#i promise you bitches are NOT saying that

[littlemisskookie]

Ship: Childhood Frenemy/Roommate!Jungkook x Bitchy!Reader

WARNINGS: Extremely Mean Hard Dom!Jungkook, BDSM, Brat!Reader, Masochist!Reader, Sadist!Jungkook, Dub-Con, Extreme Face-Fucking, Oral (m. & f. receiving), Extreme Degradation, Extreme Humiliation, Facial, Face-Fucking Again (a different sort of way), Rimming (f. receiving), Dirty Talk, Overstimulation!!!!, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Sex Scenes, Like these scenes are actually crazy, Slapping, Spanking, Fingering, Pussy-Slapping, Spit, Orgasm Denial, Unprotected Sex, Rough Sex, Praise, Choking, Manhandling, Restraining, Hate Sex, Angry Sex, Possessiveness, Masturbation, Sex-Toys, Squirting, Dacryphilia, Cum-Play, Creampie, Jungkook has a HUUUUUGE Cawhk, Threesome? Reader is a bitch because I love them

Description: Your entire life, you only saw Jeon Jungkook as a nuisance you couldn’t escape from. But what happens after the two of you move in together, and the dreams that plague you force you to see him in a different light?

Currently at: 25k

Expected to be: 30k+

You kneeled before Jungkook, a whimper on your lips as he cockily smirked down at you, legs spread on the sofa chair to accommodate your space between them. He looked like a king, leaning back and tilting his head with a teasing expression. Like he knew exactly what you wanted, and now he was just dangling the carrot on the stick, tormenting you.

"C'mon, say it again."

You swallowed hard, eyes flying between his tantalizing crotch and his wicked expression. "Can I..." You licked your lips, mouth suddenly feeling dry. "Can I please suck your dick?"

"Oh? You want to blow me?" He laughed cruelly, shaking his head. "Why should I let you? You've been nothing but a bitch to me for years."

"I know, I just," you took in a sharp breath. "Just need it. I can't stop thinking about it. Need to get it out of my system."

“Hm, I’m not sure.” He cocked his head to the side, considering it. His eyes scanned your pathetic state in front of him. “Shouldn’t give brats what they want. Might give them the wrong idea.”

“Please! At least… at least let me see it.” You stared at his crotch ravenously, curiosity eating at you. Maybe even a glimpse would be enough to satiate you and put the issue to bed. Quietly, you said, “Please let me see it?”

“Mmm, you sound so sweet when you beg. You’re so nice when you want something.”

You nodded furiously, desperate for anything he can give you. “I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll do whatever you want.”

"Yeah? I don't feel like being nice to you, though, princess. Think you can handle that?"

Your mouth began to water, watching his legs spread a little wider. "Yes, I want it. Want you to be mean."

"You gonna choke on it?"

Nod.

"You wanna gag and drool all over yourself while you do it?"

You sharply inhaled. "Yes, please."

"I'm real big, princess. You sure you know what you're signing up for?"

"Yes! Please please please just let me suck your dick. I can't take it any more!" You felt like you were going to cry already from his teasing.

He smirked, shaking his head with disbelief at your desperation. You had no idea what you just signed up for. "Hm, if you say so. Go ahead and take it out, then."

[honkai-star-railed]

You know how, when it comes to same-gender friendships, it’s hard to tell if there’s supposed to be romantic implications sometimes or if we’re just reading too much into it (or the author’s a queerbaiting asshole)? Sure, Hoyo’s probably aware of the Phaidei ship, but I never thought any romantic implications were on purpose.

Well—and I promise I don’t have my shipper goggles on—I’m starting to believe it actually is intentional. They’re already calling back to Hi3 with this Flame-Chase storyline and playing as dead characters and Kevin and Elysia. Now, they’re going a step further by having a queer relationship. I mean…there’s still tenderness in his eyes? Tenderness? TENDERNESS??? That’s the word you chose??? That’s more telling than saying there’s still love in your eyes. It’s like saying you’re intimate with somebody rather than saying you’re close with them.

“It’s a date, Mydeimos.”

It’s a WHAT??? I know he was hallucinating but still.

“Ha, forget you? Like I’d ever.”

BITCH??? He didn’t sound playful when he said this. He sounded like a man irrevocably in love. There was so much emotion in his voice (but maybe that was just Joshua’s love for Mydei coming through lol).

They’re constantly going out of their way to show us how special Phainon and Mydei are to one another. And when you think about how much Phainon cares about the other Heirs, the fact that such emphasis is still put on this specific relationship of his…I really think Hoyo’s doing another Kiamei. Being as explicit as they can under the restrictions they face. It’d be one thing if they just stuffed in a bunch of bath scenes between them or other fanservice-y situations—but just like Kiamei, there’s actual love here. I think I was gonna say more but I got sidetracked and left the post for like half an hour, so I’m just gonna end it here

[identitty-dickruption]

the worst fucking part of how the NDIS assesses applicants is that you have to have already had a certain amount of medical care before they even consider your application. I'm not talking about diagnosis here (although obviously diagnosis also can be expensive and difficult). I'm talking about the fact that you need to prove that your condition is stable And that the NDIS would be able to provide things that would make your life better. which is to say. they need you to have tried every possible treatment on the planet and have doctors notes saying "nah the bitch did not get better after that". one physiotherapist appointment costs me $65 WITH my chronic health plan. one rheumatologist appointment costs me around $400. so far, the costs of all of the diagnostic work I've had done is in excess of $4k. I am a phd student who receives exactly $0.00 (nothing nada fuck all) from my parents. and I cannot emphasise enough that none of that shit is enough to qualify me for NDIS despite... uhh.. *gestures broadly at my body and mind*

even some abled allies seem to act like getting government assistance with disabilities is doable for most disabled people. I need to emphasise the extent to which this is just Not true. you need a certain amount of privilege and money and access to medical resources in order to earn government funding, and this does leave a lot of vulnerable disabled people without anything. and this is before I even talk about how dehumanising these processes can be, and how much harder it is again for people with intersecting sources of oppression. if you're abled, I want you to spend ten minutes on the application websites for the NDIS and the DSP and think about how many hoops the average disabled person is having to jump through for access. because I can promise this shit is even worse than you think

[reveryfics]

what I have in mind for the request is: Having a first date with Bob! Where both Bob and the reader are nervous about it with maybe a kiss at the ending but that's up to you if you feel like it fits, where the date will happen I let up to you since you probably understands Bob's character better than I do and would know how to say that kind of thing better

Just some very fluffy stuff, I really like first dates since they could both be the ending of something short or the start of a long journey and I like Bob so haha

100 First Dates

Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Male Reader

Summary: You were completely caught off guard when Bob Reynolds—of all people—asked you out. Both of you shared a mutual anxiety that made every first date a dreaded "next time," fearing it would inevitably end in disaster. Eventually, you both decided the best option was a movie in your room.

A/N: This is so cute, I absolutely love first date/first kiss scenarios (probably cause I'm a lonely bitch.) Also for future reference, my requests are always open it's just sometimes I take awhile to get to something.

TW: Fluff - Fist date - First kiss - Flirting - Adorable awkwardness

You stared at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, a stranger staring back. Your hair, usually meticulously styled, was a chaotic storm, each strand seemingly defying gravity in its own unique direction. The shadow of stubble, a testament to several days of neglect, darkened your jawline, adding to the disheveled appearance. A low, guttural groan escaped your lips, a sound born of pure, unadulterated dread. It was a safer alternative, you reasoned, to the more dramatic urge to simply slide to the floor and melt into a puddle, a futile wish to escape the tumultuous sea of nerves and anxiety bubbling within you.

Your hands, clammy and trembling, instinctively ran over the ridiculously soft, fluffy fabric of your Hello Kitty pajama pants. Yelena and Ava, in their infinite wisdom and questionable sense of humor, had gifted them to you as a joke, but they had become a strange comfort in moments of intense distress like this one. Your heart, a frantic drum against your ribs, hammered out a rhythm of panic.

The absurdity of the situation wasn't lost on you. You, an assassin who had once killed politicians and others with less trepidation than you felt now, were completely flummoxed by the simple prospect of a date. And not just any date, but a date with Bob Reynolds. You still couldn't fathom why anyone, let alone him, would ask you out. His first impression on you, during a particularly high-stakes mission in the vault, had been, by his own admission (even if he hadn't meant it maliciously), that you were "emotionally detached." You had spent years, decades even, meticulously crafting an impenetrable shell, pouring every ounce of your being into becoming the perfect S.H.I.E.L.D. assassin, utterly devoid of any romantic inclination. And yet, here you were, willingly agreeing to a first date with Bob.

It wasn't for lack of trying, though. Every single attempt at a "first date" had been sabotaged by a mutual, almost comical, wave of anxiety and nerves. A coffee date? You'd had a sudden, crippling fear of large crowds. A walk in the park? Bob had developed an inexplicable, yet entirely convincing, phobia of pigeons. It felt like a hundred "first dates" that were destined to remain in perpetual limbo, each rain check ending with a hopeful, yet ultimately unfulfilled, promise of "next time."

The endless cycle of near-misses was driving you both utterly insane. You could feel the palpable frustration radiating from Bob, mirroring your own. You both clearly wanted something more, something beyond these aborted attempts, but your anxieties were a relentless, invisible barrier. So, earlier that day, a sudden spark of desperation mixed with determination had ignited within you. You had called Bob, cutting straight to the chase. "Forget the fancy stuff," you'd blurted out, "it doesn't even have to be called a date. Just... two guys. My bedroom. Takeout. Stupid movies."

Another sigh escaped you, this one a weary exhalation of accumulated tension. You finally pushed away from the mirror, your reflection mercifully receding. Turning on your heel, you headed back into your bedroom, a space that had undergone a significant, and sometimes questionable, transformation. You occasionally regretted allowing "the girls"—Yelena and Ava, of course—to make your room more "homey." By "homey," they had evidently meant transforming it into a vibrant explosion of pink, adorned with posters of various "hot guys." Still, you had to admit, it was a definite improvement over the sterile, soulless white box it had once been.

A soft, hesitant knock on the door jolted you from your introspection, followed by Bob's muffled, yet undeniably cheerful, voice. A small smile, genuine and unforced, touched your lips as you moved to open the door. There he stood, a paper bag in each hand, the delicious aroma of Chinese takeout wafting into the hallway. "Chinese," he whispered, a hint of a question in his voice, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I remember you said you like lo mein noodles."

You stepped aside, letting him in, the aroma of the takeout instantly filling the room, a comforting scent that momentarily eclipsed your nerves. "You remembered," you said, a genuine smile touching your lips as you took one of the bags from him. "Come in, make yourself at home."

Bob’s eyes, a warm hue that always seemed to hold a hint of amusement, swept across your now "homey" room. A faint blush crept onto your cheeks, anticipating his reaction to the explosion of pink and the assortment of boy band posters. He paused at a particularly flamboyant poster of a shirtless man playing a saxophone, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Wow," he chuckled, "Yelena and Ava certainly left their mark."

You led him over to your bed, which was currently covered in an array of blankets and pillows, creating a cozy nest. "They had a vision," you explained with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant as you began pulling out containers of food. "Apparently, a top-tier assassin's room needs more 'flair.'"

He set his bags down on the small desk, then carefully navigated the minefield of discarded clothes and various trinkets to sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the bed. "Well, it's definitely got flair," he said, his eyes still twinkling with amusement as he watched you. "Lo mein, right?"

"Absolutely," you confirmed, handing him a container of noodles and a pair of chopsticks. You grabbed your own, along with a container of sweet and sour chicken, and settled onto the bed, facing him. The initial awkwardness that had threatened to suffocate you slowly began to dissipate, replaced by a comfortable silence as you both started to eat.

The easy rhythm of shared food and the quiet hum of your anxiety slowly fading felt... nice. Different. You weren't on a mission, you weren't training, and you weren't trying to outwit a supervillain. You were just two guys, sitting on the bed, surrounded by fuzzy pillows, soft blankets, and eating noodles. It was a simplicity you hadn't realized you craved.

"So," Bob began, breaking the silence, his voice soft, "what stupid movie are we watching first?"

You grinned, a genuine, unforced smile. "Yelena, in her infinite wisdom, actually made me a list." You reached for a crumpled piece of paper on your bedside table, smoothing it out. "Let's see... we have Love, Actually Always, A Royal Christmas Kiss, When Harry Met Santa..." Your voice trailed off as you slowly stopped reading, your eyes lifting to meet Bob's. A blush crept up your neck.

He was trying to suppress a laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly. "Are those... Hallmark movies?"

You sighed dramatically, though a smile tugged at your lips. "She insisted I needed to be 'educated' on the 'finer points of modern romance.' Apparently, my romantic education was severely lacking."

Bob let out a full, hearty laugh this time. "You know what? When Harry Met Santa sounds like exactly the kind of stupid movie we need right now."

You chuckled, a clear, bright sound that surprised even yourself. “Yeah, suppose it is.”

As Bob reached for another handful of noodles, you found your gaze drifting from his amused eyes down to his legs, finally noticing what he was wearing. Your eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He, too, was clad in fuzzy pajama pants. Not Hello Kitty, like yours, but a distinct pattern of Jack Skellington heads scattered across a dark background. The irony was almost too much. There was no doubt in your mind: these, too, were a gift from Yelena, probably Ava as well, a perfectly coordinated, subtle, and utterly obvious attempt at matchmaking.

A low, rumbling chuckle started in Bob’s chest, pulling your gaze back to his face. He met your eyes, a sheepish grin spreading across his features. "You know," he mumbled, almost to himself, though clearly loud enough for you to hear, "I think Yelena and Ava have officially decided to play wingman for us. After witnessing our, uh, 'hundred first date' fails, I guess they took matters into their own hands."

The implication hung in the air, a shared understanding of their subtle, yet relentless, meddling. It was a strange mix of embarrassment and a surprising sense of relief. You weren't the only one being subjected to their particular brand of romantic intervention. And somehow, knowing that made everything feel a little less daunting, a little more… natural. You found yourself smiling, a genuine, unforced curve of your lips. "Looks like it," you agreed, reaching for your own container of lo mein. "And I have to admit, it's a pretty effective strategy."

You clicked on When Harry Met Santa, and the opening credits rolled, a flurry of animated snowflakes and saccharine holiday music filling the room. You settled back against your pillows, feeling a warmth spread through you that had nothing to do with the takeout. Bob, still cross-legged on the floor, occasionally snorted with laughter at the movie's more outlandish moments, and you found yourself laughing along, a genuine, uninhibited sound.

At one point, the protagonist, a perpetually flustered woman named Holly, tripped over a rogue string of Christmas lights and landed squarely in the arms of a handsome, bearded man in a red suit. Bob let out a particularly loud guffaw, causing you to playfully nudge him with your foot. "Hey, easy there," you teased, "you'll wake the neighbors with that racket."

He just grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's just so bad," he said, still chuckling. "But in the best possible way."

As the movie played on, a comfortable silence settled between you. The anxiety that had been a constant companion all day had finally receded, replaced by a sense of calm you hadn't felt in a long time. You found yourself stealing glances at Bob, watching the way his brow furrowed in concentration during a dramatic scene, or how his lips twitched when a particularly cheesy line was delivered. He seemed so at ease, so comfortable in your chaotic, pink explosion of a room. It was a stark contrast to your own initial apprehension, and it made you feel a little lighter, a little more at ease yourself.

The final credits rolled, accompanied by a soaring, optimistic song about true love and holiday miracles. Bob stretched, a long, languid movement, and then pushed himself up from the floor, settling onto the bed beside you. The bed dipped slightly under his weight, and for a moment, you were acutely aware of how close you were, the subtle scent of his cologne mixing with the lingering aroma of Chinese food.

"So," he said, his voice soft, "what's next on Yelena's list of romantic masterpieces?"

You picked up the crumpled paper again, smoothing it out. "Let's see... A Royal Christmas Kiss. Sounds… equally terrible." You looked up at him, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Are you brave enough?"

He met your gaze, his own eyes alight with a warmth that made your stomach do a strange little flip. "Only if you are," he replied, his voice a low murmur.

You found yourself smiling again, a genuine, unforced smile that reached your eyes. This wasn't a mission. There were no hidden agendas, no threats, no lives on the line. It was just you and Bob, in your ridiculously pink room, surrounded by fuzzy blankets, and a stack of cheesy romantic comedies. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like exactly where you were supposed to be.

"I think," you said, your voice just above a whisper, "I'm brave enough for that."

A Royal Christmas Kiss was somehow even more ridiculously over-the-top than the first. You and Bob had long since cleared away the empty takeout containers, stashing them in the kitchen sink for later. Now, you were both sprawled out on your bed, nestled beneath the ridiculously soft, fuzzy blanket, a gift from Yelena and Ava that surprisingly wasn't pink. It was a deep, forest green, a rare moment of restraint from "the girls."

Halfway through the movie, the screen was bathed in the soft glow of a thousand twinkling Christmas lights as the perpetually flustered American baker, who had somehow fallen in love with a prince, attempted to bake him a "love scone." It was a scene so dripping with saccharine sweetness and clumsy flirting that you and Bob had both dissolved into a fit of giggles.

You watched as the baker, her face dusted with flour, accidentally smeared some on the prince's nose. He, in turn, leaned in and gently wiped it off with his thumb, their eyes locking in a moment of undeniable, if entirely predictable, cinematic chemistry. Bob let out a hearty chuckle beside you, the sound rumbling pleasantly in his chest.

"Oh, the drama," he drawled, his voice laced with amusement. "The sheer, unbearable drama of a scone."

You snorted, a laugh escaping you that felt light and free. You turned your head, propping yourself up on an elbow, to face him. He was looking at the screen, a wide, genuine smile on his face, his Jack Skellington pajama pants peeking out from under the blanket. The soft light of the movie cast a warm glow on his features, highlighting the subtle curve of his lips, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes.

Suddenly, a thought, as unwelcome as it was undeniable, popped into your head. It was a thought that had been lurking in the shadows of your mind for hours, a shy creature hesitant to make an appearance. But watching him laugh, seeing him so comfortable in your space, it pushed its way to the forefront.

You cleared your throat, the sound ridiculously loud in the quiet room. Bob's gaze shifted from the screen to you, his eyebrows raising slightly in question. Your heart, which had just begun to settle into a comfortable rhythm, suddenly started to hammer against your ribs again.

"You know," you began, your voice sounding stiff and formal, like you were reading from a long-forgotten mission brief, "they say... that a good way to... bond with someone... is through shared… baked goods."

You winced internally. It was supposed to be a clever, light-hearted quip, a subtle nod to the movie's terrible flirting. Instead, it sounded like you were delivering a scientific report on the efficacy of carb-loading for emotional connection. The words, clunky and awkward, hung in the air between you, heavy with the weight of your immediate regret. You could feel a blush creeping up your neck, burning hot. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole, anything to dispel the mortifying silence that followed.

Bob stared at you for a beat, his smile faltering slightly as he processed your undeniably bizarre statement. You braced yourself for a polite, yet utterly devastating, rejection, or worse, a burst of uncontrollable laughter. Your cheeks were burning now, a furious inferno that seemed to spread to the tips of your ears. This was it. You had officially ruined everything.

Then, slowly, a soft chuckle escaped him, low and warm. It wasn't the boisterous laugh you'd anticipated, but a gentle, almost hesitant sound that made some of the tension in your shoulders ease. He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm, and the contact sent a surprising jolt through you.

"So," he said, his voice laced with a playful teasing, "are you suggesting we… bake scones together sometime? For… bonding purposes?"

His eyes, still twinkling with amusement, met yours, and you found yourself momentarily speechless. He hadn't recoiled. He hadn't mocked you. He was actually playing along. A small, hesitant smile touched your lips.

"I mean," you managed, your voice still a little shaky, "it's certainly… a more unique approach than a walk in the park with pigeons."

Bob's chuckle deepened, and he shifted closer, propping himself up on his own elbow so you were now facing each other, barely a foot apart. The air between you felt charged, thick with an unspoken something.

"You know," he said, his gaze dropping to your Hello Kitty pajama pants, a faint blush now dusting his own cheeks, "I think our… shared affinity for questionable loungewear is already a pretty strong bond. We're practically soulmates in terrible taste."

You let out a genuine laugh, a little surprised by the ease with which it came. "Hey," you retorted, feigning indignation, "these are incredibly comfortable! And yours aren't exactly haute couture, Mr. Skellington."

He grinned, a crooked, charming tilt of his lips. "Touché. But you have to admit, there's a certain… synergy, isn't there? You in Hello Kitty, and me in Jack Skellington. It's practically a superhero team-up waiting to happen."

You shook your head, a soft smile still playing on your lips. "I think the only thing we'd be saving is the world from bad fashion choices."

The conversation drifted, light and easy, punctuated by comfortable silences and the occasional burst of laughter. You talked about the absurdity of your mutual near-miss "first dates," the relentless, well-meaning interference of Yelena and Ava, and even a little about your lives before everything. He listened intently when you spoke, his gaze steady and warm, making you feel seen in a way you rarely experienced.

At one point, the movie on the screen provided another perfectly timed, ridiculously romantic scene. The prince and the baker were slow dancing in a snow-covered ballroom, their faces inches apart. You glanced at the screen, then back at Bob, who was already looking at you, a soft, unreadable expression on his face.

"You know," he murmured, his voice a little lower now, "for someone who's 'emotionally detached,' you're doing a pretty good job of… not being."

Your breath hitched slightly. The compliment, delivered so casually, yet with such genuine sincerity, caught you off guard. You felt the blush return, hotter than before. This was it. The moment. The precipice.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. "Well," you said, attempting to sound nonchalant, "I'm merely… adapting to the situation. Assessing the… emotional landscape." You immediately cursed yourself. Emotional landscape? You sounded like a robot.

Bob just chuckled, a gentle rumble in his chest. He didn't mock you, didn't even seem fazed by your utterly ridiculous phrasing. Instead, he simply reached out, his hand slowly, almost hesitantly, coming to rest on yours, which was still resting on the blanket between you. His fingers, warm and calloused, intertwined with yours, a simple, tender gesture that made your heart pound against your ribs.

"Or maybe," he whispered, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand, "you're just… really good at flirting."

Your eyes widened slightly, and you felt a shy, almost giddy feeling bubble up inside you. "Me?" you squeaked, the sound high-pitched and entirely undignified. "I just told you we should bond over baked goods!"

He laughed, a genuine, unrestrained sound that filled the room. "And I thought it was incredibly charming," he said, his gaze locked with yours, warm and unwavering. "It was... uniquely you."

The sincerity in his voice, the warmth of his hand in yours, it was all too much, and yet, exactly what you needed. You found yourself leaning in, drawn by an invisible current, and he mirrored your movement, closing the small distance between you. His eyes, in the dim light, seemed darker, more intense. You could feel his breath on your cheek, warm and soft.

The air thrummed with a different kind of tension now, one that was far more pleasant than anxiety. You weren't sure what to do, what to say, or even what you wanted to happen. All you knew was that his hand in yours felt impossibly right, and the way he was looking at you made your carefully constructed walls feel like they were crumbling, piece by beautiful piece.

You swallowed, your heart thudding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The space between your faces was shrinking, an invisible force pulling you closer. His eyes, a warm, inviting brown, held yours, and you saw a reflection of your own nervous anticipation there. Your gaze dropped to his lips, a silent invitation, and you felt a tremor run through you. This was it. The moment you'd unknowingly been dreading and longing for all at once.

His head tilted almost imperceptibly, and your own followed suit. You could feel the soft brush of his breath against your lips, smell the faint, comforting scent of him – Chinese takeout, a hint of his cologne, and something else, something uniquely Bob. Every instinct in your body, honed for combat and evasion, screamed to pull back, to create distance. But another, softer instinct, one you hadn't known you possessed, urged you forward.

Just as your lips were about to meet, a sudden, piercing shriek erupted from the movie playing on your laptop. It was a comically over-the-top reaction from the prince's jealous ex-fiancée, who had just discovered the royal Christmas kiss. The jarring sound shattered the delicate bubble you and Bob had created.

You both flinched, pulling back abruptly, your eyes wide with a mix of surprise and a touch of lingering disappointment. The magic of the moment dissipated, replaced by a sudden, awkward awareness of the space between you. You could feel your cheeks flush even deeper, and you avoided his gaze, instead focusing intently on a loose thread on the green blanket.

Bob cleared his throat, a soft, almost embarrassed sound. "Well," he mumbled, gesturing vaguely towards the laptop, "she's certainly not taking it well."

You managed a weak, breathy laugh, still not quite meeting his eyes. "No," you agreed, your voice a little shaky, "I suppose not."

An uncomfortable silence descended, far heavier than the comfortable one you'd shared moments before. The almost-kiss hung in the air between you, a tangible thing, making your heart thump erratically. You felt a familiar wave of self-consciousness wash over you. Had you misread the signals? Had you pushed too far?

Then, Bob shifted on the bed, and you braced yourself for him to pull away entirely, to retreat to his side of the bed. Instead, he gently squeezed your hand, his thumb still stroking your skin. You finally risked a glance at him. He was looking at you, a soft, understanding smile playing on his lips, a hint of lingering warmth in his eyes.

"So," he said, his voice a low, reassuring murmur, "do you think Holly and the prince are going to make it work?"

The question, so mundane and perfectly timed, was a lifeline. It was his way of acknowledging the interrupted moment without making it a bigger deal than it needed to be, a gentle invitation to return to the comfortable, easy dynamic you'd built.

You felt a wave of relief wash over you, followed by a surprising surge of affection for this man who understood you, even when you barely understood yourself. You squeezed his hand back, a silent thank you.

"Considering it's a Hallmark movie," you said, a genuine smile finally gracing your lips, "I'm pretty sure true love will conquer all."

He chuckled, and the tension in the room eased another notch. "Wouldn't have it any other way," he replied, and though his eyes were on the screen, his thumb continued its soft, rhythmic caress against your hand, a quiet promise that the moment wasn't truly lost, just postponed.

The royal wedding finally concluded on screen, a crescendo of orchestral music and fake snow. You vaguely registered the "Happily Ever After" title card, but your eyelids felt impossibly heavy. The warmth of the fuzzy blanket, the comfortable weight of Bob beside you, and the sheer exhaustion from the day's emotional rollercoaster had conspired to lull you into a state of near-sleep. Your head, no longer supported by your elbow, instinctively listed to the side, coming to rest gently on Bob's shoulder.

You felt him stir beneath you, a subtle shift that didn't feel like a retreat, but rather a quiet adjustment. He moved just enough to tilt his head, allowing him to look down at you. You opened your eyes sluggishly, a soft sigh escaping your lips. His face was close, illuminated by the dim glow of the laptop screen, his expression unreadable but gentle. You managed a small, sleepy smile.

"I had a really good—" you began, the words slurring slightly.

Before you could finish, he leaned in. It was a slow, deliberate movement, giving you just enough time to process what was happening. Your eyes widened almost imperceptibly, surprise blooming in your chest. This wasn't the tentative, almost-kiss from earlier. This was a definite, intentional lean, his gaze fixed on your lips.

His lips, soft and warm, met yours. It was a brief kiss, a fleeting brush that lasted only a second, but it sent a jolt through you, clearing the last vestiges of sleep from your mind. He pulled back slightly, his eyes wide and a faint flush rising on his cheeks.

"Oh, gosh," he stammered, his voice laced with mortification, "I am so, so sorry. I didn't—I shouldn't have—"

You didn't let him finish. The surprise had given way to something else, a warmth that spread through your chest, eclipsing the lingering awkwardness. Without a second thought, you leaned in again, closing the small distance between you. Your lips met his once more, a more confident, lingering touch this time. You raised a hand, placing it flat against his chest, feeling the steady, rapid beat of his heart mirroring your own. It was a clear, unspoken message: It's okay. More than okay.

When you finally pulled away, your hearts were both hammering, a frantic, shared rhythm. His eyes were wide, a mix of shock and something softer, something hopeful. Your own cheeks felt hot, but a genuine, albeit slightly dazed, smile played on your lips.

"I..." Bob started, his voice still a little shaky, "I just… I really like being close to you." He shifted awkwardly on the bed, his gaze flickering from your face to his Jack Skellington pajama pants. "I know it's late, and it's probably weird to ask, but… would it be okay if I stayed? Just… here? On the bed?"

Your smile widened, a quiet sense of contentment settling over you. "Yeah," you said, your voice a soft murmur, "yeah, Bob. I'd like that."

A wave of relief washed over his face, and he let out a quiet exhale. He then carefully, almost tentatively, settled back down beside you, his arm finding its way around your waist, pulling you gently closer until your head was once again resting comfortably on his shoulder. You felt him press a soft kiss to the top of your head, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver of warmth through you.

The faint glow of the laptop screen was the only light in the room now, casting long, soft shadows. The sounds of the night, the distant hum of traffic, the quiet creaks of the building, seemed to fade into the background. All that mattered was the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his arm around you, and the comforting weight of his presence. You closed your eyes, a peaceful sigh escaping your lips. The ridiculous pajama pants, the cheesy movies, the awkward flirting, it had all led to this. And for the first time in a very long time, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[saintormentor]

brat

in which . . . after a vicious argument, chris and reader spiral into a emotionally-charged encounter—laced with teasing, dominance, and weaponized silence. when the pleasure fades, she’s left shaken and crying, craving the softness he once gave her. chris doesn’t offer affection—but he offers her a shirt, a bed, and the comfort of not being alone.

warnings . . . degradation, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, and explicit sexual content including edging, impact play, humiliation, toxic relationship dynamics, blurred emotional boundaries, and post-sexual emotional distress. i do not own fwb!chris.

tag list . . . @sturniolo-szn2, @trustinsturniolos, @whore4-chrissturniolo, @rockastic, @j21l91, @courta13, @emma12345sworld, @maekieuwu, @norahsturns, @sturniszn, @pip4444chris, @angeliccumslut, @tezzzzzzzz, @angel-sturn1, @stvnsthings, @devotedlyteenagemusic

the door slammed behind you.

you weren’t even sure who did it—you or him.

your voice was already raised. so was his.

words neither of you meant were already in the air.

“fuckin’ fake ass bitch,” chris muttered, tossing his keys on the counter.

“say it again, i dare you.”

he turned, with a scoff.

“you’re a fake bitch, and you only come here when you want my dick.”

your hand hit his chest. he didn’t flinch. just caught your wrist.

gripped it.

“what’s wrong, baby?” he mocked. “mad ’cause i’m right?”

you shoved him. he caught your waist. and then your back hit the wall—hard.

“you think you’re in control?” he hissed, breath hot, voice full of venom. “you think you can talk to me however the fuck you want and still expect me to eat you out like i missed you?”

“you did miss me.” you smirked. sharp. taunting.

“you’re hard already.”

he looked down. he was. “fuckin’ slut.”

his mouth crashed onto yours—mean, wet, teeth clashing. his hands were already up your shirt, yanking the fabric, bruising your skin.

he bent you over the couch. pulled your panties to your knees. spit on your pussy before even touching you.

“this what you wanted?” he snapped, slapping your ass once—twice. “wanted me to ruin you again just ‘cause you’re mad i didn’t call?”

you moaned as he fiddled with his buckled. you pushed back against his cock.

“shut up and fuck me.”

he laughed. “say please.”

you stayed silent. he pressed just the tip in. you whimpered.

“say it.”

“…please.”

he didn’t move.

not an inch.

his cock throbbed inside you, just the tip buried, a promise without a payoff.

“that’s not how you beg,” chris muttered, fingers tightening around your hip.

“say it like you mean it.”

you pushed back, trying to grind against him—

but he yanked you fowards again, your pussy clenching around nothing.

“uh-uh,” he warned. “bad girls don’t get what they want.”

you whined, fists curling against the couch cushions, back arching. your cunt was soaked. needy. fluttering open like it knew what it needed. he just stood there and watched.

he leaned over your back, chest pressed to your spine.

his voice came dark and smug at your ear.

“i bet your little pussy’s aching, huh?”

a slow roll of his hips made you jolt—just barely enough to feel him, not enough to satisfy.

“bet you thought you could just walk in, throw a fit, and get fucked stupid like always.”

he pulled out again. completely this time. you gasped.

and then he slapped your pussy.

a wet, loud sting. you cried out, knees shaking.

“answer me,” he growled. “you think i owe you dick just ‘cause you’re loud and desperate?”

“yes,” you gasped. “yes—i need it—chris, please—”

he dragged two fingers through your folds.

flicked your clit once. “mm,” he hummed. “you are dripping.”

another spank. this one lower. “but desperate bitches get edged.”

you whimpered as he slid two fingers inside you—deep, fast—curling them just right until your eyes rolled.

but then he stopped. pulled them out. smacked your clit again with them.

your whole body jerked.

he chuckled. cruel.

“you’re easy. like this pussy was made to be teased.”

he did it again. and again.

fingering you fast until your moans turned frantic—then pulling away just as your thighs began to tremble.

“no, no, no—chris, i’m gonna—”

he slapped your inner thigh.

“don’t you dare cum.”

you choked. buried your face in the couch.

his fingers were back inside a second later.

deeper.

meaner.

“you wanna cum so bad?” he asked, voice low and dripping with mockery.

“beg like a good little whore. tell me what you are.”

you cried out when his thumb pressed to your clit again, barely circling.

“i’m—i’m a whore, chris—please—your whore—please let me cum—”

he twisted his fingers. hit that spot. you screamed.

but he stopped. again.

your orgasm died in your gut like a cruel joke.

your body shook with it.

and chris? he just stood there.

licked his fingers.

and smirked.

“not yet.”

his voice was pure sin.

“you’ll know when you’ve earned it.”

you were shaking.

your thighs slick and trembling.

every nerve ending lit up and left waiting—buzzing, aching, begging.

you turned your head to glare at him over your shoulder. your mascara was smeared, your lips parted, your breath ragged.

“you’re such a fucking dick.”

chris just grinned.

he reached down and slapped your pussy again—wet and loud.

you yelped.

“language,” he warned.

“call me names again and i’ll edge you ‘til you cry.”

you were already crying.

eyes glassy, lips wobbling, body flushed. he loved it.

he knelt behind you again, this time spreading your ass with both hands.

spit once—messy, hot—and dragged his tongue through your folds with a groan.

“mm,” he muttered against you. “this pussy loves being edged. so fuckin’ sensitive.”

his tongue circled your clit, gentle now, too gentle. just enough to hurt.

you tried to rock your hips—he pinned you down.

“stay still.”

your fingers clawed at the couch cushions.

his mouth got wetter. faster.

you were gonna break.

your body tensed, high-pitched moans spilling from your throat as the wave started to crest—

and then he stopped.

“chris—!”

he stood.

you sobbed into the couch, hips twitching with frustration.

“why are you doing this—”

he grabbed your face, forcing you to look up at him.

“because you think you can come in here and treat me like you’re not mine.”

his cock hung heavy in his hand, glistening with precum.

“you think you can fight with me, scream at me, act like a brat—then still cum like i’m your fuckin’ boyfriend.”

he rubbed the tip along your slit.

“you’re not special, baby.”

he pushed in—slow, mean.

your breath caught.

he bottomed out in one long stroke.

you were already soaked and ruined.

he didn’t move. just stayed there, cock pulsing inside you.

“cum now,” he said.

“do it.”

your body snapped.

the orgasm ripped through you, no warning, no mercy.

you screamed. sobbed. spasmed around him while he laughed, low and breathless.

“that’s it, slut,” he muttered. “that’s what you needed, huh?”

and still—he didn’t move.

he let you twitch, let you go limp.

no kiss.

no praise.

no comfort.

just slid out of you, tucked himself back in, and wiped your cum off his fingers.

you laid there and he said nothing. just grabbed his phone and left the room like it meant nothing.

the room was quiet now. just the soft tick of the clock on the wall, the low hum of the fridge. your body was still trembling—half from the orgasm, half from the silence.

he hadn’t come back, not yet.

you were still bent over the couch, hoodie half off your arms, panties tangled around your ankle, thighs sticky.

your bottom lip trembled, your eyes stung. you didn’t know what cracked you—but suddenly it was spilling out.

“fuck,” you whispered, voice hoarse. you slid to the floor.

and then it hit. the tears. hot, heavy, unstoppable.

you curled into yourself, pressed your hands to your face, and sobbed. you’d been a bitch.

you’d yelled. shoved him. ran your mouth like you didn’t care—

but you did.

you wanted him to hold you, not fuck you like a stranger.

you wanted his shirt.

his voice in your ear.

a “you okay?” or a “c’mere, baby.”

but you got none of it.

just aching silence. until you heard his footsteps.

you looked up as his shadow moved into view. he didn’t say anything. you sniffled, cheeks soaked, mascara smudged into your skin. you hated how you sounded. how needy you felt.

“why are you being such an asshole,” you whispered.

your voice cracked at the end.

chris stared down at you, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“you think you can cry now?” his voice was flat.

“after acting like a spoiled little cunt?”

your chest heaved. you looked away.

he crouched in front of you, one hand coming under your chin.

forced you to look at him.

“you want comfort?” he said.

“you don’t get to start the fight and then cry when you lose it.”

“i didn’t mean to—”

your voice broke completely.

“i just… i don’t know, chris. i just wanted you to—”

he leaned in. kissed your cheek. just once. soft.

but then his hand gripped your jaw tighter.

“wanted me to what?”

his voice dropped.

“love you?”

you didn’t answer. just let the tears fall.

he wiped one away with his thumb. a cruel kind of gentleness.

“too late for that,” he whispered. “but you can sleep here. with me.”

he stood.

grabbed one of his shirts from the floor. tossed it at you.

“get up. clean yourself. then come to bed.”

he didn’t say my bed. just bed.

but still— you crawled up. pulled the shirt on.

because it smelled like him. because it was all he was willing to give.

and right now, that was enough.

you climbed into the sheets while he laid back, phone in hand, scrolling like nothing had happened.

you curled toward him. not close enough to touch. just close enough to feel his warmth.

he surprisingly pulled you in.

he didn’t push you away. and that was his usual version of comfort.

a little mercy after the storm.

a quiet that said, you’re still here. i’m still here.

even if nothing else was.

[reijisteacup]

Hai bbg, how would the diaboys react if their latest bride somehow got popular at school, males too but mostly by the girls. Like they once saw her walking down the hallway with like 4 GIRLS talking to her and she was like happily talking back to them. And yes the diaboys got less attention from the girls but was still a bit popular. She avoids and rejects guys in a rlly rude way btw🙏🙏 (I love lesbian dynamics like this)

OOOP PERIODDD

Sakamaki’s

Shu Sakamaki: He couldn’t care less. Until he does. He starts noticing how the girls gravitate toward you in class. How your hand lingers on their backs when you laugh. How you giggle and whisper in their ears. But when a guy tries the same? You glare. “Back off, Chad.” Shu raises an eyebrow. “…Tch. You’re really into that, huh? Being worshipped by a little cult of fangirls?” He pulls you into his lap during lunch without warning. Arms around your waist. Eyes locked with yours. “If you’re gonna flirt in public,” he yawns, “might as well do it with someone who can actually bite back.”

Reiji Sakamaki: You are an enigma. Refined, eloquent — utterly disinterested in foolish boys — and surrounded by women who admire your poise. He’s impressed. Secretly pleased. Until it crosses the line. When you openly compliment a girl’s perfume and make her blush, Reiji narrows his eyes. He waits until you're alone, then coolly states, “You seem rather... fond of female company.” You raise a brow. “And?” He adjusts his glasses. “Then I shall remind you who owns your time — and your throat.” Cue a jealous kiss, pressed hard into your skin, collarbone bruising under his gloves.

Laito Sakamaki: He loves it. At first. “Oh~? Bitch-chan’s a ladykiller now?” he teases, eyes gleaming. “Should I be worried~?” But then he sees you. Really sees you. Surrounded by pink-cheeked schoolgirls, gently braiding one’s hair, giving another a piece of candy. And when a boy tries to join in, you shut him down without even looking. Something dark coils in Laito’s chest. “You like teasing girls, hm~? How sweet…” That night, he sneaks into your bed. “But you’re mine, mein liebling. No matter how you flirt.”

Kanato Sakamaki: Absolutely unhinged. “Why do they keep TOUCHING YOU?! Why do they get to hold your hand?!” Kanato doesn’t care that they’re girls. He just sees them as competition. “She smiled at you,” he growls at one of your friends. “I saw it. That’s MINE.” You try to explain. “Kanato, I’m not flirting—” “DO YOU LOVE HER?!” It’s dramatic. Possessive. He drags you into his arms like a porcelain doll and sulks for hours. You end up promising to sing him a love song just to calm him down.

Ayato Sakamaki: “Oi! Oi oi oi! What’s with all the girls around you lately?!” He’s red-faced, yelling, ruffled. “Are you some kinda girl magnet now?! You’re mine, Chichinashi!” He tries to insert himself into your little group, demanding attention. He’ll throw his arm over your shoulder, brag loudly, flirt in front of your girl-friends. But when a guy so much as glances your way: Ayato: “You tryna die, huh? That’s my girl, dumbass.” Lowkey? He’s so proud of you. But he needs constant reassurance. Loudly. And daily.

Subaru Sakamaki: Short-circuiting. He walks into the courtyard and sees you surrounded by soft giggling girls, handing out homemade cookies. One feeds you a bite. You smile. His brain: ❌💥❓❗🧍‍♂️ “…Tch. What the hell is this?” He drags you aside with a sharp tug on your sleeve. “You ignoring guys now? What, not enough drama?” When you say, “I like girls better,” his eyes widen. “Wha—!? But— You— That doesn’t—” He shuts down. Spends the rest of the day brooding in a corner, face burning. Later, he stammers, “I-I don’t care if you flirt with girls. Just don’t forget about me, okay?”

Mukami’s

Ruki Mukami: He watches with hawk-like precision. You’re... popular. But only among the girls. Gentle touches. Secret glances. Smiles. He can’t decide if he’s intrigued or jealous. “You avoid every male in your orbit,” he notes. “But welcome these girls with open arms.” You nod. “They’re nicer. Simpler.” He smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Then let me remind you why you need not seek affection elsewhere.” Cue a sharp bite on your collarbone — a visible mark. His warning to everyone, regardless of gender.

Kou Mukami: At first? He thinks it’s adorable. “Aw~ M-Neko-chan’s got a fan club~” But when you skip lunch to hang out with your favorite girl-friend? He’s sulking. “Are you replacing me…?” he pouts, pushing his sunglasses up. You tease him. “Jealous of a girl?” He gasps dramatically. “YES. Because SHE doesn’t get you flustered like I do~” He starts mimicking you: braiding his hair, wearing pastels, acting “sooo soft.” Just to prove he can out-girl your girls. …He kind of nails it.

Yuma Mukami: “You got a whole girl gang now?” He’s amused. But then he sees one of them grab your hand. Hold it. Whisper something in your ear. You blush. He snaps a pencil in half. “Oi, Sow… you swingin’ the other way or what?” You laugh. “Maybe.” He yanks you into his arms and growls, “Well ya better swing back, or I’ll start showin’ you why men like me exist.”

Azusa Mukami: Doesn’t understand it at first. “Why… do girls… follow you?” You say, “They just like me. I like them too. They’re soft.” He tilts his head. “Softer… than me?” You wrap his hands in yours. “You’re soft in your own way.” He beams. Later, when one of the girls hugs you, he gets oddly territorial. “…That’s my safe place,” he mutters. “You can’t take her.” He carves a tiny heart with your initials on his skin. “Proof… you’re mine.”

Tsukinami’s

Carla Tsukinami: “You appear… adored,” he notes, watching you surrounded by girls. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t seem angry. But later, he grips your wrist. Hard. “You reject every male advance… yet allow women to toy with your affections?” You reply calmly. “Because they don’t try to control me.” Carla goes still. Then smirks. “Then I will be softer with my chains.” That night, he kisses your knuckles and murmurs, “No woman, no man… no god… will replace me.”

Shin Tsukinami: Jealous as hell. “Why the hell are you always with those chicks?! I didn’t claim you so you could go make a sorority!” You raise an eyebrow. “What, you think I’m cheating with a girl?” “…I DON’T KNOW MAYBE?!” Shin is very loud, very unhinged, and very confused by how flustered he gets when he sees you laughing with another girl. He starts showing up to your little girl-gatherings. “Y/N’s mine, btw. Just thought I’d say it out loud. Carry on.” Still… he watches you with a strange glint in his eye. You’re kind of hot when you’re the heartthrob.

[philosopherking1887]

What does it mean to "redeem" a country, anyway? Is it somehow to make up for, to compensate for, its past misdeeds? What would be sufficient to do that in the case of the US? Is "redeemable" distinct from "salvageable," or "improvable"? Is there an implicit claim that if it's impossible for a country to do enough good to outweigh the evil it has done, it's pointless to try to make it better, because it will never be sufficient to "redeem" it? That if it isn't "redeemed," it should remain evil in all ways, to make its moral worthlessness obvious to all? Is "redemption" an all-or-nothing matter?

It's been a while since I've posted bitching about moral rigorism on the Left, but here we are again. Moral rigorism is the view that if you're not morally perfect, you're morally worthless; if you told a small lie, or watched porn once, you might as well be a serial murderer, because you're just as completely damned. You might think that this view would be incompatible with Christianity -- consider the parable of the prodigal son -- but you do find it in some forms of Protestantism; the point is to prove that we're all equally "irredeemable" sinners on our own, regardless of apparent differences in our moral status, and so can only be saved by abasing ourselves before God and accepting Jesus's sacrifice on our behalf, thanks to God's unearned and unearnable grace.

As we all know, artifacts of various types of (especially Protestant) Christian theology can show up in secularized political guises, not least in Leftist movements. Here, too, is an example of that: the conviction on the "liberationist" Left that a Western country like the US (whose sins, of course, are many and grave!) can never do enough good to redeem itself on its own -- and it's inexcusably arrogant to think that it can, and viciously deceptive if it even appears to be showing moral improvement through its own efforts, which can only be cosmetically superficial given the depths of its true sinfulness. Instead, it should be allowed to languish in its inevitable decay -- to "hit rock bottom," in the terms of another Christian moral movement -- until it is redeemed from without, either by being justly vanquished by the forces of righteous liberation from the "Global South/East" (China, Iran [I actually saw someone on here call the IRI "a progressive force for good" recently], North Korea, even Russia, which is hardly "South" but still gets to count as Not Evil West), or by a revolution of its own oppressed people, which counts as redemption "from without" insofar as the revolutionaries are considered outsiders who have never benefited from institutions of American power, and the revolution consists in wholly destroying existing systems such that whatever rises in their place cannot be considered continuous with the previously existing nation.

As the quotation from Maria Ressa indicates, many people in the Global South -- even in countries like the Philippines that have suffered from American imperial oppression -- do not want that outcome. They want to believe that even deeply flawed countries can turn themselves around, can make themselves better through peaceful political means and the efforts of civil society. For many of them, the US is not primarily a symbol of Western imperial aggression (though of course it is not innocent of that), but of internal progress toward greater freedom and justice.

Maybe the tankie types will say that this indicates that Ressa herself is a shill for the imperialist West, or has been duped into false consciousness by global capitalist ideology (they, of course, Know Better, having Read Theory... or watched a YouTube video essay about it, anyway). But let us for a moment suppose that she is thinking and speaking autonomously, and take what she says seriously. Maybe what the victims of American imperialism want from the US is not its humiliation and destruction, but the actual fulfillment of the promises of liberty, justice, and equality that it has not yet made good. Not "redemption," perhaps, but a proof of the possibility of improvement. If that's the case, then Americans owe it not only to the vulnerable people in their own country (which you think would be enough to motivate people who claim to care about the plight of the oppressed), but also to the people fighting for democracy in places where it's fragile (like the Philippines, or Thailand, or Hungary), and in places where it's still just an aspiration (like Myanmar, Syria, Egypt, Belarus), to prove to them that they're not fighting for a lost cause.

I understand why people call the US "irredeemable", because, yes. But at the same time, it's very frustrating, because I always seem to see it as "so there's no point trying." But at the end of the day the US will still be a country. It's not going anywhere. So if we aren't trying to make it better, then what's the point?

[odeverload]

stoner!jiseok… he would be so funny to be around but you know he’d so be the type to get horny when high

YESSS stoner!xdiz is one of my fav tropes to read/write !!! and yes jiseok would get sooo horny but hear me out… stoner!dealer!fwb!jiseok…

nsfw under the cut !

you’d had this little arrangement with jiseok for a little over three months now. it’s pretty simple: you ask for weed, he delivers it, and you pay in smiles and “i owe you one’s”. jiseok would usually know better than to get stinted out of money for the weed he works so hard to get, hand-roll, and give to you, but a part of him doesn’t really mind as long as he gets to have you touching his arm at your front door, cooing over how generous he was driving all this way just to hand you a couple of blunts.

“you like the new stuff?” jiseok asks cheekily. you stifle a giggle at the bright pink bong he has in his hands, along with the new pen he’d promised. “i didn’t ask for a bong, you know i don’t have enough for that right now. money’s tight and that bitch at the store won’t schedule me.” “no worries, i was kinda just looking for an excuse to smoke tonight.” jiseok looks at you with hopeful eyes. how could you say no?

and now you find yourselves here, on your couch, the air reeking of weed as you both stare into the tv glow of the random channel you put on before he got here. you’re both blazed out of your minds, you in worse condition than jiseok. he looks over at you, silently offering the bong he had set between his legs. “you want another hit off the bong, or just the pen?”

“just the pen, seokie” you giggle. weed doesn’t make you that loopy, just hungry. the bags of takeout that surround you are evidence of that. as you lean over to grab jiseok’s from the coffee table, you find yourself losing your balance and ending up face-first into his lap. you whip your head up and are about to start slurring apologies when you hear a quiet moan from above you. jiseok, gripping the couch with one hand, moves your head back to where it was, right above his rising bulge. you’d never imagine this would be happening here, now. sure, you’d always found jiseok attractive, incredibly so, but you always though both of you would be too chicken to make the first move.

“f-fuck yeah, ride me just like that baby, fuck, keep going yes” jiseok babbles as you cling to his slouched frame. you’re both so gone, but somehow every touch, every kiss, every time he bottoms out inside you it feels amazing.

and jiseok is loud. he’s grunting in your ear, he’s throwing his head back and moaning up at the ceiling, and cursing with muddled words as you both chase your highs.

“so fucking dirty like this, my slut- f-fuck yes baby, keep bouncing on me, keep going, you fucking love this don’t you? always wanted to fuck me like this, yeah? you’re so nasty, getting me high and then walking around with that pretty ass showing under that shirt… fuck, so dirty for me. only me, f-fuck baby, yes”

you aren’t even able to form words, all you can feel is the burning in your core and the wetness pooling underneath both you and jiseok as he thrusts up into you. he catches your nipple in his mouth and sucks hard. you squeal as he wraps his arms tightly around your waist, and starts hammering into your from below, and your sweat you see stars.

maybe you should get high with jiseok more often if it meant it would lead to this.

authors note: finally getting reqs done who else cheered !! hope u guys like this one i haven’t gotten high in ages and this made me want to smoke again smh

[ineffablecabbage]

Me, trying to read fic: "oh, that's interesting, but it's weird that Tommy isn't mentioned very much considering that this is about child abuse and he's very heavily implied that his father WAS abusive."

Author: LOL SURPRISE Tommy bashing in the fic with notes going on about how mean Tommy was to the 118.

Bitch, when? The times he keeps committing felonies to save them? When he's hugging Chimney? When he's telling Hen that she is the only reason those people lived? When he showed up when Chimney called and requested some water, thereby saving Eddie's life? lmao.

I know you meant the fact that he didn't throw himself on the Gerrard shaped grenade when he was still in the closet, but I also promise you that the speech Josh gave about Glee to Buck was for and directed to you.

ANYWAY. You can guess what they shipped. lol.

"I find it hard to say anything nice about Tommy." That's fucking crazy. I find it hard to say anything nice about Eddie, but if I was writing a fic that had an abused baby Buck, I sure would be able to write Eddie treating him well, because he's a fucking child and I'm not letting my dislike of a character make me think he idk doesn't care about abused children ffs.

[philtatosbuck]

is there a reason you don't ship them besides them being brothers? because if you'd ship them if they weren't brothers, i've got some bad news for ya

i hate sam

[no-resolution]

Honestly I've never seen a good argument for Buffy not loving Spike.

[localvillagecryptid]

Rocking up to an incredibly small fandom with literally no fics for it with a million sketches/fic ideas

[parkerstorms]

this website is all “sexuality is good” “let people be sexy” “we need to resist puritanical thought” “sexiness and sensuality are back” until it’s a 5’0 adult 26-year-old blonde woman who started off as a child star but rebrands when she’s an adult as a 24-year-old adult to be more sexual and sensual and then suddenly she’s dehumanizing herself and infantilizing herself and devaluing herself and shaming herself and shaming women and setting feminism back to the stone ages and is such such a bad role model for young girls and is putting dangerous thoughts in their heads and is using her art to convince them to sexualize themselves and won’t somebody think of the children why is nobody thinking of the children we need to protect them from this evil wicked woman who’s trying to seduce them with her evil perverted body and we need to stone that woman in the village square for reminding all of us in public that sex exists and admitting that she likes it where poor young impressionable girls might hear

[boag]

It’s insane how many radfems there are on here who are also like… conservative catholics

[gods-favorite-autistic]

Track list for Fig and the Cig Figs independently published Junior Year album (officially named “Infaethable”)

Teenage Rebellion

Night Yorb (a heavy metal banger)

Summer Scaries

Devils Nectar

Time Quangle (a love song about Ayda)

Multiclass (Gorgug sings on this!)

The Ballad Of Lucy Frostblade (Kristen was the one who convinced Fig to write this)

So Late, So Tactical

Do You Have A Fucking Warrant

Cassandra (Can You Hear Me)

Hall Of Mirrors

President Applebees (written entirely in the night after Kristen gets elected by a drunk Fig with extremely drunk notes by Kristen)

Raging For Love (inspired by Gorgug, of course)

The Elven Oracle (Has A Day Job) (So Stop Bothering Her)

Maximum Legend

Fury Of The Ball

Cursed

Infaethable

The Bad Kids

[vigilskeep]

just remembered once again that illario canonically got completely wasted at lucanis’ wake and made viago drag him up stairs then knock him out so he would shut up