anything you need i will provide

a ride home or an alibi

[jornami]

↳ jordan. 23. she/her. black. sapphic. “writer.”

↳ currently listening to: The Great Divide by Noah Kahan

↳ currently playing: Tomodachi Life: Living the Dream

↳ main selfships: yuuta, rin, sylus, arlecchino

↳ dni: minors, blank/ageless blogs, terfs, fandom police

[aliqqce]

My favorite endgame

[rrrotgut]

if i ever spamlike your posts and then you mysteriously get an anonymous ask it wasnt me . dont even bother worrying yourself that it was . ok .

[8nin]

would anyone like to come over and be very gentle with my heart

[plumslices]

$20 used to mean something

[twinkhole-destroyer]

“nobody wants to work anymore” yeah because everyone wants to kill themselves

[femme--deer-deactivated20260430]

Picture from the Photographer Kalynn Youngblood, in her series Staged Portraiture and Documenting daily Black Life.

This is all I need in my life.

[evergreen-femme]

im just so happy i live in a time period where actual meaningful biological transition is possible. even if we lose rights or the ability to exist in public, nothing can turn back the clock on that, and just by having any sort of access to that our lives are made immensely better. millions of our sisters throughout history would never have dreamed of a day where they could have what HRT does for us.

please don't lose the plot of this. if you're a trans person on HRT you're a living miracle, the dream of hundreds of millions of your ancestors. your lives are all deeply meaningful no matter what anyone says.

[t4t4t]

תפילה להפך – מאבן בֹחן | Prayer for Transformation, from the poem "Even Boḥan" by Rabbi Ḳalonymus b. Ḳalonymus ben Meir (1322) • the Open Si

A prayer by Kalonymus b. Kalonymus ben Meir that appears in his poem ספר אבן בוחן, יג Sefer Even Boḥan (§13), describing the author's wish t

[unabashedllamamusic]

Cursed be the one who announced to my father: “It’s a boy!"... ...How could he twist the course of the stars so much? How could he have erred so in his astrology? A lying tongue, a fool’s mouth it had given him For he foolishly transformed justice to poison He altered the law and transposed the lines

Oh, but had the artisan who made me created me instead – a worthy woman... ...I would say "how lucky am I"

Father in heaven who did miracles for our ancestors with fire and water... ...Who would then transform me from a man to woman? Were I only to have merited this being so graced by goodness...

What shall I say? why cry or be bitter? If my father in heaven has decreed upon me and has maimed me with an immutable deformity then I do not wish to remove it. the sorrow of the impossible is a human pain that nothing will cure and for which no comfort can be found. So, I will bear and suffer until I die and wither in the ground. Since I have learned from our tradition that we bless both, the good and the bitter I will bless in a voice hushed and weak: blessed are you [HaShem] who has not made me a woman.

I think I'm gonna go lay down for a little while.

[jornami]

My period is killing me…that being said….yuuta….period sex…………

[winter-pear]

you tell izuku you’re only dating him because his dicks big and he cries and has pouty sex with you for three days until your brain breaks and you agree to date him more seriously

[winter-pear]

you’re covered in hickies and bruises, your cunt is sore and your clit is swollen, you’re aching and shivering and izuku force feeds you water by drinking it and spitting into your mouth. and in the middle of being made to cum for the ?? time in a few days he has the nerve to whine into your neck and babble for hours

“i like you, you get that right? i want to be good to you and make you happy so you should let me do that. don’t run away from me, let’s date proper okay? if you say yes i’ll forgive you.”

[pjharvey]

we have to start running a massive PSA campaign to young gay people so everyone understands there is a difference between being a dom and being a top and between being a sub and being a bottom. and also that sometimes you are neither a sub nor a bottom and you're just like shy. we need to be handing out flyers we need ads at every train station spreading the word

[summer-oil]

contents; okkotsu yuuta x gn!reader. aftercare scenario; suggestive, but sfw! bottom reader implied. hissy reader propaganda. yuuta is genetically incapable of not loving you to bits. plenty of animal & monster imagery; yuuta is scary in the weight of his devotion (as akutami ordained) wc; 2.4k

commissioned by @assmaster-8000 !! thank you for commissioning me .. ily…. it was an honour to write your sweet boy of all time …..

The ache between your thighs keeps you awake.

Vacantly, one faint corner of your mind protests; you probably should be sleeping right now. Tomorrow is a work day, and you had the misfortune of getting stuck with an early shift. Yuuta will without a doubt try to convince you to call in sick, velveteen and sure of himself, almost cloyingly sweet— a tone of voice he saves for when you're tangled up in bedsheets and he needs you home with him— but you're not going to listen. Twice in one month is two times too many. You can't keep letting him have his way just because he's charming in the morning, bleary streaks of sunshine ruffling the black locks of hair kissing your pillowcase, half-shut eyes that seem to see nothing but you and your slumber-worn features. Nope. No more.

Maybe you shouldn't have slept with him tonight. Maybe you need to get better at not needing him after long days. Or maybe he needs to get better at not indulging you so blindly.

Whatever the case, your shift starts in eight hours, and you're too sore to fall asleep. The moon has its crescented face pressed flush against the windows, intent on keeping light in. Your boyfriend is rummaging through the kitchen in search of something for you to eat, which means you're free to wince and whine and flex your calves as much as you'd like to, no use in pretending you weren’t just tenderized. The glass of water in your hand is almost empty; per his half-suggestion, half-instruction, you have to drink it all before he gets back with your food. He'll pout if you refuse him. You've done this song and dance before. Having sex with Okkotsu Yuuta is like signing up for a weekly subscription and clicking on the yearly payment plan on accident— you get more than you bargained for, and give more than you can handle. 

He likes the routine of it. 

(You'd be lying if you said you didn't, but that doesn't make it any less overwhelming. It shouldn't be, but it is. If you ever thought fucking him might tucker him out, you were sorely mistaken— the energy boost he gets after putting you through the mattress makes no sense, but it's a fact of life with him. One moment he's on top of you, slippery chest weighing you down, and the next he's hopping out of bed to stretch his limbs and ask if you're hungry. 

When you first met, he called himself a monster. You've begun to think he was right about that. It's what kind of monster he is that he seems to have misunderstood.)

The door creaks, and a beautiful boy walks in, his quiet gaze catching yours across the room: a seamless kind of clicking together. Magnet eyes and magnet heartbeats. It responds when you catch sight of him, still disheveled, shoulders glistening with residues of sweat, but eyes bright and wide like a lion catching sight of a gizelle in the dark. Ba-dump, ba-dump. He's worn you down with his love, made your pulse his own. You can't look away from him. He's wearing nothing but boxer briefs and an old white shirt, no doubt the first article of clothing he saw when he dug through his closet— balancing a tray with three bowls placed atop of it, steam rising from the porcelain— a warm, hearty aroma wafting through the room. 

"I made you miso soup with rice," he calls out softly, the dimples on either side of his lips catching moonlight through the window curtains. Dreamy cerulean hues. "And eggs. I wanted you to have some proper protein, but we're all out of beef..."

"We already had dinner, Yuuta." 

"Huh? What's that got to do with anything?"

You squint at him. With thick blankets pooled atop your body and drawn up to your chin, it probably looks more comical than dubious. Your boyfriend tilts his head, clammy locks falling sideways. He doesn't look like he's even washed his face yet. 

"… Nevermind," you sigh. "I don't need beef, is what I mean. I'm not that hungry."

"You're always hungry after we have sex," he shakes his head. Smiling sweetly, taking brisk steps towards you. Heat blooms across your collarbones, lips curling into a frown, thoughts louder than your voice. No, you don't. "Or are you going to tell me you could just go to sleep like this?"

"I could." 

"Mhm." He downright giggles. Evil, evil man. Awful, charming man. He seats himself at your bedside, the tray kept steady on his lap, and leans forward to cup your cheek with the dip of his palm. When you give a pointed glare— mostly for show— his lips curl up like dragon flowers, threatening another bout of laughter. "You don't need anything, do you? Cutie."

"I-I don't," you protest. You've half the mind to shove at him, but your heart couldn't take that. You don't need anything, but there are some things you'd rather not go without. "You're acting like you broke my back. Literally. Cut it out."

He licks his lips absently. They're still rosy and swollen, a far cry from the chapped skin spring usually has him deal with, and his voice falls softer when they part. "… Well, you cried." 

"Okay. I'll kill you."

"Baby," he croons. "I'm not trying to embarrass you—"

"If anything," your voice grows sharp, "aren't you more wrecked than I am?"

Pointedly, you look him up and down. Purple hickeys sucked into his skin. Check. Imprints of teeth like a wreath around his neck, evidence of your hunger for the places where he's most tender and you feel his pulse the clearest— check. Scratch-marks on his back? Probably. You'll check up on them tomorrow morning. He'd never bother with the bruise cream otherwise.

Sheepish laughter clouds his words, peach-fuzz dusting his cheeks. One of his slender hands go to cup the root of his throat, feeling for the bite marks. Shameless. "It's not that bad… I like it, actually."

"Oh, I know. I just don't think you should be fussing over me when you're the one who looks like he got jumped by a raccoon." You cross your arms over your chest, ignoring the very much still present ache between your legs. If he notices their trembling, it's game over. He won't be able to stop himself from massaging your calves. "We had sex. That's all. It wasn't even that inte—"

"Say 'aah,' honey."

… Suddenly a spoon is poised in front of you, and your boyfriend is wearing an innocent smile. Unbothered by anything you've said so far. That's not surprising, only frustrating. More frustrating is the fact that his feeble distraction actually works. He's scooped up a mouthful of homemade miso soup, a square of tofu sitting pretty and waiting on the cutlery. Despite your insistance that you don't need anything from him right now, that you'll be just fine without the five star meal he was hoping to magically throw together in the span of fifteen minutes, your stomach growls at the promise in front of you— drool pooling under your tongue. It's a struggle not to duck under the covers when the sound makes him beam. As you reach for the spoon held between his fingers, he tuts and pulls away. 

Figures. Why did you even try?

"… Yuuta," you huff. "I can eat by myself."

"I know you can." He doesn't let go of it. Simply moves it back to where it was before you tried to turn the tables on a man this determined to spoil his partner, resting pointedly in front of your closed mouth. There's that look in his eye again: a hunter that just spotted its prey. Polished obsidian. Nothing you say or do will convince him to let you win this.

Reluctantly, your lips part. Curse your stomach. 

"Good job," he croons, watching you chew on the silken tofu. It's not spoken with condescension, which somehow makes it worse. He scoops up a bite of rice next, blowing on it quietly before feeding it to you. The warmth of the meal settles in your chest like a heated blanket, your hunger growing with each bite. Curse Yuuta Okkotsu. As you eat what he's made you, you feel yourself being moulded into someone more pliant, a shadow of you that only comes out on these long nights, sneaking into his bed and your body like a monster under the floorboards when you're too weary to resist. Before daybreak, after dusk. Yuuta loves that monster. He wants nothing more than to feed into it. To feel its teeth under his greedy fingertips.

He's gross. You're gross for wanting it. You're both rotten and perfect for each other. That’s not something you should feel happy about.

"… There you go, pretty baby." He carefully places the tray and empty bowls on your nightstand, next to a short pile of unread books, a bookmark he made you in high school, the glass of water you'd been drinking from before. There's still the slightest layer of water pooling at the bottom— your stubborn, feeble resistance— but when Yuuta notices he only gives you an indulgent smile. "Was it tasty?"

You manage a nod, allowing your body to melt into the mattress. Limp as a noodle, toasted from top to bottom. "Thanks for the meal," you call out with your eyes closed, drowsy, softer than before. Softer than you meant to. The bed creaks, a kiss planted between your brows; he smells faintly of vanilla and sex, traces of sage from the cologne he likes to spray on his neck in the mornings before hectic work days. It's a scent that makes you feel at ease. He dips his head down to give a peck at your lips next, chaste and sugary, locks of his hair tickling the pulse-pocket at the base of your throat. 

"You're welcome." He smiles against your skin. "Should we freshen up? Or do you want to sleep?"

"Sleep," you rasp. "I have work tomorrow."

… At that, a low, thoughtful noise coils in his throat. You can almost feel his Adam's apple bob under its vibrations. For a moment, all is quiet.

Then he whispers: ”Alright. Sleep it is."

Your body is still slick with sweat and fluids, but that doesn't bother you right now. You can take a shower in the morning without falling behind your schedule. Yuuta's compliance is suspicious, but you try not to pay it any mind. The ache is still there, but its begun to be dulled by the warmth of the meal and insistent tugs at your consciousness, pillowed under the weight of your exhaustion. It's only a matter of time before it overtakes you. Yuuta lowers the window-blinds before he slips beneath the covers, tangling your limbs together: exhaling a breath of relief, like this was the only thing missing. His leg under yours, his arm curled comfortably around your midriff. Tethered together like Tanabata-wishes on worn branches. He gives small, wet kisses to the apple of your cheek, knowing you're too fatigued to grumble about it.

"How are you feeling?" he whispers. "Sore?"

"… Just a little."

A soft, knowing sound. "Sorry. I missed you today, so I might have gotten carried away."

For a second, you think you'll laugh. This is what makes him so lethal. He doesn't realize what his voice does to you when it sounds like that, when it's saying things like that—

Your heart threads itself into a knot. Knocks against your trembling ribs. For a moment, being peeled open doesn't frighten you. 

(For a moment, you think you'd let him unravel you however he likes, for however long he likes.

Just a moment; nothing more. If he weren’t kind, and didn’t love you, it would mean the end of you.)

"I'll massage your hips," he promises. Nosing at a tender spot below your jaw, a hound sniffing for buried weaponry. Surely, he should already feel satisfied. He got to break you open and stitch you back together again. Make love to you until your throat felt too rigid to make sound with, soundless tears dribbling down your cheeks, on your pillowcase, into his mouth. Your Yuuta is greedy. He's the greediest. That's the only reason you feel comfortable being greedy back. "Tomorrow. Or right now. You can sleep, I'll handle everything."

"I can handle myself," you protest, slurring your words. An ocean wave of slumber laps at your shaky legs, wades over your body, threatening to swallow you under. But you aren't afraid.

"I know you can." 

Quiet breaths. Mingling pulses. Outside the walls of your apartment, unbeknownst to either one of you, the crescent moon succumbs to slivers of creaking dawn.

A kiss at your pulsepoint. It flutters beneath.

"I just don't think you should have to."

…

With what little remains of your willpower, you stifle a yawn, reaching over to wrap your arms around his neck. He's all too eager to make space for you. His body used to be eerily scrawny, but now there's more muscle mass to it. Enough for you to feel underneath the fabric, thrumming faintly, like a steady reminder of how strong he can be. How gentle he chooses to be. 

There's no need to have your guard up. You know that's what he's saying, near constantly, without opening his mouth. You can close your eyes around me.

So you do.

"Yuuta," you call.

"Mhm?"

"You didn't eat anything."

Faintly, he chuckles. You can picture his smile in the dark of the room. As if your concern alone could fill his stomach, or soothe the ache in his lower abdomen. "I'm okay, baby. I'll eat something tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"… Yeah," he sighs. Wrapping you into him, pressed taut against his ribs, like even that isn't as close as he'd like you to be. If you fell asleep right now, you'd dream of it; dream a bird's dream, sitting pretty on a bone-white branch, next to a heart too big for his body. "I promise."

Yuuta is nothing if not meticulous. He's never broken a promise he made you. Intertwined pinkies mean more to him than written contracts.

So you believe him.

(His love is insurance. Reassurance. You fall asleep with it around you, inside of you; a quiet, mutual love. The trust that comes with it.

Tomorrow, you'll wake up past your bedtime, too late to catch your shift. The morning alarm you have set to ring isn't on: Yuuta's doing. Your compliance. You know you're losing one way or another, and he knows you'll let him win.

Despite yourself, you like the routine of it.)

[mynorthernattitude]

and for the lady, perhaps a fking break?

[yuwuta]

mie I am thinking heavily about knight yuuta today… a penny for your knight yuuta thoughts…

hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii oh knight yuuta my most beloved… in my head as part of the Knight Yuuta Lore i believe that he was born for you. by that i mean the gojo clan has probably long served as knights for your family, and so from the second the king and queen were in talks of getting engaged, yuuta was conceived. his birth was a safety guard; a young man born a few years your senior who would be groomed into your most trusted servant and fiercest protector. and yuuta knew this from a very young age; from the time he was only five and brought to the rose garden in the palace, and told to bow before a child much smaller and younger than him, who clung to the shiny silver necklace resting against his vest with a bright smile.

he never learned to change his mind either. he was taunted, once when he was sent away for training when he was sixteen. a couple of soldiers a few years older than him poking fun at the fact that his life would never be his own, that he was caged and bound to a woman who would never put out for him. it was not the first time that yuuta had killed for you, but it felt just as good.

because even if he wasn’t your knight, yuuta knows he would have been made for you in another universe, in another life. he knows that he was created to hold you and protect you and be on the receiving end of your love. and irony is that even though he was made for you, he is biggest contributor to making you who you are today. he has been by your side since the minute you were born. he’s molded you into the exact type of person who can handle his devotion. in his eyes, you are not merely for the crown—you’re not even really for the people of your kingdom; you are yuuta’s princess. the one he nurtured and protected and fought and killed for. and he veryyyy much intends to reap what he’s sewn.

[cpericardium]

hey everyone "I" have something to show "you"

[cpericardium]

[cpericardium]

[ierosylia]

shirt that says 'i ♡ writing 300 words of the worst prose known to mankind'

[dirtygir1]

i am begging u guys to stop rushing your authors. it’s so rude. you don’t know what people are dealing with in their real lives. people have jobs, loved ones to take care of, hardships and everything else. no matter how many times you ask it’ll just get pushed back more. and then i’m gonna block you and delete it bc i’m petty like that.

i have literally 60 drafts and over half of them are asks, and i’m sorry they haven’t gotten out but jesus. i’m one person.