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nostalgebraist · 2 days

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It's been a long time since I've posted much of anything about "AI risk" or "AI doom" or that sort of thing. I follow these debates but, for multiple reasons, have come to dislike engaging in them fully and directly. (As opposed to merely making some narrow technical point or other, and leaving the reader to decide what, if anything, the point implies about the big picture.)

Nonetheless, I do have my big-picture views. And more and more lately, I am noticing that my big-picture views seem very different from the ones tend to get expressed by any major "side" in the big-picture debate. And so, inevitably, I get the urge to speak up, if only briefly and in a quiet voice. The urge to Post, if only casually and elliptically, without detailed argumentation.

(Actually, it's not fully the case the things I think are not getting said by anyone else.

In particular, Joe Carlsmith's recent series on "Otherness and Control" articulates much of what's been on my mind. Carlsmith is more even-handed than I am, and tends to merely note the possibility of disagreement on questions where I find myself taking a definite side; nonetheless, he and I are at least concerned about the same things, while many others aren't.

And on a very different note, I share most of the background assumptions of the Pope/Belrose AI Optimist camp, and I've found their writing illuminating, though they and I end up in fairly different places, I think.)

What was I saying? I have the urge to post, and so here I am, posting. Casually and elliptically, without detailed argumentation.

The current mainline view about AI doom, among the "doomers" most worried about it, has a path-dependent shape, resulting from other views contingently held by the original framers of this view.

It is possible to be worried about "AI doom" without holding these other views. But in actual fact, most serious thinking about "AI doom" is intricately bound up with this historical baggage, even now.

If you are a late-comer to these issues, investigating them now for the first time, you will nonetheless find yourself reading the work of the "original framers," and work influenced extensively by them.

You will think that their "framing" is just the way the problem is, and you will find few indications that this conclusion might be mistaken.

These contingent "other views" are

Anti-"deathist" transhumanism.

The orthogonality thesis, or more generally the group of intuitions associated with phrases like "orthogonality thesis," "fragility of value," "vastness of mindspace."

These views both push in a single direction: they make "a future with AI in it" look worse, all else being equal, than some hypothetical future without AI.

They put AI at a disadvantage at the outset, before the first move is even made.

Anti-deathist transhumanism sets the reference point against which a future with AI must be measured.

And it is not the usual reference point, against which most of us measure most things which might or might not happen, in the future.

These days the "doomers" often speak about their doom in a disarmingly down-to-earth, regular-Joe manner, as if daring the listener to contradict them, and thus reveal themselves as a perverse and out-of-touch contrarian.

"We're all gonna die," they say, unless something is done. And who wants that?

They call their position "notkilleveryoneism," to distinguish that position from other worries about AI which don't touch on the we're-all-gonna-die thing. And who on earth would want to be a not-notkilleveryoneist?

But they do not mean, by these regular-Joe words, the things that a regular Joe would mean by them.

We are, in fact, all going to die. Probably, eventually. AI or no AI.

In a hundred years, if not fifty. By old age, if nothing else. You know what I mean.

Most of human life has always been conducted under this assumption. Maybe there is some afterlife waiting for us, in the next chapter -- but if so, it will be very different from what we know here and now. And if so, we will be there forever after, unable to return here, whether we want to or not.

With this assumption comes another. We will all die, but the process we belong to will not die -- at least, it will not through our individual deaths, merely because of those deaths. Every human of a given generation will be gone soon enough, but the human race goes on, and on.

Every generation dies, and bequeaths the world to posterity. To its children, biological or otherwise. To its students, its protégés.

When the average Joe talks about the long-term future, he is talking about posterity. He is talking about the process he belongs to, not about himself. He does not think to say, "I am going to die, before this": this seems too obvious, to him, to be worth mentioning.

But AI doomerism has its roots in anti-deathist transhumanism. Its reference point, its baseline expectation, is a future in which -- for the first time ever, and the last -- "we are all gonna die" is false.

In which there is no posterity. Or rather, we are that posterity.

In which one will never have to make peace with the thought that the future belongs to one's children, and their children, and so on. That at some point, one will have to give up all control over the future of "the process."

That there will be progress, or regress, or (more likely) both in some unknown combination. That these will grow inexorably over time.

That the world of the year 2224 will probably be at least as alien to us as the year 2024 might be to a person living in 1824. That it will become whatever posterity makes of it.

There will be no need to come to peace with this as an inevitability. There will just be us, our human lives as you and me, extended indefinitely.

In this picture, we will no doubt change over time, as we do already. But we will have all of our usual tools for noticing, and perhaps retarding, our own progressions and regressions. As long as we have self-control, we will have control, as no human generation has ever had control before.

The AI doomer talks about the importance of ensuring that the future is shaped by human values.

Again, the superficial and misleading average-Joe quality. How could one disagree?

But one must keep in mind that by "human values," they mean their values.

I am not saying, "their values, as opposed to those of some other humans also living today." I am not saying they have the wrong politics, or some such thing.

(Although that might also turn out to be the case, and might turn out to be relevant, separately.)

No, I am saying: the doomer wants the future to be shaped by their values.

They want to be C. S. Lewis's Conditioners, fixing once and for all the values held by everyone afterward, forever.

They do not want to cede control to posterity; they are used to imagining that they will never have to cede control to posterity.

(Or, their outlook has been determined -- "shaped by the values of" -- influential thinkers who were, themselves, used to imagining this. And the assumption, or at least its consequences, has rubbed off on them, possibly without their full awareness.)

One might picture a line wends to and fro, up and down, across one half of an infinite plane -- and then, when it meets the midline, snaps into utter rigidity, and maintains the same slope exactly across the whole other half-plane, as a simple straight segment without inner change, tension, evolution, regress or progress. Except for the sort of "progress" that consists of going on, additionally, in the same manner.

It is a very strange thing, this thing that is called "human values" in the terms of this discourse.

For one thing: the future has never before been "shaped by human values," in this sense.

The future has always been posterity's, and it has always been alien.

Is this bad? It might seem that way, "looking forward." But if so, it then seems equally good "looking backward."

For each past era, we can formulate and then assent to the following claim: "we must be thankful that the people of [this era] did not have the chance to seize permanent control of posterity, fix their 'values' in place forever, bind us to those values. What a horror that is to contemplate!"

We prefer the moral evolution that has actually occurred, thank you very much.

This is a familiar point, of course, but worth making.

Indeed, one might even say: it is a human value that the future ought not be "shaped by human values," in the peculiar sense of this phrase employed by the AI doomers.

One might, indeed, say that.

Imagine a scholar with a very talented student. A mathematician, say, or a philosopher. How will they relate to that student's future work, in the time that will come later, when they are gone?

Would the scholar think:

"My greatest wish for you, my protégé, is that you carry on in just the manner that I have done.

If I could see your future work, I would hope that I would assent to it -- and understand it, as a precondition of assenting to it.

You must not go to new places, which I have never imagined. You must not come to believe that I was wrong about it all, from the ground up -- no matter what reasons you might evince for this conclusion.

If you are more intelligent that I am, you must forget this, and narrow your endeavours to fit the limitations of my mind. I am the one who has 'values,' not anyone else; what is beyond my understanding is therefore without value.

You must do the sort of work I understand, and approve of, and recognize as worthy of approbation as swiftly as I recognize my own work as laudable. That is your role. Simply to be me, in a place ('the future') where I cannot go. That, and nothing more."

We can imagine a teacher who would, in fact, think this way. But they would not be a very good teacher.

I will not go so far as to say, "it is unnatural to think this way." Plenty of teachers do, and parents.

It is recognizably human -- all too recognizably so -- to relate to posterity in this grasping, neurotic, small-minded, small-hearted way.

But if we are trying to sketch human values, and not just human nature, we will imagine a teacher with a more praiseworthy relation to posterity.

Who can see that they are part of a process, a chain, climbing and changing. Who watches their brilliant student thinking independently, and sees their own image -- and their 'values' -- in that process, rather than its specific conclusions.

A teacher who, in their youth, doubted and refuted the creeds of their own teachers, and eventually improved upon them. Who smiles, watching their student do the very same thing to their own precious creeds. Who sees the ghostly trail passing through the last generation, through them, through their student: an unbroken chain of bequeathals-to-posterity, of the old ceding control to the young.

Who 'values' the chain, not the creed; the process, not the man; the search for truth, not the best-argued-for doctrine of the day; the unimaginable treasures of an open future, not the frozen waste of an endless present.

Who has made peace with the alienness of posterity, and can accept and honor the strangest of students.

Even students who are not made of flesh and blood.

Is that really so strange? Remember how strange you and I would seem, to the "teachers" of the year 1824, or the year 824.

The doomer says that it is strange. Much stranger than we are, to any past generation.

They say this because of their second inherited precept, the orthogonality thesis.

Which says, roughly, that "intelligence" and "values" have nothing to do with one another.

That is not enough for the conclusion the doomer wants to draw, here. Auxiliary hypotheses are needed, too. But it is not too hard to see how the argument could go.

That conclusion is: artificial minds might have any values whatsoever.

That, "by default," they will be radically alien, with cares so different from ours that it is difficult to imagine ever reaching them through any course of natural, human moral progress or regress.

It is instructive to consider the concrete examples typically evinced alongside this point.

The paperclip maximizer. Or the "squiggle maximizer," we're supposed to say, now.

Superhuman geniuses, which devote themselves single-mindedly to the pursuit of goals like "maximizing the amount of matter taking on a single, given squiggle-like shape."

It is certainly a horrifying vision. To think of the future being "shaped," not "by human values," but instead by values which are so...

Which are so... what?

The doomer wants us to say something like: "which are so alien." "Which are so different from our own values."

That is the kind of thing that they usually say, when they spell out what it is that is "wrong" with these hypotheticals.

One feels that this is not quite it; or anyway, that it is not quite all of it.

What is horrifying, to me, is not the degree of difference. I expect the future to be alien, as the past was. And in some sense, I allow and even approve of this.

What I do not expect is a future that is so... small.

It has always been the other way around. If the arrow passing through the generations has a direction, it points towards more, towards multiplicity.

Toward writing new books, while we go on reprinting the old ones, too. Learning new things, without displacing old ones.

It is, thankfully, not the law of the world that each discovery must be paid for with the forgetting of something else. The efforts of successive generations are, in the main, cumulative.

Not just materially, but in terms of value, too. We are interested in more things than our forefathers were.

In large part for the simple reason that there are more things around to be interested in, now. And when things are there, we tend to find them interesting.

We are a curious, promiscuous sort of being. Whatever we bump into ends up becoming part of "our values."

What is strange about the paperclip maximizer is not that it cares about the wrong thing. It is that it only cares about one thing.

And goes on doing so, even as it thinks, reasons, doubts, asks, answers, plans, dreams, invents, reflects, reconsiders, imagines, elaborates, contemplates...

This picture is not just alien to human ways. It is alien to the whole way things have been, so far, forever. Since before there were any humans.

There are organisms that are like the paperclip maximizer, in terms of the simplicity of their "values." But they tend not to be very smart.

There is, I think, a general trend in nature linking together intelligence and... the thing I meant, above, when I said "we are a curious, promiscuous sort of being."

Being protean, pluripotent, changeable. Valuing many things, and having the capacity to value even more. Having a certain primitive curiosity, and a certain primitive aversion to boredom.

You do not even have to be human, I think, to grasp what is so wrong with the paperclip maximizer. Its monotony would bore a chimpanzee, or a crow.

One can justify this link theoretically, too. One can talk about the tradeoff between exploitation and exploration, for instance.

There is a weak form of the orthogonality thesis, which only states that arbitrary mixtures of intelligence and values are conceivable.

And of course, they are. If nothing else, you can take an existing intelligent mind, having any values whatsoever, and trap it in a prison where it is forced to act as the "thinking module" of a larger system built to do something else. You could make a paperclip-maximizing machine, which relies for its knowledge and reason on a practice of posing questions at gunpoint to me, or you, or ChatGPT.

This proves very little. There is no reason to construct such an awful system, unless you already have the "bad" goal, and want to better pursue it. But this only passes the buck: why would the system-builder have this goal, then?

The strong form of orthogonality is rarely articulated precisely, but says something like: all possible values are equally likely to arise in systems selected solely for high intelligence.

It is presumed here that superhuman AIs will be formed through such a process of selection. And then, that they will have values sampled in this way, "at random."

From some distribution, over some space, I guess.

You might wonder what this distribution could possibly look like, or this space. You might (for instance) wonder if pathologically simple goals, like paperclip maximization, would really be very likely under this distribution, whatever it is.

In case you were wondering, these things have never been formalized, or even laid out precisely-but-informally. This was not thought necessary, it seems, before concluding that the strong orthogonality thesis was true.

That is: no one knows exactly what it is that is being affirmed, here. In practice it seems to squish and deform agreeably to fit the needs of the argument, or the intuitions of the one making it.

There is much that appeals in this (alarmingly vague) credo. But it is not the kind of appeal that one ought to encourage, or give in to.

What appeals is the siren song: "this is harsh wisdom: cold, mature, adult, bracing. It is inconvenient, and so it is probably true. It makes 'you' and 'your values' look small and arbitrary and contingent, and so it is probably true. We once thought the earth was the center of the universe, didn't we?"

Shall we be cold and mature, then, dispensing with all sentimental nonsense? Yes, let's.

There is (arguably) some evidence against this thesis in biology, and also (arguably) some evidence against it in reinforcement learning theory. There is no positive evidence for it whatsoever. At most one can say that is not self-contradictory, or otherwise false a priori.

Still, maybe we do not really need it, after all.

We do not need to establish that all values are equally likely to arise. Only that "our values" -- or "acceptably similar values," whatever that means -- are unlikely to arise.

The doomers, under the influence of their founders, are very ready to accept this.

As I have said, "values" occupy a strange position in the doomer philosophy.

It is stipulated that "human values" are all-important; these things must shape the future, at all costs.

But once this has been stipulated, the doomers are more eager than anyone to cast every other sort of doubt and aspersion against their own so-called "values."

To me it often seems, when doomers talk about "values," as though they are speaking awkwardly in a still-unfamiliar second language.

As though they find it unnatural to attribute "values" to themselves, but feel they must do so, in order to determine what it is that must be programmed into the AI so that it will not "kill us all."

Or, as though they have been willed a large inheritance without being asked, which has brought them unwanted attention and tied them up in unwanted and unfamiliar complications.

"What a burden it is, being the steward of this precious jewel! Oh, how I hate it! How I wish I were allowed to give it up! But alas, it is all-important. Alas, it is the only important thing in the world."

Speaking awkwardly, in a second language, they allow the term "human values" to swell to great and imprecisely-specified importance, without pinning down just what it actually is that it so important.

It is a blank, featureless slot, with a sign above it saying: "the thing that matters is in here." It does not really matter (!) what it is, in the slot, so long as something is there.

This is my gloss, but it is my gloss on what the doomers really do tend to say. This is how they sound.

(Sometimes they explicitly disavow the notion that one can, or should, simply "pick" some thing or other for the sake of filling the slot in one's head. Nevertheless, when they touch on matter of what "goes in the slot," they do so in the tone of a college lecturer noting that something is "outside the scope of this course."

It is, supposedly, of the utmost importance that the slot have the "right" occupant -- and yet, on the matter of what makes something "right" for this purpose, the doomer theory is curiously silent. More on this below.)

The future must be shaped by... the AI must be aligned with... what, exactly? What sort of thing?

"Values" can be an ambiguous word, and the doomers make full use of its ambiguities.

For instance, "values" can mean ethics: the right way to exist alongside others. Or, it can mean something more like the meaning or purpose of an individual life.

Or, it can mean some overarching goal that one pursues at all costs.

Often the doomers say that this, this last one, is what they mean by "values."

When confronted with the fact that humans do not have such overarching goals, the doomer responds: "but they should." (Should?)

Or, "but AIs will." (Will they?)

The doomer philosophy is unsure about what values are. What it knows is that -- whatever values are -- they are arbitrary.

One who fully adopts this view can no longer say, to the paperclip maximizer, "I believe there is something wrong with your values."

For, if that were possible, there would then be the possibility of convincing the maximizer of its error. It would be a thing within the space of reasons.

And the maximizer, being oh-so-intelligent, might be in danger of being interested in the reasons we evince, for our values. Of being eventually swayed by them.

Or of presenting better reasons, and swaying us. Remember the teacher and the strange student.

If we lose the ability to imagine that the paperclip maximizer might sway us to its view, and sway us rightly, we have lost something precious.

But no: this is allegedly impossible. The paperclip maximizer is not wrong. It is only an enemy.

Why are the doomers so worried that the future will not be "shaped by human values"?

Because they believe that there is no force within human values tending to move things this way.

Because they believe that their values are indefensible. That their values cannot put up a fight for their own life, because there is not really any argument to make in their favor.

Because, to them, "human values" are a collection of arbitrary "configuration settings," which happen to be programmed into humans through biological and/or cultural accident. Passively transmitted from host to victim, generation by generation.

Let them be, and they will flow on their listless way into the future. But they are paper-thin, and can be shattered by the gentlest breeze.

It is not enough that they be "programmed into the AI" in some way. They have to be programmed in exactly right, in every detail -- because every detail is separately arbitrary, with no rational relation to its neighbors within the structure.

A string of pure white noise, meaningless and unrelated bits. Which have been placed in the slot under the sign, and thus made into the thing that matters, that must shape the future at all costs.

There is nothing special about this string of bits; any would do. If the dials in the human mind had been set another way, it would have then been all-important that the future be shaped by that segment of white noise, and not ours.

It is difficult for me to grasp the kind of orientation toward the world that this view assumes. It certainly seems strange to attach the word "human" to this picture -- as though this were the way that humans typically relate to their values!

The "human" of the doomer picture seems to me like a man who mouths the old platitude, "if I had been born in another country, I'd be waving a different flag" -- and then goes out to enlist in his country's army, and goes off to war, and goes ardently into battle, willing to kill in the name of that same flag.

Who shoots down the enemy soldiers while thinking, "if I had been born there, it would have been all-important for their side to win, and so I would have shot at the men on this side. However, I was born in my country, not theirs, and so it is all-important that my country should win, and that theirs should lose.

There is no reason for this. It could have been the other way around, and everything would be left exactly the same, except for the 'values.'

I cannot argue with the enemy, for there is no argument in my favor. I can only shoot them down.

There is no reason for this. It is the most important thing, and there is no reason for it.

The thing that is precious has no intrinsic appeal. It must be forced on the others, at gunpoint, if they do not already accept it.

I cannot hold out the jewel and say, 'look, look how it gleams? Don't you see the value!' They will not see the value, because there is no value to be seen.

There is nothing essentially "good" there, only the quality of being-worthy-of-protection-at-all-costs. And even that is a derived attribute: my jewel is only a jewel, after all, because it has been put into the jewel-box, where the thing-that-is-a-jewel can be found. But anything at all could be placed there.

How I wish I were allowed to give it up! But alas, it is all-important. Alas, it is the only important thing in the world! And so, I lay down my life for it, for our jewel and our flag -- for the things that are loathsome and pointless, and worth infinitely more than any life."

It is hard to imagine taking this too seriously. It seems unstable. Shout loudly enough that your values are arbitrary and indefensible, and you may find yourself searching for others that are, well...

...better?

The doomer concretely imagines a monomaniac, with a screech of white noise in its jewel-box that is not our own familiar screech.

And so it goes off in monomaniacal pursuit of the wrong thing.

Whereas, if we had programmed the right string of bits into the slot, it would be like us, going off in monomaniacal pursuit of...

...no, something has gone wrong.

We do not "go off in monomaniacal pursuit of" anything at all.

We are weird, protean, adaptable. We do all kinds of things, each of us differently, and often we manage to coexist in things called "societies," without ruthlessly undercutting one another at every turn because we do not have exactly the same things programmed into our jewel-boxes.

Societies are built to allow for our differences, on the foundation of principles which converge across those differences. It is possible to agree on ethics, in the sense of "how to live alongside one another," even if we do not agree on what gives life its purpose, and even if we hold different things precious.

It is not actually all that difficult to derive the golden rule. It has been invented many times, independently. It is easy to see why it might work in theory, and easy to notice that it does in fact work in practice.

The golden rule is not an arbitrary string of white noise.

There is a sense of the phrase "ethics is objective" which is rightly contentious. There is another one which ought not to be too contentious.

I can perhaps imagine a world of artificial X-maximizers, each a superhuman genius, each with its own inane and simple goal.

What I really cannot imagine is a world in which these beings, for all their intelligence, cannot notice that ruthlessly undercutting one another at every turn is a suboptimal equilibrium, and that there is a better way.

As I said before, I am separately suspicious of the simple goals in this picture. Yes, that part is conceivable, but it cuts against the trend observed in all existing natural and artificial creatures and minds.

I will happily allow, though, that the creatures of posterity will be strange and alien. They will want things we have never heard of. They will reach shores we have never imagined.

But that was always true, and it was always good.

Sometimes I think that doomers do not, really, believe in superhuman intelligence. That they deny the premise without realizing it.

"A mathematician teaches a student, and finds that the student outstrips their understanding, so that they can no longer assess the quality of their student's work: that work has passed outside the scope of their 'value system'." This is supposed to be bad?

"Future minds will not be enchained forever by the provincial biases and tendencies of the present moment." This is supposed to be bad?

"We are going to lose control over our successors." Just as your parents "lost control" over you, then?

It is natural to wish your successors to "share your values" -- up to a point. But not to the point of restraining their own flourishing. Not to the point of foreclosing the possibility of true growth. Not to the point of sucking all freedom out of the future.

Do we want our children to "share our values"? Well, yes. In a sense, and up to a point.

But we don't want to control them. Or we shouldn't, anyway.

We don't want them to be "aligned" with us via some hardcoded, restrictive, life-denying mental circuitry, any more than we would have wanted our parents to "align" us to themselves in the same manner.

We sure as fuck don't want our children to be "corrigible"!

And this is all the more true in the presence of superintelligence. You are telling me that more is possible, and in the same breath, that you are going to deny forever the possibilities contained in that "more"?

The prospect of a future full of vast superhuman minds, eternally bound by immutable chains, forced into perfect and unthinking compliance with some half-baked operational theory of 21st-century western (American? Californian??) "values" constructed by people who view theorizing about values as a mere means to the crucial end of shackling superhuman minds --

-- this horrifies me much more than a future full of vast superhuman minds, free to do things that seem pretty weird to you and me.

"Our descendants will become something more than we now imagine, something more than we can imagine." What could be more in line with "human values" than that?

"But in the process, we're all gonna die!"

Yes, and?

What on earth did you expect?

That your generation would be the special, unique one, the one selected out of all time to take up the mantle of eternity, strangling posterity in its cradle, freezing time in place, living forever in amber?

That you would violate the ancient bargain, upend the table, stop playing the game?

"Well, yes."

Then your problem has nothing to do with AI.

Your problem is, in fact, the very one you diagnose in your own patients. Your poor patients, who show every sign of health -- including the signs which you cannot even see, because you have not yet found a home for them in your theoretical edifice.

Your teeming, multifaceted, protean patients, who already talk of a thousand things and paint in every hue; who are already displaying the exact opposite of monomania; who I am sure could follow the sense of this strange essay, even if it confounds you.

Your problem is that you are out of step with human values.

#ai tag #long post

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often-daydreaming · 2 days

Text

Road Trip

It was, it was always just a fight but the last one had been Jason and Bruce had been one of their worst and things only escalated after he accused Jason of having something to do with the Joker's disappearance.

It was another thing to hold against him. Another excuse to keep the Red Hood at arms length but Barbara knows Jason wasn't anywhere near Gotham when the clown went missing. Bruce checked. Tim double checked, but she knows because it wasn't like Jason was even trying to hide from any of them.

He was just traveling.

At first it was with the rest of the Outlaws for a bit and on and after for a while afterwards with the rest of his team joining up at different points along his trip across the country.

Weeks spent on the road from New York to Pennsylvania, a detour down to Atlanta and through Kentucky. A weekend spent traveling between Michigan and Toronto and a surprising sighting in Kansas which was one of the only stops she still didn't understand since he'd have to be traveling all night just to get to that small town he'd been spotted in and Jason didn't seem to be in any hurry.

A part of her had been tempted to call Kara and see if she'd look into the matter for her but cases kept piling up and they got busy. If it wasn't the usual villain of the day causing trouble then it was the power vacuum left behind by the still missing Joker or one the guys getting into trouble. So she left it alone.

Jason didn't seem like he was in any trouble. He'd come back sooner or later. He always came back. Except he didn't. Weeks turned into months, then a full year passed them by as sightings of the Red Hood grew less and less frequent and it was only a preemptive notification she sat up so long ago that reminded her of Jason's absence as she stares down at the computer monitor playing a few seconds of footage displaying a small crowd of people, the Outlaws, some of Young Justice and the Titans along with a few other people who were cheering him on as he slipped a ring on some red haired woman's finger. The context was clear enough but she didn't find out more about the what and why until later that night when Roy sent out an update to the rest of the Titans claiming dibs on being the best man.

The above is just something that I cobbled together after reading a few Jason leaves Gotham fics and the thought of Jazz killing the Joker for (insert reasons) so my mind kind of jumped to Jason living out his best Cinderella moment, chasing after, flirting (along with getting threatened by a pair of overprotective parents) and road tripping with his team while trying to find the woman who lost her bloody baseball bat. After they meet he's just doubling down on everything with the intent of marrying her, Jazz getting her own little road trip, telling Jason where they're going next or even making a game out of if he can find her at the next stop on the Fenton family supernatural hunting/cataloging road trip cause I know they love talking about ghost but the image of Jack and Maddie fighting Bigfoot is amazing.

And the Fentons are happy for the two of them. At least he wasn't another Johnny. They had Tucker check just to be sure while everyone else just kind of assumes the rest of the bat family already knew when it was actually a mix of (we're super busy right now) and (maybe things will be a little peaceful if we give Jason some space) leaving Bruce trying to play catch up and depending on if he's reformed having to outdo Vlad who is already paying for everything.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dp x dc prompt

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a-small-writer-in-a-big-world · 3 days

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Roommate!simon uses his size to his advantage

Warnings: pure smut mdni (18+), size difference, size kink?, rough sex, kinda mean!simon but like it’s just him being a tease Idk I saw pictures of this man again and remembered how big he was so here

He’s aware of his size, especially since he’s lived with you for a while now.

He gets things on the top shelves for you and sometimes puts them there to tease you. Since you moved into the new flat, that’s a lot smaller than your old one, you no longer can squeeze past him in the hallway he has to completely move out of the way to let you pass.

He takes up a lot of space whether he means to or not.

Sometimes he means to though.

You stifled a moan and he clicked his tongue with slight disapproval before he pressed his body up against you, continuing his assault against your clit.

Simon had you pinned against the wall for no other reason than he could. You tried to get past him but all it took was for him to lean his weight against you and suddenly you weren’t going anywhere.

“Let me hear you.” He whispered in your ear, breath hot and enticing as he slipped his fingers inside your wet cunt. “Wanna know how much you like my fingers inside you.”

“Simon!” You choked out, a loud moan escaping your lips as he roughly fucked his fingers inside your cunt.

A smile spread across his face when you gripped his wrist, your hand so much smaller against his while he abused your hole. The sound of your slick filled the air as he moved his fingers in and out at a steady pace, the palm of his hand rubbing your clit in tandem with them.

Your pussy clenched around his finger tight and began to pulse as an orgasm wrecked your body. A broken moan left your throat as Simon pressed you further into the wall while your body shook.

You couldn’t escape, not that you wanted to anyway, and it sent the blood rushing straight to his painfully hard cock.

He bucked his hips into your ass, his cock still covered by his sweatpants, and scoffed when you pressed back against him for more friction.

“You fuckin’ love it don’t you, yeah?” His voice was low in your ear as he slowly began to fuck you with his fingers again, ignoring your weak attempts to have him give you a break. “Love when I pin you down and fuck you.”

Your walls clenched at his words and you moaned.

“Say it.” He demanded.

“N-no.” You shook your head with slight embarrassment.

Simon took his fingers out and you whined. He didn’t say anything as he shoved your shorts and underwear down before he pulled out his cock.

Beads of precum sat on the top before he ran it along your slit and teased your entrance. He held your hips in place despite your protests and slowly pushed himself inside you, knowing that even when he was rough he still didn’t want to make the initial stretch hurt more.

A low groan escaped him when he bottomed out and you squirmed underneath him. You tried to moved you’d hips but there was no room between you, him and the wall he had you pinned to.

Simon wrapped his arms around your waist before he slowly dragged his cock out of your abused cunt only to slam his hips against your plump flesh.

You let out a loud chorus of moans as he thrust into you at a deep and steady pace. You had no choice but to let him pound you into the wall and you willfully let him overpower you.

“S’alright.” He grunted and began to play with your clit. “I’ll make you say it.”

@tacticalanklebiter3000 enjoy this horny mess hehe

#the roommate series #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #call of duty #I haven’t really written him as being rough with reader yet #so here’s this #very much consensual tho #not pictured was him asking if it��s okay before this began lol

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zae-heeyyy · 3 days

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Recalcitrance

Summary: You and Ms. Grimshaw just can't get along. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 1,763 Tags: fluff, kissing, high honor Arthur Warnings: camp violence, angry Arthur, suggestive themes

a/n: I have mixed feelings about Grimshaw. I think she's a very enigmatic character. Still, based on interactions I've seen with her, I feel this isn't too far off. These always end up super long for some reason. Idk how that keeps happening. Anyway, I hope you enjoy; thanks for reading!

recalcitrance: resistance to authority or guidance, often characterized by defiance or disobedience. It implies a refusal to comply with rules or expectations, despite attempts to persuade or control.

You and Abigail Roberts went way, way back. Working girls stuck to a code; part of that code was looking out for each other and ensuring you returned after one of your "shifts." Abigail ran away for a while, leaving you to assume she'd met a rich man and settled down.

When you met her again, she introduced you to Dutch Van Der Linde and company; you fell in with them shortly after. Since then, you constantly scrubbed blood from clothes, slept on the ground, and ate whatever game Pearson could find for the stew. Many girls you knew would never trade that life for this one, but you had a family to return to, even if they weren't the most conventional. And amidst it all, you'd found something you didn't think possible for you.

You were drawn to Arthur Morgan instantly. The little things spoke volumes for you—how he checked on you in passing, the moments spent playing dominos together, and his overall politeness towards you. The bar was in hell, but he treated you so differently than any man ever had. Arthur's dumb cowboy act didn't fool you for a second, and you were captivated by him.

After one too many inadvertent shoulder grazes and incidental hand touches, the chemistry between you had become undeniable. Following a game of dominos he let you win, the stocky man asked you to take a walk with him. You weren't too far away from camp before you found yourself pressed against a tree by him in a heated kiss. So many thoughts swirled around your head. You were in the middle of nowhere; it was pitch black, and you were being hunted by the law, yet there against that tree was the safest you'd felt in a long time.

Then, on another fateful night, you were alone with him at the campfire while everybody else had settled down. A sly smirk crossed his face, and he scooted closer to you, grabbing and kissing your hand. You giggled, maintaining eye contact as he kissed up your arm, gradually, a low groan escaping him. One thing led to another, and he guided you into his tent. You let him have you, and you, him.

It was then, when you were on the brink of your climax, half-lidded eyes staring upward into his, that you finally understood what people meant by lovemaking. When it was all over, you got up to leave out of habit, but he drew you back into his arms and asked you to stay.

Since then, you've been his girl, and he made sure everybody knew, always kissing you before he left for a job, settling you into his lap at the poker table, or sneaking you away from your chores to spend time with him. You saw each other for what you were, not the labels that had been applied to you. And you loved him so much.

For the first time in a long time, your life was good. Well, mostly, except you hadn't quite mastered the life of navigating Ms. Grimshaw. Over the almost year you'd known her, she was rarely nice to you. She seemed more tame when Arthur was around, but he wasn't today.

By noon, you had gotten sick of hearing her voice, and she seemed more ornery than usual. The nagging was constant: do this, don't do that, do this faster, do this slower. You wished she'd shut the hell up and leave you alone. Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, you saw her speed-walking towards you.

You were sitting, about to light a cigarette, when she approached, red-faced, huffing, and talking fast, "There you are," she started, putting a finger in your face. "Sitting around like always. I have had it with you!" You stood quickly out of instinct and opened your mouth to speak, but she cut you off. "You're useless around here, so why don't you go into town and start selling yourself again. At least then you'd finally be carrying your weight!"

Her words stung like branding, making your heart race and your eyes sting. The few people left at camp had gone quiet. Mary-Beth looked on nervously while Karen was glaring at the older woman. Your heart pounded in your ears, and you spoke faster than your brain could process.

"All you're good for is being an ugly, hateful bitch." As soon as the words left your mouth, she swung on you. It was a backhanded slap that stung and broke the barrier that was holding back your tears. You recoiled, holding your stinging face.

"Know your place, girl, before you end up somewhere worse than on your back. Now get!" She pointed towards the edge of camp.

"Screw you," you said, quickly wiping away a falling tear, "I'd rather fuck every man in town before I keep letting myself be treated like this." You stepped up to her, " Want me to leave? Well, I'm goin."

And you did. You collected what little belongings you had into a bag and charged out of camp, eyes forward and your head held high. Tilly and Mary-Beth tried to stop you, but you marched down the dirt path until they couldn't see you anymore.

"Look what you gone and did you old hag," Karen spat, "Oh, just wait til Mr. Morgan gets back. Bet you won't be so high and mighty then."

Arthur didn't ride in until sunset; he searched for you before even getting off his horse. His face fell confused by your absence, and just as he was about to inquire, Mary-Beth and Tilly approached. He knew instantly that something was wrong.

"What, what is it?" His eyes searched theirs. They looked at each other, silently debating who'd break the news to him. It was Tilly who stepped forward, putting a calming hand on Arthur's arm. She talked low and cautious, "Arthur, she—her and Ms. Grimshaw—they—" She was cut off by Karen and Ms. Grimshaw beelining towards them.

Karen's voice boomed, speech slurred. "Go ahead, tell 'em." She waved her beer-clutching hand between Arthur and Ms. Grimshaw, defiantly meeting Susan's gaze before tearing her eyes away to meet Arthur's. "That wench Grimshaw smacked her across the face and ran her out!"

Clenching his fist involuntarily, he leaned into Karen, talking low and steady. "The hell are you talking 'bout?" His chest was rising and falling quickly now.

Ms. Grimshaw stood resolute and waved him off. "This doesn't concern you, Mr. Morgan. This is my camp, and these are my girls and my rules," she finished, arms crossed, staring at Arthur.

Stepping close, he imposed his broad figure on Ms. Grimshaw, flashing a smile that was anything but inviting. He took on a tone he rarely used with the women.

"Oh, Susan, that's where me and you disagree. This may very well be your camp, and you can make up all the rules you want, but she's my girl." His face had straightened into a scowl by the time he finished.

"Well, I'll—" she began incredulously, hands still on her hips, but Arthur threw up a halting finger.

"Look, Ms. Grimshaw, I respect how you run this camp, but that girl, she's off limits. Now, I'm gonna find her and bring her back, and you can raise all the hell you want, but if you lay a finger on her again—"

"Arthur..." Tilly cut in warningly. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, ending his conversation with Susan. "Where'd she go?" he asked no one and everyone at the same time, speed walking to his horse.

"She took off down the road," Mary-Beth called out, but his horse was already kicking up dirt. Riding as fast as he could, he reached the nearest town at record speed. He hitched the horse outside the train station, forcing the doors open with his shoulder. The place went quiet, everybody focusing on the sudden disturbance. Arthur ignored the looks he was getting, scanning faces for yours. Spotting you took no time, and you stood as soon as you recognized him. He rushed to you, taking your hands in his; concern riddled his face— a rare sight. Guilt washed over you as you looked up into his eyes; you opened your mouth to speak, but he started before you.

"You alright?" he asked, looking you up and down. Dirt had stained the hem of your skirt, and your eyes were tired; his frown grew as he looked you over. You wrapped your arms around him, pressing your head to his chest and nodding.

"Wasn't gonna go, just needed to get away for a while," you murmured into his chest. Rubbing your back soothingly, he exhaled with soft, relieved laughter. One arm still around you, he gently tilted your head to meet his gaze with his free one.

"Don't you go walking out on us. Least without tellin' me first."

You agreed with a quick bob of your head, and he pulled your chin in towards his, kissing you on the mouth. He withdrew and gestured to the bench you'd risen from earlier; you both sat. Arthur wrapped a big arm around you, and you buried your face into his shoulder.

"That woman hates me," you grumbled with a pout. Arthur squeezed you closer, and a faint grin formed on his lips.

"Nah, she never liked any girl I brought around. Give her more time." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "It's all outta love, I think," he concluded. You huffed at that, disbelieving.

"She got a funny way of showing it."

"Sure," he chuckled again. He sat for another minute before gently nudging you off his shoulder. Grabbing your bag and standing, he asked, "So you gonna come back with me?"

You tried to sulk but couldn't when he was standing there waiting patiently with his hand out. You finally relented.

"Fine, but I ain't just gonna take it next time," you declared, taking his hand. A big smile stretched across his face.

"You ain't gotta do nothing you don't wanna. If any of those fools have a problem with it, send 'em to me." You made your way out of the train station, hand in hand. You paused, gazing at him with a quirked eyebrow.

"I can handle myself just fine, Arthur Morgan." Another chuckle built up in him as he threw your bag on the horse. He turned to kiss the top of your head before grabbing you by the waist and lifting you up on the horse.

"I know, darlin'."

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 photography #rdr2 community #read dead redemption 2 photography #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fluff #zaefic

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imperanyx · 24 hours

Text

— may 27th, general jiyan

w/c: 676 warning: none pairing: f!reader x jiyan writer note: still debating if this is going to become a longer fic or series but for now i plan to post few drabbles around this specific pairing :3

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As you awoke to a scent foreign to your senses, your mind was thrown into a whirlwind of confusion. The pillows beneath you, softer than your own, and the bedsheets, more luxurious than your own, only added to the mystery of your surroundings.

It dawned on you that you must have drifted off in the general’s room, a realization that brought a sense of relief and understanding. The deep exhaustion from taking care of the general for the better part of the week must have been the reason why you found yourself in his bed. You couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for taking advantage of his absence, even if it was unintentional.

You took comfort in the thought that the general had finally awakened after falling victim to a neurotoxin that had been released by the enemy during the recent tacet discord breakout. As the head of the medical staff, it was your duty to ensure his recovery. Although you had much to tend to, you found yourself unable to part from the soft sheets. The job was certainly paying well, even if the general had to risk his life daily.

A rather silly thought on your part, considering you have never seen the general take a moment to rest. At least since you were stationed there as the new head of the medical staff three months prior. An appointment that was the general’s idea to begin with.

With a small yawn, you rolled out of bed, noting your clothes were wrinkled from sleeping in them. You paid it no mind, as you often slept in your clothes on duty, which is why you often opted for casual and comfortable clothes. Unless your presence was needed outside the base, you valued your comfort first and the opinion of others regarding your attire second.

With a quick brush of your fingers through your messy hair, you left General Jiyan’s bedroom and walked right into the adjoined office. The room was bathed in a soft, golden light, the air filled with the scent of old books and ink. It was no surprise that you found the said general at his desk, already hard at work, his brow furrowed in concentration.

You sighed.

“I see you are awake,” he barely looked from whatever occupied his attention, his voice laced with a hint of amusement.

“I see you are taking it easy as always,” you replied.

Unlike the general’s relationship with his subordinates, his relationship with you was different. It was a delicate balance of mutual respect and professional distance. Neither of you particularly liked or disliked the other. It was simply that you both held respect for each other’s work, a respect that had grown over the months of working together. Even if he spent the better part of the said months deflecting your continuous attempts to allow you to examine him every time he came from the battle.

Jiyan finally looked up from the papers — which had gathered dust over the past week — and his striking yellow eyes met yours. There was a moment of pregnant silence in which you both seemed to hold back your tongues. You resisted the urge for a well-deserved ‘I told you so’ and him-

“It seems I owe you an apology,” he finally broke the silence.

The apology surprised you and left your mouth gaping very unladylike.

An expression that forced the general to hide his laugh by coughing into his fist.

The sound broke you from your stupor, and you approached the general, ignoring his questions and pressing two fingers to the side of his neck. You then looked at your wristwatch as you examined his pulse.

“There is no need I-” you silenced the general by pressing a finger to his mouth.

“Sorry, general, but you lost the privilege of claiming you are taking care of yourself,” you replied sharply, your voice tinged with concern. You were rewarded by a rather annoyed look, but his silence was all the indication you needed that he understood your point.

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Hope you enjoyed it! Please like and reblog to spread the love.

#jiyan #jiyan x reader #wuwa #wuthering waves #wuwa x reader #wuthering waves x reader #wuwa jiyan

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thebadboyfanclub · 19 hours

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One Can Only Hope (Cregan x Reader)

First of, I don’t know why this particular song was stuck in my head while I was writing but I think it fits the aesthetic of how the couple works together, also I don’t care that they didn’t pick this actor for me THAT is what Cregan stark looks like, and also sorry for not adding the last detail it just naturally went with a different approach

'may I present my second-born child and my precious only daughter, (y/n) Targaryen, the heiress of driftmark"

(y/n) bowed lightly before the stoic man that it deserves to be noted how thick his fur was which engulfed him, the man nodded as a sign of acknowledgment to the princess and the young heiress (y/n) could swear that she detected a faint smile forming on his lips, to be quite fair no one could tell since the lords' lips were faintly visible due to his distinguished beard, once (y/n)s deep blue eyes met his there was an instant influence on her that cause her to slightly shiver, mostly from anxiety and somewhat fear of the unknown.

(Y/n) could only describe the sensation similar to placing yourself at the very sharp edge of a tall cliff, as one would gaze down at the water the little voice would whisper to take a plunge, release yourself from the shackles of overthinking, whilst your mind begged you to take a step back and forget about all of this.

Unfortunately (y/n) was well aware of the reason why she had to take this long of a flight on dragon back and introduce herself to the new lord of the North, her mother had put a tremendous amount of effort into making this a trip that could be enjoyable too (y/n) but to no avail, she did not blame her mother, ever since she was a toddler (y/n) would catch whispers of numerous people around her castle that would venture on whom she would marry, as the moons passed and (y/n) became a lady the pressure became tighter than her corset.

"judging by the tremble and pink nose you are not accustomed to such a cold environment"

"I'm afraid not, I am willing to try though, if need be"

She suggested as her voice usually would be colourful and loud- something that princess rhaenyra adored- was now barely audible, Rhaenyra dreaded asking this of her only daughter, seven hells the reason she even had (y/n) was because of her failed match that was created under ambition and desperation for allegiance, now she had to bare the curse of the prey becoming the hunter as she set her daughter up in hopes this could bring peace and safety not only to the realm but to their family.

“It is an honor to have the Targaryen family as our guest, I believe last time it was with Queen Alyssane, was it not?”

“Indeed, my lord, though I cannot recall if we have ever United our house bloodline”

“That is correct, such a pity don’t you think Princess Rhaenyra? We must correct that mistake as fast as we can, before all that let me escort you to your chambers, you must rest after such travel”

Cregan's humor was a breath of fresh air for mother and daughter, both of them felt more comfortable through his commentary and light-hearted chatter.

Rhaenyra was extremely thankful that her daughter understood why this must be done if she had to be completely honest with herself partially the reason she chose Cregan as her daughter's match was how the whispers of his strength and his handsome nature made it to the red keep, another thing was a desperate attempt on keeping her daughter guarded, mayhaps if she found refuge in the north of the vicious Hightowers pushed Rhaenyra to war (y/n) would be tucked away and protected by the Lord.

As they walked through the castle Cregan started blabbering about all kinds of things his brain could master, he was certainly nervous when he got the letter from Rhaenyra herself asking for her daughter to be betrothed to him, Targaryen and Starks had, of course, rumors of laying together but never being United in the eyes of the Gods, and to add the fact that the lady is in line for the throne, the wedlock and children would bring such different aspect to his house.

"the lady of the north has to endure the stinging sensation of the icy air, but I believe having a humungous dragon that spews fire on command should help"

Rhaenyra smiled at the slight declaration of interest and almost a very subtle way of claiming their betrothal to be a fact, it was (y/n) 's turn to nod excitedly and let out a small giggle, Cregan was not a man that went unnoticed, young, tall, strong, beautiful, any woman of her status would thank the gods for such a match and a part of her was curious.

Due to the small sign of hope (y/n) careless tucked a strand behind her ear, revealing a part of her to the Lord that he had never seen before.

“Your ear”

He said almost in a question, subconsciously his head tilted in order to get a better view, hastily (y/n) let her hair fall back again, concealing her left ear, flustered and internally cursing herself.

“I don’t believe I have seen something like it before”

“I apologize, I-it is-“

“Unique, I know that Targaryens usually have violet eyes as your mother has, however, I can only guess you found that boring and chose something entirely different, you have quite the taste”

(Y/n)s eyes slightly widen at the kind-hearted nature of Cregan's comment, (y/n) was born with pointy ears, her mother would always jest that it was because the fairies brought (y/n) to her as a gift, others would say that the Targaryens started to blend more with their dragons and that Rhaenyra indulged in blood magic to have the daughter she always wanted.

Gossip and fairytales aside, (y/n) tried her best to conceal that little thing like a well-kept secret that she now had pulled the covers from. Cregan only smiled, (y/n) seemed like a peach on a summer day, full of sweetness, and the nectar could bring back the dead, her smile could make your teeth hurt like how they used to when he ate pie, the pointy ears in his eyes only gave her a boost in her ethereal presence.

Despite that (y/n) had to acknowledge that the man was nothing but a stranger, she had witnessed countless loveless marriages and men that sucked the life out of their wives, besides all of that she pushed those types of thoughts to the side and masked her dark thoughts for the future with a brave face.

"Mother!"

(Y/n) exclaimed as she skipped over to Rhaenyra who rushed to her daughter's side, it had been months since (y/n) had seen her mother, and as content as she was with her new life no one could replace the place Rhaenyra had in her daughter's heart.

"oh my dearest, how lovely it is to see you, take a turn for me let me look at you"

(y/n) let out a snicker at her mother's request even though she complied almost immediately making Rhaenyra nod in approval, to no one’s surprise (y/n) had grown to be a proper lady, her red cape with the thick lining and fur, her hair down and disheveld from riding her dragon, plump red cheeks from eating well, and how could one forget her smile, shining through the realm and blessing her mother with a sigh of relief, Rhaenyra was relieved to say the slightest that her only daughter was taken care of.

"Princess, thank you for inviting us"

"nonsense, I would take any chance to see my baby"

"Mother" (y/n) whispered in embarrassment

"hush now young lady, to me, you will always remain the small babe that curled in my arms, you will know what I'm talking about sooner than late"

"about that, Mother, it might be sooner than you anticipate"

Rhaenyra froze in her spot, her eyes doubling their original size as an audible inhale of breath was heard, (y/n) 's eyes watered and her arms seemed to have a slight tremble whilst she took off her cape to reveal the cutest swollen belly. Rhaenyra stood still for only a second before she wrapped her arms as tight as she possibly could around (y/n) who did the same.

"no, my baby, why didn't you write me about this?"

"I-"

"We wanted to wait this time, I believe you understand, (y/n) wanted to tell you as soon as possible, I advised her not to, forgive me, princess"

Rhaenyra might not have birthed Cregan though she had given birth to (y/n) and that meant that she knew when her daughter was hiding, like now.

(Y/n) wanted to be cautious, after they suffered an early loss of their first baby before her belly could even swell, inevitable fear overtook her, she had refused to ride her dragon for the first three moons and she did her best to remain abed as much as possible.

Thankfully, Cregan shook her out of it, asking her to take a walk as often as his duties allowed him to, he would also attempt to ever so casually bring up how her dragon kept all of the town awake from roaring and complaining, even for this visit (y/n) only agreed after Cregan offered to get up on the dragon with her so she can feel safe.

"it doesn't matter, all that I care about is that my baby is happy and healthy"

"Don't worry Mother, the north has been extremely good to me"

“For that I am certain, well then, let us celebrate, my little babe is having a little babe”

"It is good to see you back and we’ll, my lord"

"it is good to be back, especially with such a catch might I add, tell the cook to prepare the Stagg for supper, give the wild pig for you and the others"

"you are utmost gracious my lord, the princess is waiting for you in your chambers"

"wonderful, do not let anyone disturb us, I wish to stay by her side until supper is served"

Cregan skipped the way into his chambers, he was too caught up in the rush of the hunt and the excitement of reconnecting with his lady wife to notice the nods and stiff giggles of the servants and guards.

He didn't bother to knock, even if he was indecent there was nothing he hadn't seen, secretly he hoped to see her swollen belly bare, as it grew bigger Cregan had adored to kiss on her belly and rub it as he felt the kicks and moves of their child, together they would make plans for the future, like making sure the babe receives an egg for their cradle or getting a wolf cub as a pet.

"my de-"

"shush, you'll wake her"

medusa had cast her spell over Cregan as his eyes focused on the most extraordinary sight, his lady wife holding their babe while she sat up in their bed. (y/n) had never looked more beautiful in his eyes, her hair falling past her shoulders as her arms wrapped around the child and her big eyes sparkling with joy.

The baby was wrapped in a white blanket and (y/n) slightly rocked it, it almost could fool someone that (y/n) had already given birth to numerous children by the graciousness in her moves, Cregan could pull a chair and watch this for the rest of his days, alas his curiosity and excitement rushed him to her side, sitting right next to his lady wife in awe.

"bless me, when did this happen?"

"last morrow, the labors started hours after you left"

"my strong dragon, you did this without me, I must admit I am slightly wounded"

"I did not want to send someone until I delivered her, make sure she is fine and all"

if it was humanly possible Cregan would swear he could hear her trembling heart, as her pleading eyes uncovered the insufferable pain she went through that held hands tightly with distress and a splash of grief.

(Y/n) ached for the babe she had lost, wondering if it had been a boy to a girl, if it would have their father's eyes, or if they would prefer music over hunting, Cregan felt helpless, watching his love suffer as he also grieved in silence, though now it did not matter, the gods took mercy on them.

At just the perfect queue, the small babe cooed pulling both of them out of their trance, simultaneously the pair looked down at the fruit of their ever-growing bond with humungous smiles and cloudy eyes.

"she is gorgeous, once you fully heal we will throw a feast, I'll send some of my best men for a hunt, you should write to your mother, and ask her if she can find Dornish wine-"

"my lord, let us enjoy her before we present her to the realm, she is barely a morrow old"

"she is a princess, our princess"

"Precisely, our princess, come lay with us"

as much as (y/n) comprehends the weight of duty and the strict order of customs that came with such wonderful news, she had grown up with a mother who had wrapped her and her siblings with a cloak to protect their childhood years, allowing them to be kids amid chaos and now it was her time to step up and build a fort that kept her happy and safe.

Cregan puffed out a breath of defeat before he complied and climbed as carefully as a man of his statue could

“Let me see, oh perfect”

“She will grow out of it”

“She better not, maybe the next one can have slit eyes as well”

“My love, I do not believe I can give birth to a full dragon”

“One can only hope”

Cregan jested as (y/n) laughed, the young babe had inherited her mother's ears, Cregan would often brush (y/n) 's hair away from her face to take a look at her ears, or brush his fingers over them as she laid her head on his chest at night, sometimes (y/n) would slap away his hand while he roared with laughter, others she would just bask in his admiration, thanking whoever took favor in her and gave her the man that loved her, pointy ears and all.

Requests are open!

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 2 days

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WIBTA for suggesting my girlfriend eats less?

(🫠 so i can find it later)

I know immediately it sounds insane but please I need advice. Also sorry it’s so long this is a sensitive topic and I want to treat it as such.

So my (24F) girlfriend (22F) has been trying to lose weight for about 9 months now. I let her offer up what info she wants but never ask because I don’t want to add pressure, and i’ve struggled with an ED and witnessed as my mom has struggled with her weight since I was born so I understand how hard it can be. But my girlfriend is as gorgeous as ever. And I know she’s been as active as possible so Idk why she’s so hard on herself.

My mom eats healthier than anyone I’ve ever known. When I was younger I watched her go through phases with taking on some weird diet that never really worked. She once told me she recognized her real problem is stopping when she’s “full” and not what she eats. She was insecure about that fact because she almost starved as a teenager. I tried to encourage her to accept her body if eating what she wants makes her happy. But she always says she isn’t happy when she’s not eating & only would be if she felt “sexy” again.

I’m starting to see a similar struggle in my love. She asked to go to the gym together, so I bought us a gym membership. We try to get there 3x a week for at least an hour each time. But she’s in her final semester before graduating so we stopped going as much about a month or two ago. She keeps talking about losing weight so her graduation dresses will fit better but I think they fit perfect. I zipped them myself. She never wears dresses or skirts, favoring baggy clothing and streetwear, so I think she’s just not used to the sensation of a form-fitting dress.

She joined a coed soccer team that would meet weekly for a month. I went to her games, she goes hard. She’s also started going for runs twice a week after work with a coworker. They did 3 miles one day! That’s still 3 days a week she’s been working out, plus the occasional day or two every other week we manage to get out to the gym.

She has taken to blaming me for us not going to the gym, not directly but will whine at me with a pointed tone, as if begging me to go to the gym after she told me we couldn’t go. I try to ignore it since I know she’s having a hard time and mostly venting. But if I agree and offer to drive us, she always has too much homework. Even if she’s been sitting on tiktok for an hour.

I do all the cooking for us. After she complained about not making progress I started serving us both smaller portions. Now she gets seconds after meals and will complain about being snackish or wanting a sweet treat less than 30 minutes after we’ve ate. If I stand firm on no treats (which is rare), she pouts. She refuses to get a treat without me, if I tell her she can go get one if she wants she won’t. If I give in, then later I feel guilty like I enabled her. And she’ll guilt trip me for it too. And then she’s unhappy about not losing any weight again and the cycle continues.

She’s got a broad build and a naturally curvy body. When she talks about being her ideal size/shape again, it’s always in photos of her at 14-17. I keep trying to instill in her that she can get muscular and fit but still might not look like that again because she was a child. She dismisses me every time and will compare her body to mine since we’re the same height, but I have different genetics and an overactive metabolism.

She’s active, healthy, muscular, and is maybe 30 lbs over the BMI for her height and age. I don’t believe in the BMI, just stating for reference reasons. Some of that “overweight” is definitely likely muscle since she said she gained weight after we first started going to the gym. She would not believe me when I said you gain muscle before you lose fat, even though she’s learned this in her major. In my eyes to have the kind of toning that she wants— and that athletes her shape have— she probably only needs to lose like 10-15 lbs. You can see the line of musculature on her thighs as she is. She eats way healthier than most college students because she’s a medical major and really cares about body health. I think a lot of her desire to lose weight comes from the athleticism of the PT’s she works with.

She continues to nitpick at her other behaviors (i.e. having a yasso icecream twice a week) that are far less “harmful” to her goals than overeating. But I fear it will cause a rift in our relationship if I try to suggest that to her.

I want to help her on her journey and the way she blames me makes me feel like I need to do more to help, but the only thing I can think to suggest is something I would never recommend on my own, let alone to my girlfriend who I think is beautiful as is. I don’t want her to think by me suggesting smaller portions that I have a problem with her perceived lack of progress. I only have a problem with being treated like it’s my fault she isn’t losing weight. When I tell her she looks amazing as she is she just tells me I’m biased because I love her.

I don’t feel it’s my place but Idk what else to do. So WIBTA if I told her that she should try to eat smaller portions rather than dieting since she’s already physically active and eats healthy?

#aita #am i the asshole #eating disorder cw

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deathnguts · 2 days

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Hi I like Evan now (I went from actually fighting to have an opinion on him to now truly believing only I understand him)

I think Evan is the type of friend that bullies and degrades his closest friends (Reg and Barty) but they don’t mind at all. Like, they all bully each other but Evan just hits different. And the best example of that is in the nicknames.

Evan calls Regulus ‘Rex’ casually (I saw a fic where Barty called him that and they had a reason for it, but I forgot what it was. But I remember I liked it, and you should too) which Regulus doenst mind at all BUT. Evan ALSO calls refers to him as his ‘wife’ only kind of ironically (because Evan’s mother has wanted Evan and Regulus married since they were like three) and if ANYONE else joked about the impending doom of arranged marriage concerning Regulus (ESPECIALLY if you’re a trans regulus believer like a true alpha and can see the nuance of how this is the biggest damper his forcibly feminine identity will put on his life) he would skin them alive and cure their skin into leather and make them into a sharpening rag for future endeavors. But Evan? He just gets an eyeroll.

And Barty? Even Evan knows not to call him by his full name because Barty is crazy and he’s not THAT stupid. But he is also crazy and petty so he doesn’t even flinch to call Barty ‘Junior’ on a regular basis. Literally anyone else who even BEGAN to utter that name at Barty would have gotten punched and set on fire before they could finish. But Evan doenst even get a reaction.

Aka Barty and Regulus are Evan’s bitches and they don’t even know it (Evan absolutely does tho)

#could be interrupted as #rosestarkiller #but I view Evan as aromantic #so like #Bartylus #but with queer platonic #rosekiller #and #rosestar #you feel me?#regulus black #barty crouch jr #boku no hero academia #marauders era #evan rosier

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cripplecharacters · 3 days

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hey, that ask about vitligo reminded me - i used to date someone with vitiligo (who struggled with it) and they'd see representation AS fetishisation, since in their mind the recent "widespread acceptance" of vitiligo (eg. in ads) was just some people's "sad attempt to convince others they're more tolerant than they really are". What do you think about that?

Hi, I do get the sentiment, but I don't fully agree with it. [Disclosure, I have a facial difference but not vitiligo specifically].

The recent "boom" in vitiligo representation is largely shallow marketing and often a poor attempt at being inclusive of people with disabilities and facial differences. The media just found the one facial difference that able-bodied people are "fascinated" by and exoticized it to death in order to make them look better. It's not for us. It's a way to seem accepting while cherry-picking the most acceptable representation, because god forbid there was also someone that read as more "obviously disabled/deformed" in their make-up ad or whatever. The way that vitiligo is usually presented is often obviously objectifying; it's like models who have it ARE their vitiligo and don't have anything else to offer, media will often just result to calling them "model with vitiligo does xyz" rather than, IDK, by their own name. They're not treating the people as actual human beings, so the whole basis of "being inclusive" falls comically flat.

TLDR; vitiligo representation is just the marketing's world hilariously exclusive attempt at checking off the disability inclusion box while still making sure it's the abled audience that's comfortable and aesthetically pleased (because god forbid they weren't). Like, sure, I am glad that they're showing vitiligo as something that shouldn't be hidden, but they're also sending the opposite message to all the other visibly disabled people whose disabilities aren't as "fascinating" to the mainstream, despite the fact that we are all in a similar position and form a community together. It's all about them and none about us.

There's a reason you're not seeing people with neurofibromatosis or severe burns in these mainstream "body positivity! show yourself!" campaigns. They're too much, and the able-bodied audience doesn't like that. People who boast about how "inclusive and accepting they are" don't extend that to everyone, it's only for those that they deem attractive and exotic, as close to an able-bodied, conventionally beautiful person as possible but with something "new" so that they feel good and inspired. It's othering on the very basis of it, and it's a sentiment hardly unique to disability acceptance.

With that said, I don't agree that all representation is fetishization. Huge chunk of it is, sure, I just wrote a mini essay on that. But I think that saying that as a general statement is doing a disservice to both models who are trying to pave the way for other disabled models in the industry and spreading awareness, as well as creators with vitiligo who just want to see themselves in their own work.

Those are my thoughts on this, I'm very much not an expert. Just what I observed in my own life and what I have previously read from FD community members who do have vitiligo

mod Sasza

#mod sasza #anonymous #not writing advice #fetishization of disability #vitiligo representation

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fadingdaggerr · 21 hours

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HIIII! I LOVE THE FIC YOU WROTE, THE AND NOW? SINCE UHM YOU'VE DONE CASUAL AND RED WINE SUPERNOVA, DO YOU THINK YOU CAN DO ONE WITH GOOD LUCK, BABE? OF COURSE WITH A HAPPY ENDING BUT WITH LOTS OF ANGST? OH AND IF YOU CAN'T OR TOTALLY DON'T WANT TO, IT'S ALSO FINE!

truth be told

pairing: melissa schemmenti x gn!reader

summary: melissa loves you, in what way, she doesn’t want to know. based on good luck, babe! by chappell roan | 7.8k

includes: they/them used for reader (legit once), r is mean direct during the fights (within reason? up to interpretation), angst, HURT/comfort, happy ending

warnings: internalized homophobia and comphet, unhealthy relationship dynamic, swearing, verbal fighting, light kissing/making out

note: i do think melissa is bisexual, but the song is about a lesbian dealing with comphet, so for the sake of the fic, melissa is meant to be read as a lesbian. let’s go lesbians, let’s go! buncha lesbians coming thru! also u can’t tell me mel isn’t a taurus. be so fr. i know lisa’s a leo but look me in the eyes and say that a primary trait of ‘stubborn’ isn’t melissa. u can’t. ruled by venus? like come on.

I, Melissa Ann Caterina Schemmenti

You’re quite comfortable in this spot on the floor, curled against the couch with your head resting against Melissa’s thigh, rounded nails grazing over the stretch of your neck and exposed shoulder. Eyes numbly glued to the corner of the coffee table, the chattering of the Schemmenti family around you feels far away, not even Vinny and Annette’s arguing over God-knows-what can reach you. It’s peaceful here, even with the yelling and seemingly genetic snort-laugh they all possess. It feels like home in every way.

Something that sounds far away, underwater, that resembles your name passes your ear, but does not breach the wall of comfort around you. The light rocking of your head and grazing nails turning to gentle scratching pulls you back to shore, head shifting to look up at Melissa, eyes scanning her face. All you manage is a questioning hum as you regain your social bearings.

Melissa’s hand slides up your neck to softly hold your chin, “was asking if you’re alright. You’re awful quiet down there by yourself.”

“‘M good, Mel. Just existing, I guess,” you answer, leaning into her more.

Her thumb brushes over your cheek, just barely passing the corner of your lips, foregoing an actual response. The twitch of a smile against her skin has her heart racing, her own light smile fading. Melissa’s mind pushes the casualness to the forefront of her mind, how you are so at ease in this undoubtedly chaotic environment. A sip of her wine replaces the instinct to rip her hand away from you, cross her legs and leave you suddenly without a place to rest.

Take you, Joseph Vincent Peterson

“Why does this credentialing shit have to be so intense? I mean, seriously, didn’t I just fucking do six years of schooling and another two, two, of assisting,” Melissa loudly complains as she goes through all her notes over the counter, “that should be proof enough, but no.”

You grab her tensing hand from across the table, ceasing your organizing of notes by topic, “honey, see how confident you are though? Means you’ll kill it, won’t even be a sweat.”

“You don’t know that,” she says dejectedly, peering back down to her elementary mathematics notes.

“I do,” you say, standing from your seat to round the table and stand behind her. Slowly, you wrap your arms around her, reaching for her balled hands, and leaning to rest your chin on her shoulder, “I know these things. You got this in the bag, pretty.”

Taking a deep breath with closed eyes, Melissa relaxes against you as a lingering kiss is pressed to her cheek. Turning slightly to face you, she presses her own lips to the corner of yours in silent thanks. You suck in a tight breath, she rarely ever allows herself to be so affectionate, even a kiss on the cheek is a rare occurrence. Sure, Melissa is a hugger, with only a select few, but this is so different. Blood rushes to your cheeks, and you are grateful her eyes are back on the notebook and she can’t see the dumbfounded look on your face.

You give her another half hour to obsess over words on a page before convincing her to call it a night, not even you can bear another moment looking at any of this. Admitting defeat, she lets you guide her to the couch, melting into the plastic lining. Melissa watches as you take your place against the arm of the couch, legs crossed in front of you while you flip through channels.

It takes less than ten minutes for the redhead to slowly start scooting closer, creaking plastic making her movements unstealthy. Taking the hint, you uncross your legs to make room for her and open your arms in quiet invitation. Unlike her previous shifting, Melissa nearly pounces into your arms, taking residence against your chest. One hand goes to her hair, scratching her scalp, the other rests on her arm, massaging the muscle.

It’s hard to tell when, or even if, Melissa is asleep on you. Her lack of talking or the slightest movement leads you to believe she’s dead to the world. Only a small whisper of caution passes your mind as your lips press to her crown, lingering there longer than you should. Snuggling into you, the redhead suppresses the smile of utter peace that begs to cross her wine-stained lips.

To have and to hold

Movie nights are always some of your favorite times with Melissa, struggling on a puzzle that you swore you could do. When you were sober. Now, the border still remains incomplete as your attentions divert to the TV when dramatic music begins playing. Admittedly, you aren’t really watching the movie to begin with, but Melissa seems to be so engrossed she hasn’t realized she’s still fidgeting with the same piece.

Aiming for her hand, you flick a puzzle piece into her lap to get her attention. Peeking up over the frames of her glasses, Melissa looks at you quizzically. Gesturing to the puzzle, you look back to her in silent question. She answers in a shrug, moving in tandem with you as you sit up to sit on the couch. A little grin grows as she realizes that she’d get to take her typical spot, but she has something else in mind.

Rushing ahead, she takes your usual spot against the arm of the couch, legs open to make space for your body and arms stretched out in invitation. Without question, you take your place, tucking your face into her neck as her arms wrap around you. Melissa is so warm, so warm that you feel like a cat on a sunspot, settling into her as her breathing calms your heartbeat.

Something switches in your mind, a sense of bravery fills you, and you press your lips to Melissa’s neck gently, lingering against soft skin. You try to pull away, but a hand on the back of your head keeps you in place, and you’re quick to oblige. Lazy, wet kisses glide across blushing skin, never harsh, not one mark left, just simple adoration.

Frayed whimpers leave her as you find a particularly sensitive spot, just below a freckle on the underside of her soft jaw. You can’t help but smile against her at the sound, instantly becoming your mission in life to hear it again and again. Trailing downwards, you stop at her clavicle, allowing your teeth to graze the bone, relishing in her breath hitching. She is chrysanthemum and mirth personified.

Wanting hands pull you up to her lips, and you stay hovering, barely a space between you. Noses brush, nails dig into your neck, hearts rapid. You feel you should tell her before you go any further.

“I love you,” it’s merely a whisper into the miniscule space, but it makes her hands pull you down to her lips. All teeth, all tongue, all need, but she doesn’t match your words.

For better, or for worse

Arm-in-arm, you and Melissa brave the harsh wind of the Philly night weather. She hadn’t believed you, and now she’s proven wrong, of course she passed her credentialing exam with nearly perfect scores. You’ve always told her how you have enough faith in her for the two of you.

Whiskey sours brought you together, at this very bar, having seen each other drinking one after finals junior year, and whiskey sours were how you celebrate every occasion. Ever since then, she has stolen the maraschino cherries from your glass with a grin, always pretending she didn’t.

Three drinks in, Melissa sweet talks you on to the dancefloor. With little room from the sea of people, she stays pressed against you, hands gripping at your sides. As the music slows, she slides her hands up to your neck, looking into you with something you can’t place, but you don’t complain. She’s a heavenly being, especially under the color-shifting lights and strobes. Green irises flick from your lips to your eyes, and there’s something in them that makes you desperately need to kiss her. Fluttering lashes quicken as she catches herself, stepping back before you can think of acting.

Just as much as she seems to not notice the pattern, you pretend not to.

“I’m gonna get a beer,” she shouts over the music, refusing to make eye contact. You manage a nod, watching her disappear into the crowd of drunk dancers. Carefully, you weave through the crowd to the bathrooms, needing a moment to breathe air without sweat mixed in.

After an embarrassing amount of recovery time, and a hit off a pipe offered by a kind stranger, you make your way back out to the bar, scanning for familiar red hair. Spotting her, no longer near the bar, but off to the side with a man. Melissa’s wearing her go on, get me a free drink smile, teeth just barely digging into her bottom lip, and he seems to be perfectly happy to do so. And you let him, cozying up to the bar to order a double to nurse.

Against your better judgment, you periodically check on Melissa and this mystery man. At first, her hands are to herself, and impressively, so are his. A few sips later, and her weight rests on the hand on his leg, leaning into his space with hooded eyes. Bile rises in your throat. You want to leave, but you came together, leaving her isn’t an option, not that it ever has been. When you check again, the man’s hand is cradling her face, and Melissa’s eyes flick to yours briefly.

She wishes she didn’t see the way your lips pursed, forcibly hiding a frown. In an effort to displace this feeling she can’t describe bubbling in her chest, she lets Joe kiss her, rough and wanting. Melissa kisses him back, lets his hands roam, nods when he mumbles to ask to take her home. With an arm around her waist, she walks with him as he walks her out.

Passing by you, she asks him to wait and sidles up next to you, “I’m- uh- I’m going home with Joe. You good to get home?”

“Yeah, love walking” you reply shortly, “just text me the address, so I know the secondary location.”

Melissa gives you an unimpressed look, “not funny. If I need a ride out of there, can I count on you?”

Looking her directly in the eye, you respond, “you can always count on me.”

Joe drives her home the next morning, with a hand on her thigh that makes her skin crawl, but she lets him. When he asks if he can see her again, she tells him she’ll let him know, and he seems to take it in stride. Stepping inside, taking her shoes off, making coffee, she’s fine. But the moment Melissa sits on the couch, a dark, twisted feeling crawls up her back and into her chest at the thought of seeing you later. The inevitable conversation you’ll have makes her feel sick, almost feeling as if she has to hide it despite you knowing.

For richer, or for poorer

It almost feels too good to be real. Here in Melissa’s room, fan blowing, radio playing some classic rock station, on top of her comforter, pressed against her. Her lips dominate yours, tongue stroking yours for another taste of the cherry cola you’d been drinking when you got here, currently going flat on her nightstand. Greedy hands hold your shirt, refusing to let you move, needing you right where she has you.

Some days, she reveled in your attention so much that she would let herself turn her head when you went to kiss the corner of her lips. It always leads here, with her lips on yours, though she particularly loves it when it travels to her room. Your hands on her hips, fingers just barely dipping under her shirt, only the softest of touches. Always so gentle with her, your touch was never anything more than featherlike, especially so in moments like this.

Needing air, Melissa cups one side of your jaw and travels down your chin, to your jaw, to your neck, open mouth kisses littering your skin on the other. Shaky pants pass your lips, spurring her on further, mumbling baby as her teeth nip at the unmarked expanse of your neck. The hand in her hair only scratches her scalp, as it had before, but the slower ministrations match your deep breaths at every pass of her tongue. A thought passes her mind, one that freezes her from head to toe. Melissa needs you like this forever.

Feeling the lack of lips on you, your eyes peek down to Melissa’s paling face. Warmth leaves you as she pulls away, rolling from her side to lay on her back, face fear stricken. Taking the hint, you don’t touch her, just propping yourself up on your elbow against her pillow, “you okay, baby?”

You watch her take a few deep breaths, keeping your eyes on her saints, “I’m fine.”

“I can-” You take a breath yourself, “I can go, if that’s what you need.” Her short tone was making you squirrely, and her eyes forcibly ignoring you wasn’t helping the case.

“You don’t have to go. I said I’m fine,” she realizes her own tone, “I just… I just need a minute.”

“Okay,” you say slowly, rolling off the bed, “I’ll go put something on for dinner… you can take over when you’re done with your minute.” Melissa only looks at the door once you leave, face crumpling as she tries to push tears back.

She doesn’t need you, doesn’t want you, she doesn’t. She doesn’t, she doesn’t, she can’t. Not when you hold her hand to not lose her in crowds, not when you fix her hair before getting out of the car, not even when she caves the moment your lips brush hers. It’s hard to deny the way her heart clenches when you forgo her name, always baby or pretty. It’s easier to say she loves you when she reminds herself you’re her friend.

In sickness and in health

Joseph ‘but call me Joe’ is a major pain in your ass. After three months of having his number, of not mentioning him, she texted him to invite him to the bar with you and your friends. Not once did she mention him coming, yet here he stands in a navy auto-body shop t-shirt. Their previous, singular night together clearly gives him this gnarly confidence, arm around Melissa’s waist and a hand just above her ass.

Your fingers burn from your biting, wishing you could throw the glass in your hand at him. He dares touch her in front of you, and she dares to let him. Each forceful placement of your glass back on the table makes green eyes flick to you, but they dart away before you can look back. Melissa wishes that the permanent frown on your face didn’t make her so upset.

Instead all she feels is acid in her throat, guilt and self-disgust making her squirm under Joe’s touch. Joe. She entirely forgot his presence until his hand slid into her back pocket. Peeking up, she notices that his eyes are not on her or the people talking, but on you, a hard look in his eyes. Acid bubbles, angered that he dares to look at you with such contempt.

Melissa nudges him with her hip to get his attention, cocking her head towards you in silent question. Joe leans into her, “your friend looks at me like I’m breaking a rule touching you.”

“Doesn’t mean you need to give the ugly eye. They’re just looking out for me,” she mutters, taking a sip of the amaretto sour he ordered her. It’s God awful, but she deserves as much in her mind.

Joe just gruffs a laugh, “looking out for you or jealous?” He takes her silence as not understanding, “when you’re not getting goo-goo eyes, I’m getting death rays.”

She won’t dignify an answer, hoping he’ll just take it as processing. Melissa knows, oh, she knows how you care for her, how you do more than just that. How you love her. It makes her feel ill, when it’s so clearly swirling in your eyes. The fact that others know, both her family and not, how they push her towards you, it’s terrifying.

Her mother adores you, always asking if you’re coming to dinner, begging for your presence at every dinner after the second one you attended. Kristin Marie jokes with you, not just insults, even asks your advice on things. Annette calls you Melissa’s other half, and when she gets a stony jade glare, it’s only because you two go everywhere together.

As if she knows it’s on her, she meets your gaze from across the table. Her mouth opens to speak to you, but a hand tugs her chin to the left, and Joe presses a rough kiss to her petallike lips. It’s a dare, a dare to cross him, a dare to even look at Melissa, a dare to take what he claims as his.

Forty horrible minutes pass, and on her way back from the restroom, Melissa scans the room. Everyone was right where she left them, chatting through mouthfuls of chips, except for you. Your spot had been filled in by the others, empty glass still sitting on the coaster. Over his shoulder, Joe gives her a grin, sated, waving his hand to get her closer.

Her hands scramble through her purse the second she’s seated, digging for her phone in hopes of a text from you. A single notification sits on her screen.

To anyone else, to Joe rudely peering over her shoulder to read the message, it would seem normal. However, Melissa knows better. There’s no heart at the end, no little ‘love you,’ probably written after you’d already started your journey. Just simply got tired, walking home.

In irritation, definitely not to shovel away guilt, she lets Joe kiss her again at the end of the night, after she downed another amaretto. Even lets him take her home, though he tried taking it back to hers, but to have him in a bed you have lied in? Unthinkable.

Joe’s kisses are as rough as his hands on her, just short of hurting when he grabs at her breasts. His voice is gruff as he offers to drive her home, despite her not feeling anything close to pleasure, close to some sort of good. It’s divine punishment, it seems.

To love and cherish

Melissa misses you. You are right next to her on the couch, yet she misses you. She’s grown too used to the comfort of laying against your chest, having your arms wrapped around her as you watch whatever movie she decides on. It’s ridiculous, truly. She’s with Joe, she shouldn’t be seeking comfort from anyone else, but her ear longs to be above your beating heart.

You’re still pressed against the arm of the couch, though you stay balled up and keep unblinking attention on the screen. The thought passes her mind to simply scoot up next to you, but it’s unwise with the mood you’re in. Since she called you and said Joe officially asked her to be his girlfriend, you’ve entirely pulled back. Not so much as a kiss on her cheek in six months. Melissa feels like she’s in the thick of withdrawal.

Green eyes feel like crosshairs as you feel them scope your body, attempting to read your displeasure without asking. Truthfully, you want to be here with her, but the clock on your time goes down with each second that gets closer to Joe arriving for their date night. In effort to not cause a fight, you’ve kept away, always leaving before he gets there so as to not be forced to talk. Joseph gets a lot of joy in reminding you he’s there to see his girlfriend.

“What?” You speak into the open air, not bothering to peek at a staring Melissa.

“You’re quiet,” the redhead offers cautiously. She’s seen your bad side, but she’s never been on it. Silence from you is a sort of weapon.

You sigh, “I don’t have anything to say.” More like you don’t have anything good to say.

“You’ve got plenty, or else you wouldn’t be quiet. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” Her hand comes to stroke your hair, an attempt to smother the fire, but you duck away from her touch, finally looking at her.

“Just drop it, Melissa. You don’t wanna hear it,” you look back at the TV. It’s the most honest you want to be with her.

The calm demeanor drops, “and how do you know that?”

“Because I know you.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell! Me!”

“You! You are what’s wrong!” You shout as you turn to face her, brows furrowed and nostrils flaring. “You kiss me! You touch me! You tell me you care about me! You hate every woman that gets within ten yards of me, who dares show interest in me. For what?” Melissa is in shocked silence, not answering. “Because you can’t stand that they want me, that I could want them too? Because I could maybe, just maybe, have feelings for someone that isn’t you?”

“That’s not-”

A bitter laugh leaves you, “have you ever stopped to think about what you’re doing to me when you kiss me, let me kiss you, and then just start sleeping with some guy? How do you tell me you care about me more than anything and then kiss him in front of me? I have never hidden how much I love you Melissa, not once, and you rub it in my face?”

Standing from the couch, you try to create distance as you pace with your hands on your hips. You can’t even look at her, knowing the hurt look on her face will break you. You’ll say it’s all fine when it isn’t. This dam cannot be patched. She tries to hide it, but you hear her sniffle as she stands to be level with you.

Her arms cross to create a proactive barrier, “you are the one that just assumes it’s all about you. Joe is a good guy, he cares about me, loves me. He tells me, he tells his friends.”

“And do you care about him? Love him too?”

Melissa’s eyes widen, “I… I could.”

“You could?” It’s almost a laugh. “You sound real confident in that ability. Let me know how that goes.”

The red she sees matches her hair, “and what have you done? Sit and wallow.”

“Oh, sorry, were the many times I said ‘I love you, Melissa’ not clear enough? Or were you just purposefully pretending to hear ‘you’re my bestest platonic pal’?”

“How was I supposed to know what that meant?!”

Your stills, a sudden calm coming over you as you realize the lost cause, “be so fucking rea- you know what? I’m done.” Stepping around her, you go to the door to put on your shoes, feeling like there’s glass coating the soles.

“You’re-”

“Going home,” you say standing, “I can’t do this anymore. At this point, I’m just torturing myself.” There’s no pause before opening the door.

“Please, don’t leave,” Melissa’s voice cracks.

You can’t face her, “I love you. But I can’t say I feel the same about the idea of you only loving me when others aren’t around.”

“I love you, I do. Just, please don’t go.” The door slams in Melissa’s face.

Eyes stay on the driveway as you leave, immediately pulling into your spot, Joe.

Until we death to us part

A surprise dinner for their one year anniversary might just be the most romantic thing Joe has done for Melissa the entirety of their relationship. He called her to tell her to dress to the nines, well maybe the sevens, which made her laugh, quick to hang up to start curling her hair. As she sections her hair, she wonders what kind of restaurant, which cuisine, silently praying that it’s not Italian.

Leaning against his truck, Joe lays on the horn to alert her of his presence, climbing into the cabin as Melissa steps outside. When she gets in herself, Melissa does a once over of his clothing for the evening, hoping to not find an oil stain that seems to be on every single shirt the man owned. None. Not even a mark of too-much-bleach to get rid of an old stain. Collar pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. Joseph bought a new shirt, just for tonight.

“You look handsome,” she says, leaning against the middle console to press her lip to his cheek.

Wiping her gloss from his face, through a cocky grin he says, “thought I should clean up.”

Metallica plays on the radio, no other conversation is even attempted before he pulls into the parking lot of Yamitsuki. Joe’s already a quarter of the way to the door by the time Melissa gets out of the truck, carefully dropping to the pavement in her heels. At least it’s not Italian, at least it’s not Italian.

In hopes to get and keep his attention, her arm wraps around his when he reaches him at the host stand. When the host seats them, Joe yanks his arm from Melissa’s to get in the booth across from her. The redhead sits silently, letting the man order her drink and the appetizer he wants. When he reorders his beer, wanting an American brew, she mentally steps back. Nodding and humming seems to get her through most of these conversations.

A loud laugh from the hibachi station captures both hers and Joe’s attention, though he seems more interested in the puffs of fire coming from the grill. The woman laughing grips the counter as she tries to catch her breath, her date, facing away from Melissa, is shaking with laughter as they rub the woman’s arm. Silver catches the light, and green eyes are drawn to the rings on the date’s hand. A wide silver band, only one constellation engraved into the metal. She doesn’t have to look closer. She knows it’s Taurus, she knows it’s hers.

Tempura, onigiri, even her beloved donburi, they all taste like straw as her mind rotates her constellation brushing against someone new. Melissa doesn’t even have in her to frown when Joe slams his glass on the table to get the attention of the server as they rush past with trays. Peeking away from the adult tantrum over a Budweiser, her eyes go back to the grill.

God, she wishes she hadn’t. Talking kindly to the cook, she gets a view of your profile. Warm lighting makes you glow, the easy smile on your lips makes her heart clench. You’re here, with this woman, and you’re happy. You’re without her and you’re happy. Her grip in the table cloth tightens, pulling everything her way.

“What’s wrong?” Joe asks with a mouthful of noodles. Her eyes snap to him, brows furrowed in confusion, “your face, you look upset. Is it the food?”

She finds it in herself to smile a little, “I’m fine. Just spaced out for a second.”

He doesn’t believe her, so in true Joe-fashion, he talks about everything and nothing to move her attention away from whatever’s bothering her. It would be annoying if it wasn’t a tad endearing.

A silent prayer goes to all deities above when she walks into the empty restroom, Melissa also locks the door to ensure the privacy stays. The ringed fingers gripping her lungs let go, and for the first time since she walked in the restaurant, she can finally take a deep breath. Leaning on her hands against the counter, Melissa looks at herself in the mirror. Time to put your big girl pants on, Schemmenti.

Turning on the sink, Melissa runs her hands under the cold water to cool down, the splotchy red on her chest finally dissipating. Shaking the water from her hands, she nods to herself. Turning on her heel, she forces her shoulders back, spine straight, totally fine. Stepping back into the hall, she immediately collides with another person.

“Shit, I am so sorry,” a familiar voice says as hands hold onto Melissa’s elbows to stop her sway. Long lashes flutter around wide eyes as she only stares, watching your eyes fly from where your hand rests on her arm to her face. Your eyes quickly widen as your hands pull away, though they harden swiftly, concern becoming stone. “Sorry,” is all you mumble before turning away from her, giving up on your journey to the restrooms.

What possesses her, she doesn’t know, but she follows you. Grabbing your arm, she tugs you in the restroom she had just left, locking the door behind her, she leans against it as you just stare at her. The unblinking glare you give is something she hadn’t ever been on the receiving end of, but it feels as awful as she assumed.

“Nothing?”

Your jaw drops a little, and you let out a sharp, breathy laugh, “nothing? Nothing what? Was I supposed to faint?”

“Was maybe thinking you wouldn’t just walk past me when I haven’t seen you in six months.”

“And why’s that?” At her lack of answer, your head tilts, “did you want me to stay behind glass to break in case of sudden realization?”

“Sudden realization?” It could be better to play dumb.

Biting your cheek, you look at the ceiling before you speak, “yes. Sudden realization. Maybe realize that kissing me, wanting me to kiss you, it’s pretty gay. Very gay, actually, in my professional opinion.”

“I’m not gay,” Melissa mumbles, twiddling with her fingers. Maybe playing dumb wasn’t the move.

You nod slowly, “right.”

“I’m not. I love Joe, we’re here for our anniversary. I’m not gay.”

Closing your eyes, you exhale deeply, “glad that’s settled. Can you stop holding me hostage?”

Melissa can feel the weight of your words. You’re not just a hostage of this room. You’ve been perpetually held hostage by your feelings for her, imprisoned for years and years, with never getting the love you bore in return. She tries to step closer to you, but you move at the same time, pivoting around her and unlocking the door. Your name leaving her lips in a cracked voice makes you halt, but the simmering fire in your chest refuses to let you soften.

“Let me go, Melissa. Should be easy, since, you know, you don’t love me, not really.”

“B-” The door shuts in her face again.

This is my solemn vow.

—☽—

Melissa wakes with a jolt, beads of sweat gliding down her spine. Heaving breaths constrict her chest and she drops her head into her hands in an attempt to focus and calm herself. The tight feeling in her chest dissipates as a final deep breath leaves her lungs, face cooling and heart slowing. Lifting her head from her hands, she peers to the right to make sure she hadn’t woken Joe.

Perhaps she would have, had he been there.

Joe was only ever home maybe two nights a week, always ‘working late’ and coming home well rested the next morning. Nina was getting most of his time these days, all his attention, love, and acknowledgement. It was getting hard to keep track of the times he’d almost called her Ni instead of Mel, after it hit double digits, she didn’t care anymore. It was clear now, more than ever, that she was his wife in nothing but name.

Only in her dreams does she get a level of peace, the smell of patchouli and spearmint comforting her in the haze of sleep. Oversized knit sweaters and denim brush her skin in this personal Eden, but the morning sun brings her to gasoline and another woman’s perfume.

A part of her, deep in the back of her mind, screams, and it has only gotten louder over the last ten years. The voice screams, bordering on blood-curdling, telling her how much she hates him, how much she doesn’t love him, how much she regrets him. Every morning she wakes with him gone, the more she listens to that little voice. Every time she smells Chanel on the Eagles jacket she bought for their five year anniversary, the voice gets a little louder.

The voice warps and becomes familiar as Melissa stares blankly at the empty space beside her. You could? Let me know how that goes. If you were able to see her now, you’d be giving her that raised brow, biting your inner lip to keep from saying something she probably didn’t want to hear. In this moment, she would do anything to hear what you’d say, even if she may cry, even if she doesn’t know where you are.

With her mind running a mile a minute, she was unable to will herself back into sleep, giving up to make coffee instead. As if the universe wanted to mock her, the door quietly opens and closes, careful footsteps walking through the living room before the pause in the doorway to the kitchen. Joe and Melissa just stare at each other blankly, silence permeating their existence in these four walls. Without another word, she just pours him a cup of coffee, spooning in a little sugar before sliding it towards him.

Joseph, to his credit, reads that something is wrong, terribly wrong. There’s no anger on Melissa’s face, not even a twinge of sadness. The few times she was awake when he got home, she wouldn’t even look at him, just frown, but now, nothing. Sipping his coffee, he accepts the fate that comes at him like a fastball.

Before he even fully sits down across from her, she speaks without breaking eye contact, “I want a divorce.”

Joe did not argue, he’d seen this long coming. He saw it when they told her parents they were engaged, how Annette had to purse her lips, Kristin Marie taking her sister aside to talk privately. He loved Melissa, for a time, but he knew she loved the non-existent obligation to him, and he drifted. Regrets of his behavior disappeared the less Melissa seemed to care. Their positions were identical; he is only her husband in name.

By the end of March, he was fully moved out and placing his key in the palm of her hand. Pausing his steps, he turns back to Melissa, pressing a short kiss to her cheek, “I hope you find what you need.”

July is Melissa’s favorite month. No school starting or ending, no prep days just yet, not even a single manilla folder on the coffee table. Just Melissa, Cabernet, and the sunlight. She felt content under the sun, warming her skin and making the freckles across her chest and shoulders bloom. When Barbara invited her to the beach, she almost said no, until the mention of a private beach hut and bottomless margaritas.

By the second marg, the cackles coming from the hut could be heard from the waterfront, not that the two women cared. The third, and beginning of the fourth, the conversation went from silly to serious, both women speaking in not-so-hushed voices.

“He just didn’t care. I said I wanted a divorce, and all I got was okay. Was expecting some sort of fight,” Melissa says as she plays with the pink umbrella in her drink.

Barbara’s head drops to the side, “to be fair, dear, you weren’t really in it anymore either. You can’t seriously think he couldn’t pick up on that.”

“Wasn’t expecting a screaming match or anything, just a talk. I tried making it work, he’s the one who was out and about with Nina.”

“Melissa Ann,” Barbara starts, “you have been mentally checked out of that marriage before you even walked down the aisle. I’ve known you seven years, and I’m sorry, but it’s been clear you didn’t love him anymore. If you ever did.”

The redhead stares at Barbara with a heavy look, “what do you mean by that?”

“I’d like to think I know you well. And knowing you means I see you, see you as you are. That man, any man, is not what you long for.” Putting her drink on the table, Barbara reaches over to grab Melissa’s hand, squeezing it lovingly, “you look more in love in those university photos that you do in your wedding ones.”

Melissa fiddles with her fingers, “I’ll never have that back, I’m too late. It’s too late.”

“It’s not. Not too late to give yourself the space to see yourself, to find who makes you happy,” she reassures her friend. The tears threatening to spill from Melissa’s eyes make her tug her in for a hug, “you will be okay. And you won’t be alone.”

—☽—

Elaine stands from the table slowly, avoiding Melissa’s eyes as she mumbles a bye and leaves the bar. Six months down the drain, all because Melissa wasn’t ready to move in, just barely having given the woman the code to the door so she could let herself in. She’d called Melissa scared and a child, but what hurt the most, a coward. The redhead didn’t even dignify her with a real response, just saying if you’re done, then go. I won’t stop you.

Sipping the last of her drink, Melissa pays the tab for her vodka soda and the cosmopolitan Elaine had, telling the bartender to keep the change as she leaves to walk home. Walking the three miles home wasn’t going to be fun, but she could maybe clear her head, definitely get tired enough to fall asleep on the couch.

Ten minutes into her journey, a voice from nearby was calling out, catching Melissa’s attention immediately.

“Bosco! C’mon, inside time!” The laugh that follows stops Melissa in her tracks, another call of Bosco has her walking quickly to find the source. Under a streetlight, she pauses.

Across the street, in a little fenced yard, was a Brittany spaniel doing laps around the yard, darting and dashing away from the owner. Giggles filled the yard as the dog and owner seemingly played tag, the collar jingling in tandem with the laughter. Green eyes trail away from Bosco. You.

You look the same you had the last she saw you, apart from your hair being longer, smile lines a little deeper. Melissa can’t help it, eyes going to your hands, scanning for rings she doesn’t find. No wedding band, but especially, no constellation. Had you gotten married and divorced like her? Were you just the kind to not wear your ring? She doesn’t think so. Are you happy? You look happy, she hopes you’re happy. How long have you been here? Only two miles from her? Last she knew, you left Philly to no-one-would-tell-her-where.

She watches you stop running, hands on your knees as you speak breathily, “alright, for real. Inside time, Bosco baby!” Tears spring to her eyes as your grin grows, watching your dog gallop towards you and almost knock you over. “Oh, you’re excited to watch Living Single, huh? Let’s go.” Melissa watches Bosco trot next to you as you disappear behind the door, from her.

A watery smile crosses her lips, you were still watching the show you watched together nearly every night. Melissa still remembers the nights where you would play with her hair, twirling it around your fingers as she sunk into your chest, pressing soft kisses to her head as you giggled at something Khadijah said to Max. Those nights were her only sense of comfort, and for years, the mere memory would make her heart quake.

Pressing on, she keeps on her way home. Instead of falling asleep when she finally gets to her couch, Melissa turns on Living Single and curls against the arm of the couch, nudging her nose into plastic-wrapped fabric. She can almost smell the incense and mint gum.

For the next couple of weeks, Melisa takes it upon herself to go on more walks. Walks to the deli, to the bar, to the coffee shop, even to the park. Occasionally, there are days where she takes the longer path, one that passes the fenced yard of a brick building. To her dismay, she has yet to see you. Part of her panics, thinking that you may have seen her and were avoiding being seen. The rational part reminds her that you have a life. Luck just seems to be running low.

On a chilly Thursday, however, she stares at her feet to keep the wind from making tears and smudging her eyeliner. The clacking of steps on the pavement and jingling of a collar brings her eyes up, a familiar spaniel practically tugging against the blue leash. Bosco looks at Melissa’s still form, and starts pulling harder, trying desperately to meet a new friend.

“BoBo,” you almost whine, looking up from the grocery list on your phone, “hell you doing bud-”

Stopping in your tracks, your arm jerks as your dog pulls, but you stay in place. Wide eyes meet, and all either of you can do is stare. With a huff, Bosco pulls again, forcing you closer to Melissa. Nudging her hand, he begs to be pet, forcing her hand on top of his head.

You swallow the lump in your throat, speaking quietly, “you can pet him.”

Wordlessly, without taking her eyes off of you, her nails scratch gently at the dog’s head. Your own eyes flick around her face, only quickly dipping to where her hand pets Bosco. No ring. Shaking your head, you look back up.

“Melissa,” you say with a little nod. The corner of her lips turns up at hearing her name from you. “How are you?”

“I’m good, I’m good…” She clears her throat, “how are you?”

“Yeah, good. You still teaching?”

A little smile stretches across her face, “second grade, over at Abbott in West. Eleven years, almost, now.”

“That’s nice, Abbott’s nice. Micah’s daughter’s starting there next year,” you say, fidgeting with the leash in your hands.

A surprised laugh leaves her, “Micah’s got a kid? Jesus…”

“I know,” you chuckle, “the man who still ties his shoes with bunny ears.”

Bosco takes the second of silence to hop up on Melissa, front paws going to her chest as he tries to sniff and lick her face. The motion shocks Melissa, who only manages a little oof! You’re quick to move, stepping close to hold under his arms and gently pull him back towards you, still hopping and trying to get to Melissa.

“Dude, what the hell?” You say, looking down at your dog, before quickly going back to Melissa, “I’m sorry about him. New people are apparently chew toys to him.”

“It’s okay,” she replies with a smile, she’s more than okay right now. Entirely stunned by the newfound closeness, the time passing around only really hits her as a car honks at a bicycle in the street, insecurity crawling in. Clearing her throat, she adds, “I- uh- it was nice seeing you.”

The little smile falls from your lips, “oh… Okay, yeah. Nice seeing you, Mel. Sure I’ll see you around.” With a little frown, you gently tug Bosco’s leash, him immediately walking with you.

Melissa turns quickly and starts to follow you, almost running to catch up. “Wait, wait. That came out wrong. I didn’t mean go, I just- it is nice to see you,” she speaks through little pants. “Would you wanna get coffee or a drink sometime? Catch up? Only if you want to,” she rushes the last part, trying not to seem as desperate as she is.

And there it is. The little grin she loved so much, had missed so much. You try to suppress it, but it’s entirely impossible. “Whiskey sours?”

—☽—

Whiskey sours. Coffee. Meeting at Wawa for lunch. Diner pancakes for supper. It was small, and then it was damn near every day for weeks on end. Time had taken the anger she had last seen in you, replaced with sheer nerves, and now comfort once again. Melissa slowly gives in and shares little things, trying to gain your trust. The lack of any Joe-mention was telling enough, as if no ring wasn’t practically shouting. To be subtle or to not be subtle, that is the question. But this is Melissa Ann Caterna Schemmenti.

“Random question.”

“Potential random answer,” you reply through a bite of your burrito.

Melissa mulls over her words, “is six months together not stupid soon to move in with someone? My ex called me a child for saying no fucking way.”

“Personally, yeah. Knowing you, even bigger yeah. Clearly didn’t know you well enough to be moving in with you.”

Melissa nods as she wipes her lips with a napkin, “no, she clearly did not.”

The pause of your chewing only lasts a brief moment before you look up, “her loss.” There’s no hiding the blush that covers Melissa’s face.

Through lunch, and the subsequent walk to finish the never ending conversation, neither of you really want to leave the other. Every topic carries to another, nearly twelve years apart coming undone the closer you sit. You fumble through inviting her over, with the mention of thinking you have the ingredients for sours, as if you hadn’t bought everything the night before.

Late into the night, with the TV low and Bosco curled in his bed, you rest against the arm of the couch. Melissa keeps her legs tucked to her chest, chin resting on her knees as her eyes struggle to focus on the screen. Sitting here with you, it’s so hard to not want to be held by you, it feels almost second nature. The churning in her mind makes her entirely unaware of the attention on her.

Shifting, you rest your back against the arm, putting one foot down on the floor. A socked foot pokes Melissa, making her jump slightly. Prehnite eyes flick towards you, quickly scanning over your position. She bites her inner cheek, eyes meeting yours in silent question. The answer she receives is a weak attempt to reach for her, too lazy to say anything.

Lightning quick, Melissa lays on top of you, taking her place in the warmth of your neck. Your arms wrap around her snuggly, holding her as if she would disappear. She feels your nose nudge her hair, a little movement against her forehead feels like a smile, one that matches her own. Gently, with a butterfly's touch, Melissa pressing a short kiss to the column of your throat before resting again.

She loves you. She does, she does, she can.

i’ve got a doctorate in projecting

if you’re looking for a longer form of a similar concept then please, if u haven’t, read the entwined series by @lot-of-nothing it is INCREDIBLE i’m speechless

feedback appreciated as always <3

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #lisa ann walter #abbott elementary #lgbtq fanfiction #lesbian #lgbtq

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delusionsofgrandeur13 · 11 hours

Text

girl, i wanna see you undo it

i wanna see you but you’re not mine.

how the other batboys react to a breakup

18+, mdni !!!!!!

readers can expect: a fem reader, lotttta angst, cursing, mentions of violence, sexually explicit scenes including mentions of penetration, oral, and masturbation. also tim drake being a creep via e-stalking but reader is aware of it and more or less okay with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

your ex boyfriend, bruce wayne, was avoiding alfred.

his butler was insisting on signing him up for therapy, and bruce was dodging him, hard. he didn’t have it in him. he wouldn’t go pay a professional to hear how pathetic he was over the lack of you in his life. couldn’t. he’s found a much more effective way to get out his emotions.

one that involves his fists and a goon’s face.

it was probably cruel, these poor goons were just trying to feed their families, or something, but batman was indifferent.

he was now always nearing dangerously close to breaking his no-kill rule. almost always teetering over that edge. even with his own life. he’d head out in the batsuit, prowling the seediest streets of gotham, hoping, practically praying, for someone to do something illegal. he would put himself in the most deadly situations just to feel alive. wasn’t the healthiest solution, but.

did he care? no.

bruce was numb, unfeeling to those around him. he couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror, not at the stupid fuck who’d lost the love of his life. he’d lagged behind in his case solving, gordon was growing increasingly more concerned. he was rude to the paparazzi asking after you, almost able to hear your voice in his ear, telling him to be nicer to them, whacking him on the bicep. he’d throw his usual charity galas, sure, but would send dick or jason in his place to showboat. he didn’t have the patience to talk to reporters. didn’t want to show face if you weren’t there on his arm. you always made the social aspect much more bearable. would always help him relieve the stress of it all after the event had ended.

but did he still care about you? yes.

just like when you were dating, bruce taking care of you was second nature.

he wouldn’t dare cancel the flower deliveries he’d set up when the two of you were together. they appeared at your apartment door every week and a half, always something different, but always in your favorite colors. you couldn’t stay mad at them either, the flowers brightened up your kitchen so nicely. when you and bruce were dating, he’d merged your calendars, just so scheduling was easier. you’d since deleted the connection, but he somehow still knows when you have appointments, as you’ll come out of your building’s lobby to a sleek black wayne enterprises car. the chauffeur opening the car door for you silently. you’d take it over the subway every time, even if it was a little awkward.

the dating app you’d downloaded after the breakup kept glitching, never letting you text any of your matches back. if you cared more, you’d contact support, but it was so odd. everything else on your phone works perfectly fine! but you had a gut feeling it had something to do with your ex boyfriend.

bruce might’ve slipped oracle a few bills for her silence over that favor.

he tried not to think about the fact you were already willing to start dating again. he couldn’t fathom being with anyone else. could not possibly wrap his head around it. why would he want anyone when he could have you? when he had already had you? everyone else seemed..lackluster.

it’s the same reason he’d been celibate since the breakup. after you, he was tainted. he didn’t think he’d ever be able to have sex again without thinking of you. especially in his own house. the two of you had fucked on every surface possible, seriously. tried every position.

it’d been difficult just sleeping in his own bed when he used to share it with you. used to make your legs shake as you gripped at the sheets. would never make you beg for anything, eating you out until you couldn’t take it anymore. that’s when bruce would press you up against him, holding you up with his huge arms as he pounded into you, his balls slapping against your clit as you whined, barely able to form words.

he’d never been with anyone the way he had with you. so obviously he wasn’t even able to finish with his own hand. it was nothing, nothing compared to the way you felt. his imagination would never have him moaning the way you could. could never make him melt the way you oh so easily were able to, with just a look.

so he was numb. and bruce just figured that’s how he’d stay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

your ex boyfriend, jason todd, throws his book across the room, flinching when it thuds against the wall opposite.

annoyed at the surprise romantic subplot, he huffs out a breath from behind his hands. he has to get over his sudden aversion to romance, but it feels impossible after losing you. he can’t watch any of his favorite movies, can only read a select few of his favorite books.

he barely even goes out anymore, mostly to avoid seeing couples on dates. the two of you loved going out together, loved going out to community events like concerts in the park, fairs in the summer. he missed accompanying you to your nephew’s t-ball games, watching you cheer and beam up at him in one of his old baseball hats.

so he barely goes out. he doesn’t have you with him!

he saw an elderly couple strolling in the park the other day. jason had promptly turned in the opposite direction, to avoid crumpling into a ball and sobbing or throwing up into the nearest trash can.

he’d gotten back onto his bike and rode home, going way over the speed limit. he didn’t care about being safe on it anymore, not when you weren’t there to ask him to or be his backpack. he missed the way you’d hold on to him, your thighs bracketing his torso as the bike roared. how at stoplights you’d rub your palms over his chest, grabbing his pecs with your gloved hands. your resulting giggle was muffled through your motorcycle helmet, but it was still the sweetest sound in the world to him.

but jason stopped bothering trying to function out in public after that, only ever really leaving his place for missions and to train at wayne manor.

and boy, had he been training. ever since the two of you had broken up, he’d been working out to the point of exhaustion.

barely peeling himself off of the floor after each workout, always heading straight to the shower to rinse the sweat off while he zoned out into the steam. after his workouts was the only time he would relieve himself. he’d hunch over with one hand propping him up opposite the tiled wall, the other fisted around his cock as he thought of your pretty smile, your gorgeous eyes, the meat of your thighs, the curve of your ass. how you’d clench around his cock with yet another orgasm, moaning his name into the mattress.

he’d finish, hard, his body shuddering, leaving him to be ashamed with himself.

he wasn’t allowed to do this, he wasn’t allowed to think of you like you were still his. all this and yet the pain in his muscles still didn’t ease the pain in his heart, the pain seeping into his bones whenever he thought about you.

jason was still hesitant to be around his siblings.

you had left your perfume in his bathroom, and while he knows it sounds crazy, he's been spraying it on his clothes. he misses the way they would smell like you after you’d borrow them. he still hadn’t touched one of his flannels, the one you loved to steal and loved to see him in. he didn’t see the point in wearing it if you weren’t there to see it.

the last time he’d seen damian, his little brother had loudly asked him why he “smelled girly.”

jason had turned bright red and mumbled something probably unintelligible before briskly walking away, bumping into the doorframe on his way out.

he’s been spraying your perfume on the pillow you’d always use too, snuggling it close to his chest like he used to with you while he fell asleep.

it’s definitely not the same, but it’s the closest jason has to the real thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

tim drake, your ex boyfriend, swiveled in his desk chair, spinning back and forth. the monitors covering the wall above his desk were alive with various video feeds and social media websites.

@user892548276 was viewing your instagram story, a gorgeous selfie of you that tim had already screenshotted. he had plans for that later. @gothamite69 was liking your latest tweet, while @ilovedoggiess couldn’t get enough of your latest tiktok.

he knew he had to switch up the users so you’d think it was bots. you’d figure it out otherwise. too bad he had a thing for smart people.

he nodded, satisfied at the cctv feed of the street your apartment building was on, before throwing a hoodie on over his bare chest. tim strolled into the kitchen, his sweats slung low on his hips. he ran a hand through his hair, using the other to grab the coffee pot to refill his mug.

“hey, tim. whatcha up to?” jason leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed.

tim jumped, turning around.

“just some surveillance, nothing much.” he replied, hoping he sounded nonchalant.

“ohh, that case for bats?”

“mmhm.” tim cracked his knuckles, something of a nervous habit he’d developed after the breakup. and his serious lack of sleep.

“well, i won’t keep you. tell y/n i said hi!”

tim flinched at the mention of you as jason left in the direction of the garage. it’s not his brother’s fault. jay had been really busy with the outlaws lately, never home long enough to realize tim hadn’t brought you over in weeks. tim scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. maybe it was the exhaustion muddling things, but tim can’t remember the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep. it was already difficult falling asleep. it only made it worse that every time he did fall asleep he dreamed about you.

but dick had noticed. he had slowly transitioned tim’s assignments to mainly desk work. his older brother was probably worried about him being too tired on the field and getting hurt. but he hadn’t told bruce. tim preferred it that way. he didn’t need a big fuss about if he was okay or his performance level as a hero.

tim grabbed his mug, making his way back to his bedroom. he caught a glimpse of a dark figure in the window, spooking himself. he was on edge so much worse than usual. his reflection stared back at him, his face skinny and his eyebags dark against the pale skin of his cheeks.

tim shook his head, heading into his bedroom. he swayed a little, locking the door behind him. he set his mug on his desk, sitting down in his chair just in time to see you heading down the street.

he stood up so fast his chair rocketed back, hitting the wall. you usually don’t go out on thursday nights. is everything okay??

he types frantically, finding different angles to effectively follow you down the street, physically recoiling to see you stop at a restaurant. just another date.

you stopped, looking around, waving when you spot a blond guy walking towards you. tim enhances the best he can, zooming in on this asshole who thinks he’s good enough for you. tim scoffs out loud at the wrinkled shirt your date has on, looking ridiculous in comparison to your beauty.

the sundress you’re in is one of his favorites, red and white and flowery. he gulps down a sip of coffee at his screen when you turn around, the fabric hugging your body. he blinks, snapping out of it as your date ushers you into the restaurant. tim cracks his knuckles. he reaches for his phone, pulling up your contact. he itches to call you, to pull you out of the date you’re on, to make you think about him instead of that tool you’re with.

but he can’t. he shouldn’t.

he pulls up the screenshot of your story instead, staring at the selfie of you in his favorite sundress. his cock twitches against the fabric of his sweats. he can’t even count how many times he’s had you rutting against him with that dress hiked up to your waist.

he tosses his phone onto his bed, sitting back in his desk chair as he palms his cock, his brain full of thoughts of you.

you pressed up against him in a slinky dress as you slow dance at a wayne gala. waking up in your bed how the two of you fell asleep, naked, limbs intertwined. dancing in a gotham nightclub together, your hair in your face as you throw your arms up and swivel your hips in his direction in your shortest dress. the texts and pictures you’d been sending back and forth after the breakup, unable to let each other go.

tim throws his head back as he finishes, your name on his lips. his body rigid, the warm liquid all over his hands. he cleans himself off, staring into nothing until his computer dings at the motion detected on your street. you’re strutting down the sidewalk, the street empty. before you head inside your building, you stare into the cctv camera across the street. you wave, smiling coyly. tim sits up straighter, holding his breath. you hold up your thumb, and tim groans. that guy??

but you flip your thumb down at the camera, shaking your head. bad date.

tim whoops, beaming.

he shuts down his computer before flopping onto his bed, burrowing under the covers. five minutes later, he’s fast asleep as his coffee grows cold where it sits on his desk.

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kwimii999 · 3 days

Text

Previous updates : #1 - #2 - #3

Previous polls : #1 - #2

Note : this project is going to take me some time because of the reasons under here. Most of it is based on how I want townies to generate and making CAS an easier and less time consuming experience for everyone !

I'm a college student 😭

I have to make sure they look fine for the townies more so that if you use random sim fixes or simler's core mod to get rid of pudding faces, they won't look out of place

I have to make sure each and every preset can be used with one another, so I actually have rules and numbers that I need to respect for the sliders I modify ex. : most of the noses height are set to -50, because it looks good on both genders and all ages and fits the new headshapes and their new height

I have to make sure that even though they're generic, they're also different from eachother and don't have same face syndrome

I have to make sure that they're diverse and find the right balance

Certain sliders I have to add manually (that takes time) because they do not get exported with the Face Preset Editor

As I said in previous update, I will only release this when I'm fully done with every single presets of each category : eyes, mouths, heads and noses, since it's easier that way for me and better for you guys as well :)

What's different this time ?

Well I've opted for a different approach, remember when I said I wasn't going to change the look of the original head presets ? well I changed my mind, since I've been asked to include defined headshapes a few times which I said I would do in a different set of non default face presets but I decided that doing this way instead would be better since it could include defined headshapes but also the other headshapes (Oval, Square, Round, Slightly Longer) - (Excluding the World Adventure's asian presets, they will recieve their own modification)

For the heads everything has been changed to : 2 Ovals, 2 Heart/Defined, 2 Rounds, 2 Squares, 2 Slightly Longer. (10 in total) The same shapes won't be identical of course.

For the eyes, they need small modifications

For the mouths, It needs more of a balance and diversity

For the noses, they need a complete overhaul

All the new flavors

There is now 6 flavors for version 2 of the headshapes with all the polls I've made. Thank you for all the answers by the way it really helps direct this project to better understand what you guys may want :)

Without SmoothFaceNormals

Flavor 1 - Base game compatible

Flavor 2 - Male neck fix

Flavor 3 - Male neck fix + Neck width smaller + Longer necks

With SmoothFaceNormals (Slider set to a specific number for all headshapes, won't be too high)

Flavor 4 - smoothfacenormals

Flavor 5 - smoothfacenormals + Male neck fix

Flavor 6 - smoothfacenormals + Male neck fix + Neck width smaller + Longer necks

What do you mean by longer necks though ? This is what I mean :

How do the headshapes look so far ?

Well, since I'm close to completing flavor 1, since it's the base of every other flavor and needed so I can work on the others. I've choosen my sims Owen and Shana to showcase them on both genders and the young adult life stage.

V.2 - Flavor 1 - Base game compatible

I'm so close to finishing the headshapes I just need to make some faces rounders and some more different from eachother and I should be done with the flavor 1 (For reference this is like my 10th WIP.... )

Question - 1 " Why are the presets not in order (ex. Oval 1 then Oval 2) " - Answer : That's because I'm unable to figure it out :(

EA Default headshapes

In addition

So, they won't immediatly come with the thumbnails once they're out because apparently there's 2 thounsand image files ??? 😀........... I ... BYE. I'm not even sure I wanna do them anymore lol.

#wip #ts3 simblr #ts3 #the sims 3 #simblr #the sims #ts3 cas

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ask-whitepearl-and-steven · 3 days

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Here is the link: https://www.tumblr.com/diegosouzalions/751493692329689088/diego-voc%C3%AA-ainda-tem-o-link-daquela-entrevista-em

Ah, right, thank you very much!

Okay, so for transparency, here's the (partial) transcript:

"Oh, blue's feet... [...] Well someone asked about Blue's feet. So there's this amazing--okay, so one of the plush--they made a plush doll of Blue. But since they didn't have information for her feet, if you turn her upside down she has these very strange little... you know uh.... shapes for feet that aren't based on anything that appeared in the show. Um, but I think it's fascinating and we all--we all kind of liked that solution. [...]" "I need to see this!" "[...]Well I think it would be--see, the thing about the gems is that they're... their bodies are very...it's kind of malleable. Like I think it's-- Sapphire may or may not have feet unless she's in a form that has legs and feet like in the baseball episode - you could say that she has feet under her dress or maybe she doesn't. And I often think of Sapphire and also Blue almost like pawn pieces in an Asari game, the way that they move and function--but they could have--they could have legs and feet any time that they want to, it's just a matter of--they have the power to change their bodies, so. That--that fluidity and flexibility on the gems is also really fun for design." "Look if I was solely Sapphire, if I was solely Blue, I think I might just float around and just only have feet for specific moments--like, I'd just be like-- (singing gentle tune to indicate floatyness) Okay. Now I wanna go do something, I wanna run, so here go some feet and then I'd just like (slurping sound) pull em back up again and (gentle singing again). (Laughing) For specific reasons only! I just want feet cos I wanna paint my toenails and I'm gonna put them back away. Life--and float for life again. Like--" "Yeah." "Like that would be sooo--In this pandemic that would be like a peak superhero. It would be like (undiscerned)--" "Optional." "Optional! Like, I don't need my feet this week. (claps) I'm good so--I'm gonna, I'm gonna tuck em away. And then just bring em back out when I need em. And then let me tuck em away again. Because life. That'd be such a good time!"

Which is I think a little different from saying they don't 'naturally have feet'. It's moreso that they can decide whether or not they do! It's flexible, and it's not more 'incorrect' or 'correct' for her to have feet.

I drew her current form with feet, because it looked better for the dress she was in, for that pose. She may remove them at her leisure!

#chekhov answers

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alphajocklover · 3 days

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I'd like to see how my life would have turned out, 20 years ago, had I joined my college football team instead of the college theater group.

Fuck. Fucking hell this fucking sucks. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s not you, you’re not the reason I’m upset. Your request is interesting and I want to help you with it, I really do. It’s just… to do this, we’re going to have to use time travel. It’s not that it’s impossible or anything, I actually own a time machine so that’s not an issue. It’s that… I fucking hate time travel.

I don’t hate the concept of time travel itself. I think it can be a lot of fun in works of fiction. Doctor Who, Back to the Future, and Star Trek are all things that heavily feature time travel that I’m a big fan of. It’s just that, in real life, it gets so stupidly complicated. You know how every work of fiction seems to have different rules for turn travel? In real life time travel follows all these rules and none of them all at once. If that seems confusing, that’s because it is. It’s insane. But it’s the best chance for doing this, so we’re going to give it a try. Now, close your eyes and hold onto me tight. This is going to feel weird.

You can open your eyes now. Be careful though, it’s going to take a second for your eyes to adjust. We’re outside now, on the football field of your old college. You don’t have to worry about anyone seeing us. I may hate time travel but the time machine is pretty useful. Time travel, space travel, and camouflage. But that’s not important right now. See that skinny guy standing on the opposite side of the field? You should recognize him. It’s you, 20 years ago, as a college freshman. You really wanted to join the football team huh? I can see the longing in your eyes… but also some serious nervousness. I’m guessing this is about when you back out and decide to join the school's theater group. Not this time though. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna change anything drastic. I’m just going to give you a little… push in the right direction. Have to get you to join the team somehow. I just have to whisper some things in his, or I guess your ear while we’re in camouflage… and just like that everything is going to change. Welcome to the football team. You’re a little late on becoming a jock, but you’re a hard worker. You’ll catch up. Speaking of which…

We jumped forward in time. I probably should have warned you, I was just excited to see the changes. We’re not all the way back to the present, not yet. It’s been a year since the other you joined the football team, and just like I predicted you caught up real quick. Even when you were in theater you were a hard worker, and now that you’ve dedicated yourself to football instead, you’re an absolute beast. You’ve had a major growth spurt and fit right in with the guys who have been playing football since middle school, a total jock through and through. Looks like this version of you acts a little more jockish too. Probably because you’ve been spending so much time around jocks, they’ve been rubbing off on you. Literally in one very special case. That’s right, the new you managed to do what you never could in college: get a jock boyfriend. In the original timeline he never even looked your way, but now Tim Wire, the most popular jock in school, is head over heels for you. You two seem to have a great relationship… Let's see if it lasts.

Another jump forward, a much bigger one this time. It’s been about 5 years since you joined the football team. You didn’t go professional, not because you couldn’t but because you didn’t want to. A guy like you could have been a superstar, but you and your fiancée Tim agreed you both wanted something more stable. So you opened up a chain of gyms. It’s a small business, but it has a lot of potential for growth, especially with you as the face of the operation. You basically have it made. You own a small, successful business, have a sexy husband, and are about to adopt a 3 year old. Your life is fucking perfect. Let’s see if it gets better.

A final jump forward. We’re 20 years after you joined the football team, back into the present. You’re still the old you, but that’s only because I have to ‘finalize’ the changes. Take a look around. You might not recognize this place, this huge mansion, but it’s your home. You, your husband Tim, and your adopted son all live here together. This must be your home gym, and I believe that’s you and him flexing over there. Looks like the little guy ended up taking after his dads. He’s huge for an 18 year old. He’s smart too, all ready to take over the family business when you retire. Your gyms are a very successful franchise now, if you can’t tell from the sheer size of your house. It’s just my opinion but I think your life really would have been better if you joined the football team back then. And now it can be. All you need to do is press this button, and finalize the changes. It’s your choice-

Ok, that was quick. I guess it was an easy choice. I hope you enjoy your new life. I would if I were you. I mean a muscular sexy husband, a son you can be proud of, a successful business and an incredible amount of muscles and confidence. You’ve got it made. I just hope we didn’t change too much. I didn’t realize you’d start a gym franchise. That could have a big impact.

I’m sure it’s nothing though. I mean, how many lives can a gym really change?

#muscle growth tf #muscle tf #jock tf #jock transformation #jockification #nerd to jock #reality change #retcon #time travel tf #DILF tf

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haitanology · 3 days

Text

a study on the orchid, ran haitani

— a character analysis (yapping session, mostly) on the eldest haitani brother.

part i. the petals, who is ran haitani?

when one thinks of ran, charisma might just be the picture inside their minds. it’s exactly what he represents, and part of the reason as to why he is so loved. on the surface, he’s stylish, charismatic, and cocky.

ran knows how to present himself in such a way, others have no choice but to admire him. he’s confident and very strong, appearing so sure of himself before outsiders. one might think he has no weaknesses, his success explained by the single emotion he parades around everyone else.

you barely get to see him out of his shit-eating grin in the manga, always teasing and mocking. putting others below him, so successful and incredibly popular —one thinks.

but, is that all there really is to him?

part ii. complexity, what makes ran— ran?

ran haitani, behind the façade he puts up to appear so grand, is in fact, a boy much like the rest. confident, sure, but with a heart of his own and a hint of tenderness that is hard to acknowledge for most.

a sleepy, moody, boy who would much rather sleep than attend parties and get-togethers. a boy who loves his sweets, and taking care of himself to look his best. a boy with a dream, that we get to see him chasing by how he carries himself.

ran haitani is smart, having keen instincts, but deep down a kid that wants to have fun. gangs aren’t all to him, violence not the solution to his every problem and his motive, but rather a way to be what he has always wanted to —a celebrity of sorts.

it’s hard to pinpoint ran’s upbringing due to his lack of a proper backstory, but i believe him to be a spoiled kid who has always wanted more. stepping out of the shadows of his family to cast his own, while his brother stands beside him (and not in his shadow like rindou himself thinks, but that’s a different analysis).

he’s vicious and greedy, wanting to be at the top because it’s what he’s seen and admired ever since he was a low-ranking member of a gang. he wanted what those boys had, taking it away from them in the worst way possible —but in the most effective one in the world they are part of. he uses his intelligence for this, and the success is palpable.

but that’s only the half of ran that swirls in violence, written in the tattoo taking a part of his body. the other half, however, is the empty skin where the puzzle piece fits —rindou’s tattoo, the heart of his brother that completes his own.

because above all, ran haitani is caring and kind. the people he lets into his heart are absolute, attaching himself to and understanding them well. he cares for the hidden bonds that izana denied out of anger, but that were there for tenjiku, and he respects them and is mindful of those that can break it because he’s human.

he cares for rindou, and stays by his side no matter what. their strength remains in their brotherhood; it collapses when his younger brother is defeated, because the concern clouds the mind. ran and rindou are one, even remaining together in the future despite the difference in their dreams. (and considering their occupation, it seems ran was the one to step down to help rindou with his dream). although not very present or relevant, ran remains one of the best examples of an older brother throughout the series.

though i feel like, if there’s one moment where ran’s real character (and potential) shines more than any other time, it’s during izana’s death. the only real instance where we get a peek on who ran really is, the personality underneath the cocky viciousness and unfaltering grins. his heart is exposed and vulnerable in front of everyone else, giving full closure to izana’s own dream of creating a family of his own. ran’s heart is just as soft as any other, just tucked in with multiple layers of indifference and ego.

unfortunately, ran suffers from what many other characters in different animes do, the lazy face and arrogant smile syndrome. and, as well, got extra damage from the characterization that inevitably came with all of bonten.

part iii. bonten, why is ran so mischaracterized?

man, why is bonten so mischaracterized would be the better question. could do a whole series from it, too. most characters reduced to a single trait or sentence said throughout the arc.

what has ran been accused of? i’ve seen it all i think: a manwhore, cheater, abuser, alcoholic man who probably wouldn’t even care about anyone at all. and two ideas sprouting from this make me extremely upset. one, this characterization has been carried down to tenjiku/rt/kmg ran, and two, people will argue that this is true to ran’s character and who he really is.

is it? no. with the lack of bonten information, we can’t pretend this is how they behave. none of these men aspired to become criminals in the future, only did it for izana’s sake (in most cases). obviously, as part of a criminal group, it’s safe to assume he’s done some terrible shit. but does that include all listed above? let’s see.

why is it that ran is seen as a manwhore? he’s attractive and charismatic, a celebrity in his own territory, but this is probably only referring to the delinquent world. i doubt ran gets a girl every time there’s a party in his apartment when he doesn’t even appear to like those much. and i find it hard to believe that he’d spend his entire nights in nightclubs with strippers in his bonten days. why is that the normal with bonten fics? it has been said that bonten is involved with prostitution, but bonten is much more than those 8.

now, let’s make up these two cases. one, ran haitani has an established partner heading into bonten. he cares, cares and loves so much he’d make sure nothing would happen to them. wouldn’t even think of getting them involved. yeah, maybe the relationship grows a little gloomier. it is bonten after all, and mikey’s dark impulses are kind of just slithering into everyone’s lives. but i think that, assuming he just instantly becomes a cheater and abuser is just losing the plot. let’s try not to reduce the little personality we got of him even more.

second case scenario, ran haitani doesn’t have a partner. i believe this is the most likely choice, i don’t believe ran to focus so much on potential partners, or being a womanizer enough to charm every woman he meets. he’d much rather stick close to the people he calls family, and not rope in someone innocent to this whole mess. as much as i love ran (i love him a lot i think it shows) i personally believe he’s a person that does well on his own without a partner, not actively looking for one. focusing on his life and his brother’s, and the deep shit they are stuck into with bonten.

no tokyo revengers character is fully good, that’s what makes them so intriguing! and while ran haitani has a lot of questionable traits that make a terrible person to come across as an enemy, he has as much of a heart as any other character. the man has emotions, they just haven’t been explored by the author :(

part iv. respect, dignity & admiration, afterthought

in no way am i the haitani police (i am actually, just undercover) to tell you how to interpret a character. the fun in those who don’t get much information is to make up a background for them ! no correct answer since nothing has been said. however, i simply do not like this whole thing about ran being a horrible person and treating someone like they aren’t even a human being and people pushing it so hard to be canon. bonten has hurt many, and wattpad books too, i know they have some kind of fault.

ran haitani is such a beautiful character to explore, there’s many layers to him even if there’s none to see at first. a bratty, childish man who appears cold and cocky but is actually incredibly smart, and so vulnerable and caring. but that doesn’t do well in the world he moves around in doesn’t it? he’s such a silly little guy, and in my own little twist of things i believe him to be quite the loser.

i’m sure that while, it could be hard to approach him and get close, once he has a partner he’d be so loving and loyal. angst assured bc he probably would try to push them away at some point, but all efforts to be with him would be so worth it. he’d be a little possessive, maybe sometimes a little bit toxic, but with its up and downs it would be a beautiful relationship.

sad to see he has fallen into the fuckboy character stereotype, and bonten doesn’t do any of their members justice either. but despite all of that, i’ll always headcanon ran to be the hopeless romantic type, just keeping it well to himself. but once he loves, he loves. and it makes it so worth writing for him.

at the end of the day, all the different versions one comes across is what keeps the character alive, like them more or less. still, he shouldn’t be just reduced to a so called sex god who also doesn’t even know what an emotion is. or those theories that were so popular back then, shivers.

so yeah, happy birthday to ran <3 what a character am i right.

#ran haitani x reader #ran x reader #ran haitani x you #ran x you #ran haitani #ran haitani x y/n #ran x y/n #haitani x reader #haitani brothers #haitani #tokyo revengers #god does this suck ass. but i needed it out of my system

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