#and tailored by your algorithm

[canisalbus]

Which is your favorite platform? (of the ones you have accounts to post things I mean. I can't imagine it being Instagram since you don't really post there which honestly fair)

Tumblr, Twitter (X?) bluesky? Something else?

I think I'm going to have to go with tumblr, and it's not just because we're here. Twitter and Bluesky are nice and my experiences on both are overwhelmingly positive. But tumblr has an atmosphere that encourages originality, sharing your creations and talking about things in depth.

[bonehilda-deactivated]

i don't like the pressure on artists to have a social media presence. i don't want to see your morning routine, in fact, i don't want to see you at all. Off you go to your cabin in appalachia to write 9 minute songs about the passage of time and the vastness of memory. You can still fuck your bassist but DON'T make a tiktok about it. your only existence to me should be on a name on the album cover.

[y2kstarr]

— ᥫ᭡ say so . . . chris and matt sturniolo

where . . . Chris and Matt both spot you at an influencer party they'd gone to, and now they need to see who can bag you for the night. But what happens when, to their surprise, you want them both?

contains . . . smut, build-up to the smut, threesome (absolutely ZERO incest), Eiffel Tower position, oral (m!receiving), unprotected p in v, dirty talk, degrading and praising, heavy chratt bickering

credits to @delilahsturniolo for the marathon concept

HOT PINK WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #5

It was one of those nights in L.A. — every room lit by ring lights and camera flashes, every corner filled with people who lived for the scroll, swipe, and algorithm.

The lights at the party were dim and dreamlike, flickering between pink and gold. The pool out back shimmered beneath strings of fairy lights, dotted with floating roses that looked like someone’s aesthetic choice purely for Instagram. Voices blended into an intoxicating hum of flirtation, clout-chasing, and alcohol-fueled egos.

Having already downed a few drinks and chatted up multiple people, Matt and Chris had been scanning the party for some real fun to get their hands on.

That was when they spotted you.

You were standing by the glass railing, drink in hand, watching the crowd like a cat in a room full of mice. You looked like you didn’t belong — but in the best way. Like the party was orbiting you, not the other way around. Eyes that held secrets. A smile that could break careers. Legs for days.

Matt nudged Chris with his elbow, low and sharp. “There. The one by the railing.”

Chris followed his gaze, and his eyes instantly lit with that telltale look — like a kid eyeing a locked candy store. “Yeah,” he said slowly, almost reverently. “She’s… wow.”

“I’m going over.”

“You? I don’t think so. You’ll scare her off with your fake-deep ‘I do yoga and listen to The Weeknd on vinyl’ bullshit.”

“At least I don’t wear the same cologne as every crypto bro in this zip code.” Matt adjusted his shirt, the top three buttons undone, chest lightly glistening under the party lights. “Let’s see who she actually wants.”

Chris scoffed, fixing his hat on his head before smirking and following his brother, the both of them approaching like wolves in heat wearing designer sneakers.

Chris got to you first, his hand landing gently on the railing beside yours as he leaned in close, just enough for you to catch his cologne — clean, spicy, intentional. “So tell me something,” he said with a smooth, tilted grin, “are you always the most interesting person in the room, or is tonight special?”

You turned your head slowly, meeting his eyes with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. “Is that your opener?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

Before you could answer, Matt appeared on your other side like a scene change. He handed you a drink—something pale pink and artfully garnished. “She already has a drink,” Chris muttered even as you took the glass from him.

“This one actually tastes good,” Matt said with a wink. “Trust me.”

You took a sip out of sheer curiosity. He wasn’t wrong.

You raised an eyebrow as you took the drink away from your lips, looking between the both of them, curious as to what exactly had pulled them both over to you. “And you two are…?”

“Brothers,” they said at the same time. Then immediately glared at each other.

“Twins?” you asked.

“Triplets,” Chris corrected.

“Our brother, Nick, bailed on us to hang out with a girl in an outfit made entirely of glitter,” Matt added.

Ah, Tara, you thought, snickering and shaking your head as you took another drink, not noticing how they both looked over you and gave challenging glares once more.

Chris tried the classic charm offensive — eye contact that lingered too long, compliments that felt tailored just for you. “You’ve got this vibe,” he said, watching you closely, “like you know you’re hot, but you’re not annoying about it. It's refreshing.”

Matt countered by leaning into humor and empathy. “Ignore him. He probably says that to any girl who orders oat milk at Starbucks.”

Chris rolled his eyes before scoffing. “You fuckin' order oat milk at Starbucks, dumbass.”

You laughed, warm and unfiltered. They both visibly lit up like they’d won something. And now the game was far from over.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

They pulled out every trick in the book throughout the night.

Chris took you to the dance floor, guiding you with one hand on the small of your back, showing off the rhythm he usually showed off in tiktok videos. “I could do this all night,” he murmured in your ear as the beat dropped. You felt his confidence like static against your skin, making your laugh and just feel yourself as you swayed your body to the music with him.

Matt waited for his moment and found it when you took a break, lounging on a cushioned daybed near the pool. He sat beside you, just close enough to graze your leg. “You know,” he said, voice lower now, more serious, “most of the people here only care about how many followers you have. But I was watching the way you look at people. You see through them. That’s rare.”

Chris walked out to join the two of you, more drinks in his hands as he gave you a toothy grin, adding onto what Matt had said. "Yeah, it's like you're out of this damn world,"

You tilted your head at them both, scoffing softly. “You guys rehearsed these lines or something?”

“Absolutely not,” they both said at the same time.

Which made you laugh again. Damn them. They were too good at this.

As you all drank the shots of expensive tequila Chris had got, he told a story about them that had you nearly spitting out your drink laughing, Matt unable to not snicker along with it as well, the environment warm and thick.

By now, the tension between them towards you was crackling like the edge of a storm.

“So,” Matt said, tapping his glass, glancing over it at you as if he wasn't losing his mind hoping that you'd pick him, “who’s winning?”

You looked at both of them, smile teasing.

Chris leaned in, smug. “Come on, we both know you’ve already picked.”

You bit your lip, leaned back into the cushions, stretched your legs like a queen waiting for her court to bow. “Actually…”

Their eyes locked on you, anticipation tight in their jaws.

“…I was thinking maybe I don’t have to choose.”

Silence. Then a synchronized blink.

Chris was the first to speak. “You’re joking.”

Matt tilted his head. “Wait. Are you serious?”

You just smiled, sultry and slow. “Why pick one when I can have both?”

Their smugness melted into something else���surprise, intrigue, hunger.

“Damn...” Chris said finally, breaking into a crooked grin. “I like you.”

Matt laughed, a little breathless. “Dangerous.”

You smirked at their reactions before you stood, glancing over your shoulder to look down at both of them, raising an eyebrow. “Are you coming, or do I need to find someone else to entertain me?”

They scrambled up like excited puppies, speechless, for once outmatched.

And you? You walked ahead, knowing they’d follow.

Because they were players. But tonight? You were the game.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The bass thudded through the marble floors of the house like a heartbeat too fast from too much tequila and attention, thankfully making noise to cover up the obscene sounds coming from the bathroom you, Chris, and Matt snuck in to finally have some fun.

"Fuuuuck—" Chris groaned out as his grip tightened around the makeshift ponytail he'd made for your hair in his hand, looking down and watching the way you took his cock in your mouth like it was meant to be there.

Your nails dug into his thighs as you gripped them to hold yourself steady, your eyes glossy and fluttering a bit as you looked up at him, being met with that smirking grin on his lips.

"Look like such a pretty fuckin' slut for us, huh Matt?" Chris cooed to you, reminding your of the deliciously thick cock that was Matt's, sliding in and out of your sopping wet pussy from behind.

"Shit— Yeah she does.." He breathily responded, but his eyes stayed trained on how his cock disappeared into your cunt before he'd pull back and repeat, your warm, gooey walls making him bite his bottom lip hard, especially as you clenched around him each time Chris got a little rough with your mouth.

You moaned around Chris's cock as you felt Matt's hands on you, one gripping your hip tightly and the other sliding up your arched back underneath your scrunched up dress around your waist, your tits freed from your earlier make out sesh with Chris as Matt had been busy getting off your panties.

"Goddamn baby, you're just loving this, aren't you?" Chris groaned, his free hand holding his shirt up to his torso so that he had a clearer view of you. He chuckled at your slurred "mhmm" around his cock, your responses muffled by your full mouth.

Chris couldn't help as he gripped your hair harder, thrusting his cock a bit more into your mouth, making small gags and noises spill from you as you let him fuck your mouth, his groans mixing into the noises that filled this dimly lit bathroom.

"Fuckin' hell— y' gonna make me cum, baby—" Chris panted, earning a chuckle from Matt for not holding out as long as he was, but Chris ignored him as you gripped his thighs harder, his other hand nearly tearing his shirt with how hard he was holding it. His breathing became shaky, his legs trembling a bit as his hips sputtered against your mouth.

"I'm gonna— Gonna cum— Holy fuuuuck—" Chris gasped out, groaning loudly as you felt his cock twitch against your tongue before pumping his thick, warm cum down your throat, making tears fall down your already mascara stained cheeks, but you held out, especially with his hand keeping your head in place.

"Told you I'd last longer," Matt snickered, though groaning at the way your pussy clenched around his cock due to you swallowing Chris's sperm, missing the way Chris flipped him off.

"You try fuckin' her mouth next time, then we'll see if you're tough shit," Chris snipped back, looking down at you as he pulled his cock from your mouth, smirking at how your tongue licked up the rest of his residing cum on your lips, before helping you stand up just a bit.

"Fuck— Next time? You hear that, ma?" Matt breathily asked, watching the way you put your hands on Chris's chest to keep you upright before turning your head to look back at him, your pink, glossy lips parted as you face already looked fucked out, making him groan. "You wanna see us again?"

You nodded before moaning as Matt started thrusting harder, deeper into your cunt, suddenly feeling as Chris grasped your jaw and turned your face back to him, his lips brushing against yours.

"Good, cause I don't think I'll ever get enough of you," He purred low, earning a slurred giggle from you before your lips met in a messy, passionate kiss, your nails digging into his shirt as Matt hit that perfect spot within you, your moan swallowed into the kiss.

"Jesus, ma— This pussy's fuckin' amazing— Gonna get me addicted to this shit—" Matt groaned, his body leaning forward to press his chest against your back, in turn, making your chest press against Chris's as you continued to make out.

Your eyes rolled back as Chris's tongue slipped into your mouth, tangling with your tongue as you felt like you were getting drunk off of Matt's dick. God, this was fucking heaven.

One of your shaky hands reached back to meet Matt's that still held your hip, gripping it in an attempt to tell him you were close.

"Y' gonna cum, mama? Yeah? This dick that fuckin' good?" Matt cooed, chuckling as Chris pulled from the kiss to glare at him before delving back in to kiss you harder, your moans and whines spilling into his mouth and in between breaths, his hands palming at your tits.

As that burning ecstasy built in your abdomen, you felt as Matt kissed at your shoulder and neck, biting and kissing over the hickies both of them had made during the make out sesh earlier. The sensation of everything felt like too much, Chris's hands kneading your tits, Matt's dick pounding your sweet cunt, both of their mouths on you.

"'M gonna cum ma— Cum with me— Fuck, please cum with me—"

It hardly took much of Matt's begging to make that pleasure snap within you, your back arching hard, your legs shaking, your hands gripping Chris's shirt like a life line, your lips parting from his to let out a loud, gorgeous moan, especially as you felt Matt's hips stutter before pumping your pussy full of his cum, thick spurts painting you gummy walls.

After a few more moments of Matt riding out your highs, he stilled, all three of you panting in near unison, spent and blissed out. Matt chuckled breathlessly at your face, loving the way you looked completely fucked out now.

"Was that good for you, ma?" He asked, earning a nod and a slurred "mhmm" from you before he leaned in to kiss you, soft and deep, before parting, feeling as Chris pressed his lips to your ear, whispering sultrily into it.

"So, who was better?"

You huffed as you rolled your eyes, your voice a bit strained and tired as you answered back. "Both of you were fucking good.."

"Yeah, but I was better, right?" Chris asked like a puppy looking for validation to boost his ego.

"C'mon dude, she was moaning all over my dick," Matt protested.

"Yeah? Well, she was cryin' all over mine."

"That was cause of me."

"Like hell it was! Did you see the way she was drooling on my dick??"

You huffed as they bickered, too tired to tell them to knock it off, just resting your head on Chris's chest and closing your eyes.

Oh you were definitely going to do this again.

☆ : this one's also not proofread, so i'm really sorry if it's bad, i'm so tired chat �� I fuckin started my bloodbath this morning and i'm in pain- BUT IM PULLING THROUGH THE BEST I CAN FOR YALL- hope y'all enjoy, mwah <33

taglist 🏷️

[hcneymooners]

the odd soft launch of homophobia is starting to truly irk me.

there’s been a lot of conversation lately about paige and azzi and the nature of their relationship, and to be honest, it feels so clear to me that what they have goes beyond friendship. there’s something about their connection that feels deep, unspoken—like they’re soul-tied. but amid the speculation, i've also seen people call out the "deniers," saying things like, “at this point, y’all are just being homophobic.” and while i’ve hesitated to say anything, i do think this conversation is worth having—because, honestly, yes.

yes, a lot of the reactions to it are rooted in something deeper and more uncomfortable.

for a long time now, i’ve seen people deny anything could possibly be going on between the two of them. they say it’s to protect the girls or to respect their privacy—but under that, i think there’s a fear. a fear of what it would mean if they were together. because then they’d be “those” people. part of a group that still gets othered, questioned, and in many cases, rejected. and when you factor in paige’s strong christian faith—which has drawn in a lot of religious, often conservative fans—it gets even more complicated.

i think it’s easy to believe we live in a progressive world when you’ve tailored both your real life and your algorithm to reflect that, but the truth is that culture has shifted heavily to conservatism. people are bolder now in the ways they talk about marginalized people, even if they’re trying to dress it up as concern. i saw someone comment on a video calling paige a “real woman”—and it just reinforced this feeling i’ve had.

there’s this uncomfortable desire to fit them into a narrow, safe idea of womanhood and straightness. and to be even more honest, for a lot of people, it’s about wanting paige—blonde, blue-eyed, that “all-american” look—to not be with a mixed, black woman like azzi. no one says it out loud, but the silence is loud enough.

i think a lot about how society still doesn’t take relationships between women seriously. we see it over and over again—sapphic relationships being dismissed as “just a phase” or romantic friendships. there’s a safety in calling someone your best friend, especially when the world isn’t safe enough to call them your partner. and people eat that narrative up because it lets them ignore what’s right in front of them. and i see that happening constantly with paige and azzi. it’s almost like people need to believe it’s not real, just so they can stay comfortable.

at the end of the day, they’re free to conduct their relationship however they want—it’s theirs. they don’t owe us anything. but i do think some of you need to partake in some serious self-reflection: why does the idea of them being together make you uncomfortable? is it really about protecting them? or is it about protecting your idea of them? how much of your reaction is shaped by internalized homophobia or racial bias?

and i say this gently, but also truthfully: some of y’all are projecting strange fantasies onto these girls, especially paige. there’s a level of obsession, of placing her on this untouchable pedestal, that honestly starts to feel more about possession than admiration.

it’s worth questioning what’s really going on there because it’s uncomfortable to witness.

[pseudowho]

Operation: Babymaker-- Honeytrap/Maid Café

When it comes to trying for a baby, Nanami Kento always works overtime. And the reader had better be ready.

You are sent undercover to a Maid Café on ovulation night, to Honeytrap a curse-user for capture and trial. Kento is pissed off, and he won't be letting anyone get away with this lightly.

💛💜Part 1 LINK HERE: A Trip to the Tailors

💛💜Part 2 LINK HERE: Benchpress

💛💜Part 3 LINK HERE: Ditch the Party...again

💛💜 Part 4 LINK HERE: Wet Dreams

💛 💜 Part 6 LINK HERE: Grapple

Warnings: 18+ throughout, breeding kink, fertility/infertility discussion, jealous Kento, exhibitionism, use of toys

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Ships in the night.

Five days...a week...a week and a half. Kento couldn't take it anymore. The universe was conspiring against him. Against you. Work had meant you had barely shared a room together, let alone a bed. Kento hissed as he threw a file onto Yaga's desk, his neck prickling with rage...his balls heavy and untouched.

Another two months of negative tests had passed. He was still yet to see you, swollen and round with his seed. He was still yet to justifiably refuse for you to be sent on dangerous missions. His heart broke for every dribble of cum he saw trickle out of your pussy after he was finished with you.

Kento had taken to plugging you with his cock until he was ready to fuck you full of his seed again. Forcing your arse up on pillows, his cock still cushioned within you, Kento would overstimulate you with your vibrator. With you pinned and whimpering beneath him, his cock throbbing to life again inside those plush clenching walls, there was nowhere your shaking orgasms could suck his cum other than up.

Kento was obsessed. He could feel this desire to breed you becoming pathological. He read dirty doujinshi, full of x-ray panels of cocks spurting cum straight into empty wombs, soon swollen and bursting with load after load. He fisted himself with urgent strokes while reading these, your panties wrapped around his hand, moaning into your pillow with your smell, each time stopping just before he came...just in case you were to arrive home early. Which, you never did.

He cursed at the unreliability of ovulation tests, and grabbed your freshly discarded panties out of the laundry basket instead, fingering your discharge between forefinger and thumb, assessing for that egg-white stretch. You woke up more than once to a thermometer being snuck into your mouth, Kento logging your signs onto a spreadsheet, waiting for that golden ovulation algorithm to ping.

In a mad moment, he even considered buying a long syringe, so he could jack off, fill it, and then fill you with his cum while you slept, exhausted from your long days. Kento laughed at himself, horrified by such a truly insane, unthinkable notion...although...

Kento shut himself into his office, barely suppressing a groan at the thought of squirting his warm cum straight through your cervix. Kento crouched down on his haunches, cock beginning to ache and fatten, and raking his fingers through his neatly parted hair.

With a groan and a prayer, Kento pulled out his phone and messaged you. At first he was thrilled, his heart leaping with love when you text him back immediately...before the slow descent into madness began again.

Your knees. Your panties around them. Your fingers, dabbing clear, stretchy discharge between them.

Kento's cock had never stiffened so quickly in his entire life. He stood, silent. He left you on read. He couldn't possibly put thoughts as debauched as his into words, he thought, stalking through the corridors and paths of Jujutsu High until he reached his car.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Kento arrived home with a spring in his step, listening to old, saved voicemails and voice notes you had left him, on his drive home. His cock ached, stretching against his tan trousers, weeping pre-cum. He planned to keep you up all night, but he'd graciously keep filling you, prone and sleepy (with your permission, of course), if you tapped out.

"Darling!" He called out, tossing his briefcase into the corner before slamming the door closed with his foot, "I'm home!"

Except, you weren't. He could feel that instantly, and a seed of horror sowed itself in his core, growing into something far meaner as he picked up the note you had left behind on the kitchen counter for him.

Kento's hand shook, crumpling the paper between strong fingers with a crunch.

He had had enough.

Reaching into his pocket for his phone, he dialled, waited...and spoke.

"Ijichi? Tell me where she is. Now, please."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

A brothel, barely masquerading as a Maid Café, skirting the borders of the entertainment districts and the red light districts. The usual Friday night haunt of a Curse user who had been evading capture for months. The dump where you had been sent to honeytrap him before he could escape again.

Kento had dressed to fit in, in a slim black suit and open-necked white shirt, expertly tailored, with just enough room to fit his blunt blade and harness beneath the jacket. He snaked through the dimly lit street, feeling the necking couples in alleyways, cutting through the lamp-illuminated steam billowing from noisy restaurants, until he reached some narrow stairs up, barely visible unless you knew what you were here for.

Ascending the steps, Kento could feel every curve of you on the side of his tongue, tracing your Cursed energy above the suppression of his own. He felt the Curse user, too, and Kento's face twisted into a snarl to feel such filth near you, on tonight of all nights--

"Table for one. Somewhere quiet."

The Maid demurred, smiling and simpering and barely a grown woman, Kento noted, keeping a respectful distance as she led him to his table. The lights were low enough to mute the wandering, clasping hands of the raucous tables of men. The rooms tucked to the side, bathed in red light and sin, were clearly for private commissions.

Urged into a plush corner couch, Kento turned the lamp away from himself, plunging him into shadow. He leaned back, eyes dipped low beneath dark glasses, waiting to taste you on the side of his tongue again. He accepted only a drink.

You had entered actor mode, not unfamiliar with the practice, having reeled in more than one unsuspecting Curse user over the years. In your black and white maid dress, stockings and suspenders, and tall high heels, the devilish fun of the hunt was still tainted by your lost evening with Kento.

You knew, bitterly, that you were ovulating, with sore plump breasts, that familiar low ache on one side of your belly, and your desperate need to be at home, being filled, instead of at a maid cafe trying to reel in this creep. You were doing a good job of looking like you were enjoying the feel of his cold hands creeping around your thighs. You giggled and slapped his chest when he nosed at your neck. Your new manager looked on approvingly, the new girl already raking in the customers.

Before long, you heard the other girls whispering to each other.

"--so hot, but he doesn't want anyone--"

"So what, like...he's just here for drinks? I don't get it--"

"--tried to sit on his lap and he told me I deserved better, what the hell does he mean--"

Intrigued though you were, you hardly had time to see what the ruckus was about. You were moving in for the kill, your flirtations paying off as your prey pressed a wodge of bills into the hand of the manager, and a couple of bills between your breasts.

"Let's go somewhere quiet, doll, yeah?"

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"...sir...I am sorry to interrupt your evening, sir...only, my girls have noticed that they don't seem to be to your liking. Is there anything I can do to make your visit more enjoya--"

"Your new girl," Kento offered, clipped as he interrupted. The manager raised his eyebrows, turning briefly to see you, being toyed with on the lap of another patron. The manager cleared his throat, his pocket full of a fat roll of bills, smiling awkwardly at Kento.

"I'm sorry, sir...it appears another guest has already taken a liking to--"

"How much?" Kento interrupted again, his deep, smooth voice gravitational, drawing the many wandering Maids closer to him. The manager faltered again, so Kento raised his voice, gripping his glass and swirling the bourbon within, amber in the warm distant light.

"How much," Kento enunciated, taking a long draw from his glass, with a hiss, "do you think your new girl is worth? Tell me."

The manager paused, his squirrelly little mind grasping another money-making opportunity. He offered Kento a figure. The girls jumped and squealed as Kento's hand tightened on his glass, breaking it, an audible crack in his hand.

"More," Kento pressed, dropping his glass to the table. Another figure was offered, higher this time. Kento bared his teeth, growling at the manager, leaning forwards on his knuckles as he began to stand.

"More." The manager stuttered, throwing out another, much higher figure.

"MORE." Kento roared, slamming a fist on the table, the café growing immediately silent around him. He thought he saw you try to turn your head in his direction, and a slither of violent disgust burned in his chest as he saw the Curse user grasp you to him by the neck, pressing a sloppy kiss to it.

The manager gawped at Kento, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Kento scoffed, pulling a thick stack of bills out of his pocket, passing it to one of the nearby Maids, without breaking eye-contact with the sweating manager.

"She's priceless," Kento hissed, hearing the Maids gasp behind him at the stack of bills. "So if you know what's good for you...they'll split that between them, and you will not interrupt me. Do we understand each other?"

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

You held your Curse user prey by his collar, walking backwards on your heels, leading him to the red velvet room. He grinned at you, all spit and salacious, with cigarette-stained teeth, his hands wandering down to ruck up the skirt of your dress.

You pushed the door open with your heeled foot, pulling the Curse user in with you. The door swung closed behind him, and you had barely a moment to see the hulking, backlit red-spectre lying in ambush behind the door.

"Get your dirty fucking hands off my wife, or I'll snap your neck."

Picked up by the back of the collar, and tossed sideways like a ragdoll, the Curse user hit the wall beside the bed with a dull crack, out cold in under a second. Kento snatched a curtain-tie, binding the Curse-user's hands behind him. You flustered at Kento, as he stood.

"Kento-- what the hell are you doing her--"

You felt your chin gripped, firm but gentle, between Kento's thumb and forefinger. He glowered down at you, icy cold, his protectiveness frosted with jealous possession. His voice was calm, measured, manipulative.

"What am I doing here? What are you doing here, little one? Dressed like that, no less...anyone would think you weren't married."

You swallowed, blushing and moving to defend yourself; "It's work, Kento, you know I--"

"--didnt mean anything by it? That it wasn't real?" Kento kept you gripped by the chin, slowly moving you back towards the high edge of the bed. You teetered on your heels, and he stabilised you, one thick arm looping around your waist, pressing you to him. You could feel the throb of his cock lengthening against your belly, and trembled.

"You're right..." Kento whispered, his breath ghosting your lips as he leaned down to trap you against the foot of the bed, caging you in, "...you couldn't possibly be satisfied by him, over me."

Kento fingered the lace edge of your stockings, the ruffled puff of your barely-there skirt. He shuddered against your lips, feeling his cock jump in his boxers.

"...seems a shame to waste this. Let's give these bastards a real show, shall we?" Kento hooked open the door with his heel, enough to hear the laughs and chatter from the café beyond.

After pressing a single, deep kiss to your lips, Kento dropped to his knees, glaring up at you in challenge. You found yourself glassy-eyed with anticipation, biting your lip, smiling as you teased the ruffles of your skirt up, to edge your lace stockings; "...do you like it?"

Kento bit, gripping you round the thighs and pressing them open with bruising force, aggressively nuzzling his face under your skirts. You squealed, laughing as he nipped and licked at you, growling against your mound and nuzzling your wafer-thin panties aside; "I love it...fuck, I love it, c'mere--"

Kento hooked your knees over his shoulders, looping his arms under your thighs to pin you against the foot of the bed. You heard a passing Maid outside your door gasp at the same time as you, at the sight of Kento kneeling and shoulder-deep in the ruffles of your skirts, your stockinged legs over his shoulders, his tongue plunging between your folds to taste you with an ecstatic moan.

"--oh god Kento-- yes yes yes please," you babbled, sinking your fingers into his hair and tugging at the roots. Kento murmured against your pussy, lubricating you with his spit, rolling his nose, tongue, and chin up and down the length of your folds, with all the fervour of a man deprived.

You heard whistles and catcalls from the café, and blushed, throwing one arm over your eyes, your pleasure building with the sloppy debauchery of Kento dipping his tongue into your entrance and nuzzling his nose firmly into your clit. He repeated this, patient, stroking his tongue over and around your clit with relentless wet flicks and sucks. When Kento gently nipped your clit between his teeth, you screamed in alarm, juddering and close to orgasm.

You clamped your thighs around Kento's head, muffling the sounds of the café around him. Reaching up two fingers, plunging them into your pussy and hooking them forwards towards him and the squashy g-spot in your cunt, Kento hooked you. Flicking his tongue from side to side over your clit, Kento chuckled against your pussy, his cock leaping within its confines.

"--in front of every-- Kento, fffuuuck please close them-- nnnngg cumming, cumming I'm cumming--"

You cried out in bliss, convulsing, gripping Kento's hair for dear life. In tandem with your twisting and mewling, you heard a chorus of cheers, hoots and clapping in the café, the men jeering and the women giggling. You shuddered, stunned, still wracked with pleasure.

"More?" Kento asked, nuzzling between your folds still, gripping you tightly to him so you couldn't clamber away across the bed. You babbled nonsense at Kento, slapping at the top of his head as his pulled his face away a little, and repeated, louder; "MORE?"

More cheers sounded from outside, and Kento grinned beneath your skirts, diving in to pleasure you again. You could barely stay upright, seeing stars, crunching around his head. The Curse-user began to stir on the floor to your right, as Kento dragged you across the coals to another stinging orgasm, so sharp after following your first so closely.

Kento came up for air to find you, flopped backwards, flushed and gasping on the bed. Slapping your thighs hard enough to make you squeak, Kento reached down and pulled you up by the back of the neck, pressing a long, familiar kiss to your lips. Tasting yourself on his mouth, you knew his next words to be true.

"Mine. Now, always, and especially-- fucking-- tonight," he emphasised each word with a brittle slap to your thigh. Flipping you over against the bed, face down and arse up, your heeled feet wobbling against the floor, Kento sighed, flipping your skirts up and admiring the view. He trailed his fingers against the top of your stockings, and the way the plush of your thighs peeped over them.

"Still no fucking baby-- and you fuck off to seduce another man tonight? The audacity," Kento purred, and you heard the clink of Kento undoing his belt behind you.

Kento was hooking his weeping, heavy cock out of his boxers just in time to see the Curse-user awaken, dazed and furious at Kento stroking his cock in preparation, over his Maid, strewn helplessly over the bed. Kento smirked, letting his Cursed-energy burst out with enough force to leave the man on the floor, and you on the bed, breathless with the stormy oppression of it.

"...you bastard-- that's my...I paid for her," the Curse user snapped, straining against his bonds. Kento laughed, bracketing you with his thick arms against the bed. His left hand grasped your left hand as he lined his aching cock up with your entrance. Kento slid your clasped hands, wedding bands clearly visible, across the sheets towards the Curse user.

"Yeah? I married her," Kento growled, kicking your heeled feet aside and fucking into you in one smooth movement, rocking his hips a few times against your cries, until he bottomed out with a roar. Kento pulled you to him by your hair, and smacked an affectionate kiss to the side of your face, before flinging you back against the velvet sheets.

He stood tall, gripping your hips to press your pussy close, and cracked his neck from side to side. He heard the enthusiastic crowd behind him, feeling a bizarre prickle of competition down his spine.

When Kento began thrusting into you with joyful abandon, you felt every vein, every throbbing ridge of him. Gripping the sheets for something, anything to stop you from being fucked up the bed, you screamed into the sheets with every hit. When you turned round to shoot Kento a blushing look of barely-sincere fury, Kento landed a stinging slap to your arse, and the Maids behind you giggled at the door.

Kento was lost in the moment, thrilled to be finally able to fill your belly, ecstatic with the knowledge that he was about to spill into you at just the right point in your cycle. His pleasure built fast, grasping your hips and slamming them back onto his cock, with rough slaps and grunts. He controlled himself for long enough to slip his hand beneath your mound, pinching and rolling your clit between his fingers while he whispered husky promises in your ear.

"--so fucking good-- waiting for me...haaah yes, take it-- good girl-- fuck a baby into you tonight-- you want that? Hmm? Is this-- is this it-- is this the--the one...fuck, not gonna last, cum with me, c'mon, please--"

Kento reached over you, his hand grasping you by the neck and jaw, craning your head backwards. He thought he'd be able to last, but when you sucked his forefinger into your mouth, your wet little tongue rolling over the pad as you suckled on it, Kento came with a slew of curses, a rough, alarmed bark.

Wildly overstimulated, you clenched around Kento as he pumped thick ropes of cum into you, feeling him tense and groan against your back with the blinding force of his orgasm. He continued to roll your clit, plugging you and panting until you came with a shaky little cry, your pussy tightening and sucking at his cock until he shivered with residual bliss.

Panting, coming down from your respective highs, you and Kento both turned to look at the Curse user on the floor. A noisy round of applause rang in from the café and you laughed despite yourself, wiggling against Kento.

"Lucky bastard..." the Curse user whined into the rug, "Piece of...piece of shit...should have been me--"

"Fuck off," rumbled Kento, "you're lucky you're not dead. Save it for trial."

You felt Kento rummaging in his pocket behind you. As he slipped his softening cock out of you, you squealed to find yourself hurriedly filled with a dildo, plugging you all the way to your belly. You groaned against the sheets, squirming, and Kento flipped your skirts down.

"...do you want to finish your shift?" He offered, voice full of mirth. You kicked back at him with one heeled foot as he laughed.

"If this is the one that gets us pregnant, I'll kill you."

[ms-demeanor]

The thing about LLMs is that they're like cars that have a touchscreen on the console; it's more expensive and worse than what came before in almost all circumstances.

And like car touchscreens it's something that I suspect that the vast majority of consumers dislike and would prefer not to use.

But that doesn't mean that touchscreens are bad it just means they don't belong in cars.

It *IS* a massive problem that "AI" is being shoved at us by a bunch of people who invested WAY too much into AI and are trying to make a return on their investment. It is *ALSO* a problem that "AI" is a terrible name for the pattern interpretation tools that tech companies have dumped billions of dollars into so people are being told that a lot of things that are just pretty basic algorithmic tools are "AI," which makes the whole thing feel overhyped, oversold, and useless (which it is for a tremendous number of people!)

But I get really frustrated with claims that AI slop is what ruined google search (google search has been ruined for a long time; when their goal became "people need to do more searches so we can serve them more ads" instead of "we need to return the best results for our users" it was destroyed and that had nothing to do with AI and everything to do with a profit motive) or that AI is why we're being inundated by spammers (spammers have been a problem for a VERY long time) or that it's impossible to find good info these days because the internet is full of garbage AI articles to generate clicks (that has been the BANE OF MY EXISTENCE in terms of research for MUCH LONGER than GPT4 has been around it is called search engine optimization and if you haven't had your results full of poorly written non-information listicles for the last seven years I suspect you haven't been doing quite the same volume of searching as I have been).

These are known problems that are being exacerbated by this particular kind of tool, but the problem with phishing isn't that the emails are extremely tailored to particular users, it's that the world is chock full of scammers who are incentivized to treat people like shit for money.

[optiblog]

OPTİVİSER - GOLD

Welcome to Optiviser.com, your ultimate guide to navigating the complex world of electronics in 2024. As technology continues to evolve at a rapid pace, finding the right devices that suit your needs can be overwhelming. In this blog post, we’ll harness the power of AI to help you make informed choices with our comprehensive electronics comparison. We’ll take a closer look at the top smart home devices that are revolutionizing how we live and work, providing convenience and efficiency like never before. Additionally, we’ll offer expert laptop recommendations tailored to various lifestyles and budgets, ensuring you find the perfect match for your daily tasks. 

AI-powered Electronics Comparison

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As we delve into the world of consumer technology, it's important to highlight the Top Smart Home Devices 2024. From smart thermostats to security cameras, these devices are becoming essential for modern households. They not only enhance convenience but also significantly improve energy efficiency and home safety.

For those looking for a new computer to enhance productivity or gaming experiences, consider checking out the latest Laptop Recommendations. Many platforms, including Optiviser.com, provide comprehensive comparisons and insights that can help consumers choose the best laptop suited to their needs, whether it’s for work, study, or leisure.

Top Smart Home Devices 2024

As we move into 2024, the landscape of home automation is evolving rapidly, showcasing an array of innovative gadgets designed to enhance comfort and convenience. In this era of AI-powered Electronics Comparison, selecting the right devices can be overwhelming, but we've highlighted some of the best Top Smart Home Devices 2024 that stand out for their functionality and user experience.

One of the most impressive innovations for this year is the latest AI-powered home assistant. These devices not only respond to voice commands but also learn your preferences over time, allowing them to offer personalized suggestions and perform tasks proactively. Imagine a device that can monitor your schedule and automatically adjust your home's temperature and lighting accordingly!

Moreover, security remains a top priority in smart homes. The Top Smart Home Devices 2024 include state-of-the-art security cameras and smart locks that provide robust protection while ensuring ease of access. With features like remote monitoring through your smartphone or integration with smart doorbells, keeping your home safe has never been easier. For more details on the comparisons and recommendations of these devices, you can check out Optiviser.com.

Laptop Recommendation

In today's fast-paced world, choosing the right laptop can be a daunting task. With numerous options available in the market, it's essential to consider various factors such as performance, portability, and price. At Optiviser.com, we provide an insightful guide to help you navigate through the vast array of choices. To streamline your decision-making process, we have developed an AI-powered Electronics Comparison tool that allows you to compare specifications and features of different laptops side by side.

This year, we have seen a surge in innovative laptops that cater to diverse needs. Whether for gaming, business, or everyday use, our top recommendations include models that excel in battery life, processing power, and display quality. For instance, consider the latest models from top brands, which have integrated the best features of Top Smart Home Devices 2024 trends, ensuring seamless connectivity and advanced functionalities.

Additionally, if you're looking for a laptop that can handle multitasking effortlessly, we suggest models equipped with the latest processors and ample RAM. Our detailed Laptop Recommendation section on Optiviser.com includes expert reviews and user feedback to help you choose a laptop that not only fits your budget but also meets your specific requirements.

[glossypolaroidkisses]

jealous college boyfriend lulu😋 take the reigns bbg😙 do whatever you want with this! go head

i hope what i came up with satisfies the vision you had 🤭 <33

The lecture hall is packed, but you force yourself to focus. Your slides, your voice, the rhythm of your words—you pray they flow exactly as you rehearsed. You’ve practiced in the mirror a hundred times, double-checked the projector, eliminated every possible technical issue.

Most of it is a blur, but the roar of applause snaps you back to reality. You did it. A grin spreads across your face as you nod in thanks, your gaze sweeping the audience.

Then, you spot him. Luigi. Clapping with conviction, his beautiful and proud smile unmistakable. God, those dimples. Only your closest friends know you’re together, most of your classmates assume you’re just close because you share lectures. But the way Luigi looks at you? If anyone paid close enough attention, they’d know.

As the excitement settles, Professor Neil—a sharp-dressed thirty-something with salt-and-pepper hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a perfectly tailored suit—leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. The pause lingers for just a beat too long before he smiles, “That was an outstanding presentation,” he says smoothly. “Your breakdown of the algorithm’s efficiency was not only thorough but incredibly engaging. Truly one of the best solo presentations I’ve seen in this course.”

You exhale, relief washing over you. “I really appreciate that, thank you, Professor Neil.”

He’s not done.

“Your articulation, your ability to distill complex ideas…” He lets out a low chuckle, “It’s rare to see someone with both the technical understanding and the presentation skills to match. Seriously impressive.” he admires. You stifle a breath. “Wow, I—” You chuckle, shaking your head. “I’m at a loss for words—”

“Don’t be.” Professor Neil interjects, his voice warm. “You came utterly prepared, and it shows. Phenomenal work.”

Luigi reluctantly watches from the audience, lips pressed together, his eyebrows furrowed. You don’t notice—too caught up in the overwhelming high of your success—but the tension in his jaw is impossible to miss.

Neil leans back, his attention flickering to the audience. “Come on, doesn’t she deserve all the praise?” He begins to clap again and the room erupts in applause. It feels like something out of a movie. Luigi forces his hands to clap. Firm, but grudging.

The noise dies down, and Professor Neil continues, “Honestly, I’d love to see you in research. You have the kind of mind that belongs in academia. Like…” He scoffs, shaking his head in amazement. “Wow, Y/N. Incredible. Everyone can learn from this blessing of a presentation we just witnessed.”

Then, just as he opens his mouth again, a new voice cuts in.

“Hm. Yeah… You made a great point, Professor.”

Luigi.

You blink, caught off guard as he rests his hand on his chin, the picture of casual, innocent curiosity. Luigi’s voice is calm, measured—agreeing, on the surface—but there’s an unmistakable sharpness beneath it. A subtle, lethal edge only you can recognize. “You know what I found especially impressive?” Luigi muses, tilting his head. “The way y/n optimized the recursion depth in the backtracking algorithm. Most people would’ve left it at the standard implementation, but she rewrote it to reduce redundant calls. Cut the time complexity significantly.”

Silence. The kind that stretches. The kind that exposes.

Professor Neil blinks. His face doesn’t falter, but you see the shift.. the brief pause.. the realization that Luigi just cornered him.

Because Professor Neil hadn’t mentioned that. Because he probably didn’t even notice.

“Oh,” your professor says after a second. “Yes… right, yes. I think that was a great detail too.”

Luigi nods, all polite acknowledgment, but there’s something simmering beneath it. A glint in his eye that says, I see through you.

You inhale, forcing a casual smile. “Oh, yeah, I figured reducing the recursion depth would make the solution more scalable,” you say lightly, playing along. “Didn’t want it to time out on larger inputs.” you explain. Luigi hums approvingly. His lips curve slightly—not quite a smirk, but close.

“Thank you for that insight and reassurance, Luigi.” you acknowledge professionally.

“My pleasure, y/n.” he replies smoothly.

Your professor clears his throat, shifting his attention elsewhere. The moment passes. But as you glance at Luigi, catching the barely-contained amusement in his expression, a warm flutter spreads through you.

That was hot.

part 2 linked hereeee! didn’t wan this to run too long lol, here’s the continuation of after you leave the lecture ..

tag list 🏷️ my loves ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ @cherrysolo @slavicdolls4mangione @clairostann @iinfinitelimits @poohkie90 @luweegeeswifey @number1yearner @noname123sposts @straw8berry (lmk if u wanna be added or removed xx)

[ducktoo]

Yako

Yabuki Nako x Reader

Note: The anon who graciously donated their story ideas, pls reveal yourself so i can properly credit you TT

also damn you (the reader) is so mean in this one lol

Nako was the kind of person you couldn’t help but notice, even if you weren’t trying to.

She wasn’t loud or attention-seeking—in fact, the opposite. She was polite to the point of frustration, always ready with a bright “Good morning!” that somehow felt genuine, even before you’d had your coffee. She had this… air about her, like she was constantly living in a world that operated just slightly differently from everyone else’s.

At first, you chalked it up to her being a little quirky. She wasn’t the type to gossip by the water cooler or complain about management like the rest of you. Instead, she spent breaks humming to herself, sketching in the corners of her notepad, or scrolling through something on her phone with a half-hidden grin that made her seem like she had a secret no one else could access.

Her petite frame and doll-like features didn’t help; she was practically tailor-made to make people underestimate her. You’d learned the hard way that behind her soft-spoken demeanour was a sharp wit and an uncanny ability to weasel out of assignments with the sweetest smile you’d ever seen.

But now, as you stared at her, all of those little quirks seemed less like personality traits and more like puzzle pieces. A series of breadcrumbs leading to the possibility that Yabuki Nako, your pleasant, slightly strange coworker…might be living a double life as a VTuber.

It was a hunch, but it didn't feel like a coincidence.

You first noticed it during one of those too-quiet afternoons at the office. The kind where the hum of the air conditioning and the sporadic clicking of keyboards were the loudest sounds in the room. Everyone else seemed to be deep in thought—or pretending to be.

You, on the other hand, had drifted into the void of YouTube, browsing the usual algorithm rabbit hole. Employee of the year, people.

It wasn’t long before you stumbled upon a clip from a VTuber. Her avatar was a tiny, overly-cute anime girl with pink hair, big sparkling eyes, and a voice so saccharine you could feel cavities forming. You didn’t think much of it—VTubers were everywhere these days, especially in Japan—but something about this one stopped you from scrolling away.

The voice.

It was familiar. Not just vaguely familiar. It was exactly familiar.

Your eyes darted across the office, scanning for the source of that nagging sense of recognition. The answer came to you when your gaze landed on Nako.

Today, she was wearing one of her usual oversized sweaters, the sleeves swallowing her hands as she typed away at her computer. Her expression was neutral, her eyes focused on the screen like she was deeply engrossed in work. But now that you were paying attention, you noticed her glancing at her phone every few minutes, her fingers tapping at it with a practiced swiftness.

And that grin. It wasn’t the polite, work-friendly smile she usually wore. It was something smaller, almost mischievous, like she was laughing at a joke only she understood.

You scrunched your nose, watching her for a beat longer than was polite.

Couldn’t be.

Just to be sure, you replayed the clip. The voice filled your ears and minds again, bright and bubbly, complete with giggles and high-pitched squeals that had "Nako" written all over them.

You shook your head. This was ridiculous. There were millions of VTubers out there—what were the odds? But as you kept thinking, the resemblance became impossible to ignore. The intonation, the slight lilt at the end of her sentences, even the way she laughed—it was uncanny.

“Uh, hey….”

You jumped, nearly dropping your phone as Nako appeared next to your desk. Her big brown eyes blinked up at you innocently. “Did you need something? You’ve been staring at me.”

Her voice was calm, level, nothing like the hyperactive VTuber’s voice… but now you couldn’t unhear it.

“Oh, uh, no. Just spacing out.” You forced a laugh and stuffed your phone into your pocket.

Nako tilted her head, unconvinced. “Spacing out? While looking right at me?”

“I was, uh, thinking.”

“About?”

Her tone was casual, but there was something sharp in her gaze, like she was trying to read your mind. And maybe she was—Nako wasn’t as innocent as she looked. You’d seen her casually manipulate her way out of covering shifts more than once.

“Stuff,” you said, shrugging.

“Uh-huh.” Nako squinted, then smiled brightly. “Okay! Well, don’t let me stop you from… thinking.”

She walked back to her desk, but not before throwing one last suspicious glance over her shoulder.

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your heart was pounding like you’d been caught sneaking into the office fridge. It was just a coincidence, right? There was no way Nako—your soft-spoken, slightly quirky coworker—was living a double life as a virtual anime girl.

Right?

But the more you thought about it, the less ridiculous it seemed. Nako was always rushing off after work, claiming she had "personal projects" to take care of. She wasn’t particularly active on social media, and when she was, it was all vague posts about being "super busy."

And now, that voice.

You glanced at her again. She was typing away at her computer, completely unaware that you were mentally unravelling her secret life. Or maybe she wasn’t.

Either way, you needed to be sure. That Nako is…that Vtuber Yako.

-

"Nako-ya," you start casually, leaning against the edge of her desk. Your posture is deliberately relaxed, the perfect contrast to the laser-sharp focus you’re secretly aiming at her. The office hums with activity around you, the clatter of keyboards and faint chatter forming a pleasant backdrop.

Nako doesn’t look up, her face slightly illuminated by the soft glow of her monitor. Her fingers move briskly across the keyboard, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Hmm? What is it?" she mumbles, barely sparing you a glance.

"Just curious," you say, tilting your head as if in thought. "Do you stream? Or, I don’t know, have some kind of secret hobby?"

She freezes. Not long—just for a split second—but enough for you to notice. Her hands hesitate above the keys, her lips parting in surprise before quickly pressing together. "Secret hobby? Me? No, not really," she replies, a little too casually. Her voice is steady, but the quick swipe of her bangs behind her ear betrays her nerves.

You shrug, keeping your tone light. "Oh, no reason. Just thought I heard someone with a voice like yours on YouTube the other day."

Her gaze finally snaps to yours. Wide eyes. A flicker of panic. Then she schools her expression, sitting up straighter in her chair. "Lots of people have similar voices," she says lightly, her lips curling into a small, tight smile.

"Yeah, totally." You nod, standing upright. But inside, your curiosity is only growing.

She’s hiding something. I can feel it.

-

A few days later, you approach her desk again, armed with a coffee cup as a peace offering. "Morning, Nako," you chirp, pulling up a chair to sit beside her.

She glances at the cup, then at you, suspicion flickering in her eyes. "What do you want?" she asks, her tone wary but playful.

"Nothing! Just enjoying some coffee and a chat with my favourite coworker," you say innocently. Then, lowering your voice, you lean slightly closer. "By the way, have you ever heard of someone called 'Yako'?"

Her reaction is instantaneous. Her fingers fumble on the keyboard, and she nearly knocks over her water bottle trying to grab it. "Wh-what? No! Why would you ask that?"

You lean back, studying her with an amused grin. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes darting everywhere but at you. She shifts in her chair, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as though shielding herself from further interrogation.

"Just curious," you say with a shrug, sipping your coffee. "Her voice sounds a lot like yours. And the way she talks? Weirdly similar."

Her laugh is high-pitched and nervous, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "That’s ridiculous," she says quickly, waving you off. "It’s not me. I don’t even watch VTubers."

"Ah, fair enough," you reply smoothly, standing up. But you catch the way her shoulders tense as you walk away, her back stiff like she’s bracing for more.

Gotcha.

-

It becomes your new favourite pastime—seeing how far you can push her without outright accusing her. During lunch one day, you sit across from her in the break room, your tray clattering against the table as you settle in.

"Catchy tune, huh?" you say, humming the opening theme from Yako’s latest stream.

Nako’s chopsticks pause midway to her mouth. Her head snaps up, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tries to gauge your intentions. "What’s that?"

"Oh, just a song stuck in my head," you reply nonchalantly, taking a bite of your food. "It’s from this VTuber I’ve been watching. You wouldn’t believe how many people think her voice is addictive."

Her laugh is strained, and she resumes eating, though her movements are mechanical. She doesn’t meet your eyes, her focus glued to the bowl in front of her. "Must be a coincidence," she mutters, stirring her rice with more force than necessary.

You nod, pretending to let it go, but you’re watching her closely. The way her grip tightens around the chopsticks. The way her jaw clenches slightly, as if she’s holding back a response.

"Funny thing," you add after a beat, "her gestures are so specific. Like that thing she does with her hands when she’s excited." You mimic the exact motion, your grin widening as her shoulders visibly stiffen.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," she snaps, her cheeks bright red now. She shoves a piece of kimchi into her mouth, chewing like it’s her only way to escape the conversation.

"Sure, sure," you say, leaning back with a smirk.

-

The office meeting is the next perfect setup. After the boss asks for creative ideas, Nako surprises everyone with a well-thought-out pitch about animated characters for a marketing campaign.

"That was… really specific," you say later, catching her in the hallway. She’s holding a stack of papers, hugging them tightly to her chest.

"What do you mean?" she asks, her tone cautious.

"You clearly know a lot about animation," you say, walking beside her. "For someone who supposedly doesn’t watch VTubers, it’s kind of impressive of how creative your solutions are."

Her eyes widen slightly, and she stumbles over her words. "I—I just… read about it somewhere!" she blurts, her voice an octave higher than usual.

You smile, your gaze lingering on her as she fumbles with the doorknob to the break room. Her movements are jerky, her lips pressed into a thin line as she avoids your gaze. "Of course. Just something you read," you say, holding the door open for her.

She hurries past you, muttering a quick "Thanks," and you can’t help but chuckle.

You’re almost there, Nako. Almost.

-

That evening, you sit at your desk at home, your laptop glowing faintly in the dim room. You have the stream open, the lively chat scrolling endlessly beside the avatar of Yako. Her signature pink hair bounces every time she moves, and the soft tone of her voice—yes, her voice—is as distinct as ever.

You recline in your chair, sipping your drink, a knowing grin already spreading across your face. Tonight’s stream is titled “CGR - Chill, Gaming, and Rant” It’s only been ten minutes since the stream started, and she’s already flustered, her voice rising slightly as she rants.

"I’m telling you, chat, there’s this coworker of mine, and they’ve been so annoying lately!" she huffs, her virtual avatar mirroring the pout you’re sure she’s making behind the screen.

The chat explodes with reactions: "LOL who is it??" "Drama at the office?? Spicy!" "Is it someone cute??"

You can’t help but laugh, stifling the sound behind your hand. There’s no mistaking the frustration in her tone, and the knowledge that you’re the source of her irritation makes it even better.

She sighs dramatically, the avatar’s shoulders slumping. "They keep asking me the weirdest questions! Like, 'Do you stream?' or 'Have you heard of VTubers?' Like, seriously? What kind of question is that?"

Leaning closer to the screen, you rest your chin on your hand, utterly amused.

Poor Nako. If only you knew I’m watching right now.

"I mean, sure, maybe my voice sounds a little like a VTuber they watch, but come on! Do I look like someone who has time for that?" she says, her tone dripping with faux indignation. The chat eats it up, spamming laughing emojis and teasing comments.

"Nako-chan sus" "Sounds like they’re onto something " "Give them a break! Maybe they’re just a fan?"

Her avatar mimics her throwing her hands up in exasperation. "A fan? Ha! If they were a fan, they’d leave me alone! But noooo, they have to keep pestering me every day."

"Come on, Nako-chan," you mutter under your breath, smirking. "It's fun trying to figure you out ."

As if on cue, she leans closer to the virtual screen, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "And the worst part? They’re so smug about it! Every time I say it’s not me, they just smile like they know something. It’s driving me crazy!"

You laugh out loud this time, unable to help yourself. The timing, the delivery—it’s comedy gold.

The stream continues, and Nako eventually moves on to gameplay, but the occasional quip about her “annoying coworker” keeps slipping in.

"Chat, imagine this: you’re trying to work, minding your own business, and someone just waltzes over to your desk like, ‘Hey, are you this another person?’" she says, mimicking your voice in an exaggerated tone. "Who does that?! Who has that much audacity? Who even bothered?!"

Your sides hurt from laughing now, and you type into the chat with your anonymous username: "Maybe they just want to get to know you better, Nako-chan! "

She reads it aloud, her avatar squinting. "‘Maybe they just want to get to know you better’—psh, yeah, right. More like they want to ruin my life! YOU MOTHER*****!!! "

The chat erupts again, and you lean back in your chair, cackling your ass off and satisfied. It’s almost too much fun watching her complain about you without realizing you’re listening.

As the stream wraps up, she sighs dramatically one last time. "Anyway, thanks for listening to me rant, everyone. I needed that. And if my coworker somehow sees this—" She leans closer, her avatar's face filling the screen. "Stop. Pestering. Me!"

You grin, saluting the screen. "No promises, Nako-ya. No promises."

-

It’s just another ordinary day at the office—except it’s not. You’ve been inching closer to the truth for weeks now, and every interaction with Nako has only added more fuel to your suspicions. Today, though, feels different. There’s a tension in the air, something you can’t quite put your finger on.

Nako is sitting at her desk, her head bent over a stack of papers. She’s unusually quiet, not even giving you her usual half-hearted glare when you casually stroll past her cubicle. Her fingers fidget with the edge of her sleeve, her knee bouncing under the desk—a sure sign she’s on edge.

You seize the moment.

"Hey, Nako-yaaa," you say, leaning over the partition with an innocent grin.

She doesn’t even look up. "Ugh. What now?" she mumbles, her voice clipped.

"Oh, nothing much," you reply casually, pretending to examine a report in your hands. "Just thought I’d ask if you caught that new Yako stream last night. It was hilarious."

Her hand freezes mid-motion, the pen slipping from her fingers and clattering onto the desk. Slowly, she looks up, her eyes wide with a mixture of panic and resignation. "I—I don’t watch VTubers," she stammers, her voice a pitch higher than usual.

You raise an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Really? That’s a shame. She was continuing her ranting about this super annoying coworker who keeps pestering her. Sounded oddly familiar."

Nako’s cheeks flush a deep pink, and she immediately averts her gaze, pretending to rummage through her desk drawer. "That’s… a coincidence," she mutters.

"Sure, sure," you say, watching her closely. She’s avoiding eye contact like her life depends on it, her shoulders hunched as though she’s trying to disappear into her chair.

You decide to press your advantage. "You know," you say, your tone turning teasing, "I know I talked a lot about this but I’ve been thinking. If you were a VTuber—and I’m not saying you are—it’d be pretty smart to complain about your coworkers on stream. Get it all off your chest, you know?"

Her head snaps up, and for a moment, she looks like a deer caught in headlights. "I—what—why would you even think that?" she sputters, her voice cracking slightly.

You lean closer, resting your arms on the edge of her desk. "Oh, I don’t know," you say, smirking. "The voice, the mannerisms, the very specific hand gestures you do when you’re excited. It’s all a bit too familiar, don’t you think?"

Nako’s face is now as red as a tomato. She opens her mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. Instead, she drops her gaze to her lap, her hands twisting nervously in her lap.

"I—I don’t know what you’re talking about," she says weakly, but the tremble in her voice gives her away.

You chuckle, leaning back. "Relax, Nako. I’m just messing with you."

But she doesn’t relax. In fact, she looks even more panicked now, her fingers clenching the edge of her desk so tightly her knuckles turn white.

That’s when it happens.

Her phone buzzes on the desk, and in her haste to grab it, she accidentally swipes the screen. For a split second, you catch a glimpse of her notifications—one of which is a message from someone named Mod-Kazuya: “Great stream last night, Yako-chan!”

The world goes still.

You glance up at her, your eyebrows raised. She freezes, her hand hovering over the phone, her eyes darting between you and the screen.

"So…" you say, breaking the silence, "…you don’t watch VTubers, huh?"

Her shoulders slump, and she lets out a long, defeated sigh. "Fine," she mutters, dropping her head into her hands. "You win."

The victory feels sweeter than you imagined. You can’t stop the grin that spreads across your face as you watch her squirm in her seat.

"I knew it!" you exclaim, pointing a finger at her. "You’re Yako!"

"Keep your voice down!" she hisses, glancing around the office in a panic.

You chuckle, dropping into the chair beside her desk. "So, how long were you going to keep this from me?"

"As long as I could," she mutters, burying her face in her hands.

Her vulnerability softens your teasing just a bit, and you lean in slightly, lowering your voice. "Relax, Nako. Your secret’s safe with me… for now."

She peeks at you through her fingers, her expression a mix of relief and suspicion. "What do you mean, ‘for now’?"

You smirk, folding your arms. "Well, let’s just say you owe me a favour or two. You know, for keeping quiet."

Her groan is muffled by her hands. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t," you say cheerfully, standing up. "Come on, Nako-chan V. Let’s grab some coffee. My treat."

Her glare follows you all the way to the break room, but the faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips doesn’t escape your notice.

-

It began innocently enough—or so you’d like to think.

You weren’t a tyrant, just opportunistic. After all, you held a golden ticket: the knowledge of Yabuki Nako’s secret life as a VTuber. And to her credit, she had taken your harmless requests in stride—at first. And the first test of her patience starts with coffee.

“Nako-chan, could you grab me an extra cup from the breakroom?” you ask, flashing a polite smile. “I’m drowning in emails here.”

Her head snaps up from her monitor, her brows furrowed in disbelief. “You were just in there five minutes ago. You had a fresh cup in your hand.”

You tilt your head, feigning a moment of thought. “True. But I drank it all. And you’re, well…” You let your voice trail off, shrugging as if the answer is obvious.

She narrows her eyes. “I’m what?”

“…good at grabbing coffee?” you offer sheepishly, your grin betraying your faux innocence.

Her lips press into a firm line, her eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. You see the flicker of a battle waging behind her gaze—outright refusal versus the undeniable fear of your leverage. With a huff that’s more air than sound, she rises from her chair, muttering in Japanese under her breath. You don’t catch the full meaning, but the sharpness of her tone makes the message clear:

You’re a piece of sh*t.

When she returns, her lips twitch into a strained, professional smile as she sets the cup down a little harder than necessary. “Your coffee. Enjoy.”

“Thanks, Nako! You’re the best!” you reply, suppressing the grin tugging at your lips.

Her forced smile tightens, and she pivots back to her desk, muttering something again. This time, you swear it’s about wishing coffee burns weren’t fatal.

The second favour comes during the weekly rush to print reports.

“Hey, Nako,” you whisper conspiratorially, leaning over the divider between your desks. “Could you grab the printouts for me?”

She doesn’t bother to look up. “The printer’s ten steps away.”

“…I know,” you say, resting your elbow on the divider and propping your chin on your palm. “But you’re already standing. It’ll save me some precious seconds to finish this email.”

Her shoulders rise and fall in a slow, exasperated sigh. This time, she turns her whole body toward you, lips twitching downward in irritation. “You’re sitting. You’re literally doing nothing.”

“I’m multitasking,” you counter smoothly, pointing at your screen where your email draft has precisely one line. “See? Hard at work.”

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she stands and stomps toward the printer. Her ponytail bounces aggressively with each step, a physical manifestation of her frustration.

When she returns, she drops the papers onto your desk with a loud slap and leans over, her face close to yours. Her lips are pursed, her cheeks puffed out slightly in barely contained fury, and her eyes bore into yours like twin daggers.

“Next time,” she says in a low, dangerous tone, “I’m shredding them.”

You blink innocently. “Thanks, Nako. Truly. I couldn’t do this without you.”

Her jaw tightens, and she storms back to her desk, muttering again. You’re starting to think her muttering is a stress response you’ve singlehandedly cultivated.

It’s after the third week of subtle pestering that her patience begins to fray in earnest. By now, she’s learned to recognize the telltale grin on your face and the overly polite tone you reserve just for her.

“Nako,” you start sweetly, leaning over her desk during your Friday team meeting. “Could you take notes for me?”

Her eyes widen imperceptibly, and she stiffens in her chair. “Why?”

“I forgot my notebook,” you whisper. “And you’re so much better at taking notes than I am.”

Her lips press into a tight line, and her cheeks flush faintly. “Unbelievable,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head. Still, she takes the papers from your outstretched hand, her fingers gripping them a little too firmly.

Halfway through the meeting, she glances sideways at you, her brows knit tightly together. “You owe me,” she hisses, her voice barely audible.

You glance at her, trying not to laugh at the mixture of irritation and resignation written across her face. Her brows are furrowed, her nose scrunched slightly in annoyance, and her lips are pulled into a sharp pout. It’s almost endearing—if she weren’t so obviously plotting your demise.

“Of course,” you whisper back. “Anything for my favourite coworker.”

Her expression shifts ever so slightly, her glare softening just a fraction. But then, as if remembering she’s supposed to be angry, she elbows you in the side, her pout deepening.

“Quiet,” she mutters, her cheeks now faintly pink.

-

The breaking point comes one chaotic Monday morning.

“Nako, can you—”

Her chair screeches as she bolts upright, her face flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “No! Absolutely not!”

The office falls silent, every head turning in your direction. Her fists are clenched at her sides, and her eyes glisten with unshed frustration. Her normally calm expression is replaced with one of raw exasperation, her lips trembling as she speaks.

“You’ve made me your personal assistant for weeks! Coffee, notes, files—I’m not your errand girl!” she snaps, her voice rising slightly before cracking. She takes a deep breath, her gaze lowering to the floor. “And if you tell anyone about...you know...I’ll—” Her voice falters, and she slumps back into her chair, her frustration giving way to quiet defeat.

The silence is deafening until you finally break it with a quiet, “Okay.”

Her head snaps up, her wide eyes meeting yours. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” you say sincerely, rubbing the back of your neck. “I thought we were just messing around. I didn’t mean to stress you out.”

Her lips part slightly, but no words come out. She stares at you, her eyes searching your face for any sign of deceit.

“I mean it,” you say softly. “No more favours. No more pestering. I’ll keep your secret because I respect you, not because I can use it.”

Her expression softens, and the tension in her shoulders eases. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely,” you say with a nod. Then, a small grin sneaks onto your face. “But I do feel bad, so...how about lunch on me?”

Her lips twitch into the faintest of smiles. “Lunch and dessert.”

“Deal,” you say, standing and grabbing your wallet. “Come on, my favourite coworker.”

She huffs but follows you, her cheeks faintly pink. “You’re still insufferable, you know.”

“Oh wow, never knew that.” you reply, holding the door open for her. “Just your good old insufferable coworker.”

For the first time that day, she laughs…followed by assuring the onlookers after the meal.

[saintfelina]

state of the union

INS

animalic perfumes

big, rich meals and snacks

deep cherry red and royal blue

wearing your dads clothes

deep aubergine lips

glittery black eyeliner

independent black cinema

going to the theater

tech from the 2010s

whiskey shots and modelos

tailoring your clothes

being a disagreeable woman

horrorlit

outrageous eye contacts

bellybutton rings and american traditional tattoos

tumblr

short hair

vulgarity and eroticism

OUTS

fake tiktok styles

no makeup makeup

performing hyper femininity

“sad white girl” lit

asexuality and prudeishness

slick back buns

shopping hauls

“what i eat in a day” videos

video essays that say nothing

discourse without action

chlorophyll drops and “clean” perfumes

new tech

spotify algorithm music

every blonde woman except zitacherry

“aesthetics” and “cores”

lululemon/skims (esp at the club)

not dancing to songs you dont know

sea moss/supplements/weird diets

[rongzhi]

Hello! hope you're doing good. I wanted to ask your opinion on something and that is i've been thinking about downloading douyin or red note (i think the latter one is more plausible but) because based on your videos it seems content there is much more fun and not so much focused on tiktok in the sense of weird political propaganda, plastic surgery shenanigans or such. Would you recommend foreigners to download those apps regardless of the language barrier or oneself still gets to see that kind of content there? or maybe you just have to tailor your own experience? many many thanks xx

I think if you're interested in watching the videos, you may as well download the apps to check them out and see for yourself!

XHS is a bit more like instagram/pinterest but has videos as well, and if you're mostly watching videos, I imagine your discover page will start populating the feed more with similar content. The pro of XHS is it's available in the U.S app store and you won't have any issue signing up as a foreigner.

But yes, that said, the amount of fun or humor shown on my blog is not representative of the entirety of douyin. When you first start using the app, the videos you see will probably just be a lot of aesthetic thirst traps, news, scenery, and the like. There are weird political videos (simply regarding different topics than what you might expect on tiktok) and plastic surgery shenanigans for sure. It takes some tailoring for the algorithm to figure out what you want to watch. Searching phrases can help push it in the right direction, but even so, I have been using douyin (without an account lol) for almost 5 years now and there are still weeks when my algorithm gets pulled into a depressing loop of CCTV car crashes and true crime documentaries because oooh I just can't resist finding out what happened—but it's a trap because then douyin will think that's all you want to watch... AKA part of the reason I haven't been posting as much lately, besides not having the time to go on douyin and search; it's all cat videos and TV show recaps right now...

On the douyin app, they have added a translate feature to the comment section lately, so if you do get the app (instructions can be found in my FAQ for iphone users), you'll bee able to read (barring translation weirdness) what the comments say!

[allilcat]

Ive been noticing an increase amount of Dreamtwt refugees, and let me preface with saying: Welcome!!! Genuinely, we lovingly welcome you to this happy lil community.

That being said, Tumblr is confusing, between the big etiquette book and the interface that hasn’t changed since 2008 there is a lot to learn. So this is my little attempt to a welcome guide tailored to our lil dream community! Feel free to add your own recommendations and stuff.

Tumblr is a Blogging site, a goog ol relic from ye olden days, your ‘profile’ is your blog, and you can put anything you like on there! However, please do change your avatar and background, we have a massive bot issue here and we tend to auto block someone with a standard avatar.

The main tags for the dream team are as follows: - just their entire usernames, but, those do get hooped up in controversy from time to time. -Dreamblr for the content creator dream

-Dreblr, for C!Dream

-404blr for CC George

-pandasblr for CC Sapnap

-Dtblr for the Dream team

PLEASE REFRAIN FROM USING: #Dream, that’s for people actually posting about their dreams, and #myct as it is mostly used for general MYCT stuff, we prefer to stick to our own spaces.

‘how do I find people?’ you go to any of these tags, find someone you vibe with and click ‘follow’. The algorithm here sucks, and we don’t advice the ‘for you’ page.

On that note, the ‘like’ button is useless, use reblog instead! If you like someone’s hot take, art or stupid shit post, REBLOG. Its how we keep our fandom alive and active here :D

When you reblog you usually keep your comments in the tags, one only really uses the comment section when they DON’T want to reblog. (usually because of le discourse).

Send people asks! People love to chit chat, you can do it anonymously! Tell that one artist youd love to have their brain for lunch! Engage with everyone! We love discussion and open communication here. (prob since there is no real word limit to posts)

Tumblr has developed a nice ‘block liberally, no need to make a fus’ culture. You can block someone for any reason, and it really isn’t a big deal.

On the Tumblr is more relaxed note, we tend to be more relaxed on CC boundaries, since most CC’s do not use twitter. If you don’t like people breaking CC boundaries, even in places where they cant see it, follow the advice above and blockkkkk!!!

Please spell out words! Don’t censor triggering words at it can fuck with people’s filter settings, by censoring these words you put people in more risk.  

Now for some technical advice: Most tumblrina’s turn on ‘hide likes and follower count’ . Any blog can have 4 people following it or 4000, we like to keep it mysterious.

Also turn of ‘best content first’- once again, the algorithm is not to be trusted.

Furthermore, you can really personalize your Tumblr experience and please do! Under ‘account’ you can find many options to filter the content you see, make use of it, for your mental health sake.

[physalian]

Not every book is meant for you, but all books deserve to find their audience

So back in February I had a pretty nightmarish collision of ideologies with two other writers, one of fanfic, and one also indie published like me.

Both had this weird and aggressive sense of competition over whether a book “deserves” praise.

One of them did explicitly tell me that, among other reluctantly-given reasons like how she, a straight woman, was never going to like a gay romance, and that I could never possibly write something that she would consider worthy of 5 stars. I could tailor-craft a book for her, but against the entire library of all of fiction, I couldn’t ever possibly compare to the greats.

And that to suggest that I deserved 5 was entitled and morally wrong.

The other was about the same, just meaner.

I have never bought a book based off reviews in my life. Reviews are so subject to bias, both intentional in a “I have an agenda against this book here’s 2 stars because it’s queer” way and unintentional in a “I just love this genre and will defend it no matter what even though it’s hot garbage” way that they mean nothing to me.

Most people leaving book reviews aren’t professional critics, they’re just sharing their opinion, and as a picky reader, a majority of strangers’ opinions are irrelevant to me. That, and I can never know which "professionals" are lying out of their ass for profit because I'm not about to do homework on which critics are legit to decide what book I'm going to read. I'll read the summary and decide for myself.

I'll read the reviews for an air fryer I want off Amazon, not someone's weird little passion project that they poured their heart and soul into as a love letter to punk rock and dinosaurs on Mars.

Like I hate ACOTAR, but I hate the very real market and genre distortion it’s been making, not that it has high ratings on Goodreads. It’s all arbitrary, unless you’re too small where that score and how many ratings comprise it matter against the algorithm trying very hard to keep you down.

But I know that I'm an exception, and other people depend very heavily on reviews.

The point I still stand by is this: There is no “deserve” in the realm of art. Who are you to be judge, jury, and executioner on some small, first-time writer’s debut novel?

Who are you to decide what books “deserve” to have a fighting chance and find their audience? You don’t have to read it, you don’t have to like it, but thinking in any way that you’re the fiction police sabotaging work that you don’t like so you have more room for your own “better” work or that you're keeping "lesser" works from tainting your pristine pedestal is some pretentious and elitist bullshit.

There is enough room for all of us and fanfic rules apply: If you don’t like it, don’t read it!

Both of these people could have said “Hey Physh, we didn’t love your work and aren’t comfortable giving you an honest negative review (which they very much were), or a false positive one, so you should ask someone else”.

Instead it was “Oh you want my help? There will be consequences.”

And I could not for the life of me explain that I wasn’t asking them to lie for me. Just, if you don’t have something nice to say… don’t say anything?

I just picked up a book a few days ago by a fellow indie author on impulse. Did I love it? No. Am I going to write them a public review on a platform already stacked against them saying “yeah I mean it was ok but I just didn’t like it”?

No.

Making my dislike of a book that was not meant for me in any way known in a backhanded compliment is not more important, to me, than helping someone in the same shit sandwich as I am market their book to reach someone else who might really enjoy it.

I don't like comedies, by and large. I'm not going to fault a comedy for being unfunny to me when I know damn well that I'm an exception and most other people are crying with laughter. Nor am I going to fault a comedy for being a comedy and not a drama.

I got a very rude awakening thinking we all were on the same page with this.

This book cost me $3 and a few hours of my time when I was already on the clock at work getting paid. I just gave it a shoutout on here. I felt good. They felt good. We’re helping each other.

Gtfo out with your “deserve”.

I tried it, and that’s what matters to me. I’m helping my fellow artist, and that’s what matters to me. Not the impossible standards of measuring up to Charles Dickens or Emily Bronte, of which I never claimed to attempt.

There is enough room for all of us without punching down on people already drowning below you. One nice comment, one little blog post saying “hey this book exists if you like these tropes you might like this” won’t make them an NYT Bestseller overnight.

And for what it’s worth, these two writers’ fanfic opinions were exactly the same. I just didn’t see enough of this before it was too late.

And to be clear, I am a very harsh critic when it’s warranted. Hollywood blockbusters, genre juggernauts, 60-year-old white men’s 100th assembly-line mystery novels.

If I apply that expectation of profoundness and quality on a first-time author, that might very well become their last book. None of us are coming out of the gate with absolute perfection, and there’s only 5 stars to go around. If you're an NYT Bestseller, there's an implicit standard of quality and experience assumed in that honor that you should be meeting and if you're not, here come the critics.

Telling me, a first time author, that I only “deserve” a four because only Tolkein and people like him deserve a five and we can’t water down the concept of fives (read: we can't open the gate for everyone because mine won't be as special as I think it is) is a buckwild hill to die on.

And yes I know 4s are still good, it’s their reason behind the 4 here.

I’m not going to pretend to gush about a novel that I didn’t enjoy. I’m going to examine what it is, what it’s trying to say, and talk about its narrative strengths, its shortcomings, and leave it up to whoever stumbles across my review to decide if they want to buy it.

Because at the very least, the existence of my neutral review will help them more than never saying anything because I got squeamish about having my name attached to a book I find inferior (which I don’t, we’re are just different).

If some bigot on the internet can give you a 1 because you dare to write something that makes his conservative ass twitch, then I can counter-balance it with a lenient 5. The critics can wait until you get big enough to weather their criticism.

[nanamineedstherapy]

The Cleanest Line

Satoru Gojo x F!Reader + Alpha!Nanami Kento

Omegaverse (but make it dystopian no power AU), less-smut-focus, plot-heavy, dark sci-fi, psychological, a lil bit feral.

Summary (as perfectly described by @mullermilkshake): “I’m still not an Omegaverse girlie and I don’t think I ever will be… That being said—I’m your Omegaverse girlie. This felt like Psycho-Pass fucked Black Mirror, had a baby with DHB, and that kid went on to marry a Fallout AU with mood lighting. I’m obsessed. The prose? Gorgeous. - That artificial womb in the club under purple lighting? Iconic. No one else could sell me on this but you. You write so fucking good bestie 😩😍” A/N: This is my first dip into Omegaverse—but full disclaimer, I’m not here for the smut. I’m here for the narrative meat. If you’re Omegaverse-skeptical (like I was), this might surprise you. Think emotional cyberpunk noir meets socio-biological horror, not heat cycles and scent kink. This fic leans hard into worldbuilding, identity, and the fucked-up ways society tries to control reproduction. So while updates might be a little slow due to the layered plot, the main framework is already done. It will be completed. This concept sparked from a convo with the amazing @madwomansapologist on [this post]. They’re also cooking up an Omegaverse project (different plot, different vibe—equally unhinged). And of course, massive love to my dark muse @mullermilkshake for pushing me to post this. The fact that she liked it—even as a self-proclaimed non-Omegaverse enjoyer—is all the validation I needed. Song Rec for this Chapter: Shift (Alternate Version)—Also, courtesy of @mullermilkshake (She & I listened to it while reading Nanami's club scene—it fits. Let it ruin you.) TW: Suicidal Ideation, Sugar Baby Arrangement & Reproductive control over genders & sexuality.

Ch - 1: Artificial Devotion

The club was cold.

Not in temperature—nanogel walls sweated pheromone condensate, and the neon strips lining the ceiling ran in slow, breathy pulses to match the alpha-major rhythm embedded in the music—but cold in the way that places become when you walk into them hoping to die.

Nanami Kento nursed a drink he didn’t want, watching his colleagues pretend to enjoy each other's company. All around him: glossed-over omegas wrapped in synthetic lace, alphas bragging about their quarterly bonuses loud enough for the AI bartender to adjust their alcohol ratios mid-convo.

He didn’t belong here.

He wasn’t even sure he belonged anywhere.

Thirty-seven years old, in a city run by precision-coded intimacy and behavioral sync algorithms, and still too human to find solace in the way life had softened into something preprogrammed.

He had told himself that he’d come tonight to blow off steam.

What he didn’t say—not even to the digital assistant that monitored his vitals—was that he’d considered leaping from his office balcony earlier that afternoon.

Briefly. Coldly.

Like a man checking for rain before stepping outside. Not dramatic, not desperate. Just… tired. He hadn't known what exactly he was living for anymore.

The club pulsed like an artificial womb—slick, violet lighting; walls exhaling perfume-grade pheromones; AI bartenders offering cocktails calibrated to your mood profile. His colleagues laughed, their laughter pre-loaded with something synthetic. Happiness was a setting now, not a feeling.

He sipped quietly, drinking the kind of liquor people ordered when they had nothing left to prove. His fingers itched from the edges of his suit—custom-tailored, thread-count in the thousands, nanofiber-enhanced for pheromone neutrality. He wore it like armor. Because in this world, alphas weren’t allowed to be tired.

And Nanami Kento was so, so tired.

Then he saw them.

At the far end of the club—past the scent diffusers, past the private glass booths pulsing with dopamine-sync strobes—were two omegas. Kissing. Messily, unprofessionally, like they hadn’t gotten the memo that they were supposed to perform chastely in public.

One was undercut-white-haired, pale-skinned, tall, even more than Kento, and devastatingly beautiful, almost pretty in a soft way, but athletic enough that you’d second-guess reading him as an omega.

The other—

The other was so soft Nanami felt sick.

Small-framed, wide-eyed, dressed like someone who didn’t know what they had or how it could be taken. Except she did. It was there in the stiffness of her spine, in the way she smiled like she had claws in her pocket. Still, her laugh sounded like something unfiltered—something from a childhood not yet eaten by the city.

They danced like no one told them they shouldn’t. The tall one—29, Satoru, the AI in Nanami’s neural HUD whispered, flagged from old security archives—kept his hand pressed to the small of her back. Not sexual. Anchoring. Possessive. Instinctual. Like he’d taught himself not to flinch every time someone got close enough to smell what he really was.

One of them was... radiant. Hair catching the light like gemstones, laughter spilling out like water over clean glass. The other—striking in a way that made people pause, second-guess. Not just because he was an omega, but because he refused to shrink himself. Lean but solid. Shoulders squared. Movements practiced. Calculated masculinity, tailored to hide his designation in plain sight.

He still tried to find out her name.

But like all cosmic jokes, she was untraceable. No social records. No work profile. No digital footprint except her face caught in Satoru’s archived posts like a ghost he carried forward.

Nanami didn’t say anything. Didn’t approach. Just watched. Quietly. Then he left the club before midnight and deleted his suicide plan from his biometric scheduler.

Nanami didn’t kill himself.

That night, he went home and told the AI to dim the lights. He took a pill and laid in bed, letting it dissolve on his tongue while the system softly narrated his vital signs. “Your heart rate is elevated. Should I initiate meditation protocol?”

He turned it off.

He dreamt of them.

Even then, a year ago, Nanami had felt it—something wrong in his bones. Not envy. Not lust. Something worse. Hope.

A year later, they lived in his penthouse.

Not his, technically.

Nanami had paid for it, signed the contract, but he’d never set foot inside.

It was an arrangement.

Satoru had strictly only agreed with this living situation—smirking, self-assured, the scent of defiance and desperation threading beneath his perfectly calculated smile.

The girl—the omega, Nanami reminded himself, trying not to give her a name in his head—hadn’t said anything at first. She let Satoru speak for her.

Which made sense. Childhood friends, raised together in the cracks of the system. Both omegas. Both determined not to be destroyed by it.

What Satoru was willing to give wasn’t companionship.

It was access.

Nanami would never touch them.

That was the first line.

He’d fund their living—apartment, bills, security upgrades—and in return, Satoru would send content. Homemade videos. Just the two of them. Sometimes playful, sometimes unbearable in their intimacy.

Not pornography in the traditional sense. Something worse. Or better.

Nanami couldn’t decide.

He hated himself for watching.

Hated himself more when he didn’t.

He’d never been there. He paid the rent, the maintenance fees, the AI subscription plan for their domestic system. He wired money into a private omega protection fund. He received videos every Sunday, each one timestamped and watermarked.

It wasn’t porn.

Not really.

They didn’t perform.

Sometimes it was Satoru pushing her against the glass window, sunlight catching the outline of her body as if she were being worshipped by the city skyline. Sometimes it was soft, tangled limbs and muffled giggles, her wrist looped lazily around his neck while his eyes looked somewhere past the camera, like he was daring someone to turn it off.

Sometimes Satoru didn’t appear at all. Just her, on her stomach, whispering what she’d eaten that day. Her voice always had a tiny upward lilt, like she wasn’t sure if he’d listen. He always did.

Nanami didn’t touch himself to the videos.

It felt wrong.

Like praying in the wrong direction.

And now… things had changed.

It started subtly. A message on his secure line from her. Just one at first:

“Thanks for the apartment. It’s really nice.”

Nanami hadn’t known how to respond. He’d stared at the words for an hour before sending: 

“You’re welcome.”

Then some logistics: 

“Do you want the next video to be in the bath?”

Nanami let her decide.

Then more came. Curious, polite, always late at night.

Then one, weeks later: 

“Do you like talking to me?”

He hadn’t known how to answer.

But he had.

And now, he couldn’t stop.

Satoru didn’t know, not at first.

Or maybe he did and pretended not to.

But the tone of the videos changed.

The kisses grew sharper. The glances darker. Satoru began looking directly at the lens, sometimes.

Not in seduction. In challenge.

And Nanami… wanted more.

But Satoru hated him.

Of course he did.

Nanami had money, power, an alpha designation.

All the things Satoru never wanted—but needed. Satoru would’ve sold pieces of his soul to keep her safe. Nanami was just the buyer.

And she?

She started texting him.

At first, she asked practical questions.

What kind of shampoo do you use? Do you want different lighting in the videos?

Then it changed.

Have you ever been in love? Does it scare you to be alone?

Nanami answered honestly.

Because he didn’t know how not to.

He started checking his messages during meetings.

Leaving his AI on read.

He told himself it was harmless.

But Satoru noticed.

In the next video, his grip on her thigh was possessive. He stared straight into the lens like a threat.

It wasn’t just about sex.

It was about territory.

Nanami was trespassing.

So Nanami thinks about biology often now.

He wasn’t a fool.

He knew omegas weren’t safe.

Not in this world. Not even beautiful ones. Maybe especially not them. They were luxury assets. Like watches, like cars. Accessories for alphas to parade at tech expos and corporate galas. Something to flaunt. Something to break.

He’d seen what this world did to omegas. Especially beautiful ones.

Male or female—it didn’t matter.

If your scent was sweet, if your body responded, society would wring you dry and leave you doped up on suppressants in a clinic ward.

Even male omegas weren't spared.

If you didn’t wear the right modulator or travel with a protection drone, you were a walking target.

Nanami had seen it happen.

A male omega sobbing in an alleyway behind a corporate tower, slick on his thighs, scent torn out of control. No one helped. They just stepped around him like a glitch in the system.

Satoru knew that too.

And that was what Satoru fought against. Every breath he took was an act of rebellion. He worked out obsessively. Changed his gait, his posture. Wore a synthetic pheromone mask in public, registering neutral. His muscles weren’t for vanity—they were armor. Nanami knew the signs. He’d read too many case files.

The irony was that Satoru would’ve made a perfect alpha.

He had the spine for it, the ego.

The raw violence coiled just under the surface.

The only thing he didn’t have was the biology.

And still, Satoru never let anyone else care for her during heat. Not once. Even if it wrecked him. Even if it meant holding her through three-day highs on nothing but stubbornness and instinct. Even if it meant pretending he couldn’t smell her crying from another room when she thought he was asleep.

That’s why Satoru hid.

He wore synthetic scent blockers and took hormone suppressants. He worked out not for vanity, but to pass. His body a shield. Muscles built out of fear, not desire.

When Satoru looked at her, it was like his whole nervous system reoriented.

Nanami saw it.

Saw the way Satoru watched her in heat, as though his biology demanded he give everything—and still, he never touched anyone else.

No one else during those days. No play partners, no safe rut havens.

Just her.

He didn’t just love her.

He was defying his own body for her.

Keeping them off the streets should’ve made Nanami feel righteous, noble.

He was the one protecting them, after all. Feeding them.

He wasn’t exploiting them—he told himself that often enough.

But the truth was, he envied Satoru.

Hated how naturally they belonged to each other. Hated that he was the outside variable. The one they used, not the one they chose.

Then one day—

She asked to see him.

Not Satoru. Not the AI. Her.

“I think it would help. Ruru’s upset.”

“But I want to try. You’re not a stranger anymore.”

The phrase hit Nanami like a brick.

Not a stranger.

Nanami had frozen when the message came.

Not because he didn’t want to—but because he did.

Too much.

He hadn’t felt like a real person in years. Not since his own designation had turned into an executive liability. He wasn’t a man. He was an alpha unit—pre-programmed for dominance, responsibility, sacrifice. He hadn’t been touched with affection in a decade. People touched him for status. For gain. For fear.

He agreed.

Satoru allowed it, reluctantly. Nanami knew it wasn’t out of trust—it was pride. Satoru needed to prove something. That she’d come back home after. That whatever he had with her was immune to money and desire and every other transaction coded into the world’s algorithmic guts.

They met at a rooftop bar in District 8. Neutral scent zone. No pheromone amplification allowed. No synched lighting to manipulate mood. Just glass, wind, and silence.

She wore blue.

A long-sleeved dress, modest, simple, but her scent still reached him faintly when she leaned forward.

Not expensive. But it looked like she’d picked it because she liked how it felt. Not for him. For herself.

Satoru sat next to her, one arm draped casually along the back of her chair. Not touching, not claiming. Just… there.

Nanami didn’t know what to say. They didn’t talk about the arrangement. Not directly.

He took a breath but couldn’t smell them—not with the room’s filtration—but he could feel the weight of them. The bond. The history. A gravity so dense it warped space around them.

He thought: I’m an intruder.

He thought: I want to stay.

They talked. Mostly her and Nanami.

Satoru stared at his drink. When he did speak, it was precise. Measured. But underneath—rage. Fear. Resentment of biology.

Not jealousy, exactly. Something older. A wound too deep to scab.

When she smiled at something Nanami said, Satoru’s fingers twitched. Not out of anger, but like a muscle remembering pain.

Nanami saw it.

Saw the way he leaned in after, nose brushing her neck, like he needed to remind himself that she was still his.

That they were still real.

That Nanami hadn’t rewritten the bond just by being better.

The only thing Satoru asked him was why he never tried to meet them earlier. Nanami said something about boundaries.

The girl smiled faintly. “Do you ever wish you were someone else?”

Nanami looked at her, then Satoru. “Every day.”

And then, a silence so complete it buzzed.

He went home that night and didn’t open the new video.

He sat in silence, AI lights dimmed to night mode.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

He wasn’t ugly. He wasn’t old. He wasn’t unkind.

But he wasn’t needed either.

Not like Satoru was.

He couldn’t sleep that night.

His AI assistant dimmed the lights further, played calming synthwaves keyed to his biorhythm, but nothing helped. He lay awake, feeling Satoru’s gaze still boring into him.

Not threatening. Just… knowing. Like Satoru could see the exact shape of his desire and found it pitiful.

Nanami wasn’t angry.

He just wanted something real.

Not bought.

Not bartered.

He wanted her to text him because she missed him.

He wanted her to laugh at something he said, not because it was part of the game, but because it was him.

But in this world, omegas weren’t people.

They were collectibles.

Dress them up, parade them at galas, fuck them behind closed doors.

Male, female—didn’t matter.

The cruelty was non-discriminatory.

Satoru had survived that.

Refused to bend to it. Refused to let her bend to it.

Even if it meant breaking himself in the process.

Nanami knew now that Satoru wasn’t pretending to be an alpha.

He was something else entirely.

A shield.

And Nanami wasn’t sure if he wanted to break that shield… or be the one she chose when she finally didn’t need it anymore.

He started to fantasize—not about her naked. 

But about breakfast. About pouring her tea. About Satoru frowning when she tried to climb on counters barefoot. About small, trivial acts that didn’t belong to someone like him.

He didn’t want to own her.

He wanted them to want him.

And that, he knew, was the cruelest desire of all.

Because wanting her meant wanting to be chosen over someone who had already given up the world to protect her.

And what had Nanami given?

Nothing.

Just money.

He stared at the last message she sent before bed.

“Today, I thought about what it would be like if we all had dinner. Like a real one. You cooking. Satoru making fun of your apron. Me stealing dessert.”

Then:

“Would you want that?”

His fingers hovered over the reply.

Then dropped.

“Yes.

More than anything.”

---

A/N: If you made it to the end—thank you. This isn’t your typical Omegaverse, and I know it asks a lot. It’s not smut for the sake of it. It’s power, performance, and what it means to be wanted versus needed—and the terrifying grief of being loved transactionally. I’m curious what stayed with you. The club? The video arrangement? The unspoken war between them? Reblog with your thoughts or drop them in the comments. I read & reply to everything. (Yes, even the unhinged ones. Especially those.) And for science— (Feel free to scream in tags. It’s encouraged.)

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All Works Masterlist

[caparrucia]

Listen to me.

If you learn one thing, learn this: Learn to say "This is not for me" and internalize that it is not a moral judgment or a valid target for contempt. Learn to say "this is Different from what I do" and not make it a fucking rallying war cry. Learn to say "this is New and Unknown" and don't let yourself be swept by hysteric, mindless fear.

This isn't about fiction. This isn't about media. This is about the fact you've been trained by engagement-driven algorithms to react to anything that isn't painstakingly and specifically tailored to you personally as a deadly offense. This is about the fact that it's 2023 and in twenty twenty fucking three, you look at accessibility options, foreign cuisine and anything you can instinctively term "Other" and feel perfectly justified in becoming a fucking contemptible goblin, full of mockery and disdain, because the thought of something not directly benefiting you or made for you personally makes you so fucking angry, you need to immediately destroy it.

Listen to me.

That is poison. That will fucking kill you. It will kill your communities and unravel your relationships and leave you alone and miserable and raging, a prime target for any kind of radicalizing influence that offers to explain why everything is on fire all the time.

The Other is not the enemy.

The Unknown is not a harbinger of destruction.

The Unfamiliar is not here to destroy all you hold dear.

Listen to me.

Find the poison in your soul. Find the impulse to lash out in revulsion and disgust. Find the part of you that wants to annihilate anything that isn't you. Like you.

Kill it instead.

Burn it to ashes and use them to sow a garden in your soul. Tend the fields until Compassion and Curiosity and Humility grow there instead.

Listen to me.

Listen to me.

We've bled and fought and bit and swore, until we evolved the ability to see in others a mirror of ourselves. What you seek to destroy is humanity itself, in others but also in yourself.

[bloggingboutburgers]

I think everyone will benefit from properly tagging posts. xreader fics abd ship fics ONLY include the relevent _x_ tags but none of the character's name on its own, allowing all the usual fanart, theories and such to stay on the main name tag and not be crowded out by horny fanfiction (I say this as someone who very much enjoys very horny, very smutty xreader fanfictions. I want to be able to search the fics I want directly without having to trawl through headcanon posts, fanart, unrelated ship posts, etc.).

No one really has a tailored experience on the internet (I'm glad tumblr is at least a little more user dictated than advertiser algorithm based), but I do get the frustration and discomfort that comes from the abundant hornyposting feeling inescapable.

It's tempting to take offence to persistent cries against xreader stuff. I like special POV episodes of shows for the same reason I like xreader fics. My favourite characters WERE the company I kept, my only real form of companionship (albeit simulated) for many many years. Not because I am allo, basically. I sought something to meet my social needs growing up where I was unable to find community or companionship in real life.

Unfortunately, because they are usually sexual in nature I just came to associate a need for human connection with sex (so am I allo or just conditioned to blend sexual, platonic and romantic feelings and actions together?). I was just happy to feel like I had someone to hang out with. I knew they weren't real and that I needed to find real people to connect with (not for lack of trying, kids are just cruel. Finally made friends as an adult, yay).

Didn't intend for any of that to be so sad or pathetic, but hopefully it gives context for the prevalence of xreader fics. Alongside the varied reasons people write / read them (no just blind allo horniness), especially in light of the widespread loneliness epidemic over the past decade.

It's still more than ok to not want anything to do with them either (be it due to being aroace or not - I know plenty of allos who find xreader fics cringe).

Something I need to clarify here – we get it. Well, we don't fundamentally get it, but trust me, we've been told time and time again why people would write/draw/be into xreader content (it's all part of the package of "aroaces MUST put themselves in allo people's shoes at all times"), and we know they're perfectly legitimate reasons, and we don't find it sad or pathetic, or cringe. At the very least I don't at all. That's not what it's about. It's not something as surface-level at that.

The thing is... The same kind of understanding effort is VERY rarely put forward in return for us. And the fact that we're perceived as naysayers is symptomatic of this. We're not crying against xreader content. People are free to do whatever they want. We just want it to be tagged to keep ourselves safe, and so we can appreciate some variety and find fandom content we can properly connect with with the identity we have.

The issue isn't that there is xreader content, or heck, that there's lots of it. It's that, as @kaoruko-han put it, "everyone is assumed to be into this", and that you can't express something as simple as "I'd rather read something else" without being finger-pointed as a villain.

Yeah, no one has a tailored experience online, but there's still a very clear lack of balance on what is acceptable to tailor to or not (and for us, that includes tumblr). And trying to find fan-content while being sex-repulsed? Bruh, you'd better pray on your lucky stars and be ready to trudge through an ocean of stuff that's loaded with the very thing that makes you scared, uncomfortable or downright triggers a feeling of sickness in you, because a lot of it ain't tagged. An alarming amount of people don't bother, because why would people like you exist, right? There's only ever them, and puritan bigots. It's that black and white in a lot of people's heads.

Here's the difference though: we, too, want people to be able to vibe to whatever fan content they want. We just wish "people" included us properly in this case. As it stands now, trying to find fan content that won't give you an uncomfortable feeling as a sex-repulsed person feels kinda like this (I'll try to illustrate that to the best of my ability as a vague comparison, please no one take that as a clear parallel, I'm literally just trying to explain how it feels in a way people who have no idea how it feels might understand): you're not into gore at all, you don't wanna look at it, but your streaming platform keeps recommending you those series that are loaded with gore. You try to filter it out, but no matter where you go, you keep being recommended those series. And no one ever gets your discomfort and you're being branded as nothing but a wet blanket for not wanting to see gore. It's kinda like that.

At this point I admire sex-repulsed or romance-repulsed people who still TRY to find anything at all in fandom spaces. I've stopped reading fanfic altogether and I've largely stopped engaging with the large majority of fandom spaces for those reasons. And that wasn't an easy choice, or one that I find fun because it feels incredibly lonely, but it's the result of years of exhaustion and strain on my mental health trying to navigate something that's so hostile to me at its core, even if it's unintentional.

So... Yeah. We know the reasons, just like the content itself, they're kinda impossible to ignore. But we are largely being ignored in this, and it's not just something at an "ick" or "picky" level ; for a sex-repulsed person, being spammed with sex entails much more than that. It's not even frustration anymore at this point, it's downright despair a lot of the time. So... Yeah, like you said, everyone would benefit from stuff being more properly tagged. For us it'd be so huge to know our safety is taken into account – that we're taken into account at all. Thing is, we're not, and we're so invisible in this and most other things that at this point, I don't have much hope. Sex-related controversies allo people can understand would sooner create a change than anything done for our sake.