#but for anyone that wants one and can afford it

[bluestar22x]

Same goes for not being married yet. Even if you do actually want to get married, it takes two for that. You can't get married if you have no one to ask or be asked by. And you can't force anyone to date you let alone marry you.

I get the still lives with their parents thing a lot and the marriage thing, that's why I added it. But I went to college, the job didn't work out and my current job isn't enough to pay most available rents (note that my college job paid even LESS than my current one so don't think college degree means money - employees at McDonalds get more money per hour ($2.75 more in fact) than I got from a job needing a bachelor's degree).

Ok, I could go on my own and pay rent, I want to someday, but the only rents I see available right now are either trash or would suck up all my money and I'd have nothing in my savings, no back up for medical bills, etc. It's a lot easier to survive when you don't have to worry about rent. I can pay everything else and I have some side money to actually enjoy my life and take a vacation here and there. And my parents get help around the house in return.

If I had maybe 3 more dollars an hour I wouldn't worry about rent costs and be so picky (please, give me a raise, I'm begging!), but I am at least $300 short a month for the half decent rents to be affordable (and why should I live in a rat infested rental when I can live in a clean house my parents willingly offered?). Rents aren't supposed to take up over 60% of your monthly salary. It's not sustainable. Yet so many low income people are forced to rent these old places that are like $1,000 a month or more and I don't even know how they are up to code. They are in rough shape and ready to catch fire (so many apartment fires in town because the rents and their electrical wiring are ancient - and even getting new electrical wiring doesn't seem to stop these electrical fires from occurring - which has made me paranoid about anything built before 2000). They pay rent then can't afford hardly anything else, even other essentials. Then their unit burns down and they lose everything. Including their cats.

Either decent rents need to be $600 a month max or salaries have to increase by a few dollars or so (I'd say the trouble is more with salaries - house ownership costs is not all that better than rental costs - but if you raise salaries small businesses will close and large ones will just cut employees - because the large ones are only concerned with maximizing profits and small businesses are barely hanging on).

Can we stop using "still lives with their parents" or "unemployed" or "doesn't have a drivers license" or "didn't graduate high school" as an insult or evidence that someone is a bad person? Struggling with independence or meeting milestones is not a moral failing.

[k-aemi]

Hi Miu!!! Hope you doing well><

May I request a Reo x collegestudent!reader where she's having trouble making money and was getting frustrated so she went to a bar to drink her frustrations and get completely drunk, all she's blabbering is about making money then went to go to the bathroom but bumps into Reo and he can't can't helped but be amused by her and proposed that he'll give her 10,000 everytime she cums.

If you're able to write this, I give my biggest thanks to you!!❤️

mikage reo ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ lets make a deal.

smut, praise, overstim, unprotected sex, squirt, some bdsm :>

it was pointless. everything was really. youre broke, cant even afford to buy your supplies and the amount of work weighted heavy on you which didnt help at all. seriously what were you thinking attending college without any financial aid?

you just needed something to get your mind off of it. youre broke, but not broke for a time at the bar. you just needed to relieve some stress, what better way to do it than to get drunk? not like you had any friends at the college anyways.

you slouch at the bar with your oversized hoodie, scrolling through your cracked phone, with a cheap drink on the other hand. bills looming, assignments just piling, and sleep? nonexistent. you sigh, cheek hitting the cold bar table, not caring if anyone was judging you at the moment.

eyes hazy, just little mumbles coming from you followed by hiccups. before you get up, a voice speaks.

"rough night?" a smooth voice interrupts. a guy couple stools away from you speaks. you had to squint your eyes to really get a glance at him, and damn was he handsome.

hes striking—designer clothes, hair too perfect, like he just walked out of a magazine. he stood out from everyone in the bar, now you felt self conscious about how you dressed.

"yeah, drinking my problems away." your arm rolls on the bar table as you bump your forehead on it.

"you look like you just lost a fortune." he takes a sip of his martini glass cup as he smirked looking down at you.

"youre probably right about that. failing a class, and i think my landlord wants to fight me." you grumbled. and the handsome man can only chuckle with a curious smirk.

"i swear—if i can just do something, a favor or whatever, i can clean their house, kiss their feet, do whatever weird kinks they got, i dont care. i just need that money." you put your head down with a loud thud while the bartender refills your drink.

the purple-haired man sips his drink before spinning the glass in his hand around before your head shots up at the realization. why did he even come up to talk to you?

"wait—do you know me...or do i know you..?" you raise an eyebrow. he glances at you with an amused look again.

"nope. but looking miserable enough for me to know your entire life story." and you scoff. you sat up with you elbow hitting the bar table, taking a shot of the vodka.

"didnt mean to make you part of my downfall." and he lets out a laugh.

"kind of entertaining. ive never seen someone as miserable as you. most people here drink and flirt."

"i dont flirt with strangers who look like they own stock in hair gel." you laid your head on your palm.

"i do own stock."

"well unless youre here to give me money, i dont think youre much help." you hiccup in between your words as you took another shot in one full gulp. slamming the cup down with a sigh of refreshment.

"and if i did?" he sat on the stool next to you, leaning closer.

"right. and what, in return i sell you my soul?" he chuckled. breath tickling your earlobe. you dont push him away, this stranger intrigued you. who would give out money like its candy?

"of course not. just a little something. 10000 yen each time you finish under my touch." his hand stroked your thigh in an unexpectedly endearing way—one that made your breath hitch and your body go still. this flirt was making you feel… strange.

you said youd do anything for the money, but that was clearly so unexpected. this random was offering you money for...a weird favor and were you to accept or decline that? still, the money was tempting...maybe too tempting to walk away from.

"im sorry, what did you say your name was again...?" your gaze shifts to his purple irises. with graceful ease, his finger lifts your chin—grinning from ear to ear.

"mikage reo princess."

"o-oh my god fuck—" you pull on the restraints that were tied to the bed post. your legs and thighs quivered from the amount of stimulating he made you go through. you dont know what you had signed yourself up for.

"doing so good f'me princess." he rubbed your sides, applying more pressure to your bud. the vibrator was at its maximum and he was making sure you feel every single bit of it.

your senses were heightened, with the blindfold covering you, you couldnt see anything. thus making it hard to anticipate where hed touch you next. it was weird, but in an exciting way.

you threw your head back at the immediate touch of his fingers that curled up inside your gummy walls. he inserted in with such ease you felt like you were going to cum on the spot. his fingers were long and reached so deep, just the lewd squelching sounds and your moans echoed throughout the room, and it fueled reos drive to continue.

"feel good?" he chuckled, staring at the way your body trembled. with the stimulation of the clit vibrator and his fingers, youll be coming in no time. just make sure to keep up with him.

you nod eagerly, moving your hips in a circular like motion. he loved the way your juices spilled onto his sheets and fingers, it was so sticky and the smell was intoxicating too. probably the best pussy he ever played with, your walls were warm, and youre so fucking wet<3

unexpectedly, you come. you didnt even register you did until he drags his fingers out of your cunt, but its like sucking him back in, just wanting more and more. the vibrator just overstimulated you so much, he wouldnt take it off. its like hes a sadist and wants to see you beg for him to stop.

"thats a 10000 right there." he cooed, licking a stripe up your cheek. the wet muscle made you wince while you tried to control your breathing. it felt so intense, you dont even know if you could withstand anymore, even after coming once.

"think you can handle my cock?" he slapped the tip of his cock onto your cunt, rubbing it against the vibrator. he bit his lips, almost drawing out blood. you just looked so hot under him, he definitely would of regret it if he hadnt strike up a conversation, or else he would of missed out on best pussy of the year.

he lets out a low growl, prodding his tip at your entrance, god you were so slippery he can just insert it in now. but he wanted to hear your sweet voice beg for his cock.

"n-need it." you mumbled out. you were referring to the money he said (thats what you told yourself) hed give you every time you came, but he took it as your neediness for him.

and just like you said, he sheathed himself in your velvety walls. he bottoms out inside of you with a whine he thought he never knew could come out of him. shit, the way your walls pulsed around his cock like it had a mind of its own made him feel incredible. he feels like hes going to cum this instant.

"oh, did you cum again—?" he raised his eyebrow at your fucked out face, he felt your cunt tighten around him and the way your breathing became heavy again indicated your second time. no way you just came twice in the span of two minutes. you didnt know sex could get this good.

you grind yourself onto him, you need more. his touch was so addicting you cant get enough of it. he can feel the vibrator from the outside and it just added more to the pleasure to him and you. the smell of sweat filled the room and two horny fucks getting it on.

he leans down to your neck, marking you up and planting light kisses on the skin. your nails dug into yourself from the intensity of everything.

"shiiitt, can i come inside?" he pleaded, he wasnt going to miss this opportunity to do it inside of yours. his thrusts gradually becomes faster but sloppier, losing that rhythm he had set before. he loved the sound of your ass clapping against his balls, it was so hot.

"yes, yes please." your breath hitched as your breathing became erratic. the third time youre going to come alone from this mikage guy. you dont even know what youre saying right now, you werent on pills or anything, you just needed to feel him fill you up.

he latches his lips onto yours, tasting the drool that slipped out from the corner of your mouth. it was filthy, tongues fighting each other while you both exchange saliva, creating a string whenever you broke the kiss.

his tip kissed your cervix and your back arched at an impossible angle. youre at your breaking point by now.

"f-fuck!" you squirt on his cock, your juices flying everywhere and reo came inside, painting your gummy walls white with his seed. your thighs quivered and your toes curled.

"s-shit that was so hot. keep it up okay?" he stared in awe how his cum seeped out of your pussy even with his cock intact. you were definitely in for a long night if you wanted the money.

hi so sorry i no posttt! so busy but i will start posting more now c: i will try to get all requests done! have so many so i am sorry!

tags ✎: @rinrinniebaby @theirlimerence 

[winxanity-ii]

FIRST [1/?]

ship: virgin!telemachus x fem!virgin!brothel worker!reader warnings: explicit ( oral f. receiving only / mutual virginity / heavy fanservice / soft dominance ) word count: 6.3k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~) a/n: y'all i don't know why but i've been SO embarrassed about this lil fic just sitting in my docs 😭😭 like i fully forgot i'm grown (20) and can post what i want??? even then i guess it's just the lil-nerd in me who just giggles/squirms when faced with my own smut 💀💀 but yeah this is a oneshot that started as a silly thought (aka virgin!telemachus with virgin!reader and then turned into a whole thing and now i'm in love with telemachus and maybe crying a little?? anyway. pls enjoy this soft, heated, reverent mess of a fic. (also someone come get Peisistratus for being a menace) 💀🩷✨✨ idk might do part 2 if i can get over this block 😭😭

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The tavern was too loud for a place still mourning.

Laughter clanged like armor. Mugs slammed against wood. Someone was playing a lyre too fast, too off-key, but the crowd didn't care—they were drunk on peace, drunk on wine, drunk on finally.

And maybe Telemachus should've been, too.

He sat at the far end of the long table, boots planted, tunic a little looser than usual. There was still a sword at his hip—habit, not threat—but he hadn't had to reach for it in weeks. The suitors were gone. His father had returned. His mother no longer cried into candlelight. Ithaca breathed again.

So why couldn't he?

"Drink," said Peisistratus, pushing a cup toward him. "If you're going to stare like that, at least look mysterious while doing it."

Telemachus blinked. "I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were," his friend grinned. "Whole brooding prince thing? Very effective. That barmaid's been eyeing you since we walked in."

Telemachus turned, just in time to see her saunter off after dropping another round of drinks. She had smiled at him, he thought. Maybe lingered. He hadn't noticed.

He glanced back at Peisistratus, sheepish. "She was just being polite."

"She was being polite with her chest, my guy."

Telemachus sputtered into his wine.

Peisistratus leaned back with the smugness only the youngest son of a king could afford. "Gods, you're hopeless. What do they do in Ithaca, anyway? Stitch tapestries? Pray? Practice self-restraint until you die untouched?"

"We defend our homes," Telemachus said, wiping his mouth. "We hold our families together. I didn't exactly have time to entertain women while men ate my mother's food and planned to take her bed."

Peisistratus groaned. "Still reciting war monologues, huh? Your house is intact, your mom's safe, your dad's alive, and you—you've still never—"

"Don't." Telemachus glanced around, lowering his voice. "You don't have to announce it."

"Then deny it."

He said nothing.

Peisistratus stared. "Telemachus."

Still silence.

The prince of Pylos let out the most exaggerated gasp Telemachus had ever heard. "You are—!"

"I never had time, okay?" Telemachus snapped, heat rushing to his cheeks. "And it's not like I—like anyone—I mean, I could have, maybe, once or twice, but—"

"Spare me." Peisistratus slammed the mug down. "You've been home for weeks. Women all over the castle smiling like doves in heat. And you've done nothing?"

Telemachus opened his mouth. Closed it.

"...You're impossible."

"I'm cautious," he rebuttled.

"You're cursed."

Telemachus rolled his eyes. "You said we were celebrating your last night in Ithaca, not my alleged virginity."

"And we are." Peisistratus stood up suddenly. "Which is why we're fixing that."

Telemachus tensed. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of your own head." The younger prince grabbed his wrist. "Come on."

"Wait—"

"I know a place."

"Peisistratus—"

"You trust me, don't you?"

"I—That's not the point—!"

"It is exactly the point." Peisistratus grinned, half-dragging him through the tavern door, past the lyre, past the wine, into the soft night where stars bloomed and scandal lurked.

Telemachus' stomach dropped. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the nerves, or the fact that for the first time in years... he didn't know what came next.

☆

☆

The wash water stung your hands. Not from heat, but from the way your fingers had cracked again—tiny splits in your skin from scrubbing too long, too often, with too little rest between. But you didn't stop. You couldn't stop. If you could just finish this last basin, you could dry your hands by the fire and maybe—

"Hey." You flinched.

One of the older girls leaned into the doorway, silk slipping off her shoulder, perfume following behind her like smoke. She was smiling—but not in that fake, flirty way they did for customers. This was different. Kind. Almost... pitying.

"You're up."

"...Up?" you echoed, straightening too fast.

"First client. Just got called in. He's a special one, too. Big spender."

Your mouth went dry. "I—I thought—"

"I know. You've been doing laundry for weeks. Earning your keep. But tonight's different."

She crossed the room, gently took the basin from your hands, and set it down. The water sloshed over the sides. You stared at it like it might pull you under.

"I'm not ready."

"No one ever is," she said softly. "Come on. We'll help you."

Moments later, you sat like a doll in a chair that wasn't yours, surrounded by girls whose hands moved too fast for you to follow.

One was curling your hair with a hot iron pin, another was dabbing rose oil on your wrists. Someone else adjusted the straps on a dress that dipped too low, hugged too tight. You barely recognized yourself in the mirror. Cheeks smooth in oil. Lips bitten raw. Cleavage you'd never seen before.

"You're shaking," said one girl, brushing powder across your collarbone.

"I-I'm fine," you lied.

"She's nervous," another grinned. "That's cute."

"She's lucky," said the girl with the perfume. "First time, and she gets him."

You finally gain the courage to speak. "...Who?"

The girls exchanged a look.

"I heard he's a prince," someone whispered. "Or close to it. Tall. Polite. Kind eyes. Might not even make you do anything."

You swallowed hard.

"Just remember," said the first girl, crouching in front of you, voice low. "Pretend you've done this before. That you're in charge. Even if you're not. Men like that."

Her hand touched yours. Warm. Grounding.

"You'll be okay."

.☆.      .✩.           .☆.

You followed the madam up the stairs like you were walking to your own execution.

Each step felt louder than it should've. Your heartbeat was pounding in your throat. She stopped in front of a thick wooden door, glanced over her shoulder, and whispered, "He's already inside."

Then she was gone.

Just like that.

You stood there for a second, alone in the silence, hands slick with sweat, chest so tight it hurt. You almost turned and ran. Almost knocked on the madam's office and begged to go back to your linens, to the hot sting of soapwater, to the safety of anonymity. Almost.

But you didn't.

You opened the door.

He stood near the window, back turned, silhouetted by moonlight.

His posture was perfect—hands clasped behind his back, chin slightly tilted, like he was measuring the stars. His cloak was folded neatly on the chair beside him. His boots, still dusty from the road. He didn't turn at the sound of the door closing.

Your fingers clenched at your sides. You tried to remember what the girls said.

Pretend I've done this before. That I'm in charge.

You took one step. Then another.

Your voice came out soft—too soft. "You can sit down... if you'd like."

He turned.

And you forgot how to breathe.

Not just because he was handsome—though gods, he was. Soft brown curls that caught the light. Broad shoulders. Eyes like calm earth after rain. But what stunned you wasn't his looks.

It was the way he looked at you.

Like you were real.

Like he hadn't expected someone nervous, someone trembling in silk like she was being sacrificed.

Like... he saw it.

He stepped forward, slower than you expected.

You reached up—mechanically—like you'd practiced. Fingers brushing his jaw. His skin was warm. Clean-shaven. You smiled, or tried to, coy and low-lidded like the others had shown you.

But when he raised a hand—slowly, carefully, like he was asking permission—and touched your cheek...

You flinched.

Your whole body jolted. Just slightly. But enough.

He froze. His palm still hovered, but he didn't push.

You dropped your gaze. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. I just—I've never—" The words got caught. Your throat burned.

He stepped back. Not in shame. Just to give you space.

"...Me neither," he said quietly.

There was a silence after he spoke. Not an awkward one. Not really. More like a stillness—a moment suspended in the air between two strangers who had no idea what to do now that the truth had been said aloud.

You weren't sure who sat down first. Maybe you did. Maybe he followed. But somehow you both ended up on the edge of the bed, not touching, facing slightly different directions like you were afraid of spooking each other.

You stared at your hands in your lap. "I didn't think... you'd be nervous."

He gave a soft huff, not quite a laugh. "Why not?"

"Because when I walked in here, you turned around like... like you weren't afraid of anything."

That made him pause.

He looked at you—just looked—eyes dark and unreadable, like he was weighing whether to say the truth or something easier.

Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a faint, crooked smile. "Looks can be deceiving." He held out his hand. "I'm Telemachus."

You blinked.

The name struck something deep in your chest. You're not sure why, but it sounded really familiar. Still, you reached out, slipping your fingers into his before the silence stretched too long. "I'm ____."

He held your hand a second longer than he had to.

" ____." he said softly, like he was tasting it. "That's... a beautiful name."

He repeated it again, slower this time. More careful. Like he was folding it into memory.

You looked away first. But only for a second. When you turned back, he was already watching you—shoulders drawn in a little, face unreadable.

He blinked, startled at being caught, and looked away quickly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. His ears were flushed.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I'm not... I didn't come here planning to do anything like this. My friend—he pushed. I didn't even mean to follow him in, but I—I don't know."

He sighed through a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, shoulders rising and falling under the weight of his own honesty.

"I've fought men twice my size. Led ships through storms. Stared down men who wanted to kill me in my own hall," he said. Then turned his head to you, eyes meeting yours. "None of that was as terrifying as opening that door."

You blinked at him. "...Why?"

He looked away again, and you could tell he was choosing his words.

"...Because if I went through with this," he said slowly, "I'd never be able to go back."

That confused you. "Back?"

"To the boy who never did," he murmured. "To the version of me who still hadn't. I spent so long carrying him around, pretending he didn't matter. But I think he does. And if I let him go—" he paused, "—I want it to be for something real."

You swallowed.

Telemachus glanced at you, half-smiling. "Sorry. That was a bit heavy."

"No, it wasn't," you said, surprising yourself. "I... understand."

He tilted his head. "Do you?"

You nodded. "I gave my first kiss to a coin."

He blinked.

You flushed. "I mean—! I didn't—I meant—" You exhaled, collecting yourself. "I gave it to the idea of a coin. A better life. A trade. I thought I could handle it. That if I said yes to this place, I could keep my soul out of it."

He was quiet.

You laughed, bitter. "But I think it got in anyway."

When you looked up, his expression had changed. Something had softened in him—not out of pity. Not out of guilt. But recognition. He knew that feeling. That ache behind your voice.

"I was scared," you whispered. "I still am."

Telemachus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. "What are you scared of?"

"That it'll hurt," you said. "That it'll be awful. That I'll do something wrong."

"It's not something you can do wrong," he said quietly. "Not when you mean it."

"...Do you?"

His breath caught. You didn't mean to ask it like that. Like it was a challenge. But it hung there.

He nodded. "I... I think I do. Now."

Another long pause. But something shifted in it—something warmer.

You both smiled, small and unsure.

He turned slightly toward you. "Would it be alright if... if I... kissed you?"

You nodded.

The kiss wasn't perfect. It wasn't practiced or smooth or clever. It was a little too hesitant. A little too careful. His lips were warm but tentative, like he didn't want to overwhelm you. Your fingers curled in his tunic, clutching the fabric, not pulling—just holding. His hand touched your cheek again, and this time, you didn't flinch.

It deepened. Slowly. You tilted your head. He let out a breath.

When you finally parted, you were both smiling now, a little dazed.

"I don't want to do anything that scares you," he murmured.

"That's the thing," you said softly. "It still scares me. But... not as much."

He leaned back slightly, just enough to see your face. "Do you want to stop?"

You hesitated, and then, with the tiniest breath, you said, "No."

You moved first this time—your hand trembling slightly, brushing the inside of his knee and then higher, testing the waters. He inhaled sharply, but didn't stop you—his gaze locked on yours like he was waiting to see what you'd do next.

He didn't move.

Didn't push.

Didn't take.

He just watched you, like you were a storm rolling in, and he was the only man foolish enough to stand beneath the thunder. But then you moved again. Just a shift, just closer. And something in you said: Try it. So you did.

You leaned in and kissed him.

The moment your lips touched his, Telemachus melted into it—no hesitation, no second-guessing. His hand cupped the back of your neck like it was instinct, holding you steady, and then—

His mouth opened, his tongue slid against yours, and you gasped.

A startled, breathy sound that you couldn't bite back. It caught in your throat like a held-back whimper, made your lashes flutter. You weren't expecting that—how warm he was, how eager. He kissed like someone starved. Like someone who'd read about it, dreamed about it, but never had permission to try.

And gods, once he had it... he took it.

His arms wrapped around you without thought, strong and sure. In one smooth motion, he pulled you forward, shifting until you were straddling his lap, your knees against the bed, your body pressed flush to his. His hands didn't just rest at your back—they curled, palms dragging up your spine like he was learning the shape of you by feel alone.

Your mind raced.

He's strong. He's so strong. This is going so fast—but I don't want it to stop.

You barely remembered to breathe.

His hands spread wide against your ribs, holding you in place like he was afraid you'd vanish. His tongue moved against yours again, this time slower—more deliberate. Testing. Teasing. Tasting.

You whimpered, and his grip tightened.

Some small, silly part of your brain sparked to life, voice hushed but not gone:

If this is what all the customers are like... maybe working at the brothel won't be so bad.

But the thought barely had time to settle before memory returned, sharper now—the voices of the girls who'd painted your lips and whispered in your ear before the door opened.

"Touch his chest. Men love that."

"Use your hips—grind just a little, then stop."

"Fake moan. Even if you don't mean it. They eat that up."

The words came in flashes.

You tried to recall what you were supposed to do next. How you were supposed to arch your back or roll your hips or do that breathy little laugh one girl had demonstrated by the mirror.

But none of it came naturally.

Not when his hands felt so real. Not when his lips were shaking slightly against yours. Not when he kissed you like you were something he didn't think he'd ever get again.

You clutched his shoulders instead.

Not because someone told you to, but because you didn't know how else to keep yourself from falling apart.

Your lips finally broke from his, breath catching as you pulled back just enough to see him.

And gods—Telemachus looked wrecked.

His cheeks were flushed pink, almost feverish. A single curl clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, while the rest of his hair had fallen wildly out of place, soft spirals tousled from where your fingers had tugged them. His mouth hung open slightly, lips swollen and red, wet where he'd kissed you too long and too hard and too much—not that you'd wanted him to stop.

His eyes, though...they were the worst part.

Wide. Glassy. A little dazed.

And so hungry.

Not like a man ready to devour—but like a boy starved of softness, blinking up at you like you'd just fed him something he never knew he needed.

You sat on his lap still, panting softly, your chest rising against his.

Your hand moved before you could think. Fingers brushing his jaw, then up along his cheek. You cupped his face, thumb tracing just beneath his eye like you were trying to remember every line of him.

He's handsome, you thought, breathless.Too handsome to be here. Too gentle to want someone like me.

Telemachus leaned into your touch like it was instinct. Like it was safe.

You stared at him.

And then... you moved.

Slowly, you slid from his lap, your knees hitting the floor one after the other. Your hands rested on his thighs, steadying yourself. You leaned forward, eyes cast down, heartbeat loud in your ears.

This was what the other girls said men wanted.

This was what they told you would happen eventually.

Maybe if you did it well, he'd want to come back. Maybe he'd ask for you again. Maybe—

But your fingers had barely reached for the tie of his tunic before—

He stopped you.

Gently.

Firmly.

Telemachus' hands curled around your waist again—not desperate, not panicked, but certain. Like he'd been waiting to stop you from this.

You didn't even get to ask why before he was lifting you. Effortless.

He picked you up like it was nothing, like you weighed less than the breath in his lungs. Before you could protest, he'd turned and settled you back on the bed—this time seated lower, your legs tucked beside you. You stared up at him, startled, breath still ragged.

His hands didn't leave your hips. But they didn't move either. Just stayed there. Warm. Steady. Present.

You swallowed. "Why...?"

He crouched slightly, bringing himself to eye level, voice soft.

"I'm not here to take from you," he murmured. "I... I don't want that to be your first memory."

You blinked. Tried to read his face. His voice hadn't changed. There was no judgment in it. No shame. Just... truth.

He touched your knee—light, barely a brush.

"But... I want to give you something... If you'll let me."

It didn't take long for the truth of it to click into place.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart lurching as it settled in.

He was telling you—right now, in this quiet moment with your hands still trembling in your lap—he wanted to give, and he wanted nothing in return.

The realization made your stomach twist in a way you didn't have a name for.

Before you could find your voice—before you could tell him, you don't have to, I didn't mean for this—

Telemachus moved.

He dropped to one knee—not with dramatics, not like some chivalrous knight, but like something in him had simply given way. Like his body understood before his mind did that this was where he belonged.

Not beneath you. But before you.

His shoulders bowed, his head dipping slightly as his gaze stayed locked on yours. His hands hovered over your thighs—not touching, just there. Waiting. Asking without words.

He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.

"You don't have to do anything," he whispered. His voice was so low it felt like a secret passed between breaths. "Just let me take care of you."

Your lips parted, but you didn't speak.

He continued—voice steady, but laced with something softer. Something closer to awe.

"I've thought about this moment," he admitted. "Not like this, not here—but... about what it would feel like. To be trusted with someone. By someone."

His fingers finally moved—just enough to ghost over your knees. Then higher. Sliding along your thighs, slow and warm and so careful.

He didn't press them apart.

He didn't ask for more.

He just waited.

And the way he looked at you—gods, it was unbearable. His eyes didn't flick down to your chest. Didn't scan your body like a thing bought and paid for. They were locked on yours. Unblinking. Steady. Patient.

You didn't think you'd ever been looked at like that.

Like your nervousness was sacred. Like your silence was allowed. Like you were the sky and he'd found a place in it.

Your hands curled into the sheets.

And then—

You nodded.

And everything stilled.

Not the air. Not the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath the bed. But him. Telemachus didn't surge forward. Didn't pounce. He waited one heartbeat—two—just to be sure. Just to give you the chance to change your mind. And when you didn't, he moved.

The first press of his lips to your inner knee was enough to break you. You inhaled sharply, your thighs twitching from how careful he was being. As if he thought you might shatter. As if he'd fall apart too, if he touched you wrong.

His hands were warm against your calves, large and steady, sliding beneath your legs to part them—not forcing. Guiding. Creating space. Creating breath.

You couldn't look at him. Could only stare at the ceiling as the fabric of your dress shifted—bunched higher and higher as his hands pushed it past your knees, your thighs, up over your hips. Each inch of exposure made your skin burn. Not from embarrassment. From realization.

From how huge his hands felt.

The way his palms wrapped around you so easily. How his thumbs brushed along the softest parts of your inner thighs. How your skin tingled wherever he touched—like his fingertips were ink, and you were being written on.

His lips followed.

He kissed higher.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like each inch of skin was a vow.

He paused between each kiss like he needed permission from your skin to keep going. And when he reached the place right at the intersection of your thighs—he paused again, and the heat of his breath made you jerk.

Your voice came out soft. Fragile. "Telemachus..."

His head tilted up.

You expected hunger. Or urgency.

But his eyes..

Gods, his eyes.

They were soft. Dazed. Like he was seeing something divine.

You could feel his breath there—there—hot and reverent, like prayer pressed to skin. It burned in the most delicate way. A kiss without contact.

And then—

His mouth covered you.

You jerked.

A small, startled squeak caught in your throat as your hips lifted off the bed, back arching on instinct. The heat of his mouth was searing—not rough, not greedy, just everywhere. Warm and wet and real.

"T-Telemachus—!" you gasped, the sound breaking halfway through as his tongue moved. You clutched at his hair—those soft brown curls that caught your eye the moment you saw him—and whimpered as the pressure began to build.

It was clumsy at first. Careful. Testing. But gods, he was trying—tongue flicking and tasting and exploring in slow, cautious strokes that grew bolder every time you whimpered.

Every sound you made pulled something new from him.

You couldn't see his face, but you felt him—his hands gripping your thighs tighter, holding you open, his mouth pressing against you like he was trying to learn you by muscle memory. Like he didn't want to miss a single reaction.

You weren't trying to say his name, not really, but it kept falling from your lips like a prayer—"Telemachus, Telemachus, Telemachus—" and every time you said it, his grip on your thighs tightened, his tongue slowed, focused, like the sound fed him.

He moaned into you once—just once—and the vibration made you cry out, thighs twitching around his head. Your fingers tangled in the sheets. You couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop trembling. Every time you cried out—every little "ah," every breathless "oh gods"—he shook with need.

"Please," you whispered, not even knowing what you were asking for.

His hands slid further beneath you, thumbs hooking under your thighs as he lifted your legs—gently, reverently—and pulled them over his shoulders, like this was where he'd wanted to be all night.

He didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

His fingers pressed into your hips, holding you still when you started to squirm, when your legs tried to close. You didn't want to push him away—you just didn't know what to do with all of it.

The pressure. The heat. The way he was everywhere.

And when you came—

Gods, when it hit—

You didn't scream. You didn't cry.

You breathed—one long, shaking exhale as your whole body went tense, then soft. Your thighs locked around his head, your back bowed, and your fingers slipped from his hair to your own lips, muffling the sound that rose from deep inside your chest.

And he didn't stop.

Not right away.

Telemachus kissed you through it—tongue gentle again now, coaxing you down with slow, soft laps that made your thighs tremble and your lungs shudder. Like he couldn't bear to let you go yet. Like he wanted to catch every last wave of your pleasure and hold it in his mouth.

Only when your hips twitched from the overstimulation and you sagged against the pillows like a storm passing, then—and only then—did he lift his head.

He looked... wrecked.

His face was flushed. Lips wet. Hair mussed from where your fingers had accidentally tangled in it. He looked like a boy who'd just touched divinity and barely survived.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Your legs had gone loose. Your chest rose and fell like it had been emptied of every secret you'd ever tried to carry. And him—Telemachus just stayed there. Sitting on the floor beside the bed, head resting against the mattress, eyes closed like he was memorizing the sound of your breathing.

He hadn't touched you since. Not in that way. Not even to kiss you again. He just sat there, reverent and flushed and so very still, as if breaking the silence might ruin it.

Eventually, you found your voice.

"Should I... should I... help you?"

He let out a breathless laugh. "No. I'm... I'm alright."

You looked at him, eyes flicking downward.

He was obviously not alright.

But he only smiled—softer this time, a little crooked.

"That was enough," he said. "More than enough." Now it's his turn to question you. "Was it... Was that—?" he started, then cut himself off, unsure.

Your hand reached for him, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, catching the last trace of yourself there.

"That was..." you couldn't even finish. Your voice cracked, but you smiled. And that was enough.

His breath hitched, just for a second. Then, gently, he asked, "Can... Can I lie beside you?"

You nodded.

He stood and climbed onto the bed with a quiet grace that didn't match how tightly his body must've been wound. He slid in behind you—not too close. Not assuming. But when you shifted—just a little—and your back brushed his chest, he went still.

You felt his arm ghost toward your waist. Waiting. Always waiting.

You let him.

He exhaled as he wrapped around you, chest pressed against your spine, his breath steady against your hair.

And gods... it felt like safety.

Not heat. Not hunger. Just warmth.

You'd never been touched like that before.

Never felt like that before.

And the craziest part?

Neither had he.

You whispered, "...You're still hard."

You felt him laugh, muffled against the back of your neck. "I know."

"I can—"

"No," he said softly. "Not tonight."

You turned your head just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder. "Then... what do we do now?"

He smiled. Sleepy. Adoring. Infatuated in a way that made your heart ache.

"Now?" he murmured. "Now we stay."

And so you did.

With his arm draped over your waist, his nose tucked behind your ear, and your breath starting to slow to match his, you let yourself fall asleep.

Just this once, in someone else's arms.

Just this once, without fear.

☆

☆

You woke to the smell of lavender soap and old wood.

For a moment, your eyes stayed closed. You didn't want to risk opening them—afraid that the night before had been a dream spun from nerves and exhaustion. Afraid that if you looked beside you, he'd be gone. Or worse... that he'd still be there, and it wouldn't mean anything.

But you didn't need to open your eyes to know he was still behind you.

You could feel him.

Telemachus' chest was warm against your spine, one arm draped lazily over your waist. His fingers twitched in his sleep, like he was still holding on to something. His breath was slow. Even. Peaceful.

You tried not to move. Tried to hold still like maybe if you stayed quiet enough, time would pause. But it didn't. You felt the moment start to shift—the softness fraying at the edges, reality creeping in.

You turned your head slightly. Just enough to whisper, "Are you awake?"

His breath caught. And then, softly. "Yeah."

You rolled onto your back, eyes meeting his.

He looked ruined. Hair tousled. Eyes a little puffy. Lips still flushed from where you'd kissed him. But gods, if he didn't look at you like you were something he was scared to blink at.

"Hi," you whispered.

He smiled. "Hi."

Neither of you moved.

You weren't sure what to say. Should you say anything? Ask if he'd be back? If it meant something? If he'd still want you when the sun was high and the world was loud again?

But then he reached up, fingertips barely brushing your cheek, and said, "I've got to leave soon."

Your stomach dropped. You nodded, trying not to let it show.

"But," he added quickly, "that doesn't mean this... have to end."

You looked at him.

He smiled—soft, boyish, crooked. "I don't think I could forget you if I tried."

You didn't believe him. Not really. But part of you wanted to. And maybe that was enough for now.

You sat up, pulled the sheet around you. "I should get dressed before everyone wakes and the girls start talking."

"They'll talk anyway," he muttered.

You looked over your shoulder. "Oh?"

He smirked faintly. "They were whispering when I came in last night. Half the brothel knew where I was going."

That made your cheeks burn.

You stood, tried to tame your hair, tried to smooth the wrinkles out of the dress you'd been poured into. You felt his eyes on you the whole time. Not leering. Just... watching.

Like he still couldn't believe you were real.

"I'll send for you," he said suddenly.

You turned. "What?"

"I mean��" he sat up, voice softer now, more careful. "If... If you want your actual first time to be... different... I could find a way."

Your throat tightened. "You don't have to—"

"I want to."

You blinked.

He stood. Stepped close. Tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear and whispered, "If last night was your first... then I want the second to be mine, too."

And then he was gone.

.☆.      .✩.          .☆.

You were back in the laundry room before the others, sleeves rolled to your elbows, sleeves that still smelled faintly like him. You kept your head down, folding quietly, avoiding the curious glances and the not-so-subtle giggles from the other girls.

"Did he kiss you?"

"Did you touch him?"

"How big was his dick?"

You ignored them.

The madam approached mid-morning. You braced yourself for orders—new clients, more linen, someone drunk puking on the rugs again. But she only said. "You're off the floor."

You blinked. "What?"

"No clients. No touch work. From today on, you stay with the laundry."

Your lips parted. "Why?"

She didn't answer at first, just tucked a folded piece of parchment into your palm. A receipt. A payment.

"He bought it. Your virginity." she said simply. "The prince. Paid enough to take you off rotation."

Your mouth dropped. "Prince??"

She snorted—an unladylike sound for a woman who wore perfume and lace—and kept walking, her heels clacking across the wooden floor as she called out something about clean towels to the other girls.

You scrambled after her, nearly tripping on the hem of your skirt. "Wait—wait! What do you mean a prince?! Why would a prince buy me? When would he—does he come back? Will he come back tonight?!"

The brothel was already alive with its usual morning rhythm—cleaning cloths flapping out windows, perfume bottles clinking onto vanities, girls slipping between one another to straighten bedding and fluff pillows. A few early clients sat in the lounge area downstairs, their voices low and lazy, nursing watered-down wine while waiting for their favorites to appear from behind silk curtains.

You chased the madam past them all, dodging a tray of breakfast figs and a girl giggling down the hall with her corset still half-undone. You reached the hallway leading back toward the laundry room when she suddenly spun around to face you—and you stumbled to a stop with a squeak.

She didn't speak at first.

Just looked at you. Looked through you.

Then—tap.

Two fingers to the center of your forehead.

"Honestly," she sighed. "And here I thought you were one of the smart ones."

You blinked, wide-eyed. "I—I am!"

She gave you a flat look. "You keep the ledgers balanced. You talk back to the bookkeeper without blinking. You know which clients are late on payment before they sit down. Hell, you taught Clio how to read last week—and you fixed the squeaky back door with an oil rag and string."

Your face flushed. "Then why—"

"Because, darling," she said, tone sharp but not cruel, "you're acting like a little airhead this morning, and it's beneath you."

You shrank in on yourself slightly. "I just... I don't understand."

She sighed again and pinched the bridge of her nose. "The man you were with last night—"

"Telemachus," you said quickly, almost breathless. Just hearing his name made your chest pull tight.

The madam's lips pursed.

Tap.

She poked your forehead again, this time more pointed.

"That's Prince Telemachus," she corrected. "Don't forget who you're talking about."

You blinked. "But I thought—he never told me—"

She raised a brow. "Of course he didn't. Nobles never do. Not when they want to see how you treat them before the title gets in the way. That's why you listen to the whispers that goes through here. I'm positive someone let it loose."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

She continued walking, and you had to trot after her again.

"Anywho, the prince of Pylos—Peisistratus, the youngest of King Menelaus' sons—he came in just after dusk last night. Said he needed someone untouched. Said it was a gift, of sorts, for the prince of Ithaca. And the moment I thought of someone who might actually look him in the eye and not fall apart..." She gave you a sideways glance. "So I sent for you."

You gawked. "But I—I flinched. I almost cried!"

"Yes, precisely why I chose you," she said dryly, "and yet he bought your virginity the moment he left. Paid triple what we charge."

You stopped walking.

The hallway around you blurred—sunlight spilling through stained glass, footsteps echoing above, voices below, the brothel alive in every direction.

You stood frozen in the middle of it.

Prince Telemachus bought my virginity.

You touched your lips.

They still tingled.

Even then, all you could be stuck on was the fact that Telemachus was a prince.

And suddenly—everything clicked. Like someone had thrown a torch into the back of your mind and lit up the whole kingdom map.

You recalled the whispers in town. The parade of ships. The late-night feasts held at the palace people like you weren't invited to. The rising hum of change in every corner of Ithaca.

The return of King Odysseus.

And that boy—the one who kissed you like the world was ending—

"Prince Telemachus?!" you squawked again, way too loud this time.

But the madam was already halfway down the hall, waving a rag at the kitchen girl and calling for someone to bring fresh honey-water to room six.

You stood frozen, still clutching the folded parchment like it might burn you.

You looked down at it again.

The ink hadn't changed. His name was still there. The number. The seal.

All real.

And your chest—your whole body—went still.

"...So I'm free?!?" you shouted down the hall after her.

The madam didn't stop walking.

She just gave a half-smile, scoffing like you'd just asked if pigs could read.

"No one's free here, girl," she called over her shoulder. "But you're his now."

And with that, she disappeared into the steam of the bath corridor, barking something about soap and firewood.

You looked back down at the parchment.

Your fingers were shaking a little, but only because they felt lighter somehow. Like for the first time in weeks, you were holding something that might mean more than just survival.

And then—just barely—you smiled.

Because he didn't take you.

He chose you.

And maybe, just maybe...

He'd choose you again.

[happy-lemon]

Non-Sims Interests

I was tagged by @papermint-airplane. Thanks, friend!

Dragon Age

Do I own the World of Thedas books and keep them on my coffee table? Yes. Do I love the RPG novels even though they're SO BAD? Yes. Do I have my own fanfiction in a folder on my computer? Yes. Do I have a Straight Outta Ferelden sticker on my Jeep? Yes. Has Cassandra made me question my sexuality and be mad that I can't romance her as a woman? Yes. I've bought several other games, hoping one of them will spark the same kind of love, but so far I have a stack of unplayed/unfinished games because there's nothing out there that can compare.

Sailing

Confession: I'm a lazy sailor. There's always so much to do on a sailboat that sometimes it feels like work, but once we're on a long tack and the boat is dialed in, there's nothing like. My husband is currently outfitting a boat for cruising (I'd say we, but let's be real, he's doing the work) and we're planning to go sailing in the Caribbean. We can't afford to just drop out of life and do nothing else, so we'll both be working remotely. That works out kind of perfectly since we have aging parents and a dog who can't go with us because she's an absolute menace to society.

Camping

There was a time in my life that if you'd have told me I would love camping, I would have laughed at the very idea of sleeping in a tent on the ground. But during the pandemic my son outfitted his old Jeep Wrangler for overland camping, and went on a yearlong, multi-continent road trip adventure. He inspired me so much that I bought my own old Jeep and started camping locally. I had this cool fantasy about going on a mini road trip with my dog, but again, she's an absolute menace to society and struggles with the fact that there's no indoors when camping.

Talaria

She's 50% border collie and the other half of her is a toxic stew of heeler, husky, and cur. She has extreme anxiety that no medication has been able to ease. She's leash reactive, overprotective, and has zero interest in normal things like dog parks, fetch, or playing with toys. But she's utterly devoted to me and woe betide anyone who tries to come between us.

(She's on the left. The foxhound on the right was a foster who tried desperately to get her to love him.)

This is starting to get long so I'll end it here. Tagging @ethicaltreatmentofcowplants @sweetnovember77 @cinamun and anyone who wants to do this. Ignore me if you've done it or don't want to do it.

[gwydionmisha]

People wanted to get married before 1983, but it became incredibly fucking URGENT because of AIDS. It's why once the community could finally breath because the new meds started prolonging lives, Marriage Equality became a major agenda item for the survivors.

What's next after trying not to die? Making the fuck sure the Horrors don't happen again to anyone else.

People were kicked out of hospital rooms of dying partners as mentioned above by families who'd disowned the person dying, but then got to make all the medical decisions regarding that person's wishes. Some barred lover and friends from the funeral.

It's not just that though. What if the apartment or house was in the dead person's name?

They'd kick the survivor out on the street with little no to know warning because THEY HAD NO LEGAL RIGHTS. Sometimes with only the clothes on their backs because they couldn't prove anything was theirs including their own clothes, toiletries, etc..

They could lose everything: the love of their life, their home, all their possessions.

They might be dying too and are now doing it homeless with no resources.

For my generation and older THIS IS LIFE OR DEATH.

Consider too, what happens if you are older or you become disabled.

Who gets to decide what happens to you if you can't take care of yourself anymore?

The state? A hostile relative?

What if you are trans? There's a hundred and fiftyish year history in my country of forced detransition. It is happening here right now. Someone gets head injury in a car accident and the family decides detransitioning them will be "less confusing for the nursing home staff." (This is from an article a half decade or so, but it stuck in my head because it made me so angry.) Some one starts to develop dementia and they take their trousers and put them in a dress or they take their dress away and put them in trousers and stop their HRT.

I never married, and my family are accepting. I still have a living will and a medical power of attorney, because i never want it to happen to me.

It's nice to be all ideologically pure and all but trans people and Elder Queers and people with disabilities can't afford to abandon practicality when it comes to this stuff.

The person above who says expand the rights for poly and non-romantic relationships? I'm in that camp.

I can't afford not to be.

Anyone can suddenly develop a disability. If you live long enough, you will get old. If you stay together long enough, one of you will die.

You need protection whether or not you have kids.

im going crazy you have GOT to decouple romance/amatonormativity and marriage in your mind. you have GOT to understand that marriage is a legal document that protects you from exploitation especially if you are a woman or a stay-at-home anything. it is not some evil unique to heterosexual people. it is a legal document that says 'this is who i want in my hospital room when i die, this is who i want to have my stuff when i die, THIS PERSON OWES ME RECOMPENSE IF THEY KICK ME OUT OF THE HOUSE I LIVE IN"

You are not immune to being taken advantage of by your partner if you are queer. do not wind up homeless because your garbage live-ins name is on the lease and they decided to drop you like hot coals.

[venusprincess-ts3]

I need a bit of help for the veterinarian 💜

Hey everyone, I hate to do this but maybe you can help me a bit. My female cat needs an exam to check her heart, but it's too expensive for us, so I thought about doing a fundraising/donations thing, maybe it helps a bit, even if it's just 1$.

Story: my female cat Luna was born on the streets and was a stray till she was 1 year old, when we adopted her. At home we noticed that her breathing was a bit fast, we thought it could be first time at home excitement though (she purred for two days straight 😊). The vet examined her and said she couldn't detect anything and said to keep an eye on her and call if she coughed like cat asthma videos (luckily she never did that). She gets more tired than my male cat when playing. One time in a hot day she started panting when playing, I stopped playing immediately and tried to calm her (I thought it was cause it was too hot and maybe I pushed her too much, maybe she doesn't know when to stop playing if it's too much). Ever since, I take breaks when playing with her, so she doesn't get tired. But she only does like two jumps and she lays down breathing fast, she wants to keep playing, but I don't let her till she rests a bit. My male cat plays for so long running around like crazy, so compared to him, I get even more worried. So we went to the vet again and said the fast breathing never stopped, and she even breathes fast when she's resting/sleeping. The vet said the breathing was a bit fast and should've calmed down by now (she's at home for 1 year). She prescribed anti-inflammatory and allergy pills, but it did nothing. So she suggested to check her heart with an exam, because heart problems affect the breathing. We need 150€ for now and we can't afford that, I've been postponing this since last year, but I'm terrified that something could be wrong with her heart and something bad will happen to her 😢 I really hope there's nothing wrong and maybe the exam is a waste of money, but if there's something in her heart, she needs to start medication as soon as possible. If anyone can help, I would be much appreciated 💜 anything is appreciated really 🙏 Thank you for reading.

I leave the links below, in case you can help this way. And a picture of my baby Luna 💜

Gofundme

Paypal

[daemonbrain]

The one thing that’ll never fail to pmo is when people call Rhaenyra “spoiled”.

SIDE FUCKING EYE.

(My pretty, precious, perfect girl fr fr 😞)

I understand, Rhaenyra was very privileged for the time they lived in. After all, she was a princess whose claim to the throne was steadfastly held by her father, she got her pick of suitors, and she was always lavished with all the dresses and jewels afforded to someone of her station. Rhaenyra had it good. And the way she’s described sounds like any pissy, entitled royal kid tbh.

But i’d like to direct everyone’s attention to the fact that people also love to say that:

“Halaena didn’t deserve being married to Aegon or being pregnant at 13.”

“(Show) Alicent shouldn’t have had to marry Viserys.”

“Aemma shouldn’t have been married at 11 and then used until she literally died.”

Everyone wants better for women in Westeros until a woman ACTUALLY gets better. Then they crucify Rhaenyra for it and call her spoiled. Why is it that women in asoiaf need to suffer immensely to be favored/respected?

Mind you, Rhaenyra does suffer in a lot of ways that do get overlooked (not that i’m trying to argue her case in the “who has more trauma” race). To mention a few, she loses her mother at a young age with only her father, as she didn’t have anyone in the family who she was particularly close with, to share in her grief. Then she gets this huge burden which she didn’t even ask for of being the heir. Then Viserys marries an 18 year old from a power hungry family like an idiot (he still plans on keeping her as his heir, but other than saying it he won’t put any laws into place, nor anything else to affirm her place in court as the years wane on bc he was weak.) Aegon being born and the constant on edge of people whispering and the ppl trying to convince her father to replace her (which creates a whole faction of grown people against a teenage girl btw.) And to top it off when she had finally come of age she gets groomed tf out of and has her risqué escapades with daemon (men -like Otto and Daemon- love to pray on her like creeps bc everyone wanted smth from her), leading to Viserys’s genius plan to solve her lust problem by marrying her to a known gay man. I won’t even dive into everything she lost once the war started because then this’ll get REAL long.

Like i’m sorry, did you WANT Rhaenyra to have it worse? Perhaps certain people would like her better if she had been married to a man three times her age? Or maybe if she had cast aside and hated by her own father? ORRR maybe if she had a baby at 14 (because being a mother at 17, in a court half-full of people who are waiting for you to mess up and have malicious intentions for you, your husband, and your infant son isn’t already enough?)

Anways, the answer to the big question: people just want to see her suffer. They can’t handle a young girl/woman with all this looming responsibility ahead of her, with a smidge of power, so they just want to see her suffer/ knocked down a peg because she’s not cowering away from what’s been given to her and doesn’t want to be miserable.

Abuse and manipulation don’t make a character or person more worthy. It can cause someone’s perspective to change, or even ideals to change, but the abuse is only ever that. It’s not the potion to a more complex female character.

It reminds me of when Sansa in s8 says that Joffrey, Ramsey, and Littlefinger “made her stronger” and somewhat justified all the shit they put her thru. Terrible writing.

[laikiirnodel]

Finding good dietary guidelines and excercise info is so difficult, even as a skinny person, because everything assumes you want to lose weight.

Like, no, if you're too small to donate blood, or you consistently avoid/forget to eat, or whatever, that's also bad!

A lot of diabetics are dangerously skinny. At least one I know said because "the wrong food" can start a crash, they just eat teeny tiny amounts of food spaced out so the sugar/crash waves mostly even out? And it's a dangerous game and they rarely actually get enough calories, and can't afford "better" food (candy is small and cheap and dense, fits in a pocket and lasts forever. Vegetables are large and awkward and expensive and rot in two days)

Obviously this is not every diabetic's experience, and told secondhand, but my point is

Yes, 100% what all those above said. The system is broken, and fat people take the brunt of this particular injustice, and the narrative is so skewed at blaming one shape that it leaves out care for other diabetics who don't fit the pop culture assumed body type.

And furniture/equipment companies have to recognise that at least some of their products need to be able to support more than 300 pounds (bodybuilders often get heavier than this, you'd think the sports equipment folks would have this down, if anyone would)

fatphobia and ableism is so insidious. You can look up like, food, and it'll say "eating a lot of food causes diabetes" and you're like oh dang what? I thought we didn't know the cause of diabetes. So you look up what causes diabetes and it says "we still don't know what causes diabetes" bruh they're just making shit up to give people eating disorders

[fatherphaniel]

ok i found the shirts

heading for rat girl summer so true

[sergle]

yall are about to piss me off by not having any PASSING basic knowledge of the way the u.s. military manipulates its recruits into joining by typing up one of your uninformed, unresearched, unempathetic, individualistic, unbelievably annoying posts about how 100% of the people in the military ended up there because they just Love America So Damn Much! they're extremely mature and informed at time of recruitment, they can totally leave anytime they want, they totally had tons of other avenues in life they could've taken, there was no rush at all to get income as fast as possible, and everyone in the military also totally is part of the combat divisions and personally enjoys being IN the military very much, big believers of violence. everyone in the military is shooting guns all day, that's how that works. they LOVE BLOODSHED. also I love the "amewicans haha" twang to this type of shit because you're actually TOTALLY stealing our Thing, which is turning systemic issues into Individual Issues. Instead of talking about the powers that be, it's so Personal Choice up in here. It's, "well you shouldn't have done it then. I totally wouldn't because I know better." you don't wanna talk about the military industrial complex as a whole, and you don't want to talk about recruiters, you just want to pin the blame on Specific Individual People one-by-one, as if they're responsible for the system that they're being ground up in. someone was in the military? bad person, no matter what. it's easier to believe that, I guess, than to acknowledge that Normal People (with high school educations) are manipulated and incentivized into joining a system that is Bad. at like age 18. but yeah no that 18 year old should have just been smarter lol haha anyway here are some screenshots for no particular reason

side note this reply of someone going "umm just get loans and go into a high paying field it's easy XD" as a direct response to someone trying to explain how most americans joining the military are being funneled in that direction out of a need for money.

and another person who Decided that americans join the military just CLENCHING their teeth thinking of other people, and not thinking completely selfishly about their own selves and their own income/housing/healthcare.

[invye]

a storyboard, maybe

So the Language Barrier RadioApple AU @cyanjockstrap proposed is still living in my mind rent free (curse you--) so here have the headlines of a possible storyboard I scribbled down without any further context. Some of the chapters I have pretty clear ideas for, others literally no idea at all and I will not tell you which is which. I don't have time to write, guys. I also have a ~70 chapter long slowburn to work on-- Anyway here you go:

01 - first meeting (see: this post)

02 - night at the bar filled with dancing while Charlie and Vaggie visit Heaven

03 - the return or Lucifer giving Vaggie the talk and accidentally (is it tho?) revealing angels' weakness

04 - the battle and the unfortunate need for proper communication for healing

05 - dinner interruptions courtesy of Lucifer's interpreter (we didn't know he has one of those)

06 - something about them getting closer and Lucifer showing off his creativity by creating a gorgeous stained glass window

07 - a public appearance in which it appears Lucifer can speak English after all but he actually uses Ravonna (yes, Ravonna is his Ars Goetia interpreter. I picked her name when I thought of her as a raven, but she's a common starling now. The name stays because it's funny.)

08 - recon mission aka Alastor acquiring a dictionary or two

09 - a romantic evening filled with music that ends with Lucifer kissing Alastor and subsequently panicking

10 - more gentle romance making use of notes tucked in a dictionary passed back and forth

11 - Lucifer feeling bad about not being able to learn a language for Alastor while Alastor is learning a language for him

12 - Ozzie visiting maybe and checking out how cute Alastor is?

13 - adorable 'not quite love yet but definitely heading there'-confession

I really want to develop this further and maybe even write it, but time... :(

[halfelven]

reading other people’s ma theses and getting irrationally jealous of their dedication sections where they list all the people who emotionally or financially or physically (as in doing cooking and such? what is that called) supported them through their work and didn’t let them give up

[milorbsonian]

Anyone supporting AI art, AI chats, and anything in terms of generative AI used for entertainment (with some very minor exceptions) can get off my account. I've engaged in some generative AI for funnies before, and thought it to be silly and harmless. But at the end of the day, art means something because someone made it. You can replicate AI by just doing some casual online roleplay, there's never a shortage of rpers. You can get a free online art program. You can use a cheap mechanical pencil and lined paper and draw something yourself. You can commission someone to get the art done that you really really want. You can put in the goddamned work yourself and make something. It's hard, and I've had millions of bad art days. But those days with bad art, where motivation is scarce, and where I don't have the money for commissioning someone. But (most!! artists still deserve to be paid, but this comes at the detriment of those who can't afford it. A struggle, and neither the artist nor the one who doesn't have the money to engage in it are the real enemy here) true art is free. Some little doodles on math homework. A messy fanfic made past midnight by some random 13 year old. A shitty photography album made with a broken, hand-me-down camera. These all are leagues more impressive, more sacred, and more worthy of recognition than whatever some rando generated by typing a couple words into a machine. AI art is fun! No one should be shamed for finding it fun! Tech crazes are interesting! But once you learn the harm, stop. Keep real art alive.

I stayed up way too late making this.

Presenting... Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney — The AI Art Case

[identityquest]

lizzie get two wolves 👍

[schizononagesimus]

🎶 they tried to make me go to rehab and i said PLEASE PLEASE HOLY FUCK I FEEL SO BAD WILL NOBODY HELP ME I CANT STOP WHY DOESNT ANYBODY NOTICE HOW BAD IT IS PLEASE HELP

[deus-ex-mona]

series i’m gatekeeping from my family vs series i’m ✨ok✨ with my family knowing i’m into: