#it’s so good to not aspire for the attentions of awful men

[frootcreme]

“former lover” includes past relationships, fwbs, failed talking stages, etc

[abstractvanity32]

Season 2

New Adventures of Matt and Mike

Nadia and Michelle were two aspiring influencers who were tired of not having a large enough social media following. They had tried everything from posting consistently to engaging with their audience, but nothing seemed to be working. That’s when they stumbled upon a website that promised to boost their follower count overnight. Desperate to become social media stars, they decided to give it a try.

After entering their information and making a payment, they watched in amazement as their follower count began to soar. Within hours, they had gained thousands of new followers and their posts were getting more likes and comments than ever before. It seemed too good to be true.

But as their follower count grew, so did something else. Nadia and Michelle started to notice changes in their bodies. At first, it was subtle – a slight swelling of the muscles, a growth spurt in their feet. But soon, they were transforming right before their eyes.

Their chests began to swell with muscle, their voices deepened and took on a British accent, their hair became shorter and more styled. Their legs grew thicker and more muscular, their feet burst out of their socks and became manly. Their faces aged and reshaped, turning them into completely different people.

Nadia looked in the mirror and saw that she was no longer herself – she was now Matt Morsia, a famous fitness influencer known for his ripped physique and calorie intake posts. Michelle, on the other hand, had transformed into Mike Thurston, a popular fitness model with a massive following.

As Matt and Mike, the two friends found themselves embracing their new identities. They were no longer Nadia and Michelle – they were now powerful, confident men who commanded attention wherever they went. And with their newfound fame on social media, they were living the lives they had always dreamed of.

One day, Matt and Mike were getting ready to film a new video at a competitive pool. They joked around and goofed off in their matching speedos, flexing their muscles and showing off their incredible physiques. As they filmed, their followers watched in awe, commenting on how amazing they looked and how inspiring they were.

[cuffmeinblack]

Game On

Garreth Weasley x f!reader

See the full art

Tags: explicit | modern AU | rugby player!Gar | semi-public sex | blowjobs

3.3k words

Summary: Garreth draws attention whenever he plays, but you've had enough of the spectators' ogling and decide to show them who he belongs to.

A/n: Big rugby men make my brain go brrrrrrrr. Anyway this has zero plot and finesse as expected but damn it's a good time.

The midday sun blazed, grass beneath your shoes crunching, scorched to a crisp. Early Summer had brought with it an unseasonable heatwave, such that the air grew stifling and stagnant like a swamp. What scant shade was produced by the nearby brutalist concrete structures which housed your university’s young hopefuls had been gobbled up by enthusiastic spectators, huddled together with expressions of possessive ire, fearful that they might lose their prime positions. You walked on towards the front of the stands where the heat was at its most intense yet afforded you the best view; it would be worth it, after all. 

If you were suffering simply sauntering by, Garreth must have been sweltering in that stuffy changing room—you'd had enough after-practice rendezvous to know just how thick the air could get, mingled with sweat and shower vapours and the heady scent of sex. But despite the uncomfortable heat, you would never dream of missing a match for two very important reasons: the first, that showing your unwavering support of your boyfriend in his endeavours boosted his morale immeasurably; the second, that Garreth looked so unintentionally tantalising when he played that the whole eighty minutes was akin to watching an exotic dance performance, with more bruises and aggression that only added to the allure.   

The boys were already on the pitch warming up by the time you sat down, all clad in red shorts and vests emblazoned with the uni logo that left little to the imagination. You caught a number of groups of giggling girls in the stands blatantly pointing and ogling; irritating, yes, but Garreth saw you and waved enthusiastically, unperturbed by all the attention he was drawing. One could never be too smug in such a situation, and so you flashed him a toothy smile in return.

He knelt in the grass as he adjusted his ridiculous hairband (that you teased him about endlessly), stretching out his adductors with a concentration befitting a professional. For all your idle fascination with his thighs, he was a dedicated sportsman through and through. He took his rugby career seriously, throwing as much energy into training as his actual degree, whilst endlessly hoping to be scouted by one of the union clubs. The other lads had similar aspirations—it was surely the only reason they'd be out here in this absolute furnace for a friendly game. 

You fanned yourself with a leaflet you found in your bag, chugging water as you waited for the game to start. The crowd was already starting to get restless as the stands filled and all around you many of the spectators made it clear that they weren't here for the sport.

“That ginger one's fit,” a young blonde said, followed by a fit of giggles.

You held back the urge to chuck your plastic bottle at her head, thankfully distracted by the referee's appearance onto the pitch. With a lurch of your stomach, you saw that he was in conversation with a young woman with the telltale lanyard and clipboard of a club professional. Of course they would be scouting on today of all days, the blistering heat weeding out the weakest players with subpar endurance. Garreth had noticed her too, nudging his teammates as shock and awe passed over their faces one by one. 

The rest of the team melted away as you kept your eyes on Garreth, taking up his position behind the scrum. This was generally when you started to feel the prickle of excitement and nerves as the teams eyed each other up and the field fell silent, waiting for the whistle.

As soon as play started, all hell broke loose. Garreth played with such focus and ferocity, entirely the opposite to his laidback and cheerful self off the pitch. He directed his team without hesitation, attacking more aggressively than usual, always driving forward. By half-time his team were leading by ten points. You could already see a tear in Garreth’s shirt, dust caking his knees and a smile between his pink cheeks, but the heat was starting to sap the energy of every player as they panted and stretched in what little shade they could find.

When play resumed, only the presence of the club scout could explain the carnage that ensued. The game was so incredibly vicious, the contact between bodies so intense that the crowds erupted in hisses and roars so innumerable they blended into a singular jarring uproar.

Hands grasped at shorts, wrapped around waists and heads buried between muscular thighs as the clash ensued, a ferocious battle that you couldn’t help but find erotic.

Garreth held the ball in the final few minutes of the match, and he decided to make a run for it. The scrum of bodies was still but a flailing mess as he sprinted around and launched the ball back at his mate in the wing; back and forth it went, attacks from every side until finally Garreth found himself curled on the grass, the final try before a shrill whistle ended the game and the crowds erupted.

You were shouting and clapping with the rest of them as the players exchanged handshakes, the euphoria practically oozing from every pore. Garreth was in your eyeline, but he was the subject of many other hungry gazes, including the young woman with the lanyard. They shook hands and talked, Garreth beaming all the while as a swell of pride bloomed large in your chest. But the blonde you’d instantly taken a dislike to was weaving her way through the crowds, muttering something to her friend as they linked arms. You decided to follow whilst keeping those distant copper curls in your sights.

The friend was asking blondie a question, making a show of leaning in in some conspiratorial manner. “Do you think he’s got a girlfriend?” 

“Don’t know, don’t care. I don’t see one, do you? He’s probably gagging for it after that game.”

You almost laughed at her crassness, inching closer towards her as she teetered along in ridiculous heels that sank into the dusty ground. She smoothed her hair, and Garreth finally looked in your direction, finished with his conversation. She must have thought he was looking at her as she gave a small wave and the girls devolved into more giggles as Garreth smiled back with an adorable head tilt of confusion. You should have said something, but the scene was far too amusing, and so you hung back, listening to blondie use her best flirtatious purr at your boyfriend.

“You were amazing. Could I get your autograph?”

You couldn’t help it—you snorted with laughter. Garreth blinked and grinned like a cheshire cat, looking over blondie’s shoulder at you with an expression that screamed ‘help me’. It was about time you put a stop to this charade. Overtaking the pair at a jog, you flew into Garreth’s arms, his emerald eyes only for you, and his lips finding yours with a relieved sigh. You heard the scoffs and disappointed huffs that only made his kiss sweeter, the wolf whistles that ensued when his tongue slipped eagerly into your mouth.

Perhaps she’d been right; he probably was gagging for it, given the intensity of the match and the proceeding victory. Garreth held you firm against his sweaty skin even as you broke apart, still smiling, but now his eyes thoroughly smouldered—a look you knew all too well. It tugged at your chest and something writhed, hot and insistent, low in your abdomen; the tingle of arousal you’d felt the moment you laid eyes on him now a barely contained flame.

There was no point in being subtle in your intentions. You took his hand from your waist, dragging him through the thinning crowds to the first private place your mind had sprung to. 

“You’re eager. Where are you taking me?” he asked, unable to keep the sheer joy from his voice.

You turned to tug his drenched vest, a voiceless hint at urgency. As you turned a corner behind the back of the changing rooms, a small alleyway led out into a private car park. Your car sat inconspicuously in the corner in the shade of a towering oak tree, far from the distant spectators, still chanting in jubilation.

“I’m guessing you’re not going to drive us back to my dorm,” Garreth teased, grabbing a handful of your behind as you came to a stop next to the vehicle. 

“No, I’m not sitting in traffic when I could be—”

You were promptly spun around and pulled in for another kiss, your response muffled into a pleased moan. Fumbling for your car keys whilst Garreth fumbled with your breasts, you heard the click of the lock and flung open the back passenger side door, diving across the seats with a giddy laugh. You gave the car park a cursory sweep but it was still quiet and empty. 

Garreth climbed in after you, a much harder feat given his size, clambering on top of you as soon as the door shut. Your lips were glued, tongues dancing over each other. Garreth's weight felt good on top of you, even more so the thigh he'd slid between your legs. Corded muscle pressed against your heat, firm and solid. Your hips rose to meet him, shamelessly seeking friction to relieve the ache between your legs. He helped you along the way, pulling your hips to grind harder into his thigh. He must have felt how wet you were already, underwear soaked through to his skin.

You needed more than just his leg, as deliciously thick as they were, but Garreth was far too tall for the back seats to do much of anything in that horizontal position. You urged him backwards, and he got the idea soon enough, inching back to sit upright. You wasted no time climbing onto his lap, straddling his thighs as the muscles twitched from exertion, wrapping your arms around his wide shoulders as you looked at him—really looked at him, now that you had the time. He was smiling of course, glowing almost; eyes tracing down the curve of your neck with a predatory lick of his lips. You wiped a white smudge of sunscreen from his cheeks and finally pulled off his hairband, letting the copper curls fall freely over his sun kissed freckles. Then you pressed your lips to his, without inhibition, and the flood gates opened.

Garreth groaned at your exuberance, fingers grasping eagerly at your flimsy vest top that peeled away from heated skin with a mere suggestion. He didn’t stop there, apparently desperate to see you completely bare in the back of your car with no regard for the consequences. Perhaps it was the sweltering heat that urged him onwards, the cracked window doing little to help. What little layers clothed you came off, his lips and hands trailing silent love letters to every peak and crevice. He nibbled at the nape of your neck as your face buried in his hair, the scent of him drawing out your own tongue; he shuddered as you laved at his ear, the skin salty from sweat.

“Is this all because I caught the attention of that scout or are we celebrating something else?” he murmured into your ear, making you shudder as his breath caressed your skin.

You were down to just your knickers now whilst Garreth still wore his shorts, the thin fabric leaving no doubt as to how much he was enjoying the attention. The playing field wasn't quite even. 

“That, and I want to make it perfectly clear that you're well and truly mine.”

He chuckled and lifted his hips as you slid off his lap to tug down his shorts. “There's nobody else here, babe.”

“Well they can imagine where I dragged you off to.”

His underwear peeled off with them, the rolled fabric falling to the footwell with a gentle thump. You weren't paying the slightest bit of attention to where any item of clothing had ended up when Garreth sat entirely naked in front of you. He looked rather pleased with himself, stretched out in what little space there was with his arms behind his head and his heavy cock laying proud across his abdomen. 

You just about suppressed a groan as you dipped your head, much to his surprise, bracing your hand on his thigh as you took him into your mouth without a second thought. Garreth gasped and swore, fingers winding their way into your hair from the first teasing lick. His scent was heavy, musky, but by no means unpleasant, and the salt on your tongue tasted like victory. His girth filled your mouth, every moan stifled somewhere deep in your throat. 

“Fuck, fuck…” Garreth whispered, his voice hoarse and laced with desire.

You kept a steady rhythm with a hand firmly planted at the back of your head whilst the other roamed the bare expanse of your skin—tracing the contours of your back with a featherlight touch that belied his complete loss of control. His hips snapped up to meet your mouth, almost choking you in the process.

“Babe, I'm gonna come if you keep this up.”

With a final firm lick up the length of him, your mouth left his cock swollen and twitching against his stomach once again. You smiled up at him, hair mussed and a faint sheen of sweat beginning to form across your body. 

“Don't you dare.”

“Come here then,” he grinned, tapping his leg whilst simultaneously manhandling you on top of him.

Garreth buried his face against your chest, groaning into the flesh, ready to devour. You played idly with his fiery curls in a blissful haze as his tongue flicked and twirled around your nipples; teeth grazed those sensitive peaks and you toed the line between exquisite pleasure and pain. You pulled at his hair in response, his ensuing moans causing a ripple of arousal, a flutter deep in your very core.

“Gar…”

His name sighed so sultrily seemed to spark something in him. Strong hands gripped your waist and pulled you against his broad chest, holding you firm, and before you could question a thing he brought you down on his cock. He impaled you in one swift motion, leaving you breathless with the sudden fullness. Your mouth fell open in shock, clinging to him so tightly a more fragile man might have broken. But he didn't shatter, not even as your nails raked his skin and drew blood. His teeth nipped at your neck, the familiar sting of fresh bruises blooming.

Your hips moved of their own accord, slowly at first but growing more insistent. One drawback to being crammed into your car was that your head bumped on the roof the more enthusiastic you were bouncing. 

“Fucking…car…” 

Laughing at the ridiculousness but still frustrated you slowed your pace and leaned back, rolling your hips until you found that sweet spot. Your moans entwined in the muggy air, a blissful delirium taking over. Garreth's head fell back against the headrest but still his eyes lingered on you, lidded and full of hunger as they flitted across bare swathes of skin to meet your own gaze. His hand cupped your arse, squeezing in rhythm to your movements whilst the other trailed a path down your waist to your hips, his thumb pressing firm against your clit.

A great swell of relief, pleasure flooding every extremity until your body threatened to fall apart under his digit’s tight circles. You looked at him so deep in concentration whilst he brought you to the edge, licking his lips in anticipation as your legs started to shake. 

“Are you going to be a good girl and come for me?” he teased. 

You could only manage to stutter a ‘yes’ before the coiling tension snapped and launched a thrilling cascade of pleasure through your already limp body. You fell against Garreth, his arms ready to catch you as you rode out your orgasm, muttering sweet nothings in your ear. Tangled in his hair, whimpering until the last wave.

He was still buried inside you as you stilled, so very tired but still wet and willing. You felt the twitch of his cock, his steadily thrusting hips that yearned for more. Your own legs quaked as you adjusted yourself, ready to start your gentle rocking once again, but Garreth had other ideas.

Eyes glittering and practically feral, they bore into you with such intensity it made your heart skip a beat. He took your chin between his thumb and forefinger—as if you needed to be guided to look at him—and he smiled at your blissfully dazed expression, satisfied that he'd done his job.

“Let me take over, okay?”

Garreth didn't wait for your assent, pulling you in for a searing kiss, his arm locking around your waist. You were pinned against him, sweat-slick skin pressed hot together. You expected him to flip you over, struggle around on the tiny back seats, but instead he lifted you off him, until only the very tip of his cock remained nestled inside your heat.

You whined at the loss of him, grasping at his hair. 

“What—”

His answer came with a hard thrust from below. He held you tight, hovering just inches above his lap as he drove his cock inside you again and again. It was beyond comprehension how he had enough energy after his match to fuck you so hard, but he was absolutely relentless in chasing his release. Moans, whimpers and the wet slap of skin created a deafening cacophony. You tried to form a coherent plea, but it was swallowed by Garreth's greedy kisses, his tongue delving deep into your mouth.

“Ha-...harder,” you managed to sigh against his lips.

“Harder? God, you're such a fucking greedy girl.”

You grinned deliriously as Garreth laced his fingers into your hair and did exactly as you asked. His pace was brutal, and so deliciously bruising; Garreth fucked as rough as he played rugby, if you so asked for it. 

His breath was starting to falter, you felt the hitch against his chest and the sharp intakes of air as he stole your very oxygen. He was close, so close.

“Gonna come for me?” You echoed his earlier tease.

“Mmmh-...gonna fill you up.” 

You whined into his mouth, walls fluttering around his cock as you felt another orgasm mounting. Garreth moaned louder now, squeezing his eyes shut, his mouth delving against your neck to leave yet more love bites in the throes of passion. They would remind you of this very moment, such treasured momentos. As he drew your skin between his teeth, your orgasm hit, and so did his.

You fell into his lap in a heap as he lost control of his limbs, cock pulsing and filling you with hot ropes of his release. His muscles twitched and body shuddered, the suction on your neck abating until his head fell back.

He was beautiful this way—mouth agape with kiss-swollen lips of cherry red, the flush of his skin a delicate rose beneath smatterings of freckles. His eyelids fluttered over mossy irises, glittering and unfocused in his fucked-out daze. The corners of his mouth curved into a smirk as his body finally relaxed, every last drop of energy spent. His release had filled you so completely, but you didn't squirm, only relished the way it felt dripping down your thighs.

“Congratulations, Gar,” you said with a breathless giggle, laying your head against his shoulder.

Garreth kissed your head and stroked your hair, so gentle in contrast to how he'd been only seconds before that spoke volumes of his love for you. His embrace was safety and happiness.

“I definitely feel like a winner today.”

[momotorin]

momos recent post has me thinking… gp ceo momo x ceo sana being like rivals in their industry and hate fucking each other

like sana invites momo over to a huge party she’s hosting in celebration for winning a big award for their company that momo IS PISSED she didn’t get and sana is soooo petty while telling her about how proud she is in her team

so momo ofc being momo brings sana to some bathroom, no one noticing the hostesses sudden leave because hello there are so many people there and momo fucking the shit out of sana while muffling her moans w her hand ;((

i want them both sooooo bad

you're so right for this omg....

stocks!

gp!ceo!momo x ceo!sana

MEN DNI!!

it's the 27th annual kansai tech gala, and the biggest names in japanese and worldwide technologies were in attendance. one of which, minatozaki sana— the president of minatozaki industries, an established technology provider under a new ruling.

speculations say that the minatozaki empire has a new challenger: hirai tech, a start up in kyoto, owned by the hirais and anchored by the ceo— hirai momo.

sana doesn't really understand the weight of the governor's award, since she has a couple of it on the desk alongside national awards that the company has been winning in the past years.

momo, as an aspirant in the tech and business, looks at the award as something significant and a first for her company. if she wins, it'll be something monumental for her as finally, she could bring something at the family dinner table.

with pride and name up on the gamble for the gala tonight, sana can't miss the way that momo's eyes glisten in awe knowing recent tech inventions from other companies.

she should hate her, but why does she need to look that damn attractive with the coat and dress set she's wearing. damn.

as the night deepens, the gala brings out each event, which doesn't really pique sana's interest that much.

what intrigues her was the way momo held her martini.

"lonely night, superstar?" sana greets, teasing the woman as she sits by her side.

"hello, minatozaki," momo feigns a smile. "what brings you here?"

"wanted a breather from all the talk," sana sighed, signaling the bartender to get tequila. "why haven't you been around?"

"dunno, really didn't feel it with everyone," momo shifts her attention to the laughing men at her table. "it's awful and they smell like my dad."

sana laughs, finding momo genuinely adorable at this moment.

"saw that you haven't looked around too," momo mentions, taking another sip from her drink. "what's up with you, minatozaki?"

"didn't feel like it, either," sana chuckles. "can't really fit in with the chatter."

it's always going to be 'oh! the new minatozaki!' and 'oh! the hirai... is that the youngest, with the startup? not doing pretty well, i see..'. comments from these men who talk like their mouth is on their ass.

to say the least, it's suffocating. momo, as much as she hates being in the same room with minatozaki sana, wanted to stay in this bubble of tequila and martini side by side.

sana smiles at her, "you know, you're not so bad yourself."

"why do you say so?" momo chuckled at sana's randomness.

"i mean, this event is limited to tech pioneers only, like look... japan's finest are here," sana teases. "so being here is great already."

"well, that's a good point," momo just sighs. "but you know damn well why i'm here, right?"

"i know that very well, sweetheart," sana, in her head, flusters at the little slip. "but i bet it's me again this year, don't you think so too?"

turns out, she was right.

although momo's sales in record were reaching highs, and her startup gaining Invertors by the day, she still wasn't chosen by the judges at the kansai tech gala.

it was quite the disappointment.

later in the same week, momo accepts an invitation from her assistant to go to minatozaki sana's party with one thing in mind: hatred.

but blame the heavens for making sana much more attractive than any individual to walk on planet earth.

it was a real, full house, with a dj and smashing drinks type of party. momo, alongside her other executives, get drunk on free drinks. momo's head was fucking spinning and she's getting crazy at the fact that she hasn't seen sana yet.

the music stops for a moment, and sana, in all her dramatic glory, enters the stage with a cocktail in hand.

"hope you're having a nice night, everyone!" she was beaming, momo seeing her in that sparkling dress was like the second coming of christ. she can't believe she's saying those words in her head, but momo is already going crazy at the fact that she couldn't even hold sana. "this party," sana sighs, getting herself in a more comfortable position as she stands at the middle of the stage. "we need to have fun and reward ourselves because once again we've won! thank you everyone, thank you to my co-executives, the board, the managers, the staff, and everyone who makes our company great— this night is for you so, enjoy!"

sana gives out a toast to everyone in attendance, and momo just stares at her. not of ill intent, but with some want that only sana can satisfy.

and fuck, the way that dress fitted on sana made momo's stomach churn.

"hey, having a nice night too?" sana greets, teasing her again by tapping her shoulder. "you're smashed, aren't you?"

"probably?" momo says, half drunk and half conscious. "congratulations on the.. everything."

"aw, thanks," sana nudges at her. "glad you're not mad."

"you know what?" momo's tone suddenly deepens as she dismisses the glass off of her hand. "maybe i am mad. i'm mad at the way that you won and you just party. meanwhile, i have other things to worry about because i built my own ground without my parents and now they're shaming me because i didn't get your useless award," momo chuckled lowly, her disappointment in herself, her parents, and everyone was so evident that it broke sana. "so yeah! maybe we do have a problem!"

and fuck, the way momo raises her voice made sana almost wet her dress. she can't deny it, the woman is fucking hot.

"mo-"

before sana even continues her sentence, she gets dragged by the wrist by momo to the club's spacious bathroom, and now, she's pinned against the door, with momo's hands on the sides of her waist, and their breaths just an inch away.

"god," momo smirks, seeing sana's flustered state. "what would they think if they saw you like this, hm?"

"momo, ple-"

"what?" momo teases, running her hands along the exposed back of sana's dress. "look at you," she says, dragging them carefully to make sana look at herself in the mirror. "you wanted this, didn't you?"

"fuck," sana mutters under her breath. "yes, you don't know how much." sana doesn't know what she's talking about anymore. what matters is that she feels momo's hands trail to clasp her hand, interlocking it with hers as she faced momo's eyes.

momo's breath stilled as she kisses sana, hands tightening on her waist to pull her closer and raise her to the marble countertop.

it's all so intoxicating, all so overwhelming; momo doesn't know if she's drunk or she just wants to get drunk on sana and her undeniably delectable vanilla perfume.

"hmm," momo hums, feeling sana arch her back as she leaves marks on her collarbone. "i should've done this during that award night."

"y-you should've," sana stutters as momo slips off the almost non existent strap of her dress from her shoulders, revealing her supple breasts. "oh, fuck, baby." she moans, throwing her head back as momo kneads her other breast and her lips sucks on her nipple.

momo continues to hum, playing with sana's tits to tease her more. sana was so sensitive under momo's touch and that amused her.

"shit," momo sighs as she parts her lips away from sana's breast, seeing sana's blushed out form. "ah, i'm so hard," she laughs, pulling her pants down to reveal her boxers, her 10 inch cock printing on the fabric. sana licks her lips. "want it?"

"yes," sana fidgets with her fingers, but momo took her hand to palm on her length. momo's breath staggered as sana removed her boxers, her hardness springing to her clothed lower stomach. "hmm, so hard for me," sana began to wrap her hand around momo's length, feeling the girth of it, the veins, and momo's budding precum. she swipes her finger above momo's tip, and momo shudders. sana places her finger to her tongue, tasting momo. "you're fucking delicious, baby."

"don-"

"shh," sana says, just pulling momo closer by a kiss as she removes the rest of her dress, revealing her black lace panties. she guided momo's hand above her wetness. "feel how ready i am for you."

momo feels the wet cloth on her hands, and hooks her fingers to remove it from sana. "fuck, you're so wet," momo spreads sana's soaked pussy lips. "you dreamt of this, didn't you?" she kisses sana once more as she slides her length along her wetness, feeling it spread on her cock.

"i-inside please," sana pleads, her arms wrapping around momo's shoulder as momo inserts her length inside her hole. "fuck!" she screamed, feeling momo sink inside of her. "you're going to break me."

"fuck," momo says, pulling her length out of her pussy. "so fucking tight," momo enters again, burying her cock to the deepest part of her walls as sana moaned loudly. "going to fucking break you."

momo held sana by the waist, her thrusts gradually speeding as she felt sana tighten her pussy walls around her. sana was full on screaming that she was sure people could hear them.

"so loud," momo stops for a while as she flips sana over the counter, her ass now facing her as they see each other in the big mirror of the bathroom. "you're so fucked out already," momo teases, holding sana's hair up to relieve her a little. "should i stop, sweetheart?"

"no, fuck," sana sighs, pulling momo closer by tapping her thighs. "fuck me more."

"hmm," momo chuckled lowly, putting her length inside sana's wetness once more. "fuck." she thrusts, feeling sana pulse her walls against her cock. "are you g'nna cum, baby?"

"yes!" sana shouts, and momo pulls on the makeshift ponytail she made for her, making sana arch her back. sana continued to let out screams, as momo pounded her cock inside of her, hitting every spot she hasn't even known before. "fuck, fuck," sana moans, her grip on the marble was tight because of the pleasure. "more!"

"fuck yeah, baby," momo says, pulling sana up for her to be held by the waist. "you're going to make a mess on my cock, hm?" she whispered on sana's ear as she continued to thrust. "look at your pretty face," she says, making sana look at the mirror. fuck. it was so hot; momo's cock going in and out of her, her smudged lipstick, her messy hair, the marks... sana thinks she's never been better. "shit, you're getting tighter, baby? you like that?"

sana just hums, biting her lip down to at least suppress some of her moans because she knows that she has been so fucking loud. it was useless still.

there was a slam from the door, "sana? you there?"

"shit," momo immediately puts her hand on sana's mouth to muffle her moans as she continues to thrust inside of her. "keep quiet, pretty." momo whispered as her other hand made its way to part her pussy and rub her clit. sana screams on momo's hand.

"no," momo loudly answers, her cock still buried inside of sana's tight pussy. "she's not here!"

the person shouts from the outside, "oh, okay."

momo thrusted faster, with the thrill of knowing that someone was outside. sana's grip on the counter was so tight, and her pussy was literally closing up on momo's length.

"you'll like it even when someone catches us, don't you?" momo teases, whispering again as her fingers rub tight circles on her clit, urging her to cum. "fuck, cum."

sana screams on her hand, her cream spreading on momo's cock as momo continues to thrust inside of her, chasing her own high.

"mmgh," sana moans in the sensitivity as momo removes her hand to put on her waist, thrusting inside her pulsing pussy further. "shit- ah," sana reached out for momo's hand, holding it tight for some sort of support. "i'm fucking sensitive, baby, st-"

momo slaps sana's ass, a red mark leaving on her as she trusted, "i don't fucking care," momo growls, her cock already so wet and soaked with sana's juices. "i need to cum inside of you."

"fuck, yes please!" sana screamed as momo's thrusts stuttered, now focusing on hitting her g-spot. sana comes once more, and momo's cock pulsed, white ropes of cum shooting inside of her.

"haah," momo sighs, holding sana close as she feels sana lose balance. she removes her length away from sana's pussy, so wet and trickling with both of their bodily juices. she held sana once more, helping her to get on the marble countertop, making her sit. "wait, fuck," she said, getting a couple of tissues from the tissue box and helping sana clean up their mess. "we made a mess."

"thanks," sana stares at momo, who was cleaning up the inside of her thighs and slipping her panties back on. "you're not as bad as i think you would."

"you really thought that i suck at fucking?" momo laughs, also cleaning her soaked dick before tucking it away inside her boxers.

"you look like a loser, can't help to think that you fuck like one too," sana teases, kissing momo's cheek. "what about... taking this to my place?"

"good offer, champ," momo chuckles, helping sana zip up her dress once more and fix her hair. "but you've got a night to finish."

"oh shit," sana curses at the realization. "how long were we out?"

"like," momo looks down at her watch. "i dunno, 45 minutes? someone was finding you by the door a little while ago."

"ah, alright, they probably wouldn't mind..." sana chuckles, her arms wrapping around momo's shoulders as they kiss once more. "see you next time, loser."

"sure," momo laughs. "g'nna fuck you 'till you break, next time, baby."

[maria-rayro]

au charlie x du'met + reader

You are an aspiring director, who has been looking for a suitable set for the filming of your horror movie for quite some time. You do not have much money and are limited in resources in general, but suddenly you receive a wonderful offer from a friendly stranger. The Du'Met's family offers you and your small crew to shoot everything on their beautiful little island, in a hotel that replicates the interiors of the famous Murder Castle, H.H. Holmes's hotel. How can you say no to something like that?

You and your crew arrive there for the weekend. You are greeted by a charming grown man in glasses, who feels a little awkward in your presence and at the same time seems eager to talk to you all the time. He seems to accidentally mention that he used to be a director too, but when you try to find out more about it, he goes off topic. You decide not to interrogate - you never know what kind of sad story there might be, right?

When you arrive on the island, you give your crew instructions, and they go to their rooms. You're about to go to yours when suddenly Charles stops you and awkwardly suggests that you join him and his husband for dinner. The team, Charlie explained, would be dining separately, but the Du'Met's would like to spend some time with the director. You couldn't refuse him, especially since you couldn't wait to see his mysterious husband, about whom Charles spoke with a kind of almost adoration and awe.

You use the time before dinner to tidy yourself up, then go down to the dining room just in time. Charlie is already sitting at the table, and before you enter the room, you manage to eavesdrop on his words. "No, she's not like me. I freaked out at dinner and had a fight with the whole crew. She's… obviously has more composure. And her relationship with the team looks nice," his tone sounds almost sad.

You hear a second voice that seems to belong to Granthem. "Of course she's not like you. There's no one like you." You smile a little. Their marriage seems to be going well.

You walk into the room and smile affably. Charles awkwardly introduces you to his husband and offers you a seat; Granthem gallantly pulls back a chair for you. Then he pours you some wine and sits down quietly, letting Charles do the talking. The man asks you mostly about your work, and you really want to ask him about his past as a director, but you hold back.

The evening goes on, dinner tastes just fine. You take advantage of the silence and decide to ask Charles something. "Tell me, Charlie. Don't you afraid to live here? I mean, it's a copy of Holmes' Murder Castle, after all. Don't you have any fear that your husband will one day go crazy and try to kill you?" you joke, sipping some wine.

Charlie coughs awkwardly, looking up at Granthem. His husband just silently stares at him back. Charles swallows and smiles a bit, shifting his gaze on you. "I like to think that in this case I will be able to beg him for mercy. So far I've been pretty good at it" he calmly says and puts a piece of meat poked on a fork into his mouth.

You raise an eyebrow and then turn your gaze to Du'Met, who looks a bit smug and smirks faintly, looking at his husband. You begin to realize that perhaps these frank and handsome men decided to invite you (and only you) to have a dinner with them for a reason. You've never been the type of people who get embarrased and blush when they get other people's attention, and you've also always been fine with trying new things. And this couple... well, they seem like people who would like to gain some new interesting experience. That's why you smile a little bit, looking at Granthem. "Is it that kind of party?"

Charlie doesn't even seem to understand what you're asking them about in the first place. He only gets it when he sees how Granthem stares at him. The older man looks somewhat amused for the first time tonight and looks at his flushed husband with interest. It is as if he has been waiting for some time for him to respond, but at some point he realizes that the man is expecting the same from him. The position of power in this relationship seems quite obvious to you now.

Granthem finally turns his gaze to you, and a mischievous light flashes into his eyes - or is it just the glare of the candles that stand on the table? "It could be."

You smile slightly as you continue to cut a piece of meat on your plate, looking at Granthem, and then shift your gaze to Charles. The man looks at his husband only, as if trying to read his mind, looking a bit tense. Then, however, it's as if he accepts his inability to look inside the man's head and sighs, picking up his glass and drinking the rest of his wine.

Looks like you're going to have an interesting night, huh?

[north-park]

About the Barbie movie, I feel like when people say Butters would be Ken they mean that as a dig at Butters, like "No, Butters is an awful misogynist! He's not a good person!" but from what I understand Ken being misogynistic in the movie had a lot to do with him being just ignorant of what the patriarchy even is, thinking it has to do with horses, and that's why he fell into toxic masculinity? (I haven't seen the movie yet but that's what I've heard.) Which I feel is actually accurate to Butters' personality as often when he's doing something horrible it comes from being misinformed or unaware of how wrong what he's doing is and not an actual place of malice. So I don't think some people saying Butters is Ken is the horrible label they intend it to be. Not really sure why I'm sharing this but it's a thought I've had for a little while and I guess your post just gave me a chance to mention it to someone.

Yeah i totally understand what you mean and i agree!

I don't know if you want to ever see the movie but here's a little summary of Ken's story:

Ken is Barbie's love interest, his character was born to be just that, all his desires amount to wanting Barbie to notice him and to fall in love with him, Barbieland is run by Barbies and Ken do nothing, I think it's worth mentioning that Ken's love for Barbie is very.... realistic and not really how a kid would potray a couple with their dolls, he is very jelaous and possessive of her, doesn't like that his Barbie (there are many Barbie in this movie but he is in love with the MC Barbie) gives attention to other Kens or other Barbies, wants to do boyfriend/girlfriend things despite not understanding it either, he is just a friend for her and Ken is pretty conflicted about it

In Barbieland his role is pretty minor, all professions are run by Barbies and only Barbies and what Kens do all day is standing on the beach doing beach things and tecnically don't have rights or homes (Ken is NOT homeless in the Barbieverse, i think this is just a jab to the fact there is no Ken's house toy IRL but, uh, it raises a lot of questionsabout this world), basically imagine the usual "what if gay was the norm" video but with genders instead, but despite all being a pretty dystopian place Barbieland is a very nice to Ken, but it's not enough once Ken goes to the real world to follow Barbie's journey, without her permission

Once arrived in the real world, this is where Ken's arc really kickstarts, in this world he sees men are treated better than women and he, really, really likes it, he isn't just an equal to Barbie but even treated better than her, Barbie hates it because the real world is so awful and misogynist to her but instead he tries to understand why this world is like this by reading books (which is kinda weird now i think about it, the dolls don't know even how to drink but they can read real language?) about the patriarchy and horses, an animal who he gets really obsessed with and symbolized masculinity in movie, but it's no "perfect" for him either, he tries to land an high profile job like being a surgeon or a CEO with no qualifications for it, he can't even return to his old "beach" job in the real world, which gives him the idea to return to Barbieland and make that virgin society in his Patriarchy Dreamland where men rules and girls drools and Barbie loves him like she should

Once it's Barbie's turn to return to Barbieland she finds out all the Kens rule it now with an iron first and they brainwashed all Barbies into being misogynistic caricatures of their old selves, who do nothing but serve and stroke Kens' ego and just are their girlfriends with no aspiration or profession (this is basically where the Wieners Out plot is centred, more or less)

Yadda yadda, but the Barbies overthrown "Kendom" (which is a cool ass name c'mon) and everything returns to normality even if now all the dolls seem to have more self-awareness now, the Kens want rights now and to be given the same opportunities as the Barbies but Prez Barbie just accepts it halfway and the narration says maybe one day the Ken will have the same power women have in the real world? (Greta Gerwin's frail libfem mind would explode in a million of pieces if you told her about Margaret Thatcher)

Barbie rejects Ken's romantic feelings forever but is still willing to help him and figure out his own role in the world, this is where she asks him sorry for everything which angered a lot of people because she did nothing wrong and Ken didn't asked forgiveness either, but I kinda get it because Barbie and Ken have been best friends since forever and you sometimes have to ask sorry for nothing in friendship, and Ken has been suffering from the same existential dread as she did if not more this entire movie, but i get the anger because Ken was a dick to her, enslaved most her friends, stole her HOME, threw all her clothes out and just made a pretty embarassing scene just to humiliate her, and made her cry. :/

Film ends with Ken accepting he can't always get everything but that's fine too, he is "Kenough", MC Barbie decides to leave Barbieland forever and go find in the real world what her ending really is and turns into a real human able to create an idea instead of just being one, i kinda liked that despite Ken liking the real world more he stayed in Barbieland because living in the real world still would mean going throught hardship and sufferings and in reality he just wants it easy, but Barbie is stronger, she is ready for more..... i think? If the movie wanted to make our Barbie an human she should have found something for HER beside a couple of friends instead of just finding life beautiful because.

Which is where my ultimate problem in Ken's character in this movie relies, Barbie starts as a blank state, in her journey towards humanity she builds her personality piece by piece thanks to the people she meets like Gloria and Sasha (the human characters who honestly deserved to be the real protagonists of this movie), but Ken just kinda starts with his own personality? Which is just sorta of messy, it really makes you wonder why it's not Barbie herself to sing a song or read a book about an animal she found interesting, when Ken turns Barbieland into Kendom it start looking way more similar to the real world which i really hated, the idea the real world is for men and a childish dreamland is for women is just a bunch of stupid bullcrap

The most interesting personality trait this Barbie was given is that she geniunely believes she invented feminism and that she was the best thing to happen to women when the characters themself kinda tear her down on that, but still love her for the joy and sense of freedom she brought to people, sadly the reason this pretty cool plot is just brushed off is because Greta Gerwin herself believes that she invented feminism and is the best thing that happened to women, not Barbie, herself.

[papirouge]

I've seen some girls say they want to be SAHMs not because they want to build a family but because they don't want to work. This seems to be a quite common sentiment among younger girls...

It just shows that a lot of people think that being a housewife is a walk in the park, and thus you have some literally seeing these women as freeloaders.

It reminds me of all those memes or posts trying to convince women of not joining the workforce telling them how they'll be 'wageslaves' for a man that doesn't care about them, instead of staying home taking care of their husbands and kids. Logically, people point out that it doesn't make sense for women to be wageslaves when they work, while men are seen as providers for that. I honestly think the men making these memes are actually projecting their own feelings about their jobs.

I think about all those cases where men start resenting their wifes for staying home and 'not working', even when they were the ones that wanted a SAHM in the first place. They get home and see their wives sitting on the couch and think that's what she's been doing all day, not even paying attention to the fact that the house is clean and the children fed. So they literally start hating her for 'taking his money' that he worked hard for while she did 'nothing'. Yet these men would never consider the option of being a stay at home husband because they're too good and respectable for that.

I'm not saying every case is like that, i know there probably are many cases where the husband loves and cherish his wife and respects her work at home, but we can't turn a blind eye to the many failed trad marriages out there and just blame it on 'choosing the wrong partner'.

I agree the standpoint of feminist arguing that being a stay at home wife is predatory because your income is solely depending on your husband is stupid considering that there's as much reliance on your boss💀 Sure, the dynamic is different because being dumped by your husband hits harder emotionally than being laid off, but let's not act like working for someone made us remotely more "free" than women who chose to stay at home (and who may even have a side hustle which brings them in income, which imo is more #girlboss than those so called feminist working for companies owned by literal scrotes)

What you're talking about men resenting their wife for "not working" is a subject that's tackled on hypergamist circles as the brand of "traditional man" to avoid. Traditional man =/= man of value. A man of value would never complain about his wife "costing him money" lol Like, what's the point to have a one income household if it's to get mad at not making (enough) money? I feel like those men like the idea of priding themselves into being the sole provider of the house....without having the financial mean to back it up. Broke & Stingy men shouldn't seek after housewives.

There's a video on tiktok from a SAHW literally crying because her husband forbade her to work so she had to stay at home and take care of her children, but she expressed a lot of frustration about her life and sadness and it was so awful to see :/ (I tried to search for the video again but couldn't find it sorry). This video would be a great reality check for any person acting like being a housewife was a walk in the park. Aspiring housewife should seek advice from mature & experienced SAHW - not 23 years old girl who married 6 months ago.....

[a-libra-writes]

Game of Thrones - Love Letter and Handwriting Headcanons

In this preference, you'll be writing to: Ned Stark, Robb Stark, Sansa Stark, Jon Snow, Benjen Stark, Jory Cassel, Eddison Tollett, Yara Greyjoy, Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont, Missandei, Grey Worm, Tywin Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Sandor Clegane, Bronn, Petyr Baelish, Stannis Baratheon, Davos Seaworth, Margaery Tyrell, Brynden Tully, Edmure Tully, Brienne of Tarth, Ramsay Bolton, Roose Bolton, Oberyn Martell, Arianne Martell

my own silly fanfic made me think of this bc there’s letter writing later on in that. whee!

Ned Stark

His handwriting is neat, evenly spaced and fairly plain. It’s easily readable, which is the point - he knows not everyone is well-versed in letters and he tries to make it easier. Ned typical sends ravens, only writing a full letter for when he has to give instructions or relay something important. He has a formal Stark wax seal for this… and yes, he uses that same formal seal when he sends something to you. The more you exchange letters, the more relaxed he clearly becomes in writing. He knows he isn’t romantic or poetic by any means, but he hopes his affection for you comes across.

Robb Stark

Goodness knows he’s had endless lessons on writing properly and expressing the right words, but Robb just has no interest in it. His handwriting is perfectly legible but obviously hastily written, and he doesn’t care if there’s a few smudges or the paper gets dirty. When he’s writing to you, he’ll try to be neater… but sometimes he’s just got so much to say, and he’s so eager to send it, he doesn’t even notice the mess. Robb never thought he’d anticipate letters, especially romantic ones, but he loves receiving things from you. If you live far away, he feels the distance strongly and starts to rely on your letters to feel more connected to you.

Sansa Stark

As expected, her penmanship is pretty and neat. If she's in a good mood she'll add little flourishes here and there, but normally she's a bit embarrassed to do it. It feels childish to do that now. When she finds a nice stationary, she saves it until she writes to you. Her envelopes have the usual Stark direwolf with some wildflowers along the border. Honest and romantic words used to come easy to her, but now she’s more subdued. She’ll include pretty poetry she heard and wanted to share with you.

Jon Snow

His writing would be neater if he just slowed down, but he’s often in haste, especially once he becomes Lord Commander. He never cared about the proper penmanship or address because who would a bastard write to? Really, it’s lucky he was taught letters at all. He’d do his best to write neater for you, but the words keep escaping him - It’s hard enough to express how he feels in person, writing it isn’t any easier, no matter what Sam says. Jon always responds if you write to him, even if he’s blushing and feeling stupid the whole time.

Benjen Stark

He’s perfectly capable of writing neatly, but Benjen rarely bothers to. He jots down what he needs, though he at least has to make it legible - there’s only so many men that know their letters at the Wall, and Benjen has to keep his orders neat. When you pass him a secret letter, he’s grinning like a boy. He thinks it’s adorable that you went through the effort of finding supplies and writing something so sweet. He’ll ask to read it in front of you, but if you make him do it in secret, he’ll want to run and find you as soon as he’s done. He’d fold it up tight and keep it in a safe pouch tied to his belt. 

Jory Cassel

His handwriting is pretty messy. Jory was never bothered by it until he had to write you something. Oh no. Wasn't there a proper way to address you? What if it was too personal, or too standoffish? Poor Jory overthinks his letters unless you two write with frequency. His handwriting won't get better, but he's more comfortable writing sweet things. He likes to keep his envelopes and papers plain so no one suspects anything, which is a good habit if you’re dating in secret, but a silly once if you’re married. 

Eddison Tollett

He jokes it’s a small miracle that he knows his letters, poor as his family was. He likes to pretend he doesn’t, just so the higher ups on the Wall won’t give him extra duties like they did Sam. Reading never interested him, and he had no one to write to, so it’s just not something he thinks about. When you slip him a letter, he just stares at it dumbly for a minute. Once Edd has a chance to open it up, he’s a little taken aback. What… should he do? Should he talk to you? Respond to it? He’s never had such a nice gesture given to him, never had anyone write such nice things to him (has he even received a letter before??). So the next time to meet him, he still has a stupefied look on his face. And here he was thinking nothing on the Wall could surprise him anymore.. 

Yara Greyjoy

She was taught writing and reading by her nuncle - because the Gods know her father hardly bothered - so she actually has fond memories of both, even if she hardly does it. Yara would be very curious by anything you sent. Was something wrong? If it smelled of perfume or had a pretty stationary, she’d snort… but once she read the contents, she’d just grin and laugh. If the letter is more romantic, she finds it silly, but so like you. Very endearing. If it’s more saucy and risque, well … she’s going to read this in private and take her time.

Daenerys Targaryen

Her handwriting wasn’t as neat as it could’ve been, given her upbringing. It’s a point of embarrassment, so Dany practices pretty lettering and uses interesting inks she’s found around the markets. It’s a bit relaxing, though when she’s writing something official as Khaleesi and Queen, she makes sure it’s perfect. She’s pleasantly surprised when you write her something - has she ever actually received something this sweet before? She’ll write you back with a smile on her face, and she likes any chance to use that fancy Targaryen seal. Dany will still love to receive and send letters even if you both are staying in a palace together. It’s just one of many romantic gestures she thought she’d never enjoy.

Jorah Mormont

Jorah's handwriting is nice, but he usually writes in haste, so several letters end up smudged. He doesn't like to waste paper and start over. Jorah really can’t believe that you’d send him something romantic and sweet; he tries to hide his grin and blush, but he’ll wear it the whole time he’s reading. When he's writing something really sweet to you, it gets him flustered and happy, so whole words end up smudged. He doesn't notice the ink on his hand until he's already put the letter in the envelope. He keeps whatever you’ve sent him in a protective leather book so they can’t get damaged.

Missandei

She has lovely handwriting in many languages, as she was taught. The neatness of the lines and letters really is impressive. When she's writing something sweet to you, she pauses and struggles with the words for a while. Missandei always has the sweetest, most thoughtful letters - more sentimental than romantic. Her letters are punctuated with citrus smelling paper and a modestly decorated envelope.

Grey Worm

He’s only recently learned to read, and writing is still a struggle - he’d be very intimidated at the idea of writing something to you. When you give him something to read for practice, it takes Grey Worm a few minutes before he realizes it’s something you wrote. And it’s for him! And about him! He’s very happy but also very flustered. It takes him longer to get through it, but he can’t stop smiling all day once he’s done. He aspires to write something just as nice, once he’s practiced more. He’d keep your letters in a safe place, and wouldn’t want anyone else to see them.

Tywin Lannister

His penmanship is near perfect, which you expected. It’s always written in a stark black ink on fine, almost marbled paper that has an equally officially looking gold Lannister seal on the envelope. People whisper it’s liquid gold that seals it, but you know better. Tywin’s letters are for business only, so he doesn’t expect you to send him anything romantic… He wouldn’t know what to do with it, besides read it with some amusement and tuck it away for later. You might think he never read it, until he’ll tease you by quoting it weeks later. 

Tyrion Lannister

His handwriting is elegant and flawless, as it was meant to be. When Tyrion’s tired he’ll smudge here and there, and depending on how important the letter is, he’ll start over entirely. When he receives your first letter, he’s surprised by the pretty stationary and envelope - this is for him? - and the contents are even better. Tyrion might have a small mental shutdown if you write him something romantic and kind. He’ll re-read it over and over and be distracted through much of the day. This is really for him? He has to respond, of course, and he’ll do it while his emotions are high. For once he doesn’t think on carefully crafted words, he writes what he feels and picks a more subtle stationary (no giant Lannister seals) so attention isn’t drawn to you.

Jaime Lannister

Gods, he hates writing. Just sitting down to write a report is bad enough, but when it's something important? When it's a response to something lovely you wrote? He struggles. The letters start moving around like they used to, he remembers those awful lessons with his father and he's just put off by the whole thing. Seeing you in person is far better. Jaime's handwriting is neat, because it had to be, though when he's upset he'll write a few letters backwards.

Sandor Clegane

It's a mess. Really, the fact his words are readable is a miracle. 'Chicken scratch' is a generous term, though his name is passable. If you wrote him a letter, he'd have no idea what to do with it, let alone how to respond. Sandor doesn't do sentiment like that; seeing you in person can be conflicting and confusing enough. He'd probably rip it up and burn it after drinking too much (and immediately regret that in the morning).

Bronn

He's barely literate, and not a man of flowery words anyway, so don't respect a response. If anything he'd hand the letter to Tyrion and ask him to read it - only for it to be handed back once Tyrion realized it was very personal and... revealing. Bronn doesn't worry about a response or consider you getting upset about it. If you are, he has ways to make up for it. 

Petyr Baelish

You expected him to have neat penmanship, but you didn't expect it to be this nice. And of course, his way with words shows in his letters, but it's even better. You might even blush and have to excuse yourself to read it in private. Petyr loves to write on fancy paper with fancier envelopes that have his sigil, but if they're meant to be secret, the only indicator is a little symbol on the envelope's seal. He delights in anything you send him, especially if he can smell your perfume on it.

Stannis Baratheon

Stannis writes very neat letters with equally impossibly neat rows. He has a habit of gripping his quill too tight, but his letters are concise so his hand doesn’t hurt. While he usually writes quickly because he knows what to say, when he writes to you, he pauses far too often. Sometimes ink drips on the paper while he’s thinking, sometimes he misspells a word he’s never gotten wrong before. It takes a long time, especially if he’s responding to something that was very sweet and romantic. His first letters were very awkward and halting, but they’ve steadily improved. Mostly. 

Davos Seaworth

You were the one who helped him with writing, after helping him read as well. Davos isn’t happy with his penmanship, but he didn’t think he’d make it this far, so he keeps trying when he has time. It’s messy but legible enough. Davos is always pleasantly surprised when you write to him; he loves that you took the time to send something so sweet. It’s hard for him to reply efficiently, or to put what he’s thinking into words, so sometimes he’ll wait for you to get back instead. He would use your letters to practice reading… but it gets him terribly flustered to read the same kind things over and over again.

Margaery Tyrell

She doesn't mind taking the extra time to make her letters extra beautiful, to press dried flower petals and put them in the envelope, to look through dozens of stationary to find one that's just right for her mood. For most people, they're lucky to get one of these little rituals - you get all of them. She'd be delighted if you took extra care in your letters, too, and naturally she keeps whatever you send her in a special box (that absolutely no one will find). 

Brynden Tully

It's no surprise that his handwriting is simple and gets the job done. His brother used to complain that he wrote like a soldier, not a lord, and Brynden is proud of that. He won't wax poetic to you, but he will plainly state that he misses you and he always writes back promptly. Brynden feels bad that his letters take so long to arrive, so he'll make them longer with funny anecdotes and things he's heard from travellers. He folds his letter a few times and wraps it in a protective parchment, just in case rain comes or some idiot drops it.

Edmure Tully

He writes well enough, with neat letters that are jotted down in haste. Edmure almost never stays and lingers on words and sentences, he just writes what comes to mind and moves on. He’s shocked in a good way when you write something to him - you missed him that much? Enough to write all this? He re-reads it several times, and keeps whatever you send him after that. He’ll eagerly write back, and even if it’s silly and awkwardly worded, you can feel the love in every letter. His letters are often a bit crumpled and are plain except for the Tully seal.

Brienne of Tarth

It might surprise some that she has a lady's penmanship. It was never something Brienne had trouble learning, though she often accidentally broke the quill by holding too hard. Though she cherishes the kind things you send her (and she blushes terribly as she reads them), she struggles to send something in return. Her words fail her and she feels embarrassed for trying, but she does try. Seeing you in person is so much easier, though. She likes to keep your letters in a safe place and read them when she's feeling down.

Ramsay Bolton

The letters are messy, but legible enough. The real issue is all the stains on the paper, usually a combination of mud, blood or water. He has little care for the proper way to write or address others; Roose may have given him the bare minimum and not expected him to actually use it. Ramsay is very surprised and amused by anything you send him, though. He considers writing something back, but decides to wait or just go and see you directly. That’s far more fun.

Roose Bolton

His handwriting is functional and his words are to the point. There's nothing outstanding about the letter or its contents, save for a blood-red Bolton seal on the envelope. Roose rarely sends full letters, though; it's a quick Raven or nothing. Though he won't mind anything you send… he'll be very pleased with how personal they become, and he still won't send anything back right away, if he does at all. Better to keep you in anticipation.

Oberyn Martell

Oberyn has a stylish flourish to his letters that’s unique to him. If that didn’t give it away, the pretty gold ink or embellished envelope will. Often it has the spear as a seal, sometimes it’s some interesting and strange stamp he picked up from his travels. There’s always a slight scent to his letters, and you can’t always place it. The actual words themselves are often scandalous and teasing, though he’s sent plenty of heartfelt things, especially if you enjoy it. He’s no poet, but he’s honest and romantic. Oberyn much prefers to see you in person, but he likes to receive sweet things and re-read them.

Arianne Martell

Her handwriting is beautifully elegant, and she loves getting ahold of pretty colored inks and papers. Her letters straddle a fine line between romantic and a little scandalous, and she likes to use pet names, as if you both are writing in secret. Her envelopes have a pleasant smell, and the official Martell seal. If she wants her letter to be sent especially fast, she’ll take her father’s seal. She keeps anything you send her in a pretty, hand carved wooden box with a lock and key.

[shokobuns]

“𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐛𝐫𝐨?”

your irritating step brother likes to come in your room during your zoom classes.

PAIRING: stepbro!gojo satoru x f!reader

GENRE(S): smut, quarantine!au (au? LMAO), college!au, taboo

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

WARNING(S): darkish, smut, drug use (weed), high sex, stepcest, taboo, slight dubcon, slight manipulation, exhibitionism (if you squint), sensory deprivation (blindfold), degradation, size kink, unprotected sex, creampie, oral (f receiving), squirting, dacryphilia (if you squint)

(A/N): this rly do be my first time using proper capitalization huh, anyways all characters, SORRY I FORGOT TO ADD THE READ MORE I FIXED IT 

More.

One thing you easily learned about Satoru was the fact he wasn’t easy to satisfy. He’s demanding, cocky, all the while being nonchalant. He rarely exerts effort, but gets the desired results. He’s arrogant, but it’s nearly impossible to point out a flaw to counter it at all.

It makes your head hurt. It makes your teeth clench.

When you make eye contact, you make sure to stare back daggers. When you’re forced to talk to him, your voice stays monotone and expressionless. When you’re in a room with him for more than five minutes, your earbuds are already out, drowning out the sound of his voice. But it’s all difficult when you’re under the same roof.

Knock. Knock.

You roll your eyes at the sound of your step brother knocking your door, wondering what the hell he wants now. At this point, he’s probably just trying to annoy you, poke at your sides until he gets attention, any kind of attention, all just to satisfy his boredom.

Your calm demeanor and sharp tongue has always contrasted with Satoru’s teasing attitude. He’s always seemingly trying to provoke you, trying to pry apart the walls you’ve barricaded yourself in. His personality never rubbed you in the right way from the day your dad surprised you with a dinner with your new brother and your new mom. It didn’t matter anyways, you thought. You’d be going off to university soon enough.

The pandemic ran over all of your plans like a truck.

Better yet, your parents still had work without the option of staying home, leaving you and Satoru home alone for a little over eight hours a day. When he wasn’t in class or tutoring his juniors, he was knocking at your door, most likely red-eyed, though you can’t see it, and relaxed. Despite his persistence, you rarely let him in no matter how insistent he is in “getting to know his new lil sister.”

“Go away, Satoru.”

Behind the door, he pouts while you scribble down notes from the screenshared presentation. He comes in anyways, reeking of marijuana and cologne, half of his shirt buttons undone. You steal a small glance before once again glueing your eyes to your computer screen. The voice of your professor bores you, but you’re hyper aware of Satoru’s presence as he makes himself comfortable on your bed. “Get the fuck off! You stink!” You yell, turning off your camera before throwing a pencil right at him.

He catches it mid air with ease, relaxing his head on your pillows while fiddling with one of your many Sanrio plushies. “Can I have this?” he asks, holding one up as you contemplate its value in your head.

“If it gets you out of my room, then sure.” you reply in a monotone voice, turning back to your notes.

“You’re no fun,” he mumbles, rolling over to lay on his side with the plushie in his arms, “Is that organic chem?”

“Yeah, can you go now?”

“I’ll be quiet, princess. Don’t worry about me, just wanna know what my lil sis is up to.” He waits for a response, but is only rewarded with a huff.

It stays like that for the next ten minutes, him watching your professor’s lecture, you scrambling to write all of the information on the slides as he continues the fast paced lesson. You’re hyper focused on your class, putting in your effort to absorb the entirety of the content. In your mind, the only people in your room are your and your computer. “You know, you don’t have to understand everything all at once,”  a voice speaks up from behind you, causing you to purse your lips in annoyance, “It’s easier to learn when you’re actually paying attention to the lecture instead of focusing on trying to get everything down.

“We get it, Satoru. You have straight A’s and you’re naturally good at everything.”

“Hey, you’re getting advice from an aspiring teacher. Don’t need to use that tone with me, Princess.” He mumbles, rolling to his back on the bed, “Just tryna help you out in my free time.”

“I don’t need your help.”

He stays silent while you go back to drawing some of your basic compounds. Ethanol, methanol, propane, all of it. Your scribbles are messy and they progressively fill out the page in your notebook. You hear a tsk behind you, rolling your eyes as you prepare for another criticism from Satoru. Sure, he was probably right, but you refuse to feed into his ego. “Does he not link the slides to you guys or something?” he asks, this time with a friendlier tone.

“He does.” you reply, swiveling your chair until you’re facing him. He’s laying on his side again, his shirt spilling off his shoulder as your breath hitches at the sight. The blindfold is snug against his face, his hair pushed up. You’re sure that the stink of marijuana has rubbed onto your sheets and you make a mental note to wash them after class. “Then get high with me.”

“I’m in the middle of class, dumbass.”

“But you can always look at the slides later.” he suggests, “Plus, you’ve looked super stressed lately. Wonder why.”

Because of you, you want to say, but you stop yourself, opting to stay silent while pondering the offer. “Sure.”

He excitedly walks back to his room, returning to your bed seconds later with a joint between his fingertips. “This your first time?”

“Nah.”

“Ooooo,” he hums like a child, “That’s what you’re up to when we’re not around, huh?” he teases and you shake your head with a smile forming on your face.

“I guess.”

He shrugs, holding the joint up to your lips and lighting up the tip. You suck in the smoke into your lungs, holding it in, before exhaling out the screen door of your window. He takes a hit, opening his mouth and inhaling through his nose then passing it back to you. Your professor’s lecture fades into background noise as you fixate on Satoru, finally giving him the attention he’s been craving for weeks. He makes a mental note to offer you weed the next time he’s overcome by boredom.

The high hits you almost immediately. You’ve never had anything this strong and it’s liberating. You feel weightless, but your eyelids feel heavy. Your face is awfully warm and lifted and your vision gets more and more blurry by the second. The intoxication is pleasant, the present worries in your head being cut off as you focus on what’s right in front of you.

Satoru.

Satoru, your dear, irritating step brother who was kind enough to share the weed he stashes in his drawer. It’s getting harder and harder to hate him and you can’t reason why you felt so many negative emotions that you projected onto him at all. Sure, your room reeks and it’s all because of him, but the sight of him laying on your bed in a shirt that barely covers up his upper body makes your underwear feel uncomfortable. You don't know where it’s coming from, but shutting it out was easy when you’re sober. Key word: sober.

You stand from your desk, making your way to your bed and laying next to him. Both of you face each other, easily getting comfortable, warmth radiating off his body. It feels oddly intimate and your thighs press together in order to suppress the lustful feeling that takes over your body. Your arm comes around to the back of his head, tugging on the fabric that covers his eyes. “Can I take it off?”

“Sure.”

He lifts his head, allowing you to pull on the knot until it becomes undone. You don’t know what you were expecting, maybe a scar or something, but you’re in awe of the blue orbs that make you feel like you were staring into infinity. They’re bloodshot and half lidded and it’s when one fact you really didn’t want to accept hits you.

Satoru Gojo is one of the prettiest men you’ve ever seen.

And he’s your step brother.

Uneasiness stirs in your lower tummy and you curse at whatever higher power that decided to give you this type of luck, but a hand on your hip trails to your back, pulling your closer and closer until your faces are at a dangerous distance. You can feel your cheeks becoming alarmingly hot and you hate that you can’t blame it on the weed. His hand comes up to your cheeks, his thumb stroking the soft skin. “Thought you wanted me to go away?”

“Changed my mind.” you whisper, eyes slowly closing, lips parting open as you wait for him to lean in and close the gap.

“Hmm? What’s this?” he sneers, causing your eyes to shoot open and your body to jolt up from your bed. The hazy feeling on your head still remains, making it hard to stand completely straight. “Get out.” you sternly demand, leaning back on your desk chair and pointing towards your door.

“Why should I? I don’t think you really want me to leave, babe.” He props his head on his hand, leaning his elbow onto your mattress.

“It’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong? We’re just two people hanging out on a bed. Unless you were trying to do something else, dirty girl.”

“I- I wasn’t! You’re my step brother!”

“Step brother.” He repeats, justifying your actions.

You’re shaking, guilt occupying your mind keeping you distracted. It’s the perfect time for Satoru to get comfortable in the space between your legs, pulling down your loose shorts and taking you by surprise. Before you have a chance to protest, his nose brushes against your sensitive core, making you let out a squeak. “W-We can’t do this!”

“Didn’t you want this?” he questions, looking up at you with wide eyes, “Wanted me to take care of this pretty little pussy, right?”

You know you should be refusing. You know you should be pushing him out your door. But it’s so hard when his pupils are dilated and the grip on the sides of your thighs feels so right. At this point, you’re not thinking, only nodding along to whatever he’s saying, anticipating his next actions.

“So wet.” He mumbles, pulling down the flimsy fabric and throwing it off somewhere in the room. He licks a thick stripe from your entrance to your clit, sucking softly on the pearl while holding you down as the pleasure causes you to jolt upwards. He sucks and slurps like it’s his last meal, making your empty walls pulsate and little whines along with to leave your lips. Looking down, your eyes meet his, the lower half of his face immersed in your cunt.

The wet muscle fucks into you, curling and pressing against your walls, while his thumb rubs against your little clit. He hits all the right spots that make you squirm, pushing your legs wide open to see more of your ruined pussy. The wetness collects on his mouth, his chin, and his cheeks, filling him with a sick sense of satisfaction. “Such a whore, aren’t ya?” he pulls away to comment, but your fingers thread through his hair, pushing his head back where you need him most.

The action is assertive, something he usually hates dealing with. Though this time, he’s filled with a sick sense of pride at the fact that he was able to turn you, someone who seemed to hate him with a burning passion, into a moaning mess with just his mouth. He hums satisfactorily, sending vibrations into your sensitive core that make your thighs shaky.

You’re already cumming in an embarrassingly short time, gushing all over his face while he laps up all the juices you have to offer.

Before you can process anything else, his lips capture yours, lifting your body and dropping you onto your bed. You look at him with half lidded eyes, still sensitive from your last orgasm, while he pulls off his own clothes. His length rests on the inside of your thigh and he’s huge, so huge that it feels heavy against your skin and it scares you. “Satoru, I don’t think I can take you-”

“Shhh, princess,” he reassures you, “You started this. You have to take it.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to speak, taking the fabric of his blindfold and covering your eyes, tying a tight knot on the back of your head. This isn’t right, a voice in your head tells you, but you ignore it because Satoru treats you so well. He keeps you company, gives you some of his weed, eats your pussy without you having to ask him.

The only thing you can see is black and you whine. You so badly want to see Satoru’s pretty face, his chiseled body, his thick cock, but your thoughts are interrupted by the fat tip prodding at your tiny hole. “Too big..” your voice trails off as your mind is lifted, only the feeling of him splitting you in half remaining. You’ve never felt so full and it feels so dirty, yet your slick says otherwise, betraying any rational part that still resides in your body.

“I got you, Princess, don’t worry.” He slurs, drunk on the sensation of your snug walls. The stretch strings, whimpers spilling from your lips, but his cock hits every spot like no other. By the time he’s fully inside of you, it feels like he’s actually in your guts and it’s all intensified by the isolated feeling, not being able to see him at all. Every bite on your shoulder, every kiss on your open mouth, every delicious drag on your gummy walls is amplified.

You’re already cumming around him, a ring of cream forming on his cock as he gazes down at your bare body, wrapping his lips around a sensitive nipple. You squeal, your breath hitching at the same time you clamp down around his throbbing length. “Already? Such a sensitive little princess, aren’t you?” He mutters in your ear, your nails digging into his shoulders, piercing the pale skin. Tears spill from your eyes, flowing down the sides of your face.

His teeth sink into your shoulder and you want to tell him to stop, but the words don’t quite leave your lips. Only babbling noises accompanied by the wet sounds of your cunt and skin slapping against skin. He’s still pounding into your cervix at a relentless pace, in awe of how your slick drips down his balls and onto the white sheets. 

Every time he hits that sweet spot, there’s an odd feeling that forms, like you’re about to make a mess. And when your next orgasm washes over you in intense waves of euphoria, a clear liquid spurts from your cunny, coating his lower stomach and your inner thighs. “Who knew my little princess was such a messy girl?” he taunts, making your cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“S-shut up-”

“Don’t worry about it,” he leans in close, his lips dangerously close to your ear, “I’ll clean it all up.”

His smooth voice causes you to squeeze around him, almost like you don’t want him to ever leave your cunt, and it gets harder and harder for him to move. “Fuck, baby you’re so tight, need you to loosen up,” he mumbles, his own orgasm finally approaching, your little cunny milking him for all he’s worth. 

He’s rambling little praises, hot pleasure elevated by the high, his hips stuttering and his cock stuffing you to the brim with his warm seed. You both lay there, still intertwined and his body resting on top of yours.

“Ms. (L/N)! Did you have any questions about my lesson today?”

Your face drops in horror, your hand immediately pulling off the blindfold, as you push Satoru away from you and press the leave button on Zoom. A mix of your juices drop onto the floor and he chuckles, pulling you back to bed. “This isn’t over.”

He pins you back onto the mattress, his cock twitching at the sight of your leaking cunt, pulling your thighs until you’re close and pinning them to your chest. In one swift movement, his entire cock is shoved into your cunt, his balls slapping against the flesh of your ass with every thrust, fucking his cum back into your womb.

Gojo Satoru would never be satisfied.

[leportraitducadavre]

On Itachi, his fandom, and moral standpoints

Once again I come back with a meta, unsurprisingly, of Naruto’s manga and, more specifically, about a character in particular, Uchiha Itachi, his fandom and what it entails and represents. My decision to make him the primary focus of this meta is just to bring light (open the door for more in depth debates) of a deeper, much more complicated problem that Itachi represents, but undoubtedly surpasses him and the Naruto manga as a whole.

Be warned, my take on Itachi’s fandom does not contemplate those fans who merely enjoy him but do not negate important parts of his character, if that’s your particular case, then be assured that I did not have you in my mind when writing this. This is about, let’s say, the hardcore fandom he possesses, that justifies (and to some extent, celebrates) his implications in the UCM and blindfold loyalty to Konoha and its system.

How can I even begin to introduce Itachi’s character? What he was supposed to be and what he surprisingly became? How to start to explain his fenomenon? Itachi was not supposed to be good, from his introduction he was a manipulative, dark character that tortured physically and mentally Sasuke and was a threat to Naruto’s (the protagonist) life. At no point during the first part of the manga were we able to see glimpses of a “good” Itachi that the narrative later on tried to establish, and yet, there were three (conected) factors of imperative importance to understand the raise of his character from the first part of the manga to the other. 

The first one was, let’s call it, his intrinsecal persona's appeal (and everything it encompases).

Itachi’s not the first cryptic male character that gets favored by a large part of the fandom for that mere trait (look at any shönen or show and see how many characters whose sole trait is to be mysterious becomes the fandom’s favorite), added to the fact that he’s powerful enough to subdue men who’s status of geniuses are often highlighted in the manga (Orochimaru and Kakashi), and his... physical charm, you have a powerful combo to make readers incline more and more on his favor. Itachi had sparked their interest. 

There are boxes to fill to attract the public interest to a character, and Itachi filled in all of them. 

The Power-Mystery-Beauty triangle is not an unknown formula (Christian Gray, Edward Cullen, to name characters from mainstream, from other manga there is Light, now surprisingly, Dabi) and in every fiction work it has appeared, it worked to lure the (female) public towards it.

But is that enough? For some, yes, for most, Itachi represents something that they desired profoundly, and that’s entirely attached to Sasuke’s character.

Even back in the first part of the manga, Sasuke’s character was received mixedly, there were people who saw his personality as too abrasive (similar to Itachi’s but because Sasuke was supposed to be with the nice guys, this aspect of him clashed rather harshly with his position on the narrative) and considered him a mere emo who believed himself to be better than Naruto and Sakura (he was, but he also acknowledged this fact, which make some readers disapprove of him even more). 

Itachi challenged that “so-called” superiority, additionally downgrading and humiliating him in a way readers felt he, to some extent, deserved. The dislike of part of the fandom of Sasuke’s character found a way of purchase inside the manga. Naruto wasn’t strong enough (and eventually cared too much) to subdue Sasuke, Sakura was too in awe with him to “stand up against him”, Kakashi saw his greatness and taught him powerful jutsus while paying zero attention to his other students. Until Itachi, no other character seemed to put Sasuke “in his place”, because even the villains of each arc seemed particularly obsessed with Sasuke and Sasuke only, elevating even more his importance and status and sidelining Naruto and (of course), Sakura, who were left with mere participations in what seemed a Sasuke-focused plot. Up at this point, Sasuke was far more important than the actual protagonist of the manga but Itachi, who was actually Sasuke’s goal, who was actually the person Sasuke aspired to surpass, abused him, manipulated him and -more importantly- seemed more focused on getting Naruto -hence, retribution: the only person Sasuke seemed to care about didn’t seem care about him at all.

Itachi’s coolness, strength and mature handsomeness (that Sasuke did not present until Shippuden, but Itachi was literally introduced with), plus the dislike of Sasuke’s character and the belief that he needed to be rectified, the reason of which will be brought up next, appealed the teenage fandom in a way strong enough to catapult him inside the popularity polls just right after his presentation. 

The Self-inserts inside Itachi’s fandom

As I introduced, a large part of the fandom back in the first part already, and in Shippuden particularly, had a deep dislike of Sasuke’s character and wanted him to suffer -to be beaten, to be “owned”, Itachi’s character fulfilled that wish, which takes me to the second factor. 

You can’t explain this point in particular without adding the “self-insert” and “reader-insert” notions that often gets attached to Itachi (Sakura, Naruto and Hinata) fans, 

“Self-insertion is a practice by authors of writing themselves into their own stories, either explicitly or in thinly-disguised form; in a fannish context this most often means fan writers writing themselves into their favorite source material so that they can interact with canon or its characters” (X)

Whilst

“Reader-Insert is a type of fanfiction, almost always written in 2nd person Point of View; the protagonist is always the reader, and is usually paired with one of the canon characters. "Reader-insert" typically has a hyphen hyphen, but is also known as Canon X Reader (sometimes CanonXReader).” (X)

In this particular case, many readers had succumbed to something slightly in between. The manga doesn’t belong to them, so the only one in position to literally self-insert is Kishimoto (canonically), so they are left with the option of attaching themselves personally to a pre-existed character with whom they feel somewhat represented. If not, then at least they attach emotionally to a character because it represents what they desire (this can be more observed in the shipping part of the fandom). Meaning, they use a canon established character that is not literally the reader, but who clearly represents them or represents what they want in their significant (romantical) other. 

Sakura was the only female lead who had a crush on the cool guy, readers (particular female ones) didn’t need much to feel a connection with her (during the first part, Kishimoto didn’t even give them much to do so, but they still attached to her with the prospect of what she might become), while Naruto was the dead last, it appealed to those who also felt that they weren’t popular or were mistreated by their peers.

But what the self-inserts of Sakura or even Naruto had to do with the increasing love for Itachi? 

To explain this in a way that can be understandable: Sakura fans who believed Sasuke disrespected her when not acknowledging her feelings or when downgrading her skills often turned their attention to the man of similar physique and strength to fulfill their fantasies of reciprocation -because canonically, Itachi had neither rejected, nor downgraded her character. In the same fashion, Naruto fans who believe Sasuke is egotistical by not caring for/acknowledging Naruto in the same manner he does (hence, not deserving him), tend to also indulge in the same type of behavior previously mentioned. 

Later on, when the narrative introduces the idea that Itachi stands alongside Konoha (Naruto and Sakura), thus, against Sasuke (from an idealistic standpoint), this particular practice deepens, grows. They feel validated on their idea that Itachi will treat  their favorite character (them) better, while at the same time punishing Sasuke for rejecting them.

There are not many cases of Itachi self-inserts, I’m not denying their existence however because he did fulfilled a wish many readers had (against Sasuke), but Itachi’s self-insert part of the fandom seems to be more in terms of female character fans that desire their favorite kunoichi to be loved/desired/respected? by a powerful, handsome, mysterious character. 

Sasuke’s importance in the narrative (and character growth)

Sasuke escaping Konoha to get to Orochimaru, train, and become strong enough to defeat Itachi and avenge his clan won’t hold up for the four hundred or so chapters Naruto Shippuden lasts. After Itachi’s defeat at his hands, Sasuke had no reason not to return to Konoha, more importantly, he had no reason to fight Naruto as it was the intention and ultimate and most important clash in the manga since the introduction of their rivalry. 

Sasuke’s growth as a character (that I spoke more detailed in this post) was tied to the introduction of a deeper, more important problem: Konoha’s involvement in the UCM. It wasn’t new in Naruto to present the dichotomy and harsh truths of the shinobi system (Hyuga clan, Haku, Jinchurikis), and the intervention of Konoha’s government in the massacre of the Uchiha clan provided the narrative with a reason to have both Sasuke and Naruto fighting in different sides of the battlefield, but also presented a deeper problem: Itachi couldn’t be bad.

He couldn’t stand in the “bad” side of the field because both, that would put Naruto (the hero) in the same morally bad position, and Itachi's fandom (which was massive), was eager for redemption, they demanded it, and Naruto is not a manga that doesn’t get influenced by what its purchasers want. In consequence, they needed to justify Itachi’s actions. We can talk about how abysmally bad they did it, we can talk about how much better this problem could have been sorted out, but that is not the core of this post. 

Kishimoto loved Sasuke, I have said this before, despite the fandom wishes, he stood his ground when it came to Sasuke and his revolutionary position until the very end. Maintaining that ideal as just, put Naruto (hence, Itachi) in the wrong. But because the narrative needed Naruto to be good and in the right, he ended up justifying genocide by justifying Itachi.

Consequently, and with the appeal he earned with his introduction and the Sasuke-hate (self-inserts), Itachi became a favorite character amongst favorite characters despite being a plot holes with legs. Readers eagerly consumed whatever panel proved that Itachi was not the bad guy he was previously believed to be. (proved or at least didn’t show, Itachi still commited genocide, but we don’t get to see such attrocities so its easier to forget he slaughtered innocent people, children amongst them). Readers who liked him were desperate for the narrative’s validation.

Core of the issue

Which brings me to the core of the post and in retrospection, I have already presented it: moral standpoints. This is not new, I’m not introducing any new idea, and this is hardly something that happens solely in the Naruto’s (and most specifically Itachi’s) fandom. Liking or not a character is tied to so many subjective variables that it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what makes a character desirable or despicable despite solid traits being commonly shared on particular troups. And yet, liking or not a character became a moral standpoint for which people judged each other on a personal level. It has happened since always, but the internet did nothing but make more accessible and public this type of clashes. Therefore, Redemption Arcs became the most precious gem inside fictional works and Naruto fell for it, and fell hard. 

It’s almost mandatory to have the narrative’s validation in order to enjoy a character freely and Naruto provided it to Itachi’s fandom. His actions were justified by the manga and the most important (and beloved) characters stood by his side, even those who were victims of him forgave his actions because there was someone (with less appeal and more morally questionable actions under his belt) to blame further. Having the narrative’s moral validation is more important than actually being in the right. 

Itachi was manipulated by the Will of Fire who he learned from Hiruzen who was passed to him by Tobirama who created it because he was raised during the Warring States Period, so his apprehension to the Uchiha was justified. It’s a train of justifications that ultimately holds no one responsible for the genocide of an entire clan/race which then becomes something bound to happen. So to save face, they use an escape goat: Danzo and the Curse of Hatred. They put the blame of the massacre to a single character and the actual victims because, well, they were genetically prone to disaster and killing them was the only way to ensure (temporary) peace.

Liking a character doesn’t automatically mean condoning its actions but because that subjective appeal became more and more the reflection of the reader’s ideals (for some reason I’m not here to trace), those two actions merged, which translated consequently into demanding the narrative’s validation of our tastes. There’s no denial of the pleasing sensation that comes with having the plot’s endorsement for liking a complex/morally gray or even dark character, but that approval turned to be the most important/valuable requirement, which, in turn, made readers justificate (supported by the narrative) despicable actions, such as genocide. 

Let’s go back to the second bullet point, self- inserts, as to discern more in depth their reasons to look for a justification on Itachi’s character: Itachi (an Uchiha that was not affected by the Curse, as his peers were) who the narrative proclaims wanted his brother’s safety and happiness above all things, stands morally with Konoha (hence, the readers’ favorite character). Therefore, justifying his actions is justifying Sakura and Naruto’s actions against Sasuke (manipulation is alright because Itachi did it, trying to kill Sasuke because he didn’t want to bend to their will is alright because Itachi did it), it gives them reasons to believe that they are on the right side of the battlefield, it gives them moral superiority. They’re in the right, they are good people, Sasuke was too deep in his hatred to either see it or correspond their feelings and that’s why he needs to be saved, and who more appropriate to do so than the two characters that were mocked by him during the first part of the manga? Even in the end, Itachi still gives them the retribution they still feel deserve and that Sasuke -still- didn’t give. 

[tinyboxxtink]

"Not My Yacht" *Chapter 1?*

So this is interesting:

So "Not My Yacht" was my very first fic. Like, I'm talking VERY VERY first.

So when I started asking around about ideas for a new series, a few of my lovelies went through my one shots and this story and "Doodling" got some good votes.

So, I decided to include the one shot and just added to it for a POTENTIAL new series. We'll see how this chapter goes over.

Also I'll be including Rita Calhoun in this for the FIRST time ever, so I may need assistance from @storiesofsvu to get her voice right. I did my best here. I'll be honest I've never really watched her, just that one where that guy blackmailed her or something.

Also Also, if it wasn't obvious enough this is obviously the beginning of the SVU episode "Her Negations".

I don't want to give anything away because I haven't even really thought that far, but I'm 95% sure this is going to turn in a William Lewis situation fic. So...pretty dark. I'm just warning you NOW.

Tag List

@madamsnape921

@lolliepopsicle

@chasingeverybreakingwave

@milkshqke

@wanniiieeee

@word-scribbless

@gibbs274

@sassyada

@aprildecker-blog

@bookishfanfic

@stars-in-the-skies-world

@stars-trash-18

@omgsuperstarg

@objection-argumentative

And yes, the results are in. There is a part 2!

You breathed in the salty air of the sea of the sunny South Hampton shore; It was a beautiful day for a yacht party.

You walked along the pier as you got closer to your boss’s boat: The Crime Wave. Her husband’s idea of a funny name she claimed as she had invited people from the office to this soiree. You were lucky to even get an invite, just being the assistant to the owner of the law firm. “Who else is going to help me dodge boring conversations with men who just wanted a "free ride” on the bosses boat?“ She had teased you; or at least you hoped she was kidding.

You really wanted to just relax and mingle among the elite lawyers of NYC, seeing as you wanted to be one of them someday.

You saw your boss, Rita Calhoun waving you down as you reached the dock space.

"Ah! There you are, for a minute I thought I’d have to mix my own drinks!” She laughed with a wink. You laugh nervously, unable to discern if she was kidding.

“Calm down sweetie, I’m a big girl. Besides, I like to make them myself, strong,” she laughed again, patting your shoulder. Crap had your face looked that panicked? Keep it cool!

“Go ahead, enjoy yourself. I’ll be here, making sure none of those damn punks tries to sneak on here for free booze,” she scoffed, nodding to a group of highly dressed teens playing chicken on the shoreline.

You nodded with a half laugh, stepping onto the yacht. It was a decent size, a second level deck and a very spacious main level. Not a lot of people had arrived yet, so you decided to pick a spot on the yachts back bench area before all the seating was taken. You began removing your over clothes revealing your swimming wear when you hear Rita greet someone else.

“Ah, Barba. You know we have flare guns on board,”

You turn to see the ADA of New York, Rafael Barba. He’s dressed in a windbreaker and what could be either a dark red or salmon polo. You realize Mrs. Calhoun is referring to the almost neon yellow color of the windbreaker, and you can’t help but giggle. It must have been way too loud because they both turn to you which caused you to immediately shut up and go back to undressing and laying out your towel, but ever so slightly still honed in on the conversation.

“You can never be too careful Rita, who knows how many enemies I’ve made in this town; someone might throw me over,” he smirked.

“And anyone here could make it look like a very convincing accident….even my aspiring protege over there,” Rita nods over to you, knowing full well what you were doing.

Barba turned and looked at you, your body frozen in mid towel thrust. You didn’t know whether to throw it over yourself or just run off the boat right there.

“I know it’s an awful jacket dear, you don’t have to keep staring at him.” She called over to you. God why did she have to be so….her.

“Jesus Rita give the girl a break, or did you invite her just to torture her on unbillable hours?” Barba scoffed with a half smile, walking over to you.

“Is it really worth the minimum wage to put up with her?” He asked.

“Mmm…it’s more for the experience, honestly.” You replied surprisingly smoothly.

“Oh….well I mean I could give you the experience without–” He started but was interrupted by your boss’s loud exclaiming.

“Yeah I’ll BET you’d give her experience Barba! Stop hitting on my intern and mingle with the adults.”

If you could dig a hole straight through the boat into the ocean you would do it right then and there.

“…..Without THAT.” He rolled his eyes, lightly flipping her the bird behind his back. You see her respond with a laugh then turns her attention back to the guests boarding.

“She’s probably been drinking since she got on the boat, yeah?” He asked you.

“I…I don’t know I just got here….” You managed to squeak out as your towel strayed from your hands. Barba grabbed it and helped you reposition it on the bench.

“Kinda windy for a yacht party, but Rita will take any chance to celebrate anything remotely resembling a boost to her ego. Am I right?” He chuckled, before sitting down on your towel.

“Just to keep it from blowing away, do you mind?” He asked, gesturing for you to join him. You nodded a boisterous “NO”, plopping next to him on the bench.

“I’m Rafael Barba,” he extended his hand to you, which you took and shook gently, praying to God he didn’t notice you were literally shaking. You had probably had the biggest crush on him since you started working with Mrs. Calhoun, he was constantly in her office challenging her with warrants and favors.

“Oh yeah I know,” you blurted out, mentally facepalming immediately.

“I see….” He raised an eyebrow. “And you are….?”

You were about to answer when his phone went off. He answered it putting one finger up and mouthing the words “one second.”

“Barba. Yeah….what? Seriously, Olivia? On a Sunday?!” He groaned into his phone with an exaggerated eye roll. He raised his hand and ran it over his face begrudgingly as he talked.

“Yeah….alright, fine. Yeah I’ll be there, give me an hour. I’m in the Hamptons. Because it’s my day off, Liv! Do you think I lock myself in my office over the weekends like a vampire in a coffin? Yeah…I’m sorry, I just…” He glanced at you.

“I was enjoying my Sunday.” He gave you a small sad smile.

“Yeah. Ok. See you soon.” He hung up the phone with an exasperated sigh.

“I’m sorry, I gotta go back to the city. Don’t let Rita push you around too much, okay?” He chuckled, rubbing the top of your head like a puppy. You felt your face scrunch up in annoyance, seriously? He thought of you as a kid?!

He obviously noticed, and quickly held out his hand again very sternly.

“Sorry, future counselor.” He said in an overly serious tone, and you couldn’t stop yourself from giggling. Again. Like an idiot.

Relieved he had fixed his faux paux, he gave you one last beautiful Barba grin as he jogged over to Rita and told her something before nodding to you once again, then walked off the boat and disappearing down the pier.

Your boss sauntered over to you, a shit eating grin across her face.

“Well Cinderella, you sure kept that cool.” She gestured for your phone beside you.

“Be sure to tell him your name this time,” she winked, handing it back to you. You glanced down at it as she walked away; she had added a number to your contacts.

“BHole Barba.” You laughed out loud. Nice. Maybe she wasn’t such a horrible boss after all….

--------------

By Monday you still hadn’t had the balls to text Rafael Barba. You had just stared at the number in your phone, imagining all the possibilities contacting him would lead to. You may have gotten so far as planning your summer wedding in the Hamptons, but nobody needed to know that.

But you had chickened out and left it alone, and now you were sitting at your desk typing up a memo for Rita when you saw him come waltzing through the door.

“Ah, Cinderella!” He smiled at you.

“Hey…” Your mind went blank, you couldn’t think of words. Wait, had he already given you a nickname?

“Cinderella?” You blinked in confusion.

“Well I never caught your name-- But I guess I shouldn’t even push it, you’ve clearly moved on and I must seem like a creep,” His train of thought proceeded out loud as he realized you hadn’t taken his number and here he was still flirting with you. Rita had given it to you, he had seen her type it in your phone. Obviously you weren’t interested, why was he pushing this?

“What? NO!” You said a little louder than you intended, actually a lot louder than you intended. You slapped your hand over your mouth after your little outburst, but to you relief he was still smiling.

“Oh? Well I suppose that’s good…” He was obviously fishing for your excuse as to why you had waited until he popped back in your face to talk to him.

“No, I um--” You racked your brain for an excuse that wasn’t “I was busy planning our lives together”.

“I….couldn’t think of something interesting to say,” You finally admitted with a pitiful sigh. You were not a good liar, and under pressure, forget about it.

Again, he still smiled-- but this time he laughed along with it.

“I mean, ‘Hello’ is always an option,” He chuckled. “Or...your name?”

“Oh!” Idiot. You hadn’t even given him your name, how was he supposed to fall madly in love with you without a name?

“Y/N,” You stuck your hand out awkwardly, Was this a ‘shake hands’ moment? Hadn’t you already met before? You stared at your hand as you moved it slightly back and forth, arguing with yourself whether or not this was necessary. Luckily, Rafael settled the argument by taking your hand and shaking it firmly.

His hands were so soft, his long fingers enveloped yours in them. You lost yourself in the moment, and before you knew it he was making an uncomfortable cough, snapping you back to reality. You dropped his hand and snapped yours back into your body like a zip cord, your face in a horrified stare.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry, that was so weird. I’m weird. I’m--”

“Well I don’t know what you were so worried about Cinderella, you’re clearly a chatterbox,” He gave you a tongued smile, referring to the word vomit you just couldn’t help spill all over him.

“Oh yeah, I’m a total word machine,” You laughed nervously. A word machine? What the fuck was that?

“...Word machine. Right,” He nodded in amusement. “Well word machine, would you mind shooting some words to my phone, or do you just enjoy this face to face thing?”

“With that face? Definitely the latter. But you can have my number anyway,” You typed a quick message and sent it to his number. Damn that was smooth! How did you do that?

Rafael made an impressed face with your line, but when he opened his phone his brows furrowed.

“Hit?” He gave you a curious look as he read the text out loud.

“Fuck it was supposed to be ‘hi’-- stupid autocorrect,” You muttered angrily. Yeah, that was more like you.

“Oh yes, the dreaded autocorrect,” He nodded while saving your number. “Turning fucks into ducks since 2011,”

“Oh I didn’t have a phone in 7th grade but I’ll take your word for it,” You laughed, but stopped when his face twisted into a mix of horror and discomfort when he realized how young you actually were.

Dammit. Why...why would you do this?

“....Right, is Rita in?” He quickly shoved his phone back in his pocket and headed into Rita’s office before you could answer.

“...Idiot!” You yelled at yourself as your hands went over your face and your face planted into your desk.

Well, that was nice while it lasted. All 2.5 seconds of it.

-----------------

“Well Barba, about time,” Rita smirked as Rafael abruptly burst into her office trying to get away from you. “Done flirting with the intern are we?”

“Shut up,” He rolled his eyes, though his face was a deep shade of red.

“Oh no, what happened? Did your dentures fall out in front of her?” She smirked.

“I’m younger than you!!” He scoffed.

“Yeah but I’m not the one trying to boff a 25 year old,” She smirked harder, making Rafael angrier.

“Can I just get the warrant I came here for, Rita?” He huffed.

“Oooh, struck a nerve there, did I?” Rita chuckled as she grabbed some papers from her desk and started to hand them to him. “Barba, for the record I’m really not judging you. If I were 20 years younger, I’d hit it too,”

“Excuse me?”

“I had a lot of ‘cats’ in college,” She winked.

“Wow,” Rafael held up his hands. “Rita, we really don’t need to be that personal.”

“Fine, but all I’m saying is if you like the girl, don’t let a stupid thing like age deter you. Don’t tell her I said this, but she’s actually very competent and organized. I would almost prefer her not to graduate, unless she'd come work for me. She’s going to be a hell of a lawyer,” She gestured outside to your desk.

Rafael looked at the ground as he mulled over what she was saying, a small smile crawled across his lips as she complimented your potential.

“I’ll take that under advisement, Mrs. Calhoun,” He nodded as he walked towards the door with the papers in his hand, a huge smile across his face now.

He walked out to find you cursing at yourself and whimpering in embarrassment at your desk. When you heard the door shut you snapped to attention and stared at him, shocked he hadn't sprinted out of the office like Usain Bolt. Even more shocking was that Cheshire cat grin now upon his face.

“I-I’m sorry, I totally meant I was--” You tried doing math trying to make yourself reasonably older.

“It’s fine,” He chuckled as he put a hand over your counting fingers. You blushed at the touch of his skin on yours again, but quickly shoved your hands under the desk nervously as you tried not to look him square in the eye. His eyes were so gorgeous you were positive staring straight into them would actually get you pregnant.

“So does Rita ever unchain you from this desk?” He smirked as he was now very aware and very amused at how nervous he made you. He may be old, but clearly he’s still got it.

“Oh yeah, if I ask very nicely she let’s me--” You tried to think of something witty, but it wasn’t coming with him staring at you with those eyes. “....Yes,” You wanted to put your hands over your face but you didn’t want it to be a ‘thing’.

“Well, maybe if you’re an extra good girl she’ll let you off your leash early tonight,” He winked.

“....Am I a dog or a toddler in that situation?” You were genuinely asking, but Rafael clearly realized how insulting that must have seemed.

“Oh no no no, I just, shit,” He tried to backtrack but if he was being totally honest, you made him nervous. Maybe he didn’t have ‘it’ as much as he thought.

You noticed he was the one blushing now, oh my god were you making him nervous? QUICK, BE SMOOTH. BE SMOOTHER THAN YOU’VE EVER BEEN IN YOUR LIFE.

“Are you asking me out, counselor?” You did your best “sultry “voice with a bat of your eyes. Were you batting them too much? What was too much? Oh god you’ve done it for too long now. STOP BATTING.

“...I don’t know, guess you’ll have to wait for me to text you, future counselor,” He was impressed by the line, and decided to bow out before either of you made idiots of yourselves again. He gave you a wink and sauntered out of the office.

Great. Now he’ll probably make you wait two days for a--

*BEEP*

Your phone went off in your desk. You pulled it out to see a text message:

BHOLE BARBA: Dinner? Tonight?

You really needed to change his contact name. But that wasn’t the point right now. He just asked you out. Rafael Barba just asked you out. You stared at in your hands, unsure of what to do. Then you realized you couldn’t do this again, you couldn’t just sit there and imagine things, this required an immediate response.

You nervously typed a reply and hit SEND:

Sire ;)

“DAMMIT!!!” You cursed your autocorrect. You instantly sent another text.

Sure***

Before you could lecture yourself again, your phone beeped again:

BHOLE BARBA: Play

Play? What did that--

BHOLE: Okay** ;)

You typed the word ‘okay’ into your text reply bubble, ‘play’ came up in the autocorrect word list.

He was joking with you. He was flirting with you. RAFAEL BARBA WAS FLIRTING WITH YOU.

This work day could not end fast enough.

[dwellordream]

“To understand what friendship between women was, we must first understand what it was not. Before turning to the ways in which female friendship illustrated the play of the Victorian gender system, we must develop grounds for distinguishing it from other relationships between women. This is a detour, for the subject of this chapter is female friendship; erotic desire and marriage between women are the focus of subsequent sections. But friendship, erotic infatuation, and female marriage have so often been conflated, and women’s relationships so commonly understood as essentially ambiguous, that the detour is a necessary one. 

The language of Victorian friendship was so ardent, the public face of female marriage so amicable, the comparisons between female friendship and marriage between men and women so constant, that it is no simple task to distinguish female friends from female lovers or female couples. The question “did they have sex?” is the first one on people’s lips today when confronted with a claim that women in the past were lovers—and it is almost always unanswerable. If firsthand testimony about sex is the standard for defining a relationship as sexual, then most Victorians never had sex. Scholars have yet to determine whether Thomas Carlyle was impotent; when, if ever, John Stuart Mill and Harriet Taylor consummated their relationship; or if Arthur Munby and Hannah Cullwick, whose diaries recorded their experiments with fetishes, cross-dressing, and bootlicking, also had genital intercourse.

Just as one can read hundreds of Victorian letters, diaries, and memoirs without finding a single mention of menstruation or excretion, one rarely finds even oblique references to sex between husband and wife. Men and women were equally reticent about sexual activity inside and outside of marriage. In a journal that described her courtship and wedding in detail, Lady Knightley dispatched the first weeks of wedded life in two lines: “Rainald and I entered on our new life in our own home. May God bless it to us” (173). Elizabeth Butler, whose autobiography included “a little sketch of [her] rather romantic meeting” with the man who became her husband, was similarly and typically laconic about a transition defined by sexual intercourse: “June 11 of that year, 1877, was my wedding day.” 

The lack of reliable evidence of sexual activity becomes less problematic, however, if we realize that sex matters because of the social relationships it creates and concentrate on those relationships. In Victorian England, sex was assumed to be part of marriage, but could also drop out of marriage without destroying a bond never defined by sex alone. The diaries and correspondence of Anne Lister and Charlotte Cushman provide solid evidence that nineteenth-century women had genital contact and orgasms with other women, but even more importantly, they demonstrate that sex created different kinds of connections. The fleeting encounters Lister had with women she met abroad were very different from the illicit but sustained affair Cushman had with a much younger woman who became her daughter-in-law. 

Those types of affairs were in turn worlds apart from the relationships with women that Lister and Cushman called marriages, a term that did not simply mean the relationships were sexual but also connoted shared households, mingled property, and assumptions about exclusivity and durability. We can best understand what kinds of relationships women had with each other not by hunting for evidence of sex, which even if we find it will not explain much, but rather by anchoring women’s own statements about their relationships in a larger context. 

The context I provide here is the complex linguistic field of lifewriting, which brings into focus two types of relationships often confused with friendship, indeed often called friendship, but significantly different from it: 1) unrequited passion and obsessive infatuation; and 2) life partnerships, which some Victorians described as marriages between women. The most famous and best-documented example of a Victorian woman’s avowed but unreciprocated passion for another woman is Edith Simcox’s lifelong love for George Eliot, which has made her a staple figure in histories of lesbianism.

Simcox (1844–1901) was a trade-union organizer and professional writer who regularly contributed book reviews to the periodical press and published fiction and nonfiction, including a study of women’s property ownership in ancient societies, discussed in chapter 5. From 1876 to 1900, Simcox kept a journal in a locked book that surfaced in 1930. Simcox gave her life story a title, The Autobiography of a Shirtmaker, that foregrounded her successful work as a labor activist, but its actual content focused on what Simcox called “the lovepassion of her life,” her longing for George Eliot as an unattainable, idealized beloved whom she called “my goddess” or, even more reverently, “Her.”

Simcox knowingly embraced a love that could not be returned, though she was aware of reciprocated, consummated sexual love between women. Her diary alludes to a “lovers’ quarrel” among three women she knew (61) and mentions her own rejection of a woman who “professed a feeling for me different from what she had ever had for any one, it might make her happiness if I could return it” (159). Tellingly, though twentieth-century scholars often refer to Simcox euphemistically as Eliot’s devoted “friend,” Simcox rarely used the term, and modeled herself instead on a courtly lover made all the more devoted by the one-sidedness of her passion. Simcox defined her diary as an “acta diurna amoris,” a daily act of love, and aspired to keep it with a constancy that would mirror her total absorption in Eliot (3). 

After bringing Eliot two valentines in February 1878, Simcox wrote: “Yesterday I went to see her, and have been in a calm glow of happiness since:—for no special reason, only that to have been near her happens to have that effect on me. . . . I did nothing but make reckless love to her . . . I had told her of my ambition to be allowed to lie silently at her feet as she pursued her occupations” (25). George Lewes, the companion whom Eliot’s friends referred to as her husband, was present at most of these scenes, and he and Eliot tolerated and even enjoyed Simcox’s attentions, which they consciously construed as loverlike. 

During a conversation about Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s love poems, Sonnets from the Portugese, Eliot told Simcox “she wished my letters could be printed in the same veiled way— ‘the Newest Heloise,’” thus situating Simcox’s missives to her in the tradition of amatory literature (39). In private, Simcox indulged fantasies of a more sensual connection, reflecting on a persistent “love that made the longing and molded the caress,” and recalling how “[i]n thinking of her, kisses used to form themselves instinctively on my lips—I seldom failed to kiss her a good night in thought” (136). 

In trying to define her love for Eliot, Simcox significantly refused to be content with one paradigm; instead, she accumulated analogies, comparing her love for Eliot to both “[m]arried love and passionate friendship” (60). Like a medieval ascetic, Simcox eroticized her lack of sexual fulfillment, arguing that her love was even more powerful than friendship or marriage because, in resigning herself to living “widowed of perfect joy,” she had felt “sharp flames consuming what was left . . . of selfish lust” (60).

In an unsent 1880 letter to Eliot, Simcox again found herself unable to select only one category to explain her love: “Do you see darling that I can only love you three lawful ways, idolatrously as Frater the Virgin Mary, in romance wise as Petrarch, Laura, or with a child’s fondness for the mother” (120). By implication, Simcox also suggested that there would be an unlawful way to love Eliot—as an adulterer who would usurp the uxurious role already occupied by Lewes. She concluded by explaining that her relationship with Eliot was too unequal to be a friendship (120). 

In the absence of the sociological and scientific shorthand provided by sexology or a codified subculture, and in the absence of a genuinely shared life that could be represented by a common history or joint possessions, women like Simcox represented their unrequited sexual desire for other women by extravagantly combining incompatible terms such as mother, lover, sister, friend, wife, and idol. Other women deployed similar rhetorical techniques of intensification and accumulation to express sexual loves that were not equally felt and did not lead to long-term partnerships. 

At age twenty, Sophia Jex-Blake (1840–1912), one of England’s first female doctors and an activist who helped open medical education to women, met philanthropist Octavia Hill (1838–1912). In a biography of Jex-Blake written in 1918 that still adhered to Victorian rhetorical conventions, Margaret Todd called her subject’s relationship with Hill a “friendship” but qualified it as one that made “the deepest impression . . . of any in the whole of her life.” Jex-Blake considered the degree of love she felt for women to be unusual, writing around 1858, “I believe I love women too much ever to love a man” (78). 

During a brief relationship that Hill soon broke off, the two women may have been sexually involved, but even so their feelings were never evenly matched. During the period when the women were closest, Hill reduced their bond to mere chumminess by calling herself and Jex-Blake “great companions” (85). By contrast, Jex-Blake was in awe of Hill and described her as both child and mother, roles often eroticized for Victorians, writing in her diary of “My dear loving strong child . . . I do love and reverence her” (85). Even after the relationship ended, Jex-Blake thought of Hill as her lifelong spouse, referring twenty years later to the “fanciful faithfulness” she maintained for her first love, to whom she left “the whole of her little property” in repeated wills (94). 

Like Simcox, Jex-Blake used intensified language to underscore the uniqueness of her emotions. When she described inviting Hill on a vacation that included a visit to Llangollen, a site made famous by the female couple who had lived there together, Jex-Blake wrote of her “heart beating like a hammer” (85) and then described Hill’s response: “She sunk her head on my lap silently, raised it in tears, then such a kiss!” (86). Female friends often exchanged kisses, but Jex-Blake’s account took the kiss out of the realm of friendship into one of heightened sensation. Although it was common for female friends to love each other and write gushingly about it, Simcox and Jex-Blake also wrote of feeling uncommon, different from the general run of women. 

Simcox identified closely with men and Jex-Blake felt unable to love men as most women did; both were extraordinarily autonomous, professionally successful, and self-conscious about the significance of their love for women. Other women also had intense erotic relationships that went beyond friendship, but were less self-conscious about those relationships, which they rarely saw as needing special explanation, and which usually lasted years or months rather than a lifetime. An example of outright insouciance about a deeply felt erotic fascination between women is found in the journals of Margaret Leicester Warren, written in the 1870s and published for private circulation in 1924. 

Little is known about Warren, who was born in 1847 and led the life of a typical upper-middle-class lady, attending church, studying drawing and music, and marrying a man in 1875. Her diary attests to a fondness for triangulated relationships that included an adolescent crush on her newlywed sister and her sister’s husband, and a brief, tumultuous engagement to a male cousin whose mother was the dramatic center of Warren’s intense emotions. In 1872, when Warren was twenty-five, she began to write incessantly about a distant cousin named Edith Leycester in entries that reveled in the experience of succumbing to another woman’s glamour: “Edith looked very beautiful and as usual I fell in love with her....Tonight Edith took me into her room. . . . She is like an enchanted princess. There is some charm or spell that has been thrown over her.”

 Numerous similar entries recorded an infatuation that combined daily familiarity with reverent mystification of a sophisticated and self-dramatizing woman. Warren’s fascination with Edith lasted several years. Unlike Simcox and Jex-Blake, Warren never self-consciously reflected that her feelings for Edith differed from conventional friendship, but like them, Warren ascribed an intensity, exclusivity, and volatility to her feelings for Edith absent from most accounts of female friendship. Indeed, Warren rarely referred to Edith as a friend when she wrote of her desire to see Edith every day and recorded their many exchanges of confidences, poetry, and gifts. 

Warren fetishized and idealized Edith, was fixated on her presence and absence, and used superlatives to describe the feelings she inspired. Within months of meeting Edith, most of Warren’s entries consisted of detailed reenactments of their daily visits and the emotions generated by each parting and reunion: “Edith was charming tonight and I was happier with her than I have ever been. She looked beautiful” (287). Warren created an erotic aura around Edith through the very act of writing about her, through a liberal use of adverbs and adjectives, and by infusing her friend’s most ordinary actions with dramatic implications. 

Describing how Edith invited her to visit her country home, for example, Warren wrote, “Edith came in and threw herself down on the chair and said quietly and gently ‘come to Toft!’” (291). Although Warren got along well with Edith’s rarely present husband, Rafe, she relished being alone with her and described the awkward, jealous scenes that took place whenever she had to share Edith with other women (362, 369). Warren found ways to dwell on the details of Edith’s beauty through references to fashion and contemporary art. Like many diarists, Warren had an almost novelistic capacity to observe and characterize people in terms of prevailing aesthetic forms. 

She described Edith with flowers in her hair, looking like a pre-Raphaelite painting, and recorded her desire to make images of Edith: “I sd. like to paint her. . . . It wd. make a good ‘golden witch’ a beautiful Enchantress” (290–91). A ride with Edith inspired Warren to pen another impassioned tableau: “All the way there in the brougham I looked at Edith’s beautiful profile, the lamp light shining on it, and the wind blowing her hair about—her face also, all lit up with enthusiasm and tenderness as she leant forward to Rafe and told him a long story . . . I . . . only thought how grand she was” (369–70). 

Shared confidences about Warren’s broken engagement to their male cousin became another medium for cultivating the women’s special intimacy. By assuring Warren that she did not side with the jilted fiance´, Edith declared an autonomous interest in her: “‘I wanted you to come here because— because I like you.’ She was sitting at her easel and never looking at me as she spoke for I was standing behind her, but when she said ‘because I like you,’ she looked backwards up at me with such an honest, soft, beautiful expression that any distrust I had still left of her trueness melted up into a cinder” (290). 

Just as Warren heightened her relationship with Edith by writing about it so effusively and at such length, the two women elevated it by coyly discussing what their interactions and feelings meant. Before one of her many departures from London, Edith asked Warren: “‘[A]re you sorry I am going? . . . How curious—why are you sorry?’ Then I told her a little of all she had done for me . . . how much life and pleasure and interest she had put into my life, and she said nothing but she just put out her hand and laid it on my hand and that from her means a great deal more than 100 things from anyone else” (293). Edith’s gesture drew on the repertory of friendship, but in the private theater of her journal, Warren transformed the touch of a hand into a uniquely meaningful clasp. 

This is not to say the relationship was one-sided. If Warren’s diary reports the two women’s interactions with any degree of accuracy, it is clear that both enjoyed creating an atmosphere of pent-up longing. Edith fed Warren’s infatuation with provocative questions and a skill for setting scenes: “She asked what things I cared for now? And I said with truth, for nothing— except seeing her” (303). Three days later, just before another of Edith’s departures, Warren paid a call: When tea was over, the dusk had begun and I . . . sat . . . at the open window. . . . By and bye Edith came and sat near me. . . . The room inside was nearly dark, but outside it was brilliant May moonlight. . . . Edith sat there ready to go, looking very pale and very sad with the light on her face. . . . We did not talk much. She asked me to go to the party tonight and to think of her at 11. . . . She said goodbye and she kissed me, for the first time. (303–4) 

Warren is exquisitely sensitive to every element that connotes eroticism: a darkened room, physical proximity, complicit silence, a romantic demand that the beloved remain present in her lover’s mind even when absent, a kiss whose uniqueness—“for the first time”—suggests a beginning. Any one of these actions would have been unremarkable between female friends, but comparison with other women’s diaries shows how distinctive it was for Warren to list so many gestures within one entry, without defining and therefore restricting their meaning. Warren’s attitude also distinguishes her emotions from those articulated by women who took their love for women in a more conjugal or sexual direction. Her journals combine exhaustive attention to the beloved with a pervasive indifference to interrogating what that fascination might mean. 

Never classified as friendship or love, Warren’s feelings for Edith had the advantages and limits of remaining in the realm of suggestion, where they could expand infinitely without ever being realized or checked. Women who consummated a mutual love and consolidated it by forming a conjugal household were less likely to leave records of their most impassioned moods and deeds than those whose love went unrequited or undefined. Indeed, women in what were sometimes called “female marriages” (a term I discuss further in chapter 5) used lifewriting to claim the privilege of privacy accorded to opposite-sex spouses. 

Like the lifewritings of women married to men, those of women in female marriages assumed intimacy and interdependence rather than displaying it, and folded their sexual bond into a social one. They described shared households and networks of acquaintances who recognized and thus legitimated the women’s coupledom, liberally using words such as “always,” “never,” and “every” to convey an iterated, daily familiarity more typical of spouses than friends. 

Martha Vicinus’s Intimate Friends cites many nineteenth-century women who described their relationships with other women as marriages, and Magnus Hirschfeld’s magisterial, international study of The Homosexuality of Men and Women (1914) noted that same sex couples often created “marriage-like associations characterized by the exclusivity and long duration of the relationships, the living together and the common household, the sharing of every interest, and often the existence of legitimate community property.” 

Sexual relationships of all stripes were most acceptable when their sexual nature was least visible as such but was instead manifested in terms of marital acts such as cohabitation, fidelity, financial solidarity, and adherence to middle-class norms of respectability. Because friendship between women was so clearly defined and prized, one way to acknowledge a female couple’s existence while respecting their privacy was to call women who were in effect married to each other “friends.” Given that “friends” was used to describe women who were lovers and women who were not, how can we tell when “friends” means more than just friends? 

…There are many instances of published writing acknowledging marital relationships between women by calling them friendships. Victorian women in female couples were not automatically subject to the exposure and scandal visited on opposite-sex couples who stepped outside the bounds of respectable sexual behavior. Instead, many female couples enjoyed both the right to privacy associated with marriage and the public privileges accorded to female friendship. The Halifax Guardian obituary of Anne Lister in 1840 recognized her longstanding spousal relationship with Anne Walker by calling her Lister’s “friend and companion,” a gratuitously compound phrase.

Emily Faithfull, whom we will encounter again in chapter 6, was a feminist with a long history of female lovers. An 1894 article entitled “An Afternoon Tea with Miss Emily Faithfull” described her home in Manchester, decorated by “Miss Charlotte Robinson,” whom Faithfull readily disclosed “shares house with me.”80 Faithfull left all her property to Robinson in a will that called her “my beloved friend” whose “countless services” and “affectionate tenderness and care . . . made the last few years of my life the happiest I ever spent.” To call one woman another’s superlative friend was not to disavow their marital relationship but to proclaim it in the language of the day.”

- Sharon Marcus, “Friendship and the Play of the System.” in Between Women: Friendship, Desire, and Marriage in Victorian England

[smiting-finger]

alive, and back on my usual nonsense

So after getting preoccupied with other things and temporarily falling off the face of the planet (for like an entire year ಥωಥ), I was thinking about the kdrama Mr. Queen (which I've been meaning to watch), and the Chinese novel it was based on (太子妃升职记, which I read a few years ago and very much enjoyed), and this popped out--

Wei Wuxian’s first thought is that there seem to be an awful lot of female voices around, for a bedroom inhabited by two men. Did he drink too much last night? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s overindulged on a trip to the town and woken up in a strange place the next morning, but that kind of problem has been cropping up a lot less frequently now that he has Lan Zhan around to ferry him home.

(Sometimes literally, on his back. His broad, strong--)

But perhaps Lan Zhan had gotten drunk, too? In which case, Wei Wuxian should consider them lucky to have woken up surrounded by people, rather than chickens, rabbits or, notably, on one occasion, mounds of resentful cabbages.

The chatter around him continues, pitched high with youth and - is that anxiety? It's interspersed with the odd interjection from what sounds like one (calmer, if more exasperated) older woman and a man. Probably not a nunnery, he decides. Perhaps the back rooms of a pleasure house? Although, if that’s the case, this amount of excitement over a mere two men is honestly a little excessive.

He reaches out tentatively, but pats all the way across the mattress to the edge without finding his usual bedfellow. A much less tentative venture towards the other side produces similar results.

Hm.

Wei Wuxian cracks open an eye and heaves himself upright, absent-mindedly scratching at his (unusually soft - as much as he hates to admit it, maybe Nie Huaisang has a point about drinking less and training more) side and squinting into the too-bright light until the person-shaped blur in front of him sharpens into focus.

“Niang niang!” a complete stranger cries tearfully, clutching at the sleeve of his other arm. “You’re awake! Thank Heavens, you’re awake! Physician Liu, quick, quick!”

A cushion is produced from somewhere and thrust expectantly between Wei Wuxian and the elderly man sitting at his bedside.

He sighs. It’s probably not worth fighting.

Wei Wuxian smacks his upturned wrist onto the unusually lavish brocade and is only a little surprised when it’s covered by a cloth before the physician reaches to take it.

(Do they think he’s diseased?)

((Is he diseased?!))

(((Is that why Lan Zhan isn’t here?)))

He looks at the row of young girls (+ 1 matron) kneeling along the wall to his left, dressed identically to the first and also now beginning to prostrate themselves and wail about “Niang niang!” and blessings and deserving to die.

Not a pleasure house, then.

He looks around at the rest of the richly-furnished room and its intricately-carved wooden furniture, the wealth of jade carvings and the obscene amount of gold that's gilding … everything (so shiny). The opulence of it all would put even Jin Guangshan to shame.

So, not a nunnery either.

He looks down at the small hands, delicate wrists and - he clutches one abruptly just to make sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him - breasts of the body that he certainly was not inhabiting yesterday.

“Well,” he says aloud, unable to stop himself from wincing at the high, soft voice that emerges despite fully expecting it. “It’s not the first time this has happened.”

===

Two days, one diagnosis of shock-induced memory loss and some discreet enquiries (as well as some indiscreet enquiries) later, this is what he knows about his situation:

He’s the main consort (unfavoured) of the crown prince of whatever place he’s landed in;

Three days ago, following a disagreement with one Consort Yun (favoured, main competitor for husband’s affections);

In the course of this disagreement, both women somehow fell into a palace lake and mostly-drowned;

Consort Yun (admittedly quite pretty) was revived at the scene, but Wei Wuxian took a full day to “miraculously” recover;

Angered by the unseemly behaviour of her daughters-in-law, particularly upon learning that the Crown Princess’s first act upon waking was to stumble upon a chance meeting between the Crown Prince and Consort Yun in one of the pleasure gardens and bodily throw herself between them (a tactical error on Wei Wuxian’s part. He’d been trying to throw himself over the battlements to freedom, but he’d gotten lost and scaled the wrong wall), the Empress (Crown Prince’s political opponent, not particularly fond of either consort) grounded both of them to their respective residences for a month, with no visitors allowed.

Which brings him to his current position, feeding the fish in his personal pond as an excuse to be alone. Not truly alone - he shoots a pointed glance at the maids watching anxiously from the other side of the courtyard - because he’s apparently a “suicide risk” now (and honestly, yes, he’d meant to throw himself off that roof, but he hadn’t meant to die - it’s simply that this new body’s cultivation level is not what he’s come to expect even from Mo Xuanyu’s modest abilities), but alone enough to start planning his next move.

Direct escape is out - he didn’t have a plan for what to do once he’d gotten out anyway, and honestly he’s better-resourced for finding out how he got here in the Palace than anywhere else, so it’s no great loss.

“What do you think, Master Fish?” Wei Wuxian asks a gold and black spotted koi with particularly sage-looking whiskers. “Shall I just stay here for the time being?”

It’s not a terrible place to be for the time being, he must admit, throwing more food into the water and watching the fish swarm. Being grounded, he’s at no risk from the Crown Prince’s amorous attentions for a month (a salute of gratitude to the Empress for the inadvertent protection). And thanks to Consort Yun and her voluptuous figure (and if the Crown Prince is more partial to that than the Zhao Feiyan style of willowy fragility that Wei Wuxian seems to have inherited, who can honestly blame him?), he’s at no great risk from them after that, either (a salute of gratitude to the unknowing sister-in-arms, taking one - and hopefully a great many more after that - for the team).

According to his maid (sleeve-clutcher extraordinaire, who even now is boring two holes into his skull with her woeful gaze from across the way while he does nothing more suspicious than scatter another handful of feed towards some latercomer fish), the body he’s inhabiting comes from a powerful military lineage. In particular, her father is (was?) a powerful general who currently commands more than half the nation’s military forces and has the absolute trust of the Emperor. So that more or less keeps him safe from the machinations of the majority of the nest of vipers in this palatial cesspit.

That just leaves the Empress, who - if his servants and the smuggled letters from the Original Goods’s mother (a salute of gratitude to the worthy woman for spelling it out so that even such an interloper as he can understand) are anything to go by - would definitely kill him to damage the Crown Prince’s political standing or throw any sort of roadblock in the way of him from becoming Emperor.

Less immediately - if his secret informants are anything to go by (a salute of gratitude to the resourceful host for cultivating such a valuable resource if not her dantian) - it also leaves the Crown Prince, who, upon cementing his power as Emperor, would also definitely kill his current Crown Princess in order to wedge his beloved Consort Yun into the Empress role.

Really, the only road to any sort of security for someone in his position is to raise the next Imperial heir, outlive the Original Goods’s faithless husband and become the Empress Dowager.

Hopefully Wei Wuxian will be long gone by then, but if leaving means the Original Goods will return (from … Mo Xuanyu’s body? The Ether? Or???) - well, he doesn’t want to repay her hospitality by leaving her house in a mess, so to speak. So he’ll try to set her on that career path, if he can.

But that’s an aspirational goal. First, he has to not-die before he can find out how to get himself home.

And find out how to get himself home.

If getting himself home is even possible.

Wei Wuxian dumps the rest of the fish food in the water and yells.

(It startles the maids, the fish and the poor eunuch the Crown Prince has sent as a spy into falling out of the tree he’s been hiding in and into the prickly bushes below.)

===

The problem with “staying for the time being” is … well, how interminably boring it is. The approved list of hobbies for an Imperial consort seems to consist of: eating (but not too much), sleeping (but not too much), embroidery (which he can’t do), reading (but only texts on female virtue and the occasional terrible novel), playing music (but not the flute), conversing with his maids (who are very sweet, but are all like, 12) and walking in the gardens (which he’s not allowed to do).

Honestly, it’s no wonder all the consorts turn to scheming and murder.

It only takes a week of confinement for him to snap and sneak himself out for a nighttime adventure, setting off to explore the grounds and see … a night-blooming flower, a ghost, a rat, he’ll take pretty much anything at this point.

In the end, he finds none of these things, but the walking is still pretty nice, and he even hears the faint sounds of a guqin wafting over from one of the other consorts’ residences. (He should probably learn who lives where at some point, but it’s not exactly a priority. What’s he going to do with the information when he can only visit during the nighttime? Peep?) When Wei Wuxian wanders closer, the notes resolve themselves into the familiar strains of Flowing Waters, and his breath catches on a sudden surge of longing to hear the same song, played by a different set of fingers.

(First played on a familiar guqin and then, later, accompanied by soft humming between soft, worn sheets, played across the edges of Wei Wuxian’s ribs, along the dip of his spine, and finally lower, into--)

((Is Lan Zhan thinking about him?))

(((Is Lan Zhan looking for him?)))

Stumbling blindly on, he’s so caught up in missing Lan Zhan that he misses the first few stanzas of the next piece, and it isn’t until the music starts to rise in a familiar refrain that he freezes.

He knows that song.

He’s one of the only two people who know that song, which is in fact how he got caught out the last time he found himself in a farce of an identity charade, by the only other person who knows that song, who must be - who must be -

Lan Zhan, his blood sings in his ears as he takes off in a dead run towards the source of the playing. Up ahead of him, small courtyard glows softly with the light of the only burning lamp in their vicinity. Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan-

He scrambles up the wall with the ease of a lifetime’s practice, using bloody-minded determination to make up for the lack of muscle memory.

“Lan Zhan,” he yelps, forgetting to whisper in his excitement as he flings himself over the top and into the branches of a convenient, wall-side tree. “Lan Zhan, it’s me, I-”

This is, naturally, when his foot slips. He manages to catch hold of a branch, but his tender hands and puny wrists, unused to holding up anything heavier than a chicken leg, fail to maintain their hold through his weight, and he tumbles down the trunk into a sad puddle of fabric on the ground.

“Lan Zhan,” he gasps, fighting to untangle himself from the ridiculous train that, admittedly, made a considerable contribution to cushioning his fall. He clambers up onto his hands and knees--

--and looks straight into the wide-eyed stare of Consort Yun.

===

“I cannot believe,” Wei Wuxian growls, palming the ample softness of one exposed breast with one hand, while shoving the other deeper into the many (too many) layers of fabric between them and between Lan Zhan’s splayed legs, “that after everything that’s happened, you’re still taller than me.”

Lan Zhan huffs a laugh that turns quickly into a moan, and Wei Wuxian swallows it, smothers Lan Zhan’s gasping breaths with his own parted lips and sucks them greedily down even as he coaxes out more with twisting fingers here, another tug to Lan Zhan’s poor, abused nipple there.

He slides his fingers back between slick folds and then upwards again, pushing in and out in a few languid strokes before curling them to make Lan Zhan arch harder against the wall behind him, tilt his head back and expose a beautifully vulnerable stretch of neck to Wei Wuxian's teeth.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan murmurs, and his voice is different, the shape of his lips is different, but the way Wei Wuxian’s name fits inside his mouth (tender, beloved), the way he tucks the flyaway strands of hair behind Wei Wuxian’s ear, the look in his eyes when their gazes meet (warm, open, knowing) are the same, same, same.

===

===

I am entirely too lazy to write the rest of it, but afterwards they regroup and it turns out LWJ has been in this world for exactly one more day than WWX, having woken up in Consort Yun’s body when she was “revived”. Consort Yun is the daughter of a high-ranking Minister in the Treasury or something, so Lan Zhan been using his new position as the daughter of a ~scholarly family~ to build a reputation for being really into Buddhist scripture, and eventually he’s going to request to be allowed to go to a nearby Temple to attain some virtuous brownie points for the Imperial family via prayer as his penitence.

That there’s also an elderly monk living there who’s got a reputation for being super good with the divine mysteries and spiritual lore about curses and whatnot is totally immaterial, if Lan Zhan happens to run into that guy, it’ll be a total coincidence, yeah.

So WWX also starts on the divine penitence route, and if everyone thinks it’s because the Crown Princess refuses to be outdone by Consort Yun, then even better, and two weeks into confinement they wear the Empress down into letting them make the trip, and when they get there, turns out the monk is Nie Huaisang.

(NHS: “OH THANK GOD, I’ve done the research but the lynchpin of this mess is definitely somewhere in the Palace and I could not for the life of me figure out a way to get in.”

WWX: “That's nice, but seriously, how come you got to stay a man?”

NHS: “My friend, I may be a man, but my balls are currently swinging somewhere around my ankles.”

WWX: “...show me.”

And LWJ is like “NO.” except WWX can tell by the look in his eye that he sort of wants to see, too).

So they return to the Palace and WWX whirls into one of their morning audiences with the Empress, distraught about a ~dream from the ancestors~ where they warned him about disrupted ley lines or accumulated resentment or an offended minor god that needs investigation by someone, and “How convenient, because we met just the guy!” And the Empress looks like she was Done Five Years Ago, but the Empress Dowager, who’s old and doddery, is like “oh no, you must bring him!” and the Empress mutters “to fucking what, offend some major gods and really do the job properly?” and that’s how they find out the Empress is Jiang Cheng.

In the meantime, the confinement edict expires and WWX+LWJ are allowed to return to their regular programming, which means that as the legal wife, WWX can continuously summon LWJ to his residence for increasingly tenuous and spurious reasons. The best thing is, it’s not even out of character for the Crown Princess, who used to regularly summon Consort Yun to subject her to not-so-veiled barbs and petty torments. So WWX summons LWJ, and then immediately expels both their entourages from the room, instructing that no one is to enter on pain of death.

So LWJ’s maids are gnashing their teeth helplessly while all sorts of piteous moans, pained gasps and the occasional scream emanate from behind the closed door, and when their mistress finally emerges there are no marks on her body, but she’s weak-kneed and having trouble walking straight, so who knows what kind of terrible tortures the Crown Princess has visited upon her.

The Crown Prince obviously hears about this, so he bursts in one day without warning, only to find the two sitting together, the Crown princess’s arms around Consort Yun’s waist, her cheek pillowed on one heaving bosom, and although she’s smiling besottedly at him now, he could have sworn that he felt killing intent being directed at him only a second ago? And to tell the truth, he’s not really in love Consort Yun either, it’s all an act to keep the two consorts (and their families) pitted in a power struggle against each other until he can finally outmanoeuvre the Empress and cement his position as heir to the throne (and also to protect his actual favourite, a third consort who’s a nondescript nobody with no political backing). So the fact that “It was all a misunderstanding, we’re friends now,” his Crown Princess says sweetly (and did she … rub her cheek against his Consort’s chest? Must be his imagination) is not the worst thing (at least neither of them/their families can be enlisted by the Empress in support of her son, and if they’re caught up with Being Besties, then at least they’re not bullying his actual favourite), but for some reason he still feels kind of … threatened? Like someone’s making moves on his wife, which is absurd because they’re both his wives, but the vibes he gets from the first one in particular are kind of … off?

In any case, the crew solve the mystery, find the lynchpin object (which turns out to be a jade dildo belonging to one of the Emperor’s favoured consorts because of course it is), and wake up in their real bodies, in their real world, to a very apologetic hermit-inventor-cultivator whose property they stumbled onto while pursuing a resentful beast. Turns out they triggered the glamour/enchantment/psychic maze world he created as a security system because, “I just didn’t want to risk people getting into my stuff, you know? I’ve got some things that could be very dangerous in the wrong hands”. WWX is like “oh yeah, for sure” and JC is like “WHAT DO YOU MEAN FOR SURE? HOW IS THIS AN UNDERSTANDABLE RESPONSE, IF YOU’RE AFRAID PEOPLE WILL TOUCH YOUR SHIT THEN JUST ENCHANT SOME FUCKING WARRIOR GOLEMS LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE.”

[bybdolan]

ANYTHING THEY WANT TO HEAR [based on cowboy like me by Taylor Swift and this edit] Word Count: 4225 ; Rating: T+ ; TW: slight mention of corruption of minors ; AO3 PLAYLIST

“I'm trying to save my money when it comes to small things like that, you know.” She pushes her sunglasses up. “This thing has an expiration date for me.” “What do you mean?” “I'm getting older, Jack. My beauty and my youth are my currency, and they won't be mine forever.” He looks at her for a very long time. “I don't think you'll ever not be beautiful,” he says after a while, and Isis knows he actually means it. His voice is almost plain when he's being honest, it's so different from his usual act.

read below the cut.

“May I have this dance?”

His voice is dark and low in all the right ways and for a moment Isis is almost lured into his sweet web, but then she remembers how he talked to the old lady with the sapphire ring earlier and she knows that he wants something from her she isn't willing to give him. So instead of answering, she lazily stretches her back like a cat in the sun and takes another sip of her champagne.

“Dancing is a dangerous game,” she replies after a while, and it's almost a bored sigh.

He laughs and exposes a perfect row of white teeth. “Cynical, aren't we?”

“Takes one to know one.”

Her eyes scan the crowd and she catches the eye of a man who is looking at her over the shoulder of the woman Isis assumes is his wife. Isis looks away. This is only her second day here. She has to give the men time to take her in first, let them see her exit the pool in her wet swimsuit and cross her long legs while waiting at the bar; so when they finally get to undress her, it feels like a relief, like unwrapping a gift you have been waiting for. It makes them feel special, to think that they of all people charmed her. Isis knows that men like that.

“You know that he's a married man?”

Isis smiles. “Hasn't stopped me before. It's their choice, not mine.”

She turns back to the man beside her. He's very handsome, all dark skin and dark hair and dark eyes. There's something rugged about him, as if he was a statue somebody had left unfinished, and Isis has the sudden urge to put her hand on his cheek and feel the roughness of his beard against her palm.

He reaches out his hand and Isis takes it. His long slender fingers wrap tightly around hers.

“Jack. Nice to meet you.”

“Isis.”

“Did your parents give you that name?”, he asks, and she laughs and shakes her head.

“No. I did.”

“What's your real name, then?” He lowers his voice and Isis has to smile because she knows what he is trying to do. There's a glimmer of disappointment in his eyes when she doesn't lean in to hear him better.

“It was a church name. A good church name for a good church girl.” She enjoys the sight of Jack's white-teethed grin for a quick second before she turns away.

“I'm sure that's what you are,” Jack says, his voice still low and dark, and it sends shivers down her spine. He's good. If she talks to him for too long, he might get her where he wants her, but Isis isn't willing to give him that satisfaction. So she puts her now empty champagne flute on a tray a waiter carries past, rolls her shoulders in a way she knows makes her shoulder blades look good, and gives him an apologetic smile that he will know is fake.

“Well, Jack, it was nice meeting you, but good girls like me shouldn't talk to young men for too long. It gives them ideas.”

Her high heels are softly clicking on the tennis court floor as she is walking away and she can tell that Jack is looking at the silky skin of her back, exposed by her sequined gown, and for once she actually feels good about it.

The gentle wind that blows across the town square tugs at Isis' napkin and her blouse, but she doesn't mind it because the breeze is making the heavy heat slightly more bearable. Jack is sitting across from her, Aviator sunglasses up in his dark curls, head thrown back as he enjoys the cool air.

“Had I known how awful this heat would be, I would have gone to England,” he groans, and Isis smiles.

“I personally prefer sunshine over constant rain, but that might just be me.”

“Of course you do.” He grins. “It allows you to wear the skimpy bathing suits you love so much.”

Isis rolls her eyes at him over the rim of her sunglasses, but she doesn't actually mean it. “If you don't like me doing that, you have done a very bad job at showing it.”

Jack chuckles and looks up into the blue sky again.

They have been spending some time together these past weeks. It's beneficial to both of them to be seen together occasionally, in situations that suggest they are romantically involved. When Isis goes out with an older man later in the day, his ego is soothed by the impression that somehow, Isis chose him over Jack, and it's the same with the ladies that Jack dines with. Isis is aware of the way they look at her. Most with jealousy, some with desire. Isis feels sorry for the latter.

Of course they sleep together sometimes, secretly, and Jack always sneaks out of Isis' room when they are done, leaving her alone in the big, cold bed. She enjoys the arrangement, it is nice to do something just for her own pleasure, without submitting to others' wishes or expecting monetary gain from it. As much as they publicly exploit their sympathy for one another, their friendship – though Isis wouldn't necessarily call it that – is genuine.

“Do you think that store over there is selling an English newspaper?” Jack asks and Isis follows his eyes to the small shop across the square. She shakes her head.

“I doubt it. But why don't you just wait until we get new ones at the hotel?”

Jack shrugs.

Every week or so, there is a fresh stack of newspapers on the receptionist's desk, and Jack is always the first to buy one. He spends the entire morning standing around somewhere, hair dishevelled, completely engulfed in whatever news he's reading, and Isis knows he actually cares about the articles because there is a spark in his eyes that isn't there when he is reading Albert Camus by the pool.

“Why does it interest you so much?” She cocks her head to the side and drinks her Espresso.

“Because I care about what's going on in the world,” he replies, “I actually wanted to be a journalist when I was younger.”

It surprises Isis. For some reason, she automatically assumed Jack was like her, with no aspirations besides getting the most out of what they were doing.

“Is that why you started doing this?” She makes a vague gesture with her hand. “To get money for college?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I wouldn't sit here with you if that was the case.”

“Then what was the reason?” She doesn't know why it suddenly interests her so much.

“I didn't want to go to war.” There's a moment of silence. “All my friends got their drafting letters and none of their weird tricks to get out of it worked, so I figured the only way to not get shipped to Vietnam if my number was pulled was bribing the officers. And since I didn't have the money myself, I had to find somebody to pay for me.” He picks up his coffee cup, but instead of drinking he just stares at the dark liquid. “I borrowed a suit and snuck into the fanciest bar in town and somehow managed to get this widow – her name was Rebekah – wrapped around my finger. When my letter came, she gave the officer a thousand bucks to let me off the hook. I couldn't fuck her while being dead in the jungle, after all.”

The silence between them suddenly feels as heavy as the heat. Jack finally drinks his coffee, then his eyes go to Isis.

“What about you?” he asks. She looks away, gaze fixed on the child playing with a stray cat by the fountain in the middle of the square.

“I just wanted pretty dresses,” she says plainly. “My parents were very religious in an almost puritan way, my sisters and I weren't allowed to do anything that was deemed a distraction from our faith. I hated it. I wanted to be like the other girls in school. So whenever I could, I would take the bus into town and look at the dresses in the shop windows or flip through every fashion magazine I saw. And one day this guy came up to me in the streets and told me he'd buy me the dress I was looking at if I did a little favor for him.” Isis looks back at Jack, eyes all cold and icy through her tinted glasses. She puts her chin up, even after all those years. “I wore that dress like an armor. I felt like fucking Joan Of Arc. It was a fuck you to my parents and my church and my teachers and everybody else who thought they could control what I wanted in life.”

The wind blows her hair into her face. It sticks to her cheeks and her lipstick and Isis combs it back into place with her fingers angrily. It's an unusually rough motion for her.

“And then I just went with it, I guess. Always on the lookout for men who were willing to pay for my attention. It's so easy, you just look pretty and tell them anything they want to hear and that's it.”

Jack nods slowly, fingers toying with the white paper napkin tucked under his cup. “That's one of the reasons I didn't go to college with the money I made. I was scared of not being any good.”

Isis looks at him and her features soften. “That's a stupid reason for not trying.”

Jack gives her a crooked grin. “I guess.”

He looks at his hands and then at his wristwatch and makes a face. “Fuck, I've got to get going.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Her choice of words makes him laugh. “Yes. The blonde lady who always carries those expensive leather handbags, I'm sure you know her.”

Isis nods. “She looked at me this morning when I sat with you during breakfast and I'm surprised I didn't drop dead right then and there.”

Jack laughs again and runs his fingers through his hair. “She's the jealous type. I'm sure she'll be willing to do me a lot of favors if it only means I won't look at you for a few days.”

“You won't manage that.”

“Maybe.”

They both grin.

“If you are planning on ignoring me,” she says, “You should at least pay for my coffee.”

He shrugs. “I guess it would be the nice thing to do. But let it be known that I always pay for your food.”

“I'm trying to save my money when it comes to small things like that, you know.” She pushes her sunglasses up. “This thing has an expiration date for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm getting older, Jack. My beauty and my youth are my currency, and they won't be mine forever.”

He looks at her for a very long time. “I don't think you'll ever not be beautiful,” he says after a while, and Isis knows he actually means it. His voice is almost plain when he's being honest, it's so different from his usual act.

“A lot of people don't think like that.” She looks back at the child near the fountain. The stray cat is gone. She feels a tightness in her throat. “So it would be nice if you could pay for my coffee.” Her voice is a little shaky and she hates it.

Jack silently pulls his wallet from his pocket and puts a bill on the table.

“Thank you,” she says, without looking at him.

He stands up and nods his head as a good-bye.

Isis feels terribly embarrassed and uncomfortably close to him for reasons she can't quite explain, and when she watches him walk to the brown Chrysler he parked in one of the neatly marked spots on the other side of the town square, she has the urge to say something that will make him forget about how unusual this conversation was for them.

“You're really just in this for the fancy cars, aren't you?”

It's a stupid thing to say, now that she knows how untrue it is, but she hopes it's shallow enough to erase what they just shared and make them go back to the sly back-and-forth they've gotten so used to, always vague enough to be fun.

There is relief in his laugh that warmly bounces off the buildings and echoes over the piazza. He throws up his hands in an almost triumphant gesture.

“Damn right I am!"

And that's how Isis knows everything is fine between them. The smile eases its way onto her face without her noticing at first, but when she feels the warmth in her cheeks and in her gut, she bites her lip to make it stop.

Five weeks after his arrival in Italy, Jack gets sick. Isis blames it on a bad oyster, which makes him laugh because she says it in a way that allows no discussion and reminds him of his mother. There are flowers in his hotel room with Get Well Soon!-cards written in fancy ink, but it's Isis who goes to the pharmacy to buy him medicine using her broken Italian, it's Isis who comes to air out his room when he's too tired to leave the bed, and it's Isis who wipes the sweat off his forehead and reassuringly runs her fingers through his greasy hair.

She knows she has better things to do than sitting by his bed and conversing about the topics they only educated themselves about to appeal to the rich folk. The man she has slept with for the past two weeks has flown back to England (not without declaring his love for her in the form of a letter and a diamond necklace), and there are new visitors at the hotel who look at Isis the way she wants them to look at her, and she should be by the pool with her head thrown back and legs curved, or at the bar, touching their shoulders while laughing at the stories they tell. Instead, she is sitting on the cushioned chair in Jack's room with her legs comfortably stretched out, arguing about whether or not Andy Warhol is any good. Sometimes it scares her how much she enjoys his company. She'd rather spend the days with him than alone in her room, she doesn't remember the last time she felt like that about another person.

Her visits get rarer and shorter once Jack gets better and Isis finds a man that takes her to fancy restaurants and buys her flowy dresses in the shops in town, but she makes sure to see Jack at least every other day. One time, as she is about to leave, he tells her to wait and rummages through his bedside table until he pulls out the sapphire ring she had seen on the hand of the lady at the tennis court dance, all those weeks ago.

“For you,” he says, “As a thank you for your time and care.”

When Isis hesitates he cocks his head to the side. "I won't miss it. Blue is more of your color anyway."

Isis lets him slide the ring on her pointer finger and looks at how the blue stone catches the light.

“I'm surprised you actually scored that lady,” she says softly, “I would have bet she wasn't interested in you.”

It's not what she actually wanted to say and they both know it, but they let it slide, and Isis manages to hide how fast her heart is beating until she is alone in the hallway and presses her palm to her chest.

“Do you want me to light that cigarette for you, sweetheart?”

Isis nods and leans over so James can reach the tip of her cigarette with his lighter. She knows that her pose allows him a good look down her dress, and she can tell that he enjoys it.

“Thank you,” she says after her first exhale. The smoke drifts away over the town. The restaurant they are at has a nice view, but maybe she just thinks that because when she looks at the city, she doesn't have to look at James.

It's not that he is ugly – he still has a lot of thick brown hair and some of the bluest eyes Isis has ever seen – but she can't look at him without thinking about his wife, Elizabeth, who had left the hotel last week because she missed their children back home.

Usually, Isis doesn't care about the casualties of her actions, but guilt has slipped into her mind over the course of the past few days. When she told Jack about it, he just shrugged and said he doesn't care, he knows how these people would treat him if he wasn't staying at their hotel but working in his father's garage, and while Isis understands him, her skin is still the same color as theirs and so it’s not her anger to share. Besides, she doesn't feel bad for the men she lies to about her feelings, she feels bad for their wives.

She has never thought much about what it must feel like for them, to be betrayed by the ones they've sworn to dedicate their lives to, be hurt and discarded by the ones they love. Love had been a commodity to Isis, as long as she can remember, and it worries her that the term has started to feel more and more like the vague idea of ‘sacrifice’ she has read about in countless romance novels. It had always seemed so foreign to her, but she kind of understands it now.

“Is there something wrong?” asks James and Isis smiles sweetly and shakes her head. Her mind is trying to replicate how it had felt when Jack kissed her temple last week, when she asked him to stay after they had slept together. Of course he left anyway, but the tenderness of his goodbye kiss made Isis so happy that it frightened her.

“I'm just admiring the view.” She takes another drag of her cigarette and tilts her head in a way that shows off her long, pale neck.

James looks at her and grins. “So am I.”

It takes everything in Isis not to roll her eyes. Instead, she throws her head back with a laugh that bubbles like champagne, covers her mouth with her one hand and puts the other one on James'.

“Oh, stop it, Jac– James!”

The C is a full stop in her throat and she can tell by the look on James' face that he heard it. She intertwines her fingers with his and strokes his thumb to make him forget.

“I’m going back to San Francisco.”

“When?”

“In two days.”

“Why?”

Jack shrugs. “I’m bored of this place. These people. And the heat.”

Isis nods. She knows she would feel the same if it wasn’t for him, but it still feels like he punched her in the gut. She’s not reason enough to stay.

“I just felt like you should know,” he says when Isis doesn’t respond, and she nods again.

“Thank you for telling me.”

There is an uncomfortable silence. Isis doesn’t know what else to tell him, except for the truth: “I’m going to miss you, you know.”

“I’m going to miss you, too.” She can tell that this isn’t all that he wants to say, but he stays silent after finishing his sentence and she wants to grab him by the collar of his stupid yellow shirt and call him a fucking coward. But she doesn’t. Instead, she grabs her book from the table next to her and tells Jack that she has to get ready for dinner.

When he knocks on her door hours later and asks her why she wasn’t at the dining hall, she tells him a lie.

“Come to L.A. with me.” The words fall from her lips carelessly. She had a plan on how to ask him, but then the sunlight made his skin glow even more than usual and suddenly, her words were stronger than her self-control.

“What?” Jack turns around, the look in his eyes somewhere between bewildered surprise and a deep sadness Isis wasn't expecting.

“I'm serious,” she says, voice shaking, “Come to L.A. with me. Or I come to San Francisco with you. I don't care.” She presses her hands into the wall behind her back. “We can live together and sell the other apartment so you can pay for college and finally become a journalist, and I'm sure that I'd find something to do, too, and –”

“Isis,” he interrupts her, and his voice is so gentle that it breaks her heart, “I... Why?”

She shrugs and looks at the shiny tiles on the floor. “I like being around you. And I want you to like me, even though there's nothing in it for me. I've never felt that way about anybody before I met you. And I don't want it to go away.” Her back is pressed against the wall so tightly by now that she feels like the wallpaper is going to swallow her. She doesn't dare to look at Jack.

There is a long moment of silence. Jack looks at his suitcase and sighs. His left thumb is pressed into the palm of his right hand, as if to distract him from pain somewhere else in his body.

“Do you think we can do this?”

It's not a no. Isis feels like she could cry.

“Maybe. I don't know.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“But what if we fail?” He turns to her and his eyes are filled with worry. “We both haven't done anything besides this in our lives. Do you really think we can just stop?”

“That's a stupid reason for not trying.” She puts her chin up. “The fear of failure. I've told you that before.”

He exhales and his shoulders drop.

“My god, Jack, look at us. Have we ever failed before?”

“This is different.”

“But it's still us.” Her hands are numb by now from being trapped between her back and the wall, but she doesn't care. She feels the same way she felt as a young girl, standing in front of the storefront windows, so determined to get what she wanted.

Jack looks very lost in the middle of his room. It's the first time Isis notices how big it is. “I'm just scared of hurting you,” he says softly.

“The fact that you care is enough for me.”

There's a short moment where neither of them move, as if they were frozen in time. Jack looks past Isis through the window, out into the sky, then back at her. She holds his gaze. She wants this. She wants him. So much that it’s clawing at her from the inside. He should know that.

Finally, slowly, he closes the space between them, wraps his arms around her waist and puts his head on her shoulder. He pulls her away from the wall and Isis feels the blood rush back into her hands. She buries her fingers in his hair. Jack softly rocks her from side to side as if she was a child.

“You know, I've always wanted to go to L.A.,” he murmurs into her neck and his words are echoing in her bones, “The palm trees look very pretty.”

“They are,” she whispers, “They are.”

“I’ve forgotten how uncomfortable these seats are.”

Jack chuckles beside her. “You've been in Italy for too long.”

Isis sighs. “Yes.”

She feels her body vibrate as the plane starts to drive. It will take them to Rome, from there, they will go to Los Angeles. Her stomach starts to twitch, like it always does during takeoff, but there is more to her anxiety today. The rattling of the tires on the concrete and the roaring of the engines drown out her thoughts. She closes her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Jack's voice is as soft as ever and yet she understands him just fine.

“I'm nervous,” she replies.

“Is it because of the plane?”

Isis opens her eyes and smiles at him. It's an unsure smile, flickering somewhere between excitement and fear. She can tell from the look in his eyes that he understands what she is trying to tell him.

He reaches for her hand and starts drawing small circles on her skin with his thumb. The plane lifts off and suddenly everything feels very still and quiet, despite the engines’ constant roar.

Jack's thumb rests on the sapphire ring on her pointer finger.

“I can't believe you're actually wearing it,” he murmurs, “Considering how it came into my possession.”

Isis puts her head on his shoulder. “It was the first gift you ever gave me. It's mine now. It doesn't matter how you got it.”

Jack laces their fingers together and kisses her forehead. Then he turns his head back to the window and they both watch as the plane breaks through the clouds, into the bright sky.

[emsvegetables]

okay but like i screamed when i saw your requests are open, ( after reading the pregnancy hcs ) if it's fine with u - you can totally not do this if you don't like it - may i request headcanons with the same boys you did with the pregnancy hcs but with their father-daughter/son relationship with them headcanons? i'm a sucker for those HAHA. thank you again if you ever consider, love ♡♡

“okay but like i screamed when i saw your requests are open, ( after reading the pregnancy hcs ) if it's fine with u - you can totally not do this if you don't like it - may i request headcanons with the same boys you did with the pregnancy hcs but with their father-daughter/son relationship with them headcanons? i'm a sucker for those HAHA. thank you again if you ever consider, love ♡♡”

AHHH OFC!!!! hi @karasunology this is for you, you’re so sweet!!!!! hope you like these <33!!!! i’m not sure if i interpreted it correctly fifkfjrrj i rewrote this THREE TIMES FIEIDIFIF also i made the child a daughter haha hope that’s okay!!!

Oikawa:

* he’ll love his child SO much!!!!!!!!

* anyway he’s REALLY excited for little (Y/N) to come out!!!!!!!

* he’s with you throughout the entire birth process, and he tries his best not to cry when you curse him and say that you’re never having a baby with him again.

* AHAHAHAHA ITS SO PAINFUL BUT HE DOESN’T KNOW THAT LMAO

* and when she pops out of the womb?

* he is CRYING and calling Iwaizumi to tell him how cute she looks.

* “IWA-CHAN!!!!! SHE’S SO CUTE AND—“

* Iwaizumi hangs up on him LOL

* but afterwards he’s softly running his fingers through your hair after it’s all over, and telling you that he loves you.

* but anyways the Seijoh third years come to visit little (Y/N) every weekend and they always bring so much things for her to play with!!!!

* but it’s obvious Iwaizumi is little (Y/N)’s favourite uncle LOL

* she looks like she LIKES Iwaizumi more than Oikawa AHAHAH

* she’ll crawl to him and always reach for him and he’ll happily hug her!!! Oikawa is SO jealous lmaoooo

* but when little (Y/N) can start walking and talking, MAN.

* Oikawa is instantly teaching her how to play volleyball!!!!

* he’s teaching her how to set, and how to receive balls!!!

* her uncles come over to play with her every weekend and you find it really cute, when you poke your head out into the backyard and see four grown men cooing over your little girl!!!!

* but she grows up to love spiking more thanks to her uncle Iwaizumi!!!!!!

* Oikawa’s VERY salty about that LMAOOO but he’ll set to her all the time to practice!!!

* he and her are the total power team!!!

* he’ll go to ALL her games and he’ll happily point her out to you when you’re looking for her!

* and when she gets a spike in??

* “YOU GO GIRL!!!! MAKE YOUR FATHER PROUD!!!!”

* he’s also a super supportive father!!!!

* but he’ll draw a line at relationships AHAHA

* he’ll know how disgusting high school boys are (CONSIDERING HOW HE WAS AHAH) and he’ll gather the Seijoh third years and scare that boy away.

* Matsukawa is the scariest bc he actually is really intimidating HAH.

* and Hanamaki manages to scare them away bc he threatens MURDER AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

* but anyway your daughter has to BEG him to stop after he scares the seventh boy away.

* you just laugh as he tries to make excuses to what he did.

Kuroo:

* aw this man!!!!!!

* i’ve said before in a previous hc, i THINK his parents had some sorta tension between them and hence he had to live with his grandparents.

* so growing up, he never really had active parents in his life!!! so he’s promising himself that he’s going to treat you and little (Y/N) right.

* and when little (Y/N) comes out of the womb!!!!! he’s SO SO SO happy, and he’s smiling so widely and tears are rolling down his cheeks.

* he’s praising you on how well you did during the entire process, and he’s kissing your forehead and saying how proud he is of you.

* but he’s SO SO SO HAPPY!!!! and he’s immediately telling Kenma and the third gym squad!!!!!!

* okay but Kenma occasionally pops over to your house every few weeks to give little (Y/N) toys and stuff, and you have to tell him to STOP bc he’s spending so much money!!!!!

* ZRIEOTKGK

* but Bokuto, Akaashi and Tsukishima also come over to play with little (Y/N)!!!!

* it’s obvious her favourite is Akaashi, bc he’s the most gentle with her, and she’s always crawling up to him and hitting his thighs.

* Bokuto always goes into emo mode whenever she choose Akaashi over him LOL

* anyway.

* he’s teaching little (Y/N) volleyball when she can stand up and walk!!!

* and he’s such a big influence on her life that she actually ASPIRES to be a middle blocker just like him!

* he always brings you to all her games when the both of you can make it, and occasionally the third gym squad will make an appearance too!!!!

* when she blocks the other team????

* there’s two people screaming on the second floor.

* “THATS MY DAUGHTER!!!”-kuroo

* “WOOOO GOOOO LITTLE (Y/N)!!!”-bokuto

* Akaashi and Tsukishima just exchange looks like: wtf is wrong with them.

* he’s also a really, really supportive father.

* he’s so close to her, and he really understands her so well, just like how he understands you.

* he’ll let her talk to him about anything, but he also knows when to give her space to work out her problems when she needs to!!!

* overall super supportive.

* REALLY GREAT FATHER.

* though he gets a TAD protective when little (Y/N) starts to talk about her boyfriend to the both of you.

* but he trusts her!!!! so it’s all good!!!!!

Kenma:

* ahhh!!! he’s actually prepared for little (Y/N) to come out.

* like.

* he’s already bought all the stuff needed for babies, and he’s already put it in the room.

* and when your water breaks??? he’s bringing you to the hospital, with a very calm face, because he’s researched on what to do and he made sure to get the BEST doctor on your case!

* and when little (Y/N) comes out?

* he’s so proud, and you see this lone tear slide down his cheek, and he’s pressing a soft kiss onto her forehead, before pressing one to your lips, and telling you that he loves you so much.

* anyway he immediately tells Hinata what happened, and after Hinata jokes about little (Y/N) not being named after him, he congratulates the both of you through the speaker!!

* Kuroo finds out a few minutes later, after Hinata hangs up and Kenma texts him, and he also congratulates you happily, and berates Kenma over not telling him first AHAHAH

* N E WAYS

* Kenma. is literally and figuratively A SUGAR DADDY TO LITTLE (Y/N).

* this guy???

* a new toy shows up in a parcel outside the house EVERY day, and you have to PLEAD him to stop buying little (Y/N) presents when the drawers start to overflow AHAHA

* Kenma merely shrugs, and gets another cupboard built in the room to store more toys, and shoots a small smile at you when you sigh.

* “i have money to spare, babe.”

* “WE HAVE TOO MUCH TOYS, KO.”

* tbh he won’t teach volleyball to (Y/N), bc he’s lazy AHAHA

* BUT when she inevitably picks it up thanks to her uncles Kuroo and Hinata, he’s cursing them silently in his head when your daughter asks him to play with her.

* he will not be able to refuse her and he’ll actually play with her until SHE’S tired, bc he loves her so much!!!!

* she ends up wanting to be a setter, and he teaches her all his hacks and techniques to get out of practice if she’s tired AHAHA

* he’ll try his best to make it to all her games, and he won’t shout whenever she scores, but instead grip your hands really tightly and mumble a cheer under his breath.

* he’s a really chill dad, tbh.

* like, he’ll never scold your daughter if she’s in the wrong.

* all the discipline is up to you AHAHAH

* he also doesn’t get worked up over her having her boyfriend over for dinner, and instead asks the boy what games he plays.

* the protectiveness gets handed over to uncle Kuroo!!!!!!! who’s instantly firing a barrage of questions at the poor boy.

* “stop it, Kuro.”

* “BUT KENMA, this boy is trying to make his moves on little (Y/N)!!!!”

Sugawara:

* aw HES SUCH A SWEET GUY.

* he’s so PUMPED for little (Y/N)’s delivery.

* and when your little baby pops out???

* this guy is CRYING.

* tears are rolling down his cheeks and he’s SMILING so much as he holds little (Y/N) in his arms.

* he’s SO happy, and he’s telling you that straight to your face as you lie back down on the hospital bed.

* he’s pressing a soft kiss on your cheek before he’s texting the Karasuno group chat WIDIFIFIR

* they’re all so happy!!! and they swarm into the hospital like the maniacs they are to see little (Y/N).

* but when your baby can walk and talk???

* you BET that the entire team is coming to your house EVERY weekend to play volleyball with her.

* little (Y/N) ends up loving Nishinoya the most, and he excitedly teaches her the ROLLING THUNDER move, but Sugawara scolds him when she rolls wrongly and ends up with a gash on her cheeks.

* Nishinoya is BANNED from returning to your house AHAHA KDG

* okay she ends up being a libero like her favourite uncle!!

* and whenever she has a match?

* the ENTIRE team is going there to cheer her on.

* i’m not even lying.

* she’ll save a ball, and all her middle-aged uncles start screaming and cheering, causing her to blush in embarrassment.

* Sugawara and Daichi have to calm them down AHAHAHAH.

* but when she undergoes changes and starts getting male attention???

* man Tanaka and Nishinoya are NOT going to let that happen.

* they’ll be protecting her like how they protected Shimizu AHAHA

* but the most scariest is HER DAD, SUGAWARA KOSHI.

* he’ll smile widely at the boy who your daughter brings home, and that smile is the scariest you’ve seen on his face.

* AHAHAH the poor boy’s TERRIFIED of Sugawara LMAO

Asahi:

* OH!!! this pure, sweet man.

* he’s so SHOCKED when your water breaks.

* he’ll be running around the house and freaking out AHAHA and you have to call the ambulance yourself LOL

* and when little (Y/N) pops out????

* he’s CRYING.

* he’s SOBBING.

* he’s SHAKING.

* he’s so scared!!!! what if your baby doesn’t like him?????

* he’s instantly texting the third years at Karasuno for help LOL

* but they tell him to chill and just hold the baby in his arms!!!

* and he starts to cry again AHAHAH

* but anyway your baby will have the CRAZIEST UNCLES.

* literally your baby is showered with LOVE AND AFFECTION by the entire Karasuno team!!!!!!

* your baby’s favourite is Daichi!!! bc he’s the gentlest with her, and she’ll always wiggle out of Asahi’s arms to go to Daichi.

* ANY WAY

* she ends up being a wing spiker like her father!!!!!

* Asahi’s so proud he starts to cry AGAIN.

* but whenever she has a match????

* the entire team is going AHAHAH

* Nishinoya and Tanaka ARE SCREAMING when she gets a spike in.

* Asahi will just tear up bc he’s so PROUD.

* oh and Asahi’s the MOST SUPPORTIVE DAD.

* he’s always letting her do whatever she wants!!!!!

* and he supports everything that she does!!!!!

* and when she brings a boyfriend home???

* tbh he’s totally fine with that, bc his baby is all grown up, after all.

* but the boy’s scared bc of Asahi’s LOOKS AHAHAHAHAHAH

* your daughter has to tell him to smile more bc her boyfriend is scared of her father’s face AHAHAHAHAH

JRRKFKFK HI IM SO SORRY IF THIS ISNT WHAT YOU WANTED FIRIFIFI i tried my best to write this!!! i hope it’s okay!!!!!!!!

[whatevencomesnext]

I was curious, so I looked up “future” and “futurism” on Tumblr just to see what would pop up. An awful lot of neon art and filters, some cool fashion, mostly aesthetic type stuff. I learned what “retrofuturism” is, and there were some older-looking illustrations, which was cool. One that caught my attention was these drawings of robot ladies by Hajime Sorayama. I’m linking to the post instead of reblogging it because uhhhh i dont want my vent blog to appear in the notes of the original posts I saw, lol. 

It looks really neat, like it’s really well drawn, and I looked up the artist’s website and… sigh. I can’t go anywhere on the internet without running into porn. I’m so tired of constantly seeing women objectified everywhere, but especially online, you can't go long without running into it accidentally.

Man… I’m so tired of this. Is this the dream, guys? Is this what the future is supposed to be like? I bet it’s a lot easier to rationalize objectifying women if you’re envisioning exaggeratedly woman-shaped hunks of metal that are designed to be sexy. I bet metal sex dolls won’t get mad at you for treating them like they’re less than human, like all those stupid real women do. 

Sigh. 

On the bright side, Sorayama isn’t the only Japanese futurist artist I found. Mariko Mori is a female artist who also deals with the objectification of women in her work, although she criticizes it instead of going along with it. She’s a performance artist who was apparently shocked when she saw “an educated woman who only served tea at the office” x Her pieces, Tea Ceremony, were a protest against the objectification of women in this way. She dresses both like an android and an office worker, and is ignored by the men around her. I like her work! 

One thing she said that I thought was interesting was the article I saw about her says this:

“Beyond the macho elements of society, Mariko Mori is interested in the identity associated with gender and its current processes of redefinition. She believes she has acquired significant enough experience to ‘understand that a man and a woman are different, so how we contribute to the society may vary, as our roles could be differentiated.’ But differentiation does not mean subordination. Tea Ceremony aspires to illuminate this issue, ‘to create a better world.’”

Differentiation does not mean subordination. Wow, that’s an awesome line. It’s so depressing to look at work like Sorayama’s and see sci-fi where women are objectified. No change from how things are, the porn/sex is just more accessible. I feel like it’s hard to find media that lets women be women, not objects or pseudo-men. What I mean by the latter is that, especially in media nowadays, movie producers will take a female character and give her “male traits” to empower her. The implication being that women are not good or strong unless they can act like men. And yeah, most traits don’t (and shouldn’t) fit into a f/m binary, but it’s stupid to sit there and say that women are just as physically strong as men when our bodies are built differently. Captain Marvel is a perfect example of this being done horribly, in addition to nothing in the story possibly being different if she was a man and not a woman, she is also not allowed to have any character growth or noticeable traits besides being really rude to most of the humans she encounters. Awesome, what a great female role model! As Galetea says more or less directly in these videos, this is sexism disguised as feminism. Instead of designing a weak stereotype, or an object, or a pseudo-man, why not just let a female character be a human woman?

Sigh. I dream of a future where women and girls are treated as equitably as men, where women are allowed to be feminine without it being portrayed as weak or stupid, where women are valued as human beings. Someday.