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sematarygirls · 7 months ago

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BOYFRIEND!RAFE x ACADEMIC!READER

WARNINGS .ᐟ fem!reader, unconventional study methods, fingering, lots of talking, facts about the nervous system

NOTES .ᐟ boyfriend rafe boyfriend rafe boyfriend rafe. this came to me while i was tediously taking notes for my psych class and wishing that i had a sexy rafe cameron in my bed.

You sat comfortably on your boyfriend's bed, your back pressed against his chest as you typed away on your computer, taking notes for your psychology class. His chin rested on your shoulder as he peered at the screen, reading a bunch of words he didn't quite understand while his hand rested on your thigh, his thumb drawing soft circles.

"What are you doing?" He hummed, his fingers dancing slightly higher. He knew what you were doing, but he wanted to hear you say it. He loved how excited you got and how you rambled on and on when you were telling him something you were passionate about. If he was being honest, it was kind of a major turn on.

"I've got a test tomorrow on the biological bases of behavior, so I'm just refreshing my memory on the endocrine and nervous systems," you explained, too focused on your notes to register that his touch was slowly sliding closer and closer to your clothed core.

"Oh, yeah?" He murmured, dipping his head down, his lips brushing against your skin as he began to pepper soft, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His hand continued upwards, his fingers lightly brushing you over your already damp underwear. "Tell me about it, baby."

"Rafe," you gasped softly, biting your lip. You tilted your head to the side, your eyes fluttering shut as you tried to find your resolve and tell him to stop, but you couldn't help the way your legs parted for him. "I told you I have to study."

"You are studying. Cmon, tell me all about the nervous system while I touch you, baby. You can do both," he coaxed you, his long fingers expertly pulling your panties to the side and running along your wet folds. "Tell me everything that's in that beautiful brain of yours."

You let out a breathy moan, your breathing quickening as your head fell back against his shoulder. You racked your brain for any piece of information, his touch making your mind go blank. "The brain is um-" you drew in a sharp breath as his thumb nudged your clit. "The exterior brain structures are the cerebral cortex, cereb-bellum, occipital lobe, temporal lobe, frontal lobe, and parietal lobe," you managed to say.

"Mmhmm, and what about the interior?" He prompted, his fingers slowly pushing inside of you. "Tell me every little detail, baby. I wanna know everything." His voice was low and husky as he encouraged you to keep going, his breath hot against your skin.

"Rafe," you moaned, your lips parting in pleasure as his fingers worked expertly inside you. You couldn't focus when you could feel his long fingers dragging against your tight walls.

"Cmon, my smart girl," he cooed, his other hand snaking around your waist and splaying his large hand across your stomach to keep you in place. "You know it. I know you do." He continued drawing his fingers in and out of you as his thumb rubbed your puffy clit firmly.

You did know it. You'd even forced Rafe to help you make stupid flashcards, so you could memorize the parts and all their functions. But, he had a way of making you forget everything and turning your brain to mush when he had his hands on you.

Your voice was shaky and breathless as you spoke, feeling your orgasm building low in your stomach. "The interior brain structures are the-the amygdala, hippocampus, medulla oblongata-" you gasped, your back arching into his touch when his fingers hit that spot inside you that had you practically seeing stars. You hesitantly kept going, trying to focus because knowing Rafe, if you stopped, he would too. "P-pituitary gland, thalamus, basal ganglia, hypothalamus, midbrain, and pons." You were pretty impressed with yourself that you managed to remember all that while your boyfriend was knuckle deep inside your dripping cunt.

He groaned, feeling himself grow harder as he listened to your breathy voice tell him all about your studies. "You're so fuckin' smart," he found that sensitive spot on your neck, sucking gently. "My brilliant girl."

Your walls fluttered around his fingers at his praising words. He was always so interested in what you had to say, never dismissing you or brushing you off when you started rambling aimlessly and throwing random facts his way. He listened intently, showing genuine interest that made you feel so loved and seen.

"Keep going, baby," he rasped, his fingers speeding up in a way that had you gripping his bicep—needing something, anything to keep you present. "What do all those big words do, hm?"

You let out a breathy laugh, your chest rising and falling rapidly. "Well, the um- the hypothalamus controls the pituitary gland, which releases hormones that regulate bodily functions," you explained, smiling softly at how fitting that fact seemed to be.

"Mm, like the hormones that are rushing through your veins right now, making you all hot and bothered for me?" He asked, his voice low and taunting, his teeth lightly nipping at your neck. He pushed his fingers deeper, curving them up to hit that spot that always made your legs shake.

"Uh huh," you moaned, your nails sinking into his bicep through the soft material of his sweater. His fingers curling inside you as his thumb continued swirling around your sensitive bundle of nerves, coaxing you closer and closer to the edge.

He hummed against your skin, his tongue laving over the spot where his teeth had marked you. "Cmon, pretty girl," he whispered, feeling your body tense up. "You did so good. Let me feel you come apart on my fingers."

Your eyes fluttered shut, back arching into his touch as his words sent you over the edge. A whimper of his name fell past your parted lips amongst a sea of soft moans as you came, your walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers while he continued to drag them in and out of you, prolonging your high.

He groaned as he felt your velvety walls flutter and squeeze around his fingers, your sweet cries of his name spurring him on. He worked you through it, fingers pumping steadily, thumb circling your clit until you were a boneless, panting mess in his arms.

He peppered kisses along your jaw as he carefully pulled away from your weeping core. "Who knew you could make biology sound so sexy,"

"Technically, it's psychology," you corrected him, chest heaving. You turned your head to look at him as he brought his fingers to his lips, sucking your release off of them with a low groan. You bit your lips at the sight, his lips glistening as he pulled his fingers back.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he flashed you a grin before leaning down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth to let you taste yourself on his tongue.

You moaned softly into his mouth, reluctantly pulling back after a moment. "If you keep distracting me, I'm never going to finish."

"Hm, that's weird because I'm pretty sure you just did," he hummed, feigning confusion as a cocky smirk tugged at his lips.

"Oh, shut up," you laughed, feeling your cheeks heat up at his innuendo. His hand slid up your arm, tracing soft shapes on your bare skin. You looked up at him, seeing the way his pupils dilated and feeling the evidence of arousal digging into you from behind. "Five more minutes and then I'm all yours, deal?" You raised a brow. You figured you had studied enough over the last couple days, and your oh so patient boyfriend deserved some of your attention.

A sly grin settled on his lips. "Deal, but don't think that I'll be keeping my hands to myself during these five minutes," he said, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

You turned back to your computer, giggling as he dipped his head back into your neck, already kissing and sucking at your delicate skin. His hands started to roam your body, and as you tried to focus, you found yourself wondering if you would make it five minutes before you surrendered to him.

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butterznack · 6 months ago

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baby, I’m good

Pairing : Hirai Momo x afab!reader

Summary : Dahyun’s latest post on Bubble got the better out of you, but Momo reminds you there’s more than one place for you to sit on her.

Genre : smut, established relationship

Warnings : 18+, fingering, oral (f!reader receiving), face sitting, clit stimulation, nipple stimulation

a/n : a little something for Momo day <3 (better late than ever lol) Dahyun’s bubble post got me feeling something like, make some room for me pls i swear i’ll behave >.<

There is no reason for you to feel jealous over Dahyun’s birthday post to Momo. All Twice members are close to each other, both in body and mind, and it isn’t as if you had never fallen victim to Jihyo’s drunken behavior and her accidental smooches at the corners of your lips, or Nayeon’s sticky fingers on your ass.

The photo isn’t recent, Momo had gotten a new haircut in preparation to MISAMO’s comeback, and so you pay it no mind, taping on the like button below the picture before switching to a different social app.

It isn’t long before Momo makes a grand entrance, waltzing past the entryway and straight to the living room where you are.

“Hi baby!” She chimes, bending down to trap your face in her hands and reach out to your lips, kissing you firmly but lovingly.

“Happy birthday love,” you greet her back as Momo pulls away, dropping next to you on the couch.

“What are you doing?” She rests her head on your shoulder, cheek pancaked onto it.

“Just looking at the stuff the girls posted for your birthday,” you smile, recalling one of Jihyo’s story of your girlfriend sleeping at a restaurant, a napkin tucked in the collar of her shirt that emphasized the comic aspect of the situation.

“You didn’t post anything,” you can feel her pout as she states the obvious, you know it’s not a complaint.

“I’m just keeping the best for last,” you grin. Momo pinches your side and you jerk up a bit without propelling your girlfriend off your shoulder. “Well, if I can do better than Dahyun’s post, that is.”

Your own words hit you only a second too late, and you don’t register Momo’s interrogative oh as she lifts her head to meet her eyes with yours. “What?” You shriek, fainting ignorance knowing damn well Momo is far from stupid and already sees right through your avoidant look.

“What about Dahyun’s post?” She asks.

“Nothing,” you lie, “I liked it.”

Momo is now fully facing you, one leg propped up on the couch and the arm of the same side against the backrest. She doesn’t say anything, but the moment you shoot a quick glance at her Momo huffs. “Are you jealous babe?” she quips.

You huff back at her, eyes not leaving the screen of your phone anymore, but you don’t say anything.

Maybe it was time for you to admit that it wasn’t jealousy, per say, but something akin to possessiveness. The image of Momo’s hand on Dahyun’s bare thigh burned into your hippocampus. You shrank in on yourself, chin nearly merging in between your collarbones as you slowly sank further into the couch.

“Oh my god, baby why?” Momo can’t help but snicker when you dramatically fall down the opposite side of hers. “Come back here,” she leans over and grabs you from under one thigh, pulling you with such force you oblige, soon straddling your girlfriend, facing her.

“Is that what you want?” Momo teases.

“Dahyun was facing the other way round,” you sulk.

“Yeah, but I can see you better like that,” she says, voice dropping an octave lower as she leans in to plant a kiss where your jaw and your ear meet. You hum in satisfaction, hands coming to repose themselves on Momo’s shoulders, her own settling on your waist. “So? Still jealous?” She keeps on kissing down your neck to the vale of your collarbone.

You whimper against her mouth as Momo lightly bites down on the muscle above, “I’m not.”

“Are you sure?” One hand comes sliding down your tummy, untucking your shirt from your pants and reaching back up to your breasts, grazing the underside. You arch at the touch, and Momo presses her hand against your sternum to keep you in place before latching her mouth onto your left nipple through the fabric of your shirt.

You gasp, one hand coming up to grip itself in her blonde bob. You try to push yourself onto her mouth, signaling to her to get more into it, but Momo keeps a strong hand between your boobs. The tip of her tongue flicks at your bud in kitten licks, and her mouth barely closes around it.

Momo is not one to tire from foreplay, she could go at it and tease you for several hours on end, and she has done so in the past. But right now, she’s doing this on purpose, because she doesn’t need a reason to taunt you like that.

You whine in protest, “Momo, please…”

“I’m waiting, love,” she replies, moving to nip at your right nipple.

Of course your girlfriend expected you to concede, to admit you were feeling a little jealous upon seeing that picture. Pulling one last time at her hair, you try to get her to look at you, “I was not jealous,” you say resolutely, “maybe just a little possessive…”

“A little?” Momo stops, fighting the urge to mock you with yet another smirk.

“Don’t push it,” you snarl.

As if to mean that’s enough for me, Momo wastes no time and has you remove your shirt completely, followed by your bra removed by her hefty fingers, and dives back onto your tits, suckling at the nipple again.

You cry out, a sense of relief washing over you, soon replaced by the itchy feeling of your growing arousal. A feeling you don’t have to focus on for too long as Momo is already slipping a hand in your pants and underneath your panties, fingers brushing your clit before sliding down your slit.

At the pace she’s going, you think you might combust on the spot. “So wet, just for me,” Momo whispers in your ear, and it’s not helping, just riling you up even more. She notices and slides one finger in your pussy, all three knuckles in. You let out a lengthy moan, tightening your hold on her shoulder and in her hair.

“Careful, I’m not not planning on going bald,” she scoffs, stopping amidst the process of giving you yet another hickey between your tits.

“Sorry,” you breathe out, “I’m sorry baby.”

“Don’t worry, you’re excused,” she states almost too matter-of-factly as she adds a second finger and starts to pump them in and out of your cunt.

She sets up a fast pace, sometimes rubbing at the spongy spot inside, coating her fingers in your arousal. Momo avoids your clit, trying not to let the palm of her hand touch it. You notice it rather quickly, moans now substituted by whimpers, seeking more of her, more than just her fingers in your pussy and her mouth on your tits.

You believe Momo takes note of the sudden shift in behavior right away. She takes her free hand and brings it to your neck, pulling you into a searing kiss. It’s messy and devouring, tongues and teeth meeting and clashing with each other, mouths agape letting out the sultriest moans out of the two of you.

You had been so focused on your own pleasure that you didn’t attend to Momo's. Though she didn’t complain, and never did, you’ve always felt a bit guilty that she would care more about your needs than hers.

“You know where else you could sit for me?” Momo prompts, as if noticing, again, you were drifting off in your thoughts. She let her hands fall to your hips, then lower, grabbing at the soft plush of your thighs. “Where?” You ask, knowing the answer already.

“Take off your pants,” she demands and again, you oblige, moving at light-speed to rid yourself of your clothes. At the same time, Momo lays down on the soft seat cushions of the couch, guiding you back down on her.

Her arms snake behind your thighs, and your knees are on both sides of her head, not too close but apart enough Momo can have you sit on her face as much as humanly possible.

You always hesitate for a second. Despite getting off to the sight of your girlfriend enjoying herself being squished between your thighs, you couldn’t help but need her approval to finally sink down on her face. An approval that came in the form of Momo bringing her mouth to your throbbing clit and pulling you down at the same time, and there’s nothing you can do to keep the moan from coming out of your vocal cords, raw and high-pitched.

One day, that woman is going to literally eat your pussy.

Momo finally gives all the attention your throbbing clit was craving. No teasing needed, she simply wanted, ached, to lose herself into your cunt, tongue switching from lapping between your folds to flicking back at the swollen bundle of nerves above. Anytime you arch your back, you also press harder against her mouth. Momo hums in contentment, one of her hands leaves your ass to relieve herself of some of her own pains and aches.

There is nothing but a symphony of moans and whimpers filling the living room. Pleas run out of your mouth in search of a desperate release, you grind your pussy against Momo’s face and she keeps on sucking at your clit, tongue going back into folds, fucking you relentlessely with it.

“Momo… I’m so close,” you chant her name over, and over, and over again. Momo pinches her eyebrows, as if trying to catch up with you. You take over for her, placing your hand below hers, applying pressure while rubbing her clit in repeated motions, rutting continuously as Momo joins you in your fun, grinding against the palm of your hand.

“That’s it baby, come for me,” she mutters from under you.

That tight feeling in your gut snaps when Momo bites and sucks at your clit again. You cry out your release, and your fingers slip past her folds in one swift motion, making Momo whimper as her orgasm crashes over her as well. Coming down from your high, you lift yourself up, licking at your fingers to get a taste of Momo’s.

You settle over her lap, plopping onto her chest as your girlfriend hugs you, hands running up and down your spine. You raise your head, cradling Momo’s face and kissing her, chaste but longingly.

“Hope the seat was to your confort,” she murmurs mid-kiss.

“You can’t imagine,” you chuckle.

#✒️ – fics #twice imagines #twice fics #twice smut #hirai momo #hirai momo x reader #hirai momo x you #hirai momo x y/n #hirai momo smut #momo x reader #momo x you #momo x y/n #momo smut

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torturedreid · 2 months ago

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Paid In Conversation

escort reader x spencer reid

w.c: 3.3k

not really sure if it needs warnings

(divider by @diviniyae )

The bar isn't the worst place you’ve worked but it's far from the best. It’s one of those dimly lit spots just off of the Strip, filled with a mix of tourists who wandered too far and locals who know better than to waste their money on casinos. The kind of place where the music is low, the drinks are overpriced, and no one asks too many questions.

You’re perched on a barstool, nursing a barely-touched cocktail you have no intention of drinking, scanning the room for potential business. A guy in an expensive suit keeps sneaking glances at you, but he’s already had too much to drink-- too sloppy. Another man at the end of the bar hasn’t looked up from his phone in ten minutes.

And then there’s him.

The man sitting alone at the corner table, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass of water like it’s something stronger. His shirt is buttoned all the way up but wrinkled, his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and his tie is loosened just slightly. It's like he got halfway through shedding it and then gave up. Tousled curls frame his face, sharp cheekbones, a delicate jawline– handsome in a bookish way, but there's something tired about him. His hazel eyes are unfocused, staring through the glass instead of at it. His shoulders are slightly hunched, the posture of someone carrying too much weight. He’s not here for the same reason as the other men in this bar.

You know loneliness when you see it.

He doesn’t look like the type to seek out an escort, but that's the thing about loneliness—it doesn’t discriminate.

It pays.

You pick up your now room temp cocktail and slide off the barstool, moving with slow, practiced ease. The kind that catches attention without looking desperate for it. His eyes don’t flick to you the way most people do. He’s not watching the way your dress clings to your hips, not tracking your movements in the mirror behind the bar.

Interesting.

You stop beside his table, tilting your head slightly. “Mind if I sit?”

For a second, he doesn’t react, like he didn't hear you. Then, his head snaps up, blinking at you with an expression that borders on confusion.

“I–uh, sure,” he says, his voice softer than you’d expected.

You ease into the chair across from him, crossing your legs, letting the slow slide of the fabric against your skin do most of the work. If he notices, he doesn’t show it.

“You look like you could use a drink,” you say, nodding to the water in his hands.

He glances at the glass like he’d forgotten it was there. “I don’t drink much.”

“Ah.” You take a slow sip from your own glass, watching him over the rim. “One of those rare men with self-control.”

His lips twitch in something that isn’t quite a smile. “It’s not really about self-control,” he says, fingers tapping lightly against the side of his glass. “Alcohol affects the hippocampus, which is responsible for memory formation. It also impairs the prefrontal cortex, which is involved in decision-making. And considering the human brain doesn’t fully mature until about twenty-five, habitual drinking before that can–”

He stops abruptly, as if realizing he’s been talking too much. His mouth presses into a thin line. “Sorry.”

You blink.

Most men in bars talk too much, but not like this. You were expecting an awkward joke, maybe some overconfident flirting– not a spontaneous neuroscience lecture.

“No need to apologize,” you say, amused. “You a scientist or something?”

He hesitates. “Not exactly. I work for the FBI.”

That catches you off guard.

You arch a brow. “Really?”

“Behavioural Analysis Unit. I study criminal behaviour to catch offenders.”

A profiler.

Well, shit.

Your instinct tells you to leave. You’ve learnt to be careful in this job, and you know better than to let law enforcement get too interested in you, but he doesn’t seem suspicious. If anything, he looks…drained.

“So you’re one of those guys who gets inside people’s heads,” you say.

He exhales softly. “I try not to. Not all the time anyway.”

“Why not?”

A shadow passes behind his eyes. He hesitates, like the answer is bigger than he wants it to be.

“Because it makes it hard to be alone with my own thoughts,” he admits.

Something about the way he says it– it isn’t dramatic or performative. Just honest.

For the first time, you reconsider your approach.

But you’re not a therapist, you’re here to make money.

You shift, adjusting the conversation. “Well, you’re in Vegas. For work assumedly but that doesnt mean you can’t enjoy yourself.”

“I don’t really know how to do that.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “That might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “It’s true. I’ve never been great at doing things just for fun.”

“Ever?”

His jaw tightens slightly. “I used to read a lot.”

“You used to?”

“It’s been harder lately,” he mutters as his fingers tighten around his glass.

There’s something there– something dark, something he doesn’t want to talk about. And for a second you almost ask.

But then he keeps talking.

And talking.

At first, it’s about work– how difficult it is, how he spends most of his days analyzing patterns of human suffering, how he sees the absolute worst of people. Then, somehow, he transitions into an explanation of cognitive dissonance, which leads into the psychological effects of chronic stress. By the time he starts explaining the history of gambling addiction, you realize you’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes listening to him going on tangents.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even seem to notice.

You lean back in your chair, exhaling through your nose. Yeah. This isn’t going anywhere.

“Well, this has been fun, but I should probably–” you start, but then something shifts.

His eyes flick downward– towards your wrist. You glance down instinctively, but there’s nothing there except the delicate diamond bracelet you wear. Nothing incriminating. But when you look back up, he’s frowning, like something just clicked in his head.

He glances towards the bar, toward the bartender who gave you a subtle nod when you got up. Then at your dress– expensive but not flashy. He blinks at your drink, still barely touched, and finally his gaze lands back on yours.

“Oh.” His brow furrows slightly. “You’re, um…you’re working.”

Finally.

“Took you long enough.”

He blinks rapidly. “I–I didn’t–” his ears go a little pink. “I wasn’t trying to waste your time.”

You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it.” You push back your chair, ready to make your exit. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Wait.”

There’s something desperate in his voice that stops you. You look down at him, arms crossed.

He swallows. “Would you– could I pay you? Just to stay? To talk?”

You hesitate. That’s not usually how this goes. But then again, nothing about him is usual.

“You want to pay me to listen to you ramble?”

He looks away, exhaling softly. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

For some reason, that hits you harder than it should. You let out a slow breath, studying him, trying to figure out what the hell is compelling you to say:

“Alright.” You sit back down. “We can do that.”

The silence between you is oddly comfortable.

For a man who just spent nearly half an hour rambling about neuroscience and criminal behaviour, he is surprisingly quiet once money enters the equation. He pushes a few bills across the table – a lot more than what you would’ve asked for, especially just to sit and talk– but he doesn’t even look at them.

You glance down at the crisp hundred dollar bills.

“You’re sure about this?” you ask.

His fingers drum absent mindedly against his glass. “I don’t want to be alone right now,” he repeats, softer this time.

There’s something about him– something different that you can’t quite pinpoint, and as the silence stretches, you can’t help but say, “You still haven’t told me your name.”

You wait for him to say something, but instead his lips twitch, just the slightest bit. “Right,” he says, finally meeting your gaze. “I’m Spencer. Spencer Reid.”

You smile, “Nice to finally know you, Spencer.”

The way his name rolls off your tongue feels significant, like a small but important shift. It’s no longer just an exchange of words– it feels like something personal.

He seems to relax slightly, and though he doesn’t offer more, you can sense a change in the air. There’s a quiet vulnerability now. He’s not just a stranger. He’s Spencer, and you find yourself wanting to know more about him.

“Sorry,” he says with a small awkward laugh. “I don’t usually talk to strangers, let alone…um…” His silence hangs in the air, but you know what he means.

You’re used to men throwing money at you. But usually they want something more than this.

Most of the time, you know exactly what you’re walking into. You know how to adjust your approach– when to play coy, when to be charming, when to pretend a man is the most interesting person in the world just to make him feel like he matters. But Spencer isn’t like anyone else you’ve ever dealt with.

This isn’t about sex.

This isn’t even about companionship, not really.

This is about something else.

Something that made him sit in this bar with only a glass of water, staring at nothing. Something that made his voice crack just a little when he asked you to stay.

You let the silence stretch between you before you finally slip the money off the table and tuck it away.

“Alright, Spencer.” You settle back into your seat, crossing one leg over the other. “You’ve got me for the night. What do you want to talk about?”

His lips press together. “I don’t know.”

You resist the urge to sigh.

He shifts in his seat, looking down at his hands. “I don't…usually do this.”

“You don’t say.”

That gets a small huff of amusement out of him– not quite a laugh, but close.

“So what do you usually do when you don't want to be alone?”

His fingers trace the rim of his glass. “I work.”

“Okay. And when you’re not working?”

“I read.”

“You said you don’t do that much anymore.”

He flinches, just barely. “Yeah.”

You let the moment pass, let him decide whether he wants to fill in the gaps or not. He doesn’t.

“So you’re telling me your entire personality is just work and books?”

His mouth twitches like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.

“I—” He exhales through his nose. “I guess so.”

“Jesus, Spencer,” you mutter. “No offense, but that’s a little sad.”

His lips part slightly, like no one’s ever pointed it out before.

You study him for a moment. You’re trying to piece together how a man like him—smart, oddly endearing, and surprisingly good-looking in an awkward, too-tall, too-skinny kind of way—ended up here. Alone in a bar, offering an escort money just to talk to him.

“So, what’s stopping you from reading?” you ask, steering the conversation back.

His jaw tightens slightly. His fingers curl against his palm. “I used to do it for comfort. But lately, every time I pick up a book, I feel like my brain just… won’t focus. The words blur together. I get halfway through a sentence and forget what I just read.”

That’s not normal.

But then again, nothing about this situation is normal.

You consider that for a moment. “That ever happen before?”

He hesitates. “No.”

“Could be stress.”

“Probably.”

You hum, not entirely convinced.

You don’t know him well, but from the way he talks, Spencer’s the type of guy who prides himself on his intelligence. If he’s struggling to read—to do something that’s always been second nature to him—that has to be messing with him.

“You ever talk to anyone about it?”

His expression shutters slightly. “I’m talking to you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “It’s not a big deal.”

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would throw money at a stranger just to avoid being alone if it wasn’t a big deal.”

That lands harder than you expected.

His jaw goes tight, and for a second, he looks like he’s about to shut down entirely. But then, instead of getting defensive, he exhales sharply and shakes his head.

“You’re… perceptive,” he murmurs.

“Kind of my job.”

He glances at you, his eyes flickering with something curious. “I guess it is.”

The two of you lapse into silence again, but this time, it’s heavier. There’s something between you now—a strange, almost reluctant understanding.

“I lost someone,” he says suddenly.

That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.

You don’t ask who—not yet. Instead, you let him go at his own pace, watching the way his fingers trace the condensation on his glass like he’s distracting himself from the words coming out of his mouth.

“I don’t… talk about it,” he admits. “I mean, I do, I guess. My friends—they know, but they don’t… I don’t want to put this on them.” His throat bobs slightly as he swallows. “I don’t want them to feel sorry for me.”

You nod slowly. “So instead, you come here. Find a stranger. Someone who doesn’t know anything about you.”

His lips press together. He doesn’t confirm it, but he doesn’t deny it either.

“She was in danger,” he says quietly. “A stalker. She—she took Maeve, and I—I tried to save her, but…” His voice cracks just slightly. He clears his throat and looks away. “I watched her die.”

The words land like a gut punch.

You don’t know this man. You don’t know Maeve. But God, you can feel the weight of it pressing into the air between you.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and for once, it’s not just something automatic. It’s not just something you’re supposed to say. You mean it.

He doesn’t acknowledge it—not directly. But his jaw tightens, and he nods once, like he’s filing the words away.

You exhale slowly, drumming your fingers against the table. “Okay,” you say finally.

His brow furrows. “Okay?”

“You don’t want to be alone tonight? Fine. You won’t be.”

His throat bobs again, like he wasn’t expecting you to just accept it.

You offer him a small, lopsided smile. “So. You’re an FBI profiler and a neuroscience expert. Tell me something interesting.”

He blinks at you. “What?”

“Something interesting. Something I don’t know.”

For a second, he just stares, like his brain is struggling to switch gears. Then, after a long pause, he says, “Did you know that people who experience significant grief sometimes show altered activity in their anterior cingulate cortex? It’s the part of the brain that processes pain—both physical and emotional.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So, what? Your brain thinks you’re physically injured?”

“In a way,” he admits. “Grief doesn’t just exist in the mind. It exists in the body, too.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Huh. So you’re saying this isn’t just in your head?”

His lips twitch just slightly. “Something like that.”

You lean back. “Well, in that case, I’d say your treatment plan should probably include getting out of your own head for a while.”

Spencer looks at you like you’ve just suggested robbing a bank.

“You want me to do what?”

You sigh, exasperated. “Come on, Spencer. It’s just a little fun.”

His eyes flicker with uncertainty, scanning the neon-lit street outside the bar like he’s searching for an escape route. The Las Vegas night hums around you—laughter, music, the distant ding ding ding of slot machines, and the low murmur of a city that never really sleeps.

You’d left the bar after two more rounds of conversation—more tangents, more rambling, and just enough teasing from you to make him smirk, just once. That had been enough to convince you he needed more than just a talk.

He needed to get out of his own head.

Which is why you’re now standing in front of an old, slightly run-down arcade tucked between a 24-hour diner and a tattoo shop, trying to convince a grieving FBI agent to play a damn game with you.

Spencer crosses his arms over his chest. “I haven’t been in an arcade since I was a kid.”

“Perfect. Then you’re overdue.” You nudge him toward the door. “Come on, smart-ass. Show me what you’ve got.”

He hesitates. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Why not?”

He falters.

You can see the gears turning in his head, trying to find a logical excuse, but you don’t let him. You just grab his wrist—lightly, giving him plenty of room to pull away if he wants—and tug him inside.

The arcade is loud.

It’s a mess of flashing lights, ringing bells, and old-school game sound effects. The air smells like popcorn, sugar, and whatever industrial cleaner they use to scrub sticky soda spills off the floor.

Spencer looks completely out of place.

He stands stiffly, hands in his pockets, eyes darting around like he’s trying to analyze his surroundings instead of just existing in them.

You sigh, shaking your head. “You really don’t know how to have fun, do you?”

“I have fun,” he argues, weakly.

“Uh-huh. Name the last fun thing you did.”

His mouth opens—then closes.

You raise an eyebrow.

“…I enjoy chess?”

You groan. “Oh my God.”

Before he can protest, you grab a handful of tokens from the counter, shove some into his palm, and steer him toward a Skee-Ball machine.

“Okay, Spencer, listen up,” you say, pulling him into position. “The goal is simple. Roll the ball up the ramp, try to get it in the highest-scoring ring. Winner gets bragging rights.”

He stares at the machine, then at you. “This is just applied physics.”

“Great. Then you should be fantastic at it.”

He still looks unsure, so you demonstrate first. You roll a ball up the ramp—it lands cleanly in the 40-point ring. Not bad.

“See? Easy.” You gesture to the machine. “Your turn.”

Spencer hesitates for a second before stepping forward. He grips the ball, aims carefully, and rolls it.

It bounces off the side and lands in the 10-point ring.

You snort. “Wow. Applied physics, huh?”

He scowls, grabs another ball, and rolls again.

20 points.

You can see his brain working now, adjusting his angle, recalculating. His third roll lands in the 50-point ring. By the time he gets to his last ball, he nails the 100-point shot.

You let out a low whistle. “Damn. Alright, genius, I see you.”

He pushes up his sleeves, and for the first time tonight, his eyes spark with something that’s not grief or exhaustion. “Best of two?”

You laugh, handing him more tokens. “Oh, now you’re into it.”

The next round is closer. He’s competitive—not in an obnoxious way, but in that quiet, methodical, determined way that probably makes him terrifying in his actual job. You beat him by a single point, and the look on his face is priceless.

“That’s impossible,” he mutters. “I recalibrated my angles—”

You cackle. “Guess I’m just better.”

His eyes narrow, and you see the exact moment he stops overthinking and just lets himself enjoy it.

You play a few more games—Pac-Man, Air Hockey, some type of shooting game, though he proceeds to talk about real-life firearm handling (and promptly wipes the floor with you).

You don’t rush him. You don’t push too hard.

You just let him be.

Somewhere between the Skee-Ball and Street Fighter II, you see something shift in him—just slightly. The tension in his shoulders eases. The crease between his brows smooths out. He’s still Spencer, still him, but for the first time tonight, he’s not just a grieving man sitting in a bar, haunted by ghosts.

He’s just here.

Just alive.

And when he lands a winning combo in Street Fighter, and you groan dramatically about letting him win, he actually laughs.

It’s quiet. Small. But it’s real.

And it’s probably the best sound you’ve heard all night.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #doctor spencer reid #bau team #dr reid #criminal minds fic

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torueater · 1 month ago

Text

⋆ ꩜ ⋆ pairing: artstudent!gojo x artstudent!reader

synopsis: artstudent!gojo doesn't believe in prophetic dreams and all that--in fate (though it does make for a fun love story). he finds himself confused when there's been a recurring face in a few of his recent moments of unconsciousness. of all the background characters, one seems to stick -- he's even more surprised to see that the face in said dreams isn't just one he'd seen in passing when you show up to class as a new transfer.

wc: around 3780 (❁´◡`❁)

content: no explicit content (save for some kissing), art student satoru, art student reader, implied fem reader

a/n: 2nd fic on here !! this was supposed to be a drabble, ended up being extended a little (sort of has drabble vibes still I think). idea came while doing a painting! ᓚᘏᗢ

ArtStudent!Gojo's first attempt at a portrait without direct reference pulls from a face that’d only shown up in a couple dreams of his. The moonlit memory lingers in his mind, one face in particular latched to his hippocampus akin to how a tic would to flesh. How it’s so vivid this time now that he’s out of the state of unconsciousness is beyond him but reaching for the closest medium -- charcoal and his sketch pad feels like muscle memory. Like an incessant itch. This is the first time he can actually remember what dream-girl looks like, he won’t be stupid enough to wait till the image gets a chance to slip away like wisps of smoke in the air.

Charcoal smudges against slender, too-dexterous fingers, tips dusted in black. They press into the material to make rough strokes on the cotton fibers to map out the shape of a head, a nose – gentle slopes, a slightly rounded tip. Ridges and smooth dips of lips he remembers looking too soft even in his mind’s eye. He wonders how they’d dip under the press of his stained fingertips. Satoru doesn’t need to think, feels like sketching her comes as easy as breathing.

It’s rough. It’s rushed – like the image’ll slip from his mind if he takes too long to give it a proper form--the creases between his knuckles are black and temporarily messy with charcoal but… it’s almost angelic looking. Sublime, even. A radiant mirror of whoever the mystery girl is. Even with the image put to paper, he can’t piece together who the face is, where he’d seen her. Logic and a bit of searching tells him it’s possibly someone he’d seen in passing. More than likely someone in a crowd, even a face in a movie that had somehow become a fragment in his memory. There’s the possibility of it meaning someone new is about to enter his life but that one seems more farfetched than anything.

The image clings to his thoughts for the better half of 2 days, pressing into the edges of his mind before ultimately being shoved deeper into the recesses by the weight of more important things he had to worry about. An upcoming exam. A mixed media piece he’s yet to complete even with the nearing deadline. Unfinished sketches to add to his portfolio. He’s been slacking a bit, he knows that much. Knows it won’t take much to get back on track, but still.

There are far better, far more important things to think about, to ruminate on than a mystery girl he had the deep sated urge to keep in a physical form. Not forgotten though. Never that.

ArtStudent!Gojo knows better than to do this shit ever again. The reminder to never ever put his assignments off till he’s all filled with nerves and needing to rush to get them done well is properly cemented in his mind from this point on. He’d damn near crammed assignments into any bit of free time he thought he’d have. Free time his ass. Up till yesterday, a 7 hour energy, his canvas, thick paints and an array of brushes had been his only companions. Paint to fabric, precise even strokes, darkness of the night not stopping the zone he’s settled into. Exhaustion tugs at his eyelids and he’s only aware of having knocked out when the morning sun greets him, bowed into his now dried canvas. “Shit!”

The smudge of paint on the canvas is one thing but he barely has enough time to brush his teeth and to wash the wayward blot of paint off his forehead before he’s bolting out his dorm – nine minutes to get to the art room. The sun is on high by now, colours of the day too bright and sharp for how little sleep he’s running on. His limbs feel all heavy, half groggy as he runs – shoulder knocking into someone else’s hard enough to make them stumble, “Fuck--sorry,” he calls over his shoulder, half hearted, barely looking. A quick flash of her hair, momentary glimpse at her features before he keeps moving.

By the time he makes it to class, the thought is already fading from his mind. He sketches for today, graphite scratching against a Strathmore sheet, switching between mediums for more variation. Black smudges colour pale fingertips, angular cheekbones streaked with the same darkness here and there from moments when he absently rubs at his face or leans into his palm. Only now, settled into the rhythm of his sketching, one singular thought creeps back in from earlier. Huh. He hadn’t gotten a good look but the girl from earlier sort of resembled—

He cuts the thought off with a quiet huff, tilt of his mouth miniscule. As if.

Even the idea itself is stupid. Maybe the hair colour, sure. The side profile, possibly, if he’d gotten a proper look it would be clear. But it’s entirely unlikely. Not that he can be too sure with the rush he’d been in.

But like…maybe?

The side profile—even from that small glimpse—had been fairly similar to- Nope. He cuts the thought off again with a shake of his head, thumb pressing into the grain of the paper to smear out a too rough line. Mind’s just playing tricks on me. He’s not even sure why he’s still thinking about ‘Dream girl’ as he’d coined her. Real creative there.

It’s only 2 days after that where they’re meeting a new face, where he wonders if his mind is playing a game. He’d been halfway through a sketch, hunched over a fresh page of his pad. Just until you’re actually introducing yourself – figures it’d be rude to not have his attention on you the first time you’re meeting.

ArtStudent!Gojo at least tries to gaslight himself into thinking that you don’t look like the girl he’d sketched twice already, flipping back to the page in his sketchbook, glancing between it and you (more the side of your head from how you’re now sat) as you’re briefly introduced to the class. Smile shy, glancing around to give a polite wave–-No way. It does look like you. Maybe a slight difference, a beauty mark somewhere he couldn’t have guessed, the shape of your brows. But besides that? Yeah…it checks out. It’s nothing dramatic, no slo-mo, no cinematic gasp from a live audience. Just you sat in your seat near the front, sketchpad pulled out to catch up on the exercise.

Like sure, he’d hoped to see the person plaguing his thoughts, had joked about it here and there. But to have it coming at him full force and out of the blue like a stray baseball to the face – it’s a bit much.

He’d caught the words transfer student from the professor and not much else. If you’d just transferred, how’d he even know your face well enough to have him dreaming of you? More than once at that?

Flipping to the 2nd fresh page of the day, he lets the charcoal map out the familiar shapes of features he hadn’t drawn in days. Third sketch’s the charm right? It’s easier to get the details almost spot on now that he’s seen you. The placement of the mole on your face, the tilt of your lips when you smile.

He obviously doesn’t bring up the dreams and sketching stuff. Of course he doesn’t. It kind of seems creepy when he thinks on it with a clear head. ArtStudent!Gojo is anything but shy, and he does what he does best in the whirlwind of confusion – acts completely normal. Turns on that effortless charm of his and makes conversation despite the internal mess. You’re as nice as ever and you two are easy friends.

The mystery solves itself soon enough, you having transferred from another course on campus, the likelihood of seeing you not that small with how close the two buildings are. Maybe he’d seen you on his way to class some time. Makes far more sense than this being some fate-driven meeting between you two. How insane would that be?

ArtStudent!Gojo has colour steadily rising up the snowiness of his skin when he’s found himself sketching you again in the comfort of a now empty art room. At least it’s supposed to be empty -- clearly it’s not with you stood behind him scanning the portrait with a grin. Another one of you, number #4.

“It’s like you’ve been studying me.” You’re really, really fucking impressed. A bit in awe. All the angles are right, he’d captured your essence almost perfectly. “Is this the only one?”

He tries to think of a way out of this, an excuse. Maybe saying it isn’t you would work? He knows it won’t because he’s unfortunately apparently blessed with the artistic gift of modern-day Rembrandt and it looks exactly like you. You disregard the lack of response, biting back your rising grin. “Mm, you missed my earrings, though.” You dip a little more into his space, fingers pressed over his lengthy ones, guiding the pencil over to one ear, tracing the shape of a hoop, then the next. “There we go. Now it looks like me.”

You surprisingly…don’t find it weird? Maybe because he’s overly pretty and crazy nice and you don’t get a future stalker vibe from your new snow-haired art buddy (you hope so at least). You’d been friends for about a week or two and you feel like you’d come to trust him far too easily, but he hadn’t exactly made it hard. He’d offered up the sketch and an awkward apology that you’d just laughed at. A request for a portrait in colour is your idea of a better apology. And he agrees, obviously.

Gojo thinks he needs to get a grip. He really, seriously needs to get a grip on himself. It’s been what, 2 months at this point? 2 months and some change at best, and yet he folds so easily to the shape of you. All things you. You smiling at him, you laughing at his stupid jokes and not calling him corny. Not all the time at least. The way light catches in your eyes, the way you handle oil paints like you’re Jan van Eyck himself. You’re so talented, so so talented and kind and he thinks he loves really likes you a lot! As a friend. You guys are friends! #Artbuddies and all that. He at least tries to play it off to himself as an appreciation for beauty, to things that pique his interest. What’s an artist without appreciation for beautiful things, right? He’d grown up on this! Poets bleeding their everlasting love into stanzas, artists pouring their emotions onto blank canvases in a cacophony of colours. Giving love lots of like comes easy to him because he just has so much to give (to you).

Okay. He’s not one to act like a spade isn’t a spade, he knows he has a big ol’ crush on you. The self-gaslighting doesn’t work no matter how hard he’d tried and at this point he finds more use in not deluding himself any longer. He liked you in a not-friendly way, so what? People developed crushes all the time. A crush was fine and it’s not like he’s in love love with you.You’ve given no sign that you feel the same, he doesn’t want to get in too deep.

But you make it so hard. Gojo thinks he may be going a little bit crazy. Thinks he should’ve known he’d been doomed from the start. Completely, irrevocably doomed.

And boy…is he a sucker for it. He’s always been one for the arts, for the idea of romance in poetic forms. One for sappy rom coms, for love letters. For good love stories. To think he’d find himself in one slowly unraveling itself.

It’s the way you exist so effortlessly-- so damn easygoing, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s accidentally (debatable) turned you into his muse. As if this is the most natural thing in the world. Not creeped out but reveling in it, in his attention. Like it isn’t weird at all that his hands know the angles of your face better than his own at this point. It’d never gotten to the point of being creepy, he’d never crossed any lines. You’re over often to sketch together, something about company ‘allowing the creative juices to flow’ or something along those lines. He doesn’t care for the justification, he thinks he’d let you in even if you’d shown up unannounced.

The designated space for art in his off campus apartment is surprisingly spacious, ceiling length windows shielded by equally long curtains that are pulled aside to give a clear view of the ambience of the city at night. Your weight is ever-present against his side, tucked close and watching him sketch. He doesn’t make you feel like a nuisance so you don’t see the point in moving. He’d gone again and left an assignment for last minute and here you were being so great and keeping him company. It’s realism this time, a landscape of some sort that he’s doing finishing touches on using acrylics. It’s nice to see him in his element, funny to see him smear paint on his chin when he forgets he’d used that same finger to quickly blend a spot on the canvas. Just the lightest streaks. “Always messy. Y’got paint all over your face.” An exaggeration of course, there’s a few spots of colour but it’s nothing crazy just yet. A hum is his answer, brushwork still precise. “Messy? Nuh-uh, these are the marks of a true artist.” What was better than telling people you’d just been painting when they see the colours on your flesh, right? Real artist he says, drawing a small laugh from you. Sure.

A hand reaches for his chin to tilt his face to yours, thumb swiping over the streak that doesn’t even shift on his skin. Part of you wants to mom him and just lick your thumb to swipe it off but you think against it, “Dried too quickly. It’s not even budging.” You scrub at it again, completely oblivious to his loosened grip on his brush, his attention fixed solely on you as his thoughts drain at the simplest touch. He snaps out of it when you glance up at him, quick to think of something witty to bridge the silence, own thumb dipping into paint the same shade as that of the blue on his cheek. “It’s okay. We’ll just match.” It’s not that you don’t register what he says but he’s swiping a matching streak along your cheekbone before you can even lean away. “Gojo!” “What? We’re matching! Artist buddies?” Retaliation comes in a line of yellow on his cheek, scampering away from his side because it’s war from that point on.

You’re up and running. One quick—failed—dodge on his part (then yours) and there’s more yellow on his jaw, a green stripe across your forehead. It’s messy, you’re both messy with paint. It’s chaos, stupidly fun. You’re smearing blue fingers near his mouth, spread near his lips.

You’re a squealing mess as you try to dodge him once more you fail, thick corded arm banding around your midsection, free hand moving to smear red on your mouth like lipstick. A contrast to the blue near his own mouth. You suck in a breath, ribs hurting a bit from all the laughing, hands lifted in surrender above where he has you held. “Okay, okay! Truce, white flag!” Your weight presses backward into his chest without thinking too much, catching your breath, still giggling in between. “Truce. You said we’re artist buddies.” Yeah, artist buddies.

ArtStudent!Gojo is so talented, so smart and such a good friend to have…but so very dimwitted at the worst times. You’re not sure if you’re the one to blame here but you’d made your interest clear enough, no? The coming over, touchy nature, always smiling at him? Not crazy clear signs but come on, you were trying here. The sign is as red as ever and basically calling out to him (right now for example!).

Your head tips back onto his chest to look at him and gosh, he’s right there. As handsome as he usually is, heart an unsteady drum against the confines of your ribs that suddenly feels ridiculously loud. Cerulean pools flicker to your red-smeared lips, your own dipping to his ultramarine pair. His gaze is momentary but it’s more than enough for heat to pool in places past the underside of your cheeks and the tips of your ears. Has your heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with your little horseplay from before. You cock a brow in question.

ArtStudent!Gojo is a little tired of dancing around whatever it is between you two, head dipping before he can let himself think too much – ridding himself of the wholly uncharacteristic cowardice of inaction in regards to romance (seemingly only brought about by you.) It’s light, a bump more than anything, too blue lips against your red. It’s all clumsy, quick and not well thought out – he pulls back before you can decide to do anything about it but suck in a breath and that alone has him still like he’d been zapped.

“Fuck.” His hold loosens on you at a comically fast pace, paint-coated fingers hovering midair, palms outward as if physically keeping himself from reaching for you again. As if in surrender. It’s far too easy to stumble over his words, to be a blushing loser around you and only you. He’s quick to act, something of an apology forming on his lips. “I wasn’t thinking. Shit, no -- I mean-- I was but I just wouldn’t kiss you like that—” Wait, that’s not good either, clearly isn’t from the lift of one of your brows. Poor choice of words. Poor, poor choice. He swallows thickly, waving his hands, licking at his bottom lip as he thinks, making a face at the sort of earthy tinge of paint on his tastebuds. He usually had way better game than this, really. “Y’know I don’t mean I wouldn’t kiss you. I wasn’t planning on doing it now. Like – paint in the mouth?” The earthy tang fills his mouth again as if reacting to being mentioned. “But you were all close,” And pretty, “I thought—I thought maybe, but I wasn’t sure—"

“Gojo, shut up.” You’d chuffled, clearly amused. Heat licks at your skin where he’d touched, lips remembering the imprint of his on yours, even if momentary. “Huh?” He looks borderline panicked, it makes you want to laugh some more.

“I said shut up.” If the words hadn’t stunned him to silence, the curl of your colourful fingers against the back of his neck would have done the trick, mouth on his before he can spiral into a longer monologue on not kissing you without asking, and boundaries. Nice of him to apologize though, makes the kiss a little more deserved.

Unlike his it’s less clumsy, less unsure. A proper kiss (sort of). The angle is awkward, your head is tilted up and your neck hurts a little, but it feels so good to be kissing him again, a little neck pain isn’t much to think about. “Mmh..” His reciprocation comes right before you can pull back, knees bent as much as they need to to keep you from craning your neck, lips melding together. The contact is visceral, lips not exactly hungry but intentional. Firm, movements of his mouth feeling too practiced against yours. Soft sighs and breaths mutually exchanged into each other’s mouths -- blue and yellow mixing in his ivory strands as you tug, brings him closer to your own mouth as if you aren’t close enough.

You pull back soon enough, hands still in his hair, his world properly shifted on its axis. Fabric of his existence permanently altered.

For all that sweet, smooth talking charm in his arsenal, he’s awfully quiet right now.

“Uh.”

Real articulate. God, he should just die.

The grin that spreads on your mouth is slow as if trying to keep it down, swiping at his now purple mouth, gaze moving from there to his hair. The patch painted a reddish green from your fingers. You’re so close. Soooclose and so pretty and you smell like you and look like you and--

The little call of your assigned nickname for him has him glancing down again, swallowing as his head tilts. “Can I just..” He doesn’t know how to ask exactly, isn’t sure if it’s necessary, you’d been kissing just moments ago. “I’m g’nna kiss you again. Yeah?” The press of his mouth down on yours is a welcome familiarity, he doesn’t feel the need to pull back when you breath in again this time around, nerves evaporated for the most part. Fingers with swipes of paint are firm cradling your face, dipped into your height, head tilted to slot his mouth against yours properly like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it. Swipes his tongue into your mouth, gets a good taste of paint. Jeez.

A muffled giggle against his mouth breaks the tense air, hands still in his hair sliding down to his nape. “..Look at what you started, Satoru. Paint everywhere.” His own thumb swipes at your matching purple, lips soft to the touch. Finally aware of how they’d feel under the press of stained fingertips. Go figure. Yeah, he’s a little in love with you, he’s sure of it now. Not friendly love. A sappy, gross, ‘fuck, I’m so screwed’ kind of love? Yeah, maybe.

“Oops.” He doesn’t feel sorry in the slightest, doesn’t think he can after the escalation caused by the childish paint smearing. Another kiss-quick and light- pressed to the corner of your mouth, a soft hum against your skin. “We look like idiots. Try to avoid swallowing by the way.” You’re sure your teeth are a little purple – you think they are since you can taste paint every time you speak. Gross. “Let’s hope it washes out well.”

extra:

You've been scrubbing at your lips for the better half of 5 minutes at this point. Soap on its own, fingers as the tool. Then soap and a cloth. The paint is at least not crusty on your skin – you don’t appreciate the purple tinge around your mouth or the barely held back laugh from the man next to you sporting a similar stain, though. “At least we’re matching again.”

You suppose you are.

You both have purple tinged mouths over the weekend.

additional a/n: jan van eyck - painter renowned for his revolutionizing of oil painting, 2. rembrandt - dutch golden age painter really good at portraits.

ᓚᘏᗢ

#torueater ୨ৎ #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x you #jjk x you #jjk gojo #jjk fic #satoru gojo #jjk #jjk fanart #art student gojo #jujitsu kaisen #gojo fluff #nerdjo #jjk satoru

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ryuzakemo128 · 4 months ago

Text

Pairing: Poly141! x Female Reader

Content Warnings: Swearing, medical examinations, medical terms, medical terminology, slight angst, graphic descriptions of the effects of being alone for ten years. Nikolai appears for a little while in this part. But he becomes a permanent character later. Cute nicknames. Pet names. Smut implications. Rather heavy handed

Dividers: @cafekitsune

Word Count: 3146

Note: I hope you enjoyed this part. If you have more ideas of where to have this go next. Then by all means message me or put it in comments below. I read all comments by the way.

Omegaverse Parts: Part One + Part Two + Part Three + Part Four

Masterlist

It’s been three months since you were back at the base. You weren’t too sure how the military personnel would react to your return. You were certain this wasn’t real, and you would certainly wake up soon.

You were now under the bright lights of the medical room. You didn’t know what to think now. If you were allowed to return, why the need for all these tests?

What were they testing for? What aren’t they telling you?

Why are they staring at you like you were going to die any day now?

Would it have been better to have been out in the wild instead?

All these questions spurned, swirled and turned inside your head. You didn’t know what to think. You didn’t know what you should feel.

Your skin felt like it was on fire with each poke, prod and needle injected into you. You didn’t like it. You loathed it. But what could you do? What was there to do? Other than to lie there and take what they dished out unto your body. Your shell. Your image.

Nothing is left untouched because anything you have deemed sacred wasn’t treated that way by them. Your life before wasn’t like that, and now you are left wondering if it was better to be alone rather than to have a place of ‘belonging’ in the first place.

An unknown creature made by mother nature they couldn’t easily define.

“I can’t take more tests.” You stated, your face pressed against the glass one-way window and your eyes shut. The IV drip jabbed into your right arm as you are so, so tired. “I should have stayed out there.”

As the days continued to pass, you weren’t sure what to think anymore and the more time to yourself. The more time you spend regretting ever deciding it was a good idea to come back.

What were you thinking? Were you even thinking at all? You don’t know now. You don’t want to know the answer to either question.

Who knew what would happen now?

You didn’t know. And for once, you had something far more tangible to be afraid of.

You do know if anything told you about predators, if anything about being in the wild taught you anything in those long ten years alone. You still don’t know how they affected you or if they made you ‘better’ at this.

At this job. At existing as you are and as you were before. Who knows?

Not like you will get the truth out of them without pulling teeth from their snapping jaws. You don’t know how long it will take for them to find out you are part of an incredibly morally grey, morally complicated, morally complex, morally fucked in the head, morally ambiguous. And more likely to go ‘feral’ if left alone for too long.

While you were asleep on the table, the doctor pulled them aside to the observation room outside the examination area.

“The effects of being isolated for eleven years are apparent,” The doctor stated, pulling up the brain scan on the digital whiteboard. “As you can see on the brain scan here, the amygdala and the hippocampus have both grown significantly. This could explain the heightened sense of danger and enhanced memory.”

“Other things that are affected are things like her nails, while they were oddly shaped before, they are now razor sharp. They can and will slice you open or dig into layers of your flesh.” The doctor continued showing off an image of damage done to a mannequin.

Price watched from the corner, his hand in his pocket, rubbing the bruise you left behind on his hand. The way your eyes glinted with the fireplace light, the way your teeth dug into his skin. It was almost like he enjoyed it. Like it was a silent declaration of something.

“Her wolf teeth evolved too,” the doctor continued to ramble. “They are far better than what they used to be.”

That statement alone hinted at the fact this doctor knows you far better than they thought they did. Price took a step closer, his curiosity piqued, “How so?”

The doctor pointed to the image on the board, “Her teeth, while sharp, they’re not just for show. They’re capable of injecting a venom. A venom that can incapacitate or kill anyone it comes into contact with. We’re not sure how or why this evolution happened. But it’s a significant advantage in combat. One that we can’t ignore.”

Price’s eyes narrowed, the implications of this newfound information were vast. If you had the capability to produce such a powerful venom, then that would explain why Shepherd was so keen on keeping you a secret. It was a weapon they hadn’t fully unlocked yet.

It also calls into question as to why you were kept a secret or left out there for ten years. What was General Shepherd afraid of?

What did he hope for when he threw her to the wolves in Siberia?

Did he hope she’d die out there?

The disconnect between the reality of knowing she wouldn’t have died and the hope the cold, starvation would kill her is large enough to fit the titanic.

“We need to keep this under wraps. It shouldn’t get back to General shepherd. The last thing we need is to have him tipped off about your return or anything we have learned about you.” Price stated.

“We can’t afford, if the General gets wind of this, he’ll do anything to control you. To use you as a weapon again. You’re not going anywhere near that monster.” Ghost remarked in agreement with Price.

“How does my organs look though?” you asked the doctor, more concentrated on your own health than how fast you could kill someone.

The doctor nodded, clicking away on their computer, “Your organs are surprisingly healthy given your diet out there. We’ve seen some malnourishment but nothing too serious, a bit of vitamin deficiency.”

The doctor continued to speak after you gave her the nod to go ahead, “Nothing we can’t fix with supplements. Your body is adapting to what’s available in the wild, which is quite extraordinary. It’s almost as if you’ve evolved to survive in such conditions. Your liver and kidneys are functioning at optimal levels, considering. But we’ll run some more tests to be sure.”

“What about the stomach and pancreas?” you questioned. “I had a lot of boar, deer, and bear meat. Can't say I've had a lot of greens out there. Besides mushrooms, fruit like berries and the occasional wild garlic.”

The doctor nodded again, scribbling some notes, “It's understandable given the environment. We'll need to keep an eye on your digestive system, but preliminary results indicate you're doing surprisingly well. It seems your body has adapted to extract the maximum nutrients from what's available.”

While you were settling into the base, you were keen on getting at least the optimal hours of sleep again. The nice, seven to nine hours of sleep. In between your fur blankets, insulated and the cold kept far from you.

After six hours, almost seven hours of sleep later, your door opened little by little. An unknown scent wafted in from the door, who is it? You can’t identify that smell at all. You frown as the scent gets closer to your bed.

The Russian accent finally gave it away now, odd to hear that here, of all places. You didn’t think it would have been something to wake up to. Yet here it was. Laid out in front you like an unwelcome sign with enough red lights to make the red-light district question itself.

You don’t know what the bear wanted from you, not like you could or would give anything to the guy anyway. But that it is beside the point. You shifted around in your blanket pile and pulled your pants back on. Don’t question why you don’t have pants on. Overheating is a major issue for you during winter, and the heat rashes drive you up the wall.

Nikolai. Whoever he is. Standing in your quarters like it was summer in the middle of the Sahara desert wearing a pair of shorts.

“Aren't you cold wearing those things?” you asked, drowsy and half asleep. You braced yourself for a no for an answer.

The stubborn bear never paid enough attention to the weather reports anyhow. It didn’t matter how many times you’d tell him. He wouldn’t listen to you anyway. It’s a wonder no one gave him an earful already. Not that you wanted to be that person to that.

You didn’t want Price ranting and raving at how you ‘hurt his feelings’ or some kind of bullshit excuse he might throw at you.

You didn’t care about hurt feelings, why would you? If any of them were alone for as long as you, were, they wouldn’t care either. Though you doubt they would have the guts to even last that long anyway.

You reached out for your shirt to put on underneath the layers of blankets. Not that you cared that he would still be standing there in total silence anyway. You didn’t wear a bra out in the wild and you still don’t.

City wolves would. Wolves like yourself? Unheard of. Unless you really needed it, most wolves, lone wolves like you? Didn’t bother with the trivialities of human societal norms like underwear and other such things.

If you felt the need to have such a thing you would have to learn from trial and error to make one yourself. Just like you were taught through ONI.

Men and Women had to learn how to sew in ONI. Both genders were required to learn it in order to be self-sufficient in the field. It was a necessary skill, especially when you’re in the middle of nowhere with no tailor in sight.

Probably why you asked for linen based clothes which Price didn’t think you’d be that specific in your request. Not that the doctor minded, she knew the benefits of linen just as much as you did.

If you were still in ONI’s branch headquarters, you would be wearing running shorts and a sports bra. Maybe a muscle shirt over the top of the sports bra to ward eyes off your chest region.

It was airy, enough material to cover yourself while also leaving out enough material to keep your body from overheating to an uncomfortable degree. The doctor had listened, much to the amusement of the men who had accompanied her.

While you braided your hair to prevent it from resembling a raccoon's post-food wash mess. You didn’t know what to think of the larger man. “I am sure you are here for an important reason, right?”

You didn’t know whether they wanted to recreate your old room with their own touches or if they wanted to go ham and just fuck in front of you.

The hormones were all over the place leaving you feeling like you were in an unending fever dream you can’t find yourself to leave because one, its too weird. Secondly its like getting flash banged in a fire fight or a western style show down.

Who knew if this would only be just another temporary space? You didn’t. You were just waiting uneasy and waiting until you had to find a new permanent spot on your own again. Instead of the wilderness. It would be inside the city this time.

Nikolai looked over the new hideout plans you had started for yourself. The combination of four storage containers. Two stacked on top of another two, forming a two-story space and the containers would be forty feet.

The outside would be painted Vanta Black to blend into the dark to make it virtually unable to see in the dark. The windows would be made of a one-way mirror, so you can see out without being seen. Allowing you to walk around naked.

If you desired to walk around your own hideaway stark-naked that is. Not that it would happen with five people staring at you or one of them staring at you. They’d enjoy the view of you unwrapped far, far too much.

The other ideas you had come up with were things like: hidden cameras camouflaged by the black paint. Along with visible thermal imaging cameras that look like security cameras only they won’t record audio, camera footage or anything which could be traced back to you. They would only detect and record heat signatures into an excel spreadsheet linked to a server database.

You had a dot point list of other ideas you had in mind for what to put inside it:

Camouflage Netting: It’s not just for military use anymore, it’s for hiding your hideout. It’s a way to make sure that no matter where you are, you’re protected from the eyes of anyone that’s looking for you.

Infirmary: Just in case someone gets hurt and needs medical attention. It’s not just for patching up gunshot wounds, but also for dealing with your unique condition.

Library of survival books: Because even the best of us need to brush up on their skills every once in a while. Plus, it’s always good to have a plan B, C, D, and so on.

Reloading Bench: This would provide with a source of ammunition, store your excess amount of ammunition created and to provide a workbench specifically for ammunition. Plus, it keeps everything organized and in one place.

Security System: You had thought about installing a silent alarm system that notifies the four of you if anyone gets too close for comfort. It would be linked directly to your phones or coms.

Solar Panels: To provide power and reduce the dependency on the grid. You weren’t going to be living in the dark ages, even if you’re living off the grid.

Soundproof Panels: Installed within the walls of the hideout to prevent any noise from escaping or entering, which was crucial for both privacy and safety during your heat.

Underground Tunnels: To escape and enter the hideout without being seen. It’s a safety net if shit hits the fan and you need to escape quickly. Plus, it’s a great way to get around unseen and get to places without having to leave the safety of your own base.

Nikolai looked over what you have come up with so far, eyes scanning over the drawings beside each dot point to drive home what you hoped to create in the future. You don’t know where this will end up being created. But for now, it remains an idea. No matter how ‘grandiose’ it sounded to him.

Debating with yourself if Yorkshire or Coventry would be better for this kind of hideout you were mentally creating for yourself. You didn’t know which place would be better and you didn’t know if they would react well to it either. A minefield hidden among the eggshells. What to do. What to do.

Would it be better to have them live inside a house while you lived on the land just outside?

Would it be better to just by a chunk of land and build something replicated from your own mind?

What is the better outcome? What is better for you? Which is going to help you more?

These questions swam around in your head like a tornado. A whirlwind of doubt and confusion. Until you heard his voice speak again, “You thought about this a lot, Da?” he asked.

You nodded, not completely trusting your voice not to crack and unable to find the will to speak either. The intensity of his stare made you squirm, intense, far too intense, you refused to be intimidated by him regardless.

Irrespective of what his opinion of what your choices meant to him. You had to keep yourself safe first. You can’t be bogged down by the opinions or notions of what they think you needed.

“Is there a problem?” you probed subtly.

“No….No problem here little mouse.” Nikolai answered his eyes finally darting back to your writing again.

You ignored the odd nickname he decided to call you at least it was better than ‘Darling’ or ‘darlin’ like the other four loved to call you. Though it did feel odd to hear anyone to call you things like that.

It was always either, ‘Venom’, ‘V’, ‘Devil’, ‘Beast’ or just your name. It is incredibly for someone to choose to call you by your name for some reason. Not that you cared that much about it.

Nikolai called you things like: 'Lyubimaya', 'Malinka', 'Milyaya', 'Solnyshko', 'Zayka' and, the oddest one of all, 'Moy Kotyonok' (My Kitten). Each name brought a slight blush to your cheeks, even though you knew they were just endearments in his language. He was always looking at you with a smirk, enjoying your reaction.

The act of calling you things like: ‘Little Mouse’, ‘Darling’, ‘darlin’. They did things to your mind, scratching a part of your brain you enjoyed more than you thought you would have. Though you preferred 'Little Mouse'. Over ‘Darling’ and ‘darlin’.

The cutest nicknames someone to think of piled onto you like a truck load of plushies. You didn’t know what to think of it all. You still don’t. You’re not sure if it was the hormones fucking with your mind or if it was the act of caring in general. Either way you find yourself liking it more than you assumed you would have.

Nikolai asked, “May I add a few more dot points?”

“Sure. Just don’t add anything that doesn’t help long term. If you can focus on long term things? Sure. Otherwise, add notes pertaining to other parts of the hideout you think it needs.” You answered.

Nikolai nodded, understanding the need to think long term instead of the short term, a hideout needed to think past the immediate needs and look at the potential problems you could have in the future.

“Da, I will keep this in mind, Little Mouse. Maybe we can have a room for vodka. Yes? It is good for the soul, and it keeps the cold away, da?” He smirked, trying to lighten the mood with a bit of humour.

“I was hoping for mead.” You quipped with a smirk. “Perhaps we could add beehives to make sure the honey is fresh?”

Nikolai’s eyes lit up with the idea. “Mead! Yes, good for the soul, keeps the cold away, and it is something we can make ourselves! You are clever, Little Mouse.” He scribbled the idea onto the paper, his rough, calloused hand moving swiftly across the page.

Perhaps it was in fact better to work with others instead of relying on yourself. Perhaps you have room for five others inside that heart of yours.

You would like that right?

Little mouse.

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luxe-pauvre · 7 months ago

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Professor Oliver Hardt, who studies the neurobiology of memory and forgetting at McGill University in Montreal, is much more cautious. “Once you stop using your memory it will get worse, which makes you use your devices even more,” he says. “We use them for everything. If you go to a website for a recipe, you press a button and it sends the ingredient list to your smartphone. It’s very convenient, but convenience has a price. It’s good for you to do certain things in your head.” Hardt is not keen on our reliance on GPS. “We can predict that prolonged use of GPS likely will reduce grey matter density in the hippocampus. Reduced grey matter density in this brain area goes along with a variety of symptoms, such as increased risk for depression and other psychopathologies, but also certain forms of dementia. […] Map reading is hard and that’s why we give it away to devices so easily. But hard things are good for you, because they engage cognitive processes and brain structures that have other effects on your general cognitive functioning.” Hardt doesn’t have data yet, but believes, “the cost of this might be an enormous increase in dementia. The less you use that mind of yours, the less you use the systems that are responsible for complicated things like episodic memories, or cognitive flexibility, the more likely it is to develop dementia. There are studies showing that, for example, it is really hard to get dementia when you are a university professor, and the reason is not that these people are smarter – it’s that until old age, they are habitually engaged in tasks that are very mentally demanding.” (Other scientists disagree – Daniel Schacter, a Harvard psychologist who wrote the seminal Seven Sins Of Memory: How The Mind Forgets and Remembers, thinks effects from things like GPS are “task specific”, only.)

Rebecca Seal, Is your smartphone ruining your memory? A special report on the rise of ‘digital amnesia’

#Rebecca Seal #Is your smartphone ruining your memory? A special report on the rise of ‘digital amnesia’

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myalgicencephalomyelitiscfstom · 30 days ago

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Press release for Australian research (funded by ME Research UK):

"Large hippocampus detected in Long COVID and ME/CFS patients"

#chronic fatigue syndrome #mecfs #myalgic encephalomyelitis #LongCovid #Long covid

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natasailincic · 1 year ago

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Nesting Hippocampus, watercolour on hot pressed paper.

The original is currently available through Every Day Original, and an in depth post about its creation will be posted tomorrow for my patrons!

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ryukatters · 1 year ago

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def gojo, but also toji and maybe y’all are like competing assassins who run into eachother sometimes

⟡ word count: ~700

⟡ a/n: your brain is so big

⟡ Based on this ask

Your target is right ahead of you.

Just a few more feet, the two of you will be away from any wandering eyes and security cameras— and you’ll be in the clear to take him out with a single blow.

It’s an older gentleman— a local politician, you’ve been told, with connections to the black market. Made a few people working underground unhappy with some new laws passed. So you’ve been ordered to execute him.

You get jobs like this all the time. You don’t necessarily like what you do, but you don’t necessarily hate it either. It’s something that brings food to the table, allows you a roof over your head. Despite your unconventional career, it’s actually pretty stable, given your high success rate and gracious recommendations from satisfied clients.

Stable, as long as you’re the one actually doing the killing.

You blink once and suddenly your politician has a bullet going straight through his skull.

“You’ve gotta be faster than that, sweetheart.”

The politician’s body hits the floor with a dull thud. You hardly pay attention because all you hear is the rush of blood in your eardrums and all you can see is that annoying smirk on that stupid face of his.

Damn him.

You stomp towards Toji angrily, pointing an accusing finger into his (well-built) chest, “That was my target, you freak!”

“Was it? Well that’s too bad. Looks like you’ll have to pick up another job elsewhere,” he sneers. “Think you could make a pretty penny with those tits of yours.” He stares down at them pointedly. You feel your cheeks burn from humiliation.

“Oh fuck off, Fushiguro.”

“I’d much rather fuck you.”

Toji Fushiguro: a quick, money hungry, infamous assassin. Or, as you often call him— a pain in the ass. Your ass specifically, since he seems to have a tendency to sabotage all of your missions.

He’d argue that he simply has a penchant for pretty things, and you’re a high he has yet to come down from.

“You’re deplorable,” you spit, arms crossing over your chest. “A waste of space. Are you really so broke that you feel the need to steal someone else’s kill? Maybe you’re the one that needs to pick up a gig at the local strip club.”

Your words do nothing— they bounce off him as if he were a wall of solid steel. He might as well be. Nothing could ever penetrate Toji, physically and emotionally.

“So everyone can see the scratches you leave on my back?” He sneers, taking a step closer. He smells like sweat and cheap cologne. It’s intoxicating. “Dunno why you’re pretendin’ to hate me s’much with the way you’re creamin’ on my cock all the time.”

“Maybe because that’s the only redeeming quality you have,” you bite back. Toji merely chuckles, as if the venom spewing from your lips lacks virulence. And maybe it does.

“You’re pretty spunky today, baby. You know how much it turns me on when you put up a fight.”

You let out a growl, swinging your arm to punch him, but he’s gone from your sight before you even get the chance to land a blow. That’s the second time you’ve missed tonight.

He appears behind you before you can react.

Toji presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, relishing in the way you suppress a shiver as he leans down to his whisper in your ear, “Gotta be faster than that, sweetheart.”

You hate him. You remind yourself that every single time you see him.

“Bring that attitude with you tonight and see where that gets you,” he murmurs, allowing himself a rough nip at your jugular— a little taste of the inevitable. “You know where to find me.”

The words ring in your mind, each syllable being burned into your hippocampus with every passing second. You make quick work of delivering the corpse to your handler before you’re off to find a certain assassin.

Toji Fushiguro would ruin your life. Yet for some reason, you can’t find it in you to push him away when he calls.

#I have such a hard time characterizing toji for some reason but here you go #kat answers #kat’s writing #kat’s demon time #toji x reader #jjk x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji x you #toji x y/n

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captainkurosolaire · 10 months ago

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Burned

Brazier torches splayed over a cobwebbed spiral-case of stairs left abandoned. Only a singular blaze of resistance billowed; the lone-survivor, awaiting for rekindle owner to return. That ember's existence fought to prevent one descending into the chasm-passage below itself and joining the mad abyss, forevermore. Radiant outlines of a shadowy figure were aligning, discovery in the dark... identity attempting to surface. Buried to the valley of suppression. Pillaging glove's searched over a recently deceased Venomous assailant finding a room-key to an apartment. Returning to his feminine ally and surprisingly gestured bow, "I apologize, Kunoichi, one last request. Stow-away my client to safety, this key certainly belongs to a room of the deceased who never got a well-fare check, making the spot invisible. Likely, Hydo was given a time-contract, with him not attending, more will-follow for scent to the unfinished, unless. The hand is severed." A final murderous mission displayed, against his own Don's Estate, wielder of his sculpted cruel-design. Chortle came between the sultry assassin, "This vixen, truly has you smitten." Hiding a pout behind a mask, "I'll agree but I might sink my paws, demanding repaid favor." Naturalness came as he stepped away. She thought about forewarning gravitates again. Alas, every-time. He proved irrefutable, there's feelings she'd dwell for one who carried unbridled security and sheer discipline. Upon his exit. The Killer Queen, pressed her lethal-nail's against the unconscious girl's throat near-puncture, a cat-like jealously that brought down her harbor. "Seems I've a rival with you I should eliminate, you girl." Flashed drama, revealed... "...But I'm interested in seeing if you're who sharpens, or dulls that particular blade." Retracting claws with playfulness then cradling her away. ...Meanwhile the Burned Shadow who was going to strike down his own feeder arrived, plethora of bodies of the Estate's men were already skewered to massacre. Descending into the courtyard was further disarrayed butchery, was something political happening? A lone-figure took pace across with Spectacle-glasses, another assassin, who glance-towards but held zero murderous intent, only a colorful-grin that shot across before Hoku. Then escaping beyond with a potent aura. Seeker's ankles conflicted to turn for pursuit. However the interior Don's Estate men flocked out, "There's the perpetrator!" Instantly assuming him behind transgressions. He withdrew steel from confines, rushing towards them it was his plans to eradicate them all-anyway. Just unexpected leg-work was done. Stopping before a taller figure's he demonstrated a deft-dodge, slashing his blade from sternum to the giant's throat in a violent wave. Cutting down, losing himself again in red-rivers. Instinct-driving his manufacture-making, he moved elegantly like killing was floating atop waves, drifting effortlessly. Reaching the main room. Everyone else laid erased, outside one and a missing Don. The vigilant-survivor held blade, shook afraid; soaked to blood of peers, knowing he'd not cut-difference. <"..Y-y-you'll never find the Boss. You-fail fool!"> He'd tried mustering courage against this golden-eye, killer. Although pant's were soiled. He'd never be tortured of the intel within timely-matter, the boss would've escaped. ...Yet, Rozan the Star, engulfed meteor-resolve. An Uchigatana was thrown like spear through the last-alive, impaling the man to seat. Hoku fetched chop-sticks of an empty ramen bowel. "We'll see." Came coldly in pitch. The poor-soul remaining couldn't predict the gruesomeness act or skill this assassin held. His head was expertly carved open; brain left to air, this Assassin with chop-sticks, played brain-operator, questioning. "Where is he?" Prodding at the hippocampus for answers. "B-bb-ook cca-se." Forcefully pulled truth. Assassin vouched, finding a secret-button, he mercy-slew the tortured informant. One last life to take... This would end an inferno, Extinguishing all to its beastly wake.

[Prev:Chapter]: Cold Adversity ~ ♪"Built for Sin"♪

#reader discretion advised #Ya'chi #Hoku Solaire #Killer Queen #Rokeia Solaire #Black Miracles #Mother of Dawn #Father of Shadow #scarlet destiny: volume 4 #7 of 100 #Rozan the 100 Stars #Creative Writing #tales of the goldbrand #will our dark flowers #ever become beacons?#still three chapters think of this arc depends on the sketch

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hplovecraftmuseum · 7 months ago

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A primary difference between my evaluation of Lovecraft's fiction and the majority of his other critics and fans is that I have believed for more than 40 years that he was creating a RELIGION within his stories. This fictional religion began quite subconsciously at first, but by 1930 it had begun to be an intentional creation. Lovecraft had studied all the world's major historic religious beliefs. By the age of 8, however, he was a confirmed atheist/agnostic. Despite his lack of faith in any higher, controlling intelligence in the universe, HPL remained fascinated with all historic myths, fables, conspiracy theories (of the supernatural kind) and psuedo-scientific theories of creation or alternative realities. One might ask why an individual on the one hand so steeped in the principals of scientific method, strict rationalism, and reasoned evaluation would write for a lifetime about supernatural phenomena. If we study the Lovecraft revealed in his letters we find that almost EVERYTHING he wrote about in fiction was diametrically opposed to his personal beliefs and values. In THE CALL OF CTHULHU he tells of a gigantic and hideous monster - diety who is trapped in a city of bizzare and logically impossible architecture. Cubism and Futurism, two schools of Modern Art that had emerged during the early years of the 20th century are referenced too. Contrast these things to Lovecraft's stated personal values: As a child he had actually made altars to the gods of Rome. He was a lifelong aficionado of Classical Architecture. He despised Modern Art and modern literature. He was a firm believer in scientific method, but believed that science would never reveal any MEANING in the universe/ cosmos. Though Lovecraft evolved considerably as an individual over the course of his lifetime he remained outwardly a very conservative individual. I believe that one day it may be revealed that Lovecraft's fictional religion was something he worked on and developed in secret, perhaps hoping or expecting that its complexity and ultimately esoteric nature would never be fully revealed to others. Probably he recognized that any such fictional religious creation would be trivialized by others if It was discovered. Unfortunately that fear would be realized after Lovecraft's death. It is now known as THE CTHULHU MYTHOS. It should be remembered that in Lovecraft's day there were no "collections" of his stories available. If anyone wished to compare the background information in his fiction they would have to own a considerable collection of pulp magazines, privately printed fanzines and unpublished works in the hands of his individual friends. In many cases Lovecraft's most loyal followers were also fiction writers themselves and busy with projects of their own. Today we have a vast trove of Lovecraftian material that was unavailable to his early critics. Every few years another important source becomes available. HIPPOCAMPUS PRESS will release the complete correspondence between Frank Belknap Long and H. P. Lovecraft shortly. As Long was one of Lovecraft's closest friends and a fiction writer too we can expect that this fothcoming publication will give us even greater insite into the remarkable mind of the modern world's greatest master of supernatural fiction. (Exhibit 536)

#lovecraft #a cosmic religion #letters of Long and Lovecraft #hippopotamus

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compneuropapers · 7 months ago

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Interesting Papers for Week 40, 2024

Impact of Extracellular Current Flow on Action Potential Propagation in Myelinated Axons. Abdollahi, N., & Prescott, S. A. (2024). Journal of Neuroscience, 44(26), e0569242024.

Prefrontal coding of learned and inferred knowledge during REM and NREM sleep. Abdou, K., Nomoto, M., Aly, M. H., Ibrahim, A. Z., Choko, K., Okubo-Suzuki, R., … Inokuchi, K. (2024). Nature Communications, 15, 4566.

Distinct basal ganglia contributions to learning from implicit and explicit value signals in perceptual decision-making. Balsdon, T., Pisauro, M. A., & Philiastides, M. G. (2024). Nature Communications, 15, 5317.

Hebbian priming of human motor learning. Bjørndal, J. R., Beck, M. M., Jespersen, L., Christiansen, L., & Lundbye-Jensen, J. (2024). Nature Communications, 15, 5126.

The well‐worn route revisited: Striatal and hippocampal system contributions to familiar route navigation. Buckley, M., McGregor, A., Ihssen, N., Austen, J., Thurlbeck, S., Smith, S. P., … Lew, A. R. (2024). Hippocampus, 34(7), 310–326.

Ouvrai opens access to remote virtual reality studies of human behavioural neuroscience. Cesanek, E., Shivkumar, S., Ingram, J. N., & Wolpert, D. M. (2024). Nature Human Behaviour, 8(6), 1209–1224.

Two distinct networks for encoding goals and forms of action: An effective connectivity study. Di Cesare, G., Lombardi, G., Zeidman, P., Urgen, B. A., Sciutti, A., Friston, K. J., & Rizzolatti, G. (2024). Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 121(26), e2402282121.

Conductance-based dendrites perform Bayes-optimal cue integration. Jordan, J., Sacramento, J., Wybo, W. A. M., Petrovici, M. A., & Senn, W. (2024). PLOS Computational Biology, 20(6), e1012047.

Subpopulations of neurons in the perirhinal cortex enable both modality-specific and modality-invariant recognition of objects. Lim, H.-Y., & Lee, I. (2024). PLOS Biology, 22(6), e3002713.

Hippocampal and orbitofrontal neurons contribute to complementary aspects of associative structure. Lin, H., & Zhou, J. (2024). Nature Communications, 15, 5283.

A vast space of compact strategies for effective decisions. Ma, T., & Hermundstad, A. M. (2024). Science Advances, 10(25).

The direction of theta and alpha travelling waves modulates human memory processing. Mohan, U. R., Zhang, H., Ermentrout, B., & Jacobs, J. (2024). Nature Human Behaviour, 8(6), 1124–1135.

Mental navigation in the primate entorhinal cortex. Neupane, S., Fiete, I., & Jazayeri, M. (2024). Nature, 630(8017), 704–711.

Low and high beta rhythms have different motor cortical sources and distinct roles in movement control and spatiotemporal attention. Nougaret, S., López-Galdo, L., Caytan, E., Poitreau, J., Barthélemy, F. V., & Kilavik, B. E. (2024). PLOS Biology, 22(6), e3002670.

Striatal Dopamine Contributions to Skilled Motor Learning. Phillips, C. D., Hodge, A. T., Myers, C. C., Leventhal, D. K., & Burgess, C. R. (2024). Journal of Neuroscience, 44(26), e0240242024.

Visuo-motor updating in individuals with heightened autistic traits. Pomè, A., & Zimmermann, E. (2024). eLife, 13, e94946.3.

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#neuroscience #science #research #brain science #scientific publications #cognitive science #neurobiology #cognition #psychophysics #neurons #neural computation #neural networks #computational neuroscience

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whateveryouiguess · 2 years ago

Text

four letter word.

Miguel O’ Hara x Reader, 1k+ words

Warnings: None i don’t think, mentions of Miguel’s comic origin along w his movie lore, she/her pronouns r used in this one, mostly sentimental ramblings abt everyone’s favorite problematic bb girl, improper punctuation and capitalization bc i’m a poet and i simply cant be bothered LMAOOO. lmk whatcha think :)

last night, miguel told her he hated her.

at least, that’s how he heard it. with her hand in his hair and his head nestled between the ridges of her collarbone and the crook of her neck, his eyes closed as every bit of the days worries seemed to float away, just as they always did when he was in her arms. craning his neck up to see the edge of her face backlit by the lamp light, the gentle contours of her face illuminated like a Rembrandt painting. the crest of dawn was creeping, seeping through the cracks in the windowsill, the green blue sky still freckled with stars as the world stay asleep. universes laid to rest in their cozy beds, minds at ease, all shrouded in blankets and carpeted by dreams: all but him. he never slept very much anyway; if there wasn’t a pressing mission keeping him awake, it was the ghosts that waited for him behind his eyes.

the compilation of all his hardest, worst moments, playing on a loop in the empty theatre of his hippocampus. the icy sensation of a rapture high, the white hot pain of withdrawal. the strands of spider dna that launched a foot race through him as he injected himself with nothing but a hope and a prayer. the stretching of his jaw, the razor sharp fangs that grew onto his incisors, the indicators that he would forever be other. though the coercive whispers of his addiction had grown quiet, the blood curdling screams of his wife and child still echoed through him, day by day, night by night, every hour on the hour. it was years before he could look at happy families without the urge to scratch at his leg with one of his talons. that should’ve been us. that would’ve been us if I hadn’t fucked it up so badly. he’d learned to let the ghosts just float by, a technique begrudgingly introduced into his life once it was recommended by jess, practically his therapist (and a mind reader, as he hadn’t once asked for her help). part of him—a stupid, naive, part—hoped that they would never truly go away. in his mind, in the absence of them, it was as though their screams were close enough to their laughter that he could pretend he still heard them, that when he rose from his bedroom each morning, he would still find them laughing and carrying on as they made sunday breakfast, or that when he woke up to an empty house, there they would be, playing in the soil and pruning the rose bushes out back, but at the end of the day, he knew they wouldn’t be. there was no stove for them to warm tortillas on for breakfast tacos. and there was no garden of roses to prune on the cold, lawn-less patio of his high rise apartment. it was just him and his grief.

but miguel didn’t believe in that “five stages” bullshit. just another myth of psychology constructed by scientists to put the suffering at ease, he thought. to give them a timeline of their hurting, to provide them not with a date or location of when, but a clear indicator that the dust of hurting would one day settle, and that the war inside their head would one day be over. he thought they’d figured that was a good enough bandage for the gash of death. but no one talks about the scar that comes once that gash is healed. no one talks about the ripping of the stitches, or the blinding pain that follows when the wounds reopen and clot and scab over and over and over again, never quite sealing shut. miguel knew in his head that he would never heal, and part of him was grateful. if he never healed, he never had to let them go. THAT was why he hated her.

he hated her because the very second he first saw her, he could hear the bells. she smiled at no one and nothing in particular, and his national anthem blared on speakers through the streets, the song he hadn’t heard since the day he lost the first loves of his life. she said hello, and flags were raised once again, she waved goodbye and the city streets, littered in bombshells and empty magazines swept themselves clean, a cold rain poured down from the sky and civilians left their homes for the first time in days to watch the downpour, to dance in it. war was over, whether he liked it or not.

and now, with his head on her chest and her heartbeat in his ear, the ghosts have found their final resting place and kissed his cheeks goodbye, one last time. and though he never loses sight of them, they don’t scream his name from the rubble anymore. they whisper to him, egging him on, encouraging him on days when he can’t find the strength in himself to keep going. the specters are like saints to him now, a crutch to lean on when he wants her so badly it makes him miss them. he kneels at their gravestone and weeps, just for them to rest on his shoulder and sigh. and they forgive him. they let him go. free him into the expanses of the wild with the knowledge that he’s ready to survive on his own, and they cheer jubilantly when he runs straight to her, as if there were anywhere else for him to go.

miguel hates her. he hates the way her laughter makes his stomach bubble, he detests the sweet, potent smell of the still-steamy bathroom as she exits the shower (he also hates the little messages she leaves for him in the fogged up mirror—finger traced transmissions reading “hi, handsome!” and “we’re out of toilet paper <3”). and he hates, most of all, that she doesn’t have to try. she never once forced him to open up to her, starting the game and waiting till he was comfortable enough to lay out his cards. he was guarded as all get out before he met her, but he broke down brick walls to let her in, not because she asked him to, or even because she said she requested entry. because he knew it was time to open. it was time for the eastern and western regions of himself to meet and rejoice once again, to end the era of his solitude and self pity, and to allow the soft smiles and crows feet to return to his face again.

he hates how easy it was to fall apart in her arms, and how easily she puts him back to together. he hates how she never needed him, but wanted him more than anything, he hates how she made an effort for him, because no one else ever had, and he hates most of all that there isn’t a single fiber of his being that could ever, in any fraction of the multiverse, bring the whole of him to truly and earnestly detest her. he hates her because he doesn’t hate her. not one bit at all.

so, in the present moment, when he cranes his neck up to see her, eyes only half open in the wee, small, hours of the morning, he traces a hand down her jaw and rests his palm behind her ear and strokes his thumb across her cheek. the sleepy smile that pulls from her entraps him, the feeling of her nails scratching at the nape off his entombs him, he knows he is royally and utterly screwed, tortured by the mere experience of her. so he licks his cracked lips and elects to give her a piece of his mind.

but when he opens his mouth to tell her how much he hates her, hate doesn’t end up being the four letter word he uses.

ty for reading <3 if ya have any requests send em my way and maybe i’ll do em who knows. take it easy :)

#miguel o hara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o hara #spiderman #miguel o hara fanfic #miguel o hara reader insert #something abt his sad eyes. he’s def in the wrong but he is very beautiful to me.#across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 spiderverse

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