#about every. Single. Thing. To do to avoid it

[kedreeva]

Silly question but how would you rate different gamebird chicks on a scale of "no brain cells, head empty" to "wait! I think I just saw a thought happen?!"?

You've mentioned before that turkey poults have the survival instinct of a chicken nugget, and I've raised coturnix chicks before which are like...death seeking missiles. Are other gamebird chicks as dumb? Are any recognisably better suited to not immediately kamikaze-ing into the nearest water fountain/single square millimetre of loose tape/one cold spot they can find in the brooder?

Peafowl chicks rate the highest. I know I talk a lot of shit about them, but outside of not eating unless shown the food (which IS a valid survival behavior, for avoiding toxic things in their native environment), they're not prone to doing anything actively stupid. They have great eye sight, they tend to look before they leap (and can fly if they do get into trouble). They have a sense of time ("bedtime" is a concept they have! Every hand raised baby I've ever had has had a strict idea of when they think it's time to go to bed and will scream at me until I agree). They will return themselves to the heat when it's time, I've never had one fail to do this or start screaming because they're on the cold side of the brooder and don't know how to move 1 foot to the left to get warm. I've never had one drown in the water dish even though they get a bowl or are raised outside with a pond/big water bowl. They can coexist with just about any other bird, which is great because their only flaw is they need to be shown food for the first few weeks, and adding something like a chicken will cause the chicken to show them where to eat. And because peafowl are large, all the other babies will follow them around for everything else. For creatures who grew up in an environment where very little (predator wise) can kill them, they're surprisingly adapted to not dying in really stupid ways in captivity. They ARE fragile in other ways (pick up parasites easily), but that's not a matter of stupidity.

Coturnix are so far the worst, and I am including Turkeys in this metric. Turkeys are at least hardy in a brooder setup, even if they are very stupid outside with mom. Coturnix on the other hand have to have a tiny lip to their water dish so they don't get into it and drown or chill (and they still do their level best to get into it, even with the tiny lip where they can barely reach the water, I sometimes check on them and find one Mystery Sopping Wet.... how..... and why...... and also HOW). I have watched one grab a drink of water, throw its head back to swallow, choke, and die immediately. There is NOTHING you can do for them if they fail at drinking water, by the way. If you pick them up too soon after they drink, or any other time, there's a non-zero chance that they immediately panic-vomit any water in their system, choke on it, and suffocate/die instantly so you have to be careful about handling them while they're doing their very best to make that as difficult as possible (and this lovely trait persists into adulthood). They cannot have access to anything they can get caught in/under, I have to put barriers in their cage and not give them a cold spot in the brooder until they're a few days old because they will CHARGE to it and sit there until they die screaming about how cold they are while 1 foot away from the heat. They still throw themselves at this barrier because they can see through a 1mm gap to either side that cold death awaits them with open arms and they desire it so badly. It's why they always look like this:

If you have them standing on your hand they WILL just walk off - nay, run full tilt off - without regard for if there is anything below them to fall ONTO, and they are fully capable of beaning themselves so hard upon impact that they die. I had to find a stuffie that was very light and a stuffie that was very heavy, because a medium weight is just light enough for them to shove themselves into the shavings beneath it and suffocate because they can't get out again, and they will also actively seek to do this. They have to have a solid-sided brooder because if they can stick their head through a gap a) they can probably get out of it if it's just a little bigger than their head and b) they will get stuck in it and break their necks if it's just a little too small.

The vast majority, 99% of them, are extremely easy to raise, and doing a minimal amount of guardianship in their brooder will protect them from themselves, but they do have a deep and abiding desire to be dead, I think, and there will be some you cannot save from themselves. No other game birds/fowl I've raised are like this- not peafowl, not turkeys, not pheasants, not chickens, not bobwhite quail, not even guinea keets... the closest would be button quail and even they are not death-seeking missiles until they're a bit older.

[jinjooha69]

TOJI X READER !!!

Pairing - Toji fushiguro x reader (dad's friend! AU)

Under His Roof

Content Warnings (Please Read): Age gap, Power imbalance, Manipulation, Overstimulation , Corruption kink, Edging, Orgasm Denial, Degrading talk, Jealousy sex, First time sex, Size kink, Fingering, Grinding, Dry humping , Possessiveness/Obsession, Breeding kink, Spanking/Discipline, Biting / Marking, Angst & emotional manipulation, Soft/dom moments later on, Minors DO NOT INTERACT (18+ ONLY)

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Chapter 10

Next day, Evening.

You made your way home, after a boring day at the college. As you approached the door, you reached out and turned the door knob.

You hadn’t even stepped two feet into the house before you heard his voice.

“Toji's here,” your dad called out lazily from the living room. “Brought some of those snacks you like too.”

Your stomach knotted. The air felt heavier already.

Toji was there on the couch, stretched out with that familiar ease, a bottle in one hand and a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He looked you over slowly—top to bottom, as if cataloguing how much you’d changed in the last two months. Not a single flicker of irritation or anger crossed his face. If anything, he looked… amused.

“You grew up even more,” he murmured under his breath as you passed him. “What do they feed you at your aunt’s?”

You froze briefly, glanced back—but he was already pretending to talk to your dad again, pouring him another drink. Calm. Casual. Disarming.

But you could feel it.

Later that evening, your dad slurred half a sentence and staggered off to bed like always. You cleaned up the kitchen, heart hammering louder with every clink of a plate. The footsteps behind you were quiet—but unmistakable.

His breath was warm on your neck. “Missed you,” Toji said, low and deep. “You were a good girl while you were gone?”

You gripped the sponge tighter, avoiding eye contact. “Toji, please…”

“Please what?” he whispered, fingers brushing along your waist like he wasn’t doing anything at all. “Say it. Use that sweet mouth.”

You flinched slightly as his hand grazed the underside of your chest, a movement so careful it could’ve been accidental—but you both knew it wasn’t.

“You’ve gotten quiet,” he said, leaning over you now. “No excited stories about your trip?” He clicked his tongue mockingly. “What would your dad say if he knew how you squirm when I talk to you like this?”

You spun around, trembling. “Don’t—” you whispered, voice breaking halfway.

He only smiled, tilting his head. “I’m helping your dad out,” he murmured, brushing your cheek with a knuckle. “Being the man of the house when he’s too busy or too drunk to care. Shouldn’t I be rewarded for that?”

There was no mistaking the threat beneath his tone. It wasn’t yelling, or harsh words. It was gentle, subtle—terrifyingly patient.

And he kept doing it.

Over the next few weeks, he’d show up more and more—offering to fix the faucet, bring groceries, help your dad with errands. Your father welcomed the help, even encouraged it.

“Guy’s a lifesaver,” he laughed once. “You’re lucky someone like him looks after us.”

Each time your dad said something like that, Toji would meet your eyes across the room. Just a look—but it said everything.

And when your dad wasn’t looking, he’d rest a hand on your thigh at the dinner table. Let his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shorts while pretending to explain something on your phone. Once, he pressed a lazy kiss behind your ear while passing by you in the hallway—your dad just a few feet away.

“Oops,” he said with a wink. “Clumsy me.”

You stopped fighting. Not because you wanted it, but because you were afraid. He knew that too.

And the worst part?

He loved it.

—————

Toji was getting even more bold, especially when going out.

It started small—subtle, sneaky things he’d do when you were out running errands. Like brushing his hand too low on your back when you were checking out vegetables, or standing a bit too close behind you in the queue, his chest pressing to your back, breath warm against your ear. Things no one else would notice… but to you, they screamed danger.

You told yourself it was just teasing. That he’d stop.

But he didn’t.

One afternoon, you were at the local supermarket. He insisted on coming with you, saying, “Can’t let my favorite girl carry all that weight alone, can I?”

You mumbled something and avoided eye contact, pushing the cart like it was your sole purpose in life. The place was busy, filled with the murmurs of housewives, the squeals of kids, and the annoying beep of checkout counters.

Then he did it again.

As you leaned slightly to grab a bag of rice from the lower shelf, you felt his palm—firm and slow—press against your lower back, then dip lower, cupping your ass with zero hesitation.

“Toji—!” You gasped in a whisper, jerking upright and whipping your head around.

He smirked. “What? Just checkin’ if you’ve been workin’ out,” he said under his breath, eyes lazy and amused.

Your heart pounded like a drum in your ears. You glanced around frantically, cheeks burning. “Someone could see—”

“Let them,” he murmured, his voice low, the way he says it when he knows he has the upper hand. “You’re mine, ain’t you?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. He just took the bag from your arms like he hadn’t just touched you like that in a public aisle.

And it got worse.

Another time, you both were walking out of the bakery, paper bag in hand, the smell of warm buns and sugar in the air. You passed by a familiar voice.

“Toji?”

You both froze.

You turned, and dread settled in your stomach. It was one of Dad’s friends—Uncle Shiu. He was walking up with a friendly grin, waving.

Your skin went cold.

Toji, the bastard, didn’t even flinch. He waved casually, then placed his arm—his damn arm—right around your shoulder like you were some normal couple.

“Hey, Shiu. Long time.”

You stared ahead, terrified, too stunned to pull away.

Uncle Shiu’s eyes squinted just a little. “That your… friend?”

Toji chuckled. “Something like that. You know Kenji? His daughter. She’s good company.”

Your knees were ready to give out.

You mumbled a polite hello, but you didn’t meet Shiu's eyes. You couldn’t. You wanted to sink into the pavement. Disappear.

After a bit of small talk, he walked off, and you exhaled so sharply it made you lightheaded.

“You’re insane,” You hissed the second you were alone.

“You liked it,” Toji said, licking some sugar off his thumb. “Your heart’s racin’. You’re probably wet.”

“To--Toji!” You nearly choked, looking around again. You wanted to scream. But you didn’t. You never did.

He leaned close. “You run away all you want, baby. But your body always remembers me.”

You hated that he was right. You hated that you still wanted him.

When you got home that night, you couldn't sleep. For hours. The anxiety was swallowing you whole.

It didn't stop at all.

From then on, he only got worse.

He’d text you things like ‘Wear a skirt today. No panties.’

And when you didn’t respond, he’d show up anyway and check. Right there, in the stairwell or in the car.

He’d stop the car at red lights just to reach between your legs, fingers ghosting over the fabric. When you squirmed, he’d just say, “Relax, no one can see.”

But someone could. That was the problem.

Once, you were at a convenience store, and he came up behind you while you browsed drinks. Slid his hand under your hoodie and palmed your breast. You squeaked.

He leaned into your ear. “You make one sound, I’ll put my fingers in you right here.”

You was silent for the rest of the day.

The tension was unbearable. You was constantly looking over your shoulder. Worried Dad would pop out of nowhere. That someone would recognize Toji. That it would all come crumbling down.

But every time you swore you’d end it, he’d touch you again. Press his lips to the back of your neck. Slide his hand down the front of your pants when you was doing dishes or lean over you at the checkout counter, his mouth brushing the shell of you ear as he said things that made you tremble.

You were scared.

But you couldn't stay away from him either.

And he knew.

————

It was supposed to be quick.

Just a drive to pick up a parcel.

That’s what he said when he called, voice rough and casual, like you hadn’t been playing this sick game of hide and chase for months now.

“Need a ride?” he asked.

You hesitated. “I could walk…”

“It’s hot. Get in. I’m waiting outside.”

Of course he was.

You stepped into the car, heart thudding like always when you saw him behind the wheel—one hand lazily draped on the gear, that cocky half-smirk forming the second he saw you face.

“Missed me, didn’t ya?”

You didn’t answer. You never did.

But your thighs pressed together involuntarily, and he noticed. He always noticed.

The drive was quiet at first. Air conditioner humming low, a radio song playing somewhere in the background. You stared out the window, fingers curled tight in your lap.

Then his hand drifted. From the wheel to your thigh. A casual drop, warm and heavy.

You swallowed hard.

“Toji… Not here…”

“Why not?” he said, thumb brushing lazy circles just above your knee. “Wore this short thing for me, didn’t ya? Gonna act all shy now?”

You didn’t. You wore it because it was laundry day. You didn’t even realize how short the hem had gotten over time.

But now you couldn’t move without the fabric inching higher.

“Toji, we’re on the main road—”

He cut the wheel suddenly, turning into a side alley that was mostly deserted. A few shuttered shops, a stray cat, quiet air. He stopped the car, engine still running.

Your heart stuttered.

“Toji…”

He leaned back in his seat, wide legs spread, eyes dark with that lazy hunger.

“Get on my lap.”

Your breath hitched. “W-What?”

“I said,” he drawled, voice dropping to a threat, “get on my lap.”

You hesitated. Looked around. There were buildings. A few balconies. Windows.

“Toji—someone could see us—”

He reached out, grabbed your chin, and tilted it up to meet his gaze. “Then keep quiet. Unless you want someone to hear you moan like a bitch in heat.”

Your cheeks burned. Your thighs clenched.

You didn’t move.

He chuckled.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute when you’re scared.” He grabbed your wrist, pulled you gently but firmly over the console until you were straddling his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs. The steering wheel pressed into your back.

“You gonna tell me no?” he asked, his hand slipping up under your dress, cold fingers trailing along your inner thigh. “Gonna push me away?”

You trembled. “N-No…”

His smirk widened. “Didn’t think so.”

He slid his fingers along your panties—drenched. Of course. His thumb pressed right where you were throbbing, slow and cruel, drawing tight circles.

“Already wet?” he whispered against your ear. “Fuckin’ pathetic.”

You whimpered, fists clenching in his shirt.

“You missed this, didn’t you?” he continued, rubbing harder now, making you squirm. “Missed sittin’ on this old man's lap, gettin’ felt up like a fucktoy?”

You kept your head down.

"Say it", He growled.

"Ye--Yes", you nodded.

His breath hitched, just for a second. Then he laughed, low and sharp.

“Say it again.”

“I… missed it…”

“No,” he growled, pushing your panties aside and dragging a thick finger through your folds, coating it in slick. “Say it like you mean it.”

“I missed you—missed th—this, Toji—”

He groaned, dragging your hips forward and grinding you down on his lap. You felt the hard press of his cock through his jeans, hot and rigid beneath you.

“That’s my good girl,” he muttered, fingers slipping into you with no warning. One, then two, scissoring you open.

You bit into his shoulder to stay quiet, but he liked that.

“Keep that mouth shut, sweetheart. Don’t want anyone peeking out their window and seeing their neighbor's daughter getting finger-fucked in my lap, do we?”

You shook your head frantically, face buried in his neck as he thrust his fingers faster, deeper. The wet sounds were obscene. Filthy. The squelch echoed in the small car, drowned only by your panting.

You were getting close—your hips rolling against his palm, chasing the high you didn’t even want to admit you needed.

Then he stopped.

You whimpered, eyes wide, dazed.

He grabbed your hips and unzipped his jeans, cock springing free—thick, flushed, angry, already leaking.

“You want it?” he asked, tapping the tip against your dripping entrance.

Your lips parted. You couldn’t speak.

“You better,” he snarled, “because I ain’t stopping this time.”

He slammed into you.

Your cry was swallowed by his mouth—his hand clamped over your lips as he thrust up, hard and deep, filling you all at once.

“Shhh,” he whispered, eyes dark with hunger. “You’re gonna take it, baby. Just like that.”

You nodded, tears brimming from the stretch, the overwhelming heat of him.

His other hand gripped your waist, guiding you as he rocked up into you, the car rocking gently with each movement. His cock hit deep, brutal, unforgiving.

“Fuck—tight as ever,” he groaned. “Knew you were made for me.”

You could only moan, muffled under his palm, every nerve ending on fire.

“You feel that?” he hissed. “This cock? That’s mine. You can run all you want, ghost me, hide at your aunt’s—but this cunt’ll always remember me.”

Your walls clenched around him and he chuckled darkly.

“Knew it. You like when I talk dirty, don’t you? My filthy little thing.”

You nodded, sobbing quietly, the pressure building, unbearable.

“You gonna cum on my cock? In a parking lot? Huh?”

You buried your face in his neck, moaning helplessly as the orgasm crashed through you—white-hot and blinding.

He didn’t stop.

Toji kept fucking into you, harder now, chasing his own high, hand tangled in your hair.

“Such a good girl… take it all… fuck—gonna fill you up—”

And then he came, hips jerking, spilling inside you with a broken groan.

You sat there afterward, panting. The windows fogged up. Your body limp.

You finally looked at him. He was already smirking.

“Told you,” he said smugly, zipping up.

“You always come back.”

"Always." he grinned.

to be continued.... next chapter >>

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[golddustwomanwins]

Hey there! I had this thought in my head when I saw the picture (provided below), it really made me think of you for some reason (especially since you are writing say yes to heaven!)

So... it's about Very Conservative Seminarian!Art (training to become a priest) & Liberal Novice!Reader (training to become nun/sister)

... and get this - they actually study at the same Catholic university campus. So even though the Seminarian!Art & Novice!Reader have their own programs, housing, and schedules since they're preparing for their own paths, they're still able to see each other since they're located in the same place. (You can make them like they're childhood friends, and their families are very, very religious (like religious to the point they have pastors, priests, nuns, etc in their families), and they got sent to the university at the same time because her family kinda religiously guilt-tripped her to go. She eagerly told her family she'd go when she found Art was going to the Catholic university, and maybe, she still have a crush on Art.) Well was thinking this as a freaky fic too btw. 😔

IDK IF U WILL FW THIS but... maybe consider 👉👈

Eden

First of all, I wouldn't know what to do without your ideas, they're always top tier. Second of all, I don't know if I like how this turned out but it took me so long that I'm just going to post it. Third--and last--I know nothing about christianity and if I say nothing I mean nothing. Which means some things could be inaccurate, I'm trying my best here.

Ps: I do see everyone’s asks and I will write for all of you it just takes me ages to get to it

Seminarian Art Donaldson x Novice Reader

18 +

Dry magnolia leaves crunched under your soles as you rushed through the courtyard. It was a windy day today, a breeze rustling your long skirt, your hands darting up to keep your coif from bustling off. Your notes were clutched to your chest as you refrained from cursing.

The courtyard was empty, every trainee already in their respective classes. You’d told your mother you had to go multiple times but once she got you on the phone she wouldn’t stop until she squeezed every single piece of information out of you. Usually you enjoyed spending some time talking to her, especially since she went to this same university back in her days.

It was rewarding to hear her talk about the same stony halls she had wandered when she was your age, the classes she took and Sister Marianne, who still ruled with the same iron fist she did back in the nineties.

But today you were already late as you had to help your roommate with some of her tasks and really it was your fault. Blaming your mother was only avoiding taking responsibility.

You rushed along the cobble stones, past the arched pathway and over the little stone bridge, the wind picking up as if to spite you. You stumbled slightly over the hem of your skirt, a relieved sigh escaping your lips as the entrance to the west wing came into view.

You accelerated your steps, frowning slightly when you saw the oak, wooden door was slightly ajar. Usually the novices were careful to keep it closed. Once a raccoon made its way inside the walls of St. Harriet and it had to take Sister Marianne as well as Father Christopher, the lead professor of the joined university for young seminarians, to get the whole family of raccoons outdoors again.

You wondered if you came across the wrong door but no, the same ivy clad walls, golden door handle that you had to jiggle a few times until it gave away and finally let you in.

Read cheeked and out of breath you stepped through the threshold, soft heels clicking slightly.

“Ahh—fuckk,” you flinched as you started to round the corner of the hall, thinking someone needed help. Your rushed steps came to a harsh stop as you barely rounded the corner and came upon two lone figures.

At first you didn’t realize what was happening. A girl on her knees, skirt pillowing her skin from the cold ground, her head bobbing back and forth. A boy was standing in front of her, familiar golden curls falling into his pale face as he leaned his head back against the stone column.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed another moan, eyes closed in ecstasy. His hand found its way into the hair of the novice, guiding her head along and just then you realize what her plump lips had wrapped around, soft gagging sounds dropping from her mouth. Drool was pooling along her lips, spreading down onto his cock and past her chin, drip, drip, dripping onto her neckerchief.

Wetness pooled between your thighs but you were to surprised to notice as you stumbled a step back, gasping. Two heads flew around, but you only could look at one pair of eyes as they burning you straight through your soul.

“Christ,” Art went to tuck himself away, already half across the hall to you but you were faster. You rushed back the way you came, face burning with shame.

You stumbled forward, the wind now at full force as it blew against you, Art rushing onto the courtyard behind you.

“Wait a second!” At the sound of his steps you only ran faster not daring to look behind you as you rushed along. Your heart was beating rapidly, only wanting to get back to the dorms and thankfully they came into view pretty quickly.

Art cursed behind you. “Would you wait a second, damnit.”

You flinched at his words, risking a glance behind you. Art was in his civil clothes, belt still unbuckled, cheeks reddened from the wind or his former activities. Your eyes widened when you realized how close he was and you pushed yourself to go faster. Your heel caught in a raised cobblestone, making you stumble forward.

If it weren’t for Art hastily grabbing your wrist, you would’ve busted open your chin. Before you could protest Art pulled you into the church hall, a few students meddling about, some whispering soft prayers.

“Art—“ you tried to protest but he tugged you along, nudging the curtains of the confessional away before sneaking you inside. He closed the curtains and bathed you both into darkness.

You stumbled into his chest, inhaling sharply as the confessional filled with the scent of him. You blinked, surprised for a moment. You could barely make out Art’s face, only seeing the red splotches on his cheeks, glistening slightly with tears.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I know it was wrong, I’ve been trying to stop I swear.”

“Trying to stop?” You gasped. “You mean it happened more than once?”

Art’s hands came up to grip your shoulders. “You cannot tell anyone about this.”

“Who am I supposed to tell? Your father? And you’re seriously worried about me snitching?” You huffed. “Art, I just watched a girl suck your dick.”

Art flinched and shook his head, choking out a sob. “Don’t—don’t say it like that.”

“How else do you want me to say it?”

“I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. Never. I know I deserve punishment, I know I’m the worst. Just don’t—“

“Don’t what?” You frowned. “Why are you apologizing to me?”

To be fair it did hurt you seeing Art with another girl. You always thought you knew him inside out. You did know him your whole life.

He was the sole reason you had applied to St. Harriets. Well, partially as well because of your mother and father, wanting you to study what almost everyone in your family had studied. You weren't exactly excited to become a novice but with the sight of Art being at the same university, studying to become a priest you had jumped on the wagon all to quickly.

Priest Donaldson, Art's father, had lived right next door and your family were friends with him. You had spent all of your childhood hiding in the confessionals with Art, giggling and drawing with crayons, begging for ice cream after mass and hanging out in your rooms listening to music while in your teenage years. Art was your best friend.

He understood what it meant to live in a family were religion was the center of the universe. While your family was devoted, a few nuns and priests spread here a there Art's family was the real deal. Not one of his father's family was not a priest or pastor, not one woman was not either a Sister or a devoted housewife, visiting church Monday through Sunday.

Sometimes the both of you would lay in Art's backyard, smushing daisies beneath your backs as you stared into the cloud filled sky.

"Do you sometimes imagine how we would turn out if our families weren't as strict?" Art had asked you that day. It was his sixteenth birthday and he was slowly growing into his teenage features, jaw squaring, shoulders broadening. You didn't know when it happened but there was this new glimmer in his eyes the past weeks when he looked at you. His smile was deeper but more quiet. Instead of showing full teeth he'd only tip one corner of his mouth up and it would make your stomach flip strangely.

He was watching you intently, waiting for your answer. You huffed, cheeks staining red as you looked back up at the clouds.

"I try not to."

"Why not?" Art turned on his side to watch you. You shivered slightly at the attention and swallowed.

"Because it doesn't matter," you turned to look at him. "We grew up in this family and we'll die in it. Our path is destined." He snorted then. "You don't think we could change our path? Decide for ourselves?" You frowned slightly. "Would you want to?”

"Would you want to?" His eyes dipped lower down your face, not answering your question. You knew you wanted to. If your parents weren't as strict you'd be leaving for the next best college studying, literature or art. Something liberating and free. But your parents were your parents and...leaving them also meant leaving Art.

So you shook your head, watched the light dim in Art's eyes. "No," you said. "I want this life." Looking back now you wondered if Art hat questioned his faith back then already. You had only answered that way because you thought it was what he wanted to hear. Art never missed mass, never cursed, never drank or fraternized. He'd never even had a girlfriend, even though most of the girls in town did sent him flirty smiles, hands resting on his biceps for way too long.

You thought if you'd mold yourself into the perfect girl, into a girl Art could fall for, you'd spent the rest of your life with him. How wrong you were. Back in the confessional you looked at Art, the golden crucifix dangling from his neck like a bad omen.

“How often did it happen?” You asked and were caught off guard when Art suddenly sunk to his knees. He gripped your hips desperately, pressing his forehead against your tummy.

“Art, get up.”

He shook his head. “No. No I deserve penance I will do better, I swear.”

“Art,” you tried to pry him off you but he has an iron grip on you.

“I am not mad,” you huffed. “You don’t need to confess to me.”

“But I have to,” Art protested and looked up at you. A ray of sun creeped through the wooden screen and revealed to you the little speck of brown in his blue eyes.

“Let me repent,” he whispered. Your breath hitched when his hands wandered to the hem of your dress.

“Art,” you tried to stop him but he brushed your hands way.

“You’re the only one who can take my sin,” Art said as he slowly lifted the hem of your dress. You helped him holding the various skirts up as he guided you onto the wooden bank.

“You’re the only one powerful enough to ease the pain,” you didn’t know if he was still crying but you couldn’t care less when he pressed a tender kiss to your left knee.

He followed up with the right, before running his teeth over your knee stockings. “Fuck,” he sighed. “I always wondered what you were wearing beneath your skirts.”

You shivered at his words tugging him upwards by his curls. Art looked at you pleadingly, devotion shining in his eyes. “If you want to repent you better get to it before someone really needs the confessionals.”

He nodded eagerly before his hands gripped your plain panties and pulled them to your knees. Without further hesitation he put his hot mouth on your cunt, tongue darting out to taste you.

You both moaned in sync and you quickly slapped your hand onto your mouth to refrain from anyone hearing you. Arts grip was bruising as he guided your hips along, dragging your clit against his straight nose and making you shiver.

“Oh fuck,” you whispered, clutching at his hair desperately as you started to rock your hips. You didn’t know how Art knew but when he pushed two fingers inside your wet cunt, stars burst in front of your eyes.

Was this what he was doing all the time? You always thought he was an uptight, rigorous follower of his father’s rules. How could ever know that he’d be this…perfect?

The wooden bench creaked beneath you as Art moved you along, moaning against your core.

“Taste like Heaven,” he mumbled as he sucked at your clit, wet sounds sounding as his fingers fucked you quickly. “I’ve thought about this my whole life.”

“Art,” you whimpered. Your hips started to hump quicker, Art barely needed to move as you used him to your liking.

When he felt your walls growing tighter and tighter he started to curl his fingers.

“Oh—-oh yes, fuck,” the creaking of the bench grew more insistent, wet sloppy sounds echoing and Arts soft whimpers urging you on.

“You gotta cum for me, baby,” Art. “Please let me make you feel good. It’s the only way I’ll earn forgiveness.”

Without needing to hold back, you burst on his fingers and tongue, head thrown back and thumping against the wooden walls. Art continued fucking you with his fingers until your body was all twitchy and sweat slick.

Art kissed your cunt gently before pulling your underwear back in place and crawling up your body.

His chin and nose was glistening with your cum, pupils blown wide. His hands came up to your cheeks and he leaned in to kiss you softly. This kiss was slow and lazy, all tongue and spit.

You sighed softly, heart strings thrumming at the taste of him.

Your hands wandered over the hard plains of his chest before dipping into his slacks but he caught your wrists quickly.

You looked at him surprised, seeing his cheeks flush.

“I already…” he grimaced, embarrassed and you chuckled pulling him in to peck his lips.

“‘S all right I’ll help you next time,” you promised and Art looked at you like you hung the moon for him.

Your fingers intertwined and you smiled happily at him.

“You forgive me then?” He was looking at you with wide eyes and you quickly realized that he had been serious. He needed your forgiveness to move on and you were selfish enough to use his guilt for your own gain.

Gripping his chin between your fingers your tilted Art’s face the way you liked, just because you could.

“Show me what else you can do and I’ll consider it.”

[viaxslz]

. 【 ARRANGED ℳARRIAGE 】

享受 ! .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 !reader, cw: arranged marriage au, angst to fluff (ig), strangers to lovers (if that’s what they call it), super duber long (have this so I can disappear for a month), not proofread :P, Maknae line ver.

BANG CHAN

Your routines were simple. Wake up late, eat breakfast, get ready for work, evacuate the house, come back home, eat and sleep. It was a cycle that repeated itself every single day. You mainly did this to avoid any form of conversation or interaction with Chan. Being forced into an arranged marriage was something you wouldn’t even wish upon your enemy. Chan didn’t even look interested in this marriage. It was more like he was doing this because his family wanted him to and he had no choice. But slowly things started to change. Your conversations which Chan seemed to extend longer than usual, usually it would last for about 3 minutes that was the highest but recently you noticed and increase in the duration everyday. From 3 minutes to 5 minutes to 10 minutes now to 30 minutes. Chan also became less cold and blunt towards you, you swore whenever you talked you saw a hint of softness in his eyes. One day, the shift became way too obvious to ignore. You were eating cereal straight from the box on the couch, hair a mess, wearing an old hoodie that said ��I paused my game for this?” when Chan casually walked in, ruffled your hair, and said, “You’re cute like this.” You swore almost choked on a cornflake. He gave you a sheepish grin, as if he hadn’t just dropped a flirt bomb out of nowhere and walked off to the kitchen like he didn’t just rearrange your brain chemistry. From then on, it only got weirder. One morning you found a sticky note on the fridge that read: "Good morning! Eat breakfast. You’re not allowed to die before me. –Chan” You stared at it for a full minute before whispering, “Was that…romantic or threatening?” You couldn’t tell anymore. Chan also started lingering. Like standing outside your room awkwardly like a lost Sims character, waiting for you to notice him. And when you finally did, he’d ask, “So… how was work?” and then stay for the answer. And the final straw? You caught him watching a YouTube video titled “How to flirt with your spouse (and not sound like a weirdo).” He turned around so fast when he noticed you standing there that he knocked over a chair. “THIS IS FOR A FRIEND!” “Sure, Christopher.” Now? You still wake up late, still eat cereal like a gremlin, but now Chan’s sitting next to you, stealing handfuls from the box and resting his head on your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And yeah, maybe the arranged marriage wasn’t so bad after all. Especially when your husband starts looking at you like you’re the reason he agreed to it in the first place.

LEE KNOW

Lee Know – CEO (aka the cat dad you didn’t ask for). Your marriage to Lee Know was less “till death do us part” and more “let’s pretend the other doesn’t exist unless absolutely necessary.” You weren’t sure if you married a man or a ghost in an expensive suit. Minho, ever the picture-perfect CEO, moved with the kind of grace that said, *I don’t have time for nonsense unless it’s my cats.* You’d see him in the mornings at exactly 6:45 a.m., sipping black coffee and reading through emails like the fate of the universe rested on quarterly revenue reports. You, meanwhile, woke up at 8:03, tripped over a charging cable, and once accidentally brushed your teeth with face cleanser. Communication between you two? Nonexistent. Unless you count: “The driver’s waiting.” “Your meeting’s in 10.” “Don’t forget to sign the documents.” And your personal favorite: the silent nod of disapproval when you wore mismatched socks. He didn’t seem cruel just cold. Calculated. As if this marriage was a merger he didn’t sign off on but was forced to green-light. But you noticed things. Like how your favorite snacks were always restocked, even when you never said a word. Or how your broken phone charger suddenly got replaced, still in its package, with a Post-it that simply said: Don’t electrocute yourself. Romantic. It wasn’t until the company hosted its annual gala that things really shifted. You wore an elegant outfit, sleek and simple. Nothing dramatic until Minho saw you and paused mid-conversation. His jaw actually dropped for a millisecond before he pulled it together and muttered, “…you look decent.” That was Lee Know language for breathtaking. But the real kicker? Midway through the gala, when some investor’s son got a little too friendly with you, you saw Minho appear out of nowhere like a well-dressed Batman. Hand on your waist. Voice dangerously low.“Back off. That’s my wife.” Your brain short-circuited. His hand stayed there the entire night. From that day, the cold war melted into something else. Minho started waiting for you before leaving the house. Sometimes he’d wordlessly hand you a protein bar. Other times he’d drop sarcastic compliments like: “Wow, you finally brushed your hair today. I’m shocked.” “Your socks actually match. Who are you and what have you done with my wife?” “Don’t trip on your own confidence.” But his eyes softened. His tone gentled. And sometimes, you’d catch him staring not annoyed, but like he was memorizing something. Then came the day you got sick. Like, knock-out-fever, can’t-move-from-bed sick. You were expecting silence, maybe a text from his assistant at most. Instead, you woke up to Minho sitting next to your bed, laptop balanced on one knee, feeding you soup with the other hand like it was just another meeting. You croaked, “Aren’t you busy?” He didn’t look at you. “Already canceled everything. Don’t be annoying, just eat.” That was the moment. You didn’t say anything then, but you knew. And then… the Instagram post happened. Minho, known for a perfectly curated CEO Instagram filled with black-and-white office photos, coffee mugs, and the occasional blurry cat picture, uploaded a photo of you. You were half-asleep on the couch, cuddling Soonie, with a blanket barely covering your legs. The caption? “I don’t like people. But I think I like her.” \#MarriedLife #MaybeNotSoBad #SheFeedsMyCats. You nearly threw your phone out the window. When you confronted him, red-faced and holding back a laugh, he shrugged. “Well, it’s true. Then, under his breath: “…I think I like you too.” Now your routines are a little different. You still trip over things. He still acts like sarcasm is his love language. But there are sleepy morning cuddles, late-night cat videos in bed, and coffee cups with “CEO’s favorite person” scribbled on them. And Minho? He’s not just your husband now. He’s the one who kisses your forehead when you think he’s mad. The one who takes photos of you doing mundane things and keeps them in a locked album. The one who now smiles when he says, “Don’t be late. I’ll wait for you.”

Arranged or not, it turns out love can grow even between a grumpy CEO and the chaotic disaster he calls his wife. And he wouldn't trade it (or you) for anything. Except maybe a fourth cat.

CHANGBIN

Seo Changbin – arranged marriage (aka gym rat husband with too many protein bars). You didn’t hate him. You just… didn’t know him. Which was a problem, considering you were now legally married. Changbin wasn’t cold or rude like you’d expected. If anything, he was too nice. The kind of awkward polite that made everything ten times weirder. “Good morning,” he’d say with a stiff nod, standing in the hallway like a guest in his own home. “Did you, uh… sleep well?” You’d blink blearily at him with toothpaste foam in your mouth and give a thumbs up. He’d smile like that was a full sentence. The routine settled fast: wake up, avoid eye contact, eat in silence, exist in separate rooms, occasionally bump into each other in the hallway and say things like “Nice weather,” even when it was raining. Changbin filled the space between you two with noise. his music, his workouts, the sound of protein shake bottles being aggressively shaken at 7 a.m. like maracas of doom. He was the kind of guy who labeled his snacks, used coasters religiously, and never left a dish in the sink. But you couldn’t hate it. You wanted to. It would’ve made things easier. But the thing is… Changbin was gentle. Soft voice. Softer eyes. Always said “excuse me” even when it wasn’t necessary. Even the cats that wandered into your neighborhood liked him. Betrayers. You tried to keep things distant. Professional. Emotionless. But one day, you came home soaked from the rain, your umbrella snapped, your bag drenched, and your patience gone. And instead of ignoring it, Changbin ran over with a towel, pulled you inside, and scolded you like a wet child. “You could’ve gotten sick! Why didn’t you call? I would’ve come to get you!” “…You don’t even have my number.” That night, he saved his contact in your phone as “Husband #1 (limited edition)” and made you ramen while you wore his hoodie. It snowballed from there. He started leaving post-it notes everywhere: “Don’t forget lunch , you’ll faint and I’ll be blamed.” “I put your socks in the dryer. You’re welcome.” “If you steal my protein bar again, I’ll sue. Just kidding (unless you do it again).” You started sitting with him during his gym sessions just to annoy him, asking things like: “Do you lift with emotion or spite?” “Is that your workout face or your constipation face?” “How do your arms fit into sleeves??” He’d throw a towel at your face and mutter, “I married a menace.” But he was smiling. The turning point came when you were crying. It wasn’t dramatic. You just had a rough day. work stress, a canceled plan, someone yelling at you over something dumb and you couldn’t keep it in. You thought you’d locked your bedroom door, but Changbin knocked softly and peeked in anyway. No words. He just sat beside you, offered his hoodie sleeve, and let you cry without asking questions. You sobbed, “Why are you so nice to me?” And he said, “…Because I care, even if I didn’t expect to.” You didn’t say anything. But after that, everything changed. You started eating meals together. Watching movies. Going on “we’re-not-dates” that somehow felt like dates. He even started letting you share his snacks (a big deal, honestly). Then one night, while the two of you sat on the floor playing some dumb board game you found in the back of a closet, you asked, “Do you ever regret this? Us?” He looked at you for a long time. “No,” he said quietly. “I just wish I knew you sooner.” Now? He still works out at 7 a.m., and you still mock him for drinking stuff that smells like blended chalk. But he wraps an arm around you when he sleeps, leaves space in the fridge for your impulsive dessert buys, and kisses your forehead like it’s a habit he never wants to break. It wasn’t love at first sight. But it’s love now. And if anyone ever dares say this marriage wasn’t built on something real, Changbin will fight them. With emotional damage and biceps.

HYUNJIN

Hwang Hyunjin – arranged marriage (aka dramatic art husband with a tragic monologue for everything)nYou expected drama when you were told you'd be marrying Hwang Hyunjin. The man was a walking poem. A painting come to life. The human embodiment of “I only drink rainwater and cry to Debussy." What you didn’t expect was silence. Not elegant, movie-worthy silence. Just… plain awkward silence. The kind where you’d both walk into the kitchen, lock eyes for 0.3 seconds, and then pretend the fridge was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. Hyunjin wasn’t rude. He was polite, respectful, a little stiff but always civil. He said “good morning” and “sleep well” like it was scripted. You once sneezed, and he bowed and said, “Bless you,” as if you’d just performed Hamlet on Broadway. He spent most of his time in his art studio, which you weren’t allowed to enter. You learned this the hard way when you knocked once and were met with, “Please… not now. The muse is fleeing.” You closed the door slowly, wondering if “the muse” was a metaphor or a literal pigeon. The tension was suffocating. You were two strangers sharing a home, avoiding each other like roommates in a haunted house. The most intimate you got was when you both reached for the soy sauce at dinner and almost touched fingers. He gasped. You blinked. It was chaos. But then you got sick. Nothing serious, just a fever. But you passed out in the hallway and woke up to a flurry of blankets, cold compresses, and the sight of Hyunjin frantically whispering, “You’re not allowed to die. That would be… tragically inconvenient.” After that? Something cracked. He started hovering. “Are you cold?” “Did you eat?” “Here, I painted you this because your eyes looked sad yesterday.” It was a painting of a wilted flower with a single sunbeam touching it. Dramatic. Excessive. Ridiculously beautiful. You teared up. “This is about me?” He looked away, ears red. “…It might be. The man began spiraling in affection. He’d leave sketches outside your door like secret admirer notes. He’d watch you while you read, then pretend he wasn’t when you looked up. You caught him once writing a poem that included your name and the phrase “gentle destruction” and he nearly swallowed his pen in panic. And then… the art studio. One evening, he called you in. Nervous. Fidgety. Hair tied up, hands covered in paint. You stepped inside, expecting portraits or abstract chaos. Instead, you saw you. Dozens of versions of you. Sleeping. Laughing. Crying. Even one of you brushing your teeth, titled: “The Mundane Divine.” You turned slowly. “Hyunjin…” He bit his lip. “I hated this marriage at first. I didn’t want to be forced into anything. But then I saw you. Really and i…” “You’re in love with me.” He blinked. “That was going to be the last line of my speech, but yes.” You stood there, heart pounding, eyes stinging, realizing that this man, this soft, dramatic, chaotic whirlwind of a man had fallen for you in silence. Through stolen glances and paintbrushes. Through unspoken worries and 3 a.m. tea offerings. You walked over, paint-stained floor forgotten, and kissed him. Soft, real, wordless.His eyes widened. Then fluttered shut. “Finally,” he whispered. “The muse returns.” Now? You still find random sketches of yourself everywhere. He still monologues about cereal choices like they’re Shakespearean tragedies. But he holds your hand like it’s art, kisses your forehead like you’re sacred, and calls you his “greatest masterpiece” when he thinks you’re asleep. Arranged marriage? Maybe. But it was never forced love. With Hyunjin, love was always waiting. It just needed a little time and a very dramatic entrance.

PERM TAGLIST 📌🔖 ──── @the-sea-called-history02 @oc3anfloor

[midnight-bay-if]

I just stumbled across the demo, and it's fantastic! I'm already in love with N and Umbra, Umbra in particular! (something about them!) let me know if this is too much, but how would the ROs react to someone with sexual trauma, who is scared/nervous about being physically intimate with the ROs after having scarring experiences in the past?

(Thank you so much, anon! And this isn't too much, but I have avoided answering asks where consent is questionable... I'm less comfortable with that. But since this is more about providing comfort, I will answer. Also, sorry for the long wait for this one. This was a heavy one for me, and these characters are complicated. Heavy trigger warning for this. It's not graphic, though.)

S: They could hear it in your voice; the cracks, the pauses, the tension in your throat, the words wilting away whenever you tried to find them. You feel the need to explain yourself, because sometimes you flinch away on instinct, and your immediate response is to apologise for your own body. It hurts them every single time.

After another evening spent conversing, listening, hands wandering, fingers circling skin with a delicate tickle, a stray touch causes you to pull away, and Selby feels their heart freeze.

“Talk to me,” they coax gently—not an order, but an invitation. “I am right where I want to be, and I have no intentions of leaving. You can tell me anything, and my affection for you will remain unchanged. I promise.”

So, you talk. And talk. You tell them everything. For the most part, Selby listens quietly and patiently, barely breathing through the long lapses of silence between the more difficult sentences, with a palm open, should you decide to lay your hand in theirs. When you are done, exhausted and unable to share another word, they lean forward, watching your reaction very closely before pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your knuckles.

“Words cannot express my sorrow for you, my darling,” they whisper, misty-eyed. “I hope you know I will never expect more than you are willing to give.” They pause, collecting their thoughts, pushing down the anger they feel for those who hurt you, so they might pull the soft words they need to reach you. “My heart is already yours, so do with me what you please. I would crawl on my knees and beg for mercy at the feet of your demons before I ever wilfully hurt you. Tell me what you need, and I will make it so.”

Rain: This is their fault. How stupidly blind are they? So caught up in the feeling of tenderness, and butterflies, and all things sweet, they failed to recognise the very real fire burning beneath. How long had it been burning for you? How long had they been adding fuel to the fire?

You had been cuddling up together beneath layers and layers of blankets, watching another classic movie you had been dying to introduce to them, when, lost in their own head and feelings, they thought to slide a teasing hand across bare skin. It was supposed to be teasing, seductive, sexy… but you pulled away, quickly, breathing harshly and with the bubblings of panic. Rain felt stricken.

You were afraid. Of them.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I thought—” the confession dies in their throat. “I’m sorry…”

They feel terrible, especially when you sit down with them, calming your own racing heart in an effort to comfort them and explain why you reacted the way you did. Their stomach turns with every word, and they cannot help but imagine how impossibly helpless you must have felt. With every stray tear they cry, they quickly swipe it away with the cuff of their sleeve. They have no right to cry in the face of your strength.

“I am so sorry you went through that, and I hope you know that it was wrong and none of it was your fault.” The words feel completely inadequate, but they needed to say them. They needed you to hear that much. “I also hope you know that my affection for you isn’t riding on a touch. Even nights like this, just sitting together, watching a movie, with only the TV light to illuminate us, make me fall more deeply in love with you every second. There is nowhere else I would rather be. Your journey of healing is yours to take; know I will be staying apace with every step.”

Taj: You are not yourself. They have noticed you retreating further and further away, the closer they try to pull you in. It’s difficult to not feel hurt, to not doubt, to not question. Not you, but themselves. Did they say something? They are always guilty of something, some misguided statement, or ignorant dismissal. Their only conclusion is that they have already managed to fuck this up—this one good thing.

One evening, it all becomes a little too much. You are sat quietly, knees tucked into your chest, your arms wrapped around them, as if trying to make yourself appear as small as possible. And Taj freaks out.

“Can you just tell me how I’ve fucked up?” The words come out harsher than they intended, his tone chastising, but by your flinch, you don’t seem to realise it is themselves they are castigating, not you. “Fuck… I didn’t mean to...” they pause. They really are a piece of shit. “I-I’m sorry; that’s not— I wasn’t trying to—”  the words are stunted, disjointed, an apology unfamiliar on their tongue. But they want this to work. They need this to work. “Can we just, like, talk? I’m not angry or anything,” they say, purposefully dropping their tone to barely a whisper, “but I can feel something is going on with you, and I’m… afraid.”

You finally share what has been on your mind about why you sometimes struggle with the aggression, the assertiveness, the touch; they feel sick. Sick at the world, sick at the sick fuck who dared to hurt you, and sick at themselves for not seeing it sooner. For not realising.

They want to hurt someone. They feel it building inside of them—the inexplicable rage. But the last person they would ever want that to be is you. So, they force the fire down; it sits in the pit of their stomach, a bomb ready and lying in wait to be pulled at exactly the right moment, but for now… it idles, and they breathe.

Finally, they slowly reach out, watching for your reaction as they gently take your hand in theirs. You don’t pull away. So, they bring your hand close and place it on their arm, ensuring your nails lightly dig into their skin. You try to pull away, feeling obvious fear that they mean to hurt themselves through you, but nothing could hurt worse than the thought of hurting you. “I want you to do this if I ever do anything you find uncomfortable,” they demand, a desperation lacing their words. “Dig your nails in. Hard. It won’t hurt; I promise.”

“Taj—”

“Listen, I’m no fucking good with words. And right now, my head is swimming with a million different ways I might kill the fucker who hurt you. Or better yet, help you do it. But that isn’t what you need to hear right now. All I can offer is myself, as I am. I hope it’s enough because I’ve thrown my lot in with you, now, Koel. I’m yours, in whichever way you need me.”

N: They see that glassy look in your eye.

It’s a look they are all too familiar with, having seen it staring back at them in a mirror on the loneliest evenings in a palace full of people, wearing little but a robe and expectation. Coercion is a mask, and one they have worn very well over the years, although never to those ends. They would never go that far. The very thought blackens their thoughts. They play the role of the most beautiful child almost perfectly, with every step rehearsed, practised, and utterly in line with expectation.

They could have said no; they didn’t. They chose it. They chose it. It’s what they tell themselves, over and over, to create a version grander than reality. They chose it.

But you didn’t.

One evening, when you are both alone, and they feel the twinge of your thoughts, a fear, a lingering guilt for your withholding touch, and the stone in place of their heart begins to crack. You want to share, to open up, but your throat burns with the unshed tears, and the words strangle in your throat.

It’s a scream subjugated into silence.

“Forgive me, my dear, but your thoughts are rather loud when distressed. If there’s something you wish to share, I am all ears. In your own time, of course. But if you truly wish to maintain your silence, I might be able to shut myself out from consciousness forcibly. If only for a while.”

They want you to have the choice; the option to say no. It’s too important.

You choose to tell.

And it breaks their heart entirely.

“My dear, if you decided you never wished to touch me, if the only intimacy we ever shared was the tips of our fingers pressed together, I would embrace you still. What happened to you should never have happened.” These words barely scratch the surface of the depth of their feeling, but it hardly feels appropriate to lament how you cannot currently snap the neck of the person responsible. Better to keep it light. “And I apologise if my behaviour has ever made you uncomfortable. From now on, you are the ruler of this chariot. I am happy to be along for the ride.”

Umbra: It takes them a long time to recognise that anything is wrong. They were perfectly content to bask in your company, sitting side by side with five inches between you, and not even question it. It was their own discomfort, their fallacy, their penchant for isolation that created this distance. It was their burden to bear, not yours.

But then you began reaching for them in the dark, trying and trusting, eventually pulling away in quiet frustration, and then they noticed. It was too easy to assume the problem was with them. Of course, you would be repulsed by their touch; it’s only natural. Until it all becomes too much, and you scream.

It’s the kind of war cry one might hear at the end of a long, bloody battle—wounded, afraid, and desperate for it all to end. It’s terrifying, and beautiful.

“Tell me,” they whisper, instinctively understanding your shriek for the cry for help it is, and feeling ready to flay the skin of the monster who created it.

You do. You share what you can, and clam up on what you can’t.

Umbra’s hand begins to shake with the breathless way you speak, and they settle it by laying it on the handle of the dagger they keep sheathed at their side.

“I will find them,” they vow, the fury uncontainable inside them.

“This isn’t about them. Umbra—”

“I will find them,” they repeat. “You won’t need to be afraid if I find them.”

[amity-moonrise]

I see so many people tell others online to avoid shein, temu, Ali express and other businesses that often profit off of unpaid labour and child labour with harsh working conditions and every. single. time…

They forget about those who are literally unable to afford anything else that is NOT from those brands or other similar cheap businesses.

I understand why supporting these companies is wrong and we personally try our hardest to avoid these brands, but not everyone is as lucky as we are. For many, Amazon is too expensive, or local small businesses and in store places. And with the tariffs going on, it’s getting worse for anyone to live a decent life.

You could argue that people don’t need cute and aesthetic things to survive, that if they can’t afford it then they don’t need to buy it because it’s not as important as food, water, and shelter. Except this argument treats poor people like they don’t deserve luxury or that they don’t deserve BASIC stuff like a nice tshirt or a cute bracelet once in a while. Do you realize how insulting that is? Especially when that person has worked so hard to live in a system that is DESIGNED TO FAIL THEM ON PURPOSE. You are reducing them to something that should only focus on surviving when there is much more to life. You are shaming them for trying to make their lives just a bit easier to handle.

You could also argue that they can just make it themselves. Well uh, guess what, they still need to buy the materials to even make it, and now the TIME to make it, which is often not possible for many who work multiple jobs just to pay for rent and food. They won’t have as much free time as someone with better income. This argument again, reduces poor people as something that don’t deserve an ounce of luxury, and that they HAVE to work unrealistically to get that luxury, while rich people can get that luxury in a second.

These companies are evil, we’re not saying that they are not. What we ARE saying is that before you decide to shame someone who buys from these companies, maybe consider their situation. They could be poor, they could be living in a rural area where there aren’t many small businesses to buy from so they have to order online. They could be disabled and find that the cheapest option for them to get anything is to order online from these stores. People forget how expensive it can get for someone who is disabled and needs medical equipment.

Boycotting is not as easy as people make it to be. People fail to recognize that there’s people out there who are reliant on certain products because of their circumstances. So maybe instead of shaming people who don’t boycott, maybe help them instead? Give them actual resources on alternative business that are ACTUALLY AFFORDABLE, because so many times we see these alternatives and they are not affordable at all for people with low incomes. Or better yet, if you yourself have old stuff, DONATE. Not just to a thrift store or a charity organization, give them to people personally who are struggling to make ends meet. If you know someone who can’t afford a nice tshirt, give them one if you have that kind of tshirt. Don’t just take an organization’s word that they will give your belongings out to people, actually give it to someone who needs it if you know that they need it. Theres SO MANY clothes and items that are being discarded because people don’t take them or get them from anyone.

If you’re able to boycott, then do it. If you’re not able to boycott, then don’t feel ashamed about it, especially when you can’t do much about it. And if you see someone who is unable to boycott for whatever reason, help them instead of shaming them for it.

Not everyone wants to or is able to fight back, protest, or boycott. And assuming that they are horrible people for that is wrong.

on a different note, if any of yall know of good businesses to buy aesthetic clothing and accessories from, pls let us know because we don’t want to have to resort to fuckin SHEIN.

[9ofspades]

So I’ve reblogged posts about this in the past — I’m firmly of the opinion that on the Literally-Minded website, it is actually of the most importance for people to word their posts in ways that

Don’t directly address the reader

and

Don’t use the imperative form.

People aren’t perfect and are going to make mistakes regarding this, but it’s something I can work towards, and it’s something everyone else can work towards. I like shouting into the void as much as the next guy, but I do have to keep in mind that because I have a nonzero number of followers, at least one Actual Human Being is going to read my post, and most Actual Human Beings do not like hearing “You HAVE to drink more water!!! Stop dehydrating yourself!!!” apropos of nothing from a total stranger.

In English-speaking cultures, it’s commonly taught that manners involve using “please” and “thank you”. The implied corollary to this: Ordering people to do things is rude.

I’m aware that tumblr’s typing culture involves a great deal of yelling, adamant insistence, and snark. I think it’s worth considering whether these are traits that are desirable in a given individual advice post. If I’m genuinely trying to help someone, or throwing advice or sharing information to the winds, I’m not going to take a berating attitude, or shout or belittle in my language. Because those things are not conducive to what I want to accomplish with my post. The “you” does slip into my language a lot, but in general I try to avoid it. I don’t know whether a given reader of my post will find it actually applicable to them, and if I’m addressing a large group rather than an individual person, there’s no need for me to type as though I’m singling anyone out or calling the entire group out.

This kind of typing behavior (the imperative wording, the “you”s) might feel easier or more natural to the person making the advice post, but they result in being more annoying or grating to the people reading the post. Since my desire is for my advice to be read and potentially followed (otherwise I could just go vent in a group chat or journal or something), the onus is, actually, on me to at least make a little bit of effort to accomplish what I’d like to, rather than just dumping it all out there in the hopes that people will ignore any unpleasantness and mine some gold from out of all the garbage.

I don’t think every single person making an advice post has to do this. However, I think that if they don’t do this, people are naturally going to bristle or react negatively or defensively to perceived rudeness, negativity, or just any kind of “OP is writing this like they’re yelling at me”.

And this is not something that we can demand that other people change about themselves. It is human and VERY common to dislike things that sound like they’re yelling at us! And it is so commonly known that second-person spiels evoke more ire than first-person ones: A conflict deescalation technique taught in a lot of elementary schools recommends focusing on “I-messages” instead of “you-statements”, because the latter sounds accusatory while the former focuses on the effects or harm done.

I think if a person is not willing to put in any effort to make their advice actually palatable to the people who need it, even just to the point of refraining from using angry wording or of using basic elementary school techniques, then it’s worthwhile for that person to consider why they want to make the post in the first place.

at best tangentially related to the "read widely" post, but i think we need to work real hard to disentangle "this is good for you" from "this is a moral imperative"

and that's something to keep in mind when you're the one suggesting an improvement, but on the famously bad reading comprehension website i think it might be more important to keep in mind when you're hearing a suggestion

like there's a disproportionate defensiveness that happens when someone says "doing this is good for people because x y z" and you hear "not doing this makes you a bad person and you should be shamed or jailed or something", and that defensiveness isnt the fault of the person who suggested you drink water or read a variety of books

[pureshadough]

crk reread - prologue

(long post with lots of images under the cut!)

why the fuck are the prologue cutscenes so low quality and bitcrunched?

are the ancients ever referred to as just The Five anywhere else in game? i think it's literally just in this single instance. very strange

soul jam's nature was so Dubious during prelaunch. are they unique to the virtue holders specifically, or a universal concept given a title and Emphasis for these exceptionally strong instances of them? we have soul stones which are described as having their essence, but its never been particularly clear if each individual cookie has a soul stone as like, their actual SOUL or not, and if souljam is moreover supposed to be synonymous in this use-case. i think devsis probably didn't really know themselves until a bit of a ways in. interesting to look back on

i have a deep appreciation for how all of the ancients get crowns & diagrams of their kingdoms behind them EXCEPT for lily

and if you didnt manage to catch on to the fact she was the odd one out of the group, this quad shot spells it out even clearer

do we ever see the flags for hb and gc's kingdoms outside of this cutscene? can't remember. surely we do

I still have no fucking idea how she's here for this.

god damn kim has been putting her heart into every single pv line since day one. i need more people to listen to the korean voice acting for this game the delivery is genuinely so fucking excellent across the board

the use of eternity in this sentence is. Interesting.

IVE NEVER NOTICED THAT THEY BOTH START TO CRUMBLE DURING THIS??? dark moon magic is some wild shit my dude

these early early game (practically prototype) cutscenes are SO strange looking by comparison to today. lily looks like shes from a newgrounds flash animation from 2008 here. wet cat

ever wondered why the vanilla kingdom is permanently airborne?

Yeah

it wasn't always airborne

you can also briefly catch the souljams scattering across earthbread in that shot!

small detail people often forget about: while many cookies have indeed escaped the witches grasp after being baked before, im of the understanding here that gingerbrave is uniquely the only cookie to have ever escaped from inside the oven itself, mid-baking process. the kid also manages to avoid most every hazard for the unknowable amount of time he was running before he at last passed out from exhaustion after attacking a wolf. King shit

corporate wants you to find the difference between these two images

oh what the fuck i COMPLETELY forgot about this. all of them knew each other pre-game! what! sure!

okay now This.

are we ever gonna come back around to this one devsis because What the fuck are you talking about. Why. Does this not completely undercut everything going on with white lily. In the first 15 minutes of playtime. WHY DOES STRAWBERRY PROCEED TO NEVER BRING THIS UP AGAIN. GINGERBRAVE DOESNT EVEN ACKNOWLEDGE THIUS AT ALL IN THE MOMENT???? ITS SO DARK IN HERE

the sugar gnomes immediately approaching three Actual Children when they happen to congregate within the ruins of the old kingdom they lived at and going REBUILD SOCIETY is so fucking funny to me

i know the intentions of most of this is near-exclusively to teach the player the base game mechanics but the concept of cookie cutters as they function in the gacha being a Real Thing in this universe is so. ????!?!??!?!?!??!?

i recall wizard gets disproven here a few chapters later but Man even the game cant decide on which variation of its lore to go with

SUMMONING BEACON

ahhh yes good old chili pepper and her singular personality trait of Is A Thief. i will be skipping most of her dialogue henceforth

will we EVER elaborate on what this fucking power from "The Legends" is supposed to be. Ever. We are so far removed from this initial plot at this point. devsis has the opportunity to bring back the funniest chekhovs gun in all of fiction

custard cookie's korean performance makes him INFINITELY more tolerable to listen to. dare i say its Cute, Even. he's just a little guy.

thats about it for prologue besides a bunch of really short & unvoiced tutorial cutscenes. I am forever haunted by the fact like 70% of the details established in this like 45 minute stretch have been pretty much completely abandoned in the modern day. GOD I WISH THEY DID ANYTHING WITH STRAWBERRY SEEING A COOKIE GET EATEN. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. i remembered she had *a* scene involving a witch encounter but not whatever the hell they were trying to do with THIS. The missed potential for her to have the most insane possible conversations with DE/lily. A literal nine year old coped better with seeing god consume its own creation than her. Fuck.

[sirensslament]

REQUITED (unrequited pt2) yeon sieun x reader

summary!: After a brutal fight, a shared secret, and a long walk in the rain, you’re left holding feelings Yeon Sieun won’t name. But silence can’t last forever. When the weight of waiting finally breaks you, you corner him with the truth — and this time, he doesn’t walk away. Subtle confessions, long glances, and everything unsaid begin to unravel.

"You kissed him. And then you ran. And now you are doing everything in your power to pretend like you did not, in fact, do either of those things."

read pt 1 , based on this ask!

Pairing: oblivious!sieun x pining!femalereader

Trope: slow burn, mutual pining, reverse confession, one-sided (but not really), emotionally constipated genius x emotionally spiraling fighter

Genre: fluff, slice of life, school life, romance

Note: idk something abt writing fluff does something to me- coming from a 24/7 ovulating female.

Word count: 5k

warnings !: none!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You don’t take the usual hallway anymore, the one with the flickering ceiling light and the peeling corner of bulletin board paper, where Yeon Sieun always stands in front of his locker like he’s been rooted there since the dawn of time. You used to pass him every morning. Sometimes he’d glance at you. Most of the time he wouldn’t. Either way, it used to be... tolerable.

Now, it’s radioactive.

Like brushing against a live wire. Like touching a bruise you forgot you had.

Instead, you snake through the longer way, cutting behind the old faculty office and down the back stairwell that smells vaguely like mothballs and rusted pipe. There’s always a faint clack of a loose ceiling tile above the second landing, and the handrail leaves a faint chalky smear on your palm if you grip it too tight.

It adds three minutes to your morning commute. You do it anyway.

Every single day since that night.

The night you kissed him.

You haven’t stopped replaying it. Not once. You’ve tried. God, you’ve tried. You’ve buried yourself in homework you don’t understand, watched brainless dramas on double speed until the subtitles blur, even cleaned your entire room, dusting baseboards, wiping your mirror twice, until your mom stood in the doorway and asked if you were possessed.

But nothing works. Because you remember everything.

The bite of wind against your cheeks. The empty street humming with quiet. The soft shuffle of his shoes against the pavement when he turned to face you. That infinitesimal pause, the breath between thought and motion, when your fingers brushed his sleeve.

The way he stood so still. So heartbreakingly still.

The silence between you stretching taut like thread about to snap.

The way his breath ghosted against your cheek, his eyes locked on yours and not looking away. Not moving. Not blinking.

Like he was waiting.

And then...

You leaned in.

Just slightly. Just enough. Just far enough for your mouth to brush his and realize that this wasn’t a mistake. That maybe he’d wanted it, too.

Because he didn’t flinch. Didn’t freeze. Didn’t say anything.

He just... let you.

And you...

You ran.

What kind of person kisses someone in the dark and then runs away like they’ve just committed a felony?

A coward. A reckless, impulsive coward who acts on months, maybe years, of pent-up feelings and ruins it in five seconds flat.

Three days. It’s been three days.

And in those three days, you’ve:

Spoken only to Suho, because if anyone would let you avoid your feelings like it’s a competitive sport, it’s him.

Started sitting closer to the back of the classroom, where the sunlight doesn’t hit your face and no one asks questions.

Typed, and deleted, and retyped a dozen messages to Si-eun. You never pressed send.

Thought about the kiss more times than you can count. Wondered if he even noticed it at all. If it even registered.

Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was just one of those things you do in the heat of a strange, cold night. He probably filed it away somewhere in that calculator brain of his under “Does Not Compute.”

The thought should make you feel better.

It doesn’t.

It makes your chest clench.

You step into the classroom and immediately lower your head. It’s automatic now. Don’t look. Don’t check. Pretend like he doesn’t sit exactly two rows ahead, in his same chair with that hunched-over, surgical precision he brings to everything. Even breathing.

You pretend you don’t know the exact shape of his shoulders when he leans over his desk. The slope of his spine. The way his pen scratches across the page, rhythmic and sharp.

You slip into your desk and crack open your notebook, though the words blur the moment you try to focus on them. You blink twice. No use.

Your head’s somewhere else. Again. Always.

“Hey."

A straw jabs your cheek.

You blink. Look up.

Suho is slouched beside you, legs sprawled under the desk like he’s allergic to good posture. He’s got a juice box in one hand, his pearly whites glinting faintly as he grins with half-lidded mischief.

“Earth to loser,” he says, voice way too loud for how quiet the classroom is. “You’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes. You good, or should I call an exorcist?”

You swat the straw away. “Do you want to die today?”

He grins, unfazed. “You’ve been weird lately. Not fun-weird. Sad-girl weird.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“I’m just saying,” Suho says, turning more fully toward you, elbow on the desk now. “Something’s off. You look like you’ve been thinking really hard, which is already suspicious.”

You glare. “I swear to god—”

“You know what I think?” he interrupts, voice too smug for your liking. “You’re either in the middle of an identity crisis, or…” He raises an eyebrow, biting off the end of his straw. “You did something.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

He hums, not buying it. “You definitely did something.”

You scoff, snapping your notebook closed like the sound might shut him up too. “Why don’t you go bother Beomseok or something?”

“Because he's boring. You’re not.”

You don’t reply.

There’s a pause. A real one this time.

When you glance over again, his smile’s gone. His brows are slightly drawn together.

“…What happened?” he asks, quieter now. “Really.”

Your stomach twists.

You force out a laugh, brittle at the edges. “Nothing happened. Seriously. You’re being dramatic.”

He doesn’t look away.

“Right,” he says finally. “And I totally believe that.”

You look down. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your desk, knuckles whitening.

He knows.

Or at least he suspects. Of course he does, Suho’s many things, but oblivious isn’t one of them. He’s seen the way you orbit around Sieun, like some helpless moon caught in his gravitational pull. Seen how your expression softens when you talk about him. How your voice falters when he walks into a room.

He’s the only one who’s watched you fall, slow, silent, hopeless.

But he doesn’t push. Not right now.

You’re grateful. And also, not.

Because if he pushed, maybe it would all spill out.

The kiss.

The silence that followed.

The aching absence of a reaction.

The way Sieun didn’t even flinch. Like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t touch him.

You suck in a breath. Look up.

Just for a second.

And there he is. Right where he always is.

Yeon Sieun. Perfect posture. Perfect concentration. Perfect stillness.

The same AirPods. The same black pen. The same quiet intensity in the way his fingers move, precise like he’s drafting blueprints instead of taking notes.

You catch a glimpse of his profile, the delicate curve of his nose, the slight crease between his brows. He doesn’t look your way. Not even once.

And maybe he never will again.

Something in your chest cracks.

Because you are not the same.

You still feel the warmth of his skin under your fingertips. The shape of his mouth beneath yours. The unbearable quiet in the air before you fled.

You still feel like a wire stretched too tight. Like one wrong word will snap it.

You blink hard and look away.

Suho’s still watching you.

You shove your notebook into your bag with more force than necessary.

He blinks. “Whoa, where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” you say quickly. “I just...don’t feel like studying right now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”

You don’t answer. Just stand. Sling your bag over your shoulder and move.

You feel Sieun’s presence like a pressure in the room. A shadow at your back.

You don’t look.

The second your feet hit the hallway, you finally breathe again.

But it’s shallow. Tight.

Because even out here, even away from the weight of his silence, the memory follows you.

That moment. That kiss.

The quiet question in your chest that still hasn’t gone away:

Why didn’t he stop me?

And worse...

Why hasn’t he said anything since?

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The clock ticks loud in the kind of silence only apathy can bring.

Most of the class is talking, not loudly, but with that kind of half-hearted energy that creeps in when a teacher is ten minutes late and the threat of supervision has fully dissolved. It’s background noise. Faint laughter, lazy murmurs, someone crunching chips way too loudly two desks over.

You, for once, are minding your business.

Actually doing your work.

Maybe because Suho left an hour ago- something about an emergency, and without his constant commentary, it’s easier to pretend you care about the problem set in front of you. Maybe because it’s the only thing stopping you from glancing two rows forward.

Or maybe because you still haven’t stopped spiraling from That Night, and you’d rather calculate quadratic equations with a gun to your head than think about how Sieun hasn’t looked at you once in the last hour.

He’s there, of course. Sitting perfectly upright, left hand bracing his notebook while his right scribbles down neat, efficient notes. The corner of his lip twitches sometimes, but it’s not emotion. Just concentration. His brow is pinched. He’s thinking. Like he always is.

Untouched by the chaos around him.

Untouched by you.

You snap your eyes back to your paper.

Focus.

You’ve just solved for x when Yeongbin’s voice slices through the noise.

“What’d I say? If you’re not gonna pay, don’t touch it.”

You look up, just slightly. Enough to see the source.

Yeongbin’s standing over one of the smaller first-years. A kid with too-big sleeves and a haunted look on his face, holding a juice bottle he clearly didn’t buy. His hands are shaking.

“Hyung, I didn’t know it was yours-”

“Bullshit,” Yeongbin snaps, snatching the bottle out of his hands. “You think things in this class just magically appear for you? What, you’re too poor to afford 800 won?”

The kid’s shoulders flinch.

You glance around. A few people are watching now, but no one says anything. Not unusual. Yeongbin’s never needed a reason to pick fights, he just needs someone smaller. Weaker. Quieter.

You should ignore it.

You really should.

But you’ve had a week. A week of silence, of spiraling, of pretending your chest doesn’t clench every time Sieun’s pen scratches the page and not once in your direction. You’re frayed. Brittle. You’ve been doing your best to stay invisible and it’s not working, and something about Yeongbin’s voice just tips the balance.

He starts laughing. It’s ugly. “Actually, you know what? Keep it. Drink it. I didn’t even want it. You probably need the sugar more than I do—looks like your family’s malnourished.”

Crack.

You don’t even realize you’ve dropped your pencil until it rolls off the desk.

Your chair scrapes as you stand.

Not loud. But loud enough.

The room stills.

Your desk jostles forward with the motion, legs scraping harsh against the floor, and a few people flinch. It’s quiet now. Even Yeongbin turns to look at you, eyebrows raised like he hadn’t even noticed you were there until now.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “What now?”

You walk past your desk slowly, each step deliberate.

“Could you shut up for five seconds?” you say, voice calm. Measured.

Yeongbin scoffs. “What, you care about charity cases now?”

“No,” you say. “I care about not listening to your voice any longer than I have to.”

The kid he was yelling at has already slinked back to his desk, red-faced, clutching the juice bottle like it might shield him. Smart. He knows what’s coming.

“You’ve been itching to start shit all morning,” you say. “Like your ego couldn’t handle not being the loudest person in the room for once.”

Yeongbin snorts. “Bold talk for someone who hasn’t done anything all semester except mope and make eyes at Calculator Boy.”

And there it is. The line.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t. But it slices deeper than it should.

You smile. Too wide.

“Right,” you say. “Coming from the guy who’s repeated this class twice and still can’t spell his own name without sounding it out.”

There’s a beat.

Then...

“What the fuck did you just say?”

The air shifts.

Desks creak as people lean away. Someone whispers “oh shit.” One of the girls starts quietly gathering her things, like she knows she won’t want to be near the blast radius.

Yeongbin steps forward.

You don’t move.

“You wanna say that again?” he says, voice lower now. Dangerous.

“I said,” you repeat, still smiling, “it’s impressive that you even know what letters are, considering your entire personality is built like a used punching bag.”

He doesn’t respond.

He swings.

You duck.

His fist whistles past your ear, cracking into the empty chair behind you. Plastic splinters. He barely blinks before swinging again, but this time, you’re ready. You pivot on your heel, grabbing the edge of the nearest desk and slamming it into his hip.

He curses, stumbling. That’s when you move.

Two steps forward, fast.

You throw your shoulder into him and shove.

Hard.

He staggers back into the teacher’s podium. A textbook clatters to the ground.

The room goes silent.

“Holy shit,” someone breathes.

Yeongbin looks stunned.

Only for a second.

Then his face twists into something feral.

“You bitch,” he growls, and lunges.

This time, you don’t dodge. You meet him.

You grab his wrist mid-swing, twist, and jab your elbow into his ribs, once, twice, before pushing him off and landing a quick, clean kick to his shin. You’ve fought before. You know how to fight. Fast strikes. Soft points. Disable, disarm, destroy.

But Yeongbin’s heavier. And he’s angry.

He recovers faster than expected, grabs the front of your uniform and yanks you forward. You grunt as your balance shifts, knee catching on the edge of a desk. You raise your arm just in time to block his punch. It lands hard against your forearm, pain flares white-hot, but you don’t falter. You grit your teeth and slam your palm into his chest, pushing him back again.

Someone gasps.

“Should we, like, do something?”

“No way, she’s actually holding her own—”

Another swing. This one catches your shoulder. You hiss, stumbling sideways, desk scraping behind you.

He doesn’t let up.

You dodge a wild punch, pivot under his arm, and jab your fist into his kidney. He lets out a sharp breath, staggering, but recovers too fast. You’re off-balance now. He grabs your wrist and yanks.

You hit the floor hard.

Back slams against tile. Wind knocked clean out of your lungs.

“Finally,” he spits, looming over you, knuckles bruised, chest heaving. “Think you’re funny now? Huh?”

You try to move, but pain shoots through your ribs.

Then...

A sound.

Schhhk.

The unmistakable scrape of a chair leg dragging against tile.

The air chills.

You look past Yeongbin’s shoulder.

And there he is.

Sieun. Standing.

His desk is pushed neatly back. His bag remains untouched, pen still in hand, pressed between his fingers like a blade. His eyes are calm.

Too calm.

“Move,” he says, voice quiet.

Yeongbin turns.

“What?”

“I said,” Sieun repeats, stepping forward with slow, clinical precision, “move.”

Yeongbin scoffs. “Stay out of it, freak. This doesn’t concern you.”

“It does now.”

There’s no hesitation.

Sieun moves like a switchblade, fast, sharp, untelegraphed.

He grips Yeongbin’s outstretched arm, twists it at an unnatural angle, and slams his pen straight into the pressure point between the elbow and bicep. Yeongbin yells, stumbling back, clutching his arm.

Sieun doesn’t stop.

Another step. Another strike, this one to the solar plexus. Yeongbin doubles over with a choke.

Sieun leans in close, voice still eerily calm.

“You’re slow,” he says. “Too predictable. Relying on weight and anger instead of technique. And your right foot? Always leads.”

Then, crack, he sweeps his leg and Yeongbin crashes to the floor, coughing.

Sieun straightens.

Not even breathing hard.

You’re still on the floor, staring.

Someone whispers, “Holy shit.”

Yeongbin groans, curling in on himself.

And Sieun?

Si-eun turns to you.

Expression unreadable.

“You okay?” he asks, like the room isn’t holding its collective breath. Like he didn’t just disable someone with a pen and zero emotion.

You blink.

And for the first time all day, maybe all week, you speak without thinking.

“Why now?”

His brows furrow slightly.

You press your palm to your ribs, wincing. “Why now? After this long. After, everything.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just steps forward.

Offers his hand.

You stare at it.

Your heartbeat stutters.

And then, slowly, you take it.

His grip is steady. Warm.

He pulls you to your feet like it costs him nothing.

And for a second, in the middle of a stunned, silent classroom, standing next to the boy who didn’t stop you that night, but did stop this, you finally breathe again.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Today’s been… a day.

No, that doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Today’s been the kind of day that presses down on your shoulders and drags your feet through concrete. The kind that starts with a punch to the face and ends with a fistful of paperwork and a lecture that lasts longer than your will to live.

The kind of day where you get called into the teacher’s office for “fighting,” and somehow, somehow, Yeongbin’s the one yelling, but you’re the one holding an ice pack.

“Sit,” your teacher had said, flatly, already exhausted before any of you opened your mouths.

You sat. Sieun, too. Perfect posture. Not a hair out of place. Like he didn’t just go full Jason Bourne with a pen less than an hour ago.

Yeongbin slouched in the seat beside you, cradling his bicep like he’d been shot.

Technically, he was stabbed.

Just… with ballpoint.

“Explain what happened,” the teacher sighed, pinching his nose like this headache was personal.

Yeongbin went off immediately.

“She started it!” he snapped, already gesturing with his good arm. “She shoved me, attacked me! For no reason! I was just talking to some brat, and she lost her mind, went full psycho and started throwing punches like she was born in a fucking jail cell!”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “You were bullying someone.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

Your teacher glanced at you, wary.

Yeongbin leaned forward, still clutching his arm. “You think just because she does well on some tests, she’s some model student? She’s a time bomb, sir. Walks around like she owns the place. Thinks she can get away with anything just ‘cause she’s pretty and knows how to land a punch.”

Your eyebrows arched slowly. “Aw. Did I bruise your ego?”

“You stabbed me!”

“I didn’t stab you, genius. He did.”

You tilted your head toward Sieun, who remained stone still in the next chair, expression blank, posture perfect, pen balanced between two fingers like he hadn’t just used it to wreck someone’s nervous system.

Yeongbin’s eye twitched.

But then,

He caught it.

The look.

It was barely perceptible.

But you weren’t the one who noticed it.

Sieun was staring at him. No, through him. Eyes narrow. Focused. A quiet, methodical kind of fury, cold and clinical.

That same pen, the pen, was now clutched loosely between his fingers. Not threateningly. Just... visible.

Visible enough that Yeongbin’s voice faltered mid-sentence.

You didn’t catch it. You were too busy glaring at the teacher’s desk.

But Yeongbin saw it.

Saw the way Si-eun’s gaze didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Didn’t have to.

And whatever Yeongbin was about to say died right there in his throat.

He shut up.

The meeting ended with a mild warning, a long-winded lecture, and a stack of paperwork you only half listened to. The teacher let you off easy, “Since this isn’t like you,” he’d said. “You’re usually a good student.”

Yeongbin stormed out grumbling about “favoritism” and “pretty privilege.”

You didn’t even dignify it with a response.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The last bell rings like a gunshot through your skull.

You’re halfway through packing your bag when your phone buzzes, and without thinking, you hit Answer.

“Yo.”

“Hey,” Suho’s voice floods through the speaker, warm and familiar. “You sound dead.”

“That’s because I am,” you mutter, jamming your books into your backpack. “Guess what happened.”

“Did you punch someone again?”

“Again?”

“Just guessing based on your tone.”

You sigh and drop into your seat. “Yeongbin picked a fight. I responded. Sieun intervened. With a pen.”

There’s a pause.

“Wait...what?”

“He stabbed him, Suho.”

“Like, actually? Is there blood?”

You glance down at the faint bruise on your forearm. “There’s trauma.”

“Shit,” he says, voice rising. “What’d that prick do to you?”

“It’s fine. I held my own.”

“As you should.” He huffs. “Still. Should’ve been me. I would’ve kicked his ass in two punches. Three, if I wanted to be polite.”

You grin despite yourself. “Thanks for teaching me how to fight, by the way.”

“You’re welcome. I take payment in ramen or affection.”

“I’ll pencil you in for both.”

There’s a beat. Then: “You okay?”

You pause.

You glance across the room, where Sieun’s still seated at his desk, like the day hasn’t even touched him. He’s packing his bag with slow, deliberate movements, same as always.

You swallow. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

You nod, then realize he can’t see that. “Yeah.”

“All right. Call me if he breathes near you again. Or if you need ramen. Or if you need someone to throw hands on your behalf.”

“You just want a reason to hit Yeongbin.”

“Yeah, and?”

You laugh softly. “Talk later.”

“Later.”

You hang up.

And before you can chicken out, you grab your bag, straighten your shoulders, and walk up to Sieun.

“…Hey.”

He looks up.

His expression doesn’t shift.

But he nods once. “Mmh.”

“You heading home?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool,” you say, shifting awkwardly. “Mind if I walk with you?”

He pauses. Then, to your quiet relief...

“Okay.”

You both step outside.

And that’s when it starts to rain.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It starts slow, just a few drops. Enough to speckle the pavement and darken the edges of your sleeves. You glance up.

“Great,” you mutter. “Of course.”

Sieun doesn’t say anything, just adjusts the strap of his backpack and starts walking.

You follow.

The rain thickens by the second, turning from a drizzle to a steady curtain of water, soaking the back of your neck and making your socks squelch inside your shoes. You didn’t bring an umbrella. Neither did he.

“I should’ve expected this,” you say, trying to fill the silence. “Bad weather follows bad days, right?”

Sieun hums, noncommittal.

You glance at him.

His uniform’s already sticking to his frame, plastered to his arms and back. His hair’s wet. Water drips off his jawline in slow, deliberate trails.

And yet, he walks like he doesn’t notice. Like the weather’s a minor inconvenience compared to the storm he already lives in.

You kick a loose pebble. It splashes pathetically.

“…So,” you say, “have you killed anyone with a pen before, or was I your first?”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then: “Second.”

You blink.

He looks at you.

You squint. “You’re joking, right?”

He blinks once. “You decide.”

You bark out a laugh, too sharp, too sudden, but it feels good.

“God,” you mutter, wiping water off your cheek. “I can’t believe that actually happened.”

Sieun stays quiet.

The silence stretches again.

You glance at him.

“…You didn’t have to step in.”

“I know.”

You frown. “Then why did you?”

He hesitates. A breath too long.

“Because you were losing,” he says simply.

You flinch.

Ouch.

“Wow. Okay. Brutal honesty, got it.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

You scoff. “No, it’s fine. I was losing. Just didn’t realize you were keeping score.”

He exhales, barely audible. “That’s not what I meant.”

You stop walking.

He does too.

The rain doesn’t.

“…Did the kiss change anything?”

Your voice is quiet.

Barely above the sound of the rain.

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

His hair is dripping. His eyes are unreadable. His mouth parts slightly, like he wants to speak, but doesn’t.

Finally...

“Yes,” he says.

You freeze.

Then, just as quietly: “How?”

His gaze drops.

He takes a breath.

And says, “I don’t know yet.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding it for hours.

“Great,” you mutter. “That’s so reassuring. Really.”

“I’m not trying to confuse you.”

“You’re not trying anything at all.”

You regret it the second it comes out.

He doesn’t respond.

Not right away.

Instead, he turns back toward the road and starts walking again.

You don’t follow at first.

But then, quietly, you jog to catch up.

You fall into step beside him again, wiping your face with the sleeve of your soaked blazer.

“I make everything worse,” you mumble.

“No,” he says, without looking at you. “You don’t.”

The rain falls harder.

But it’s quieter between you now.

Softer.

You glance sideways. “Do you regret it?”

“The kiss?”

You nod.

“No,” he says.

Then, almost too quiet to hear: “But I don’t know what to do with it yet.”

You swallow.

Your hands curl in your sleeves.

“Okay,” you say.

And the rest of the walk is silent.

But it’s the kind of silence you don’t have to run from.

Not yet.

Not tonight.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It’s been a week since the rain.

Seven days since you walked home with him in silence, water trailing down your spine, his voice echoing in your head like the softest kind of hurt.

“I don’t know what to do with it yet.”

Since then, nothing’s changed.

Not really.

He still looks at you the same way across the classroom. Still keeps to himself. Still answers when you speak, still watches when you fight, still keeps that invisible line drawn tight between you like crossing it might ruin something that never even got the chance to start.

But you’ve changed.

Or maybe, you’ve just run out of places to hide it.

There’s only so many times you can catch yourself staring. Only so many times you can hope someone says something back. Only so many moments you can keep wishing, quietly, pathetically, for something that might never come.

It’s exhausting, loving someone like that.

Someone so precise. So unreadable.

So cold on the surface, but soft in the moments he doesn’t realize you’re watching.

And you’re tired.

You’re so tired.

You find him after school.

You wait for him to pack up, let him put his pens in the zippered pouch he always keeps lined up like weapons, wait for him to tug his backpack on and slide his chair in like nothing matters.

Then you move.

Your hand catches the edge of his desk before he can step past it.

He stops.

Looks up at you.

Expression unreadable.

“Come with me,” you say.

He blinks.

But follows.

You don’t take him far.

Just the rooftop, the one place at school no one bothers to check, because the lock’s rusted open and the staircase is grimy and students are lazy.

You push the door open and walk out first.

Let the cold spring air hit your lungs. Let the wind pull at your sleeves and blow your hair into your face.

He steps out behind you. Shuts the door with a soft click.

And then it’s just you and him.

No one else.

Not the other students. Not Suho. Not Yeongbin. Not the teachers. Not your friends or his ghosts or anyone who could interrupt the quiet weight between you.

Just the concrete rooftop and the sky and the truth you’re ready to spit out whether it shatters or not.

You turn to him.

He’s standing there like he always does, shoulders squared, eyes flat, jaw tight. Braced for a fight that hasn’t started yet.

He doesn’t ask why you brought him up here.

He doesn’t have to.

You take a breath.

You’ve been rehearsing this for days.

But now that it’s here, it feels heavier than it ever did in your head.

“I like you.”

The words cut clean.

Sharp.

He blinks.

But doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t know how, or why,” you go on, louder this time, hands trembling at your sides, “and I sure as hell didn’t plan to. But I do. I like you.”

The silence crackles between you like something alive.

You laugh.

It’s bitter.

“I’ve been waiting,” you say. “This whole time. For something. Anything. For you to say something that told me I wasn’t insane. That I wasn’t just seeing things that weren’t there.”

His mouth parts, barely.

But no sound comes out.

You swallow.

Hard.

“I’m not trying to pressure you. This isn’t about that. I’m just, done.”

His eyes lift to meet yours.

You feel it like a bruise.

“I’m tired of guessing how you feel. Tired of making excuses for your silence. Tired of pretending I don’t care when you act like nothing happened. Like I didn’t kiss you. Like we didn’t...feel something.”

You pause, breathing shaky.

“I just wanted you to know. Before I let go.”

Silence.

You close your eyes.

And whisper, softer this time:

“I’m letting go.”

You move to turn around.

But,

“Don’t.”

Your feet freeze.

You turn slowly.

His voice is quieter than anything you’ve ever heard him say.

Almost like it hurts.

“…Don’t let go yet.”

Your heart stops.

He’s still staring at you.

But there’s something different in his gaze now.

Something raw.

Unmasked.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he says, the words awkward on his tongue like he’s still testing how they sound. “I didn’t plan to feel anything either. I didn’t mean to.”

You don’t speak.

You don’t even breathe.

“But I did.”

Your breath catches.

He shifts his weight, like this is physically difficult. Like the confession is stuck in his chest, fighting to get out.

“You matter to me,” he says finally.

And somehow, those four words hit harder than any poetic declaration ever could.

You blink, hard.

He looks away for a second. Then back.

“I didn’t want to say something and not mean it right. I didn’t want to promise anything I couldn’t give.”

“You don’t have to promise anything,” you say quietly. “I just wanted to know if it was real.”

“It is.”

It’s so quiet, you almost miss it.

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

“Then why didn’t you say anything before?”

He looks at you, really looks.

“…Because if I lost you, I didn’t want it to be because I said the wrong thing.”

Your throat burns.

“I was already halfway gone.”

“I know.”

And still, he takes a step forward.

Then another.

And another.

Until he’s standing in front of you, too close, too warm, too him.

He reaches out.

Not to hold your hand.

But just to brush your sleeve with the back of his knuckles. So light it almost doesn’t touch.

“But I want you to stay.”

You inhale sharply.

His eyes don’t move from yours.

“You said you’re letting go,” he murmurs.

“…Yeah.”

“Don’t.”

You almost laugh.

Instead, your lip trembles.

“You’re really bad at this.”

“I know.”

And then...

He leans forward.

Just slightly.

His forehead brushes yours.

Not a kiss.

Not yet.

Just that quiet, electric closeness.

That unbearable tension.

“I can’t say everything you want me to say,” he whispers. “Not yet. But I feel it. All of it.”

Your hands curl into the fabric of his uniform.

You nod.

That’s enough.

For now.

a/n: this was less fluffier than i anticipated.

[angelchub]

cw: reader has terrible social anxiety (could also be read as agoraphobia and/or neurodivergence)

gaz is an observer, always has been. the most perceptive man out of every single squad he has been a part of. it’s a skill that played a huge part in getting him to the rank where he stands now in the military, it’s truly only natural that when he’s home and not involved in any potentially deadly mission, the screws in his brain still turn that way. he notices things, every single detail about them, and stashes them in the back for later. you never know when it might come in handy.

so, when he sees you sitting across from him in the tube for more than two days in a row, he does what he does best.

you’re a nervous thing, gaze darting around the subway car like you’ve never seen one before, reading the signs and ads right above his head. your huge bag set in your lap as you hug it in your arms, the strap still hanging from your shoulder, almost like you’re ready to bolt. your movements are repetitive, as you wipe the sweat off your hands on your clothes and check that your necklace is centered on your chest, that the sleeves of your dress aren’t falling down your shoulders, that your mascara hasn’t smudged on your bottom lid. over and over again. he notices how you squeeze your wide thighs together, trying to make yourself as small as possible in detriment of your own comfort, how you get even more twitchy as the men sat on both sides of you not only don’t appreciate your efforts to avoid bothering them, but they double down on their leg-spreading, caging you in in a way that can’t be pleasant for you.

on the first day he ever saw you, he remembers you double-checking your phone a ludicrous amount of times, caught a glimpse of the public transport app on your screen. poor girl, so scared of getting it wrong. he hasn’t seen you do that in a few days, tho, you must have gotten the hang of it. you get on before he does, and leave before he does, on westminster. you look a tiny bit younger than him, maybe fresh off of college, maybe new to such a big city, which could explain the deer-in-headlights expression permanently etched onto your face.

so cute, thinking he doesn’t notice you ogling him back when his head drops down towards the book in his hands. you underestimate his peripheral vision, babes, and it wounds him a little. he loves playing this game with you, this little dance. you stare and then get embarrassed and look away when he catches you. then, he looks at you head on for a few seconds, his eyes on the side of your face and a grin curving the corner of his lip, before he stops and gives you the chance to start the cycle again.

he intimidates you, he can tell. gaz wracks his brain, as he stares at your back when you get up to leave (you were already prepared for it more than three stops ago, slowly making your way to the doors on unsteady legs). thinking of ways to approach you that won’t immediately make you wanna run away from him, although he suspects that’s the default reaction from you.

until he figures it out, maybe he can have some fun with you in the meantime. he will change things up, sit next to you tomorrow instead of across the aisle. maybe search for the book with the most inappropriate scenes that he owns, so if you do manage to catch a glimpse of what he’s reading, you can get a little surprise, a little distraction from the never ending stream that must be your thoughts. god, he can almost see your wide eyes already, the bewildered smile you try hiding.

think of it as you guys’ first inside joke, hm? many more to come.

[thisismycorneroftheinternet]

On gross news, I am finally recovered from the dengue fever with no further symptoms (I think), but hoo boy are my tonsils pissed off and filled to the brim with big ass stones.

[doctorwhoprimers]

Well I cannot tell you the ten best episodes because there are wildly differing opinions on that. But I can build you a watch list - and I can build you a better watch list if I know something about what you are interested in. You've said you want to know more about the Doctor specifically, so I will try to make that a focus of my recommendations.

Two caveats: first, you said you count two-parters as a single episode. Most of the first 26 seasons of Doctor Who is organized into serials consisting of 4-6 half hour episodes, so a typical story of 4 parts is the same length as a two part episode in the more recent series. I will give the number of episodes in parentheses so you can get a sense of how long things will be

Second, many episodes from the first six seasons (the black and white seasons of the First and Second Doctors) were destroyed and exist only as reconstructions of various qualities. I am going to avoid recommending those ones by and large, and mark when I do.

So: Classic Who "must see" watch list

First Doctor (William Hartnell)

An Unearthly Child (4)

The Daleks (7)

The Edge of Destruction (2)

The Aztecs (4)

The Dalek Invasion of Earth (6)

The Rescue (2)

The Romans (4)

The Chase (6)

The Time Meddler (4)

The Tenth Planet (4)

Second Doctor (Patrick Troughton)

The Power of the Daleks (6)

The Evil of the Daleks (6)

The Tomb of the Cybermen (4)

The Enemy of the World (4)

The Web of Fear (4)

The Mind Robber (4)

The Seeds of Death (6)

The Invasion (6)

The War Games (10)

Third Doctor (Jon Pertwee)

Spearhead from Space (4)

Doctor Who and the Silurians (7)

Inferno (7)

Terror of the Autons (4)

The Curse of Peladon (4)

Day of the Daleks (4)

The Time Monster (6)

The Three Doctors (4)

The Green Death (4)

The Time Warrior (4)

Planet of the Spiders (6)

Fourth Doctor (Tom Baker)

* the Fourth Doctor has seven seasons. I don't think I can keep this to ~10 recs...

Robot (4)

Genesis of the Daleks (6)

The Hand of Fear (4)

The Deadly Assassin (4)

The Face of Evil (4)

The Invasion of Time (6)

The Ribos Operation (4)

The Pirate Planet (4)

The Armageddon Factor (6)

City of Death (4)

Full Circle (4)

Warrior's Gate (4)

The Keeper of Traken (4)

Logopolis (4)

Fifth Doctor (Peter Davison)

Castrovalva (4)

Earthshock (4)

Time-Flight (4)

Arc of Infinity (4)

Mawdryn Undead (4)

Enlightenment (4)

The Five Doctors (Special)

Resurrection of the Daleks (4)

Planet of Fire (4)

The Caves of Androzani (4)

Sixth Doctor (Colin Baker)

The Sixth Doctor only has 11 stories, which in this era are divided up into hour long episodes. This is all of them:

The Twin Dilemma (2)

Attack of the Cybermen (2)

Vengeance on Varos (2)

Mark of the Rani (2)

The Two Doctors (3)

Timelash (2)

Revelation of the Daleks (2)

Trial of a Time Lord (14 half-hour)

Trial of a Time Lord is a full season arc, but has four embedded stories:

The Mysterious Planet (4)

Mindwarp (4)

Terror of the Vervoids (4)

The Ultimate Foe (2)

Seventh Doctor (Sylvester McCoy)

The Seventh Doctor only has 12 episodes. They are all 4 parts long. This is all of them:

Time and the Rani

Paradise Towers

Delta and the Bannermen

Dragonfire

Silver Nemesis

The Happiness Patrol

Remembrance of the Daleks

The Greatest Show in the Galaxy

Battlefield

Ghost Light

The Curse of Fenric

Survival

I had to make some hard decisions here. I tried to privilege companion arrivals and departures. These aren't necessarily the best episodes (although tastes differ and reasonable minds can vary), but they are the most plot relevant I think, and will paint a cohesive intelligible picture.

Of course it may be that you enjoy it so much you will want to watch all of it! I hope you do!

Please ask me questions about any of these - I am here to help

My personal favorite episode is "the Caves of Androzani," and I think at the moment my personal favorite incarnation of the Doctor is Colin Baker, but I do very much love every era in its own way.

Best of luck to you!

Classic Who watchers!!! I call upon thee!

I have a request. Can you guys tell me what are the best arcs or episodes of each Doctor? I don't have enough time in my lifetime to watch the entirety of Classic Who, but I can manage that much.

I will also watch their regeneration episodes (the one they regenerate and the first one after) aside from arc episode reccomendations. Please let me know when each regeneration arcs begin!

Write down each episode's name, number and season number so it's easy for me to find.

Thanks! I look forward to knowing more about my blorbo The Doctor.

As a bonus, tell me which one is your fave!