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6ronze · 3 months ago

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TATTOOIST?

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ — l&ds character : sylus format : short scenarios/HC warnings : nsfw. mdni. clothed fingering. orgasm denial. some inaccurate terms probably. fem!reader. reader already has some other tattoos on her. long story short : tattooist!sylus thoughts notes : sylus is a normal man here so no wanderers, no Onychinus, only Linkon City

tattooist!sylus that would start picking up doing tattoos because of a friend that was short on workers. He never had any interest in the art but became good at it anyway due to his undeniably stable and skilled hands. tattooist!sylus who would come in early to set up the place to his liking—all the equipment, the furniture, he would readjust it all until the friend who recruited him would wonder who really owned the place.

tattooist!sylus that would wouldn’t bother greeting the customers, merely paying them an acknowledging look before asking what type of tattoo they wanted on them. If it was an intricate design, he wouldn’t shy away from being their artist since he trusted himself more enough for the task.

tattooist!sylus that would lead you in to a room with a portable bed shifted to a chair after seeing the design you wanted on your lower back. All the while you sat on it facing the backrest, lifting your shirt up above your stomach. As you shifted on the seat comfortably, tattooist!sylus was getting ready the needles and tattoo gun, putting on his gloves and subtly stealing glances your laid up body, appreciating the curve of your ass that was enough to steal his attention for longer than intended.

tattooist!sylus that sits on a separate stool facing your back, prepping your skin before starting to draw on your delicate skin. Usually with his stable hand, he didn’t need more than a hand and the other to wipe the excess ink—but this time, he decided to put his free hand to use.

tattooist!sylus that would place his left hand on your hip while the other continued to draw on your skin, the texture of the black latex glove on your skin making you shift your head slightly. You could feel it, his fingers running over your stomach and his thumb gently pressing your back. His hold on your hip along with the subtle stinging pain of the needle puncturing your skin rapidly made you confused on which sensation to focus on, making you confused if the subtle rub your thighs were because of the friction of grinding against the bed, or if it was because of his hand that kept moving from your hips, to your thighs, then ultimately to the curve of your back.

tattooist!sylus that would start small talk between the process of tattooing you, only knowing how to start it by teasing the other tattoos he sees on your body. tattooist!sylus that would subtly flirt with you, not hiding how he wants to get in your panties by briefly hooking his gloved finger over the waistband on your pants, his crimson eyes gleaming at the sight of your panties.

tattooist!sylus that would ask if you liked the pain, or the numbness. He didn’t mention the specifics, didn’t mention what caused pain, only if you liked pain.

tattooist!sylus that would wrap your freshly made tattoo on your lower back and utter a praise in a low voice, his hands moving to hold each side of your hips, calling you a good girl for taking all that pain without as much as a whine—though he had to mention he didn’t miss the way your back arched when his needled pierced certain areas of your skin.

tattooist!sylus that would lean in close to you, asking why you haven’t any effort to move and get off the bed even when he was done with you. He would dismiss your reasoning to blame him for trapping you. tattooist!sylus that would start kissing up your spine, his tongue poking out to taste your skin along your other tattoos scattered on your back until he reached your lifted shirt, his hands moving to take off the gloves and start slithering them around your body, his fingers skimming over your stomach until they reached your tits, cupping them in his big hands to fondle and tease you about them.

tattooist!sylus that would make you press up against the backrest of the bed further until you had your ass spread and on display for him, your pants running lower due to your parted legs. tattooist!sylus that shift closer to you, hands now sliding downwards to cup your the flesh of your ass, whispering to you about how soft you felt in his hand, and cruelly chuckling underneath his breath when he saw how much it affected you.

“Don’t tell me that was all it took to get you riled up, pretty girl?” would be what he would say when he noticed how your thighs twitched in response to his touches. He’d lean in by your ear to tell you all about how you felt in his hand as he moved it lower until he cupped your cunt, his middle finger sliding over your folds to rub your slit, and find your clit too. If he did, he’d keep his crimson eyes fixated on you the entire time, his bigger frame looming from behind you, making you hyper-aware of his presence that was both intimidating and intoxicating.

“Let’s see what kind of noise you make when I..” he would trail off by your earlobe before pressing his finger up your clothed cunt, loving how the fabric stopped him from truly penetrating you but lenient enough to give you a taste of it. He revelled in the sight of your parted lips that quickly closed after exhaling that sexy moan between your breaths.

tattooist!sylus that would keep teasing your damp pussy until your fluids made his fingers wet, refusing to give you permission to move from your position despite your complaints about your numbing legs. He would just dismiss it in a laugh, praising you in satisfaction and wanting to keep on making a mess out of you with his fingers to make your legs weaker—since it gave you the side effects that made you feel like he was fucking you even if he wasn’t.

tattooist!sylus that would never let you cum even when your sobbing and clawing onto the bed, mumbling out whatever excuse that came at the top of your now mushed mind. Other customers could walk in on them, a colleague of his would catch them—all of those excuses fell to deaf ears. To him and his hardened cock, the only thing that had his care and attention at the moment was you—and your fluttering heat that couldn’t stop clenching around the tips of his fingers, begging, pleading him to pull your pants down and penetrate you properly. But he won’t do it—you haven’t earned it yet.

#Maybe idk him much but ik thats hes hawt #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace #sylus x y/n #sylus x mc #love and deepspace sylus #sylus smut #sylus x you #sylus x reader #sylus love and deepspace #lnds sylus #sylus x reader smut #sylus headcanons #lads sylus #love and deep space #SOME SENTENCES DONT MAKE SENSE ARGH

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atlaswav · 5 months ago

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CATACLYSMIC ☾

INFO: 5252 words..... dr ratio x fem! reader SYNOPSIS: You hate him, of that you're certain. You hate the man behind the alabaster figurehead, and you want to see him unravelled, but you don't know exactly what you do to him. WARNINGS: um alcohol and one kiss. also some swearing but mostly fine AUTHOR'S NOTE: rising from the grave to bring to you this thing i found this in my drafts from who knows how long when I was obsessed with this man (still am). someone help. i can no longer write this much for one fic. what was i on.

Veritas Ratio made it no secret that he despised those who lived in ignorance. He openly shunned those who were stupid enough to turn their eyes from knowledge – they’d be beggars in due time. They didn’t know how the world was governed, and ignorant fools would play victim to fate’s cruel touch.

With this philosophy of his, you often wondered whether or not his ivory figurehead would soon burst with the tumultuous storm of the man’s self importance. You wondered what would lie underneath. Surely, the divine makers would’ve allowed balance in his creation – surely, his face was horribly disfigured in exchange for such otherworldly intelligence.

He was both delightfully astute and horrendously ill mannered at once. Brighter than your entire class combined – your entire university combined, no doubt – but his pretentiousness was overflowing, and you believed he was in dire need of being put in his place.

Arrogant and pretentious were two of the words that came to mind when someone mentioned Dr. Ratio, and you were sure you weren’t the only one who refused to worship his word like the gospel. In turn, he seemed to despise your very existence, as if you were merely a faded annotation in the footnotes of an ancient epic. Vandalising a work of art. A moustache on the Mona Lisa. Circe in the Odyssey, if she’d welcomed sailors with open arms, allowing them to degrade her as they would a common concubine, not a descendant of the gods.

Yet instead of sharing the witch’s beguiling, seductive nature, you only shared her mortal voice. Thin, reedy, quiet, compared to the booming voices of gods. The voice of Veritas Ratio. Your achievements could only pale in comparison to his, and it took everything within you to clap politely as he received his third – fourth? (you weren’t intent on keeping track) – diploma.

God you hated that man. You’d muttered as much under your breath countless times.

“Dr. Ratio is fine. No need to worship me.” he’d once corrected. But the attempt at humour was lost on you as your classmates began to laugh. The divine makers likely brought him into existence just to spite you. Oftentimes, you fought your urges to hurl the nearest textbook at his caricature head and watch the plaster crack, fall to the floor, and reveal his disfigured face.

Not that you’d seen it before – lingered around him enough to see it disappear.

His scorn held no favourites, and certainly not when it came to you. He’d openly dragged your work through the dirt a couple of times before, and it was only a matter of time before he did it again. His words were scalding, leaving burns across your thin skin and leaving your mouth tasting of ash. Your voice, faint and human, fell quiet at his ‘gospel’.

If it weren’t obvious, the hatred was mutual. He’d never admit it outright – he was far beyond these meaningless, trivial things such as immature hatred – but you felt his scathing glare in your soul, even through that perturbing headpiece, and that was enough.

“Have you found it?”

You turn around, meeting the cold, blank, unseeing gaze of his caricature head behind you. It was disconcerting to say the very least, but no one else had asked him about it, so you never pushed him further. None wanted to invoke his wrath, no matter what circumstance. It was a miracle neither of you had exploded at each other yet, but you suspected that he’d gladly put aside any type of loathing he harboured for you so that this project would get done faster.

You were happy to oblige as he took the lead. A free credit was a free credit. But you did have your limits.

“Nope. The text is ancient. I doubt this library has it.”

“Nonsense.” he clicked his tongue, glancing to the side. “I’m asking the professor. Go work on your part.”

Patience is a virtue, as you keep reminding yourself.

“Sure. Let me know if you find anything.” you say instead of the retort that sits on your tongue. False niceties and biting, underhanded remarks. This charade was entertaining, at the very least.

How did everyone love him? There had to be people like you who shared your dislike towards that conceited scholar. With a long suffering groan, you took a seat at one of the plethora of tables in the university’s library, clicked your pen and began to write.

Maybe the reason he despised you so was because of your ideas, arguably the opposite of his own way of thinking. Where his twisted logic, rearranged rationality and pulled apart natural reasoning to formulate new material, you cut and stitched the work of others together to create your own emulations. (Frankenstein's monster. Was that a cliche? For Ratio, it probably was.)

He’d likely scrap what you’d written as soon as he returned, but that didn’t stop you from trying to spite him anyway. You hoped your readings wouldn’t go to waste as you recorded your findings, then started to draft an outline for your project.

The scratch of paper became white nose, your hand struggling to keep up with the pace of your mind – was it even worth it? He’d likely call it worthless, snatch it from you and throw it into the recycling bin, then start writing his own outline. It only angered you further as you frowned at the page, wondering how he’d approach the project.

The thump of a heavy tome on the wooden desk snapped you out of your sombre thoughts.

“Here.” Ratio took a seat at the chair opposite of yours, brushing the dust off the thick text, leafing through its yellowed pages. “I told you they’d have it. You just need to search better.”

You offer him a tight smile. “Noted.” More false niceties, more flat remarks.

Then the figurehead disappears in a blink, and you nearly drop your pen. He barely pays you any mind as he runs a hand through his hair, flipping through the text. You’d heard the rumours of the handsome face beneath the statue, but you’d never have imagined him to be so disgustingly perfect.

Statuesque.

His deep violet locks looked unbelievably soft. His crimson eyes showed laser focus as he scanned the text in front of him, ignoring you completely as he noted something down. After a brief silence where you skim over your outline and he presumably attempts to decipher the undeniably unreadable and ancient text which you were opposed to reading in the first place, he turns to you with a sigh. “What did you do while I was gone?”

“I wrote an outline.” you hand the papers to him begrudgingly, fidgeting with the pen in your hand. You don’t meet his gaze, afraid that his calculating gaze might see too far into your soul.

“This?” his distaste seeps through his tone. You don’t need to look at his face to know that he’s frowning.

You say nothing as he skims through your work, twirling your pen between your fingers.

“...It’s not the worst thing I've ever read.”

Your eyebrows shoot up.

“It’s not good, either.”

You scowl at him.

“I can salvage it.” he nonchalantly throws it back onto the table, returning to the text at hand.

You want to shove his grotesquely perfect face into the book. He really was put on this earth to spite you.

“Don’t just sit there. Go look for texts on criticism of our stance.”

You don’t know how you’re going to find the patience to survive this project. If anything, it irked you further to find that there wasn’t some monstrosity hidden behind that figurehead. In everything he did, he seemed to be inventing new ways to get on your nerves. However, unbeknownst to you, Veritas Ratio held you higher than you gave yourself credit for. He believed your ideas to be invigorating. Refreshing, almost. A welcome reprieve from the same reiterated, chewed, swallowed and regurgitated approaches that your other classmates had.

You weren’t like the rest of the mindless, studying machines at the university. You could be brilliant, and it annoyed him that you didn’t know this. He’d admitted as much to himself before, but he’d never tell you. But it was still not good enough for his standards – far better than what the imbeciles in your class could’ve come up with – but still far behind him. Or so he kept telling himself.

Days passed by without a word from either of you. You were content to write your part in the solitude of your dorm, and he seemed perfectly content mulling over whatever he’d found in that indecipherable ancient text. By the time you’d nearly finished your part, he decided to meet with you once again to share your findings.

His definition of deciding to meet with you meant simply cornering you after class and asking you to follow him.

You started to protest, but he’d already turned and briskly walked out of the classroom, so you groaned and followed after him, winding up in the library again. This time, in a secluded corner with the late afternoon sun pouring through the window, illuminating the small table and workspace with a warm glow.

You wondered how he wasn’t winded after trekking across the entire campus. You certainly were. His muscled build suggested that a mere leisurely walk couldn’t possibly have tired him out. What did he eat? Was he what Nietzsche had in mind when he wrote of the Superman?

“What are you doing? Sit.” he gestures to the seat across from him, and you sink into the armchair, taking out your papers. His headpiece disappears once again, and your breath catches in your throat.

His hair cast a faint shadow across his face, and his eyes seemed to glow. As you leaned in closer, you realised there was a thin ring of gold around his pupils.

“Are you done with your part?” he demands, breaking you out of your trance.

You silently hand over your drafts, watching his eyes flit across your paper. His eyebrows furrow slightly, eyes narrowing, but he remains quiet. Were his eyelashes always this long? They created an indistinct shadow on his cheeks. His skin was pale, fair. Not the sickly kind of pale you thought he’d be. Did he exercise? You wouldn’t be surprised, with all your classmates always fawning over his broad, strong chest and narrower waist.

Was it your imagination, or were his cheeks slightly flushed? It might have been the light.

“It’s deplorable.”

Your heart sinks in your chest as you sit back against the armchair.

“Your ideas are rudimentary. Have you been reading at all?” he sighs, holding his head in his hand. “No matter. I can fix it. I don’t need you to do anything anymore. You can go.”

You stay seated in shock, unable to move. You’ve heard the anecdotes of people crying over being scolded by him, but was he always this harsh?

“You know it’s a group project, right?” you begin before your better judgement can decide against it, “My work is just as important as yours, it doesn’t matter if you think my work is ‘deplorable’. I’m in the same class, I take the same course, I learn the same things as you do, you don’t get to look down on me no matter how stupidly smart you are.”

He raises an eyebrow, unamused. “Why not?”

“Take that stick out of your ass, Veritas Ratio. Get off your high horse.” you snatch your papers out of his hands and take your leave, ignoring his calls of your name.

Were you dramatic? Yes, but not without reason. Given Ratio’s reputation for prioritising academics over everything else, you suspected that it wouldn’t take long for him to find you, either.

You were so wrong.

More days passed with no contact. He didn’t seem to be affected by your dramatics, and never once batted an eye in your direction unless necessary. It seemed your hypothesis of him inventing new ways to get on your nerves was on the track of being proved correct. But if you didn’t do something within the next few days, you trusted him to turn in the project without your name on the paper, resulting in a zero.

He was just as stubborn as you, and though you were nothing compared to him in actuality, you were so close to grabbing his face and forcing him to look at you for who you were.

Seemingly, even in the battle of wits, he seemed to emerge victorious.

“Ratio.”

He barely glances up, engrossed in his writing. “What?”

“Are you done with the project?” Biting the bullet stings your teeth and left a bitter taste on your tongue.

“No. Not yet. Why? You’re finally going to help?”

“Are you going to stop looking down at me?”

The library is nearly empty. The sun is barely a sliver on the horizon, and the voices of students float down the corridor beyond the grand stacks of books, yet you’re here. Why do you bother? Are you really that desperate for his validation?

“Are you going to keep writing such reprehensible work?”

You glare at him. “Guess not.” you turn on your heel.

“You’re absolutely infuriating.” he sighs, leaning back in the armchair. “You’re not aware of what you can do, are you?”

You glare at him. Your chest stings.

He looks at you, then. Truly. His complexion relaxes, and he rubs his temples. “Sit. Let’s go through your part.”

“Why?”

“I mulled it over. Your part is brilliant.”

Your eyes widen.

“But your expression and research is appalling. Have you learned how to write academically at all?”

You’d never simultaneously wanted to slap and kiss a man at once until today. “What happened to getting off your high horse?”

“I got off it. Now sit and listen, I won’t repeat myself.”

You supposed that was the closest to an apology he’d ever give you, so you sat. It pained you, but you did. Besides, he had called you brilliant – your part – but still, you couldn’t force the smile from your face as you listened to his instruction.

“Your ideas in your introduction are well formed, but from there, it all goes downhill. You have to reorder your logic for it to make sense, and we will be deducted points if you don’t elaborate on the principles of your concept first.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “So how would you do it?”

“For one, I’d restart completely and get straight to the point.”

You sigh exasperatedly. “Show me, then, if you’re so good.”

His eyes narrow at you, but he says nothing as he motions for you to come closer.

The librarian was likely too scared to kick either of you out after closing time. Your arguments were heard by all of your neighbouring desks, and whenever there was a break in conversation, it seemed as if everyone held their breath. There was pin drop silence except for the two of you – but neither of you realised it.

He was blunt, and had no idea what you were thinking, but perhaps this is what entrapped him.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about how he had called your ideas brilliant.

You quickly learn how good of a teacher he is. Maybe it’s his forced patience or once-in-a-millenium genuine praise that spurs your decision, but you find yourself so willing to prove yourself, and he finds himself willing to help.

Maybe this wasn’t so bad.

“Just fix it, stop arguing with me. I’m right.”

“Why? Do you know every single thing about our topic?”

“No, but I have four degrees and more experience than you.”

“Jackass.”

“Change it.”

You grumbled another insult under your breath, yawning as you scribbled out the section you wrote and began to reword your thoughts. The sudden quietude was jarring, and as you looked around, you realised the overhead lights were off, the only source of light from the lamps illuminating the desks.

“Is everyone gone?” you ask, sitting up straight and stretching.

“Who cares? Finish up, then we can head back.”

“Fuck you, give me a break. I don’t write at the pace of a robot.”

“Then learn.”

“Fuck you too Veritas Ratio.”

“Expand your vocabulary while you’re at it.”

“Why are you so intent on irritating me?”

“You get irritated easily. Not my problem.”

“If you know I get irritated easily, why do you keep provoking me then? Do you want me to hate you more?”

He seems to pause. Minisculely, almost unnoticeable had your gaze not been trained on him for the past few hours. He had a habit of pausing and furrowing his brows when you said something slightly out of line.

“Just finish the paper. You talk too much.”

You sigh and get back to work as he leafs through his own research.

Amicable silence passes. The night is alive outside, gleaming and glistening with the touch of benevolent gods and whispers of long gone wishes – pearls stitched by fate’s knowing hands.

“I’m done.”

“Show me.”

You pass the paper to him as you watch his expression carefully.

Crimson eyes flit across your work, gold ringed irises flickering in the scarce light. If you could capture the way the light reflected in his eyes in a jar, you think wishfully that you’d stare at it forever; Until the light died out, or it decided to escape the ephemeral glass confines.

But you’d never admit it out loud. It was wishful. If Veritas Ratio could read minds, he would undoubtedly reprimand you.

He clears his throat, and you snap to attention, swatting away your fantasies of stealing and bottling evasive light.

“It’s good.”

You wait for him to speak further, but he says nothing. “Just good?”

“Well, by my standards, no, but for you, it’s good.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” he leans on the table, forearms flexing. “That you’re finally starting to live up to your potential.”

“Huh?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“What potential?”

He shakes his head absently, almost in disbelief. Forget light, you’d barter with the lady of fate to let you preserve this moment in a frame so that you could glimpse this expression forever. You’d never seen him so dumbfounded and awed at once – you doubt anyone ever has. He’d always been a man of knowing, and whatever he didn’t know, he would find out. Nothing was ever a “maybe,” or a “probably,” it was always absolute. It had to be absolute in his philosophy.

You happened to be the one exception.

“You’re not aware of the potential you have?”

“You think I have potential?”

“Aeons,” he murmurs under his breath, before standing and gathering his belongings. “I’m going to bed. See you in class tomorrow. We’ll finish up then.”

He leaves before you have the chance to question him, but as you slump back in your armchair, you can’t help but smile.

Potential was as close as you’d ever get to a compliment from Veritas.

—

The lady of fortune and lady Themis looked him in the eyes and saw their mortal emanator at his birth. He’d never been certain what he was made for, but he never let it burden him. Things like these weren’t made for him to ponder, that was up to the dreamers and inventors.

He was a being of logic. A doctor of calculations and reason, and everyone knew him as such.

But he simply couldn’t figure out what it was about you – your naive gaze or that pout that absently curved your lips – that had your words and scent and eyes lingering in his mind like a vengeful phantom.

You were the being of all chaos and irrationality, but you were so bright. Unhoned, rough and unhewn. A gemstone shining with impurities but shining still, casting a beautiful mosaic cast across the ground with indecipherable shapes and patterns.

It was deplorable. He hated you for being on his mind, and hated you even more for your wasted potential. He hated how you stared, how his cheeks would redden from the intensity of your gaze, and how he’d have to pretend he was unfazed, because he couldn’t afford any distractions.

You were the being of his undoing, he was sure. You were brought into existence to spite him, to bring an unaccounted variable into the equation of his being, and present a causality dilemma for all he was.

He wanted you gone, but he wanted you closer all at once.

He hated it.

It wasn’t common for him to sleep in either, so when he woke five minutes before class was supposed to start, he cursed you with all the spite in his heart and rushed to class, clutching papers from the night before, still imbued with traces of your lingering fragrance. Just how long had you pored over those papers for your smell to latch to them? It should be impossible. Fate was clearly against him.

Fate brought you back together as he entered the brimming lecture hall, and the only vacant seat was the one next to you.

“Did you get the papers in order?” you asked, glancing at his dishevelled state. The Dr Ratio you knew was never dishevelled, but this was the closest you’d ever seen him to it.

“Yes. Just write your name on your bits and sign the sign off sheet and it’s complete.”

You take the paper from him, scrawling your name across your work, then handing it back.

With your project finally submitted, you could breathe easy again – never endure his biting remarks and criticism again.

But as the class progressed, you realised you were in trouble.

The professor was merciless. He flicked through the presentation on the new topic with haste, rushing through new concepts, formulae and calculations with record speeds. You’d nudged Ratio, whispering for help, but he rolled his eyes and kept his stare attentively on the presentation.

You wanted to slap him.

Was he tolerating you because of the project? Was he going back to cold stares and dismissive glances?

You wouldn’t allow it. Not when you were so close to discovering the man behind the alabaster figurehead. As soon as the professor signalled the end of the lecture, a collective sigh was released from the class.

You turned to Ratio, and he was already staring at you.

“What was it you wanted to say?”

“Tutor me please.”

He raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because you’re smart.”

“Pick someone else, then. I don’t see why I should.”

“You asshole, I’ll buy you lunch if you tutor me.”

He frowns at you as he begins to leave. You trail after him. “Please?”

He sighs deeply. Like a man burdened with the weight of his own world on his shoulders. Byron’s brooding, romantic hero, in his melodramatic glory. “Fine. Stop annoying me.”

You smile. “Thanks. Meet you at your dorm after dinner?”

He sighs again. “ Don’t be late or I'll lock the door and go to bed.”

He watched the seconds tick by in agonising motion – a man awaiting his sentence, but also his reprieve. Is this what his classmates felt before they took tests? It certainly seemed like it. Relief was on the horizon, and yet great suffering was imminent. He’d never known the feeling until now.

But as they say, the harder the rain, the sweeter the sun, and he wasn’t about to relinquish his quest to decipher you.

It seemed mutual as he paced in front of his front door, having eaten dinner at the cafeteria early to mentally prepare himself.

When your knock finally sounded at his door, he sighed, checked his watch, then reluctantly opened the door.

You were a picture to behold.

Hair slightly damp from a shower, drowning in loose, oversized clothing. It was all painfully domestic to see you walk through his doorway, scanning his living space. In the back of his mind, he thought it felt right, but he shook his head.

You were messing with him again.

Two could play that game.

“Take a seat.” He pulled out a stool from his kitchen island. “Want a drink?”

“What, like alcohol?” you huffed.

“Are you an alcoholic?”

“Only if you want me to be.” you shrug, setting down your notes on the bench.

He sighs exasperatedly, already berating himself for agreeing to this. He never agreed to tutor anyone. Why were you the exception? You shouldn’t be.

His hypothesis: you were trying to get something out of him. A way to cheat the class, his academic favour, something hedonistic, even. It seemed plausible enough, but you listened intently as he explained the concepts the professor spoke of in the lecture, asking questions and actively engaging with his explanation.

It didn’t seem like there was any ulterior motive. So why was he letting you break his rules and defy his nature?

“God, why didn't the prof explain it during that lesson? Everyone struggled.”

“You’re not smart enough to understand his concise methods, then.” he huffed.

“You’re too smart.”

“You’re not smart enough.”

“Smart ass,”

“Get back to work. You did that question wrong, by the way.”

You groaned. “Where?”

He was so caught up in your quarrels that he didn’t notice the time grinding away at the pestle. It was nearly midnight when you’d finally caught up with that day’s classwork, and he sighed in relief.

“You understand?”

“Yes. You don’t have to worry now.”

“I won’t. Now get out.”

“No drink?” you frowned, pretending to sulk at his expense. He simply stared at you, getting up from his stool and walking to the fridge.

Remarkably, he pulled out two beers.

“Don’t speak. If you do, I'll regret allowing you over again.”

A smile befell your lips. “I’m not saying anything.”

“I don’t like the look on your face.”

“Wipe it off then.”

A frown. His new hypothesis: you were trying to seduce him for better grades, more tutoring sessions, or for his own downfall.

“Drink and leave.”

“If you say so.” you take the chilled bottle and drink. He watches your throat move, and he thinks of himself as pathetic as he drinks as well, wincing at the bitterness.

“Do you live by yourself?” you ask, head propped onto your hand.

“I do.”

“Are you lonely or something?”

“No, people are irritating.” Like you.

“What a ray of sunshine you are.” You’re not much better.

“I don’t have to put up with any idiocy.”

“If you say so.”

Quiet passes as beer fizzes in the bottles, golden liquid sloshing at the sides of the glass.

One thing you learn that night is that Veritas Ratio, the famed multiple time valedictorian of your university, is an extreme lightweight. His cheeks become red quicker than you can finish your bottle, and he starts to grumble nonsense under his breath.

“You’re really smart, you know?” he suddenly says after mumbling something about quantum physics.

“What was that?”

“You’re really smart. Really smart. Impressive.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you idiot, how many times do I have to repeat myself?” he leans on the bench, not entirely aware of his surroundings as he does so. He squints at the ground.

He’s a cute drunk, you realise begrudgingly.

“Thanks, Veritas. You’re smart too.”

“I know.” he drinks from his bottle again, swirling the dregs. “But I can’t figure you out.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Do you hate me?”

You hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then why are you like this?”

Your eyebrows raise.

“You’re making me irrational. I can’t figure it out.”

“...Sorry?”

“You should be. You know, I was nearly late to class today because of you. You kept me awake.”

“Really?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking. Thoughts. And things.”

You laugh at his predicament, draining your beer and gathering your things. Trying to leave before he said anything that could turn the encounter south.

“Wait. Don’t go.” he slams his palm onto your notes, determination in his eyes.

“I need to go to bed.” you say as if scolding a child.

“I need to figure you out. You’re still an enigma to me. The anomaly of my behaviour. Is this your intention?”

“What are you talking about? You’re drunk.”

“I can think. I can move. I can see fine. I’m not drunk. Answer me.”

“Maybe I'm just so mesmerising to you.” you joke, but his brows furrowed in thought.

“Maybe.” he retracts his hand from your notes, and you stow them away into your bag, slinging it onto your shoulder before he can do anything else.

As you’re halfway to the door, he pushes you against the wall.

You never realised how tall he was until then. How much of a height difference you had, or how muscular he was. He had to have worked out on a daily basis. The pungent smell of alcohol lingered on his breath, and his cheeks were tainted with deep red as he searched your gaze.

You decide he’s officially lost his mind, but who were you to complain?

“Are you mesmerising?” he whispers, eyes trailing down your face, examining and analysing, his hand tracing down your body with those slender scholar’s hands.

“You tell me.”

Then he grabs your face and mashes your lips together. The kiss is rough, biting and rushed. You freeze for a sliver of a second before returning it, letting him decide your allure with his own devices.

He pulls away almost too fast, lips kiss bitten, breath fast.

“You’re a siren.”

“Am I?”

“You’re going to ruin me.”

“What a weak man you are, if it only takes one woman to ruin you.”

“I hate you.”

“Really?”

“I hate it because I’d probably let you.”

“Are you a masochist?”

“Not in my right mind. I’ll wake up and regret everything, but it’ll all be the same, fundamentally.”

“So what’s your conclusion?”

He still has you pushed against the wall, caged within himself. “You were put into this world to bring about my destruction.”

“How? Why?”

“You’re my opposite. Brash, naive, carefree.”

“Are you normally this analytical of people?”

“No, which supports my point.”

“I see. So you’re going to let me ruin your image?”

“No. I hate you for it.”

“Let me go then.”

He wordlessly steps away, and you stumble to the door.

“So what are we?” you ask, turned away from him. You can’t see the way he drinks in your visage like a starving man, and the small, sober part of him is grateful for it.

“Polar opposites.”

“I mean who am I to you?”

He’s silent for a while, so you turn back to him to find him leaning on the wall, gazing into space.

“Veritas?”

“You’re my undoing. A catalyst, maybe, for my downfall. But there must be balance, right? So what are you?”

“What am I?”

“I don’t know.”

You knew then that he was beyond reason. Was this what you did to him? You took some sadistic pride in seeing a man such as himself reduced to a mumbling, questioning, incoherent mess. You were somewhat pleased with the effect you had on him., but you could never let him know this.

He crumpled to the floor, back to the wall, clutching his head in his hands. “I’ll figure you out.”

“Sure you will. Goodnight, Veritas.”

“Night.”

Your smile was brighter than the morning as you left his apartment, embracing the night’s welcoming chill.

written by @atlaswav , published 15th of July 2024

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meli-mouse · 5 months ago

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get yelled at simulator 2k11

#p4 #persona 4 #Persona 4 spoilers #yu narukami #yosuke hanamura #naoto shirogane #Idk if tagging as spoilers makes sense this game is like 15 years old #This scene is so funny to me like naoto n kanji are like ‘wellllll we could do a murder’#and then yosuke sticks himself to that idea and fights you on it for like 10 minutes while namatames like .-.#P4g spoilers #Sorry for my handwriting

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hinamie · 2 months ago

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someone asked if i had ever drawn gojo with his scars, now i have :>

#my art #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk fanart #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #satoru gojo #jjk spoilers #jjk manga spoilers #this outfit i swear im gna get called out as a fake gojohater #its not my fault its the best one he gets #speaking of which i am enjoying the relative bliss before this fight n this outfit are animated sighs i already know its gna b mayhem #but ths neither here nor there ths none of my business #anyway this gojo took a lot longer than it should have also but i had some mishaps with th pose >:/ iykyk #i also wanted to like. toe th line with his expression between unsettling and relaxed if that makes sense??#mostly i didnt want him to look too genuine #idk how successful i was but i am Happy with it i think #or maybe its just the exhaustion talking #tbh im past exhaustion i think i spent over 14hrs drawing today i have been up since 7am and i am pretty sure my blood is energy drink #rings dinner bell gojolikers come get ur food #anon who asked i hope u enjoy! ty fr the request even if it was gojo /silly

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imsilay · 1 year ago

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Dozakh

i’m back? :>

word count: 1k

not smut just obsessed, manipulative König. also not very proofread cus im lazy and have no time T-T

cr: @gruhhhuu

His heart skipped a beat when you pushed him away. He just wanted to kiss you like he always did, but you didn't seem to be in a mood for it. Because you were determined to talk about what had been bothering you. "We need to talk, König." His eyebrows frowned with confusion and hunger. He needed your taste, and he wanted it now.

“Nein. Come here.” he growled, pulling you back into his arms and wrapping them tightly around your body, trapping your arms and leaving you no room to move. You struggled and squirmed to break free, only making him angrier. "Scheiße." He lifted you up, sitting with you on the couch. "Fine. Talk." he said, breathing impatiently, still holding you down in his arms.

His big, calloused hand ran through your hair as he tilted your chin up to meet his eyes. "I need some space." you murmured, trying to push him away once again to put some distance between your bodies. He sucked a sharp breath, squeezing your body to stop your movements. The moment you told him that you wanted to be at your apartment for a week to think about your relationship, his brain stopped working completely. How would he continue living without you? How would he eat, sleep and breathe? It was already difficult for him to be away when he was deployed, but how could you expect him to survive without you? "Ja? Why?" his voice sounded calm yet cold. You sighed and attempted to explain: "It's overwhelming, I know you love me, and you want me close, but this," gesturing to your place on his lap and his arms holding you firmly when his voice was cold like ice. "This doesn't feel like love. I love you. I really do, but I don't know if I like being so... clingy." you watched his jaw clench as you spoke. He was always like this, getting angry whenever you mentioned leaving. His arms tightened around your midsection, as if he feared you would slip away. You could hear his breathing, feel his searching eyes scan your face and body. He wanted to be brutal, but couldn't quite lose himself yet. Not yet, at least.

"You think I'm clingy, meine kleine?" he trailed off as his hand wrapped around your throat, not in a menacing manner, but enough to make your breath hitch. "I just wanted to show you how much I love you..." His thumb caressed your pulse, feeling it increase with every passing second. "You can't leave me... You couldn't live without me. That feeling will fade. You'll get used to it." he mumbled and pulled you under his mask, kissing you breathless until you forgot why you were pushing him. His lips devoured yours with such hunger it made your head spin. He pulled back for air and saw that you had a blank look on your face. “See? You didn’t actually want to leave.” he said, his voice slightly hoarse from lust. You panted and tried to catch your breath as he kept you just inches away. It was hot under his mask and his cologne was intoxicating. The arms around your waist slid into your shirt, and his fingers caressed your soft skin. You shivered and softly sighed at the feeling of his big palm covering your body. "König, not again." you sighed, as you tried to resist the temptation he was casting. "I'm not doing anything." he pouted playfully, and kissed you again. The kiss was soft, but you felt the hunger. You felt as if you saw a spark of possession in his eyes. "I know what you're trying to do." you said as he broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against yours. "What do you mean?" he mumbled, but you could still feel his hand squeeze your waist and his fingers dig into your skin. He moved closer and said, "I'm just showing you my love, meine kleine. Your lips are so addicting." As you tried to turn away, he growled and kissed your lips again, this time, forcefully. He then started moving downward to your neck, cheeks, and even your ears, without hesitation. You were his, and it didn't seem that you had a choice. He was marking you with red hickeys on your neck and jaw. When you tried to push him away, he caught your hands and pinned them between your bodies, holding your wrists with one hand. He used his other hand to grip your neck and hold you in place, stealing your breath away. "König, please stop!" you yelled. He finally stopped with your yelling. His eyes wide, and his pupils dilated, making him look like a starving predator, and you his sole prey. "Don't leave," he breathed, leaning in to kiss you again. You pulled your head out of his mask for some much-needed oxygen. You hoped he'd calm down even a little, but he didn't. Instead, he nearly ripped his mask off and glared at you, his jaw tightly clenched and his eyes filled with determination. "Can't you see how desperate I am? How could you abandon me?" he pulled your head closer using his grip on your throat and growled into your ear. Then a moment later, he began trembling, and tears filled his eyes. You felt his desperation and started to feel guilty. He let go of your wrists and moved both of his hands to hold your waist. "I'm sorry, darling. I'm not going to leave you. Don’t cry." you mumbled. You wiped away the tears. Your heart ached as you saw his tear-filled eyes, and you felt an urge to pull him closer. The sound of your voice, that sweet murmur of surrender, was the sweetest music to him. All he had wanted this whole time was you. And you were here. In his arms. He leaned forward and captured your lips. A hot, hungry, desperate kiss.

After the kiss he hugged you and buried his head into your neck as if inhaling your smell directly into his soul. “You’re so easy, but you’re mine.” he mumbled against your skin and kissed your neck softly. He smirked when you worriedly apologized and tried to soothe him. It always worked. If his words didn’t, his tears would definitely…

a/n: please support me by reblogging, if you liked the content ofc <3 your comments also makes my day :* and i love to reply all of them :>

hii ~(T-T)/~ i have a really busy studying schedule that’s why im not online like before :’) but writing is my therapy AND my acc isn’t abandoned (i’m barely looking at my phone screen)

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