Bisexual, 30, MDNI due to content. You have been warned. Main blog is @thehappiestofplaces. Clusterfuck of aesthetic interests that page is. Lots of fun and beautiful to scroll through if I do say so myself. This is just going to be my page of reader inserts and other miscellaneous things that I adore so much I had to reblog them!!!
as a former escape room host i highly recommend doing an escape room as a first date. its a great way to learn how ppl react under pressure and how well they collaborate with you right off the bat. also more than once ive seen people enter an escape room as a couple and exit broken up LOL its a fantastic litmus test
sorry to broadcast ur tags but this is also a valuable part of the litmus test! it seems like you learned a lot about how this person makes you feel in their social group. they didn't go out of their way to include you, and neither did their friends. therefore you can come to a pretty good conclusion about how you might feel being part of their life outside of an escape room; someone who doesnt include you or your feelings in a game is likely going to do the same in other situations
Tumblr Blog Termination Warning – FOR WRITERS WITH TAGLISTS!
Yesterday my entire blog was terminated TWICE without warning by Tumblr while I was tagging the folks in my Pope taglist in the comments. There was no warning, no email. I just hit 'enter' and boom I got the termination notice.
Almost 10k followers and thousands of fics gone in an instant.
I raised a ticket and an hour later the blog was reactivated. There was no info about what I did wrong but an email that said, it’s been reactivated. I still didn't have one that told me why I had been terminated. Two mins later I went back to the taglist and picked up where I left off with the Pope taglist and immediately, as soon as I clicked 'enter' it happened again.
So, I raised another ticket.
It’s my belief that they’ve activated a bot to stop scammers from tagging loads of folks in those ‘send me money for fake charity’ posts they do, and unfortunately if you have a big taglist you’ll fall into that net too.
I’m not sure how this effects people who put their taglists in the actual post, but I imagine they’ll also be cracking down on that at some point if scammers start to use that method.
I just wanted to make everyone aware so that what happened to me doesn’t happen to other people.
If you respond to every single bit of positive news with why it is bad or the people involved are bad, you will not only mentally kill yourself but everyone around you.
Especially if we're dealing with country-level shit. There's not one totally good country on the planet. Not one. Okay? So if you respond to a victory in the US or something cool that Norway did or positive news out of Germany with "yeah but [country] is a nightmare actually because [things that are happening]," you are not doing anybody any favors.
You're just being a tar pit.
And don't fucking turn this into apologia for the bad shit countries do. That's not what I'm fucking saying.
Y'all need to learn to take a goddamned W every so often, and to let other people enjoy the occasional W, or we will all mentally fucking die.
choso is a firm believer that pretty girls like you shouldn’t have to do anything.
it’s not something he’s ever said out loud, not in those exact words, but you see it in the way he kneels at your feet when your evening slippers are pinching, in the way his hands steady your ankles as he slides them off.
you see it in the careful, reverent way he unties the laces of your dress at night, his knuckles brushing your spine, his breath warm against the nape of your neck.
"cho, i can do that myself," you protest for the hundredth time, reaching for the hairbrush on your vanity. you’ve just returned from a work dinner, your face aching from smiling, your scalp tender from the weight of your responsibilities.
"don't be like that," he says softly, taking the brush from your hand. he’s already behind you, his reflection meeting yours in the mirror. he’s wearing a simple black sweater now, his pigtails undone, but he still looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing. "let me help you."
"you’re going to spoil me rotten," you murmur, but you’re already sinking back against him, your eyes drifting shut as he starts working the brush through your hair in slow, even strokes. the bristles scrape gently against your scalp and you make a small, involuntary sound of pleasure.
"that’s the point," he says, his voice low. he sets the brush down and reaches for the cloth and cleansing oil. "you're too beautiful to even lift a finger, baby."
he’s wiping the rouge from your cheeks now, the kohl from your eyes. his touch is so gentle, so methodical, like he’s polishing something precious. you let him tilt your chin up, let him clean away the day’s mask. when he’s done, he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.
"cmon, bed." he commands. not harshly—never harshly—but with the quiet authority of a man who knows exactly what you need.
you stand, your hand in his, and let him lead you to the mattress. he undresses you slowly, layer by layer, the silk pooling at your feet. when you’re down to your thin shift, he pulls back the covers and tucks you in like you’re something fragile.
"sleep," he whispers.
but you catch his wrist. you’re not sleepy. not anymore. the tiredness has shifted into something else, something warm and heavy low in your belly.
"stay," you plead.
he hesitates. "you’re tired."
"i want you," you clarify, your thumb stroking the inside of his wrist. "but i’m... i’m exhausted. but— but i want you— but i don't want to do anything—"
something dark flickers in his eyes. understanding. hunger. devotion.
"then don’t," he says. he climbs onto the bed, fully clothed, and crawls up your body until he’s hovering over you. "don’t do anything. don’t even think. just let me make you feel good."
"choso—" you start, already feeling guilty, already reaching for the hem of his sweater.
he catches your hands and pins them gently above your head. his fingers twine with yours, pressing your palms into the pillow.
"no, sweetheart." he says, his mouth brushing your ear. his voice drops, rough and reverent. "you don’t do the work. you never do the work. you just lay there, princess, and let me take care of you. let me please you. let me—" he grinds his hips down, and you feel how hard he is, straining against the fabric of his trousers, and you gasp. "—let me do everything."
he releases your hands only to finally pull his sweater over his head. you watch the muscles of his back shift in the warm light of your tablelamp, the old scars, the lean strength. when he turns back to you, he’s already unlacing his trousers, pushing them down, kicking them off.
he kneels between your thighs, his dark eyes raking over you. "open up," he murmurs, his hands sliding up your legs, pushing your shift higher. "be good for me, okay?"
you spread your legs, trembling. he’s already so hard, the pink tip flushed and wet, and he wraps his hand around himself, stroking once, twice, his eyes never leaving your face.
"you don’t even have to move," he says, leaning down, caging you in his warmth. "i’ll do all the work. i’ll get you ready. i’ll make you feel so good. all you have to do is look at me. can you do that for me, princess? can you let me love you?"
"yes," you breathe, your voice cracking. "yes, choso, please—"
he kisses you then, deep and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that makes your toes curl. his hand slips between your legs, his fingers finding you already wet, already aching. he doesn’t make you ask, nor does he make you work for it. he just pushes two fingers inside you, curling them, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit.
"that’s it," he praises against your lips, feeling you clench around him. "that's my girl. just lay there and take it. let me get you ready for my cock."
you moan, your head falling back against the pillow. he’s relentless, his fingers pumping in and out, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. you try to rock your hips, try to chase the sensation, but he stills you with his free hand on your hip.
"no, angel." he says, his voice firm. "don’t move. let me. i want to feel you squeezing my fingers while you just lay there and let me fuck you open."
you whimper, your hands gripping the sheets because he won’t let you touch him. he’s leaning over you, watching your face, watching the pleasure overwhelm you, and his expression is something almost feral. like this—serving you, controlling your pleasure, doing all the labor—is exactly where he wants to be.
"look at you," he breathes, his fingers moving faster, harder. "so pretty. so perfect. you're doing so well, baby. letting me make you cum. can you do that for me? can you cum on my fingers like a good girl?"
"choso!" you sob, the pressure building, your body tensing.
"there she is," he croons, his thumb pressing down. "cum for me, make a mess of the sheets."
you break, your orgasm crashing over you, your walls clamping down on his fingers as you cry out. he rides you through it, his hand moving slower now, drawing out every wave until you’re shaking, boneless, your hair fanned out across the pillow.
before you can catch your breath, he’s moving. he hooks his arms under your knees, spreading you wide, his hands sliding up to grip your hips. he positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your still-pulsing heat.
"now," he says, his voice rough with restraint. "i’m going to fuck you, and i’m going to make you cum again. and again. until you can’t think. until you can’t even remember your name."
"please," you gasp, your hands reaching for him again, wanting to touch, to hold.
he catches your wrists and presses them back into the mattress. "no," he says, his eyes dark. "be good, or i'll stop. understand?"
you nod, dizzy, your body still throbbing.
he pushes in with one long, smooth thrust, filling you completely. the stretch burns so perfectly you cry out, your back arching off the bed, but he holds you down, his grip tight on your hips.
"fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "so warm. so tight. and you’re just— letting me use you— shit—"
he starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that has you seeing stars. he’s doing all the work—his hips rolling, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls, his hands holding you exactly where he wants you. you try to move, try to meet his thrusts, but he growls and pins you harder.
"stay still," he orders, his voice strained. "let me do this for you. you had a hard day. you smiled at people who didn't deserve it. now you just get to lay here and take my cock. that’s all. that’s your only job."
"ch-choso!" you sob, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. it’s too much, the pleasure, the devotion, the way he’s using his body to serve you. "i love you— hic!— i love you so much—"
"i know," he breathes, his thrusts speeding up, becoming harder, more desperate. his skin slaps against yours, the bed creaking, but he never lets you move. he holds you open, holds you down, fucks into you with a single-minded focus that’s entirely about your pleasure. "and i love you more. god, i love you so much more."
his hand slides between you again, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. you’re so sensitive from your first orgasm, every touch is electric, overwhelming. you can’t move, can’t do anything but lay there and take it, exactly like he wants, and the helplessness of it, the sheer luxury of being cared for so completely, sends you over the edge again.
you cum with a scream, your walls clamping down on him so hard he chokes, his rhythm faltering.
"that’s it," he gasps, fucking you through it, chasing his own release now. "atta girl. just— shit— i-im gonna—"
he thrusts deep one last time and stills, his cock pulsing inside you as he comes with a broken groan against your neck. you feel the heat of it, the way he spills into you, marking you, claiming you, all while you lay there trembling, his hands still gripping your hips, his weight pressing you into the mattress.
for a long moment, neither of you moves. he’s breathing hard, his chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin. slowly, carefully, he pulls out and collapses beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms. he’s still panting, his heart hammering against your ear.
"okay?" he whispers, his hand stroking your hair again, back to the gentle, domestic touches.
you nod, boneless, drifting. "more than okay," you murmur. "felt so good."
"that’s the point," he reminds you, pressing a kiss to your temple. "pretty girls like you shouldn’t have to do anything."
you smile against his chest, your eyes already closing. "then i guess i’m just going to have to let you do it again tomorrow."
[𝝑𝑒] :: true form!sukuna finds out his favorite pregnant concubine is injured :: tags. fluff, angst, reader gets called ‘woman’ :: ac. @/greybookman on x
you want that damn scroll.
one of the old texts on yokai lore sukuna left half-unrolled on a high shelf days ago. boredom and the restless energy of pregnancy drives you to it. standing on the tips of your toes, with one hand braced against the lacquered cabinet, you stretch up.
your belly, round and full at nearly eight months, shifts heavily. the baby kicks hard as if protesting.
“just... a little more—“
the wood creaks. your foot slips on the woven tatami mat and then the world tilts.
you hit the floor with a sharp cry, pain lancing through your side and wrist. the scroll clatters beside you. for a moment you lie there, breathlessly. your hand instinctively cradles your belly. the baby moves again. it’s still strong and alive.
relief floods you, but it’s followed quickly by fear.
because your hear them. those heavy footsteps echo down the corridor. too fast and way too purposeful.
the sliding doors slam open with enough force to rattle the entirre frame. sukuna stands there, all four beefy arms tense, crimson eyes blazing with immediate and lethal irritation. the mouth on his abdomen twists into a snarl before the one on his face even opens.
he takes one look at you on the floor, at the displaced cabinet, the way you clutch your wrist and the temperature in the room seems to drop.
“what,” he growls, “is the meaning of this, woman?”
you try to push yourself up. trying to make yourself seem presentable, “it’s nothing, my lord. i only—“
“do not.”
two of his arms move before you can finish. one massive hand catches your shoulder while the other slides beneath your knees. he lifts you as if you weigh nothing before carrying you to the thick futon piled with silks. the third hand hovers over your belly, not quite touching, while the fourth grips your injured wrist with surprising gentleness. though his expression promises murder.
you wince as he probes the swelling. a bruise is seemingly already blooming.
sukuna’s eyes narrow at the bruise on your wrist. something inside him twists, “you fell.”
“well, i reached for a scroll,” you admit quietly as you hold your head down in shame, “didn’t think—“
“yeah. you obviously didn’t think,” his voice is deceptively calm now. the kind of calm that precedes slaughter.
he sets your wrist down and rises to his full imposing height. the black tattoos shift across his skin as his muscles flex, “tsk. y’re crawling about like some reckless servant chasing trinkets, and look where that got ya.”
the air grows thick with that ominous cursed energy you’ve grown used to. outside in the gardens, you hear a distant scream. you swallow thickly. that was an unfortunate soul who was probably been lingering too close at the wrong moment.
sukuna doesn’t even glance toward the sound. his focus remains locked on you.
he kneels again, red eyes boring into yours. one hand cups your chin to tilt your face up, “do you have any idea what i would do to this entire fuckin’ country if you lost that child?”
your heart stutters.
you know he isn’t exaggerating. sukuna’s affection is a double edged blade. it’s obsessive, violent and all-consuming. you have seen villages erased for lesser offenses than inconveniencing his property.
“y-yes, but i’m alright,” you whisper, “the baby kicked just now. it’s still strong and kicking."
as if to prove it, another solid thump presses against your belly. sukuna’s big hand moves immediately, his warm palm spreading over the curve.
for a long moment there’s silence. then he exhales through his nose, a sound closer to a growl.
“you will not leave this chamber without my presence until the birth.” it isn’t a suggestion. “servants will bring you everything. if you desire a scroll, they will fetch it. if you desire the moon itself, they will bleed trying.”
you reach up with your good hand to brush fingers along one of his wrists. you tilt your head as you look up at him, “you’re angry.”
“furious.”
the word drips with venom. yet he lowers himself beside you on the futon, two arms pulling you carefully against his chest while the other two adjust pillows behind your back. the contrast is dizzying. his body radiates power and heat, capable of tearing mountains, but he handles you like a fragile thing.
“i should chain you to this bed,” sukuna mutters, lips brushing your temple, “perhaps then you’d stop testin’ me.”
a small smile tugs at your lips despite the dull ache in your wrist. “you’d miss my stubbornness too much,” you chuckle softly.
the king of curses huffs. the mouth on his stomach licks its lips, tasting the air—probably the lingering trace of your blood from a scraped elbow.
you lean into him and lett the solid bulk of his true form surround you. four arms are useful for this, at least. one idly strokes your hair, another rests over your belly, the third keeps your injured wrist elevated and the fourth simply holds you close.
minutes pass in comfortable silence. his cursed energy fluctuates wildly. you can feel the rage still simmering, but it’s more contained. you can feel it coiling around the room like invisible smoke, ready to lash out at the first person who enters.
a hesitant knock sounds at the door.
“enter,” sukuna barks.
a trembling servant girl slides the door open, carrying a tray of bandages and herbal salve. her eyes widen at the sight of sukuna holding you so intimately. she nearly drops everything.
“give it here,” he snaps while extending one arm without releasing you. the girl approaches on her knees, head bowed low, and places the tray within reach before scrambling back.
sukuna tends to your wrist himself.
his touch is precise, almost clinical, wrapping the linen with surprising care. every so often his gaze flicks to your face to check for discomfort. the fury hasn’t left his eyes, but it has shifted. it’s now directed outward. toward the world that has dared let you fall.
when he finishes, sukuna pulls you closer again. “if this swells worse by morning, i’ll flay the physician who attends you. slowly.”
you chuckle softly as exhaustion creeps in. too much happened in a small amount of time for your heavily pregnant self, “‘kay, noted.”
he stays like that long after your breathing evens out. sukuna rarely sleeps much, but tonight he remains vigilant and his hand never leaves your belly.
. . .
by the next morning, word has spread through the estate like wildfire. no one is to allow you out of the inner chambers without the king of curses’ permission.
extra guards patrol the halls. when a maid brings breakfast, she keeps her eyes on the floor and moves with exaggerated slowness, terrified of triggering his wrath.
you watch sukuna from the futon as he paces, big arms crossed in various combinations. he has already executed one overzealous attendant who suggested you might have ‘overexerted’ yourself earlier in the week. the body has been removed before you woke.
“ryo.. come here,” you call softly, trying carefully to calm that rage by using that nickname you made up for him. instead of the usual politeness.
sukuna pauses. then, with a reluctant grunt, he returns to your side. you take one of his large hands and place it back on your belly.
"feel it. he’s fine. we’re fine.”
sukuna’s expression remains stormy, but the tension in his shoulders eases fractionally, “if anythin’ changes...”
“‘you’ll destroy the world’. . . i know.”
a rare, sharp-toothed smirk tugs at his lips, “good. you’re learning.”
olderbf!nanami who never rushes you, no matter how impatient you get. you’re standing in front of your closet, frustrated, pulling out dresses and tossing them onto the bed.
"i have nothing to wear," you groan. he’s sitting in the armchair by the window, his tie already loosened, watching you with that calm, steady gaze.
"we have forty-five minutes," he says, his voice low and even. "take your time."
you huff, turning to face him. "you’re always so patient. it’s annoying."
he smiles, small and fond. "i’ve waited forty years to find you. i can wait forty-five minutes for you to pick a dress."
olderbf!nanami who always makes sure you eat before you leave the house. you’re running late, your heels clicking on the kitchen floor as you grab your purse.
"we’re going to be late," you say, already halfway to the door.
he steps in front of you, a plate in his hand—toast with avocado, a soft-boiled egg, sliced fruit arranged neatly. "eat first."
you stare at him. "nanami, we don’t have time—"
"we have time," he interrupts gently, setting the plate on the counter. "you’re not leaving this house on an empty stomach. sit."
you sit. you always do. because when he looks at you like that—like taking care of you is the most important thing in the world—you can’t say no.
olderbf!nanami who never raises his voice, even when you’re being difficult. you’re arguing about something stupid—where to go for dinner, maybe, or whether you should cancel plans to stay in—and your voice is getting louder, your hands gesturing wildly.
he just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching you. "you’re not even listening!" you snap.
"i am," he says quietly. "i’m listening to every word. and when you’re done, we’ll talk about it calmly. like adults."
you deflate, your anger fizzling out. "you’re too kind to me," you mutter.
he steps forward, his hands finding your waist. "you’re worth the kindness."
olderbf!nanami who takes his time undressing you, like every layer is a gift he’s unwrapping. you’re in his bedroom, the lights dimmed, and you’re already reaching for his belt, impatient, wanting him now.
"slow down," he murmurs, catching your hands. "we have all night."
you pout. "i don’t want to wait."
he leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "i know, baby. i know. but i’m going to make you wait. because the longer i take, the better it’ll feel when i finally touch you." he undresses you slowly, his fingers working each button, each zipper, until you’re standing in front of him in nothing but your underwear. he steps back, his eyes raking over you. "beautiful," he says. "now lay down."
olderbf!nanami who eats you out like it’s a meditation, like he could spend hours between your thighs and never get bored. you’re on your back, your legs over his shoulders, and he’s taking his time, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes.
"n-nanami—please—" you gasp, your hands fisting the sheets. he looks up at you, his mouth glistening.
"patience," he says, his voice calm even as he slides two fingers inside you. "i’m going to make you cum. but i’m going to do it my way." he curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision blur, his tongue circling your clit with agonizing precision.
you’re moaning, your hips rolling, but he holds you down with one hand on your stomach. "stay still," he orders gently. "let me take care of you."
olderbf!nanami who fucks you slow and deep, his hips rolling in a rhythm that has you seeing stars. you’re on your stomach, your face pressed into the pillow, and he’s behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his cock buried so deep you can barely breathe.
"nanami—h-harder!!—" you beg, trying to push back against him. he stills, his hand sliding up your spine to grip the back of your neck.
"no," he says, his voice firm but kind. "you take what i give you." he starts moving again, each thrust deliberate, each roll of his hips dragging against your walls in a way that makes you sob. "you feel that?" he murmurs against your ear. "that’s me. all of me. and you’re going to take every inch, just like this. until you can’t think about anything but how full you are."
olderbf!nanami who makes you ask for what you want, his voice low and commanding. you’re straddling him, his cock inside you, but he’s not moving.
he’s just watching you, his hands on your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin.
"p-please, i.... i can't—" you whimper, trying to roll your hips. he holds you still.
"use your words," he says. "tell me what you want."
"i-i want you to move," you gasp. "i want you to fuck me."
he smiles, small and satisfied. "good girl. now ask nicely."
you bite your lip, your face burning.
"please fuck me, nanami. please."
he rewards you with a slow thrust upward, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes you moan. "that’s it," he praises. "that's my girl."
olderbf!nanami who holds you after, his arms wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. you’re lying on his chest, your body still trembling, your mind fuzzy with pleasure.
he’s stroking your hair, his lips pressed to the top of your head. "you did so well," he murmurs. "so beautiful. so perfect." you nuzzle closer, your eyes already drifting shut.
"you’re too good to me," you whisper. he kisses your forehead.
"no such thing. you deserve everything. and i’m going to give it to you for as long as you’ll let me."
olderbf!nanami who wakes you up in the morning with his mouth between your legs, because he’s not done taking care of you yet. you’re half-asleep, your body warm and heavy, when you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you open.
"nanami—" you start, but then his tongue is on you, and you’re gasping, your hands flying to his hair. he looks up at you, his eyes dark.
"good morning," he says, his voice rough with sleep. "lay back. let me love you." and you do. because when nanami wants to be patient, you let him. every single time.
its probably a normal sign for the economy that all of my adulthood fantasies are like "imagine having your own kitchen living room and bathroom to decorate" "what if i could get on a train" "maybe one day i could purchase a sturdy pair of shoes" "i should save and invest in a single bicycle"
Another point that reminds me of my privilege in this world is when I think about the fact that we sell the cure for tuberculosis to people to give to their dogs for a UTI. Millions of people literally die every year because they can't access this medication and I'm giving it to people to shove down their dogs' throats to make them stop peeing in the house. It's one of the more expensive antibiotics and people always whine about the price but then it's not their daughter they have to watch slowly suffocate as bacteria turns her lungs into swiss cheese. It's not their father that coughs and coughs and coughs until he's spitting up blood.
The deadliest infectious disease in human history is cured by the same packet of chewable tabs individually packed in foil. It comes in beef flavor so your dog won't resist taking its meds as much. It's like a hundred bucks for 30 tablets on pretty much any pet pharmacy.
It makes me think about medicine scarcity and how it's all fake in order to get enough capital that you can have individuals with higher net worth than entire countries. And in the mean time, hundreds of millions of people are dead because they don't drive the bottom line.
actually fucking disgusting that glasses cost any money like if you actually think about it for more than a few seconds it is so unconscionably inhumane. this goes for things like insulin and mobility aids and hearing aids too ofc but fuck man, fucking glasses? the thing you need to fucking see? its genuinely sickening and inhumanly evil that those cost ANYTHING.
I think it sucks that you have to go to so many different kinds of doctor to take care of yourself. It's the 21st century. I should be able to go to a single office where they scan me with a big xerox machine and tell me what I'm allergic to and why my tummy hurts and if I have any cancer or cavities or if my glasses prescription has changed. And then I should get a sticker.
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