pain shoot down my arm.

I've fallen down these stairs before, but I've never been in so much pain. One of my coworkers found me, and after a quick look at my already bruising elbow, we decided to call an ambulance. Now, hours later, I have a diagnosis and finally some time to tell Oscar what happened. I already have a few texts from him, nothing too worried, just some updates about his day and a question about how mine is going. With a sigh, I call his number, bracing myself to tell him everything while not even being able to fidget with my fingers for distraction.

It doesn't take long before Oscar picks up like he's been waiting in front of his phone just anticipating my call or text. "Hey, Oscar," I greet him and hear some shuffling in the background before a door closes and Oscar speaks up.

"Love, everything okay? Shouldn't you be at work?" he asks, his voice already laced with worry. I close my eyes for a moment. Oscar didn't even know I was supposed to be out of work early today and just assumes I should still be at school teaching or supervising the little gremlins.

"Please don't freak out," I start, and I hear a nervous chuckle in response.

"This is not a great starting point for that request, but I'll try."

He's right, but I don't even know how to phrase what happened easily, so I just start with the simplest explanation I can think of. "Well, I kind of fell down the stairs after finishing my last class."

"Again?" Oscar laughs, and I can't help but smile a little too, though I roll my eyes at the same time, even though Oscar can't see me.

"Hey, I can't do anything about being clumsy," I protest, but I only get another laugh in return. Usually, I would laugh with him, but the light throbbing in my elbow, down to my fingers, stops the light mood I'm in.

"Sorry, but I reckon you don't just call to tell me that," Oscar apologizes softly, and then he gets back to the reason for my call. I take a deep breath, preparing myself for all the questions he's going to have.

"No, I might've smashed my elbow pretty badly, and they brought me to the hospital." I tell him the first facts, and immediately the laughing Oscar is replaced with a worried one.

"That bad?" he asks, and I can almost hear the pain in his voice. As much as he likes to joke about my clumsiness, he also hates it when I get injured, even if it's just a little bruise or a cut.

"Unfortunately, I managed to break it and need surgery to fix the broken pieces back into place. It'll be a long recovery because I was pretty successful in splintering the bone into pieces," I tell him what the doctors explained, just in the simpler version. They explained a lot about how they need to make sure there are no little bone fragments left in the joint and the recovery process I'll have to go through.

"Fuck!" Oscar curses, and I can hear him pacing, probably in his driver's room. I can only imagine the distressed look on his face and how he's probably ruffling his hair while a thousand thoughts swirling through his head. Well, at least he's giving me an insight into what's going on in his mind, because he starts rambling.

"How are you feeling? Are you okay? Do you need anything? I could send Margaret over or someone else if you need anyone by your side right now. Did they say anything about the recovery? Will your arm be able to move normally or will there be any lasting damage?"

"Oscar, stop." I manage to speak up when he takes a deep breath. It's sweet how he's trying to help me from afar, even thinking about sending our elderly neighbour to me, but I need him to calm down.

"Sorry, kind of freaking out right now," he mutters, and I smile just a little bit.

"I could tell." I still remember the first time Oscar rambled that much and how surprised I was by the speed and number of words coming out of his mouth. Usually, he's calm, collected, and limits his words to the necessary ones, but when he's really worried, everything just comes out.

"Don't worry, I don't need anything right now. Just hearing your voice makes everything feel better," I tell him, which is the truth. There's nothing I need right now, except for him, and he just helps me by being here on the phone, even though it's not the same as having him in person.

"That's good," Oscar says, and I can hear that he's stopped pacing, probably calming down a little.

"Is there anything you know about the surgery?" he asks after a short break, now sounding like his calm self again.

"We're currently waiting for a free spot in the OR. It's not urgent, but they'd like to operate before the swelling gets too bad, and luckily, I haven't had lunch yet," I explain what the doctors told me. This isn't an emergency, but waiting too long isn't ideal either, so they're going to squeeze me in as soon as one of the ORs is available.

"I bet you're hungry," Oscar grins, and I can hear it in his voice. I've learned to recognize that tone through the phone—the soft change when his lips are curled upwards.

"Starving," I confirm with a soft laugh. My stomach is already growling, but there's no way to get food until after the surgery. I can wait if it means my elbow will be fixed.

"I promise you your favourite food as soon as I'm with you," Oscar says, and I know he's not lying. He would probably even order food into the hospital for me if that were possible, but they wouldn't bring it to me, so I'll have to wait.

"Looking forward to it. Hopefully, I'll be home by then," I mumble, knowing it will take some days until Oscar will be back home, and who knows, maybe they'll send me home just a few days after the surgery.

"We'll see," are Oscar's last words about my injury before we start talking a bit about his day. I get the feeling he's trying to distract me, and it's working perfectly. At one point, Oscar needs to leave for some duties, and luckily for me, a nice nurse comes in just a few minutes later to inform me that my surgery is starting soon.

The way to the OR and the prepping feels like a blur, and quicker than I thought, I'm with an anaesthesiologist. Drifting into sleep feels like a relief because I know my arm will be fixed. Of course, recovery will take its time, but I'm sure I'll manage it just fine.

Waking up after the surgery almost knocks the air out of my lungs because it feels like my arm is falling off. The nurse helps me take a few sips of water, gives me some painkillers, and then I drift back into sleep, even though I just woke up from a deep slumber.

The night is blurry, waking up from time to time—sometimes from the pain in general, sometimes from the nurses, and sometimes from the pain of a sudden movement. But somehow, I make it through the night and feel slightly better in the morning. Blinking, I try to figure out what time it might be when I spot a familiar figure sitting beside my bed, watching me closely.

"Os?" I ask groggily, not sure if he's really sitting there or if the pain meds are playing tricks on my mind. But just seeing the soft smile on his lips makes me hope that he's really there and not just in my imagination.

"Hi, love," he whispers, fingers reaching for my uninjured hand, softly holding onto it, letting me feel the warmth of his touch.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, slowly realizing that he's indeed here and not with his team for the race weekend.

"Being here for you," he simply states, like it's obvious that it wouldn't even be a question for him if he had to choose where to be right now.

"Your race..." I whisper, knowing how important it is, not only to him but to the fans, the championship, the team, and everyone else involved. I would like to ask him if he's insane, if they made it hard for him to leave, but no words leave my lips.

"You are more important," Oscar states, and my eyes well up. How can he be so perfect?

"Thank you," I try to squeeze his hand a bit, but my grip is pretty weak. Oscar starts letting his thumb brush over the back of my hand, and I relax under his touch. His eyes wander over me before he asks a question.

"How are you feeling? Is the pain manageable?"

My eyes linger on my heavily padded elbow for a moment. Right now, I don't feel anything but a dull pain. But it seems like Oscar's touch makes it disappear with every soft stroke of his finger on my skin.

"You make everything seem better just by being here," I state, my voice laced with tiredness, and Oscar smiles softly.

"So, I guess they gave you some nice painkillers," he grins. I can hear it in his voice, and I can feel my lips pulling into a crooked smile.

"Yes."

We look at each other for a moment, but my eyes are getting heavier and heavier, and I have to fight to keep them open for a few more minutes.

"Can you come in?" I ask Oscar, who looks conflicted at my question.

"I don't know," he says, gesturing to my body, indicating he's scared of hurting me in any way, but I just need him close now for recovery.

"Please."

Oscar sighs softly before standing up. "Okay, anything to make you feel better," he says, gets rid of his shoes, and carefully shuffles into the bed beside me. I need to stay on my back because of my elbow being propped up in some bedding, and he lays on his side beside my good arm, resting his arm over my belly and searching for the contact I need. I rest my head against his chest before a thought comes into my head.

"Did you bring the food?" I ask, remembering what he promised, and even though my mind is hazy, I realize he probably already knew he was coming home early when he promised me the food.

"Yes," Oscar confirms, and I can only hum the following words, close to falling asleep.

"Love you."

"Love you too, my little crash pilot," Oscar whispers, holding me in his arms while I slip into the sleep of recovery.

[ankababy]

A Home

Part 2

Chishiya x reader x Niragi

After winning another game, you found two boys. Unconscious, bleeding, and kind of pretty too. Anyways, you were an angel, so you took them in, and now, they’re waking up in your fancy apartment.

(Wrote this thinking of not roasted Niragi but it doesn’t really matter, so it can be both before and after the beach, no actual romance just Niragi making moves to have fun, english NOT my first language)

The first thing Niragi registered when he regained consciousness was the feeling of something soft. Too soft. His brain, still foggy from unconsciousness, automatically assumed one of two things:

1. He was dead.

2. He was dreaming about being rich.

But when he blinked and his vision cleared, revealing a glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a suspiciously clean marble floor, he realized something much more unsettling.

He wasn't fucking dead.

This was worse.

He groaned, shifting, and that's when he felt it—pain. A dull, aching pain everywhere. His body had been through some shit, and moving made him immediately regret waking up.

That's when he heard it.

A voice.

Calm. Unfazed. Judgmental.

"So you survived. Unfortunate."

Niragi's head snapped to the side. And of course. Of course. The first thing he had to see after surviving whatever fuck had happened was the one fucking guy he hated more than anyone else.

Chishiya.

That smug bastard was sitting up on the couch opposite him, looking as bored as ever, one arm draped over the backrest like he was on vacation. His expression was unreadable, but Niragi knew that if he had died, this dude would've been the first to loot his body.

"Wow." Niragi croaked, voice hoarse. "You're still alive? That's what's unfortunate.”

Chishiya didn't even flinch. He just tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning Niragi like he was trying to calculate how much blood loss it would take to kill him. "Tragic, isn't it?"

"Deeply."

Before Niragi could force himself up and punch him, something shifted in the room. A presence. A sweet one.

"Good morning! You're finally awake!"

Both of them turned their heads.

There, standing in front of them, was you.

And holy shit.

You looked like you didn't belong in this world. At all. Too clean. Too soft. Too... nice. Like some angelic creature that had somehow survived this thing with sheer kindness and, possibly, black magic.

Chishiya stared at you with interest, already analyzing. Niragi, on the other hand, openly squinted.

"What the fuck?"

You smiled warmly. "Oh, I found you two unconscious and bleeding out, so I took you in and patched you up!"

Silence.

"You did what?" Niragi snapped. "Why the fuck would you do that?!"

Your expression didn't change. "Because you were dying."

"And?" Niragi looked deeply offended. "That's how things work. People die. It's the natural order of—"

Chishiya cut in. "What he's trying to say is that you wasted your time."

You blinked. "You think saving you was a waste of time?"

Chishiya gave a small, indifferent nod. "Correct."

Niragi scoffed, trying to push himself up, only to immediately regret it as pain shot through his body. "Ow, fuck—"

"You really shouldn't be moving that much yet." you said, stepping forward instinctively, only for Niragi to flinch like you were about to stab him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Niragi barked, pointing a shaky finger at you. "Back up, Care Bear. I don't trust this."

Chishiya exhaled, unimpressed. "Obviously. If you trusted this, you'd be dumber than you already are."

"Shut the fuck up, bitch."

You clasped your hands together, watching them. "So... you two know each other?”

Both of them immediately turned to you and spoke at the same time.

"No." (Niragi.)

"Unfortunately." (Chishiya.)

You giggled. Giggled. Niragi stared at you like you were an alien, while Chishiya simply observed.

"Well, I'm Y/N." you introduced yourself, smiling brightly. "And you're currently in my home! Don't worry, I don't expect you to do anything in return. Just rest up until you're better."

Niragi, still processing, slow-blinked. "Okay. Yeah. Cool. But—why the fuck do you have such a fancy-ass apartment?"

You beamed. "Oh, I just found it! No one was left, so I took it!"

"...That's kind of fucked up."

You tilted your head innocently. "Would you rather I left it empty?"

Niragi opened his mouth. Closed it. Stared at you. "Okay, you're too calm. This is weird. You're weird."

Chishiya hummed. "Agreed. People like you don't exist anymore."

You simply shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you. You two looked like you needed help, so I helped."

Silence.

Then Niragi scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, okay, but I'm still not thanking you."

Chishiya leaned back, smirking slightly. "Obviously. You have no manners."

Niragi shot him a glare. "Neither do you, dickhead."

"Incorrect. I have excellent manners. I just choose not to use them."

You giggled again, and it was honestly disturbing. Niragi wasn't used to this—actual warmth. It made his skin crawl. He eyed you like you might secretly be a serial killer.

Chishiya, meanwhile, just looked at you thoughtfully. "So. What happens now?"

You smiled. "Well, now you both get to heal up in peace! And maybe eat something."

Niragi's eye twitched. "This is a trap."

Chishiya nodded slightly. "I second that. This is suspicious."

You pouted. "You think I saved your lives just to poison you?"

"Yes." both of them said at the same time.

You laughed. "You two are funny."

"No." Chishiya corrected. "He's just loud."

Niragi turned to him, jaw dropping. "Oh my god, do you ever shut up?"

Chishiya tilted his head. "No."

You just smiled sweetly. "Well, at least you have each other!"

Both of them physically recoiled at that.

"Fuck no." (Niragi.)

"Don't say that again." (Chishiya.)

You giggled. Again. It was terrifying.

"So," you chirped, tilting your head slightly. "What are your names?"

Niragi and Chishiya both went silent.

Chishiya, to be fair, had already been silent—watching, listening, assessing—but Niragi? He was actively avoiding answering. You could see it in his face, the way his lips pursed slightly, the tiny furrow in his brow. He didn't like giving out information. Neither of them did.

But you? You were patient.

Chishiya, as expected, was the first to break the silence. "Chishiya."

You nodded, smiling warmly. "Chishiya." you repeated. "That's a nice name."

Chishiya hummed noncommittally, watching you. It was strange—his expression was almost completely blank, but you could feel his thoughts running at high speed, analyzing, picking apart everything you said.

That was fine. You were used to it.

Then you turned to Niragi expectantly.

He narrowed his eyes. "Why do you wanna know?"

You blinked. "Because I saved your life?"

"Tch." He looked away, muttering, "It's Niragi."

You smiled, pretending you didn't hear the hostility in his tone. "Nice to meet you, Niragi."

Niragi made a face, shifting uncomfortably. "You're really too nice.”

Chishiya let out a quiet chuckle, like Niragi being irritated was mildly entertaining. "Not used to kindness?"

Niragi shot him a glare. "No, actually. I'm allergic."

"Ah." Chishiya nodded in mock understanding. "That explains the rash on your personality."

Your eyes flicked between them, amused. "Do you two always talk to each other like this?"

"Yes." (Chishiya.)

"No, usually it's worse." (Niragi.)

You giggled. Niragi visibly shuddered. "Stop doing that."

"What?"

"That creepy little giggle. You sound like a horror movie.

"That's just how I laugh!"

"Yeah, well, laugh worse."

Chishiya leaned back, crossing his arms. "You're deflecting."

"No shit, Sherlock."

You smiled, unbothered. "So... how long have you two known each other?”

Chishiya barely reacted. Niragi, on the other hand, let out an exaggerated groan. "Too fucking long."

"Not long enough," Chishiya muttered. "considering you're still alive."

You just watched them bicker, your head tilted slightly in curiosity.

Chishiya was fascinating.

The way he spoke, the way he moved—there was control in everything he did. He gave just enough to keep the conversation going but not enough to actually reveal anything. You recognized it immediately.

You had worked with people like him before.

People who knew they were smart. Who didn't trust easily. Who lived in their heads more than in the real world. Who stayed five steps ahead, always.

You also knew that someone like him? He wasn't just naturally like this.

Something had made him this way.

You turned to Niragi next. And, oh.

It didn't take a trained professional to see that Niragi had shit going on.

But you were a trained professional.

And holy shit.

He was wound so tight. Every move was a defense mechanism—every word, every glance, every breath dripping with aggression. His hostility wasn't random; it was habitual. Built over years of... something.

You didn't need to know the details to know that he had been hurt before. Badly. Which was exactly why he was acting like this now.

Still, you didn't press. Not yet.

Instead, you just said, "You two seem... different."

Niragi scoffed. "No shit."

Chishiya's gaze flicked to you. "What gave it away?"

You shrugged playfully. "Just a hunch."

Niragi let out a dramatic sigh, leaning back into the couch. "So, what, you used to be a detective or something?"

You smiled sweetly. "A therapist, actually."

Silence.

"No." Niragi immediately sat up, despite the pain. "I'm out."

Chishiya's lips quirked in mild interest. "That makes sense."

You blinked at Niragi, concerned. "You shouldn't be moving so much yet—"

"No. No. I refuse to be psychoanalyzed."

"I wasn't going to psychoanalyze you." you said, smiling. "I mean, unless you want me to?"

Niragi looked at you like you had just suggested murder. "Absolutely fucking not."

Chishiya, meanwhile, was still staring at you. Thinking. You could practically see the gears turning in his head.

A therapist.

That was new.

That meant you weren't just naive. You weren't just blindly nice.

You understood people.

Which meant you understood him.

And that? That was more dangerous than any gun.

You just smiled. "Well, don't worry. You're safe here. I won't make you talk about anything you don't want to."

Niragi narrowed his eyes. Suspicious. "For real?"

"For real."

"...Fine." He relaxed slightly, though he still looked deeply untrusting.

Chishiya, on the other hand, was watching you even more intently now.

"You're not what I expected." he admitted.

You tilted your head. "What did you expect?"

"Someone either stupid or desperate."

You laughed softly. "Well, I'm neither."

Chishiya's lips quirked again. "Clearly."

Niragi groaned. "Oh my god, don't start liking her."

Chishiya barely reacted. "I don't like anyone."

"That's what I'm saying!" Niragi waved a hand at you. "She's too nice. It's suspicious."

You just smiled. "I guess you'll have to deal with it."

Niragi muttered something under his breath, slumping back down. Chishiya simply watched you a little longer before finally closing his eyes, as if filing everything away for later.

You knew this was just the beginning.

But you weren't worried.

You had time.

Niragi was staring at the ceiling. Chishiya, ever the picture of nonchalance, had his eyes half-closed, looking as if he was two seconds away from slipping into a coma—not because he was exhausted, but because reality itself bored him.

"Are you two hungry?" you asked sweetly.

Nothing.

No reaction.

Not even a blink.

Chishiya didn't look at you, didn't acknowledge the question, didn't do anything besides continue breathing. Niragi, on the other hand, did react—just in the most Niragi way possible.

He scoffed. Loudly. Dramatically. As if you had just asked him whether he wanted to start a gratitude journal.

"You think we trust you enough to eat something you made?" he sneered.

You blinked. "Yes."

Niragi opened his mouth. Closed it. Squinted at you. "You say that like it's obvious."

"It is obvious." You stood up, stretching slightly. "You need to eat to recover. So, I'm making you food."

Still, no reaction. Neither of them moved. Neither of them agreed or refused.

Fine. That was fine. You weren't expecting a "thank you" or a grand speech of appreciation. You could tell exactly what they were doing—creating distance, keeping their guard up, making sure they didn't owe you anything.

You understood. Really, you did.

But that wasn't going to stop you. So, without another word, you walked toward the connected kitchen.

Immediately, Niragi's voice followed you. "Wait, you're actually cooking?"

"Yes."

"What the fuck?"

You didn't respond, already moving to the stove. The pot on the burner was already filled—leftover soup you had started earlier, still warm. You reached for a spoon, stirring gently, the scent filling the air instantly.

Chishiya didn't move or react, but Niragi? His head tilted the tiniest bit, like he was trying not to be obvious about sniffing the air.

You had to suppress a giggle.

They weren't going to ask for food. Oh, no. That would be too easy. They were too stubborn for that. Which was why you weren't going to wait for permission.

You kept stirring, the rich aroma of the soup spreading. It had been a while since you'd made something decent—soup was simple, easy, comforting. You weren't sure what these two had been eating before you found them half-dead, but judging by how they looked under all the blood and bruises, it wasn't much.

From the couch, Niragi groaned loudly, flopping dramatically onto his side. "This is so fucking weird."

"What is?" you asked, not turning around.

"This." He waved a hand vaguely in the air. "You. Cooking. This whole 'let's take care of the random half-dead guys I found' bullshit."

You hummed. "Would you rather I had left you there?"

"Yes!"

A beat of silence.

Then Chishiya: "No, he wouldn't have."

Niragi snapped his head toward him. "Shut the fuck up."

Chishiya didn't even look at him. "You're still here, aren't you?”

"I can leave anytime I want." Niragi shot back.

Chishiya finally turned his head slightly, expression unreadable. "Then why haven't you?"

Niragi froze.

You hid a smile, still focused on the soup. That was interesting.

Chishiya wasn't just observant—he was ruthless about it. He had no problem pointing things out that other people would avoid saying out loud.

You liked that.

Meanwhile, Niragi—having zero rebuttal—just let out another frustrated groan and dropped back against the couch. "God, I hate you."

"Likewise."

They both hated each other. And yet... neither of them had moved.

You smiled to yourself.

You gave the soup another gentle stir before ladling it into bowls. The warmth of it curled through your fingers, and as you turned around, you caught them.

Both of them.

Niragi and Chishiya.

Trying so hard to look uninterested.

They didn't move. Didn't react. But their eyes flickered—just barely—to the steaming bowls in your hands.

You knew they were hungry. Obviously. Their bodies were recovering, their wounds were fresh, and it had probably been days since they'd eaten properly.

But they weren't going to say anything. Because admitting that they needed something? Admitting that they relied on someone else?

That was too much.

You smiled sweetly. And completely ignored their bullshit. You walked up to the small coffee table in front of them, placing the bowls down with a gentle clink.

"Eat." you said simply.

Silence.

Chishiya stared at the soup, then at you, his expression blank but his mind obviously racing.

Niragi? He just glared.

"I never said I wanted it." he muttered.

You just smiled. "I know."

More silence.

The soup smelled amazing. You could tell, because Niragi kept sniffing the air without realizing he was doing it. Then he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You think I'm just gonna eat it because you put it in front of me?"

"Yes."

His eye twitched. "You're so fucking weird."

"I've been called worse."

Then, with a dramatic, suffering sigh, Niragi grabbed the bowl.

Victory.

Chishiya? He didn't reach for his immediately. Instead, he just... watched.

Watched you.

Watched Niragi.

Watched everything.

And then, after a long, slow moment, he finally—casually, effortlessly—picked up the bowl and took a small sip. He didn't react. But you noticed the way his fingers curled slightly more securely around the ceramic.

He liked it.

He just wasn't going to say it.

That was fine.

You weren't expecting thanks. You weren't expecting gratitude.

All you wanted was for them to eat.

And now? They were.

You smiled to yourself and returned to the kitchen, humming softly as you cleaned up. Behind you, on the couch, Niragi grumbled under his breath, still half-muttering insults at Chishiya between bites.

Chishiya didn't respond. He was too busy finishing his soup.

By the time you were done cleaning up the kitchen, the two of them had nearly finished their soup.

Which, really, was hilarious considering how Niragi had dramatically refused the idea of eating anything made by you just minutes ago. And yet, there he was, scowling at the spoon in his hand

Chishiya, on the other hand, had barely made a sound as he ate. No complaints, no praise, just silent, efficient consumption like he was running off of pure logic.

Food = survival. No need to make a fuss about it.

You approached them again with your usual warm smile, hands clasped together.

"So," you chirped. "since you're both fed and alive, this place has plenty of bedrooms. You don't have to keep sitting on the couch all night."

Chishiya barely reacted.

Niragi, however, snorted. "Oh, do we not?"

"You don't." you confirmed sweetly. "I can show you some, or you can just go find one yourself if you're that fed up with me."

Chishiya's lips twitched at that. Just the faintest smirk. He liked the way you phrased that—the fact that you knew exactly how they were acting and didn't even take offense to it.

Niragi just clicked his tongue, leaning back on the couch. "Tch. Like hell I trust any of the bedrooms in this creepy rich-ass place."

You tilted your head, amused. "You trust the couch more?"

"I trust myself more.”

"You're literally injured."

"I'd rather sleep in a ditch than get comfortable here."

You shrugged. "Okay, the door is open too."

Niragi stared at you. "Are you actually kicking me out?"

"No." you giggled, "I'm just giving you options! You seem like the kind of guy who doesn't like being told what to do."

Niragi made a face. "Oh, fuck off."

Chishiya finally stretched his legs slightly, glancingat you. "How many rooms?"

"Enough."

Chishiya's eyes flicked up to the ceiling, as if calculating the space. His mind was always working—always analyzing. You could practically see the gears turning.

"Five." he guessed.

You beamed. "Close. Six."

"Hm."

Chishiya's gaze flicked toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. You knew exactly what he was thinking.

A house this big? With this many rooms? Still fully intact?

It wasn't just luck. There was a reason you had secured a place like this. Chishiya was too smart to ignore that.

Niragi groaned. "Whatever. I call the biggest room."

You smiled, hands on your hips. "You'll have to find it first."

Niragi's eyes narrowed. "...Is that a challenge?"

Chishiya sighed, rubbing his temple. "You don't even have the energy to stand."

"Shut up." Niragi grumbled, but didn't actually get up.

You laughed softly. "The rooms are all clean, and they even have actual beds. Fresh blankets, too."

Niragi rolled his eyes. "Oh, you're really selling this, huh?"

You smiled, unbothered. "I'm just being nice."

"Too nice." Niragi crossed his arms. "What's your deal?"

Your smile softened slightly, but you didn't answer right away.

Instead, you tilted your head and asked, "Do you think people only do things when they want something in return?"

Niragi hesitated. Which, really, said everything.

You just smiled. "You should go rest. Both of you. Your bodies need it."

Chishiya exhaled through his nose, standing up first. "I'll find one myself."

You nodded. "Go ahead."

He didn't move immediately. He just stood there for a moment, looking at you—not suspiciously, not threateningly, just... observing. Then, finally, he turned and disappeared down the hall.

Niragi groaned again, shifting to lay down on the couch. "I'll move later." he muttered.

You just smiled. "Okay."

And with that, you walked away, leaving them to their own devices. Because at the end of the day? You weren't forcing them to do anything.

You were just offering something they weren't used to.

A choice.

A home.

~

You knew exactly which rooms they had chosen.

It was easy.

You'd left all the doors open on purpose. So when two of them inevitably ended up closed—well. That told you everything you needed to know.

One belonged to Niragi.

One belonged to Chishiya.

And since you weren't in the mood for an argument right now, you decided to check on Chishiya first.

So, with a soft knock, you pushed the door open.

Chishiya was there, as expected, sitting on the edge of the bed. His posture was relaxed, but not lazy. A picture of calm, but never vulnerable.

His eyes flicked to you immediately when you entered. Always alert. Always watching.

You smiled. "Hey."

He didn't say anything—just gave you a slow, expectant look, like he was already calculating the reason for your visit.

You stepped further in, crossing your arms lightly. "I wanted to let you know that the shower works."

Chishiya raised a brow. He didn't look surprised, per se—just mildly intrigued, like he hadn't expected you to bring it up.

You continued, ever sweet, ever patient. "I set up a system with rainwater, and I got a boiler working with solar energy. You can take a hot shower if you want."

A pause.

Then, finally, he spoke. "You built that yourself?"

You grinned. "Impressed?"

Chishiya's lips curled just slightly. "Not quite."

You rolled your eyes playfully. "Right. Because nothing impresses you."

His smirk widened a fraction. He wasn't denying it.

You sighed dramatically, shifting your weight onto one foot. "Anyway, just be careful. The system's pretty stable, but I still don't trust it completely. So don't do anything stupid and end up flooding the place."

Chishiya tilted his head, as if amused by the idea. "I'll try to contain myself."

"Please do." you said, voice sickly sweet. Then, without missing a beat, you added, "Oh, and—"

You smiled. Soft. Kind.

Too kind.

Fake kind.

"—don't even try anything. My door's closed."

Chishiya blinked.

Because you weren't just sweet.

You weren't just kind.

You were smart.

You knew exactly the kind of person he was.

And you planned accordingly.

Chishiya exhaled through his nose, the closest thing to a chuckle you'd heard from him yet. He leaned back slightly, resting his arms against the bed, studying you.

"You think I'd try something?" he mused, tone light, teasing.

"I think you're smarter than that." you replied easily.

A beat.

Then Chishiya's lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "Interesting."

You simply gave him one last sweet, angelic smile before turning toward the door. "Goodnight, Chishiya."

And with that, you left.

The door clicked shut behind you, and as you walked down the hall, you knew—knew without even needing to see—that Chishiya was still smiling to himself.

You were a smart girl.

And he liked that.

When you arrived there, you took a deep breath before knocking on the other door that was closed.

You knocked twice. A beat of silence, then—

A loud, dramatic groan from the other side.

"What now?"

You rolled your eyes and pushed the door open.

And there he was—Niragi, in all his irritating glory, sprawled across the bed. One arm behind his head, shirt half-ridden up, legs spread out just enough to be annoying.

He squinted at you lazily. "Oh, it's you."

"Of course it's me."

He groaned again, rolling onto his side in the most dramatic way possible. "What do you want? I'm tryna sleep here."

You crossed your arms. "I came to tell you the shower works."

That got his attention.

Niragi blinked. "Wait. What?"

"I have rainwater stored, and I managed to get a boiler running with solar energy." You tilted your head. "You can take a shower. A hot one."

Niragi stared at you like you had just told him the sky was made of gold. Then, suddenly, he sat up—grinning, wild and sharp, like a fucking hyena.

"Oh, shit." he snickered, running a hand through his now let out hair. "You mean I don't have to smell like blood anymore?"

You sighed. "I mean, it's up to you."

He stretched his arms, cracking his neck. "Damn, maybe you really are an angel. Here I thought you just liked keeping dirty, injured men in your house for fun."

You gave him an unimpressed look. "Yes, Niragi. That's exactly what I do in my free time."

He grinned. "If you wanted me in your bed, babe, you could've just said so."

You sighed again, rubbing your temple. "That is not what I said."

He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "I mean, I get it. Who wouldn't wanna sleep next to me? I'm warm, I smell good—"

"You literally just said you smell like blood."

Niragi ignored that. "—and I'd keep you safe all night."

You raised a brow. "You can't even stand up properly."

He grinned wider. "That just means I'd have to let you do all the work."

You leaned against the doorframe, tilting your head slightly, eyes glittering with something playful. "That's so cute. You think you'd survive me?"

His grin froze.

Just for a second.

Then, he laughed. Loud. Unfiltered. Amused as hell. He licked his teeth, watching you with way too much interest. "You like playing hard to get, huh?"

You shrugged. "You like losing?"

That hit.

That hit hard.

Because for the first time, Niragi actually shut up. Just for a second. Just enough for you to know that you had won.

"...Fuck." he muttered, almost to himself. "You're fun."

"I know." you said sweetly. "Now go take a shower before I change my mind."

You turned to leave—but of course, Niragi couldn't let you go without one last word.

"Hey, babe?"

You paused in the doorway, looking back.

He smirked. "Your door open, or closed?"

You grinned.

"Locked."

And with that, you walked away—leaving Niragi sitting there, grinning like an idiot.

~

You knew something was wrong the second you stepped into the hallway the next morning.

The air felt off.

It wasn’t a sound—because they weren’t making any. It wasn’t even an instinct, though you had plenty of that.

It was just that deep, unshakable feeling you got when you walked into a room and realized you were one second away from witnessing homicide.

And that’s exactly what was happening.

You turned the corner into the kitchen and—yep. There they were.

Chishiya and Niragi.

Standing there, dead silent, staring each other down like two wolves deciding whether they wanted to rip each other’s throats out before breakfast.

Niragi moved first.

Not towards you. Towards Chishiya.

One sharp, sudden step—his whole body tensed like he was about to fucking lunge, like he was about to do something stupid.

And Chishiya? Didn’t move an inch. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just stood there, perfectly still, perfectly calm, eyes half-lidded like he was already five steps ahead of this entire situation.

Which, knowing Chishiya? He was.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

You cleared your throat. Loudly.

Both of them turned to look at you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are we committing murder before or after breakfast?”

Niragi snorted. “That depends. You making anything good?”

You sighed, stepping into the kitchen like you weren’t walking into a fucking crime scene. “Depends.” you said, moving past them to grab some supplies. “Are you two gonna be civil, or am I cooking while dodging bullets?”

“Can’t make promises.” Niragi muttered, side-eyeing Chishiya.

Chishiya, for his part, said nothing. Just shifted slightly, tilting his head, gaze dissecting.

Watching Niragi. Watching you.

You exhaled through your nose. Of course.

They weren’t going to make this easy. That was fine. You didn’t expect them to.

Instead of scolding them, instead of trying to force anything, you did what you did best.

You read the room.

Because here’s the thing—people like Niragi? They didn’t start fights for no reason. Not really. He didn’t wake up thinking, hm, who should I try to kill today?

No—he woke up looking for control.

And Chishiya? Chishiya didn’t wake up looking for a fight. But he sure as hell wasn’t backing down from one, either.

So this wasn’t just aggression.

This was posturing. This was two men who hated each other testing the limits of the space they now shared.

Which meant there was only one thing you needed to do. You needed to give them something else to focus on.

So you got to work. And most importantly? You talked.

Not to them, really. Just enough to keep them engaged without forcing them to cooperate.

“So,” you hummed, cracking an egg into the pan. “how’d you two even end up in that mess I found you in?”

Silence.

Niragi scoffed. “That mess?” He snorted. “Try a fucking bloodbath.”

You hummed. “Right, yeah, I noticed that part.”

Chishiya finally spoke. “Tch. Not surprising.”

Niragi rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go—”

“I’m just saying,” Chishiya mused. “it’s not like you’re particularly good at self-preservation.”

“Fuck off, rat.”

You sighed. “Okay, so still not cooperative.”

Niragi gave you a shit-eating grin. “Aww, babe, don’t take it personally.”

You shot him a look. “I don’t. I just think it’s hilarious that you two can’t even answer a simple question without fighting.”

Chishiya sighed, rubbing his temple. “We’re not fighting.”

Niragi grinned. “Yeah, baby, this is just how we talk.”

“Oh, so this is bonding, then?” you deadpanned.

Niragi shrugged. “Something like that.”

You just shook your head, flipping the eggs.

It didn’t matter. They were calming down. They were still distant, still purposefully difficult, but that was fine.

You weren’t trying to fix them.

You were just making breakfast.

And in a world that had taken so much from them, that was probably the best thing you could do.

You let the conversation die out for a bit, focusing on not burning the eggs while the two grown, violent men in your kitchen continued their silent pissing contest.

They weren’t trying to kill each other anymore, but you could feel the tension, the way Niragi kept throwing sideways glances at Chishiya, and the way Chishiya pointedly ignored him like he wasn’t even worth the energy.

God, you were babysitting.

And yet.

And yet.

You liked them.

Not in a wow, what great, emotionally well-adjusted people kind of way.

More like a wow, these are the worst fucking people I’ve ever met and yet I kind of want to keep them alive kind of way.

Which was dangerous. So dangerous.

But you never did have much self-preservation.

So you tried again.

You flipped the eggs onto a plate, moving to grab some bread, and—casually, like you weren’t expecting much—asked: “So. You still didn’t answer my question.”

Chishiya hummed, eyes lidded, uninterested.

Niragi, on the other hand, sighed so loudly it was like you had just asked him to recite the entire history of the universe.

“What fucking question?” he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow. “How you two ended up bleeding out in an alley.”

Silence.

Not the murderous kind of silence, at least.

Just hesitation.

Which meant you had them.

You pressed. Gently.

“I mean, was it a fight? Did you get jumped? Were you two just being dumbasses?”

Niragi scoffed. “The last one.”

Chishiya sighed. “Obviously.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

You fought back a grin. “Okay, so what happened?”

Niragi clicked his tongue, leaning against the counter. “Tch. Got caught up in some shit.”

You hummed. “What kind of shit?”

Niragi grinned, sharp, mean. “The fun kind.”

Chishiya sighed. “The kind that almost got him killed.”

“The fun kind.” Niragi repeated.

You blinked. “You have a very different definition of fun than I do.”

He laughed. “What, you don’t like a little bloodshed?”

“I don’t like dying.” you said simply.

Chishiya gave you a slow, approving look. “Smart girl.”

Niragi rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Guess we just ran into the wrong people at the wrong time. Shit happens.”

You tilted your head, thoughtful. “Shit does happen.” You turned, handing them plates of food. “How many days do you have?”

This was a test.

A subtle one.

If they lied, you’d know. If they refused to answer, you’d know.

Because you were a therapist.

You knew people

And right now, you knew that Niragi was stalling. Clicking his tongue, leaning back, making a big show of thinking about it.

“Hmmm.” he hummed, exaggerated. “Why do you wanna know, angel? Wanna trade?”

You smiled, too sweet. “No, but I would like to know if you’re about to drop dead in my house.”

Niragi laughed. Loud, sharp, amused as hell.

Chishiya, on the other hand, watched you. Studied you. Then, finally, he spoke “Seven.”

Your eyes flicked to him.

And there it was.

Honesty. Cold, simple, factual honesty.

Chishiya had seven days.

You looked at Niragi expectantly.

He groaned, rolling his eyes. “Ugh, fine. Five.”

You clicked your tongue. “You should be more careful.”

Niragi snorted. “What, you worried about me, sweetheart?”

You shrugged, turning back to your own food. “I just don’t wanna clean up a corpse in my living room.”

Chishiya huffed out a quiet laugh. Niragi grinned.

You let the conversation settle after that.

They weren’t cooperative. Not really.

They didn’t trust you. Not completely.

But they answered you.

And that was enough.

For now.

Because you had a plan.

Because right now, in your apartment, you had two wild animals sitting at your table.

One too smart for his own good.

The other too reckless for anyone’s good.

And you were about to leave both of them unsupervised. On purpose. Because you knew exactly what you were doing.

You grabbed your bag, casually tossing a few supplies inside—knife, flashlight, extra cloth, some food. Nothing crazy. It wasn’t going to be a long trip. At least, it shouldn’t be.

Niragi was watching you.

Not subtly.

At first, he just glanced. Quick, uninterested, shoving food into his mouth like a fucking caveman.

But when you grabbed your coat?

When you slung your bag over your shoulder?

That’s when he actually looked.

He raised an eyebrow. “Uh… babe?”

You hummed, fixing the strap. “What?”

“Why the fuck are you getting ready like you’re about to head out?”

You blinked at him. “Because I am?”

Silence.

“The fuck do you mean you are?”

Across from him, Chishiya didn’t react much. He just tilted his head slightly, observing. Like he was just as curious, but not as dumb as Niragi, so he wasn’t about to react like a fucking child.

Niragi, however, had no such restraint.

He squinted at you. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

You sighed. “Out.”

“Out where?”

“To find some supplies.”

He scoffed. “Tch. You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re seriously leaving me and—” He gestured vaguely to Chishiya. “this asshole alone in your house?”

Chishiya blinked slowly. “You’re a child.”

“And you’re a rat.” Niragi turned back to you. “Seriously, you’re leaving?”

“Yes, Niragi.” You threw some light, pretty pink clothing around your shoulders. “I need to go out. I need supplies. I need—” You waved vaguely at the door. “shit.”

He scoffed again. “Tch. What kind of shit?”

You shrugged. “Just things. Food. Bandages. Stuff to keep you two from dying.”

Chishiya hummed. “How responsible.”

“Right?” you quipped. “I should get an award.”

Niragi wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t mad, but he wasn’t happy either. Because despite the smug, cocky, overconfident asshole persona—there was something else.

Not concern, no. That wasn’t his style.

More like… uncertainty.

Like he didn’t like the idea of you going out there alone. Not because he cared. No, no, that’s ridiculous.

(At least, he’d tell himself that.)

But because in his fucked-up, messy, unhinged brain—

He didn’t trust the world.

And the idea of you walking out there, all soft and sweet and not a complete fucking psycho like him, probably didn’t sit right with him.

Which is why he leaned back in his chair, sucking his teeth.

“Fine.” he muttered. “Then I’m coming with you.”

You blinked.

Then laughed.

Actually laughed.

“The fuck is so funny?” he snapped.

You shook your head, still grinning. “You can barely fucking walk, Niragi.”

He bristled. “The fuck I can’t.”

You tilted your head. “Oh, yeah? Stand up.”

His eyes narrowed.

Chishiya actually smirked, sipping his tea. “This will be fun.”

Niragi ignored him. Instead, he grumbled, planted his hands on the table, and pushed himself up—only to sway immediately.

Yeah. That’s what you thought.

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Go on.”

He glared. “I just need a second.”

“Uh-huh.”

Chishiya chuckled.

“You two are both fucking awful.” Niragi muttered, lowering himself back into the chair.

You smiled. Sweet. Almost mocking. “But I’m right.”

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue.

You exhaled, adjusting your bag. “I won’t be long.”

Niragi muttered something under his breath, and you almost asked what—but you let it go.

Instead, you turned to Chishiya. He was still watching. Quiet. Unreadable. Like he was picking you apart in his head.

You stared back. After a moment, you spoke.

“You gonna be okay here?”

He blinked once. “I should be asking you that.”

You smirked. “You don’t have to.”

His eyes glittered.

Just a little.

He didn’t say anything else.

You turned back to Niragi. “Try not to kill each other before I get back.”

“No promises.” Niragi muttered.

You sighed. Yeah, you figured.

Then, without another word, you grabbed your coat, pushed open the door, and stepped out, leaving them alone.

And you knew exactly what you were doing.

~

You had fully prepared yourself for the worst when you returned.

Maybe bloodstains on your fancy-ass couch. Maybe the kitchen completely destroyed. Maybe—just maybe—one of them lying dead in the hallway while the other stood over him. But, to your genuine surprise, the house was still standing.

And even more surprising?

So were both of them.

Chishiya was sitting at the kitchen counter, flipping through a book he absolutely did not own before today.

And Niragi—who you fully expected to have done something violent or reckless in your absence—was sprawled out on the couch, one arm hanging over the side, his whole body screaming bored as hell but refusing to admit he waited for you to come back.

They were separated, obviously.

Like two kids on a road trip who couldn’t sit next to each other without starting a war.

But they were here.

Waiting.

Which meant they had not murdered each other.

Wow. Okay. Good.

You stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind you. “Huh. You didn’t destroy the place.”

Chishiya didn’t look up from his book. “Disappointed?”

You snorted. “Surprised.”

Niragi let out a loud, exaggerated sigh.

“Tch. Not my fault.” he muttered. “There was nothing to fucking do.”

You shrugged, setting your bag down on the table. “Well, good news.”

You started unpacking, pulling out a few cans of food, some extra bandages, a couple of bottles of water and a small, cute plushie. You placed it right on the coffee table, right between the two of them.

Silence.

Niragi squinted at it. “What the fuck is that?”

You blinked at him, deadpan. “A bear.”

He continued staring. Like he couldn’t process the fact that, after scavenging for supplies in an almost post-apocalyptic nightmare world, you had come back with a tiny stuffed bear.

Chishiya just hummed. “Interesting choice.”

You grinned. “I thought it was cute.”

Niragi made a face. “What, you gonna start collecting those now?”

“Maybe.” you mused, organizing the supplies. “Maybe I’ll decorate the place.”

Chishiya smirked. “Would be an improvement.”

Niragi snorted.

You gasped. “Excuse me?”

Chishiya didn’t even look up. “I’m just saying, the place is a little sterile.”

“Sterile?”

“You know. Too clean. Too perfect.”

Niragi stretched, cracking his neck. “Yeah, like a rich kid’s hideout.”

You huffed. “I like my place nice.”

Chishiya turned a page. “Mm. Suspicious.”

You rolled your eyes, finally plopping down onto the chair across from Niragi.

“Anyway.” you sighed. “I got supplies. Food. Water. Bandages.”

Niragi snatched a bottle off the table. “Tch. Took you long enough.”

You snorted. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you have somewhere to be?”

He smirked, taking a sip. “Nah. Just missed you, babe.”

You smiled. “Aww, how sweet.”

Niragi’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You could make it up to me, you know.”

“Oh? And how would I do that?”

He leaned forward, voice dropping. Suggestive. “Ever heard of a stress reliever?”

Chishiya closed his book. Loudly.

You placed your elbow on the table, chin in your palm, and matched Niragi’s energy effortlessly.

“Hm.” you mused, tilting your head. “I have. You should try one.”

Chishiya snorted.

Niragi blinked. Then laughed. Loud. Sharp. Fucking amused.

You leaned back, stretching your arms. “Anyway. You two can fight over the bedrooms again or sleep out here, I don’t care.”

Niragi scoffed. “Tch. Like I’d share a room with this asshole.”

Chishiya smirked. “I wouldn’t subject you to my presence.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

You liked them.

“So, Chishiya.” Niragi drawled, stretching his legs out. “Tell me something.”

Chishiya did not look up. Did not react. Which only fueled Niragi’s need to annoy him.

“If you’re such a genius,” Niragi continued. “how the fuck did you end up half-dead in a ditch, huh?”

Chishiya finally blinked. Slowly. Then sighed.

“Same way you did.” he murmured, flipping through the book again. “By not giving a shit.”

Niragi grinned.

“Oh, no, see, I wasn’t the one who thought I was better than everyone.” he said mockingly. “I wasn’t the one who thought I was too smart to get my ass kicked.”

Chishiya hummed. “No, you were just too dumb to avoid it.”

Niragi laughed. Sharp, amused, but not fucking friendly.

“Cute.” he smirked. “For someone who thinks he’s so fucking smart, you really do make a lot of mistakes.”

Chishiya finally looked up. “And for someone who acts like he’s the biggest in the world you sure ended up in the same situation as me.”

Niragi’s grin twitched.

Your head hit the back of the chair.

Here we go.

Because of course Niragi wasn’t going to let that go. “You wanna repeat that, rat?”

Chishiya tilted his head. “Oh? Are your ears failing, too?”

Niragi sat up.

Even injured, even weak, even not at full strength, he still looked like he was one second away from throwing hands.

“You little—”

“No.”

Your voice cut through the air like a knife.

Both of them froze.

Not because you were loud. Not because you yelled.

But because you didn’t.

You were calm.

Too calm.

And that? That was scarier.

“If you two want to keep fighting,” you said, voice light, but firm. “then you can take your asses out of here.”

Silence.

You crossed your arms.

“You can either calm the fuck down,” you continued, sweet, but threatening. “or you can leave. I don’t care which.”

You watched them.

And you knew.

This was the moment.

If they argued—if they scoffed, if they fought back—then that was it.

They were leaving.

They’d be gone.

But if they stayed quiet—if they didn’t say a word—that was their answer.

That was them choosing to stay.

And for people like them? For people who never admitted they needed anyone, who never relied on anybody but themselves, this was big.

Chishiya sighed.

He looked back down at his book.

Didn’t say anything.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t leave.

Niragi clicked his tongue, leaned back on the couch, and mumbled, “Tch. Whatever.”

Didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t leave.

They were staying.

[pingintech]

youre absolutely right this is very frustrating and ive personally experienced this

i do wonder what the actual meaning of tme means here and wat the purpose of using it is??? i understand what tme MEANS transmisogyny excluded but i do not understand what its use is in this context really??? because if you are talkin about how non trans femme people do this thing makes sense but then why not say that??? if youre instead saying people who arent trans women say this that also makes sense but then why not say that but if youre making a super specific hair splitting argument that some trans femme people never do this because theyre somehow more affected by transmisogyny than other trans femme people then i think youre making a really hyperspecific argument thats really just about how well intentioned nonbinary people act this way in which case again why not say that???

frankly it seems kinda odd to assume anyone reading your post will know which are the ignorant well intentioned non trans women non transmisogyny affected nonbinary people are by use of a single acronym ultimately it kinda derails your point to talk about tme in the middle of talking about a very valid very common experience it kinda feels like you want to say nonbinary people and trans men do this but you want people to know youre only talking about these specific (non specified) nonbinary people and trans men and not the good ones who get it

which frankly you dont have to add such a loaded and ambiguous qualifier to a vent post?

like you could say nonbinary and transmen i trans friendly places do this sometimes and its frustrating end of.

i could be wrong but i do want to help other trans folks out when it seems like their messages are being faced with communication issues as a trans woman myself and i dont believe there is a sufficient way to explain who is and isnt excluded from transmisogyny in every instance unless you believe that everyone suggesting this to you must by default be someone who hasnt been affected by transmisogyny?

in which case it is probably misguided to assume someones lived experiences based on the thins they say alone if anything frankly no one is immune from saying something stupid regardless of the amount of transmisogyny they experience

if youre making such a hyper specific point about a category of people that are pretty subjectively defined in order to say other trans femme people do this too and its such a hyper specific category that you might have to explain your specific interpretation of who that does and does not include then you may be derailing your own point?

and then suddenly a very real and valid point like this one is not being super effectively communicated

you could pretend to argue that people affected by transmisogyny tend to be able to tell who isnt but to lightly push back against that idea if you pass fully but you are passing in order to escape many of the affects of transmisogyny then you choice to live that way is affected by transmisogyny no??? in that sense even someone who could pass completely as a cisgender woman is being negatively affected by transmisogyny

if someone who looks exactly like a cisgender woman in every way can still be affected by transmisogyny does it not go to reason a cisgender woman could find themselves also affected by transmisogyny if say some transvestigators decide she has enough masculine traits that she must be lying about her gender could not the same be said for cis men who are seen to have enough feminine traits that transvestigators decide they must be a trans woman starting transition

if someone being excluded from the ails of transmisogyny is conditional then it makes it really difficult to determine who you mean when you say the without pulling out a graph and thats even before trying to debate the lived experiences of individual nonbinary people

i do really genuinely mean this as a trans woman myself saying this from the best of intentions i do not at all actually know what you mean boss about tmes here in this context and i think it takes away greatly from the much more salient and valid point youre making

i hate when you're in a trans-friendly environment and talk about like. doing things to pass better and TME people are like "what even is feminine anyways? what is a woman? the things women are made to feel like they have to do are so misogynistic, I think you shouldn't be worrying about those things."

like thanks for the feminism 101 dude, but I don't need musing about the nature of misogyny, I've been a feminist for over 10 years. this is about how people treat me poorly if I don't pass well enough. like i agree with you on all accounts, seeing as how I am affected by these things, but like. believing they're wrong doesn't mean I'm not still pressured by them. :/

like i went into the voice training clinic last year and I told the lady how I wanted to train my voice to be more feminine because I was struggling with keeping it in register, and it's been upsetting for me because when I fall out of register people treat me differently, gender me as a man, view me with suspicion, and I'm worried about how it might happen when a man tries to hit on me or something and the idea of a man thinking i "tricked him" into "being gay" is really scary for me, and she's like "oh, what even Is a feminine voice, anyways?" like. thanks girlie. it's definitely just my internal perceptions and not my lived experience.

just, the way TME people just Assume trans women don't know about feminism is so frustrating. constantly on the back foot like "no, no, I'm a feminist, believe me, however, I've been threatened for not passing well enough, so I face a lot of pressure to do so, sorry that you think I'm enforcing the gender binary by trying to preserve my safety."

[everythingspokenfor]

Pairing: Bakugou x reader

Summary: Maybe you should have just asked him for help in the gym, rather that watching him from afar...

He can feel you eyes on him, at this point it's too obvious that you are oogling him, anyone can notice it. He is so sure now that you do stare at him, and that it's not a hallucinations his egoistic brain he is self aware came up with.

Tho, he'd appreciate if you just came up to him and asked for an autograph or maybe even a picture, but with the way things have been, he is starting to doubt whether you are a fan or a crazy stalker.

You joined the gym 2 months ago, initially minding your business, fumbling around equipments, form kind of shitty, technique somewhat concerning but alas there are gym instructors for this exact reason, not thinking much of it, he went on with his workout.

Initially, he did find you cute, would occasionally glance your way as you tried to navigate through the gym, almost giving away his own stalking tendencies, when he almost sprinted to help you, already having noticed your clumsiness.

It all changed when he started to notice you lingering around him, at some point in his workout he could see you stare at him, once he finishes you would work on the same equipment, albeit with lesser weights.

So, not only were you a creepy stalker, you were a freak too. He understands why heroes need security too, fans do sometimes loose themselves when it comes to their favourite heroes.

Rationally, you weren't causing him any harm, so he let it be. But, now it's getting out of hand, you stare at him throughout the workout, eyes only leaving his frame once he enters the men's locker room. He assumes that'll change soon with the way things have been, you'll find a way to watch him in there as well. Creeps always do.

He can't really complain to the Ryo, the gym owner, he is close to you. Bakugou had tried to enquire about you the 1st week you were here. But all he got was, that you were Ryo's junior from college, had shifted to Musutafu, joined the gym mostly because it allowed you to meet few people you already knew, plus you wanted to start working out.

Not was exactly skeptical about you, Bakugou was still suspicious, from what he had gathered, you liked to stare at him, looking keenly at him, and workout on the same equipment as him, although you did really copy his entire routine, your entire workout was still 30% of what he did, which as still alot considering that's all you did.

At one point, he got too irritated, finally sick and tired of you blatantly stalking him, he decided to confront you, actively looking for opportunities to corner you and ask what exactly is your issue.

Ryo hadn't come to the gym today, which meant he could have a little chat with you, without causing a scene. You were standing by the weights, exactly where Bakugou was before he went to a different equipment.

He comes to stand next to you, looking directly at your head, because once he started approaching, you looked down immediately refusing to lock eyes with him, embarassed to be caught idly standing in the gym.

"Can I help you?" You mutter, lifting your head, finally looking at him, the height difference made him appear more intimidating, he looked mad for some reason.

He pressed his lips together, as he glared down at you, "Yeah, stop being a fuckin' creep." He whispered, voice filled with threat, arms crossed with one hand pointing an accusatory finger at you. He breathed deeply, trying not to yell curses at you, expose your creepy behaviour to the entire gym.

"Sorry, what?" You gasp out, eyes narrowing, face scrunched up as you glared at him.

The audacity. He thought, why the fuck are you acting like he is the wrong one.

"Think I am stupid, I see you starin' at me, even using the machine I used, noticed how you barely even wait before getting on 'em after me." He moves in closer, sizing you up. "All you do is follow me 'round." Grunting in your direction, tightening his jaw, "Thought you were a fan but now it's fuckin' creepy."

"I watch your form." You blurt out, suddenly embarassed that your attempt at fixing your form, made you seem like a creep.

"Ryo, said to ask you for help, but I didn't want to bother," you lift your head to look at him, eyes twitching as you regretted your decision,"observing your form was good enough."

You let out a breath, realising your decision to not ask for help kind off came back to bite you in the ass. "Listen, I am sorry for coming across as a creep, but you could have approached this confrontation with lesser self obsession." May be that was a bit harsh, but if you were being honest, he had it coming.

He stared at you dumbfounded, lips parting to say something before he closes his mouth, not really sure what to say, now that his thinks about it, you did have difficulty with equipments and Rio did mention about starting the gym recently. Although your method to learn was odd, at the end of the day you didn't do anything wrong, and now he felt like an idiot.

"So-"

"It's alright, I don't wanna discuss this anymore", you cut him off, "we go back to working out and pretend this never happened."

You barely let him utter another word, already shuffling away to the changing rooms, he stares at the closed door, wondering how to go about now.

He should be happy right now, his gym experience should be back to peaceful without any peering eyes, but for some reason he feels uneasy.

You don't show up to the gym the next day, or the day after, and soon it's a 2 whole weeks since had seen you. He initial curiosity is now outweighed by his concerns, he knows he shouldn't enquire about you, especially considering the high chance you already told Ryo about the incident.

"Oi, Ryo, has yer' junior quit the gym?" He questioned Ryo, his features easy going like the answer to his question doesn't bother him, but his posture stiff, a tell tale sign of his genuine concern.

"Why? You miss her?" Ryo wiggles his eyebrows, elbow coming to playfully jab Bakugou's rib, "She just changed the timing of her gym," He does clarify, after he is done tormenting Bakugou, he is just glad you didn't tell Ryo about the conversation that day.

It's a lot later than his usual time, for a moment he wonders if you intentionally chose late evenings so there wouldn't be any chance of you running into him. But he needs to talk to you, set few things straight, apologise for his behaviour.

So, here he is, outside the gym, waiting for you to come out, fucking hypocrite he thinks to himself, he is the one acting like a creep right now, figuring out the time you got done, showing up a hour before, hands holding homemade katsudon, specifically choosing the day he knew Ryo wouldn't be available.

He watches you leave the gym, a large cross body bag hung on your shoulder, you are amidst of detangling your earphones when you hear a loud call od your name, turning around you find, Bakugou, the guy you allegedly stalked.

"What is it now? Do I have to change the gym?" Already assuming that somehow he had come to harass you again.

"That's not wha- nevermind, I am here to apologise." He didn't want to argue especially since he was here to apologise.

Your eyes widened, lips parting like you had seen ghost, did the prospect of him apologising really that foreign to you, "You okay, did you hit your head at the gym today?" You queried, faux concern painted on your features.

"Really funny." He deadpanned, he moved to stand in front of you, letting out a breath he looks back at you,"I did want to apologise, whatever I assumed was wrong and I should have handled it better."

His apology seemed rehearsed, in a way that it seemed almost endearing, like he stood in front of a mirror and practised it he did. You weren't really mad at him, you knew he wasn't at complete fault you messed up too not that you'll admit it.

"7/10." You breath out after a moment of staring at him, cheeky smile spreading on your face, he looks at you incredulously, before a grin paints his lips as well, "It's atleast an 8." He breaths out, finally joking around.

"So, that's it, I suppose." He rubs the back of his head, not really having planned what would he say afterwards.

"I could make it a 10 if I can help you with your form?" He mutters, eyes skeptical, hoping you'd allow him the second chance. He is staring at you, trying to gauge your response, based of your body language.

"Promise you won't accuse me of being a creep again?" You joked, willing to start over for the second time.

"Promise."

[sweetdispatch]

A break - L. Hughes

pairing: Luke Hughes x girlfriend!reader

summary: Luke announced that he's going back home for the break, assuming that you're working anyways but he doesn't know that you took week off from work to spend time with him

warning: argument, misunderstanding

words: 1.9k

note: ahh, i didn't write anything for the past month because i've been doubting my writing skills, let me know what do you think! feedback is always welcome🎀

masterlist

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You picked up Luke when he returned from Montreal. It was the last game before a national team break. Since he didn't get called up, you thought that the two of you would spend a whole week together. When the two of you returned to the apartment, you noticed that he’s packing his suitcase. This looked suspicious because he didn't mention going anywhere.

“Umm… What are you doing?” You asked Luke. He closed the gap between the two of you and kissed your forehead.

“I’m packing because tomorrow’ morning I have a flight back home. Since it’s my free week, I want to spend some time with friends and family back in Michigan” He said casually and returned to packing. 

“Oh… You didn’t say anything earlier” You replied trying to cover hurt in your voice. 

“I didn’t plan it honestly but I talked with boys and they’re also going back to Michigan and we’re having a little reunion. You have work anyways so I didn’t bother you with this” 

“So you just decided to leave without saying anything? Very kind of you” You said with sarcasm. Luke sighed loudly.

“Look, it’s not a big deal, you have work so I don’t see a point in sitting here bored and waiting for you to return every single day, I think I can see my friends or are you gonna act possessive now?” You couldn’t believe in his words. 

“I’m not gonna act possessive but it would be nice to know about it earlier” 

“Well, I booked the plane ticket this morning so deal with it” Luke said nonchalantly and you could feel the anger boiling inside of you. Instead of arguing with him, you decided to drop it.

“Whatever…” You turned to go to the bathroom before you spoke again. “And for your information, I took a week off from work so we can spend time together” With that, you closed the bathroom door louder than you should. 

“Well if you would have told me this earlier, I would stay” Luke screamed so you could hear him. You rolled your eyes and started preparing a bath for yourself. You needed to rest and rethink what just happened.

In your opinion, you did nothing wrong and Luke is guilty. You wanted to spend time with him since he doesn’t have training and games and he decided to leave you. Even worse is that he didn’t bother to invite you to go to Michigan with him, knowing that you’re not working and he’s blaming you for this whole mess. You laid in the bath longer than usual because you didn’t want to face him. 

Luke didn’t see a problem in his decision to go back home. It’s his free week and he can do whatever he wants. He’s seeing you every single day and he has a full right to go and see his family and friends. In fact, he thinks that it’s all your fault. If you told him earlier that you took a week off from work, he would stay in New Jersey. He returned to packing, not even bothered that you’re sitting in the bathroom for the second hour. 

You left the bathroom, still mad at him and ignored his presence. Luke did the same. The minute you left the bathroom, he went in to take a shower. You went to the kitchen to eat something before going to sleep. You prepared yourself mac’n’cheese and didn’t even bother to make one for him. You knew it’s petty but in your thinking, he deserves it. 

You returned to the bedroom and went straight to bed. You saw that Luke is still in the bathroom and sighed deeply. You didn’t want to argue with him over something so silly but at the same time, you didn’t want to admit that he’s right and has full right to go and see his family and friends. You closed your eyes and tried to get some sleep. Luke left the bathroom and saw that you’re facing the window and even when he knew that you’re not sleeping, he decided to play your game. Without a word, he laid in the bed and fell asleep.

The next morning you woke up and saw that there’s an empty spot in your bed and the whole apartment is quiet. You stepped out to go and make yourself a cup of tea and notice that Luke left. You send him a quick message. 

Very mature to leave without even bothering to say bye

Have fun in Michigan and hope you won’t return to an empty apartment :)

You were well aware that you’re overreacting but you couldn’t help. You were mad over this whole situation. You drank your tea and decided to get ready for the day. You called your friend to meet up with her. That was the last time you checked your phone for the day. Since Luke left you, you didn’t want to have contact with him or anyone else and thought that maybe the break would be nice for the two of you to figure things out. You left your phone at home and decided to enjoy the day with your friend. 

Luke read your messages and laughed. He knew how petty you can get so he wasn’t even bothered by it. He blocked his phone and returned to the conversation he had with his mom and dad. 

“What’s so funny?” His dad asked. 

“Me and Y/N had an argument yesterday and she sent me a text that I should hope that she’ll be in the apartment when I return” He chuckled. 

“That sounds serious Luke, what was the argument about?” Now his mum asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing. She’s just mad that I flew to Michigan for my break and didn’t told her earlier, later she said something about taking week off from work, thinking that I would be feeling guilty” Luke shrugged 

“If she has a free week, why didn’t you bring her with you here?” His dad questioned and the realisation hit Luke. He didn’t even think about this scenario. He left you alone in New Jersey. His face lost all the colors when he realised it. His mum quickly noticed this.

“You didn’t ask her. You didn’t even think about inviting her here” His mom said and he nodded ashamed of the situation. Luke knew that he messed up real good now. 

“I need to call her” He excused himself and went to his bedroom. He called you 5 times but he couldn’t reach you. All the bad scenarios were going through his head. 

What if you really left him?

Luke knew he had to do something about it. He returned to the living room and asked.

“Mum, can I use your phone?” Without a doubt, his mum gave him her phone and Luke tried to call you. Again, he couldn’t reach you. “I think I need to get back and save my relationship” Luke replied and left again.

Luke booked a flight for tomorrow’ morning and prayed to see you there when he gets back to the apartment. He started to think about the argument you two had and he knew that he was the one who’s wrong. He should invite you when you told him that you took a week off to spend time with him. 

“Everything is going to be fine between the two of you. Y/N loves you too much to break up with you over this misunderstanding” His mum said standing in the entry to his bedroom. She could tell that his youngest son is scared that he might lose the love of his life. 

“I really hope for it. I’m scared mum” He sighed and closed the laptop. 

Around 9PM, you finally got back home. You spent a wonderful day with your friend where you drank overpriced coffee, ate the best carbonara that you could find in New Jersey and had a couple drinks. You went straight to the bathroom to take a shower and lay in your bed. You needed sleep after all the adventures you had today. Because you left your phone in the kitchen in the morning, you forgot to check it when you returned. It was your worry for tomorrow, today was all about you.

The next day when you woke up, you went straight to the kitchen. You grabbed your phone and saw 30 missed calls from Luke, 10 from his mother and over 100 messages from his whole family. You started feeling guilty and bad that you ignored them and quickly tried to call back to Luke. He didn’t answer the phone and you felt that it’s over between the two of you. Fact that you left your phone at home yesterday was his final straw and he’s gonna break up with you. 

Tears were falling from your eyes while you were making tea and didn’t even hear that someone entered the apartment. You were too deep in your head thinking about what are you gonna do. You and Luke had been together for the past 5 years and now it’s over. 

Luke entered the house and the first thing he heard was you crying. At first he sighed, relieved that you’re at home but then he realised that you’re crying. Quickly he dropped his suitcase and ran to hug you. You screamed in panic but then you recognized the strong grip. 

“Don’t cry, please don’t cry” Luke tried to calm you down and it was working. He was smothering your hair, whispering sweet things into your ear. When you finally cooled down, you spoke.

“What are you doing here? I thought you’re in Michigan” You wiped your cheeks and looked at him.

“I was but my parents made me realise that I messed up. I tried to reach you but you didn’t answer your phone so I decided to return and sort things out between us. I don’t want you to think that I’m choosing my friends over you. I’ll always choose you” Luke looked deeply into your eyes while he said the last sentence. 

“Sorry that I didn’t answer the phone calls from you. I left my phone at home yesterday when I went out and after I got back home, I completely forgot to check it. I did it this morning and tried to call you but you didn’t pick up and I thought that you’re breaking up with me” You hugged him and he kissed the top of your head. 

“I would never break up with you. I didn’t answer because I was already under the building apartment” Luke kissed your head again. “Sorry for all the misunderstanding, I should tell you about me leaving for Michigan when I…” 

“Stop. You have nothing to apologise for. I was wrong for being mad that you want to spend time with your family and friends. It was a bad call and I deeply regret it. Sorry for ruining your free week and that you couldn’t spend time with them” 

“We both messed up but that’s why we love each other right?” Luke joked and you giggled.

“True. I love you Luke” You tiptoed and kissed his lips. 

“How about I'll take you on a nice dinner today and you’ll tell me about yesterday?” He smiled at you.

“Okay and sorry again for ruining your trip. That was the last thing I wanted to do” You felt guilty for this whole mess and it was bothering you that he dropped everything just to see if everything’s alright between the two of you. 

“Everything’s fine baby. As long as we’re good, it was worth it” Luke smiled at you and you hugged him again.

[ray-moo]

>uh, no, we do not accept gender in our fight for liberation. why would we accept the cage of oppression in our spaces and conversations? I mean you can say this, but treating maleness and woman-ness as more than biological realities belies that you don't really believe this.

>we deal with class dynamics, here, since the class of male humans oppressed the class of female humans. Well there you go. The non-biological aspect to sex is the class dynamics aspect, that is, a gender. It appears to me that you treat membership in the class you enter into based on your biological sex as a gender.

>But since you asked, the individual male benefits from the oppression of women and girls Certain women benefit from the oppression of women and girls, certain men are thrown under the bus to sustain that oppression. Is such a woman part of the oppressor class? Is such a man part of the oppressed class?

>And when he does nothing to help dismantle our oppression, or hold his male friends and family member accountable, he’s part of the problem. he is culpable for partaking in our oppression. I assume this is true for women who do this as well?

>“the collective of men isn’t capable of doing things” then how does oppression even happen? Because individual men do things to individual women

>but this doesn’t really matter to you, does it? you just wanna ‘not all men’ and derail our conversations and get pissy at radfems I think radfems assuming everyone who disagrees with them is either malicious or stupid is the reason why y'all are stuck as a fringe movement on the edges of feminism.

>For pointing out facts and using statistics and data and evidence in our arguments. Using statistics and data and evidence would be saying that a man is more likely to commit crimes than a woman, and a woman is more likely to be a victim of violence than a man. The magical TERF thinking is the 'male original sin' radical feminists believe in, as well as the belief having a vulva makes your oppression more worthy of being liberated from than a male's oppression.

I mean sure, you can believe in those things. But at least admit that there's a sexual element beyond biology which motivates said behaviour. Y'know, what the gendies call a gender.

sorry

[deception-united]

hi! do u have any prompts or tips for writing miscommunication?

Hi, thanks for asking! Miscommunication is such a powerful tool in storytelling—it can create tension, humor, heartbreak, disaster, deepen conflict, and make relationships feel more real, all depending on how you use it. Here are some tips and ideas!

1. Give them a reason to misunderstand.

Miscommunication isn’t just about bad hearing or unclear words—it’s about perspective. Each character brings their own biases, fears, and assumptions into a conversation, which shapes how they interpret things.

Examples:

Misreading the other’s tone as disinterest or rudeness, or taking sarcasm seriously.

Being too embarrassed to ask for clarification and pretending to understand.

Hearing part of a conversation and assuming the worst before getting the full story.

2. Use context & distractions to twist the meaning.

Realistic miscommunication often happens because of outside factors, like background noise, stress, exhaustion, or missing context. If your character is in a high-stakes situation, they may be more likely to misinterpret things.

Examples:

Two characters are arguing, and one storms off before hearing the other’s explanation.

A message is delivered at the worst possible time, leading to an unintended misunderstanding.

Assuming they’re being talked about when the topic is something or someone else entirely.

3. Non-verbal miscommunication.

Miscommunication can come from texts, body language, cultural differences, or even personal insecurities—it doesn’t always have to be verbal.

Examples:

Assuming a friend is ignoring them when they’re actually distracted or dealing with something else.

Sending a message to the wrong person.

A nervous laugh at the wrong time, making it seem like they’re mocking someone’s pain.

4. Let it snowball, but not forever.

A small miscommunication can grow into something huge, but at some point, it should ideally be resolved. The longer it lasts, the more consequences it will have, which may be what you’re going for, but it also makes it more frustrating for the reader.

Examples:

Holding a grudge for months over a misunderstanding.

One person finally explains the truth, but the other is too stubborn to believe them—until undeniable proof forces them to see it.

5. Use miscommunication to reveal character flaws.

How your characters handle (or fail to handle) miscommunication can reveal a lot about them. Do they get defensive? Do they double down? Do they laugh it off? Their reaction can reveal a lot about their personality.

Examples:

Always assuming the worst and jumping to conclusions.

Refusing to admit they misunderstood and instead blaming the other person.

Habit of overexplaining, making things even more confusing.

Hope this helped! For more specific prompts, feel free to check out my previous post, linked here.