#but language still isn’t direct between them

[jacketpotatoo]

“Why are people choosing to interpret an idiom literally, that’s so dumb.” guuys. there are billions of idioms to choose from and this one was picked intentionally. Multiple interpretations and implications exist simultaneously and the writers know that. It’s honestly insulting to assume they don’t.

[santaasi]

bet on you

pairing: james potter x grumpy!reader

summary: james bets you that if he wins his next match, you owe him a date. he wins, of course — but you’re not going to make it easy for him.

warnings: fluff, grumpy x sunshine, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 3.0k

a/n: there are so many of you who followed me for james content after obviously blind so i just decided to give you a little thank u for all your love and support.

ᯓ★ now playing…

niall horan - must be love

"YOU’RE TOO COCKY FOR SOMEONE WHO WAS NEARLY THROWN OFF HIS BROOMSTICK LAST MATCH, POTTER."

Your voice was dry, unimpressed, but James only grinned wider, twirling his wand between his fingers as he lounged on the Gryffindor common room sofa. His Quidditch robes were still rumpled from practice, the fabric clinging in places where the sweat hadn’t entirely dried. His hair — Merlin, his hair — was an absolute disaster, even by James Potter standards, the dark curls damp and sticking up in every possible direction, like he’d flown straight through a hurricane and come out victorious on the other side.

You sat across from him, arms folded tight against your chest, doing your best impression of someone completely indifferent to his presence. The common room was warm, the low glow of the fireplace painting everything in shades of gold and crimson, and yet you wrapped your blanket more tightly around your shoulders, as if that might stop the ridiculous, treacherous pounding of your heart.

James tilted his head, eyes twinkling behind the reflection of the flames in his glasses. Too charming for his own good.

“You wound me, sweetheart,” he sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "I was merely faking vulnerability — to lull the Slytherins into a false sense of security.”

You snorted, gaze fixed on the fire. “Right. And I suppose you meant to drop the Quaffle against Ravenclaw?”

James gasped, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose in a performance of deep, personal offense. “First of all, I didn’t drop it — I strategically redirected it. And second, I think you underestimate my skills, and frankly, that hurts.”

You rolled your eyes, fully prepared to come up with something scathing in response, but then James — the menace — moved.

He dropped onto the couch beside you with all the grace of a kneazle leaping onto its favorite perch, effortlessly invading your space, his weight shifting the cushions beneath you. You sucked in a sharp breath as his arm draped over the back of the sofa, boxing you in.

A strangled noise escaped your lips before you could stop it. You shoved at his shoulder in a pathetic attempt to create distance, but James only laughed, low and amused, his body warm beside yours, radiating that post-match heat.

That sound — that deep, genuine laugh — sent something fluttering through your stomach, something entirely inconvenient. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to scowl harder, hoping to smother whatever the hell was happening inside you.

James, of course, remained completely unbothered. If anything, he leaned in closer, his grin widening. “Plus,” he murmured, voice lilting with amusement, “how can you expect me to play properly when the most beautiful girl in Hogwarts is watching me from the stands, sweetheart?”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. His smile was positively criminal — all mischief and confidence, his hazel eyes glinting with unspoken challenge.

James and his bloody charm.

Your frown deepened, but it was becoming harder and harder to hold onto. He looked so pleased with himself, sitting there with his damp curls tumbling over his forehead, a few unruly strands falling into his eyes. Your fingers twitched — traitorous things — itching to push them back, just to feel how soft they were.

Absolutely not.

You turned away sharply, hoping he hadn’t noticed the way your breath hitched.

Damn James Potter.

You needed to think about anything else.

Quidditch.

Yes. Quidditch.

James was a good player — some might even say exceptional (and maybe you were one of them, in the privacy of your own thoughts). But you’d rather kiss the Giant Squid than admit that to his face. His ego was already large enough to smother the entire wizarding world; the last thing he needed was your praise fueling it further.

It was your duty — no, your moral obligation — to keep him grounded. To roll your eyes at his dramatics, to scoff at his flirtations, to challenge him at every opportunity.

Even if, in moments like this, when the firelight danced across his face and his laughter filled the spaces between you, your resolve felt dangerously fragile.

Even if, against all reason and logic, you were already hopelessly, disastrously in love with him.

But he didn’t need to know that.

So you bit your bottom lip, let out a quiet chuckle, and looked back at him with a slow, knowing smirk.

“Right,” you said, voice dripping with amusement. “Because obviously your Quidditch skills depend entirely on me.”

James grinned, delighted, like you’d just paid him the highest compliment in the world.

“Exactly,” he said, nudging your shoulder. “Finally, she admits it.”

You huffed, shaking your head, but even as you turned away, you knew he could see the smile threatening at the corners of your lips.

Damn him.

James leaned forward, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips again. “Alright,” he drawled, mischief dripping from every syllable. “Let’s make this more interesting.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, but the way his hazel eyes glinted in the firelight sent a prickle of warning down your spine.

“If we win against Slytherin this weekend,” he continued, his voice low and coaxing, “you have to ask me out.”

You blinked.

What did he just say?

For half a second, your brain short-circuited, your thoughts stuttering to a halt like a broomstick caught in an unexpected gust of wind. But you recovered quickly, forcing out a chuckle that (hopefully) hid the way your pulse had just launched itself into orbit.

“You say that like it’s some kind of real challenge,” you scoffed, tilting your head. “Gryffindor always wins.”

James only shrugged, all casual confidence, but his smirk deepened. “Then you’ve got nothing to lose, do you?” He leaned in slightly, his voice laced with unmistakable amusement. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid.”

You rolled your eyes, exhaling through your nose as you turned to face him fully, arms crossing over your chest. Your faces were too close — close enough that you could make out the faint freckle just beneath his left eye, close enough that you caught the lingering scent of grass and wind still clinging to his robes.

And yet, you refused to back away.

At least outwardly. Inside, your heart was performing a particularly violent tango with your liver at the mere thought of going on a date with James bloody Potter.

“I just don’t think it’s a fair bet,” you replied smoothly, ignoring the treacherous heat creeping up your neck. “Gryffindor wins practically every match.”

James hummed, tilting his head as if considering this, though the glimmer of mischief in his gaze suggested he already had a counterattack prepared. “Alright,” he conceded, pretending to think. “Then name your terms. If we lose…” He paused for dramatic effect, then grinned. “I’ll do whatever you want. No complaints. For an entire week.”

Your lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he echoed, looking far too pleased with himself.

You feigned deep contemplation, tapping a finger against your chin, though in reality, you were far too aware of the way James was watching you, waiting, expecting you to take the bait.

“That’s quite the offer,” you mused. “But don’t expect me to go easy on you when you lose, Potter.”

James laughed, bright and easy, before holding out his hand. “Shake on it?”

Your fingers clasped his, and the moment your hands met, a strange sort of certainty settled in your stomach — heavy and inevitable.

Because James Potter had never lost.

And somehow, you didn’t think this time would be an exception.

THE DAY LEADING UP TO THE FINAL MATCH FLEW BY FASTER THAN THE GOLDEN SNITCH IN THE DYING MOMENTS OF GAME.

James was a blur of scarlet and gold, barely more than a passing shadow in your periphery. You caught glimpses of him at breakfast — hair even messier than usual, eyes alight with that reckless, competitive fire — before he was gone again, dashing out to the Quidditch pitch to practice some new, impossible maneuver.

He was taking your bet far too seriously.

And you hated the way your stomach clenched at the thought.

By the time the match arrived, the air at the Quidditch stadium was thick with tension and the unmistakable electric hum of anticipation. The whole school had turned out, huddled together under the late spring sky, the Gryffindor stands an unbroken wave of red and gold. And you — against all better judgment — were sitting among them, wrapped in James’s scarf, the same one he’d tossed around your shoulders before the game with an infuriating grin.

"For good luck," he’d said, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then, lowering his voice, he’d added, "Enjoy the view, sweetheart. After I win, you’re in for the most unforgettable date of your life."

Cocky bastard.

Now, watching the game unfold, you realized with a sinking feeling in your chest that James hadn’t been bluffing.

Gryffindor wasn’t just winning.

They were annihilating Slytherin.

And James — Merlin help you — was everywhere.

He weaved through the air with impossible speed, dodging Bludgers with infuriating ease, stealing the Quaffle like it had never belonged to anyone else, and scoring goal after goal as the Slytherins scrambled to keep up.

Then, just because he could, he banked his broom hard, looped right past the Gryffindor stands, and — of course — paused just long enough to wink at you before somersaulting through the air and landing another goal.

Show-off.

You scowled. The worst part was, it was impressive.

By the time the final whistle blew, Gryffindor had obliterated Slytherin by at least a hundred points. The stands exploded — cheers ringing through the stadium, banners waving wildly, students practically falling over themselves in celebration.

Amid the chaos, James ripped off his helmet, ran a hand through his already wind-wrecked hair, and turned — scanning the crowd, searching.

His gaze found yours in an instant.

And then he winked.

Smug. Smug, insufferable bastard.

The taste of defeat curled bitter on your tongue as you shot to your feet, yanking James’s scarf tighter around your neck before storming toward the exit.

Behind you, James’s name was being shouted from every direction, his teammates tackling him in celebration, the crowd chanting in triumph.

And yet — somehow — you knew his eyes were still on you.

You may have lost the bet.

But you weren’t about to make this easy for him.

THE COLD NIGHT AIR CURLED AROUND YOU LIKE AN OLD FRIEND, slipping through the courtyard’s stone archways and brushing against your skin. You leaned back against the weathered wall, staring up at the sky as the first stars flickered into existence — tiny, distant lights swallowed by the vast darkness above. This was your sanctuary, your quiet refuge from the chaos that raged inside Gryffindor Tower.

And tonight, there was plenty of chaos.

Sirius had cranked up the music, turning the common room into a swaying, smoke-filled mess of bodies. The scent of butterbeer and firewhiskey clung to the air, laughter rang out over the sound of a badly tuned guitar, and James — bloody James Potter — was undoubtedly at the center of it all, basking in his victory like the smug, overgrown golden retriever he was.

You had slipped away the first chance you got. You never did well with crowds, especially after a match like that. The noise, the movement, the suffocating heat of so many people in one space — it was too much. You preferred the quiet, the stillness.

But, of course, James Potter never let you have nice things.

You sensed him before he spoke — his presence a familiar, buzzing warmth in the air. And knowing this, he didn’t waste any time.

“So,” came his voice, smooth and laced with amusement. “About that date.”

You sighed, long and dramatic, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. He stood in front of you, still wearing that victorious grin, hair a tousled mess from the game, his uniform untucked like he had just thrown his robes aside before heading out to find you.

"I suppose I did agree to this," you mused, drawing out the words.

James nodded eagerly. “You did agree.”

You hummed, pretending to think. “Alright, then. You can take me to Hogsmeade this weekend.”

James beamed, already straightening up. “Brilliant! I’ll pick you up at—”

“But,” you interjected, holding up a single finger, “only if you prove that you’re worth my time.”

James halted mid-sentence. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and his hand came up to scratch the back of his head — his signature I-don’t-like-not-knowing-things move.

For a split second, he looked adorably confused, like a puppy who’d just been denied a treat. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“What does that mean?” he finally asked, narrowing his eyes at you in suspicion.

You shrugged, pushing off the wall. “Let’s see how dedicated you are, Potter.”

His lips curled into a lopsided grin as he folded his arms across his chest. “Are you testing me?”

“Obviously.”

You took a step closer, your head tilting slightly as you met his gaze. His brown eyes gleamed under the soft glow of torchlight, catching every flicker of warmth from the flames. The moment stretched, charged with something unspoken, something electric.

Then you exhaled, a small cloud of condensation forming in the night air, and added, "Think of this as a trial."

James let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Merlin, you’re a menace.”

You smirked. “What, afraid you won’t be able to impress me?”

James didn’t falter. If anything, he leaned in, closing the space between you just enough that you caught the scent of his cologne — something warm, like cedar and a hint of cinnamon.

Your breath hitched when his fingers brushed against your cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

His voice dropped, smooth as velvet. “Oh, sweetheart, I know I can make an impression on you.”

Your heart lurched, traitorous thing that it was.

For a moment, just one moment, you were completely caught in his orbit. Your eyes flickered to his lips — damn him for standing so close, for smelling so good, for looking at you like that. Heat crept up your spine, and you nearly leaned into him, nearly—

But then you recovered.

Rolling your eyes, you stepped past him, shoulders brushing as you went. “We’ll see, Potter.”

And with that, you left him standing there, his victorious smile turning into something else entirely — something intrigued, something thrilled.

James Potter lived for a challenge.

And Merlin, you had just given him one.

JAMES POTTER TRIED.

He tried so hard.

It started small. He brought you textbooks between classes, even the ones you definitely didn’t need, just so he had an excuse to linger. He saved a seat for you at breakfast, nudging aside a stunned first-year with a casual, “Sorry, mate — reserved.”

Then, he got bolder.

A bouquet of daisies — enchanted to float in perfect formation — drifted onto your desk in Transfiguration, twirling in the air before settling neatly beside your parchment. You watched them with narrowed eyes as James, sitting two rows back, shot you a wink.

At one point, he even physically shoved Peeves aside when the poltergeist attempted to douse you in ink. “Bugger off, Peevesy,” James said cheerfully while you stared, half-impressed, half-mortified.

It was cute. It was infuriating.

The final straw?

A stunning display of desperation: an entire stash of Chocolate Frogs left on your bed, stacked like a damn shrine to your stubbornness.

That was it. Enough was enough.

That evening, you stormed into the Gryffindor common room, where James lounged on the couch with Sirius and Remus. Sirius was draped across the armrest, half-asleep, while Remus read with an air of deep patience, no doubt enduring whatever nonsense James had been spouting for the last hour.

James looked up as you approached, his brown eyes wide, pupils dilating like a puppy seeing its favorite person walk through the door. The firelight caught in his glasses, flickering gold against the lenses. It was annoyingly reminiscent of the night you had made this stupid bet, and that alone made you want to hex something.

He blinked. “Uh—”

Before you could think twice — before your pride could scream turn around and flee — you grabbed him by the front of his shirt, yanked him up to his feet, and kissed him.

The room went completely still.

The kiss was quick but firm, proof of your surrender, of your utter defeat at the hands of James bloody Potter. His lips were warm and slightly chapped from the cold, and for the first time all week, he wasn’t talking. When you pulled away, James looked thoroughly wrecked — eyes wide, lips parted, hair even more disheveled than usual.

Sirius, naturally, ruined the moment.

“Finally,” he muttered with a long-suffering sigh.

James, still stunned, exhaled sharply. “Damn it.”

You huffed, flustered beyond belief. “You’ve won. Come back tomorrow at two. Bye.”

And with that, you spun on your heel, eager to escape before your brain caught up with what had just happened. But James, damn his Quidditch reflexes, recovered faster than you did. His hand caught your wrist before you had taken a full step, and in one smooth motion, he pulled you right back into his chest.

A disgruntled noise escaped your lips as you landed against him.

James grinned down at you, his voice low and maddeningly smug. “Oh, I know.”

You glared up at him, rolling your eyes so hard they might have fallen out of your head — but your lips twitched, betraying you. James saw it, of course. Smug bastard.

Without missing a beat, he tugged you down onto the couch beside him, tucking you against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arm settled around your waist, warm and comfortable, and when he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, you swore your heart forgot how to function.

Sirius groaned. “Great. Now we have to deal with this.”

Remus, without looking up from his book, simply hummed. “Called it.”

James ignored them entirely, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against your hip as he returned to whatever ridiculous conversation they had been having before you stormed in.

You didn’t move away.

After all, a bet was a bet.

hey-hey! <3

thank you so much for taking the time to read my work — it truly means the world to me. if you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts! comments, likes, and reblogs not only make my day but also inspire me to keep writing. seriously, every little bit of support fuels my motivation!

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thanks again for being here — you’re amazing!

                                     – your santi 🪐

masterlist

[sttoru]

·.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. you leave megumi with your husband so you can make them breakfast. you quickly realise that that might have backfired.

wc. around 1.3k

tags. dad!toji x wife!female reader. fluff. reader gets called ‘mama’ by both toji & megumi. half beta read.

“ow, careful there, brat.”

your husband’s deep voice echoes from within the bathroom. you’ve left megumi in his care this morning so you’d be able to make breakfast in peace. toji was all grumpy about it, since he had to wake up early when he had no work, but eventually agreed to your proposal.

you hum your favorite song while frying eggs. the sizzling in the pan did help avert your attention from toji’s grunts of annoyance somewhere in the distance, though only for a couple seconds. your hear your child’s laughter slip between the noises of aggravation. it piques your interest.

“one more time and i’m putting y’r ass in time out,” toji’s deep voice sounds muffled. he sounds rather serious about whatever is bothering him.

you turn the stove off and walk towards the hallway, standing at the doorframe as you look in the direction of the bathroom. you tilt your head and try your best to pick up on snippets of the conversation between your husband and son.

the sound of bottles dropping on the floor is the first thing that allows you to guess that megumi’s acting up. you know how mischievous your little toddler can get, especially at his age. toji isn’t one to gentle parent his kid—he tries to, of course, but sometimes he can’t help but be a bit rough.

“megumi fushiguro.”

you raise your eyebrows as toji uses your child’s full name. he rarely does, only when he’s really upset or about to lose his marbles. you decide to see what was going on for yourself. you walk towards the bathroom, cleaning your hands against the material of your apron. you knock once before pushing the door open.

you stick your head through the little gap, ready to identify the cause of the commotion. the first thing you notice is the chaos on the floor; bottles, tubes, toothbrushes, and all other kinds of products lay cluttered on the bathroom tiles.

your eyes then land on your husband’s broad and scarred back, “hey, honey. did something hap—”

your voice trails off once toji turns around, revealing the jaw dropping scene. nearly his entire face is covered in loads of shaving cream and even his black hair hasn’t escaped the soft foam.

the bathroom counter is completely wet, and the water runs down the edges in small drops. the culprit of this entire scene is sitting right on that same counter, clapping his dirty hands together that were smeared with toji’s shaving cream.

you blink and walk towards the two. you can’t possibly be mad at the sight, finding toji’s situation more funny than worrisome. You try to act serious and clear your throat, “uh, yeah. so what’s happened here?”

your husband rolls his eyes and nods his head at the little boy in front of him, who’s giggling and kicking his legs. toji tries to wipe the shaving cream from his nose, attempting to get it out of his hair as well, “i tried to be a good dad and include him in my morning routine, that’s what.”

the man clicks his tongue as he now realises how dumb of a mistake that was, “gave him the opportunity to put some shaving foam on my jaw ‘n the brat totally blew it. started attackin’ me with the stuff.”

toji grumbles. he wipes away the foam that got on the mirror afterwards. it’s nearly gotten everywhere. he lightly nudges megumi’s forehead with a scoff, “never again, y’hear? the little shit can’t sit still for even one second.”

that explains the stuff on the floor. you know that megumi could grow bored easily if he isn’t the centre of attention. he’d start doing anything to be the focus of his parents. toji probably didn’t pay him much mind, wanting to get his morning routine over with.

“language, honey.” you sigh and look down at megumi who’s still reaching his messy hands up to his dad.

toji huffs and leans back, not giving the little boy a chance to put more shaving cream on his face. he’s learnt his lesson; kids do not understand it when you tell them to ‘only put a little bit’.

megumi whines and threatens to throw a tantrum. you notice that immediately and try to keep his mind off things by picking him up. you turn on the faucet and try to wash his little hands, “c’mon. give mama your hands.”

the little boy shakes his head furiously, squirming in your embrace in attempt to get away. you sigh and grab his little wrists gently. you lower him to the sink, trying your best to wash away the shaving cream as the first step of solving this grande mess.

“no, mama!” megumi is stubborn as he voices his complains. toji watches from a distance whilst he struggles to clean the overload of shaving cream from his face.

you make the mistake of letting go of your child’s wrists to grab a washcloth. megumi takes his chance and pats his messy hands against your face, leaving you no space to process what he’s doing.

your mind takes a second before you realise what’s happening, “hey! quit it, ‘gumi.”

you try to grab ahold of megumi’s tiny hands again, but they move too fast for you. plus, he’s pretty skilled at avoiding yours. you can feel the foam slowly cover your entire face; from your jaw and cheeks, to your nose and forehead.

it was inevitable at this point.

“toji, do something,” you grunt and struggle to contain the energetic toddler in your arms. you take a peek at your husband and find him grinning at the predicament you’ve gotten yourself in.

toji simply shrugs and enjoys the fact that you’re experiencing exactly what he had experienced just moments ago. seeing you struggle to contain your disobedient child only proves that his parenting skills are not the problem in this situation, your toddler is.

“ye did that to y’rself, mama.” toji hums in amusement. he leans against the wall, the blue towel now loosely hanging off head after he’s given up on getting the foam out of his hair, “now y’know what i’m talkin’ about. he’s a lil’ monster.”

megumi squeals in victory after he’s gotten both his parents covered in shaving cream. you want to say something to your child, but you’re at a loss for words. even now, you cannot bring yourself to be mad at him. he’s just a kid who’s having fun with his parents.

“i made mama pretty! hehe.” megumi grins and encourages you to look in the mirror. he points at your reflection and awaits the words of confirmation. his blue eyes look up at you, nearly sparkling with joy, admiring how pretty he’s made you look with that white foam all over your face.

toji joins in on the fun. he comes to stand behind you, looking at you through the mirror. he snickers, already forgotten about his irritations that occurred in the first place. he nods in approval at megumi’s words, “gotta agree, son. y’r mama looks much prettier like this.”

your husband’s teasing comment adds fuel to the fire. though again, you cannot bring yourself to be upset at the situation.

you look at the reflection in the dirty mirror. you all may appear disheveled due to the foamy mess on your bodies—and yet even at that moment—the only thing you actually manage to see is a happy family of three.

[astrolook]

🔥 Synastry Myths That Need to Die (Or at Least Be Roasted) 🔥

Because people act like one Venus square Mars = toxic disaster, while a chart full of trines = fairy-tale romance (hint: neither is true). Let’s break down some biggest synastry myths and how to actually interpret them. 👀✨

🚫 MYTH #1: Squares and Oppositions in Synastry = Relationship Problems? Nah, That’s Just Spicy Drama. 🔥😈

🔥Reality: No, they keep it interesting. A little conflict is necessary to keep things engaging, otherwise, y’all will be bored to death in six months.

🔹 Sun square Moon – Keeps things dynamic—you challenge each other emotionally and grow in the process. Passionate debates turn into deep emotional bonding. It could feel like you live in two different emotional worlds sometimes. 🔹 Venus square Mars – Enemies to lovers. Like a slow-burn romance novel where neither of you admits your feelings until you’re in too deep. Fights can get heated and so as passion. 🔹 Mercury opposite Mercury – Mentally stimulates each other a lot. Never boring.

💡 A mix of soft and hard aspects is 🔑. Too much "ease" = stagnation. A little friction? Sexy and exciting.

🗣️Some of y’all are out here begging for a “perfect” relationship, but are you sure you want one that feels like watching paint dry?

🚫 MYTH #2: Too Many Conjunctions = Soulmate Energy! Nah, You're dating yourself!

🔥Reality: Or suffocating as hell. Y’all might as well be the same person, which sounds cute until it’s not.

🔹 Sun conjunct Sun – "Omg, we’re so alike!" Yeah, for now. But do you really want a partner that mirrors you 24/7? 🔹 Moon conjunct Moon – Emotional twins, but can become too comfortable. Who’s pushing who to grow? 🔹 Venus conjunct Venus – Great for shared aesthetic and love language, but too similar = potential complacency.

💡Some conjunctions? Great. But throw in a few oppositions (for balance) and squares (for energy), or you might end up dating yourself.

🗣️You ever had a bestie you LOVED but couldn’t be around too long because y’all were literally the same person? That’s what too many conjunctions feel like in a relationship.

🚫 MYTH #3: "Saturn in Synastry = Restrictive. No, It's Just A Commitment Test!

🔥Reality: Without Saturn, relationships fall apart. The real problem isn’t Saturn—it’s immaturity.

🔹 Saturn conjunct Moon – Can feel like parent/child dynamics, but if handled well? Deep emotional security. This is forever. 🔹 Saturn opposite Venus – Challenges in expressing affection, but also high commitment potential when worked through. 🔹 Saturn trine Mars – Passion with stability—this is the "we still find each other sexy at 80" type of aspect. Slow and steady passion.

💡 If you have Saturn in synastry, embrace the responsibility but set boundaries so it doesn’t feel suffocating.

🗣️Saturn isn’t the fun drunk at the party, it’s the sober friend keeping you from texting your ex. You need that sometimes.

🚫 MYTH #4: Venus-Mars = Everlasting Passion? More Like a Telenovela.

🔥Reality: Yes, it’s hot at first—but will you even like each other in five years?

🔹 Venus conjunct Mars – 🔥 Chemistry? Through the roof. Emotional compatibility? That depends. 🔹 Venus opposite Mars – Can flip between passionate and exhausting, depending on how you handle conflict. 🔹 Venus square Mars – The sexual tension is wild, sparks fly in all directions. It's an exciting aspect.

💡If you’ve got Venus-Mars magic, add some Moon, Mercury, or Saturn connections so it’s not just lust with an expiration date.

🗣️Chemistry can only carry a relationship so far—do y’all actually like each other outside the bedroom?

🚫 MYTH #5: Moon Sign Compatibility = Everything? Okay, But Can You Communicate?

🔥Reality: Yes, emotional compatibility is important. But have you tried... actually communicating?

🔹 Moon trine Mercury – Emotional understanding and easy conversations (a great underrated aspect). 🔹 Moon opposite Mars – One is moody, the other is impatient. Passionate emotions and spicy debates. 🔹 Moon conjunct Saturn – Deep emotional security, but can also feel heavy or restrictive.

💡Don’t just look at Moons—how do your Mercury, Venus, and Saturn interact? Emotional security is great, but if y’all can’t communicate, it’s pointless.

🗣️Just because you both like to cry during sad movies doesn’t mean you’re soulmates.

🚫 MYTH #6: Twin Flames Can Be Seen in Synastry!

🔥Reality: No. Astrology does not confirm Twin Flames. Stop it.

🔹 North Node conjunct personal planets – Yes, this feels fated, but not every karmic relationship is "meant to be." 🔹 Pluto aspects (especially Venus or Moon) – Yes, this is intense and life-changing—but it can also be obsessive and toxic. 🔹 Vertex aspects – Yes, these can feel destined, but that doesn’t mean it’s permanent.

💡If a relationship is healthy, growing, and balanced, that’s what matters more than any hyped-up label.

🗣️Just because someone feels "fated" doesn’t mean they’re your forever person. Sometimes, the lesson is letting go.

💖 Want to know what the stars say about your love life? 💖

Whether it’s soulmate potential, karmic lessons, or long-term compatibility, I dive deep into your unique synastry & composite charts and let's see what the cosmos has in store for you! 🌙💫💖

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[reignpage]

Frat Boy!Gojo

Estrella Damm: don't drink and run

Contents: general dumbassery, cursing, slight sexual language, violence, lots of cursing, wrote this high so idk if this even makes sense, I'll reread it and let you know whether its bs lol

It’s the same scene again. 

Three guys are circling you, laughing so irritatingly, and you’re just sitting there, doing your very best to shrug them off. The park is empty, it usually is at 3pm and especially these days with the nippy weather. Whenever Gojo strolls along the place to get to campus, he sees you resting on a bench, watching the tree branches sway above the pond. 

You’re hard to miss. 

A mass of black like an omen amongst the peace of nature, a blob of ink on a Monet, and he sees you everywhere. It’s funny, he thinks, how prior to the announcement of the engagement during the summer, he had never seen you on campus before. 

He can’t fathom how it was possible that he missed you. You stand out so badly, all eyes are on you everywhere you go. What with your lace frocks, thick platform boots, and terrifying piercings. 

You’re rolling your eyes at the lanky guy in front of you, thin lips curling over yellow teeth to snarl insipid insults that the other two chortle at. You just wanted a peaceful break in between your lectures, to take in the fresh autumn air, and watch people pass. But then again the universe has never really liked you. That became abundantly clear when your parents threw the news at you.

Was Nietzsche right?

So now you’re stuck watching disgusting idiots pick up a layer of your dress, mocking the fabric as if it’s something cheap. Little do they know.

“Where’s the funeral, hot stuff?”

You cringe. It’s the repulsive roll of his tongue, the way he flashes you a grin as if he’s such a catch and you should be happy he’s giving you any kind of attention. He probably thinks of himself as something akin to a wolf, wild and feral in the sexiest way, but from where you’re sitting, he more closely resembles a rabid hyena, slobbering all over itself. 

His breath surely smells like it too. 

Exasperated, you stand, snatching your dress from their grimy hands and sneer, “Don’t touch me, you ugly trolls.”

They don’t like that. 

Just as you’re stepping away, someone grabs your hair with a harsh pull and you gasp, tears brimming in your eyes from the burn on your scalp. Whoever has your hair drags you back to him, his face too close to yours, and you can see every pore, every hair, and you resist the urge to gag at the feeling of his breath skimming your skin. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are, you prissy little pri—“ 

Before he can finish his sentence, a hand is gripping his wrist, wrestling it back at an awkward angle, forcing his body to follow suit. He yelps and you stumble back on the bench, rubbing at your head. 

Your heartbeat is galloping like crazy, air robbed from your lungs and you’re rearing back to see a white-haired man looming over all of you with a menacing grin.

Gojo looks terrifying. 

A shiver claws up your spine, fear prickling your skin, and it feels as if the park had just become colder, dropping into the negatives. There’s something devoid of light in his eyes and it knocks you off balance. You’re dazed and his withering look full of disdain and contempt isn’t even targeted towards you.

"You guys again?"

The sheer revulsion, the abhorrence and loathing seeping through his words creates a flurry of shame through you all. You see it in the flush that reddens one’s guys face, and in the deep gulp the second one makes. It’s as if you’ve committed a fundamental wrong, like the whole affair was an abomination that he had happened to stumble upon.

He’s still twisting the guy’s arm back and ignoring the broken moans coming from him, choosing instead to direct his ice cold stare at the other two guys. They stand uneasily, glancing between each other as if deciding what to do. Seeing the resolve in the newcomer’s eyes, and the promise of pain, they grab at their friend and hastily walk away, not sparing a glance back. 

Not even at you, like you were never there to begin with. 

Huffing, you stand up, brushing imaginary dirt from the skirt of your dress and muttering a reluctant ‘thanks’ to Gojo. He’s studying you, sunglasses hanging low on his nose bridge so he can look at you over them. 

What kind of idiot wears sunglasses when there's no sun?

He doesn’t say a word and you begin to feel uncertain. 

The man before you is a mystery. You don’t know what he’s thinking. One minute he hates you and has declared you public enemy number one and the next he’s defending you from slimy perverts.

What is wrong with him?

Sure, you’re glad he didn’t just leave you to fend for yourself but you also wish he just left as soon as he came so you wouldn't have to deal with the awkward aftermath. Now, you’re left staring at him waiting for a stupid comment to come. 

But it doesn’t. 

“Got something to say?”

Your voice is snarky, but wavers just ever so slightly, the effects of the shock still coursing your veins. Gojo doesn’t flinch, he just shrugs and gives you one final look over, before he’s stalking off, long legs carrying him away like he was just strolling past to begin with. 

One step for him is like three for you. 

You begin walking too. And you scowl when he looks back at you over his shoulder, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets, swinging his crazy long legs like a giraffe.

Why does he walk like that?

“You following me?” 

His tone is so disgustingly arrogant you feel a sudden urge to whack him over the head with your boots. But you don’t. Because your boots are limited edition and much too pretty to scuff up with his ugly face.

Not to mention your parents would kill you, and so would his, probably. And maybe even the entire campus. 

Because according to the 'Bulletin' and this so called ‘List’ Gojo introduced you to, your fiancé is apparently the most beloved man in EdenU. Known for being friendly, approachable, charitable and charismatic, everyone either wants to be friends with Gojo, date Gojo or be Gojo. 

Having read every single piece written by some girl with poor tastes in men, clearly, you realise that there must be something wrong with the entire student population-- and even the staff, if the blushing some lecturers do when he passes is anything to go by. There are direct quotes from people detailing first-hand experiences with Gojo’s ‘kindness’, with how he took the time out of his day to give directions, helped an old lady cross the street, claps at the end of lectures as an expression of gratitude.

Classic bourgeoisie propaganda.

How could anyone consider him as a) a good guy, and b) a hot one?

That question has been bothering you for about a week now. And it continues to do so as he looks at you like you're bothering him.

You speed walk, pumping your legs as hard as you can so you can glide by him. Who’s following who now?

It’s petty, you know that. But for whatever reason, the guy just brings out that bitter child inside of you, the one that wants to be mean, to spit back as good as you get, and to put him in his place. 

Because clearly, the campus gossip has gotten to his head. 

You hear him scoff before he starts speed-walking beside you. It looks effortless on him. What a prick. 

His jacket brushes against you and you recoil, aghast that his bacteria touched you. With a new wave of determination, you begin jogging. It’s the most exercise you’ve gotten in years but it’s so worth it to see him jog as well. 

“Give it up, I’m way faster than you.”

Wordlessly, you jog a little faster every time he does.

“Surprised to see you sober enough to walk in a park,” you voiced with a taunting tone.

Gojo retorts, just as quick, “And I’m surprised you’re out in broad daylight.”

Dodging fallen branches and puddles, you leap and clutch your dress, lifting the thick skirt so your legs can push and push. There is no way you'll lose to the likes of him. You just need to reach the park edge, where grass meets concrete, and once you pass it, you'll claim victory.

Huffing, you barb, “I’m sure you like the weather just fine, right, Periwinkle?”

He snorts. “That must make you Vidia.”

“She’s hot so I’ll take that.”

Throwing you a side glance, he rolls his eyes and maintained, with a singsong voice, “Silvermist is hotter.”

Eventually, you’re both running through the park, overtaking each other in a give and take, and you grin every time you get the best of him by cutting corners. You know this park like the back of your hand. The cool wind doesn’t even register on your skin, adrenaline urging you forward, winding along the path and dodging bystanders who look on with half confusion and half amusement. 

This is probably the most excitement this park has seen in years.

Gojo doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed. 

"Move, you're in my way, Eric Draven," he jab, not even slightly breath.

You sneer.

"No, you're in my way, Johnny Bravo."

You screech when a sudden force knocks you into a hedge. Sharp twigs poke at you, you struggle to gain footing against the mud, and you flail your arms. Your hair is caught, so is the lace of your dress, like a moth trapped in a spiderweb.

The motherfucker shoved you.

He actually shoved you.

Gojo's staring, with his mouth gaping, at his hand and then at you and then back to his hand, like he didn't mean to push you, like his body just moved on its own. And you see him take a step, hands stretching out to reach for you.

The fucking dick is so childish you don’t feel any guilt when you grab him by his jacket and yank. He falls with laugh like he had been anticipating your revenge, a light and airy sort of chortle, so childlike and youthful it almost makes you smile. Almost, because then you're both going quiet when he lands on top of you. 

That wasn't very well thought out.

You’re both angled slightly back on the thick hedge, so out of breath, the tiny branches prick at you both, leaves no doubt catching on your dress. Gojo’s holding his body weight, trying to find his footing on the wet grass but struggling to press his hands on anywhere concrete. Your legs are tangled, hips pinned to each other, and your hands are clinging to his jacket so you don’t fall deeper. 

“Woah,” he breathes out, panting slightly, “you want me this badly?”

Your frown deepens until you’re sure your lips will stay stuck in that position. He really just can’t help himself. It’s like it’s in his DNA to say something stupidly arrogant just to avoid the silence. With a grunt, you try to push him off you, feet kicking. The fucker is heavy. And he doesn’t even look like he’s trying. 

Gojo smells clean and you hate it. He smells like fresh laundry and sea salt and fluffy clouds. With every movement you make against each other, you become more aware of his broad shoulders and narrow hips. It’s like he’s got a sleeper build. His chest is firm beneath your palms and  your face is buried in his neck, feeling his Adam’s apple bob. 

“Move, fat ass,” you say through gritted teeth. 

He makes a sound of indignation, “Fat ass? Me? How dare you! I don't calorie count for nothing.”

Always fucking joking, the little shit.

You shove at his chest. “Move, Gojo, I swear to God.”

"Yeah, yeah. I'm trying," he huffs and puffs, clambering away, and then he adds, like he just cannot fucking help himself, "Siouxsie Sioux."

With awkward shuffles and uncomfortable twists and turns, you both manage to free yourselves. There’s a blush on both of your faces, yours is certainly from anger, raging at the sudden turn of events and the sheer humiliation at falling, and ashamed that you had stooped to his level and raced him, like a toddler. 

What the fuck is wrong with you?

You were raised better. For goodness sake, your mother would keel over and die if she saw you sprinting in a park, almost pushing an old lady out of the way just to beat your fiancé. God, you hate calling him that.

And you hate to admit even more that you might have actually enjoyed it.

Catharsis, that’s all it was.

Just a physical and mental need to let out the pressure building up from months of the most restrictive schedule, with the frequent dinners with stuffy guests, the constant handshaking and ass kissing, the indignity of it all.

Sometimes you wished you could be Murakami's Ice Man, maybe then you could rise above these petty emotions and let nothing bother you. But you aren’t free of your past. You’re defined by it.

Gojo isn’t meeting your eyes. He’s settled on adjusting his clothes and sunglasses, plucking leaves from his jacket, mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something. But you don’t let him. You dash past and ignore his existence, like you should have done from the beginning, and head to your lecture. 

Your hands are clenching and unclenching, neck creaking as you try to relieve the tension wound so tightly in your body you’re afraid you might combust. Everything about this is wrong. 

An engagement with Gojo is one thing, but to like the feel of his body on you, is a whole other thing. It’s stupid and it’s dangerous. Just like your mother said, emotions have no place in a marriage. You only need respect, and sometimes not even that. And as much as you hate her Machiavellian attitudes to life, you understand. You need a husband who'll mind his own business. Gojo is not that kind of man.

The guy refused to be friends, despite the many opportunities and chances you had granted him, so you won't do yourself the disservice of seeking a friendship.

You will not let the ‘hottest guy on campus’ sway you. His charming grins and arrogant comebacks will not warm your chest, and his muscular frame will definitely not haunt your dreams. There’s too much riding on this arrangement, on you. You cannot be distracted.

Man might be condemned to be free, but that doesn't apply to women. Not women like you, anyways. Thanks for nothing, Sartre.

Those are the thoughts you come away with from the encounter. 

Gojo, on the other hand, is still standing where you left him, hand rubbing his chest whilst lost in thought. His head is tilted, sunglasses hanging low on his nose bridge again as he watches your retreating figure. 

It’s kinda hard to see your features through the pile of black clothing and accessories, but having been close enough to rub noses, he realised, you’re pretty. The kind of pretty that would inspire art, not that he knows much about that.

He licks his lips and he swears he can taste the sweetness of your scent lingering, and when he looks down on his chest, he also swears he felt the unmistakable sensation of small metal balls scraping at him through his thin jacket. 

A Cheshire grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. He stuffs his hands in his pockets once more and carries on walking at a leisurely pace, a slight pep in his steps gained from a victory over a game he didn’t even realise he was playing. He strolls to class with just one thought filling his mind. 

My future wifey’s got nipple piercings.

[yuwuta]

mine. — inumaki toge

❝i just wanna say you’re mine, you’re mine; fuck what you heard, you’re mine, you’re mine.

000. inumaki toge + reader

001. fluff, non-curse/college au, slightly suggestive but barely, inumaki uses sign language and speaks like two actual verbal words

002. baby sized drabble, barely even 1k words

Toge would consider himself patient. He doesn’t mind waiting in long lines for the release of a new game, has no problem when the trains are delayed because it means he can sit and relax in the station a little longer, can sit for hours on end doing nothing and not be bored—but his tolerance for watching other people mess with his girlfriend is extremely low.

He reasons that you continue the conversation because you think it’s merely friend and polite to do so, and you’ve always been such a pleasantly happy drunk. But Toge knows this conversation isn’t friendly on the other end—and it’s not some protective boyfriend instinct, either, he has solid evidence of this idiot talking about you to his other idiot friend in front of Toge during lecture, with no knowledge that he was behind them, or that you are very not single.

(“She’s gorgeous, bro, look,” the kid muses, showing his friend your Instagram profile, “She’s in my bioethics class, and she’s easily the hottest girl. Smart, too. Little bit of a teacher’s pet, but I don’t care, she’s beautiful. A solid eight, for sure.”)

Toge knows that if this guy ever got his head out of his ass and ever bucked up the balls to actually ask you out instead of using roundabout flirting tactics and hopelessly pining over you during lectures, that you’d turn him down. He isn’t worried about losing you, and he doesn’t doubt your love for him. It does, however, concern him that there are people who believe they have a shot with you in the first place. He can’t possibly let that carry on. 

(Also, an eight? How could this guy call you beautiful, but say you’re an eight? It doesn’t equate—Toge doesn’t believe in rating women, but you’re not an eight. You’re a fifteen on a scale of one to ten; a shining star amongst a sea of planets; the love of his life). 

His fuse is about to blow when the guy touches you, reaches for your hair and carefully twirls a bit between his fingers. He knows that move; he knows the excuse was probably that there was something stuck to your hair, but Toge didn’t see shit. He’s had enough, and promptly bulldozes through Maki’s small apartment to reach you. He’s not sure if he’s making a ruckus, or if you can sense him coming, but you turn your head in his direction, a smile spreading on your face before cheering, “Hey, Toge! Do you—”

You’re cut off by a tug on your shirt, firm and impatient—but you’re not moving yet, not quick enough, so he does it again. Your eyes seem to light up with realization. You turn back to acknowledge the boy, and that’s really when Toge really loses it. All he hears is the stupid, desperate pitch of the kid’s voice sputtering out something about finding you later and grabbing drinks for you both, even as Toge’s dragging you through the crowd.

You let yourself be pulled by Toge’s greedy hand. It’s not all that far, just into a corner of the hallway, next to a closet where Maki keeps her cleaning and kickboxing supplies. He’s tempted to pull you into her bedroom, but he’s not up for being bruised for a week. 

“You okay?” you question, voice sweet and genuine—and it makes him grimace, because you really didn’t have a clue. Not one at all. 

Toge huffs, drops your hand to sign; using his left hand to circle around his face slowly, tapping at his chin. You understand, but only partially, given the slight tilt of your head and question that follows, “Beautiful? That’s why you’re upset?” 

He blinks slowly, shaking his head and flailing his arms in the direction of the living room. You follow his hands, down the hall then back to his face, but he can tell you still don’t get it. He tries again, pointing to you, then repeating his previous sign and adding another, and he can see the realization spread across your face, followed shortly by a bashful chuckle. 

“Too pretty? Me?” you ask to confirm. Toge nods his head, all serious and steely eyes, but you throw yours back with a hearty laugh this time. He crinkles his eyebrows, repeating his initial signs this time. Hdoesn’t know what’s so funny, if you’re laughing because you’re flattered or you find him ridiculous or something in between, but Toge means it either way; wants to ingrain it into you, just how beautiful you are.

So, he raises his hands again, when your eyes have met him again, and goes slower this time—pulls his mask down for good measure, so you can read his expression more clearly—to sign one simple word: “Mine.”

You tilt your head to the side again, and now Toge is the one laughing. He thinks you might be a little more drunk than you’ve let on, or maybe you just want him to indulge you. Either way, he has no problem repeating himself, doesn’t mind telling you again and again and again. 

He takes a step forward, leaving mere inches between you. You seem much smaller than him like this, still giggling, but he doesn’t mind. Toge reaches for your rest again, turning your palm upward and using a single finger to trace the letters of the word “mine,” onto your skin.

Your laughter comes to a halt when you verbalize his words, “Mine?” Toge nods, turning your wrist again to lace your hands together, pushes yours against the wall, uses his free one to cradle your cheek. He adores the way your pupils get bigger, the way your lips part slightly in anticipation. It’s his turn to smile, pulling you towards him for a kiss and ghosting his words over your lips, “You’re mine.”

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Hi! I was wondering if you happen to have any advice for writing smut that *doesn’t* sound like a teenager posting to Wattpad? 😅

before we start, I’d like to say that these are all just what I personally do with my writing / how I personally write. these are not “rules” and if you disagree with them, that is totally fine!

also, there’s going to be explicit language moving forward so you may scroll past this post if (written) porn isn’t your thing! 18+ content ahead!

let’s begin with the focus of your story. instead of focusing solely on “the action”, you can try focusing on “the feelings” too. how the characters are feeling as they’re being intimate with each other. in other words, instead of focusing on the “physical” aspects, try focusing on the “emotional / mental” parts and the “feelings” too. so that your characters also feel something else that isn’t just shallow arousal (obviously, there’s nothing wrong with being so horny that nothing else matters, if that’s your goals then go for it, what I’m saying is sometimes sex can be about something else that isn’t merely the act of coupling, if you get what I mean? the “porn with feelings” tag on AO3 is there for a reason and, yes, porn with feelings can get you just as aroused if not more!)

for instance, instead of “he roughly shoved his entire dick inside her pussy, grabbed her boob with one hand, the other steadied her hip, before he started thrusting and moaning”. you could try “he wasn’t being gentle when he pushed his length inside, feeling her body yield and surrender, engulfing him in one confident thrust. with one hand on her breast, the other on her hip to keep her still, he began moving, making love and declaring to his wife his fidelity in an ecstatic moan.”

how you describe your characters’ private parts affects the mood / vibes your readers get from your work too. I personally prefer using “cock / cunt” to “dick / pussy” because for me, the first set of pairing sounds sexier, more raw and more “mature”, while the latter just gives off the vibes of horny and mindless teenagers instead, which might only be a personal opinion and preference of mine!

that being said, the trick is that you don’t always have to use the exact, direct words over and over again while talking about the genitals. using “cock” sounds sexy and all, but using the word “cock” three times in the same sentence can feel like you’re trying a little too hard to make your readers know this is smut. they already know. and they know what the character is stroking.

sometimes the trick lies in the implication and indirectness of how you describe your scenes. sometimes it sounds more hot to, instead of directly saying what the characters are doing, use implication and metaphor to tell your readers what the characters are doing.

for instance, instead of “he pushed his big, big cock inside her and felt the walls of her cunt squeeze his cock, so he stayed still for a while to savor the feeling of her cunt around his cock before he started moving his cock” you could say something like “he pushed himself inside her, feeling the warmth of her around his length and opting to keep still to savor as much as he could of her tightness before he started thrusting.”

or, instead of “his cock was so huge it made her mouth water” it could be “the promise of godhood between his legs elicited from within her the hunger she never knew existed”

yes, smut is about sex. but sex can also be about other feelings besides arousal. sex can be about vulnerability, the complete trust one gives their partner. it can be about surrendering and submitting yourself to someone. it can be about dominating and controlling someone. it can be about pain and betrayal. it can be about hatred. it can even be about grief and mourning. just in case you want to throw in some feelings or angst and in case you want to describe your scenes with something else that isn’t just mindless arousal.

(again, smut with nothing but mindless arousal isn’t bad. there’s nothing wrong with smut just being smut with no other feelings involved. so this isn’t me saying you have to throw some emotions and depth into your porn, obviously. smut can be just smut and that’s fun and hot enough, and if that’s your thing then you do you. I will always be rooting for you.)

the two most important things while writing smut — as well as anything else that isn’t smut — are 1.) write whatever you want for you and 2.) practice makes perfect.

keep writing. your smut doesn’t have to be perfect the first time you write it, and that’s okay. that’s normal. the most skilled writer out there started out terrible at what they wrote, but the nature of writing is that you get better the more you write.

the first smut I wrote was about 8 years ago and it was terrible. and that’s fine. I’ve come a long way since. the point is: keep writing and writing and writing and you will keep getting better and better and better.

keep writing whatever you want to write, and have fun, that’s the key.

[jynxpsiche]

always there for you

kang dae-ho (player 388) x fem!reader

🎐. summary: you already took part in the games with Gi-hun and survived that monstrosity. But even the strongest soldier has its weakness.

🎐. warnings: canon gore, squid game violence, no spoilers, swearing, fluff, female reader, no proofread. English isn’t my first language!

requests are open !!

You woke up in that shithole again.

You promised yourself to never ever put your foot back in there after the last time. You still didn’t know how you managed to survive last time.

In the game only Gi-hun and you were the only one left standing after an atrocious journey. Poor Sae-byeok, who at a certain point was injured, didn’t make it because killed by Sang-woo, who instead was found dead in the bathroom.

So the two of you were facing each other on the field of the last game, but neither of you decided to finish it, both voting to go home.

The prize money had been split between the two of you then everyone followed their path, but Gi-hun and you kept in touch.

He was obsessing with finding the recruiter and for the last two years he hired a group of men who would scour every inch of every subway line.

From the calls and video chats you both shared you undoubtedly noticed how his infinite search was draining him, both physically and mentally. He wasn’t taking care of himself properly.

Sometimes you went to his apartment and cooked something for him, hoping that some home cooked meal would have helped him a little, and even if he always vocalized his gratitude for your actions you knew that day by day he was losing himself completely.

An unhealthy obsession that was killing him slowly and painfully.

Luckily for him, you were there to help him grasp at that little sanity he had left.

“It must be annoying to look after someone like me”. He blurted these words once, a cigarette in one hand and a distant look on his face. He almost looked guilty and mad for disturbing you.

But he didn’t know that it was the least you could do. You couldn’t help him forget everything and live a happy and untraumatized life, but you could help by taking care of him.

He was the only one left for you, and you were for him.

And you cared so deeply for him that at a certain point you even decided to join his plan to finally find and confront the frontman.

The only difference was that it wasn’t in your plan to take part again in that murderous game. He knew that to obtain what he wanted he had to go deeper, but you weren’t ready.

Your eyes snapped wide open when you heard that familiar song. “God fucking dammit!” a few heads turned in your direction but you brushed them off.

The last thing you remembered was being in a fancy limo with Gi-hun and him talking with the frontman. Then black.

Now in that blue and white room again, on that nasty bed again that brought back so many memories but this time with different people, all too excited to win some cash.

When you looked down you notice that same outrageous outfit but a particular caught your eye.

003.

The same exact number.

Despite you scanned the room for that one familiar face you didn’t find him anywhere and that thought just made you paranoid.

It was impossible for him to not be where he exactly wanted to be? Maybe the frontman took him somewhere else? Where he could have been unable to fight back? Where he could have died without no one knowing?

That final realization hit you straight in the head and in an instant you stood up from your bed and tried to make your way through the other participants.

However, you had been stopped by a full body of guards walking in through the metallic door.

The square guard started with their usual speech, presenting the game and the rules, stressing every time his tone on how their rights and comforts were their main interest and always came first above everything else.

Merely bullshit.

You still hoped this was a fever dream or something like that.

But reality settled back in when you found yourself on that open field again and the colossal robot staring right back at you.

How you didn’t miss that place.

In the distance you spotted a slim figure running ahead the group, facing everybody.

It was Gi-hun.

“Gi-hun you son of a b—“

Alive.

Most of them managed to pass the game thanks to Gi-hun. 91 players were eliminated, 9.1 billions were now in the piggy bank.

And just that sum of money sent most of the players there out of their minds. And because of that the voting ended just as you expected.

By one vote the circle won and all of you were obliged to stay there and take part in another mortal game.

“These greedy people don’t even know what they got themselves into…” whispered through clenched teeth, your eyes thinned as you listlessly played with your food.

You reunited with Gi-hun and joined him and his best friend Jung-bae, now all seated on the stairs in a corner.

“I totally agree” a voice came from your right and when you lifted your gaze in front of you there was a broad man with half hair tied up and a gentle smile on his face.

His sudden appearance caught also the attention of the other two players, who simply stared up at him, distrust on Gi-hun’s face.

“I heard you during the first game! Everybody freeze!” The young man imitated your friend’s gestures with an excited spark in his eyes.

“And who are you?” Jung-bae asked while raising slowly from his seat, trying to flash him an intimating look and appear more manly.

He stared at him dumbfounded then regained his posture clearing his throat as a way to gain some kind of confidence.

His tone was a bit shaky but he tried to hide it in the best way possible “Kang Dae-ho. I was a former marine and I would like to join your team!” He beamed mainly, showing off his tattoo and then assuming a military position.

Jung-bae analyzed him closely and then not-so-casually rolled up his sleeve to show his own tattoo. Another former marine.

At that sight, Dae-ho stiffened his posture and saluted his fellow marine.

“I wasn’t expecting that…” you whispered to Gi-hun, who lowly snickered beside you.

However your words weren’t misheard by Jung-bae, who turned around towards you with an offended look on his face.

“And what do you mean by that?!” “Stop whining, you look like a big fussy baby…” you replied back nonchalantly and slowly massaging your temples.

Dae-ho stared at you silent, which was strange from him, and you took notice of that but did nothing about it.

He, on the other hand, thought he had not been caught red-handed, so he looked away clearing his throat, a light rosy veil framing his cheeks.

It was strange. He had always been an outgoing boy, a breath of fresh air, or so others had called him. A pure ball of energy and happiness, that's what he was.

A true golden retriever, ready to cheer up others and offer help when needed.

And now that he finally had a team he could trust he could help and feel useful so that they could all get out of that nightmare safely.

But when he looked at you, all the air in his lungs left him.

Sassy and witty, so confident and surely hot-tempered. What a woman.

Although he noticed the hard look on your face, your closed and reserved nature but not because of your personality, no, due to something else.

He sensed you had lived something traumatizing, just like him, but it was rude and vulnerable to show someone you just met minutes ago to show them said side of yourself.

He wouldn’t have done that either.

But he felt connected to you. He was attracted like a magnet and pulling away wasn’t an option for him.

Dae-ho wanted to be pulled, to be further attracted by you. Like a moth pulled by a flame.

He wasn’t scared to be burned but right now the lack of confidence was too pressing for him. He wanted to look his best for you and most importantly someone you could rely on. Even if it seemed you didn’t need one.

Although he noticed the way you deeply trusted Gi-hun and how unintentionally you counted on him. He was your anchor. Dae-ho didn't feel jealousy arose in him since he hyphotized you must have had a strong bond with him.

But he was craving that kind of affinity, to feel you so close even just spiritually, confessing him your dark past and your deepest fears. He wanted that. To be someone you could trust with all yourself.

And that opportunity came up. Unexpectedly.

The second game revealed itself to be not so intricate like many of you thought, but obviously with not a great team the minigames could have been a real pain.

Even if your team was already of five people, you decided to give up your place for a pregnant girl, probably your age, who desperately needed help and some kind of protection for her and her baby.

You couldn't have let her die in a place like that. For her and the baby's sake.

You were too good, you knew that, but fortunately you were also aware that a strange type of luck was by your side, due to you already surviving in a that place the last time you were there.

So you joined another team last minute. And you passed.

However, your team had been one of the first to play so when you succeeded you had to wait alone near your base for what felt like hours.

Groups of players were entering the dorms slowly filling the entire room, but there was still no sign of your group. Had Gi-hun and the others perhaps not made it? Gradually you heard the numbers of the players who had failed, but their numbers did not resonate within the cold walls of that glacial facility.

Maybe you were overreacting.

But you felt the tears blurring your vision and threatening to flow out.

You weren't ready to lose them. You knew to not create close relations in a place like this, but it was inevitable. It was the only way to push down an agonizing depression and an imminent madness.

Unoticed by you tears streaked your cheeks, creating deep furrows laden with repentance and sadness.

Dumbfounded you grazed your cheek with a trembling hand, your breath now harboured and often interrupted by soft sobs.

And then your ears made out the sound of the door opening for the last time.

You didn't want to look up, your heart wouldn't have withstood the blow. Soon after you heard his loud laugh.

Your head snapped up and tripping over yourself you managed to catch a glimpse of their figures, animated by fiery and excited spirits.

A breathy gasp left your lips and with tears still in your vision you jumped out from behind the beds and ran in their direction.

They still hadn't notice you but one by one Gi-hun and the others made out your approaching figure and swiftly got out of the way.

Dae-ho, although, hadn't spotted you and in a second he was engulfed into a bone-crushing hug, leaving him breathless.

Looking down he finally acknowledged your presence and warmth rushed to his cheeks when he saw your face buried into his chest and your devastated aspect.

A soft gaze possessed his features and warmheartedly he reciprocated the hug, gently cradling your head. You were still trembling and sobbing quietly so he gingerly shushed you by nestling your face into the crook of his neck.

You quieted down a bit, your sniffs and breath still hard and harboured, your grip strong on his shirt like you were scared he would disappear if you let go.

But he was there. Alive and safe.

"It's okay...I'm okay..." he reassured you calmly and reluctantly you backed up a little, meeting his tender eyes.

You shook your head, still not believing what you were seeing, “I’m sorry…I’m sorry” you repeated like a mantra and the poor guy in front of you didn’t understand.

“Why are you apologizing?” His tone was low and calm, one hand gently cupping your cheek and lovingly swiping away the tears, “you have done nothing…” you sniffed warily and nodded “I should have helped…somehow…I would have—“ you didn’t finish the phrase when another wave of tears and regret crushed your figure.

Dae-ho slightly chuckled and cupped your face tilting your head up to meet his warm gaze again. “Knowing you were safe and sound here gave me the strength to give my all…to come back…to you”.

You gazed at him agape, your mind blank and your heart tapping furiously against your chest. You felt warm and strangely…safe in his arms.

You didn’t know you could have felt such feelings into a place like this but it happened.

All thanks to him.

You leaned into his touch and closed your eyes, basking into his gentleness.

Your behavior didn’t go unnoticed by him whose heart immediately swelled at your action and a childish grin erupted into his face.

Without stopping cupping your face, he slowly and tentatively leaned in, half-lidded eyes observing your now calm expression.

You trusted him.

You found in him someone you could rely on.

Your foreheads connected and a shiver went down your spines at the contact.

“I’m here for you” he whispered lowly, his hot breath softly hitting your face “and you can count on me” he was there for you “remember that”.

He didn’t need to remind you.

You already knew that.

From the beginning.

[clockwayswrites]

Danny is a minx and I am not responsible for him.

Okay, so, you all voted and I, um, failed? We didn't get to cuddling. There should be cuddling coming? Idk, darlings, this was my third start on this and Danny took over. I've got no say in this anymore. Canon-typical violence, crude language, cross dressing, discussions of prostitution

---

“You think you can fucking play us like that?!”

The shout carried easily through the crisp fall air. Red Hood sighed and changed direction away from his safe house and towards the noise.

“—fuck you up for that! Give us our fucking money back!”

“Fuck you,” snapped back a voice that Jason had come to recognize over the last several months. Right then the words dripped in fake, but damn convincing, heavy Crime Alley drawl, but Jason knew it all the same. “If yous don’t got it, don’t bet it. If yous don’t got game, don’t play it.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t think a little girl like you gets to say how this goes,” a third voice growled.

Hood clung to the edge of the roof just long enough to drop silently into the alleyway next to the dive bar. From the quick glance sent his way he was only noticed by the damn minx, so he leaned casually back against the grimy brick wall and unholstered his gun.

“Right? Yeah! Yeah, bitch! You don’t get to say how this goes!” the first voice shouted again. The guy’s shoulders were squared up as if he was some sort of threat in his overpriced, knock off bomber jacket and ill fitting jeans.

It almost made Jason want to sigh.

Actually, fuck it, Jason gave in and sighed loudly, knowing how it sounded through the modulation of his helmet. Bomber Jacket and his buddy, I Swear This is Real Italian Leather, spun around and then cowered so quick Jason swore they gave themselves whiplash.

“So,” Jason said with every ounce of disinterest he could put in his tone, “how does this go? Because right now, I’m thinking that it’s you two who are gonna be going before I put bullets between your eyes.”

“Right, um, yes Red Hood,” Bomber Jacket cowered and grabbed desperately at his friend’s pleather jacket to pull them out of there.

“And gentleman,” Jason said, making them freeze in their steps, “next time you lose your money to a pretty lady, you leave her the fuck alone about it.”

They nodded frantically as they backed the rest of the way out of alley and then took of running.

“I think you made one of ‘em piss himself,” the minx said, looking from the alley way to Jason with those striking aqua eyes.

Jason just shrugged and holstered his gun. “Probably.”

The short, tight skirt clung to the minx’s legs, pulling up enough with the sashaying steps that Jason had to wonder how everything stayed hidden. He kept still as fingers tipped in bright pink nails walked their way up his chest to the red bat. Aqua peered up from below thick, dark lashes. “And did I hear right? You think I’m a pretty lady?”

“Hair is nice like this,” Jason said brushing a gloved finger through the black strands that just brushed the edges of the chin. “But surprised your cock isn’t hanging out of that skirt with how short it is.”

Danny let out a started laugh, resting his forehead against Jason’s chest for a moment before he patted it and backed up to a more respectable distance.

“Duct tape and body shapers works miracles.” The fake Gotham accent was gone and replaced with the faint Midwestern drawl that Danny only seemed to let out around Red Hood. “And don’t make that face, the duct tape is outside of the panties.”

“You can’t see my face,” Jason pointed out, a bit grumpily because he had been grimacing at the thought.

“I was still right though,” Danny said with a smug little smiling pulling on his cherry red lips. It was a good color on him. He leaned back against the wall and spread his legs in a way that Jason couldn’t help but follow with this gaze. “Everything is fine down there, Boss, just a little squished. Offer’s still on the table if you want to check out the good. No charge for my darlin’ knight.”

Jason snorted at the continued offer from Danny; it was practically as good as ‘bye’ between them at this point since Danny seemed to offer it every time. “I’m not going to be one of your Johns, Danny.”

“Told you no charge. Could just be two people who like sex,” he offered with a little shrug, but pushed himself off the wall to leave. No, Danny pushed himself up off the wall with a wince.

Jason was at his side in an instant. “One of those fuckers get you?”

“No, so no hunting them down,” Danny said. His voice was confident, but the way he actually leaned on Jason’s offered arm was worrying. “Just a bad John— ex John. That’s why I’m sharking pool instead of working the corner.”

As if Danny had to work an actual corner anymore. He appealed to a very specific type of client that could pay to have something pretty and convincing on their arm and still get what they wanted between the legs and in the sheets.

“You taking anything for it?” Jason asked.

Danny just shrugged. “Nah, Boss, nothing over the counter works on me really.”

“Clinic?”

Danny snorted. “As if. They can test for STDs and that’s about as much as I want a clinic near me.”

Jason resisted the urge to cuss at Danny. He got it. After all, he only trusted Leslie or Alfred really— or a family member in a pinch.

Maybe he could just bluster Danny into getting some help. “Right, come on.”

“What?” Danny asked, digging his heels (and fuck those were some heels) into the ground.

Not willing to put with that right then, Jason just swung his arm under Danny’s legs and scooped him up like he was nothing. Fuck the Johns really had to be able to throw Danny around if they wanted that sort of thing.

“Boss, Hood, what the fuck?!” Danny hissed.

“Safe fucking house is what the fuck so I can check you over.”

“Boss, if you wanted in the skirt—”

“Danny, shut the fuck up and let me make sure you’re alright, alright?” Jason asked, looking down at him.

Danny stared back with a frown. Then his sighed, like it was the biggest concession in the world to make. Finally he rested his head against Jason’s chest. “Fine, Boss, whatever you say.”

“Thank you,” Jason said, more gently than he meant to.

-

Jason had to suck in several careful breaths as he took in the wound splashed across Danny’s ribs. “No fucking John did that to you and if they did—” if they took some sort of hot poker to Danny’s side— “I’ll kill them if they did.”

[ouroborosmoons]

(I want to learn all of these)

Ibrahim has reached out and ask that I spread his family’s campaign, and it has almost reached their goal! With your help we can do it!

🌧️🤍🕊️🇵🇸🌙

Please click on his campaign to read his story, and here is his latest update about the flooding in Gaza, please support his cold family this winter:

January 1st, 2025

by Ibrahim Alhabil

“Between Celebration and Sorrow: The Story of a Tent Flooded by Rain”

While the world celebrates the beginning of 2025, we face a harsh reality. Torrential rains flooded our humble tent, the place we called “home,” turning it into ruins overnight. There are no longer walls to shield us from the cold or a roof to protect our children from the relentless rain.

We now live in unbearable conditions, struggling to survive with the bare essentials, holding onto hope that kindness still exists. We do not ask for much, only enough to help us rebuild what we lost and provide warmth and safety for our children during this harsh winter.

We call upon every compassionate heart and everyone who values the importance of shelter and security to extend a helping hand. Your donation today, no matter how small, could bring a smile to our children’s faces and give them hope for a better tomorrow.

Let’s come together to save my family from the cold. Let’s share the gift of kindness.

DONATE 🌙

( This request came from Twitter, so while there isn’t a Tumblr vetting option I can give you I can instead direct you to Ibrahim’s ->

Twitter / Instagram / TikTok

For verification )

[revelboo]

I love your work!!!! You've made me fall back into my transformers obsession. If you're not busy could you make another part to your wheeljack story please?

Thank you! And sure! 🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Circuits and Wires Pt 16

Wheeljack x Reader

• Hips rocking just to tease yourself with the feel of him, his hands slide up your sides and you rest yours on top of his, guiding them where you want them. “Bonding?” You prompt when he just stares up at you, his own hips lifting slightly under you with a groaning rumble. Because you know how easily he gets distracted and that you have to give him a nudge in the right direction.

• Shuddering when you tighten on him, fisting his spike and his hips jerk. “Again. Please do that again,” he pleads, trying to remember your question. And you roll your hips to make his venting roughen. “Bonding. Right.” Head falling back against the berth as you reward him by squeezing his spike again and he nearly overloads. “It’s when we take a mate for life.”

• Going still on top of him to make him groan, you wait for his optics to open and find you. Because he’s asking you to be his for life? Wanting to claim you as his? Is this like his people’s version of marriage? And his head lifts, those blue optics hopeful as they meet your eyes. One of his hands leaving you to grip your wrist and pull your hand to his chassis. Pressing your palm against him so you can feel the comforting thrum of his spark.

• You’re no longer riding his spike, just staring down at him, little hand trapped against his chassis under his own hand and he knows he’s screwed up. Pushed for too much, too soon. Of course, you’re looking at him like that. Never was able to read social cues or body language very well, but this? It hurts. Will you make some excuse to leave and just avoid him after this? Head falling back against his berth, he shutters his optics.

• “What if I said yes?” You ask, voice shaky. Know this isn’t something you should take lightly. That you really need to ask more questions. For life sounds like ‘til death do us part,’ but he’s alien and you shouldn’t make assumptions. But he’s endearingly sweet, oblivious sometimes, but so cheerful and optimistic, too. You really do love him, the truth of that leaving you breathless. “What if I want to bond with you?” Vocal indicators blinking a weird pinkish-green color, he sits up so suddenly that he nearly head butts you and you do fall backwards off of him to avoid getting brained, his spike slipping free as you go sprawling between his thighs, one of your legs up over his. And you crack up at his horrified look, because yeah, this is your dorky, alien husband. Just as accident prone as you are.

Previous

[tired-biscuit]

18+ MDNI, fem!reader // cw: hybrids, predator/prey dynamic, mounting, sort of dubcon-ish, a hint of somnophilia, breeding, established relationship.

wc: 1.6k

fox hybrid!naruto is as playful as much as he is sneaky.

he follows you around the apartment; curiously peeking from behind the corners, watching your every move not because he’s skittish, but rather because he wants to learn how you behave when you think he’s not around.

he does it quite often for some reason. perhaps it’s the wild of the predator that’s coursing his blood or the naive wonder that’s just signature for his personality, who knows, but if you catch him by any chance — and you do, he isn’t nearly as slick as he thinks he is — he immediately comes over, wraps his arms around you from behind and makes sure to comfort you and nip your cheek or bottom lip with his sharp fangs after every kiss he gifts you in apology.

still, he continues his watch. he learns your patterns over time despite the fact that he has a habit of tripping over his own two feet and blowing his cover with all the noise it causes. he learns the way you move, the little quirks that you exhibit, the timing of them. he learns them all as a safety precaution which he doesn’t really need if you think about it.

after all, he could slam into you full force as a means to take over and could simply make you submit to his predatory instinct just like a couple of his apex predator friends had done with their own mates in the past. he’s well aware that he’d win if he did it that way; he’s no wolf or bear, but he’s still stronger and armored with a far bigger set of teeth than the one that currently sits in your mouth.

however, the problem is that you’re sneaky too.

you’re a tough little thing to grasp — hard to impress, even worse to court. are practically made to slip between a person’s fingers if they were to try and squeeze you into their fist without asking for permission to do so first. on top of all that, you being a cat hybrid amongst all the other possibilities available doesn’t help his situation either; it makes you exceptionally perceptive and equally as hard to dominate because of it. so troublesome!

and that’s not all there is to it. even your eyesight is spectacular, as is your awareness of your surroundings. the triangle-shaped ears that sit atop your head twitch and constantly angle in the direction of the smallest movement he makes. and naruto knows that they do, that they listen and assess the danger. he’s tested it out so many times during the course of your relationship.

the first step he takes towards you whenever your back is turned in his direction is also usually his last because of how fast you are to turn around to face him in mere seconds, rigid body language exhibiting high alert. he’s never even gotten the chance to fully sneak up on you yet, much less tackle you into a play fight.

this entire thing would be so much easier if you were a bunny. he’d push and you’d take it like a good little rabbit, the end. everyone knows that bunny hybrids practically throw themselves before the jaws of a predator and spread their strong legs just as willfully the moment their first heat comes into play.

but naruto, even whilst itching to conquer you because of the beast within, kind of digs the challenge a moody little kitty such as yourself brings to the table. especially when the effort that he’s put into all this preying finally manages to pay off.

actually, it enables him to catch you when you’re least expecting it — during your afternoon nap.

your feline behaviour really shines at its brightest when you doze off. instinctively drawn to warmth, he’s since learned that you always fall asleep in the patch of sunlight that spills through the window and onto the couch across the room when the days are clear and the curtains are pushed to the side. always in the same position, too. on your tummy, with your limbs relaxed and stretchy; tail swishing from side to side ever so slightly before going completely still. just like now.

oh shit, there it is; the sign he’s been waiting for!

your tail has stopped moving so that means you’re completely out for the next half hour, perhaps even more. he watches from a safe distance just to make sure, leaning against the doorway that leads into the living room and straining his fox ears as hard as he’s possibly able as a means to catch every sound.

thud, thud, thud. your heartbeat is calm, as is your breathing. you’re at ease while you sleep, he can not only hear it but see it too. open and vulnerable and trusting, allowing yourself to be caught completely off guard. you could almost pass as docile, the way you look right now, but he knows better — he’s been with you for long enough to know.

so he takes one step forward, slowly. toes, heel. nothing happens.

he takes another. all is well.

and then all of a sudden, before your heavy eyelids can get the chance to crack open at the sound of fast-approaching footsteps, and before you can come back to from the depths of the cozy catnap you were so pleasantly indulging in, naruto at long last makes his move.

your sweet fox boyfriend pins you down with his weight as he lays on top of you; he squeezes you flat against the couch until your cheek is pressing into its soft cushions. he’s warm and shirtless and his skin smells like the summery shower gel he must have washed himself with earlier, but he doesn’t seem to be scared of your claws that might come in contact with him, promising pain.

even his hair is still damp. a small droplet of water lands on your cheek when you try to turn your head to the side to look at him.

you hiss at him with prominent annoyance when it slides down the edge of your jaw, the action a subtle warning that clearly tells him to stop this nonsense right now, but he’s been expecting that, too. so he works quickly to try and tame you into submission, allowing instinct to take charge because it’s the only safe bet he has.

you’re surprised how easily he works his way around you and it’s entirely your fault. he doesn’t show how strong he actually is underneath all the shy caresses that he gives you and the nice grins and it makes you forget, giving you a false sense of authority that quickly diminishes when you’re the one experiencing that raw power on your own body.

so it’s no wonder that you stand no chance while he manhandles you and keeps you caged underneath him. that you feel utterly helpless while he drags your comfortable little shorts down your legs with zero problem; until they’re hanging off one ankle right along with your panties.

he frees his cock, fists it a couple of times with the help of some drool before he mounts you then, breathing hard and still making sure to avoid the claws you’re bound to sink into him the second he releases your wrists. he’s holding them both with just one hand, seemingly mocking your incompetency even further, albeit completely unintentionally.

and it’s true; he doesn’t mean it. naruto has never been mean-spirited like that despite the whole predator aspect that lives and roars beneath his gorgeous tan skin.

but foxes can be tricky.

so he holds his grip and they dig into the couch instead, your claws. they get caught in the blanket that you’re both sweating on top of now as his hips rut into you and yours follow the deep, almost animalistic rhythm even though your anger and pride tell you to stop, stop, fucking stop obeying him.

but you can’t stop, you’re forced to submit because he’s a bigger threat than you are; it’s just how your brain is wired. you bend to survive. it’s exactly like that situation with the scrawny mouse girl who you used to tease and endlessly make fun of back in high school.

how does it feel to be on the prey side, little kitty?

you’re unsure how to feel about this entire thing, it might be because your mind has slipped into a certain kind of haze. he fucks you like he’s never fucked you before and a prolonged mewl that you can’t hold back leaves your lips when his teeth sink into the crook of your neck all of a sudden, marking you.

the strap of your tank top is hanging off your shoulder, exposing you further, and his hot, greedy mouth follows the naked skin without a second thought, just biting, licking, sucking. marking.

he’s growling and snarling into your ear every time he slams into you, sounding like the exact opposite of himself. you’re no better either; you keep making so much noise that you’re ashamed of yourself. moaning and whining, squirming and thrashing underneath him. by the time he fills you up with his seed, you’ll probably start to purr.

just the thought alone makes you feral. the sudden urge to be bred and bear his children plagues your mind like the deadliest storm. imagining your pussy leaking his warm cum is simply too good while stuck in a lowly position such as this one.

his cock is throbbing inside you as he pounds into your slick cunt, trying to push its way into your fucking womb. he’s big and heavy, hot in your tummy and hard to fit. the adrenaline that he’s getting because of the complete control he now has over you is surely exciting him enough to make him see god.

he probably won’t see god, though.

oh no, you’ll make sure to drag this wicked fox into the very depths of hell the second his knot stops swelling and he releases you from his iron-like grip.

[spencerfuckngreid]

Burning Up || Spencer Reid + 18

· Pairing: Spencer Reid/Reader · Category: Angst, Smut · Warning: Soft sex, happy ending. · Words: 3082 · Summary : A tension exists between you and Spencer. He actively resists and maintains distance every time you come near. He has an internal conflict between what is right and what is wrong. · Inspiration: Song: "Burning Up" Madonna

· Spanish on Wattpad. English isn't my first language, be kind! · Masterlist · TikTok · C.ai ·

The room was charged with a subtle electricity that always seemed to build between you two. The rest of the team had already left to rest or go over leads in other areas, leaving you alone with Spencer.

You had tried to focus on the files in front of you—the photographs, the scattered notes on the table—but your eyes kept drifting toward him. Seated across from you, hunched over his notebook, Spencer scribbled something with the intensity of someone trying to find a logical way through chaos.

It was that intensity that drew you in—it always had. Spencer had an aura that made him seem untouchable, as if his mind operated on a level no one else could reach. And yet, the more time you spent near him, the clearer it became that there was something beneath the surface. Something vulnerable. Something passionate. Something he worked hard to bury under layers of professionalism.

"Don't put me off, 'cause I'm on fire."

The lyric echoed in your mind, and you bit the inside of your cheek to suppress a smile. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

"Y/N, are you listening?" His voice pulled you from your thoughts.

You blinked, realizing you'd been staring in his direction—though not directly at him. "Yeah, yeah… of course. What were you saying?"

Spencer frowned slightly, adjusting his glasses with a quick motion before pointing at the map spread out on the table. "I said that the profile suggests the suspect will likely return to where it all started. It’s a pattern that—"

"Uh-huh, I get that," you interrupted gently, leaning forward to get a better look at the map. "But what if that’s exactly what he wants us to think? What if he's breaking the pattern on purpose? I know it’s not typical… not a common choice… but at this point, we should at least consider it."

Spencer studied you, his brown eyes scanning you with curiosity. He always appreciated a fresh perspective, but this time, his gaze lingered a little longer than necessary before shifting back to the map.

"Do you wanna see me down on my knees?"

The lyric hit you harder this time, making you press your lips together. There was something about the way he always pulled back whenever you got too close that only made you want to push his limits even more.

"It’s a possibility..." he finally said, breaking the silence. "But the pattern is the only solid lead we have right now."

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms as you looked at him, frustrated. "Always so logical, Doctor."

"It’s my job," he replied without looking up, his attention still on the papers.

"And it’s also what keeps you safe, isn’t it?" The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Spencer’s head snapped up. "What do you mean by that?"

"You hide behind logic, Spencer," you said, leaning forward. "It’s your shield. But some things aren’t logical—you can’t just avoid them because they scare you."

He blinked, caught off guard by your bluntness, but before he could respond, you pushed yourself up from your chair. "I’m getting coffee. Do you want anything?"

He shook his head but didn’t say anything else. As you walked out of the room, you could feel his eyes on your back, and it only made you want to turn around and challenge him again.

"I'm burning up, burning up for your love," you thought, clenching your fists as you made your way to the coffee machine.

The words you had thrown at Spencer still echoed in your mind as you waited for the coffee to finish brewing. You had crossed a line, and while you didn’t regret it, you knew he wouldn’t just let it slide.

Back in the conference room, Spencer was exactly where you had left him—except his posture had changed. His back was stiff against the chair, and his pen, usually in constant motion, lay motionless on his notebook. When you closed the door behind you, he looked up, his expression more guarded than usual.

"What was that all about?" His tone was colder than you expected.

"What was what?" you asked, trying to keep your tone light as you walked closer.

"That whole thing about me hiding behind logic." Spencer stood up to face you, adjusting his glasses. "I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but if this has anything to do with—"

"—you and me," you interrupted, setting your coffee down on the table with more force than necessary. "That’s exactly what it has to do with."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like he was going to argue. But instead, he looked away, his gaze dropping back to the papers. "There is no 'you and me,' Y/N. This is work, and the only thing that matters is solving this case."

The way he said it—so sharp, so final—should have made you back off. But instead, it only fueled something inside you, a need to break through that carefully crafted façade of perfection.

"Are you really going to keep pretending you don’t feel anything, Reid?" you asked, stepping closer. "That you don’t notice how the air changes when we’re in the same room?"

"What I notice," he started, pushing himself up from his chair, "is that you’re crossing lines you shouldn’t be crossing."

"That you want to want me, but you can't let go," you thought as you watched him. You could see the way his self-control tightened, as if every word was a struggle to hold his ground.

"Maybe those lines shouldn’t be there," you said softly, taking another step forward. You were close enough now to catch the light, clean scent of his cologne.

"Y/N, stop..." His voice was low, as if he were speaking more to himself than to you.

"I can’t stop." You moved even closer, forcing him to step back until his back met the wall. "And neither can you, so stop trying."

He lifted his hands slightly, as if to create some invisible barrier between you, but his eyes betrayed the war raging inside him. "This isn’t right," he said, his voice laced with an intensity that almost made you hesitate. "We can’t do this. I can’t do this."

But he didn’t move away. His hands remained raised—but he didn’t touch you, didn’t push you back. His eyes stayed locked on yours, and the tension in his body was almost tangible.

"Then say it," you challenged, your voice barely above a whisper. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel anything. Tell me you don’t want—"

His lips parted, like he was about to say the words. But nothing came out. Instead, his breathing quickened, and his hands slowly dropped to his sides.

"That’s what I thought," you said, your tone victorious but laced with quiet softness.

Spencer closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering every ounce of willpower. "This is a mistake," he murmured finally.

"Maybe." You leaned in just enough so that your face was inches from his. "But some mistakes are worth making."

Spencer took a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself, but it wasn’t working. "This can’t happen," he said more firmly, stepping to the side to put space between you. "Not just because it would be inappropriate, but because… because it wouldn’t work."

You followed him, moving back into his path, challenging every barrier he tried to put up. "It wouldn’t work? Or you don’t want it to work because it would complicate your perfect, structured life?"

"It’s not that!" The words came out too fast, too forceful. He immediately glanced toward the door, as if worried someone else might have heard. Then, in a lower voice, he added, "This isn’t about avoiding complications. It’s about doing the right thing."

"And what if the right thing doesn’t feel right?" you challenged, tilting your head.

"Then we ignore it," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest as if that could shield him from the weight of your words.

"Do you wanna see me down on my knees?"

The lyric echoed in your mind, giving you the push to take this one step further.

"You’re not as good at lying to yourself as you think, Spencer," you said, stepping closer again. "Not with me."

"Y/N," he murmured, and this time, there was something almost pleading in his tone. "Please, don’t make this harder."

"Harder for who? You?" You held his gaze, unwavering. "Because for me, this is simple. I know what I want. And what I want is standing right in front of me."

The color in his cheeks deepened, but his posture remained rigid. "It's not that simple," he said, though his voice no longer carried the same conviction.

"Why not? Why are you afraid of feeling something you can’t control? Why won’t you admit that you’re already feeling it?"

The silence that followed was deafening, and for a moment, you thought he might give in. But then, Spencer stepped back, putting the smallest but most significant distance between you.

"I can’t do this," he said, his voice low, as if each word drained his energy. "Not with you. Not now. I’m sorry."

Disappointment tangled with frustration, but you knew he wasn’t running because he felt nothing. He was running because he felt too much.

"Fine. Have it your way," you finally said, stepping back. "I won’t push you anymore. I just... I can’t pretend this isn’t happening. If you’re ever ready… tell me. But I won’t wait forever."

Spencer looked at you, his eyes reflecting the war within him, the battle he couldn’t put into words. He didn’t stop you as you gathered your things and walked out of the room.

Out in the hallway, you leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly. "I'm burning up, burning up for your love," you murmured to yourself, letting the song finish the sentence you couldn’t say out loud.

—

The hotel room was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the small bedside lamp. You had tried to distract yourself with case reports, but the words on the screen blurred into meaninglessness. Every time you closed your eyes, the confrontation replayed in your mind: the conflict in Spencer’s gaze, the way he said no… but also how he hadn’t been able to step away until the very last second.

"Unlike the others, I'd do anything."

The lyrics echoed in your head like a taunt, mocking your attempts to stay calm.

You got up from the bed, unable to stay still. There was something suffocating in the air, a mixture of regret and longing that kept you moving, as if pacing back and forth could silence the thoughts running wild in your head.

Across the hall, Spencer sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His hair was a mess, his glasses sitting on the table beside the phone. He hadn’t even tried to sleep—how could he, after what had happened?

He had gone over every word, every look, searching for a logical angle, a way to make sense of what had transpired. But there was no logic that could save him from what he felt: guilt, yes, but also an unrelenting desire burning beneath his skin.

"This can’t happen," he whispered to himself, as if saying it aloud could make it true. But even as he spoke, his eyes drifted toward the door, as if something—someone—on the other side was pulling him in.

At some point during the night, your paths crossed again. Maybe it was chance, or maybe it was inevitable. When you opened your door to step out for some air, you found him in the hallway, his face pale, his eyes dark.

"Spencer," you whispered.

"I needed… to walk," he said, though it was obvious he was looking for something more than that.

Silence stretched between you, thick with everything neither of you dared to say.

Until finally, he shook his head. "I shouldn’t be here."

"But you are." You took a step closer.

His gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, both of you stood frozen, caught in a place with no turning back.

"It’s too much," he admitted in a breath, his voice cracking slightly. "I don’t know how to handle it."

"You don’t have to handle it," you murmured, stepping close enough that he could feel your warmth. "Just… go with it."

Spencer didn’t move, as if fighting every instinct in his body. But when he finally looked up at you, there were no more defenses in his eyes—only raw, consuming desire.

"I can't keep pretending," he murmured, stepping toward you.

"Then don’t," you whispered.

The space between you disappeared in an instant. His mouth found yours with a desperation that stole your breath, his hands gripping your face as if afraid you’d vanish. Spencer had always been methodical, in control—but in that moment, there was none of that. He was pure fire, everything he had suppressed finally unleashed.

Your hands clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer as you stumbled backward into the room. The door slammed shut behind you, but you barely noticed. All that mattered was the weight of his body pressing against yours, the way his breath mingled with yours, the low, ragged sounds escaping his throat.

"This is insane," he muttered against your skin, though his lips kept moving along your neck.

"I think you need a little insanity," you teased, breathless, fingers tangling in his hair as his hands roamed your back with a frantic kind of urgency.

For Spencer, this moment felt like crossing a line he had never thought he would. But in the end, he realized he had been standing on the edge of that line since the moment he met you.

The air was thick, heavy with heat. His breath mingled with yours, uneven, as his lips traced your neck, alternating between kisses and gentle bites that made your head spin.

"This isn’t—" he started, his voice a whisper against your skin. But there was something desperate in the way he touched you, as if he needed to feel you, to confirm that this wasn’t just a dream.

There was no time for more words. Spencer’s logic, his self-control, his professionalism—everything unraveled. With a near-violent impulse, you pushed him toward the bed. Clothes—an obstacle neither of you could ignore—began to fall away between kisses and gasps. Every movement was a battle, a push and pull between his deeply ingrained restraint and the undeniable force of desire. But now, in this space, nothing was holding him back.

Your body burned under his touch, and though he tried to keep his distance, his hands betrayed him, exploring every inch of you, his palm gliding over your torso, down to your waist, as if he was finally allowing himself to have you. This wasn’t the distant, controlled Spencer you had known. This was a man on the edge—of need, of madness—consumed by what he felt for you.

"Y/N," he whispered between kisses, his voice raw, as if clinging to your name was the only thing grounding him. "This... I can't..."

You didn’t let him finish. You silenced him with a kiss, deep and hungry, and he laughed into your mouth. There was no case to solve, no walls left to break down. Just the need to be together, no more excuses.

With a determined move, you pushed him back, taking control, feeling the way he yielded under your touch. Spencer was completely in your hands, and for the first time, he didn’t seem to want to fight it. His grip on your back tightened, pulling you against him as if he needed the physical connection, the proof that this was real.

"I don’t know if I can handle what I feel," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. But when his hands found your face and he kissed you with a raw, burning intensity, it no longer mattered what he thought.

You moved with him, and the world blurred away. The softness of the bed beneath you, the heat of his body against yours, the way his lips trailed lower, leaving a path of fire across your skin... The rhythm between you was frantic, yet tender, as if both of you were trying to prove that this wasn’t a mistake, not like Spencer had tried to convince himself before.

Spencer paused for a moment, breathless, exhausted, looking down at you. "Y/N..." Everything was clear in that instant.

"Yes," you whispered, cupping his face, pulling him closer. And in that kiss, nothing else mattered. No words were needed. Everything between you finally made sense.

When the morning light filtered into the room, the silence between you had shifted. Spencer lay beside you, staring at the ceiling as if searching for patterns, lost in thought. Reality had changed—you had changed—and you both knew it. His mind was running a thousand miles per hour.

"I can’t... I can’t promise this won’t get complicated," Spencer murmured, his voice quiet but filled with the resistance that defined him.

"You don’t have to promise anything," you said, turning to face him, resting a hand on his chest, gentle. "What, you expect this to be easy? That sounds boring." You teased.

He gave a subtle, lopsided smile, and somehow it put him at ease, helping him come to terms with the situation.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Neither of you knew what would come next, but for now, all you could do was accept it. The tension that had defined your relationship until now had transformed into something else entirely.

"You know you got me burning up, baby."

· Requests via DM ·

[sweetsuburbanlegends]

Grocery Store - Frozen Foods

Summary: You run into Hotch after your first few days at the BAU.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x f!Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: Eep! I'm planning for this to be a series of oneshots in the same universe of little domestic moments.

Warnings: put the self in self-insert, brief mention of disordered eating (blink and you'll miss it), hotch mention's haley's pregnancy (blink and you'll miss it), a lot being said without being said ig, hotch having massive hands because i said so

The grocery aisles, on a late Saturday night, are predictably empty, still the open space that had been brimming with people only hours before unnerves you. Though you know it’s not true by the sparse cars in the parking lot, it feels as though you were the only one here and that’s not what you wanted when you'd packed up for the short trip over. 

The silence hangs heavy in the air, as if the place is holding its breath, waiting to kick you out of it into the dark of the night so it can get some rest in preparation for the Sunday morning crowds. 

Your basket hangs in the crook of your elbow and you find yourself wandering between aisles slightly aimless, eyes not really seeing as you look around. The anonymity of the place would usually settle you, calm your racing nerves but right now, mixed with a weekend off from work, with a long stretch of a few days left to fill, it makes the air around you feel like vegetable shortening. 

You find yourself in the frozen goods aisles, hoping the chill and rush of the cold can help to ground you when a familiar voice calls out your last name. You turn in its direction. 

“Oh!” Even when you’re off from work, work seems to find you. “Agent Hotchner, sir, hi.” 

“Evening,” he smiles at you politely. Though he’s out of his high collars and suits, his voice betrays none of the vulnerability you feel is dripping from yours at having been caught outside of work. “Rather late for groceries, isn’t it?” 

You look down at your basket, “Just some essentials, sir.” You catch him looking over to the shelves of ice cream to your left, and you let out a nervous laugh, afraid to be caught in a lie you never told, “And an indulgence or two.”

He nods, eyes flitting over to meet yours. “Good.” 

Something about this, seeing Aaron in jeans and worn-down shirt, out of the office and where a passerby would mistake you for two acquaintances, makes you feel childish. The similarity between right now and the times you’d run into your elementary teachers outside of school is hard to miss. It’s the same jarring feeling, like the Earth had wobbled on its axis for a moment, thrust you into a pocket of air where rules didn’t seem to apply anymore. 

Even when you were little, you were a stickler for them. Wanted, needed, to keep everything in its right place. Your mother always told you stories of your seemingly disproportionate anger, screaming and crying tantrums over the slightest things left out of place. 

“And what’s your poison of-” he cuts himself off, tilting his head to read the label on the tub. “Non-Fat, All-Organic, frozen Greek yogurt…” his words trail off, a stitch forming between his eyebrows. 

You smile at him sheepishly. 

Despite the carefree ease that accompanied most of your childhood, you’re not sure if you’d like to go back to it. You’d rather the burden of responsibility, the burden of control, rather than the unbridled rage you feel was coursing through you at almost any given point in time when you were younger. 

“Intriguing.” 

You laugh before you get a chance to reel it in, and heat rushes to your face seconds later. The waters were still murky, around the team, but Aaron especially. Despite everyone’s best efforts to make it seem otherwise, there was still a line drawn between you and them. And they held safety in numbers, an elusive entity that spoke a language of its own. 

Aaron, as your Unit Chief, only added another layer of complexity to the dynamic. His reputation was famous, infamous in other circles, and it only made you approach each and every encounter with him with hesitancy, scared to get too close and not close enough, balancing on a knife’s edge. 

“Forgive me if I’m prying, Agent,” his voice draws you away from your thoughts. “But-but…why the-why-” 

You shrug, gnawing at the inside of your lip. There’s a burning hole in the pit of your stomach, and an exhaustion washes over you suddenly. “It’s…uh,” you laugh again to buy yourself some time. “I like the taste.” 

Aaron pauses a moment too long, and you watch him as he looks you over, at the things in your basket, the circles under your eyes. “I find that hard to believe.” 

It scares you how easily he managed to read you. The spinach and unsweetened plant milk in your basket, the clear indications of what your teenage self would call ‘trying to be good’. 

The condensation starts to form on the tub in your arm, sticking to the sensitive skin of your inner arm. 

“And-uh,” you clear your throat, look around anxiously eager to flick the spotlight away. “What’s got you making the midnight journey?” 

The intentional look he was holding on you disappears in favour of a more general politeness, “Same as you.” He turns to the freezers, opening the door and taking two pints of Ben & Jerry’s, holding them in each hand to show you. “Indulgence.” 

“Chocolate Therapy?” The label on each pint is the same. 

“You’re surprised.” 

You stammer for your footing, the sudden boldness a shock to yourself, “I-uh, sorry, sir, it just-” 

The sound of his laugh cuts you short, muted and barely perceptible to anyone else had they been walking down the aisle, but at this time of night, it’s only you and him and the fuzzy sound of a Top 40s station filtering out over the speakers. 

“What is it, Agent?” He smiles now, properly. The effect is jarring, feels like something you shouldn’t be seeing. “I don’t strike you as a chocolate man?” 

It’s hard to find an answer to that. The day had been long, drawn out, you’d barely processed the weight of it, the weight of the week that preceded it, before running into Aaron and striking up this strange vertigo of an encounter. 

You wish fervently for the ease the rest of the team has around each other, to be able to summon up a witty, smart answer in a matter of milliseconds and the confidence to say it as well. More often than not you’re left bumbling, hands grasping pathetically at little soap bars of words that all seem inadequate. 

“Take a guess.” 

“Sorry, sir?” 

He gestures to the containers to your left, “Take a guess, Agent.” 

You want to rebuttal, apologize profusely maybe, and go back home and pretend none of this had ever happened. Instead, you look over to the freezer, raking your eyes over each label, hoping you can gather your thoughts in a somewhat coherent manner, to come out of this nightmare of a place relatively unscathed. You gaze back over to him and see him watching you intently. There’s a small pint to your right and you make a snap decision before you think too much of it and risk looking daft, “An Éclair Affair.” 

“Really?” His face is still unreadable. Nodding, you fight the urge to stutter and change your answer, this dreadful conversation already taking a turn towards treacherous waters. “Hm.” 

The fridges beside you switch on with a soft hum, their frequency slightly higher than that of the buzzing fluorescents. Your mouth fills with blood, the inside of your cheek chewed raw by the time he speaks up again, “Good.” 

“Good?” you can’t help but repeat, wincing at how dull and parrot-like it makes you look. 

He nods, the edges of his mouth curling up and his eyes twinkling in the harsh light. He looks down at the two pints he’s holding stacked on top of each other in one hand, “They’re for Haley. She’s been having cravings recently and…” he gestures vaguely with the hand holding the containers. “She’s very specific.” 

You wonder if he knows that his shoulders curl just slightly when he talks about her, that the hard flint of his face smooths over, bricks falling away. You wonder if they’re things he’s schooled himself out of doing and is just letting slip here, or if they’re truly forces of habit. 

“She’s got good taste, sir.” 

The rush of your victory is still coursing through you, a flicker of hope at the end of the tunnel, a promise that it can and will get better. 

You see Aaron struggle for a moment, opening his mouth once, twice, before saying, rather bluntly, “You should get what you want.” 

“I-what?” 

With his chin, he gestures to the container in your arm, “Indulge. Properly, I mean.” 

You fumble for an answer, something right. So much of your new life, your new job, has made you feel you’d never do anything properly ever again. “Is that an order, sir?” 

He lets out a soft exhale through his nose, shaking his head as he looks down. To your delight, the corners of his mouth twitch up. Looking up again, he says in a serious tone, “Get the full fat stuff, Agent.” 

When you laugh this time, it isn’t followed by twinges of guilt, of fear. It bursts out easily from your throat, and the sheer nothingness that you feel is heady. You see yourself mirrored in Aaron, in the slow, rumbling chuckle he lets out. Despite his composure, you see the tips of his ears turn red, your feelings about this whole thing this evening mirrored in him. 

It was strange to see him up close like this, with the weight of his authority lifted off his shoulders. It’s like watching a marble statue spring to life in front of you, pockmarks rippling up on top of previously smooth surfaces. 

Aaron keeps looking at you, expectant. The tub grows heavier in your arms, and you shift it higher up. You wonder if you’re just imagining the weight of the decision laying in front of you, the push and pull between should and could. 

It has been a long time since your teenage years, since fainting in the shower and brushing out clumps of your hair, but you think that that girl will always be with you, for better and worse. It’s a wonder to you that nobody saw it coming, your insatiable thirst for control spiraling greater and greater until college where it followed your every thought, manipulated your every move. 

“Agent?” 

You know Aaron well enough at least, to know that he wouldn’t be offended if you didn’t change your choice. He was private, not cruel. 

Your eye catches another flavour, and before you let yourself think too much of it, to think yourself out of it, you open the fridge door and switch. The rush of cool air is gratifying, the wash of a good night’s sleep after a long day. 

Breathing out softly, you look back to see him shift the containers in his grip, “I’ll see you Monday, Agent.” He nods at you, polite and professional as always. 

When he rounds the corner at the end of the aisle, the ice cream catches your eye, a stark contrast to the other things in your basket. The low timbre of Aaron’s laugh rings out in your ears again, the anvil crushing your chest lifted. 

Thanks for reading, if you liked it, please consider leaving some feedback! I obsess and re-read reblogs and comments constantly.

Masterlist here.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

srry if this is vague, but do u perhaps have any headcanons about the TWST worlsbuilding? like city capitals, gender norms, internet memes, etc.

DhsnwbkFaiqn The Twst world is so big that I don’t think I could feasibly compile all my personal headcanons about the various countries and cities in a single post. I’ll share some that I feel very strongly on, just keep in mind that this is by no means an exhaustive list ^^;;

It is said that a golden dragon (well, long) presides over marriage in the Land of Crimson Long. It’s not a “real” person, more like a spirit newly wed couples pray to for happiness in their married life.

It’s okay for merpeople to consume non-sentient sea creatures, but it’s considered immoral to consume one’s members of one’s own species, even if that species itself is cannibalistic. (For example, Azul eating octopus or the twins eating moray eels.) This is because merpeople have human sentience which induces disgust in eating their own kind.

Merpeople communities get “worse”/less safe the further down you go in the ocean.

The major cities in Pyroxene/the Shaftlands attract those annoying internet clout chasers and influencers. They’re kind of seen as a general nuisance by the locals, who turn their noses up at them.

There may have been a social divide or discrimination between more animalistic merpeople (Octavinelle) and more human merpeople (Atlantica Museum Guards) in the past. Modern day relations are better, but there’s still some areas in need of improvement and that’s an effort the current royal family are working on.

Environmental conservation efforts are taken very seriously, considering that many races (fae, merpeople) or countries (Sunset Savanna, Briar Valley, Scalding Sands) depend on and/or revere nature. It’s an important part of maintaining peace between the nations.

There is DEFINITELY cursed fanfiction out there. More specifically, the “my mom sold me to One Direction” kind, except replace One Direction with Vil Schoenheit or Neige Leblanche.

There’s also got to be fanfiction of the Great Seven and tons of other modern media inspired by their accomplishments (TV shows, documentaries, musicals, etc.); we already know that films inspired by them exist so why not go the full mile??

There are items in nature inspired by those depicted in Disney films. For example, a kind of flower called the Sundrop, or a gem called the Moonstone Opal (both from Tangled).

More products and brands inspired by Disney films!! Maybe a candy themed racing game like Sugar Rush, hair styling gel and lipstick that comes out of seashells like what Ursula uses, etc.

There are co-ed and all-girls magic schools.

Heartslabyul’s interiors have a mind of their own and sometimes shift for fun. Confuses the freshmen when they experience it for the first time, but they get used to navigating it over time.

Some animal languages require that you use body language and hand movements to supplement tone and word choice. For example, you’d have to curl your hands into paws when speaking Cat.

The pose one’s body assumes can alter spellcasting. For example, if your stance is stiff, it is harder to control the flow of magic and you lose precision.

Magical medicine isn’t a cure-all; I think of it as a field that specializes in treating magic-induced ailments (like blessings/curses) and/or they are trained to use magic for tests (like scans) and precise procedures (such as surgery). (Potions in Twst are already shown to be imperfect; you still need to rest after taking them and the potions still target specific symptoms rather than fix everything.)

Savanaclaw hazes new students by tossing them into the water pool in the lounge. Leona could stop it, but he lets it happen because he thinks it helps “toughen up the fresh meat.”

Post book 6, Ortho arranges gaming tournaments and anime screenings to encourage the Ignihyde students to socialize more. They weren’t that popular in the beginning, but now they attract a decent group.

NRC has several more clubs than the ones the NRC cast are involved in; this includes a Newspaper Club that reports on local news and on-campus activities. (Miss Raven is a contributor!)

[extremely-judgemental]

Nesta isn’t a bitch, she is a mirror.

And somehow this isn’t apparent to the fandom. I’m aware this isn’t a firm, cohesive explanation but I don’t have the brain capacity for this. So take it however it resonates.

Papa Archeron is negligent towards his young daughters. Nesta in return neglects his care and abandons him like he abandoned them. This becomes the foundation for her anger and hatred.

Elain is the nicest sister and treats everyone with ‘compassion’. She offers company, validation, and emotional comfort which Nesta reciprocates and goes beyond that by protecting her from the world.

Feyre is domineering and mean. It’s not explicit in her words in the beginning, but it’s always underscored in her body language, and later on during the fights when Feyre says cruel things to Nesta, which she pays back in kind.

Nesta is wary yet polite to Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel during their initial visit. Cassian attacks first getting between Nesta and Feyre. Since then the IC treat her with hostility. The one moment Rhysand interacts with her like a person before the High Lords meeting, Nesta humours him and they share a joke. When he threatens her life or tries to control her, she retaliates.

Cassian has seen her as nothing but a vicious animal. He pokes at her, prods at her, which later results in Nesta lashing out. (I do wonder if this is why Nesta was changed from modest to hyper sexual to reflect Cassian’s exaggerated fetishisation. Can’t make him non-creepy if he goes on and on for pages about her ass while Nesta is dead serious about her virtue.)

Morrigan jokes about stealing her dress (from her body iirc) and Nesta comments on hers in return which is taken as an insult.

Amren looks at her with fascination as she does with all things Made, and Nesta reciprocates. That's why the two could develop a brief friendship.

Azriel is cordial and shows basic courtesy at times which she reflects back. He is the only one in the IC who never instigated a direct confrontation, and so their friendship.

Emerie is respectful and considerate when Nesta visits her shop. Nesta offers it back with the training and the solstice gifts.

Gwyneth values genuinity and authenticity. She pushes Nesta in the library until she is her true self instead of feigning politeness.

Nesta isn’t mean, temperamental, or sharp-tongued by herself. Instead she reflects what is directed at her. If she was just an angry bitch, we’d have moments where she lashes out at Gwyneth, Emerie or the priestesses at odd times without reason. Her disdain is always placed where it belongs, when the IC step on her boundaries or control her life, at Tamlin when she remembers what happened with Feyre, or Eris after she gets to know Morrigan’s past.

Nesta rarely initiates any interaction with the others. She needs to be pried into a conversation. She takes her time to gauge someone before she reacts to them. Often times, these first interactions set the pace for the rest of their relationship. That’s why she can have great chemistry with anyone. She mirrors them.

This can be considered a trait stemmed from her grooming which she still uses before building a relationship. Or, a lame writing trick to turn the character SJM butchered in the opening of her very first book into a likeable protagonist. Since Nesta’s inner thoughts don’t indicate she is manipulative enough or actively seeking that kind of validation from anyone, I will go with the latter.