#this is just supposed to get the label out there

[botanicsoul]

Watch Yourself

Pro Hero | Bakugou Katsuki x (fem) Blogger Reader | Aged Up

-> This is a part 2 of “Behind the Screen”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

—

Your inbox is chaos.

Comments piling up, notifications buzzing like a hornet’s nest.

——

“Where tf are you QUEEN?!”

“don’t play w us like this”

“no bc i’ve reread it five times already. give us a BONE”

“you ruined my life now come back and do it again”

——

You’d be lying if you said the silence wasn’t intentional. It was. Completely.

But it wasn’t just strategy—it was survival.

Because ever since Bakugou read your last fic—the one where he quite literally fucked you in his hero suit— You’ve been distracted.

You two have been… talking. Texting. Flirting in that hot, volatile way that feels like standing too close to something explosive. Nothing overtly explicit, but every word between you dripped with the kind of tension that makes your thighs press together under the table.

He’s been buried in hero work—long nights, busted ribs, always tired. You’ve been pretending to stay calm. Composed.

But truthfully?

You’ve been writing. Touching yourself under the covers, laptop screen glowing in the dark as your free hand slid beneath your panties.

Drafting filth between gasps, imagining his hand around your throat, his voice in your ear, his body flush against yours as he makes you watch yourself fall apart.

You were supposed to be staying low-key.

You were supposed to be patient. But you were hungry.

And tonight? You feed the fire.

——

After editing, rereading, and working yourself up until your thighs were slick and sore—you finally hit Post.

And this time, there’s no warning. No tags. Just the excerpt, raw and dirty:

⸻

@/blastyourbackout :

“Pro Hero Dynamight would so love to make you watch yourself get slutted out in front of a mirror.”He’d drag your pretty body in front of it, make you stare at your own ruined reflection as he split you open from behind. One hand in your hair, the other around your throat, all while he whispers, ‘Look at you. That’s what I fuckin’ do to you.’

⸻

That’s all you post.

No context. No explanation. Just the filth.

You slam your laptop shut and walk away like you didn’t just set your entire blog—and possibly even Bakugou’s sanity—on fire.

You don’t expect him to read it that night and you definitely don’t expect him to text you 45 minutes later.

Four messages. Rapid fire.

——

Katsuki :

You wrote that shit while I was out bustin’ my ass?

You fuckin’ serious?

You knew I’d read it.

On my way.

——

You freeze, toothbrush still in your mouth, pulse suddenly in your throat.

He’s bluffing.

He has to be bluffing.

Buzz. A location ping.

Your toothbrush clatters into the sink.

⸻

He’s at your door in under ten minutes. When you open it, you think briefly—he might actually arrest me.

He’s still in his hero suit—this feels familiar—Boots tracking in dirt, gloves tucked under one arm, shirt stretched across his chest like it’s barely containing him. His face is flushed. Wind-tangled hair, a fresh cut across his jaw. And his eyes—Furious.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps inside, kicks the door shut with his heel, and locks it behind him.

Then finally—finally—he speaks.

“You really thought you could post that shit and not answer for it?”

Your heart skips. “It was just—fiction.” He laughs, but it’s humorless. “You didn’t even fucking tag it right.” He stalks forward. “Didn’t even label it as based on real events this time. Why?”

You open your mouth struggling to find the right words, “Because it didn’t happen?”

he gives you a sly smirk, “Well, it’s about to”

Before you can answer, he catches your wrist and tugs you forward—down the hall—into your bedroom. You know exactly where he’s going.

Straight to your closet mirror.

He doesn’t stop until your chest is nearly pressed to the closet door. His palm slides up your spine, warm and commanding, until it’s cupping the back of your neck.

“Look,” he growls. “You wrote that I made you watch. So fuckin’ watch.”

You meet your own wide eyes in the reflection. Your mouth is parted. Your skin flushed. You look like a girl seconds from being ruined.

He leans in behind you, voice low at your ear.

“You wrote I pulled your hair,” he says, fisting a handful gently.

His hand trails down between your thighs—cupping the heat of you through your thin pajama shorts.

“I’m gonna do so much more to you.”

The cool air hits your bare skin when he pulls your shorts down, panties dragged with them. Your palms brace against the mirror, forehead bumping the glass.

Bakugou shoves your legs farther apart with his knee, one big hand gripping your inner thigh, the other steadying your hips as he sinks to the floor behind you. You’re standing—barely—your palms pressed to the mirror for balance, forehead bumping the glass, but your knees already feel weak.

“You didn’t even write this part,” he mutters, low and dangerous, right before he spits on your pussy. The slick sound echoes in the room. Then his thumb spreads it in lazy, taunting circles over your clit. “That was a fuckin’ oversight.”

You gasp as his mouth is on you—ravenous. Tongue plunging deep, nose pressed against you, his groans vibrating straight through your core. It’s filthy. Wet. He’s eating you out like he’s starving, and all you can do is hold onto the mirror and try not to collapse.

“Look at yourself,” he growls, dragging his mouth just low enough to suck your clit between his lips, then back again. You catch his reflection behind you—eyes locked on yours, lips glistening. “Already fuckin’ trembling.”

You choke on a moan, head dropping forward against the mirror.

He keeps going, devouring you with slow, obscene licks, until your legs are shaking—slick and spit trailing warm down your inner thighs. He pulls away only when he knows you’re right on the edge, panting, ruined.

You feel the shift in his breath behind you. He stands slowly.

“Didn’t write this part either,” he mutters darkly.

Clink.

The sound of his belt unbuckling is slow and deliberate, followed by the sharp zip of his pants. Fabric rustles. Then— You hear it.

And when he leans down, lips brushing your ear, he finishes, “Guess I’ll just have to make it up.”

Wet, heavy strokes. The slick sound of him palming himself, dragging his fist down the length of his cock.

He groans low in his throat.

“You hear that?” he rasps, stepping close enough for you to feel the heat of him behind you. “That’s what your shitty little story did to me.”

You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

You try to glance over your shoulder, desperate to see him behind you—broad, flushed, jaw clenched in concentration. But you don’t get far.

Without warning, a rough hand clamps around your jaw and yanks your gaze forward, slamming your attention back to the mirror.

“God fuckin’ dammit,” he growls, voice gravel grinding against your ear. “If you don’t keep your eyes on that fuckin’ mirror, I’ll leave you here—cunt empty and all.”

He drags his tip through your folds—teasing, and cruel.

Then, he slams into you.

“Fuck—Katsuki—” You cry out—one palm smacks the mirror as the other braces your thigh. The stretch is overwhelming. Deep. Perfect.

His hand tangles in your hair again, yanking your head up until you’re staring at your reflection.

You watch the way your mouth falls open, the way your body jolts with every thrust. You watch your own tears start to well. The way his hand wraps around your throat from behind, the way his hips keep slamming forward.

“Suki— I can’t take it an-anymore” you whimper again, voice barely there—thin and cracking, tears threatening to spill as the pleasure tips into something unbearable. Your body’s trembling, your throat closing around the moans you can’t hold in anymore.

“Don’t start cryin’ now, sweetheart—you deserve this.”

It’s too much. He’s too much. The mirror, the pace, his words—him. Your chest stutters with a ragged breath and your lip quivers, trying so hard not to sob.

And for a second—just one—he softens.

His mouth finds your shoulder. Just a gentle press of lips, almost tender. His hands, so rough moments ago, ghost over your hips, up your sides, like he’s holding you together while he tears you apart.

He leans in, breath hot on your cheek as your tears finally fall.

“Shhh,” he coos, so quiet it almost sounds sweet. “You’re fine. Takin’ it so well.”

And just like THAT —his grip tightens again, possessive and punishing. He growls it right into your ear, voice dropping to something feral, almost loving in how cruel it sounds.

He rocks his hips up again, dragging his cock slow and deep, making you sob out a sound so raw it barely sounds human.“You made me sound like a fuckin’ animal.” he snarls.

Because he was.

Because he is.

“Were you writing that filthy shit with your hand down your panties?” he snarls, voice dark with disbelief and want.

Your breath stutters. Eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth trembling as another thrust rocks you forward.

You’d feel guilty if you said no.

“…Yes,” you whisper brokenly.

“Say it louder baby”

The sound of his balls slapping against your clit makes you whimper—each thrust, each roll of his hips, makes the pleasure surge higher.

“Yes—fuck—” you gasp, voice cracking as your head falls back to his shoulder. “I was writing it while I touched myself. I—” you choke on a moan, “I came thinking about you watching me in the mirror. I couldn’t stop.”

He groans—low and wrecked, hips jolting hard enough to slap skin. You cry out, fingers clawing at the mirror for leverage.

He’s fucking you harder now—meaner, like your confession unlocked something vicious in him. “Such a needy little thing.”

You whimper. Your knees are buckling.

“God baby where you want me to put it, huh? inside you? want me to fuckin’ bust a load in this tight pussy?” You can’t speak. You just nod, gasping.—He’s pounding into you now, brutal and relentless, your whole body rocking against the mirror.

He pulls you back against his chest, one hand on your stomach, the other cradling your jaw so you can still see yourself fall apart in his arms.

And when you come—messy, shattering—he groans like it takes him with you, it knocks the breath clean out of your lungs. You cry out—loud and broken—and feel him pulse inside you seconds later, growling into your shoulder as he follows you over the edge. He empties inside you, still grinding his hips through the aftershocks.

⸻

The room goes quiet but for your shuddering breath. He holds you there—pressed to the mirror, skin flushed and sticky, heartbeat stuttering in your chest.

He doesn’t let you go right away. Just holds you there. Like you were meant to be ruined by him, and only him.

You watch the mirror fog slowly from your breath. Then, after a long beat, he leans in—mouth brushing your temple.

“Wanna go on a date?”

You blink. “You’re seriously asking me that right now?”

He chuckles, still catching his breath. “Felt right.” He nudges your thighs together, gently helps you upright, even as his cum drips out of you and slides down your leg.

“I don’t want you with anyone else,” he adds softly.“Don’t want anyone else to have you like this.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Yes, Katsuki. I’ll go on a date with you.”

⸻

Hours later—after he’s cleaned you up, made you eat something, kissed your thighs like he was worshipping them—you’re alone again.

You sit at your laptop, skin still warm, fingertips trembling.

You open a new post.

Title: Correction: Watch Yourself

And you write. Every filthy detail. Just for him.

You posted the new—updated—fic five days later.

Tagline?

#based on real events

#yes he read it first this time

#yes the suit was on again

#no he didn’t let me tone it down

#i still can’t look in my closet mirror without shaking

#i got everything i wanted

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

[littlelamy]

housebunni!reader who rose expected was proper manager. someone efficient, organized, and most importantly, stiff; maybe wearing heels. instead, what she got was a wide-eyed little thing in a puff-sleeved sundress and jelly sandals, a 3-inch binder tucked under one arm, and a heart-shaped lanyard around her neck with a sticker that read “hello :)” in pink glitter pen. she walked in smiling like she already loved the place, eyes big and glossy as she twirled once in the foyer and whispered, “oh wow, this house feels like it needs cuddles.”

she misunderstood the title completely. thought “house manager” meant she was there to emotionally care for the building—checking the walls for drafts, petting the bannister when it creaked, cooing sweet nothings to the washing machine. rose nearly sent her away on the spot, but housebunni!reader  beamed and offered her a handmade lavender sachet “for stress, miss rose, i made a bunch in case anyone get anxious at night.” by the end of the week, the estate was indeed running smoother. rooms smelled like sugar cookies, even the pantry was labeled in pastel chalk. sarah found fresh muffins on her desk every morning and wheezie had never been more punctual for school.

housebunni!reader who met rafe when she was tiptoeing down the hall in nothing but a fluffy towel and a juicy headband—and called him “stranger danger” before screaming and running into a closet. she’d just stepped out of the bathroom after her lavender milk bubble bath—the strong scented steam still curling around her, towel clutched to her chest, hair damp and twisted up in a fluffy white towel that made her look like a marshmallow cloud. she turned the corner in the hallway and slammed chest-first into someone—tall, solid, cologne and coldblood eyes—and instinct took over. “eek! stranger danger!” she shrieked, then bolted like a startled deer into the linen closet and slammed the door. rafe—home for the weekend, early—stood stunned, blinking at the towel flutter left behind.

when she finally peeked out, cheeks glowing, arms full of spare pillowcases like some confused laundry fairy, she mumbled, “i’m not supposed to talk to handsome strangers in the hall...are you...a delivery man?”

rafe interested in that mind of hers asked, “you live here?”

and she blinked, tilting her head, confused why a delivery boy was asking her a question. “umm… i think so?”

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ more about her ₍ᐢᐢ₎⊹ ₊

housebunni!reader who talks to the furniture like it’s alive. every morning starts the same: a sleepy shuffle into the living room, bunny slippers flopping with every step, her robe half falling off one shoulder as she whispers, “good morning, mister davenport. did those mean guests put their feet on you again?” as she lovingly smooths the cushions. she says “bless you” when the coffee pot sputters, hums to the vacuum, and leaves fresh-cut daisies in a cracked teacup by the windowsill 'so the sun can have a friend.' rose doesn’t even question it anymore—it gets the job done, and somehow the house has never been cleaner.

housebunni!reader who makes color-coded charts and chore wheels...then forgets what they’re for and ends up baking cookies instead. there’s a massive corkboard in the pantry. it’s supposed to be the tannyhill 'house operations center' but it’s covered in glittery star stickers, marker doodles of happy brooms and vacuum cleaners, and several post-its that say things like “laundry = important!!” and “don’t let the raccoon back in!!” she tries, she really does, but the moment someone tells her “you smell like vanilla frosting,” her whole brain flatlines and she’s giggling and offering to make snickerdoodles from scratch. rafe once found her sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, eating raw cookie dough from the bowl, her apron covered in flour. she offered him a bite with fingers dipped in sugar and said, “shh, don’t tell miss rose. i was supposed to be reorganizing the spice rack but it started smelling like cinnamon, annnd i got...distracted.”

❤︎ notes & tags below

notes: i hope you guys like her! she's inspired by shelley from movie 'the house bunny!'

@rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @emluvsuxo @rafestoothbrush @cadhlabear @st8rkey

[aventurineswife]

Ok I thought of something silly:

There’s an old lady NPC running a grocery stand in Okhema’s Marmoreal Market, Demetria.

Reader and Dan Heng are there to do a little shopping (they have to feed themselves, after all) and Demetria shuffles a few extra pomegranates into their bag, on the house.

Demetria: “For you and your husband.” 😉

Reader’s too stunned to correct her that, yes, they’re in a relationship with Dan Heng, but not married.

…Should I note that pomegranates are often a symbol of fertility? 😅 Nevermind that Vidyadhara are unable to reproduce—

Sweet as Pomegranate

Summary: While shopping for supplies in Okhema’s Marmoreal Market, you and Dan Heng encounter Demetria, an old woman running a grocery stand. After she mistakenly refers to you both as a married couple, you're left flustered, but Dan Heng remains his usual composed self. The encounter ends with the old woman giving you extra pomegranates, and offering her blessings for your "union." Though you're embarrassed by the misunderstanding, there's a quiet comfort in the bond you share, even without labels.

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Fluff, Light Humor, Mild Embarrassment.

The bustling Marmoreal Market in Okhema was a mix of colors and scents—vendors calling out to passersby, fresh produce piled high, and the air thick with the chatter of travelers and locals alike. Dan Heng and you moved through the maze of stalls, your destination set but still taking in the sights. The two of you didn’t often spend much time on leisurely shopping trips, but today felt different. Perhaps it was the quiet calm between you, the sounds of the market filling in the spaces of a shared silence.

“Do we need anything specific?” you asked, glancing up at Dan Heng, whose sharp gaze had already scanned the nearby stands for anything of value.

He nodded, his tone as composed as ever. “We’re running low on supplies. I’ll leave the rest to you.”

That was Dan Heng’s way of leaving the choice to you. He didn’t care much about food selection, so long as it kept them fueled for the journey. You smiled, feeling a little more at ease in the lively chaos of the market.

You approached a stall tucked at the corner of the market, an old woman with silver hair and a warm, wrinkled face sitting behind a counter stacked high with fruits. She looked up as you approached, her bright eyes twinkling with something mischievous.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the quiet young man and his lovely companion,” she greeted, her voice carrying a touch of playfulness that immediately put you at ease. “Come to get some fresh pomegranates, I suppose?”

You blinked, your thoughts a little slower to catch up. You weren’t sure how she knew your names, but you didn’t have much time to dwell on it.

“Yes, please,” you said, nodding. “We’ll take a few pomegranates.”

The elderly woman smiled as she carefully plucked the ripe fruits, placing them into a woven bag. Her hands moved with the practiced precision of someone who had spent countless years at this task.

As she reached for a few more, she added in a voice just low enough that only you and Dan Heng could hear, “For you and your husband.”

You froze. The words hung in the air, unexpected and startling. A blush crept up your neck, and you opened your mouth to correct her, but the words caught in your throat. You were too stunned to explain the mistake that had just been made. You glanced at Dan Heng, who remained perfectly composed, his usual impassive expression unreadable.

The old woman didn’t seem to notice your hesitation as she shuffled a few more pomegranates into the bag. “For good health and good fortune, yes? A lovely couple like you deserves to have something sweet.” Her smile was warm, and her eyes sparkled with something playful—or perhaps knowing.

You blinked, not quite sure how to respond. It wasn’t that you were uncomfortable with the idea of being thought of as Dan Heng’s partner. It was just… the husband part. You weren’t married. Not that the idea hadn’t crossed your mind a few times, especially during the quiet moments you shared with him on the Astral Express. But there was a certain weight to the word, something formal and unspoken, that made you hesitant.

But Demetria was already wrapping up the pomegranates, slipping them into a bag with a wink. “On the house,” she said, her tone as light and teasing as ever.

You opened your mouth to protest, but she held up a hand. “No need to argue, dear. Consider it a gift for your lovely union. Blessings for the future, hmm?”

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, and you looked over at Dan Heng, your thoughts racing. How would he react? To your surprise, his face remained as unreadable as ever. There was no sign of discomfort, amusement, or annoyance—nothing to give away what he was thinking. He simply nodded politely, accepting the bag of pomegranates with the same quiet composure he always held.

You felt your heart race, unsure of what to say. Finally, you managed a soft, “Thank you…”

Demetria winked again, then turned to Dan Heng. “Take care of them now, won’t you? A man should always take care of his spouse.” She said it with the kind of certainty that only comes from a lifetime of experience.

Dan Heng, ever the enigma, merely gave a small nod. "I will." His voice was calm, but there was something else in it—something you couldn’t quite place.

Once you were out of earshot, your embarrassment finally broke free, and you turned to Dan Heng with a small laugh. “Well, that was… unexpected.”

Dan Heng’s response was as measured as always. “It’s not uncommon for people to assume things,” he said, his eyes catching yours for the briefest moment before he turned away. “We should head back.”

You couldn’t help but smile a little at his nonchalant attitude. His reserved nature hadn’t allowed him to clarify anything either—he’d let the old woman’s words hang there, unanswered. But despite the awkwardness of the situation, there was something comforting in the way Dan Heng remained unfazed, even in the face of a misunderstanding.

The two of you walked side by side through the market, the pomegranates quietly swaying in the bag between you, as the weight of the words settled in your mind.

Perhaps you weren't married. But that didn’t make the connection between you and Dan Heng any less meaningful. And maybe, just maybe, you both could share a quiet understanding about it, without needing to define it with labels. For now, you’d leave it as it was—like the fruits you carried, ripe with promise and yet undefined.

And as for the old woman’s blessings… you’d let them be a little joke between you, something sweet, like the pomegranates themselves.

[tikitakatia]

Fixer Upper — A. Putellas x Reader

"Couples Therapy"

WC: 1.4k

Summary: Alexia´s invited you to attend an impromptu therapy session that´s meant to help bring you closer together, much to your chagrin.

You should’ve known something was off when Alexia insisted on being early.

She’s never early for anything. Not brunch, not birthdays, not even her own surprise party, which she managed to be twenty minutes late for. The only time she runs on schedule is when she’s getting paid for it. So when she’s already dressed, keys in hand, and bouncing on the balls of her feet fifteen minutes before you’re supposed to leave, your internal alarm bells start softly ringing.

“We’re gonna be late,” she says.

You glance at your phone. “It starts in thirty minutes.”

“Exactly. What if there’s paperwork?”

“You hate paperwork.”

She just grins that stupid grin. The one she gets before she does something outrageous and claims it’s romantic. You eye her warily but still let her drag you out the door, because you’re a fool.

The office is in a coworking space downtown. It has exposed brick, too many succulents, and a suspiciously cheerful front desk attendant who offers you organic mints from a jar labeled "for emotional clarity."

The waiting room is... unconventional. No couch, no fidget toys, just scattered bean bags, color-changing LED lights, and a TV screen looping stock footage of couples doing yoga. You sit and wait, but as the seconds pass, you start to feel the creeping edge of concern.

“Is this a tech startup or a therapy office?” you mutter.

“Babe. Chill. It’s probably a modern approach or something.” Alexia’s already opened her complimentary LaCroix.

Before you can ask what that even means, a woman with aggressively symmetrical eyebrows and a t-shirt that says “LOVE IS A JOURNEY, LET US BE YOUR GPS” steps into the room.

“Hi! I’m Maya 😊” she says, the smiley face emoji somehow audible in her tone.

“Thanks for joining our guided couples session. If you’ll follow me, we’ll begin with a light partner diagnostic and then a few reflection prompts in the group circle.”

You blink. “Partner diagnostic?”

Alexia pats your leg. “See? Modern.”

You follow Maya into a room filled with more bean bags, a couple of ring lights, and a half-circle of already-seated couples. You take your seats. You try to stay open-minded and remind yourself that you agreed to this.

“Okay,” Maya says, clapping once.

“Before we begin, just a quick heads-up that we’ll be exploring five core compatibility questions designed to help you reflect and deepen your bond. This is a judgment-free zone, so feel free to be honest and vulnerable. Or silly! We love silly geese here!”

You watch as one couple high-fives. Another is wearing matching sweatshirts that say “Love is a Verb.” You suppress a shudder.

The first prompt comes with no warning.

“So! What’s one habit your partner has that drives you a little bit crazy but is also kind of endearing?”

You look at Alexia. Alexia is already smiling.

“She growls at her phone when she’s annoyed,” she says, without missing a beat.

“Like a little thundercloud trying to send emails.”

You stare. “I do not.”

“She does. It’s like grrrrr, but about as threatening as a pomeranian.”

“I swear to God, Alexia.”

Maya beams. “That’s such a vivid image! Okay, your turn.”

You cross your arms. “She steals my food.”

Alexia gasps, offended. “I protect you from health scares.”

“No, you order some healthy shit, decide that you don't like it, and then eat half my fries.”

“But amor, I love you.. And your fries.”

You glance around and see other couples who are nodding and laughing like this is all very charming. One woman is crying into a man’s shoulder about how she finally feels seen. You’re starting to feel... deeply unwell.

Maya claps again. “Let’s move on to the next reflection. Imagine your partner’s had a hard day. How do you support them?”

Before you can answer, Alexia grips your hands dramatically.

“Babe,” she says. “You’ve had such a long day being mean and scary. Do you want me to run you a bath or hide your laptop?”

“I will destroy every LaCroix in this building.” You hiss under your breath.

“She’s really opening up today.” She turns to the group.

You grind your teeth so hard your jaw pops.

“We love that emotional safety.” Maya nods solemnly.

The third question hits like a sideswipe: “If your relationship were a team sport, what would your roles be?”

Alexia lights up. “Well football of course! I’m still the midfielder. She’s defense. No one gets past her. Or speaks to her. Or makes eye contact.”

“I’m filing for free agency.” You deadpan.

A man across the circle pipes up, “My wife’s the goalie. She blocks all my bad ideas.”

You glance at him. He’s wearing socks with hotdogs on them and a fanny pack. You make a mental note to investigate further.

“Let’s keep the good vibes going,” Maya trills. “If your partner were a dessert, what would they be and why?”

You nearly choke. “How is that therapy?”

Alexia doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s a molten lava cake. Looks intense. Bad for your health. But if you wait it out... gooey on the inside.”

“You’re deranged.” You say as you stare her down.

“I’m romantic.”

You glance around again. One couple is whispering into a shared AirPod. Another has been feeding each other dried mango slices like birds. You feel like you’re trapped in a quack health influencer’s fever dream.

By the time Maya announces the final question, you’re already halfway to existential collapse.

“What’s something your partner doesn’t know you appreciate about them?”

You look at Alexia. And you know you could make a cutting joke. You want to. But instead, your mouth says something soft.

“She makes everything fun. Even when I don’t want it to be.”

Alexia blinks.

You add, “She’s chaos. But she’s mine.”

There’s a collective “awww” from the room. Alexia practically preens.

She says, “I was gonna say your ass. But that works too.”

You rub your eyes with both hands.

Maya beams. “Wonderful reflections, everyone. And just a quick housekeeping note, if you haven’t already, please complete the feedback form in the app so we can send you your 15€ Amazon gift card!”

You freeze.

Your brain hits a wall and reverses.

You glance at Maya. Then at Alexia. Then back at Maya, slower this time.

“Sorry,” you say, like someone testing the edge of a knife. “Did you say... app?”

“MindMatch!” Maya chirps. “Thanks again for being part of our beta testing group. Your responses really help us shape the user experience!”

There’s a faint ringing in your ears. You turn, mechanically, to Alexia.

She is suddenly very interested in the condensation on her LaCroix.

“This,” you say, with the voice of someone holding in a scream, “isn’t therapy.”

“It’s kind of therapy,” she says into her can.

“It’s market research.”

“It’s couples bonding through market research.”

“Alexia.”

She shrugs, not even a little sorry. “We got to talk about our feelings, didn’t we?”

“We got ranked on vulnerability and made to roleplay in front of strangers so someone in a WeWork could optimize user retention.”

“And,” she adds brightly, “we’re getting gift cards.”

“You are a millionaire. Why are you like this?” You ground out.

“I love prizes.”

You squint at her like you’re trying to set her on fire with your eyes. She smiles like she’s already won.

“You tricked me.”

She slides an arm around your waist as you start walking out. “And yet, you said I’m your chaos.”

“I meant that like someone might say that child has a knife.”

She leans on your shoulder. “Still counts.”

You sigh so deeply you feel it in your spine. “I want you to know I’m never trusting you again.”

“Lies.”

“I’m filing for emotional damages.”

“You smiled.”

“Out of shock.”

“You called me your chaos and said I make things fun.”

“I was having a medical episode.”

She stops just outside the building and grins at you. “Come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

You eye her. “I roleplayed a fake meltdown and told strangers about your food theft.”

“And now you’re stronger for it.”

“I hope your next smoothie explodes.”

She’s still grinning. “Wanna get dinner? I’ll let you order fries.”

“You’ll steal them.”

“Just a few. For bonding.”

You shake your head.

And you really do hate it, how easily she wins. How quickly she turns a disaster into something weirdly warm. You sigh again.

But your mouth betrays you and twitches up at the corners.

Because she may have lured you into a glorified dating app workshop disguised as therapy, and you may never recover from the secondhand embarrassment of being called “a thundercloud with trust issues” in public, but she’s yours.

And you’re hers.

And yes, she’s chaos.

But somehow, you're a molten lava cake.

And unfortunately?

She’s got a spoon.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

chatting with Ford Pines while he’s away sailing (and being down bad about it)

been thinking about this for a while. i just love this idea, so yeah here’s this silly little chat with ur old man who doesn’t know what “slay” means, just smth quick to post, i was thinking of writing smth as that with Stan too

suggestive

you: hiiiii

you: hi hi hi hi hi

you: u ignoring me already??? damn

you: forgotten b4 my time

you: anyway how’s Stan?? is he being dramatic again

you: did u make ur weird tea this morning

you: did u think about me when u stirred it :(

Ford: My dearest, I did not mean to ignore you! I only just now figured out how to open this particular chat thread. For some reason, it was labeled “dr sexy boat man <333” and I didn’t immediately recognize that as myself. Stan is being extremely dramatic, yes. He insists that the seagulls are, as he says, spying on us.

I did make my tea this morning. I stirred it clockwise and thought of you, as I always do. The silence of the sea at dawn made me miss the sound of your voice.

With undying affection,

Stanford

you: omg, you responded!! my brilliant man so smart with his new phone<3 i love u so much

you: u r literally like the softest man alive and also so hot

you: the duality is insane. if u were here rn i’d be biting u

you: ok don’t die at sea :( i have plans to do very bad things to u when u get back

you: and by bad i mean so good

you: u feel me

you: ok probably not :')

Stanford: You are such a curious creature, my love. First: I am flattered to be described as “soft” and “hot” simultaneously. I believe that’s a compliment.

Second: I am unsure whether to be alarmed or intrigued by your desire to bite me, but I suppose I lean toward intrigued. You know I trust you implicitly.

Finally: I will not die at sea. Not before returning to you and not before I finally learn what “u feel me” means.

(Does it mean you agree? Or you wish to feel me? Or... is it both?)

you: i’m gonna kiss u so hard u pass out

you: and then bring u back w another kiss

you: and YES it means both u nerd

you: god ur so hot when ur confused

you: also i want u to like. absolutely ruin me when u get back

you: but also one more thing!! i woke up wearing ur sweater today btw

you: smells like u

you: kinda made me crazy ngl

you: like maybe i need u to rail me in it when u get back

you: just a thought. a lil vision i had <3

you: but how’s the sea or whatever. still blue?

Stanford: Oh, my love.

I must admit, I read your few messages several times to make sure I understood them correctly. You wore my sweater. That makes me warm inside, you always look beautiful in my clothes. I like the thought of you in it. I hope it was comfortable.

Stanford: As for “rail me”. I’m not entirely certain what that implies, and “ngl” appears often in your texts but remains cryptic to me. I assume both are modern expressions? I’ve written them down to research later.

Stanford: The sea is indeed still blue! And vast. But nothing compared to the vision of you in my sweater.

you: oh my god Ford. baby<33

you: ngl = not gonna lie

you: and "rail me" = use ur imagination (or don’t, i’ll send u pics if u want a visual)

you: u r SO lucky ur hot bc ur so outta touch

you: it’s kinda insane. my lil cave man bf. but ur MY lil cave man. and ur mine to destroy <3

Stanford: I will never fully understand your generation’s humor, but I do adore it. And you. Thank you for the clarification. I do appreciate your patience with me. And, well, I suppose I shall endeavor to be worthy of this destruction. If you insist. If it’s any reassurance, I think about “railing” you in all ways every night out here. It’s borderline distracting. Also, while I may be “out of touch,” as you say, I’m very open to visual aids. For research purposes, of course.

you: haha aww u miss me huh

you: i mean... how could u not, i'm a whole snack

you: bet i’d be a much better distraction than ur books tho

Stanford: I never doubted your charm, my dear. And while books are always a great companion, I must admit, having your presence here would indeed make everything more... pleasant.

There's just something about the idea of you close, perhaps even running your fingers along my coat... Not that I would object to that, of course.

you: ohhh you’re making me blush <3

you: don’t get too carried away tho, i might just start sending you naughty pics

you: can’t stop thinking about u rn tbh

Stanford: Oh? That would certainly be... interesting. But, for the record, I have no idea how to fully interpret these things you say sometimes.

Your language is so modern. What exactly does “snack” mean? Does it refer to food, or... other things? I'm somewhat lost here.

you: it’s a compliment, Ford!!

you: your adorable

you: “snack” means u hot, duh. u r the snack i wanna eat!!

Stanford: Ah. I see! Thank you for explaining, love. Well then...

Perhaps I’ll be the one to do the “eating” when I return. If you’ll allow me

you: OH my GODDdddd Ford what the hell

you: not u saying that so casually like it’s not the dirtiest thing i’ve ever heard from u

you: who taught u that????

you: ok yeah u win. u can eat whatever u want. whenever. however.

you: knew u had that dog in u somewhere <333

Stanford: I miss you terribly, my love. I hope you’re eating properly and remembering to drink water. And, this is very important, do not attempt any elaborate rituals without me. Remember last time. I love you very much. I’ll write again after the next port. Hopefully with better signal.

Yours (achingly so),

Stanford

[pastanest]

Ripley x gender neutral!reader

PDA With Ripley

she’s not big on PDA, but that’s not to say she doesn’t make her interest in you very obvious

even before you’ve out any kind of label on the feelings between you, it’ll be Ripley checking you all over for injuries on a trip out, Ripley checking your vitals and making sure you eat plenty after waking from hypersleep, Ripley’s eyes on you from across the room, Ripley standing up and moving in front of you to act as a physical shield if anyone’s making you feel unsafe

subtle touches are Ellen’s area of expertise when it comes to PDA

standing close enough to you that your sides touch, so she can reach behind you and find your fingers with hers; not even to necessarily hold your hand, just brush your fingers with her own, maybe interlink them briefly

placing her hand on your lower back every time she walks by you, regardless of whether there is limited enough space for that to be warranted

if you have long hair, she’s tucking it behind your ears or tying it back for you when you need it out of the way or you’re getting too hot - any reason at all to touch your hair under the guise of assisting you

if whatever you’re wearing has a crinkle in the fabric, she’s smoothing it out with her hands

if your shirt collar is crooked, she’s fixing it mid-conversation without batting an eye or pausing whatever sentence she was speaking before she noticed

not because Ripley cares about you looking “neat”, it’s because she knows you’ll be busy doing something and you wont realise the reason you’re uncomfortable is your clothes are askew, so she remedies it before it’s a problem

it is very, very rare you’ll get a kiss from her when you have an audience

but if something happens on a mission that put you in any kind of danger, she’ll forget herself for long enough to place a firm, lingering kiss on your forehead while she tells you “Never do that again.”

in private, Ripley is far more affectionate and smiley with you because she doesn’t have to maintain any professionalism or uphold a sense of authority

she relaxes the moment she’s alone with you; she’ll want your legs over her lap so she can move her hands over them when sat together on a couch or in bed, or you laid between her legs with your head on her chest or stomach while she plays with your hair and leaves kisses over your hairline without any conscious thought from her at all

she’ll come up behind you when you’re in the kitchen or washing your face in the bathroom to hold you and rest her head on top of yours or on your shoulder (depending on your height difference)

the irony of Ripley’s preferences for PDA is most onlookers probably consider it far more intimate when she cups your face in both of her hands and stares into your eyes while checking your vitals, than if she gave you a little kiss on the cheek

but Ripley will always argue one serves a logical purpose while the other would be her losing focus

which, she will admit, she sometimes does when you’re around, just not when it comes to PDA

her eyes will be following you as you walk through a room rather than the crew she’s supposed to be briefing

she’ll use comms more than necessary whenever the two of you are parted to check in with you, but it’s always very professionally phrased

“Status report, over.”

“Fine, as per the status report from three minutes ago, over.”

“Good. Keep me posted. Over and out.”

[transrecursive]

TRANSRECURSIVE

[Image description. First image: One version of the transrecursive flag. The flag has 7 stripes. from top to bottom the stripes are baby blue, pale blue, white, light purple, white, pale pink, and baby pink. The flag is flanked by a baby blue arrow pointing down on the left, and a baby pink arrow pointing up on the right. Second image: Another version of the transrecursive flag. The same as the previous version, but rotated 180 degrees, so now the pink stripe is at the top with the pink arrow pointing down, and the blue stripe is at the bottom with the blue arrow pointing up. End image description.]

Transrecursive when used as an identity label describes an individual who may have one or more of the following experiences with their gender:

a feeling or desire for a simultaneous and harmonious transition in both masculine and feminine directions

a feeling or desire to transition in alternating directions (for example, transitioning towards masculinity then back to femininity, or vice versa, perhaps multiple times.)

a feeling or desire to transition to a gender similar to what they were assigned at birth, that they may have felt denied access to earlier in life and now want to reclaim on their own terms. (E.G. unwanted gender reassignment, rejection from similar gendered peers, or being pressured to conform to the expectations of their assigned gender to the point of feeling alienated from it)

another similar experience, leading to what may be felt or described as a "repetitive" or "fractal" gender.

In use as a broader term, transrecursive is meant to act as an inclusive umbrella term for "contradictory" identities such as afab transfem and amab transmasc, without relying on assigned gender language. It also includes transfemmasc/transmascfem, and certain expressions of multigender or genderfluid.

Intersex voices should be centered in discussions of the transrecursive identity and community, but the label is not exclusive to intersex people and may be used by anyone.

Recursive transitioning is not the same as detransitioning. The distinction is in that the goal is not to "return" to the previously assigned gender, but to instead transition a second/third/nth time, continually transition, or to transition to a gender considered similar to what the individual was assigned at birth. That being said, people who have detransitioned are not inherently excluded from using the label.

Transrecursive people might identify as:

AFAB transfem, AMAB transmasc

FTM transfem, MTF transmasc

Transrecursive [man, woman, person, transfem, transmasc, or any other label] (or with no addition at all)

Gender recursive or sex recursive

Recurfem, Recurmasc, Recurgirl/woman, Recurboy/man, etc. Combinations such as Recurgirlboy or Recurfemmasc are also acceptable.

FTMTF or MTFTM (or other variants such as FTNTM, FTMTN, MTFTN, MTNTF)

Or anything else they want, as it is not mutually exclusive with any other identity label, even cisgender.

The flag's meaning and symbolism:

The use of pinks, blues, and white and the order of stripes are meant to pay homage the original transgender flag. Purple is added as the center stripe to represent the centering of intersex transrecursives, as well as to be evocative of the lavender stripe, representing diversity, added by Gilbert Baker to his original pride flag in 2017.

The arrows and their opposing orientations represent a "circular" or "contradictory" transition, as well as symbolizing movement and personal growth.

The flag is meant to be reversible, and may be flipped or drawn in any direction according to personal preference, as long as the stripes remain in their original "ombre" order with purple in the center, and the arrows remain in opposing directions.

This flag and label were designed/coined by me (the creator of this post and mod of this blog, @transrecursive.) No credit is needed to use the flag individually, but please at least let me know and consider citing this blog/post if you're going to be making money from using it (E.G. making pride merch)

[inkskinned]

you're grabbing lunch with a nice man and he gives you that strange grimace-smile that's popular right now; an almost sardonic "twist" of his mouth while he looks literally down on you. it looks like he practiced the move as he leans back, arms folded. he just finished reciting the details of NFTs to you and explaining Oppenheimer even though he only watched a youtube about it and hasn't actually seen it. you are at the bottom of your wine glass.

you ask the man across from you if he has siblings, desperately looking for a topic. literally anything else.

he says i don't like small talk. and then he smiles again, watching you.

a few years ago, you probably would have said you're above celebrity gossip, but honestly, you've been kind of enjoying the dumb shit of it these days. with the rest of the earth burning, there's something familiar and banal about dragging ariana grande through the mud. you think about jeanette mccurdy, who has often times gently warned the world she's not as nice as she appears. you liked i'm glad my mom died but it made you cry a lot.

he doesn't like small talk, figure out something to say.

you want to talk about responsibility, and how ariana grande is only like 6 days older than you are - which means she just turned 30 and still dresses and acts like a 13 year old, but like sexy. there's something in there about the whole thing - about insecurity, and never growing up, and being sexualized from a young age.

people have been saying that gay people are groomers. like, that's something that's come back into the public. you have even said yourself that it's just ... easier to date men sometimes. you would identify as whatever the opposite of "heteroflexible" is, but here you are again, across from a man. you like every woman, and 3 people on tv. and not this guy. but you're trying. your mother is worried about you. she thinks it's not okay you're single. and honestly this guy was better before you met, back when you were just texting.

wait, shit. are you doing the same thing as ariana grande? are you looking for male validation in order to appease some internalized promise of heteronormativity? do you conform to the idea that your happiness must result in heterosexuality? do you believe that you can resolve your internal loneliness by being accepted into the patriarchy? is there a reason dating men is easier? why are you so scared of fucking it up with women? why don't you reach out to more of them? you have a good sense of humor and a big ol' brain, you could have done a better job at online dating.

also. jesus christ. why can't you just get a drink with somebody without your internal feminism meter pinging. although - in your favor (and judgement aside) in the case of your ariana grande deposition: you have been in enough therapy you probably wouldn't date anyone who had just broken up with their wife of many years (and who has a young child). you'd be like - maybe take some personal time before you begin this journey. like, grande has been on broadway, you'd think she would have heard of the plot of hamlet.

he leans forward and taps two fingers to the table. "i'm not, like an andrew tate guy," he's saying, "but i do think partnership is about two people knowing their place. i like order."

you knew it was going to be hard. being non-straight in any particular way is like, always hard. these days you kind of like answering the question what's your sexuality? with a shrug and a smile - it's fine - is your most common response. like they asked you how your life is going and not to reveal your identity. you like not being straight. you like kissing girls. some days you know you're into men, and sometimes you're sitting across from a man, and you're thinking about the power of compulsory heterosexuality. are you into men, or are you just into the safety that comes from being seen with them? after all, everyone knows you're failing in life unless you have a husband. it almost feels like a gradebook - people see "straight married" as being "all A's", and anything else even vaguely noncompliant as being ... like you dropped out of the school system. you cannot just ignore years of that kind of conditioning, of course you like attention from men.

"so let's talk boundaries." he orders more wine for you, gesturing with one hand like he's rousing an orchestra. sir, this is a fucking chain restaurant. "I am not gonna date someone who still has male friends. also, i don't care about your little friends, i care about me. whatever stupid girls night things - those are lower priority. if i want you there, you're there."

he wasn't like this over text, right? you wouldn't have been even in the building if he was like this. you squint at him. in another version of yourself, you'd be running. you'd just get up and go. that's what happens on the internet - people get annoyed, and they just leave. you are locked in place, almost frozen. you need to go to the bathroom and text someone to call you so you have an excuse, like it's rude to just-leave. like he already kind of owns you. rudeness implies a power paradigm, though. see, even your social anxiety allows the patriarchy to get to you.

you take a sip of the new glass of wine. maybe this will be a funny story. maybe you can write about it on your blog. maybe you can meet ariana grande and ask her if she just maybe needs to take some time to sit and think about her happiness and how she measures her own success.

is this settling down? is this all that's left in your dating pool? just accepting that someone will eventually love you, and you have to stop being picky about who "makes" you a wife?

you look down to your hand, clutching the knife.

[the-shifting-long]

I intended for the post these tags are on to be the last thing I say about fandom misogyny for a While because I felt like I covered everything already but oh my god YES I agree So hard

In general, while I do think Princess/TLQ are permanent partners, they're also not...human. they certainly act human, but they don't carry the same societal baggage that we get saddled either by virtue of being born surrounded by other humans.

And then "marriage" as a concept is one that is so vastly different in so many cultures and time periods, and at least for the kinds of marriages I'm familiar with, there are a Lot of benefits for abusive partners and Especially men to obtain legal and financial power over their partner through marriage. Like, so much of marriage, on top of its symbolic and romantic value, is also its legal and financial ones, as well as social positioning/maneuvering-"wife" carries more weight than "girlfriend", serves as a status symbol. I don't think the Princess and TLQ would really care for that.

HEA doesn't touch on the complicated socioeconomic issues that come with marriage, especially traditional/heterosexual marriage, but it does touch on so much of the domestic unhappiness that comes with it, especially in regards to how you, the player, and the Smitten keep her in this unhappy, stale situation she's Supposed to be happy with. Opportunist even calls her "our queenly wife."

So like on top of marriage being a distinctly human construct/invention I'm not sure those two would vibe with when they can literally merge their souls together at any given moment. HEA in particular would fucking hate it. She's already Been trapped with a partner in a situation all too similar to the Traditional marriage. I could see arguments for other princesses. for a modern-AU Prisoner using marriage for tax benefits and secretly being delighted when she signs the papers, for Tower or Nightmare to make the player legally her pet in a similar fashion, for the Wounded Wild to accept it...

Never HEA. And yet the majority of StP marriage content is HEA, because she's their favorite and she's wife. Never mind how much she hated it. Never mind that her whole route is about how much she hated it. She's wife! We love her! She loves us! Of course she'd marry us, there's no other option! We HAVE to symbolically own her and tie her to us forever! Right???

[twilightakiishi]

made that template for three :3 venchiya rundown!!! more in tags if u care

[serpentface]

What's the Wardi cultural take on Akoshos sleeping with/partnering with/marrying other Akoshos?

It's not highly regulated to a degree that there are overwhelming cultural norms about it. There's a lot of societal focus on akoshos being theoretically suitable sexual partners for both men and women due to being dual-gendered, but not to an extent that relationships with One Another are stigmatized.

They also largely get to escape from the most severe concerns about penetrator/penetrated power dynamics because they're not regarded as Men (they're regarded as dual-gendered, and they're a female social class on every practical level), there's no status of manhood to Lose by receiving sexual penetration. The only real thing you see in that department is people assuming that one acts as 'the man' and one acts as 'the woman', but this is largely due to preoccupation with a notion of sex being Penetration With A Penis (and that Penetration With A Penis means that one person is in a Man's Role and one person is in a Woman's Role). But this will not be regarded as unnatural as in same-gender male relations, akoshos will Have to take up a position in this sexual dichotomy if they want to have Real Sex (Penetration With A Penis) with each other, and this is not unnatural and doesn't involve gaining or losing status since they are simultaneously male and female, not men.

So like you might see individual culture critics finding stuff to nitpick about it as their annoyance of the week or a singular Guy here or there who thinks it's weird, but this isn't a widespread norm. The vast majority of people don't give a shit about akoshos having sex with each other. The worst thing you're likely to experience Solely by virtue of being in an akoshos-akoshos relationship is someone asking you (probably with genuine curiosity) which one does the man stuff and which one does the woman stuff.

Akoshos also don't experience Hard expectations for marriage (though there are societal pressures that make marriage an attractive safety net all the same, ESPECIALLY marriage to a man) so unofficial life-partnerships between akoshos are pretty much the Only same gender partnerships between unwed people that are going to go unquestioned. ((Sworn brotherhood is technically a same gender life partnership for men that is Functionally similar to marriage (in that it's a kin-making practice between unrelated adults), but the tradition is Built upon the assumption that both parties will be married to women and that a primary goal of this kinship is to provide security for both parties' wives and children)). Marriage obligations in general are more lax in the economically secure but not Wealthy lower mercantile classes (as obligations to support and perpetuate one's family are universal, but these obligations can be filled simply by having at least One son who can get hitched, and marriages in the lower classes have no political functions and therefore there's less reason to ensure All your children are wed (there's still incentives like dowry, but this is not desperately needed when a family is economically secure)). So akoshos in this class group tend to have a Lot more freedom in terms of their life arrangements and chosen partners (though still experience the limiting frameworks of structural misogyny in other capacities).

The only thing that is out of the picture is akoshos/akoshos marriage. Marriage in this society has a predominantly reproductive function, the concept of reproductively non-viable marriages is generally considered absurd. This is not JUST this culture's form of homophobia, as marriage is a very practical arrangement at its core - both in a reproductive capacity and as bedrock for the patriarchal blood-kinship family system that forms the core social unit. The idea of same gender marriage isn't just absurd because 'ewwww weird' it's like, that Cannot work within this system, it Cannot fill core functions of what a marriage intends to do here, the ways on which marriage and kinship are BUILT makes same gender marriage practically (rather than just socially) untenable.

The sole exception to the 'marriage = reproductively viable" rule is that akoshos can be married to men (which in practice is almost always as a remarriage after a man has secured At Least an heir). This has a Little bit of internal logic here in that they perform predominantly female social roles (thus are suited to being a wife, even if they can't bear children) (and also on practical levels of them having the same legal status as women) but it's really more of a 'this is just how it's always been' kind of thing. A lot of the older pre-Wardi identity dual-gender roles that got mashed together under the 'akoshos' name would have involved marriage to a man as a second wife/concubine, in addition to his primary wife who would bear his children. Men potentially having multiple spouses has not been retained as a cultural practice, but the notion that an akoshos Can be a wife to a man has survived into modern day legal and doctrinal practices around marriage.

So like this being said, marriage as it is legally defined is only between a man and a woman, a man and an akoshos, or a woman and an akoshos. In practice the latter two are comparatively VERY rare- a man/akoshos marriage cannot provide children (though an akoshos can practically fulfill all other obligations and duties of a wife), a woman/akoshos marriage Can provide children (and while akoshos cannot function as a male heir, these children Will take their akoshos-parent's family name (though the wife retains her father's family name)), but akoshos are legally grouped with women in terms of rights and privileges (including being permanently under legal domain of their father unless they have been legally handed off to a male husband) and Cannot provide hard power patriarchal support that this family system is built upon and therefore depends upon, which makes these marriages socio-economically insecure. They can obviously still be a good partner and parent, but this is not the same as having the Legal hard power of a patriarch.

Akoshos marrying each other would be reproductively and socially nonviable, and is treated as a similarly absurd concept to a man marrying a man or a woman marrying a woman. It's just not a part of the marriage and kinship framework, it's not a thing that you can Do.

[poorlydrawnjoey]

as someone who has a history with denying their gender identity and trying to be "normal" despite VERY clearly knowing what they want, seeing a character who is actually repressive and in denial about their sexuality means the world to me. I love you girl I hope you get through this.

[Joey Claire sitting grumpily with a ripped up lesbian flag behind her]

[jrueships]

guess whos not going in at all this week, actually

[arillusionist]

IM ACTUALLY GONNA HAVE A BREAKDOWN WHAT IS THIIISS???????? WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEYRE BREAKING UP????????

[shiikiyun]

I find the woobification of milgram characters and the oversimplification of their crimes to pull a "but theyre all murderers" equally annoying and i think yall would benefit of critical thinking

[premaritalhug]

"You can't ship Dirk with a woman. That's problematic. You're forcing him to be straight when in the narrative he's gay." *Ships Dirk with Egbert.* To be honest with you, I don't really care about any of this all that much. The idea that Dirk would shit his pants over someone drawing him going on a spaghetti dinner date Nepeta or something is ludicrous, as far as I'm concerned. I think he might play into the whole thing and pretend to be pissed because it was funny, but that's really about it, in my opinion. I just think it's kind of strange to see people up in arms about the sanctity of Dirk's sexuality while disregarding the fact that Hussie declared JEgbert to be trans at one point.