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nereidprinc3ss · 9 months ago

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andromeda | (dybmn? bonus)

a bonus vignette from spencer's POV. we find out how he really feels about reader. takes place the day before the argument at the bar.

note: this is not part six! takes place between parts four and five.

series masterlist

18+ warnings/tags: fem!reader, semi-graphic descriptions of sexual fantasies, some angst, you're not actually present, mention of alcohol, very vague discussions of murdery stuff bc he's supposed to be working, sassy spencer makes an appearance a/n: for all my angels who said they wanted a snippet of spencer's POV! i'm sorry if i'm overdoing it with this story or clogging the spencer tags, i'm just having a lot of fun! i hope you enjoy or that this may be clears some things up for you, pls lmk your thoughts:) ily!!!

Spencer is incessantly drumming the particle board table underneath his fingers.

The polymer veneer is one of his least favorite textures—he hates the grain of it and if he were to accidentally scratch the table with his nails he knows it would make the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

But of all the things he’s worried about, that ranks very low on the list.

He’s got a lot of mental tabs open all the time—and the tabs, he can deal with. It’s when he starts trying to operate with multiple windows that he begins to struggle. His brain, while it is a very fine tuned sort of computer, only has one monitor. Unfortunately, no human (except for the ones who’ve had their brain hemispheres surgically split) is immune to the inevitable pitfalls of multitasking. By dividing his mental energy between you and his job, he’s really fucking up his job. But he also thinks he really fucked up with you on that phone call the other night and for being as logical as he is he can’t seem to make that feel unimportant—even though he’s disgusted with himself for it because there are literally people dying.

Someone knocks on the open conference room door—he looks up, skimming his lips over his fist.

“What’s up?” he says too quickly upon seeing Emily’s mildly concerned face peering in on him.

Her mouth bridges into a sort of nonchalant frown and her brows kick up.

“Just… checking in. Haven’t heard from you all morning.”

“Yeah, the, uh—the geo-profile. I’m still… I’m still working it out.”

It’s not like he’s ever been phenomenal with his syntax in a social sense, but Spencer is certainly aware he’s doing even worse than usual right now.

“Okay. Uh… is there anything in particular stumping you, or…?”

“Nope. Just not enough information. But I’m—I’m going to keep trying.”

“Alright. Got your phone handy?”

It’s an odd question—of course he has his phone handy. He’s been doing this job longer than Emily has. How else would he communicate with the rest of the team? He bristles.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

Emily shakes her head. She’s always been particularly good at reading his moods.

“You’re not under attack, Reid. I was just asking.”

Just as he’s about to say, why would you assume I’m not prepared for my job, he manages to swerve away and stifle the words with his fist. Instead he looks back down at his copy of the map and nods. In reality, he truly isn’t prepared for his job today. The reason he has his phone so close, fully charged and at top volume is because he’s worried he’ll miss a call from you.

Emily says something else, and he hums in response, and then she’s gone.

He shouldn’t be reading into your reticence this much. It’s not like you just sit by the phone all day, eagerly awaiting a call or text from him (like he does you). You have a life. You’re busy. And even if you are intentionally dodging his texts, he can’t entirely fault you for it. Spencer knows he’s clingy. He knows he’s overbearing. It’s part of why he panicked the other night and told you the whole humiliating story about Elle. Because he can’t ever just be cool and he felt the need to explain himself.

But the problem was, and is, that he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without saying those three words that fucked him over all those years ago.

So he’d danced around them. Applied them to someone else to try and avoid outright professing his all-consuming love for you over the phone. However you feel, Spencer has to assume he feels more. Spencer always has to assume he feels more because he usually does and it’s gotten him into trouble before. And now he’s pretty sure he was exactly right, as often is the case, because you didn’t tell him he was mistaken and you’d clammed up and you haven’t talked to him since and he’s not supposed to be reading into it this much.

Three victims killed and dumped within a 6 mile radius of the first victim plus one victim killed and dumped 23.8 miles away. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Fuck this guy.

Spencer decides the problem is that he needs more caffeine.

Or possibly, if he were a different kind of man—copious amounts of alcohol.

So he stows his phone in a pocket and asks the first person he sees where the coffee machine is.

“Looks like you found it earlier,” the woman says, glancing pointedly down at his mostly empty mug. A playful smirk tugs at pinkish-brownish lips. She’s pretty, he realizes distantly. But he registers it the same way he’d take note of the model of a car, or the species of a bird, or the kind of shoes someone is wearing. It doesn’t actually interest him. It’s just part of processing his environment. “I can show you to it?”

He doesn’t have the heart or energy to explain that someone else brought him his cup earlier and he’s not flirting with her.

“If you could just point me in the right direction…?”

She laughs, short and dry, before she’s pointing down a hall.

“Kitchenette down there and to the left.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, already walking away without sparing her a second glance.

She’s the kind of woman he would have paid a lot more attention to before you came along. Not that he’d ever sleep with someone on the job (not since he was 25, anyway), but if he’d met her under any other circumstances he probably would have cared more about the way her pupils dilated and her eyes had widened slightly and she’d adjusted her posture and all the other small things people do when they’re attracted to someone else. 30 year old Spencer might have slept with her. 27 year old Spencer definitely would have slept with her. Current Spencer obsessively pines for a woman who is already his girlfriend and whom he has yet to sleep with at all far too much to think about other women like that.

But god, does he think about you like that.

His feet carry him down the dim, carpeted hallway but really it took barely a nudge and he’s thinking about you like that. At work. As he’s pouring himself coffee.

Spencer is confident in the fact that if anyone were to look at him right now, they’d never guess he’s running clips of you in his mind like a dirty supercut. Because he’s just pouring coffee. That’s one good thing about having all those tabs open all the time. He can toggle between them quickly. He has enough going on in the background that people look at him and all they can tell is that he’s thinking hard about lots of things. Some of them just happen to be the way you look when you’re naked on his bed, skin shining and glazed eyes sleepy, parted lips higher in color than usual and catching your breath. Some of them happen to be your hair brushing his stomach before he gathers it back for you. Some of them happen to be the way your thighs feel on either side of his face, or how you stretch around his fingers, or how you might feel when you stretch around his—

He hisses as hot coffee overflows from the mug and burns his hand.

Maybe he’s not as calm and collected as he thought.

But on top of all the other things he’s dealing with, having been so close to actually sleeping with you the other night is really fucking with his head. Even if he tells himself he wouldn't have done it, he knows himself better than that. He's too familiar with the effect you have on his judgement.

“Found it okay?”

Spencer looks down, surprised to see the woman from earlier sitting at her desk and watching him as he quickly passes by on his way back to the conference room. Her legs are crossed. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a flouncy sort of blouse which seems impractical for working in an FBI field office. Maybe she notices his eye catching on her figure and misguidedly swivels her chair to give him a better look. But all he’s noticing is that it doesn’t look like yours. Now he’s picturing the curve of your hip dripping in silk after that first night at Rossi’s. How your waist and your stomach feel when he slides his hands over you. This woman—she might as well not even be here for all he’s actually seeing her.

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

Then he’s gone. Very briefly he acknowledges that he should feel sorry for so obviously brushing her off, but he doesn’t care even close to enough. He sets the coffee down on the table and rounds to the board where one of several maps is taped. On autopilot he draws lines between dump sites because one of the background tabs had deduced, while he was busy watching you like porn, that the distance between dump sites form the beginnings of the constellation Orion with some mathematical precision that’s too exacting to be coincidental. Orion’s Belt plus the most recent victim. Betelgeuse.

There are ten formally named stars that make up Orion. He marks all of them, but circles the transposed coordinates of Bellatrix, Saiph, Rigel and Meissa as the next most likely dump sites. Most probably it will be Orion’s head. They’re all in wooded areas. He calls Garcia. Garcia will call Emily, wherever she is. If the unsub sticks to pattern, which they always do, they have until midnight. It’s trite, really. Predictable, like people always are. Far too quickly he drinks half the cup of scalding coffee and retraces his steps through the office to find the bathroom.

It’s empty. The fluorescent lights hum. Spencer washes his hands with cold water and presses still wet fingers to his eyes. You’re waiting for him behind the black of his lids.

At first you would whine, and he would kiss you and you’d moan into his mouth and say his name when he opened you up as far as you would go. The air would be thick and warm with sex and vanilla perfume. Afterwards he’d take care of you and buy new sheets for his bed in your favorite color even if they didn’t match the walls and there would be nothing you’d want for that he couldn’t give to you ever again.

But.

That’s all contingent.

No matter how often he fantasizes about it, no matter in how much detail, and regardless of how often those details change wildly, one thing always stays the same.

The shape of your lips, swollen from kissing, bending around five or six vowels and only two consonants (it seems odd that there are only two consonants in I love you), sometimes before you start, sometimes in the middle or right at the peak—but always there, always moving in slow motion—and always silent.

In real life, they’d be aloud. It’s why his fantasies aren’t good enough. It’s why he can’t stop fantasizing about it. That’s the only part that really matters to him. The rest varies.

Not because having sex with you doesn’t matter—it matters so much he almost shatters his molars whenever he starts picturing it around other people. But because Spencer can’t have sex with you until you love him.

And he worries that you can’t love him until you have sex with him.

The last time he thought that about a person, it didn’t turn out well.

Maybe there is some magic number. Some amount of times you need to have sex with someone before they’ll love you back.

If there is, he knows for a fact it’s more than 32.

And he also knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he cannot have loveless sex with you thirty three times while he waits to find out.

Not again.

But he's going to hold out as long as he possibly can until you say it because he so badly wants you to love him back. He'll let the weight of every ignored text, every reminder that you don't feel that way about him, hang from his shoulders until he collapses. And then he'll probably try to get back up.

Recycled paper towels scratch against his skin. He dries his face and hands and throws them crumpled into the trash can.

Outside the restroom, he pulls out his phone. For safety reasons and paranoia disguised as professionalism, you’re not his lock screen. It’s a photo of the Andromeda Galaxy. Whatever distance lies between you and Spencer, it could always be greater. No matter where you are in the world, you will always be the same 2.537 million light years away from Andromeda that he is.

It makes Orion feel much closer. You, too.

He sends you a text—the third message in a row.

The distance between blue bubbles feels like light years.

I’ll be home tomorrow. I miss you.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #dr spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine

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4theitgirls · 1 year ago

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study methods

the second brain method

this method focuses on organizing the information you learn to maximize effectiveness. a common way of doing this is through the CODE method:

capture - be quick and efficient in how you receive the information

organize - organize the information in a way that works for you

distill - break the information down to its key elements

express - apply the information you’ve learned

* there is a ton of information out there about this method. if you struggle with burnout and knowing where to start, i recommend researching this method further to figure out what works for you.

the pomodoro method

the pomodoro method is a time management method. the most common expression of this method is to pick a task, work for 25 minutes on that task, then take a break for 5 minutes. then, repeat. if you’re planning to work all day, you may up the time spent studying. for example, after a while of this, you may work for 30 minutes at a time, then 40, then 45, and so forth. this method is particularly good for when you’re feeling unmotivated or having a hard time focusing. if you’re still not feeling it after a while, you may start to take longer breaks. for example, you may study for 30 minutes, break for 15, and keep going like that.

the 5 minute rule method

this method is good for when you have to do a shorter task, but you’re procrastinating doing it. this method requires you to dedicate only 5 minutes to do your task. after that, you may stop, but chances are, once you’ve started, finishing won’t be as difficult.

the blurting method

this method is particularly good for revision. the blurting method requires you to read over the content you are learning, then put it away and write down everything you know or can remember. then, check the content and revise everything you didn’t write down.

spaced repetition

spaced repetition requires you to spread out your study reviews over the period of a few days. this has been shown to improve memory. rather than studying one thing at a time, then studying something else the next day and so on, review the information right after you’ve learned it, then recall it after a few hours, then a few days, then a few weeks, and so on. if you’re studying something you will need to remember for an extended period of time, this method would be perfect for you!

active recall

this is my absolute favorite method! it’s been shown to improve your studying immensely and so many people have benefited from practicing active recall. active recall involves retrieving information from your brain, usually done through questions. a good way to do this is to explain the concept to yourself, to someone else, or act like you’re doing a presentation on the subject. after you’ve recalled all of the information you know about the subject, go over your material again and be sure you covered everything and explained everything the best way you could. if you didn’t, review everything you did not remember or got wrong, and go again. do this until you get everything. doing this can also be referred to as the feynman technique.

the SQ3r method

survey - skim your text and identify bolded text, headers, images, etc.

question - generate questions about the text based on what you surveyed. what are the key concepts in this text? what is each paragraph about? what information do i need to take away from this text?

read - read through the entire text and answer the questions you created

recite - summarize what you learned in your own words

review - recall the key concepts and answers to your questions

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the-travelling-witch · 8 months ago

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𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌

nonnie asked: lately i noticed many writers writing about reader kissing character's face while wearing lipstick and therefore covering them in it and i found it so cute and then started to imagine your om!ocs and the modern au guys (…) being covered in lipstick kisses too […]

pairings: my genshin modern au guys (xiao :: scara :: aether :: kazuha :: heizou :: venti :: childe :: diluc :: kaeya), my obey me ocs (dantalion :: valefar :: stolas), my twst oc (cheron) x gn! reader

warnings: these lipsticks are not smudge-proof

a/n: as said i might write a full thing for one character when i have the chance but considering i have 13 characters here and i can only think of so many scenarios, i’m writing a few paragraphs each for now ^^;

original ask

modern au || dantalion || valefar || stolas || cheron

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐀𝐔

𝐗𝐈𝐀𝐎 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

It had been a busy week in which you hadn’t seen much of each other, so when you finally made it to Friday evening, you were overjoyed to see your boyfriend again. Needless to say, when the door swung shut, the first thing you did was flutter some well-earned kisses across his face, not even bothering to take your make-up off. So when Xiao spotted his reflection in the mirror, the flush on his cheeks wasn’t the only rose colour decorating his beautiful complexion. While you watched his blush darken, he couldn’t meet your eyes in the mirror and you giggled to yourself as you watched them snap to you when you pulled the neckline of his shirt out of the way and planted a final kiss on the base of his neck.

𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

It was your day off, so for once you weren’t out of the house before Scara, instead getting ready at the same time as him. You made him his usual morning coffee to go after he slept over, since he straight up refused to drink anyone else’s, and kissed him goodbye. Not long after he arrived at the piercing studio, notifications started blowing up your phone and you skimmed the furious string of texts, laughing to yourself. Apparently, Xiao hadn’t said anything about the smudge on the corner of his lips, leaving Heizou and Venti to have a field day when they came in, teasing him relentlessly even after he wiped it off. As for the accusation that you did it on purpose, who was to say…

𝐀𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

“Do you still need the make up remover?” Aether asked from outside your bathroom door. You’d both just gotten back from an outing with the others from the piercing shop, staying longer than you initially intended. But that was what always happened. Venti could be very convincing and the group was too much fun to leave early. “I’m done, but I didn’t notice you wearing any makeup earlier,” you admitted, opening the door to let your boyfriend in. “Well I wasn’t,” Aether sheepishly laughed, rubbing the base of his neck. And then you saw it. Faint traces of colour decorating his temple, cheek, the corner of his mouth and even the parts of his neck and chest not covered by his shirt. A shade that very closely resembled the lipstick you applied before going out. “You might be a bit of an affectionate drunk.” “Oh my— I’m so sorry, Aether,” you apologised, quickly searching around for some cotton pads and wiping the lipstick off his chest, trying not to linger on the thought too much. “Don’t worry, I thought it was cute,” he assured you, his warm smile seemingly lighting up the room. As you leaned in to clean his face, he took the opportunity to steal a quick kiss from you as well. “You should wear it more often, it looked very pretty on you.”

𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐇𝐀 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

Kazuha had come over for lunch, as he often did, taking a break from his coworkers between the plants, sketching if the time allowed for it. When you both had to return to work, you pressed a sweet kiss against his cheek and then rushed to help a customer. And while neither one of you noticed the colour dusting his cheek, the others sure did and wasted no time pointing it out, though all their teasing comments seemed to bounce right off of him. He wiped the stain away before any customers came in, laughing off how he hadn’t noticed at all. “Of course you wouldn’t notice,” Heizou agreed, a knowing air about him. “After all, you’re way too busy making heart eyes at your florist to even think about looking anywhere else for a second.”

𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐙𝐎𝐔 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

“Hey honey, could you help me with something real quick?” You called your boyfriend over as you finished applying a new shade of lipstick you bought. As Heizou strolled up to where you were standing, you turned towards him with a smile. “What do you think? Do you like it?” “The colour looks beautiful on you,” he easily replied, sending you a flirtatious wink. “Though I’m not sure if it’s really the colour or just you being gorgeous that’s causing it. Now what did you need help with?” Wrapping one arm around his neck, you pulled him in for a kiss, making sure to firmly plant your lips against his. If your boyfriend was surprised at all, he masked it well, easily melting into the kiss. As you pulled away a little breathlessly, you grinned. “Just wanted to see if it’s really smudge-proof, though I guess it failed in that regard.” You traced a finger around the faint trace of colour on his lips as Heizou took the tube from you and applied the lipstick with pinpoint precision. Turning to you, his olive eyes were gleaming with mischief as he chuckled. “I think we should run a few more tests, just to be sure.”

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

“This one’s for the song you wrote for me and this one’s for bringing me my favourite coffee without me asking,” you mused, studying your boyfriend’s face covered in pink-hued gloss marks. Somehow a kiss to the temple had ended with you caging Venti against the couch, fluttering a dozen kisses all over the skin you could reach. “Ehe, what can I say, I’m just the best boyfriend ever,” he giggled, tracing his fingers down the contours of your face in return. Then, something in his expression changed and you prepared yourself to shut down whatever idea he was about to propose next. “Maybe I should think about getting one of them tattooed? On my shoulder or so?” “Don’t you dare.”

𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐄 Idol

Ever since you had caught a lot of heat from Childe’s manager for accidentally letting your boyfriend leave with a mark decorating his collarbones, you were very cautious of leaving any visible stains on him, even if it was just makeup. Still, you found ways to work around this little inconvenience. There was one time you signed off a little post-it note you left on the fridge for him, wishing him good luck for a performance, with a lipstick stain. After seeing his reaction of childish glee, it became a staple in your relationship. Then again, whenever Childe came home from work with his makeup still on, he never failed to press a big, fat, lip gloss stained kiss on your cheek, chuckling like the menace he is when you make a show of wiping it off.

𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐔𝐂 Club Owner/ Bartender

Diluc had seen his fair share of shameless make outs during his time at the Angel’s Share and normally he just turned his head the other way, not sure why people would enjoy slobbering all over each other. Well, that was until he met you anyway. Though he’d like to think he was more composed than the intoxicated people at his club, whenever you pressed your lips against his, he thought he might get drunk off of you. He swallowed hard when you pulled away, mind still trying to process what was happening as his eyes tracked the movement of your own kiss-swollen lips, not hasty to wipe away the traces of you against his skin.

𝐊𝐀𝐄𝐘𝐀 Model

Kaeya actually revelled in it whenever you leave any type of mark on him, as long as it didn’t lead to a scolding from his manager. Whether it was something more durable like a hickey or something easily wiped off like a lipstick stain, Kaeya always looked very smug about it afterwards. After all, the marks were a testimony to the events that transpired previously, and what could he say, Kaeya enjoyed those very much. Even more so considering he knew his way around a makeup bag, confidently picking out shades that looked gorgeous on you and even more gorgeous when they were smudged around the corner of your lips and over his skin. In his opinion, every photo of the aftermath was more stunning than any of his cover shoots.

𝐎𝐛𝐞𝐲 𝐌𝐞! 𝐎𝐂𝐬

𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍 Majolish Owner/ Devil Style Chief Editor

You walked in on Dantalion getting ready, his attention that was previously on his reflection in the vanity mirror flickering to you when you entered. His plush lips, curled into a loving smile, are painted in a flattering shade of red and your gaze was trained on them as you came to stand in front of him. “Are you trying a new shade? It suits you well.” “I am. I’m glad you like it,” he hummed, tilting his head in contemplation. “I wonder…” Cupping your cheek in his palm, the demon leaned towards you and you instinctively closed your eyes as his soft lips pressed against yours with purpose. As always his kisses made a part of your brain short circuit and you blinked at him dazedly for a moment after you parted. There was a satisfied gleam in his bright eyes as he wiped at your bottom lip with his thumb, studying the red stain he left. “As expected, it’s an even lovelier colour on you, my flower.”

𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐀𝐑 Casino Owner

“Little lamb, come here for a second.” Valefar was no stranger to finding your lipstick smudges at the rim of his drinks or wiping smudges of colour and gloss from his cheek before leaving for the casino after you gave him a kiss goodbye. He didn’t mind, found it cute even, but as he regarded the pink stain on the collar of his white dress shirt in the lounge’s mirror, he knew it won’t come off with a quick swipe of his thumb. It wasn’t a big deal, he kept spare shirts in his office, but Val wouldn’t pass on the opportunity to fluster you. “Care to explain yourself?” You were halfway through stuttering out a sheepish apology when Valefar backed you against his desk, keeping you pinned to him with a hand on your back. Intense amber eyes keep contact with yours as he leaned down to suck a noticeable hickey on the same spot his collar would be, knowing your clothes barely wouldn’t be able to hide it. “Debts should be repaid, wouldn’t you agree?”

𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐒 Popular Streamer

It was a pleasant day in the Devildom, as pleasant as it could be in a realm without the sun anyway, pulling the two of you out into town. While strolling from apparel stores to gaming shops, you passed a café you frequented and decided to stop by for some refreshments. As you pointed around various shop displays, you had the sinking feeling that your drink emptied faster than usual. And when you spotted the colourful stain that had transferred from your straw to your boyfriend’s lips, you caught the culprit red- handed (or rather red-lipped). When confronted he merely chuckled playfully before swooping in to steal a kiss on top of your drink, staining them with more of your lipstick and thereby destroying the evidence. (His straw also became more colourful as he offered you his drink as compensation.)

𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐂

𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍 Prince of Hell

When Vil gifted you a set of lipsticks and glosses from a campaign he was part of and had no need for, you accepted them gratefully. You just finished sorting through all the shades and trying out a pretty shade of red, when there was a knock on your door and Cheron sauntered into your room. “There you are,” he grinned, charming without even having to try, before pulling you close and stealing the air from your lungs with a kiss. For someone who claimed to not be interested in ferrying more souls to hell, he sure seemed intent on trying to kill you. “What’s this you got there? Vil’s new collab?” “Right you are,” you paused, peering around him to the lipstick tube in your hand and chuckling as you read the shade name. Pressing another kiss right onto the middle of his cheek as payback for his usual schemes, you took in the red matching the colour on the corner of his lips. “Don’t you think it’s a beautiful colour, Cherry? It does match your hair and eyes. Maybe I should start calling you that.” There was a dangerous glint in his crimson eyes, clearly aware of the red staining his face, as he swiped his thumb under your bottom lip where the lipstick left a smudge as well. “You have a lot of nerve marking the Prince of Hell.” His grin showed off the points of his fangs more clearly now, clearly amused at your little stunt, taking a step forward and walking you backwards towards the edge of your bed. “That’s fine. If you can handle the consequences, that is.”

if you like my content, reblogs, comments and asks are always much appreciated ♡

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genshin tag list: @mccnstruck @tavvattales @silentmoths @ainescribe @meimeimeirin @dustofthedailylife @nsojbbkkm @kazuuhhaaaa @inufinuf @ynverse @nico707 @boba-is-a-soup @hellithides @ryuryuryuyurboat @the-guardian-kitsune

modern au tag list: @r0ttenhearts @bananasquash @himimikyu @franaby

obey me ocs tag list: @the-guardian-kitsune

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muniimyg · 1 month ago

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𐙚₊˚⊹ bbydaddy!yoongi (11) ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ *nsfw*

series m.list // taglist closed

note: the slight angst in ch 10 was a set up for all the fluff, smut, and happiness in this ch !!! HEHEHEHE enj !!! pls lmk ur thots ,, ik i ditched this story for a bit so pls talk to me yall 🥲

warnings: making out, yoongi’s dick is big, oc’s tits are big, yoongi eats her out,, they fuck side to side/behind idk,, missionary, dirty talk, and creampie

it’s 10AM and you haven’t texted or called yoongi.

although, he should have seen this coming. you had left all his messages unread last night and he didn’t want to push his luck any further by annoying you now (the following morning)...

but it’s difficult as fuck.

he has never felt this way about anyone before.

he has never wanted to fix anything so fast. he has never wanted to pick someone up so early. he has never wanted to be with someone so bad at night.

it ached, honestly.

… when you said you didn’t want to talk.

what the fuck did that even mean? if anything, he should be the only person in the world you talk to. instead, he’s the only person in the world you’re ignoring right now.

so, yoongi sits in his office.

slumped at his desk with the hum of his computer and the faint clock ticking. his eyes skim over the files on his screen, but he isn’t really reading. if anything, he’s just blinking. every few minutes, he glances at his phone, the unanswered silence gnawing at him.

he exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair, fingers brushing over his jaw as his thoughts spiral.

you didn’t want to talk to him last night.

he doesn’t get it—doesn’t know if he’s pushing too hard, or if he’s just not getting through. you two were just fine the other day. great, even… so what gives? what shifted? what changed? was it jungkook?

are you actually into jungkook?

is that it?

before his thoughts flood in and make his anxiety grow, yoongi grabs his phone, his thumb hovering over your contact.

then, he thinks…

fuck it.

yoongi hits call and presses the phone to his ear, the dial tone humming in his chest. by the third ring, yoongi’s heart begins to beat faster and faster. as he’s about to put his phone down and end the call—

his door creaks open.

yoongi hisses from the surprise as his head snaps towards the door. before he can grumpily kick whoever is barging into his office out—his gaze softens at the sight of you.

suddenly, you step in.

you move towards him, looking a little unsure. there’s a box of tangerines cradled in your hands and the sound of your phone buzzing in your purse fills the room.

yoongi immediately hangs up, lowering his phone. he blinks, surprised, then pushes himself to stand.

“hey.” his voice is soft, warm, like you’re something he doesn’t want to scare off.

“hi.”

your gaze flickers toward him before settling on the tangerines in your hands. you pick up your pace and stand in front of him, his desk separating you two. without hesitation, you extend the box of tangerines towards him. yoongi’s hands brush yours as he takes it, lingering just a little longer than necessary.

“you shouldn’t be carrying anything heavy.”

“it’s not heavy,” you say, shrugging as you slip your purse off your shoulder.

“get jungkook to carry them in next time—here—have a seat, please.” yoongi gestures to the chair by his desk, guiding you down with a quiet insistence. he sets the box of tangerines beside him on the desk and leans against the edge, close enough to reach for you.

he wants to.

so bad.

so fucking bad.

… but he doesn’t.

instead, he stays still, hands braced on the desk, holding himself back.

the silence sits between you for a moment.

a little awkward, a little heavy.

but finally, you speak.

“i’m sorry about last night,” you say softly, looking down at your hands in your lap. “i should’ve… i should’ve been better to you. i was really tired, yes… but i shouldn’t have left things like that. let’s blame half of it on my pregancy harmones, but let’s also blame the other half on me. i should have communicated better and i should have come home. i didn’t mean to worry you or make you feel like… whatever you felt last night… if we’re on the same page about everything, i’m assuming that we both felt—”

“like shit last night?”

“like shit.”

yoongi tilts his head slightly, his eyes softening as he watches you. “___, you don’t have to—”

“i came by your place,” you interrupt, your voice quiet.

“our place,” he corrects gently.

you pause, the words sinking in before you nod.

“our place.”

you glance up at him, and there’s a small smile on your lips, like you’re testing the words.

“i didn’t sleep well last night and i don’t understand why… or how… how i’ve been falling asleep without you by my side. so, i hurried over to our place but you already left for work… i spent the entire morning waiting for grocery stores to open so i could bring you these—” you gesture to the tangerines, a little sheepish. “peace offering? apology gift? please-be-my-baby’s-daddy bribery?”

yoongi blinks, caught off guard, and then—he laughs.

it’s soft at first, but it bubbles up, warm and genuine, breaking the tension in the room.

you smile at him, a real one this time, and the corners of his mouth curve up in response. the air feels lighter somehow.

“baby daddy bribery?” he echoes, shaking his head, his laugh still lingering in his chest. “you’re unbelievable.”

“why? cos it’s working?” you tease, tilting your head as you look at him.

yoongi exhales, his shoulders easing as the smile lingers on his lips.

“you don’t need to bribe me,” he says softly, his voice steady, sincere. “you just… you just need to talk to me.”

your expression falters slightly, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“i know.”

he sees it, and for a moment, he wants to pull you in—wants to wrap his arms around you and hold you close, to kiss your forehead and tell you it’s okay. wants to tell you that you’re forgiven before you even ask for forgiveness.

but he doesn’t.

he stays still, waiting, letting you give as much as you’re ready to.

he prepares for the wait and for the lingering ache. he braces himself but instead—

you reach for him.

you reach for him and suddenly all his walls come crumbling down. like all the pride and courage he gathered to save face mean nothing when it comes to you and the way you captivate him. he gives in. he gives in so fucking much.

your hand finds his wrist, curling lightly around it, and his chest tightens.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, and yoongi exhales, the sound soft and heavy all at once. “i was imature and i could’ve handled the situation better. i should’ve talked to you. i should’ve called. we’re in this together and i left you alone last night. i will never do that agian. i promise, yoongi. i’m really really sorry—”

“it’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice gentle. “stop apologizing now.”

he turns his hand under yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, grounding you both in the quiet. before you know it, he’s tugging them to his lips. as he kisses your knuckles, your eyes water.

you can’t help it.

neither can yoongi because finally, he reaches for you. yoongi cups your face, dips his head low, and kisses you.

against your lips, he murmurs; ”did you build ikea furniture with jungkook?”

“no.”

“good,” he smiles. “i would’ve been mad at you.”

“mad at me or jealous over him?”

yoongi pulls away. “me? jealous?”

you throw your head back and scoff at him. he chuckles and quickly shifts himself back, close to you.

“you noticed?” he tilts his head.

“no,” you squint at him. “not at all.”

the box of tangerines sits between you as yoongi works, the soft sound of typing filling the office. you’re perched on the small couch in the corner, one hand resting on the curve of your belly, the other scrolling lazily through your phone.

“it’s quiet today,” you say, breaking the silence, your tone light.

yoongi hums, eyes still fixed on the screen as he types in steady, practiced motions.

“mm, i got through a few patient phone calls in the evening yesterday… just going through files and notes today. paperwork stuff.”

“maybe your patients are avoiding you,” you tease. “you know? since your resting face isn’t exactly inviting.”

he glances at you, a soft scoff escaping him.

“it’s called being focused.”

you smile, the corners of your mouth quirking up, and yoongi catches it—he always does. his gaze lingers for just a beat longer before he shakes his head and turns back to his work, the faintest ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

you let the quiet stretch again, content to watch him as you absentmindedly trace little circles over your stomach.

after a while, the stillness in the office makes you restless.

“i’m going to walk around. check on the others.”

“okay. can you check on jimin, tae, and jungkook? they’re a little quiet today. usually means they’re up to something,” yoongi says without looking up, but there’s no real warning in his tone. “... if they are; don’t join them.”

you stand with a small groan, pressing a hand to your lower back as you stretch. “me? never.”

he watches as you leave, one hand on the doorframe for balance, and his eyes soften when the door clicks shut behind you.

an hour later, you’re back in yoongi’s office, settling onto the couch again with a triumphant little huff.

“did you make your rounds?” yoongi asks, closing the file on his desk and turning toward you.

“mhmm,” you hum, reaching for the box of tangerines. “jin was chill. namjoon and i talked about what bag he should buy hyemi for their anniversary. jimin and taehyung were running lab tests… jungkook was complaining about his protein bars not having enough protein… oh, and hobi said i looked like i was about to pop—”

yoongi scrunches his nose in distaste.

“he’s an idiot. you look perfect.”

“yeah, but he’s your idiot.”

“and i’m starting to regret that.”

you laugh quietly, peeling the first tangerine with practiced hands. the sharp citrus smell fills the air, and you separate a segment before holding it out toward him.

yoongi quirks a brow.

“are you feeding me now?”

“i’m like 6 months pregnant and growing a human,” you peel another segment carefully, the sound crisp in the quiet of the office. “you think i’m doing all this for me?”

yoongi’s gaze flickers to yours—dry, disbelieving—but his lips twitch. “right. you’re peeling tangerines purely out of obligation.”

“purely. i do this for all my babydaddies…” you hold the segment out toward him, a quiet challenge in your eyes. “now be nice and take it.”

there’s a beat of silence where neither of you move, but then yoongi leans in, the edge of his knee brushing yours as he lets you press the tangerine to his lips. his eyes stay on you the whole time, half amused and half… something else.

“good job, daddy.”

yoongi freezes mid-chew, a soft scoff escaping him as his gaze sharpens.

“don’t.”

you raise an innocent brow, peeling another tangerine with practiced fingers.

“don’t?”

“don’t start.”

“why not?” you tease.

yoongi exhales through his nose, leaning back against the desk as he watches you. his long legs stretch out in front of him, the tips of his shoes almost bumping yours.

“you’re playing with me.”

“maybe so… but only because it seems like you’re easy to mess with,” you quip, holding out another segment.

yoongi doesn’t move immediately this time. he just looks at you, his expression unreadable.

“but seriously… you don’t have to do that,” he mutters.

you blink, confused. “do what?”

“... do things like this.”

something about the way he says it makes the air feel different, heavier. you hesitate for a second before nudging his hand.

“it’s just a peeled tangerine.”

“no it’s not,” he says.

you blink at him.

“okay,” you begin to confess. “it’s not. you know what it means and you know why i’m doing it. so what?”

yoongi huffs quietly—almost a laugh—but he leans forward again, this time brushing your fingertips just a little longer than necessary as he takes it. your breath catches, just for a moment, and yoongi notices.

of course he does.

the corner of his mouth twitches.

“see? you’re not so tough.”

“never said i was,” you say softly, peeling another piece without looking at him. “especially when it’s about you.”

yoongi watches you carefully, his hand sliding to rest against the couch beside you, close enough that his fingers almost graze your dress.

“you always get like this when you’re bored,” he says finally, voice low.

“get like what?”

“antagonizing me.”

you smirk to yourself, holding another segment out toward him.

“it’s called keeping you on your toes. you should thank me.”

yoongi leans in again, but this time, there’s a faint smile on his lips as he takes the fruit from your hand.

“thank you—”

the door swings open without warning.

“am i interrupting something?”

jungkook’s voice cuts through the room, and you freeze mid-motion, holding a tangerine segment up to yoongi’s mouth. yoongi sighs deeply, closing his eyes for a brief second like he’s praying for patience.

“come back later, jungkook,” yoongi mutters, but you don’t move. instead, you smirk and press the tangerine to his lips anyway.

he takes it begrudgingly, chewing as he glares at jungkook.

“wow,” jungkook says, stepping fully into the room and folding his arms. “the baby’s not even here yet, and you two are already disgusting.”

“who cares about what you think?” you quip, reaching toward yoongi again when you see a bit of juice spill from the corner of his mouth.

before he can move, your thumb brushes the juice away, and without thinking, you bring it to your mouth, licking it off.

yoongi freezes.

jungkook’s jaw drops.

“oh my god,” jungkook groans, clapping a hand over his eyes dramatically. “can you two not? in the workplace? fired.”

yoongi’s ears tint faintly pink, and he clears his throat, shooting you a look that’s half warning, half something softer.

“you came in uninvited,” he says flatly. “and i’m technically your boss.”

“yeah, well, now i regret it.” jungkook drops his hand and gestures between the two of you. “just take the day off. seriously. the patients can survive without you—i’ll handle everything.”

“we barely have any patients today.”

“see?” jungkook sighs. “i’ll send out the emails and shit. just sign what you need to sign and get out of here.”

yoongi hesitates, eyes flickering to you. you shrug casually.

“it is lunch time… what do you say?” you ask, a small, knowing smile curling at your lips. “wanna get some lunch?”

“like a date?”

“a date.”

yoongi stares at you for a moment, and you see the way his jaw shifts, like he’s trying to fight back a smile.

finally, he exhales, pushing himself off the desk and taking the box from your hands. “let’s go,” he murmurs, his voice low, just for you.

“you’re welcome!” jungkook calls as you both leave the office, the door swinging shut behind you.

yoongi’s hand finds the small of your back, guiding you out, and he leans closer as tells you;

“we gotta eat fast. he’s gonna call me in an hour near tears because he won’t know what to do with the paperwork.”

you and yoongi decide to eat at this cozy but upscale restaurant downtown.

the atmosphere buzzes with laughter and soft lighting that gives off a relaxed vibe, despite the place’s high-end feel. when the last of your plates are cleared away, and yoongi reaches for his wallet, about to ask for the bill.

"i’ll get it," you say, pulling your phone out.

but before you can do anything, the waiter comes over with a smile.

“ms ___? your meal has already been taken care of,” your waiter tells you both. yoongi blinks in surprise, looking from the waiter to you.

you make a small surprised face, catching his gaze.

“oh, did i forget to tell you? the chef here was my old junior sous chef, jiun. she’s been inviting me to eat here for a while, but i just haven’t had the time. i texted her earlier, and she insisted we try her new menu."

yoongi quirks a brow, still processing. "so everything we ate... was from her?"

you nod, giving a soft shrug. “yeah. but i swear, i had no idea she was going to cover it all.”

yoongi stares at you for a second, his expression softening into something between surprise and admiration.

“wow… you’re seriously so cool,” he praises you, unable to stop a small laugh from slipping out.

you feel a heat rise to your cheeks, but it’s not embarrassment—it’s a kind of warmth, the way yoongi always makes you feel.

then, to your surprise, he leans in and kisses your cheek.

the moment is soft, almost unintentional, but it’s enough to make your heart skip. you lean into it without thinking, his hand immediately finding your waist as he helps you stand. his fingers brush over the fabric of your dress, sending a tiny shiver through you as his touch lingers.

you both start heading toward the door, your hand wrapped around his as you step out into the fresh air, the afternoon sunlight casting soft shadows.

just as you're about to walk out, you see jiun approaching from the kitchen, her face lighting up when she sees you.

“oh my god! ___, you’re pregnant!” she practically beams, her excitement filling the space. "stop… oh my god, oh my god! babes, you’re just glowing—how are you so pretty?”

you smile, your cheeks flushing, both from the compliment and the way jiun’s enthusiasm hits you full force. you open your mouth to introduce yoongi, but before you can, yoongi beats you to it.

what do you even say?

this is yoongi, my boyfriend.

this is yoongi, my babydaddy.

this is yoongi, my friend but not really.

“I’m yoongi.”

yeah.

that’s probably good.

jiun’s eyes flicker from you to him, and a playful look flashes across her face. you catch her glance at your hand—your ring finger empty. she’s smooth with it though, and you know she means no harm. she just wants to have context without asking for it.

“oh, i see. the father, huh?” she teases, then looks back at you with a knowing grin. "___, we talked about this all the time, remember? i’m so happy for you both."

you feel your face warm at her words.

there’s no hiding your embarrassment now, especially since jiun’s been so open about how she used to listen to all your daydreams.

you nervously laugh, shrugging a little, but yoongi just chuckles and leans in to whisper into your ear, “i know.”

the three of you stand there for a moment, an awkward but comfortable silence settling between you all. you try to shake off the sudden shyness, glancing at yoongi. his hand is still on your waist, his thumb gently rubbing over your side as if to ground you.

jiun looks at the two of you and then back at you, still beaming.

“honestly, i’m just so happy for you. i remember you talking about wanting this for so long. i’m so glad it happened for you… and with someone like…” jiun pauses, gesturing for yoongi to complete her sentance.

“i’m a nurse practitioner for a dermatology practice my friends and i own.”

jiun’s eyes widen.

“holy shit,” she breathes. “you chose well, ___. can you find me a babydaddy too?”

you throw your head back and laugh. she moves closer to you, tugging on your arm. “are you still friends with that taehyung guy? the one that’s friends with the twink and the buff one?”

you roll your eyes at her.

“you guys kissed once at a party—”

“i want his babies.”

yoongi almost chokes on air.

jiun shifts her attention to him and apologies. “sorry,” jiun giggles. “hyemi, ___, and i are a little unhinged when it comes to sex.”

yoongi, noticing the warmth and tenderness in her voice, offers a small but sincere smile.

“all good,” he says, his voice soft. “he is single though… is there any way i could pitch jungkook to you?”

“the twink?”

“the buff one.”

jiun thinks for a moment. “isn’t he into milfs?”

yoongi’s smile drops.

you make a face at jiun and shake your head. she quickly catches on and laughs, trying to move past the moment.

“you know what? you two look really good together. don’t forget to invite me to the baby shower, okay?”

you nod, unable to hide your smile now. "yeah. i’m actually not sure if i’m gonna have one—”

“that’s insane,” jiun gasps. “you out of all people deserve one. you’ve wanted to be a mom for so long… yoongi, contact me for catering, okay? that’ll be my baby shower gift.”

“jiun, that’s too much—”

“okay,” yoongi accepts her offer. “let me know if you want any expenses cover though. it’s no problem.”

jiun looks back at you, her grin widening. “provider man, i see… well, wow. i love this for you, ___. you’re gonna be a great mom, and i know yoongi is lucky to have you.”

you feel your heart swell, but you try to hide your emotions with a soft laugh.

"stop, you’re gonna make me cry."

“it’s the pregnancy harmones.”

“totally.”

the three of you laugh together, the tension between you all easing as jiun’s bubbly energy fills the space around you.

"i have to get back to the kitchen, but it was so good to see you. enjoy the rest of your day guys! and i’m serious about that baby shower, okay?" jiun says, giving you both a quick hug before she heads back to the kitchen.

as she disappears inside, yoongi takes your hand, guiding you out of the restaurant.

"you really are something, you know that?" he says softly, his voice low, like he’s trying to keep the moment just for the two of you. “you have good friends.”

you grin at him, leaning into his side. “true. i mean, i’ve got good taste.”

“you do.” yoongi chuckles, the sound warm and genuine. “remember when i was your friend?” his hand moves down to your waist again, his touch reassuring, like he’s silently claiming this space between you both, soft and sure.

“awh, what does that mean? are you not my friend anymore?”

you and yoongi go home and spend the afternoon rearranging a few things in the living room, bedroom, and nursery.

there’s no rush, just the kind of slow, comfortable task that makes the house feel more like home. he’s focused, but every now and then, his eyes flicker over to you, catching the way your movements are a little slower now with the growing baby.

“you know, we should’ve done this sooner,” yoongi says with a small smirk as he adjusts a shelf in the living room, his sleeves rolled up.

you laugh, brushing your hair from your face. “we tried, remember? but i kept changing my mind. it’s the pregancy brain—”

“yeah, yeah,” he chuckles, stepping back to take in the space. “so, are you committed to this? it looks good. like really good.”

you look around the room, the warm glow from the soft lighting making everything feel cozy and welcoming.

“i am,” you breathe.

by dinner time, the kitchen smells like heaven.

the two of you working side by side at the stove, getting everything ready. yoongi’s movements are precise, fluid, and you find yourself watching him, the way he handles the utensils and moves around the kitchen with ease.

“need help with anything?” you ask, leaning over the counter, watching him chop vegetables.

“just stay out of my way, and we’ll be fine,” yoongi teases without looking up, though there’s a glint of playfulness in his eyes.

you roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

“oh, i see how it is.”

“too harsh?”

you frown at him.

“just wondering where the guy that begged for private cooking lessons went.”

yoongi throws his head back and laughs. you join him and poke his sides. he squirms and tells you to leave his kitchen.

you don’t listen.

instead, you continue to annoy him.

as the meal comes together, the soft music playing in the background and the warm lighting create a slow, almost intimate atmosphere. you stand close to yoongi, your body just slightly pressed against his, and before you know it, you’re laughing into the crook of his neck as he stirs something on the stove.

he pauses for a moment, his hand resting on your hip, and his eyes flicker to you.

“you’re distracting me."

“i’m just admiring your cooking skills.” you grin, pressing a kiss to his neck before pulling away to finish setting the table.

when you finally sit down to eat, you’re side by side, the tension from the earlier moments easing as the evening settles in. yoongi’s hand rests lightly on your thigh, his thumb drawing soft circles over your skin, the warmth of his touch grounding you in the quiet comfort of the moment.

“so,” he starts, voice low and teasing, “baby names?”

you look over at him with an exicted look on your face. “oh my god. should we talk about that tonight?”

yoongi snorts, giving you a playful nudge. “why not now?”

you laugh, shaking your head. “i’ll get too excited. i won’t eat.”

yoongi’s hand gives your thigh a gentle squeeze, his lips curling into a smile.

“okay. let’s get ready for bed and talk about it then?”

you reach over, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

“oh my god, i think you just got me pregnant again.”

he raises an eyebrow, that playful glint returning to his eyes. “is that so?”

yoongi is washing dishes while you lay on the couch, munching on tangerines.

the soft scent of citrus fills the room, and your pregnant belly rests comfortably on the couch, the perfect table for the fruit.

“you know,” you start, looking down at your belly with a grin, “my tummy’s really the perfect table for tangerines.”

yoongi glances over, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he wipes his hands on a towel. “of course it is. a convenient little snack spot.”

you giggle, reaching for another tangerine, but yoongi sets the dish towel down and walks over to you, his steps slow and deliberate. he dips his head low to press a soft kiss to your lips, but before you can react, he pulls away slightly, taking a tangerine from your mouth instead.

“i knew you were saving that one for me,” he murmurs, a smirk playing on his lips as he settles down beside you.

you laugh softly, offering him the next segment of tangerine, but he shakes his head, instead pulling you closer, his arms wrapping around your body, his chest against your back. his breath is warm against your ear as he nuzzles your neck.

“i missed you,” he whispers.

“you did?” you tease, tilting your head back to look at him, your hand resting on his arm. “is that why you’re so clingy?”

yoongi laughs quietly, the sound soft and affectionate, before his lips find yours in a slow, lingering kiss. the world outside fades as you both settle into the quiet of the moment, the only sound being your breathing and his heart's soft, steady beat against your back.

everything grows more heated.

more urgent.

as he pulls you even closer, his lips moving to your neck, his hands roaming over your body with a gentle insistence. you don’t pull away, instead melting into him, your own hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt.

he pauses, looking at you with a small smile, his forehead resting against yours.

“you’re so perfect,” he murmurs, his voice thick with affection.

you smile, running your fingers through his hair.

“so are you.”

you’re obsessed with yoongi’s lips.

maybe that’s why you cum fast and hard as he presses, drags, and uses them to suck on your clit. he knows all the right places to get your toes curling and your eyes wincing. you grip his hair, grinding your pussy into his face more and more. his hot breath adds a depth you can’t quite explain.

it’s good.

so fucking good.

“mhmm,” you moan. “y-yoongi…”

he does a few kitten licks, slurping up the last few drops of your cum from inside your folds. looking up at you, you feel your chest tighten as he maintains eye contact.

yoongi finishes you off and you lose your breath.

quickly, he hovers over and takes his shirt off. you sit up and raise your hands. he helps you take your dress off, revealing you in just your bra.

and god…

are your tits the best thing he’s ever seen.

wow.

they’re plump and just so perfect. he practically drools at the sight of them. yoongi can’t stop his hands from cupping them over your bra. you gasp from his touch and whine;

“my nipples… they’re still so sensitive.”

suddenly both of you recall that night he came over and how one thing led to another… how he looked at you as he sucked your tits and palmed them. how he looked at you as he tugged on your nipples… how he massaged them until the soreness was gone.

how good he was at playing with them.

yoongi lowers himself and kisses your hard nipples.

“that okay?” he asks you.

“y-yeah,” you shiver from his light touch. “feels good…”

“okay,” he breathes. “i… just wanna make sure… you’re okay with this? do you want to have sex? we don’t have to. i can just—”

you reach for him and tug him close. kissing him deep and slow, you pull away and lean your forehead against his.

“yeah.”

that’s all he needs.

yoongi smiles and kisses you once more before taking his underwear off. revealing himself, your throat goes dry.

sometimes, it baffles you how fucking big he is.

no fucking wonder you got pregnant after the first time.

you reach for his cock, but he jolts away. he spits on it, keeping his eyes on you.

“don’t worry about me,” yoongi assures you. “i’ll cum no matter what.”

you scoff at him.

“but i wanna—mhmmmffffppph—”

as yoongi kisses you, he shifts his body to your side. he lays behind you, stretching his arms to cup your body. once he’s comfortable, he reaches for his cock and jerks it off a few more times before inserting it inside you. he spoons you, holding you close and resting his chin on top of your head.

when he’s fully in, you let out a moan.

“oh my god…”

“mhm?” he breathes. “is it okay? are you comfortable?”

you nod and take his hand. you move it to you breast and have him squeeze it.

“keep going, honey.”

yoongi kisses the top of your head and begins to fuck you from behind. as he does so, you feel him everywhere. his dick is so fucking big, it’s hard not to. as he fucks you, each stroke makes you feel like you’re coming to life. like, you weren’t living until he put himself inside you.

he moves slowly but surely, being careful with the way his pelvis slaps against your ass. you make cute little noises that boost his ego and all he can think is;

fuck.

he’s in love.

as he fucks himself more and more into you, you begin to lose your breath. yoongi takes his hand off your tits and moves them down to your clit. he plays with it, pinching, squishing, and rubbing it. you moan louder and louder—unable to contain how good he makes you feel.

“f-fuck,” you utter. “yoongi… oh my god…”

“yeah?” he hisses. “you like this? am i fucking you good, mama?”

“so good, daddy. so fucking good… u-uhhh! uh huh… mhmmmm!”

he hisses.

“i’m gonna cum,” yoongi pants, breathing in through his nose. “are you close?”

you gulp. “almost?”

“almost?” he repeats. “okay. let’s change positions.”

before you know it, yoongi pulls himself out and gets you to lay flat on your back. he gets on top of you, planting both his arms on either side of you. instantly, he lowers himself to kiss you. his hands move to your hair as yours wrap around his back.

you dig your nails into his skin, dragging them down. then, you lower your hands even more and find his dick. you flick your wrist, gripping on it just enough. you pump him a few times before shoving his dick back inside you.

when his cock is fully inside, you moan into his ear.

“oh god… daddy, your cock is so fucking hard. i’m so wet, so close to cumming…”

“mhm?” yoongi moans. “yeah, mama?”

“y-yeah,” you gasp. “can you cum inside me again, daddy? i miss how it feels. so sticky… so creamy. you remember, right? how tight i got when you made me cum? did you cock get rock hard when you came inside me? hmm? can you make your cum special for me?”

yoongi gulps.

“special for you? how so, mama?”

you kiss him.

“dunno,” you bite your lip. “give me a lot, please. extra creamy. extra yummy.”

he snickers, thrusting inside you harder and harder.

“i’ll do by best.”

“o-ohh,” you moan again. “mhm! j-just like that, daddy! o-ohh.. oh! oh my god. yes, yes, yes—oh my god!”

soon, your whines and moans turn into sobs.

you’re actually fucking sobbing over his dick.

yoongi fucks you so good, your pussy swells. he fucks you hard but in a gentle enough way that you two are still being cautious over the bump between you two. every so often, he shifts to kiss your tummy.

then finally, your breath hitches, and your legs begin to shake.

you cum.

“y-yoongi—”

“i got you,” he says, holding you tighter.

you wrap your arms around his shoulder blade and bury your face in the crook of his neck. his sweat smells so good to you.

as you ride your climax, yoongi continues to fuck you. he grunts, trying to push himself to the limit. he drags his dick inside and out of you—trying his best to gather all his cum.

then, he spills himself inside you.

“fuckkk…” he groans.

you feel it.

you feel his cum squirt inside you. you feel it spill out of your hole and down your folds. you feel it leak onto the bed.

“thank you, daddy.. thank you.”

“anything for you, mama.”

lazily, yoongi continues to fuck you.

you kiss his shoulders as he whimpers;

“___?”

“mhmm?” you move your hands to his hair. there’s a silence that follows, but nothing changes. he doesn’t move and neither do you.

and you feel it.

you know it.

then, he says it.

“i love you.”

and with a flutter in your heart, his cum inside your pussy, and his baby inside you… you say it too.

“i love you too.”

#bts smau #yoongi scenario #yoongi smau #yoongi fanfic #bts texting scenario #yoongi fake texts #yoongi imagine #bts imagine #yoongi x yn #yoongi x ox

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whowantshota · 11 months ago

Text

NOT ALLOWED pt. 2 —— lee heeseung

it's date night with your boyfriend, but you don't even show up. you can't help it, old habits die hard.

warnings ☆ MATURE CONTENT AHEAD. angst, smut, cheating, dom heeseung, this is mostly smut, manipulation, ft enha, soobin (txt) deserves the world,

song recs: it almost worked, tv girl. not allowed, tv girl. lovers rock, tv girl. billie bossa nova, billie eilish,

read part one here! can also be read as a standalone

After what you’ve been calling the ‘little incident,’ the rest of the week was uneventful. Classes are the same, Sunoo’s no less dramatic, and you think you’ve texted your project partner Yunjin at least once since then. Soobin’s still texting you sweet little goodnight messages before you go to sleep though, still kissing you the same and fucking you in that slow, soft way he always has.

You hate it. Hate it with every fiber of your being. You hate it so much. The way he isn’t repulsed by you, hugs you close to him when the two of you go about on campus. The way he loves you all the same despite what you’ve now gone and done.

And you know that you should break up with him. Not because he’s ass—if anything he’s the farthest from it that you’ve ever seen a man be. No, if anything you (absolutely) are the ass. That’s why it’d be so much better than trying, trying so damn hard to love him the way he loves you.

“Dinner? Tomorrow, at 9?” He asked you suddenly during study group. You look up from your book to glance at him. One eyebrow raised, he grins at the feeling of his knee pressing into your thigh, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Dinner?” You repeat, tapping your pencil against the table. Soobin nods, running his tongue over his bottom lip. There’s a slight blush you can see creeping up his neck, rising in his ears.

He waits for you to answer, hands folded politely over his own textbook. His sleeves are rolled up just below his elbows and you can see the thick vein that traces its way down to the back of his hand. His fingers are so pretty, so big, have fucked their way into your a cunt a number of times now. The same fingers that’ve treated you right so many times, skimmed across the expanse of your inner thigh. They’ve never choked you, though. Never fucked into your mouth and pressed hard on your tongue, never pulled you down and gagged you on cock.

They’ve never treated you like Heeseung has.

You blink twice, look down, only to look back up and peek at Soobin from under your lashes. “Yeah. Dinner sounds great.”

The way Soobin lights up makes your heart hurt. You really don’t know why he’s put so much effort into taking you out, nor why it still makes him happy. You’ve been dating for three months now, talking for maybe a little longer than that. He’s been trying to make more time for you now, ever since you mentioned it to him. Date’s every fortnight, mostly over coffee or ice cream. Sometimes there’s sex, and sometimes there’s not. Usually, there is.

Soobin’s hands unfold, and he spares a look at the clock. He breaks into the awkward silence, clearing his throat and straightening the white collar of his shirt. “Um, it’s late, huh.” He notes, scratching the back off his neck. “Can I…”

“Sure.” You say, lips pursed. You know what he wants; nothing more than to simply walk you to your dorm. He nods silently at your response and stands up, closing his book and gathering his own things to shove into his bag. Too fucking sweet for his own good, Choi Soobin does not deserve you.

★ . *- .

You think it almost worked.

If you had tried a little harder, possibly made a little more room in your heart for Soobin, then maybe you could have left every single thing about Lee fucking Heeseung behind you.

You did dress up for dinner, wore a short black dress and your favorite cardigan. You did take the time to fix up your hair, and you did go the extra mile and buy him a perfume.

Oh fuck that, you didn’t even wait for him to pick you up at your dorm.

It should have seemed at least a little shocking, but to be honest, you knew that you would come back. You could take it to another level and say you that had planned it, and that’d even be true.

Heeseung was shocked though, opening the door to find you standing outside at 8:47 PM, his pretty, pink lips parted in silence. Before he could say anything, you were already pulling him in for a kiss, feeling his warmth and sliding your hands into his wet hair.

He lets out a long, full groan against your bottom lips when your hands start to feel lower, wanting and reaching for more. “Baby,” he hums when he finally pulls away, “fuck, slow down.”

His hands wrap around your wrists, separating your touch from him. Heeseung did not expect to see you back on his doorstep so soon, had thought you’d be a smarter girl. Thought you'd take some time to think about things, maybe even see how bad, how fucking horrible you are for each other. You didn’t though, and to say he didn’t want you back on his doorstep though, would be a lie.

“Need you Heeseung,” you tell him. He can’t help but shiver at the sight of you, his grip loosening around your arms and allowing you to slither a hand to his face, cupping his cheek.

You pull at the hem of the black shirt he’s wearing, tight around his chest. He must’ve just come back from practice, meaning Jay and Jake are probably still in the house but honestly you couldn’t care less. They could watch for all you care.

You’re attaching your lips to his once more before he’s pulling you inside, only separating once to close the door and press your backside against it.

Heeseung moans into your mouth, tasting the sweet cherry chapstick slick on your lips. His hands move from your arms to glide along your waist. He squeezes, earning a small, muffled cry from you. It was funny, how well he still remembered you and all of your littleticks, what you liked and what threw you off.

He only moves his lips from yours to start sucking against the skin on your neck, efficient work pulling an unwanted whimper from you. He smiles against your skin and you can feel the upturned corners pressing to you.

“Fuck, Seungie.” You murmur, pulling away for a breath, which is short lived because Heeseung is pulling you back in, bitting your bottom lip.

You tug at his sweats, fitting a hand inside and cupping his hard on. He stiffens at your touch, hissing something you can’t hear. You love it, the way he reels into you, hands gripping you tight. You could let him take you here, have you all to himself on the couch until midnight. Even longer than that if you really fucking wanted to.

You have him here, all to yourself. He’s whispering in your ear about how good you taste and you’re talking right back, going on and on about how much you missed him, needed him.

You feel the vibration of your phone buzz in your cardigan, but you don’t make a move to even check for it. Fuck Yunjin, or Sunoo, or Soobin, you get back to them later. But you can’t get back Heeseung, can’t get back the way he grinds into the palm of your hand, can’t get back the sweet sounds he makes everytime you tug a little to hard at his hair. Definitely can’t get back the way he loves you at all, though you’re not sure how long it’s been since you lost that.

You groan in annoyance when your phone starts to ring again, pulling it out from your pocket. Heeseung doesn’t question it, let’s you simply fling your phone somewhere around the room and drums his fingers against your hip.

“Came to see me, yeah?” He mumbles against your neck, thumbs starting to rub against you in a circular motion. “Came to let me eat that pretty cunt, mm?”

He starts to suck a hickey and you almost protest, almost say that Soobin could see it, could figure out that you make yourself cum with someone else’s name on the tip of your tongue. But you don’t say anything, only palm his bulge and moan. He slips a hand under the skirt of your dress, presses his fingers against the crotch of your panties.

He’s dragging slow fingers against fabric, feeling the growing wet patch between your folds. “Seungie, hurry up.” You pout, looking at him with big, wet eyes.

Luckily, he’s not in the mood to tease you, yet. He hums and complies with your pleas, locking your lips once more as he slides two fingers in. He’s sloppily kissing you, devouring the moans that leave you while at the same time fucking his fingers into you.

He doesn’t take his time at all; doesn’t look to see if you’re enjoying it. He doesn’t need to, he knows you eat up whatever the fuck he gives you. Knows he’s fucked you right enough times for you to love this.

You feel like your legs are going to give out when he rolls his thumb against your clit, other hand reaching to knead the flesh of your ass. From the way he’s still grinding against your hand, you think he’s enjoying it too.

You whimper when he pulls out so abruptly, dropping to kneel on the floor in front of you. He pulls your leggings and panties down to your knees, sucking on his fingers and pressing his cheek against the soft skin of your thigh. You can hear the loud pop when he pulls them out of his mouth, messily coated in his saliva.

When he pauses to look up at you, fuck, you swear you could cum on the spot. The greatest view you’ve seen in a long time; Heeseung below you with his mouth parted slightly, haired mussed, face flushed deep red as he licks his fingers clean.

It hits you right then, how much you want him, really fucking need him. “Fuckin’, love you. Need you s’much.” You cry. There’s tears welling up in your eyes, and they seem to be enough to inspire him to continue.

Warm, wet lips press against your cunt. It's so soft, so gentle that for a second you wonder if it really is Heeseung, who’s peppering kisses along your pelvis. If he's really there, looking up at you from behind thick locks of dark hair. “Yeah? Need me to fuck this pretty pussy because your boyfriend doesn't?” He asks, continuing to press a trail of kisses against your front, only stopping when he's about right under your navel.

“He…he does,” you stutter. You didn’t think before the words came out, merely let them spill in a hurried response. To be fair, you hadn’t spoken that loud either, but Heeseung hears it, of course.

“Oh, he does?” He takes a moment to let it sink in, brows furrowing before he pulls away and stands up. You want to hold him back down, tell him to kneel again and fuck his tongue into your cunt. But perhaps now's not the time: Heeseung looks unimpressed by the words, arms crossed over his chest.

The dorm is silent. Much too silent. Considering it’s not that late, you can bet that both Jake and Jay are still up, if not in their respective rooms, hopefully out and about.

Not that there’s time to think about those too, though. Heeseung’s hand is closing around your wrist, and he’s dragging you away from the wall and further into the room. He lays you on the couch—it seems to have become a spot after your last visit.

Heeseung’s got you pinned under him in seconds, pulling off his shirt, hips straddling yours. “You’d don’t think he could fuck you better than I could, baby?” You hear him hum. One strong hand resting on your stomach, bulge pressed up against your leg.

“That's why you're here with me, letting me fuck this cunt, hm?” He trails off, not so much flinching as you reach into his boxers, pulling his thick cock out of his sweats.

You didn’t come here because of anyone else, you came here because you need Heeseung. Because Soobin could fuck you right, but he just can’t fuck you the way Herseung does. So you’re about to object, state your point, looking at Heeseung through pitiful eyes. And then a buzzing starts up from between the couch cushions.

Heeseung sees it before you do, grabs your long forgotten phone from where it’s sunk. He looks it over, bright light illuminating his face much better than the old lamp in the corner does.

You know something is wrong when you see the smirk growing on his face, wetting his bottom lip. The phone’s still buzzing, but Heeseung’s already hovering right over you, breath fanning over your face. Precum dribbles down from his tip and along the back of your leg. “Keep quiet for a bit, ‘kay baby?”

He places the phone on the couch arm behind you. You’re about to turn around, swearing you heard something when Heeseung suddenly pushes into you without warning.

You gasp, pussy squeezing around his girth. He shoves his thumb into the side of your mouth, forcing it open enough for him to spit inside.

“Swallow,” he commands, fucking into you at a mild pace. His hand moves down to close around your throat, resting his thumb against the lump when you comply. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

“Please!” You cry, clenching even harder at the pet name, earning a groan from Heeseung. His pace falters, and he’s fucking into you sloppily.

“Fuck, I’ll take care of this cunt,” Heeseung manages to get out, voice, breathy as he speaks. You hiccup, tears slipping down your face. It feels so good, too good. How the fuck did you survive a week without this?

He doesn’t complain when your arms wrap around him, nails digging raw pink marks into his skin. Your back hurts like fuck with the way your arching, but the warmth of his cock is too good for you to care. “Yes, fuck–please, wan’ that.”

And as always, it’s about Heeseung giving you whatever you need at the moment. Maybe that’s why you don’t notice the sadistic smirk on Heeseung’s face when he lazily fucks a couple of more strokes into you. Or why you don’t hear the other end of the phone, don’t see Soobin’s contact name shining brightly on the dial screen of your phone.

“Yeah?” Heeseung muses, reveling in the thought of the desperate scratches he’ll find on his back tomorrow morning. “Who does this pussy belong to, baby?”

“Heeseung! All yours Seungie-” You’re babbling now, sobbing through choked breaths. He fits in you so well; you know you were just made for him.

“All. Fucking. Mine.” He grunts, fucking into you on each word. The disconnect tone plays right when Heeseung cums, head of his cock dragging against you insides as he rides the high out.

He doesn’t topple over you and let you ruffle his hair when finishes. Nor does he kiss your nose or call you beautiful. No, he merely pulls out, watches the way his cum spills down your thighs, tucks himself back into his sweats and pushes off of the couch.

You almost reach out to him, but the words die in your throat. You hear Heeseung mutter something, tell you that you can get cleaned in the bathroom, that there’s a pair of his clothes you can change into.

You hate him for it. Even though you’re the one who wanted to walk into all of this. Heeseung did tell you that you couldn’t, shouldn’t start over. Who the fuck were you to think you could fix him; fix what you had?

Now you’re really crying. Big tears welling up and dropping onto the wrinkled skirt of your dress. You pick up your phone from its place on the armchair, open the call app, then drop it into your lap.

You should have known, should have expected it with the number of times he brought up Soobin. Should have seen him reach for your phone, should have noticed the grand smile he wore while he fucked you so good, so deep.

Soobin’s phone number appears three times in your list of recent calls. Twice, as a missed call. Once, as answered.

i love this work so much. reblogs and comments are always appreciated! not beta read

#had billie bossa nova on loop it set the mood so well #kpop hard thoughts #kpop hard hours #enha smut #enhypen smut #enhypen x reader #heeseung x reader smut #lee heeseung x reader #heeseung smut #lee heeseung smut #heeseung x reader #kpop smut

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vivenza · 2 months ago

Text

Disclaimers: 18+ Content, Strictly No Minors, Read Kinks List Carefully

Kinks: Mild Exhibitionism, Clit Rubbing, Dubious Consent (!)

Pairing: Jude x Tutor Reader

Word Count: 2k

Tags: Smut

Summary: There’s almost nobody in the library, which is why Jude has the confidence to mess around with you under the table.

Author's Note: not a single thing about this is healthy (just how i like it oops)

You sit at your usual desk—in the corner, as far from everyone else as possible—tapping your pen against the edge of your notebook. The quiet of the library is soothing, but it does little to calm the irritation bubbling in your chest.

Jude is late.

Again.

This is the fifth tutoring session you’ve had scheduled with him. Every single time, he’s either canceled at the last minute or showed up late. You’re getting paid regardless—the job pays weekly, not per session—but that doesn’t make his lack of effort any less frustrating.

It makes you wonder if Jude even cares about improving. Maybe he’s just going through the motions to keep his coach off his back. He’s a varsity athlete, after all. College is probably just another box to check off to satisfy his parents. You’d almost respect it more if he just admitted he didn’t give a shit about getting more than a passing grade and worked out a deal to save both your time.

You glance at the clock for what feels like the hundredth time. Fifteen minutes late, and still no text. With a sigh, you pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the screen as you type:

Hey, I can only wait a little longer.

Let me know if you’re still coming, or I’ll leave.

You pause for a second, rereading it. Was it too harsh? Maybe. Did you care? Not today. With a decisive tap, you hit send and lean back in your chair, crossing your arms as you stare at the clock again.

Still no reply.

Frustrated but determined not to let him completely waste your time, you open the textbook you brought for him and begin skimming the chapter you’d planned to cover. Your eyes flick over the words, but your focus keeps drifting back to your phone, waiting for that telltale buzz or ding.

A few minutes later, Jude finally appears, striding to your desk with the look of someone who thinks charm can smooth over anything. His hair is damp, and his face glistens slightly, as though he’s just run here. His gym bag is slung over one shoulder, and he’s clearly fresh from a workout. The faint scent of body wash clings to him, and it makes your irritation spike.

He stopped to shower?

He was late, again, and he stopped to shower.

“Sorry,” he says, grinning sheepishly as he drops into the chair beside you. “Got caught up at the gym.”

“Really?” you snap, unable to help yourself. “You’re almost twenty minutes late, and you stopped for a shower? You couldn’t have done that after this?”

Jude leans back in his chair, the grin on his face only widening. “What, you’d rather I showed up all sweaty? Thought I was doing you a favor.”

Your glare intensifies, but he seems to revel in it, his eyes twinkling as though your irritation is the highlight of his day. You huff and open your notebook, flipping to the page you’d marked for today’s topic.

“Let’s just start,” you mutter. “We’re already behind.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” he teases, leaning forward with his chin propped lazily in his hand.

As you go through the problem set, explaining the steps to him, Jude’s focus is anywhere but on the math. He leans in too close, his tone low and playful as he murmurs things like, “You look cute when you’re mad,” and, “You’re really serious about this, huh? Kinda hot.”

“Would you stop?” you snap, exasperated, slamming your pencil down. “If you’re not going to take this seriously, then why are you even here?”

Jude leans in suddenly, closing the distance between you, and your breath catches in your throat before you can stop it. His face is far too close, the warm scent of him flooding your senses, something delicious you can’t quite place. His gaze locks onto yours, the lazy playfulness in his eyes replaced by something sharper, something that makes the air feel heavy between you.

His voice drops slightly, softer but no less confident. “You really want to know why I’m here?”

For a moment, you’re paralyzed, caught in the intensity of his stare. The curve of his lips draws your attention, and you can’t help the way your eyes drift to them. Full and inviting, they hover so close you can feel the warmth of his breath.

Your pulse thrums in your ears, and you hate the way your stomach flips as your thoughts betray you. You’re supposed to be annoyed, furious even, but here you are, unable to stop yourself from wondering how those lips would feel pressed against yours.

You force yourself to snap out of it, tearing your gaze away, frowning with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. But Jude notices. Of course he notices. His grin returns, smug and knowing, his voice laced with amusement.

“You’re so uptight,” he chuckles, leaning back slightly.

The moment fades as you shake yourself out of the daze, glancing around the library. Your desk is tucked in a quiet corner, hidden from view behind towering bookshelves, away from the prying eyes of others.

It’s the perfect spot—secluded, private, where no one can interrupt or watch. You’ve always preferred it here, where the world outside feels distant and you can focus without distractions. But now, the space feels suffocating in a way you hadn't noticed before.

Then, Jude hand shifts, bringing you back to reality. You stiffen as his fingers land on your bare knee beneath the table, his hand warm and big.

Your heart skips a beat as sensations flood your system. The skater skirt you wore for comfort is proving to be anything but that, granting him far too easy access to touch your skin, allowing a jolt of heat to course through you from where he rests his palm.

“Relax a little,” he murmurs, his tone low and teasing, his thumb tracing a small circle against your skin.

The casual intimacy of it sends a jolt through you, and for a second, you’re unsure whether you’re more furious with him or with yourself for not immediately pushing his hand away.

Your entire body tenses as he leans closer, his voice dropping to a suggestive murmur. “I think I know what’ll help you unwind.”

Part of you wants to tell him to remove his hand, assert some semblance of control over this situation. But another part, a darker, more primal part, craves the warmth and intimacy of his touch.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady the chaotic rhythm of your heart. You can feel him watching you, but you are unable to do or say anything in response, too wound up to even think. All you know is that you want him—desperately.

In the midst of your silence, his fingers gently trace the curve of your thigh, inching closer to the hem of your skirt. Your grip on the pen tightens, but your hand is trembling, a silent betrayal of your nerves.

“Do you want me?” he asks, his breath warm against your ear.

For a moment, you freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. The question lingers in the air, heavy and charged. You know you should stop him, pull away, but something in his gaze holds you captive. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you nod, unable to find the words to refuse.

Before you can compose yourself, you feel his hand going under your skirt. Before you can react, his fingers deftly slide over the wet spot on your panties. The pen slips from your grasp, clattering to the table. The sudden touch makes you gasp and you have to bite your lip to drown out the sound.

“Jude, we’re in public.” you manage to breathe out, your voice a mix of desire and desperation. You didn’t know this would be the effect of your answer, but now you can’t stop yourself from responding to his actions. “We can’t do this here.”

He ignores your plea, his fingers continuing their exploration, finding that sensitive nub that makes you shudder. "You know you want this," he murmurs against your ear, his voice low and husky.

His touch is electric, sending waves of sensation through you. Your body reacts instinctively, your legs parting slightly to grant him better access. You want to push his hand away, but your traitorous hips arch towards his touch instead.

You try to gather your thoughts, to form a coherent protest, but his skilled fingers are rendering you helpless. Your body betrays your mind, responding to his touch in ways you can’t deny. You feel yourself weakening, your resolve crumbling under the onslaught of pleasure.

"Please, Jude, not here," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “Someone might see us.”

The room feels smaller, the air thicker with each passing second. You can hear the faint sound of flipped pages and clacking keyboards, all reminders of where you are—at the library, in a place where such intimacy is forbidden.

Jude leans closer, his lips brushing against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "They won’t notice," he assures you, his confidence unnerving. His fingers press harder, skillfully manipulating you, drawing soft moans from deep within.

You close your eyes, trying to focus, to resist, but the sensations are overwhelming. Your breathing quickens, matching the rhythm of his fingers, each stroke more deliberate, more intense. The effort to stifle your moans becomes futile, and they slip out in quiet, needy whimpers.

He chuckles softly, a sound that vibrates through you. “Knew you’d love my fingers,” he teases, his arrogance infuriating yet undeniably arousing. His fingers continue their dance, exploring, discovering, conquering.

You feel yourself losing control, your body surrendering to his mastery. Your hands now clutch at his arms, gripping tightly as if seeking support.

“So sweet,” Jude whispers, his voice a seductive command. “It’s like I’m the first guy to touch you like this.”

You've touched yourself before, of course, exploring the contours of your own body, learning the language of your desires. But you’ve never had a guy do it, much less someone as attractive as Jude. You've craved this—being touched like this—dreamt of it, but the reality is so much more than you ever imagined.

“You are,” you whisper breathily. The admission hanging in the air, a shared moment of vulnerability that only heightened the electric connection between your bodies. “You’re the first.”

Desire washes over his face as he applies just a bit more pressure, watching as the pleasure washed over your features like a warm wave. “You’re all mine. Nobody will ever have you like this.”

“Jude,” you moan, your voice pleading, unsure if you’re asking for more or for him to stop.

He takes advantage of your vulnerability, speeding up his assault, his fingers relentless in their pursuit of your climax. You feel the tension building, coiling tighter and tighter within you, ready to snap.

“That’s it,” he encourages, sensing your approaching edge. His voice is a catalyst, pushing you closer to the precipice. His fingers quicken, more demanding.

You can’t hold back any longer, the dam inside you breaking. Your body arches, your head falling back, a silent scream trapped in your throat as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you.

Jude’s presence is both a comfort and a reminder of the danger. When the storm subsides, you sit there, spent and exposed, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Then, your worst nightmare unfolds. The faint sound of footsteps breaks the stillness, and a shadow shifts just beyond the edge of the shelf. A figure approaches, reaching up to pull a book from the row near your hidden corner. You freeze instantly, heart pounding in your chest, every nerve in your body screaming as you realize Jude’s hand is still resting between your thighs, and he has no intentions to move it.

The stranger lingers for a moment, scanning the spine of another book. You sit there, motionless, every breath held as though even the tiniest movement will give you away. But to your immense relief, the person doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. They tuck the book under their arm and walk away, oblivious.

The tension breaks as Jude leans back with a soft laugh, his grin wide and teasing. “You should’ve seen your face,” he murmurs, his voice a low, amused drawl.

His hand gives your knee a light squeeze before he pulls it away, leaving behind a trail of heat that only makes your nerves buzz more. “Maybe next time, we take this somewhere a little less... public.”

You scowl at him, but your racing heart betrays the tangled emotions knotting in your chest.

#jude bellingham smut #read the disclaimer carefully #vivenzawrites

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vallification · 7 months ago

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rushes: chapter one

tw: verbal abuse

wc: 4.3k

Droplets of brownie batter are splattered atop the marble counter, half-dried, beside the neatly packaged box filled with an assortment of fresh, fragrant, and warm homemade desserts and pastries. A sink full of dishes is left in the wake of the impressive spread, and your kitchen is reminiscent of the aftermath of a cyclone. The mess glares at you, incredulous at the fact that you’d dirty such a luxurious space, but you want to deliver the fruits of your labor before they get cold. You have yet to meet your neighbor across the hall, and if you learned anything from your grandmother, a good first impression is rarely set by empty hands.

Or messy hair. A halo of frizz stares back at you in the reflection of your microwave. Quickly, you dip into the bathroom to tug your hair tie loose, smoothing down your flyaways and combing through your hair with your fingers.

“That’s… acceptable,” You mumble, dabbing your face with the remnants of setting powder left on your brush until you’re no longer shining and slathering on some lip gloss. Paint and what you assume is flour stains your worn t-shirt and shorts. You give yourself a once over in the mirror and find the rest of you to be acceptable, too. Balance.

Before you go, you check your phone for a text from your boyfriend, but no dice. It’s been radio silence since you moved in. You placate yourself with excuses for him, because he might be tired, or busy, or… something like that. Saying that things have been a breeze lately would be a blatant lie, though. To put it lightly, Toji was hot and cold. He was too busy to help you move in, but not too busy to stop by and fuck you before you left; he was fine with you leaving, but his mood soured every time you rambled excitedly about your new place; and like now, he would ignore you for days, but pick a fight if you dared to take more than 10 minutes to answer his texts.

The unholy lack of notifications stares back at you like a prophecy. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath in, filling every corner of your lungs before exhaling sharply. You pocket your phone and grab the box.

So far, all of your neighbors have either been pretentious financier DINKs or older couples drowning in their bottomless retirement funds. Before this unreal opportunity of an internship, you would have been lucky to even know about this part of town, much less be in the vicinity of this building. Lady Luck has kissed your sweet little head several times this year, so being lonely in the big city is a small price to pay for your newfound fully funded lifestyle. You shove your complaints in the “First World Problems” file cabinet of your mind, but part of you hopes that the neighbors across the hall are at least a little friendly.

Bracing yourself for another set of snobs, you take a deep breath and knock on the door. Lady Luck spits in your face and cackles.

Your jaw drops when the door swings open to reveal snow white, cerulean blue, golden tan, six feet and three inches of him. Long, muscular arms frame his smug face as large, strong hands brace his absurdly tall figure at the top of the door frame. A shiny white gold chain hangs around his neck, sitting handsomely against his tight black shirt. Your slack jaw slams shut when you see his infuriating smirk, complemented by his infuriating dimples.

Satoru Gojo is like a cold sore. He just keeps fucking coming back.

And even though he’s skimmed through your Instagram annually, he hasn’t seen you in person in almost four years. Your sparkly, girlish energy still decorates your face, but your features are a little more mature now… Not just your features either. Those blue eyes drag up and down your body, simultaneously checking you out, re-familiarizing himself with you, and trying his damndest to fluster you.

It only works a little bit.

Disgust paints your features, your lips curling as you squint at the human embodiment of an unchecked ego. But a hand splaying out over Gojo’s ribs prompts him to make room in the doorway for another figure. Next to Gojo stands a man you don’t know, almost as tall, just as broad, all olive skin and dark hair and eyes that seem to swallow you whole. There’s not enough room for two men as tall and broad as Gojo and whoever that is to be comfortable in the doorway, yet they make it work, shoulder to broad, thick, muscular shoulder. You fix your face into the sweet smile you wore previously.

“What’s that?” Gojo asks, nodding to the box tucked in your arms. Your sweet smile momentarily reverts back into a disgusted snarl as your eyes flick back to him.

“Not for you,” You quip. Stepping one pace to the side, you plant yourself directly in front of the stranger and fix your face once more. Gojo feigns offense with a gasp, and the other man’s eyebrows fly high on his forehead, lips pressed into a tight line as he poorly conceals his amusement. You shove the box forward.

“You can have some, though,” You muse, and your new neighbor takes the box with a grin. Sweetly holding your hands behind your back, you introduce yourself and explain that you live directly across the hall, you’re new to the city, and you’re a concept design student at the University of Tokyo. From his peripheral vision, Gojo watches his roommate look you up and down as you talk, and it isn’t lost on him when Geto’s eyes hang onto the most notable parts of you. Eyes, lips, chest, hips, chest, lips, eyes. Gojo stands quietly–for what you assume is the very first time in his life–his eyes flicking back and forth between the two of you. If you cared to pay him any mind, you’d catch the glint of… jealousy? Annoyance? Yeah, annoyance. If you cared to pay him any mind, you’d catch the glint of annoyance swimming in his ocean blue eyes.

“Suguru Geto. I’m working on my masters there, actually. Computer science,” Suguru, as you now know, explains, holding the box in one arm to gently shake your hand. The beige hoodie he’s wearing smells amazing. Ambery, peppery, heavy… almost sweet but not quite. His voice is the same, rich and smooth and warm. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Suguru Geto’s eyes are violet. And intense. Your phone buzzes one, two, three times in your pocket. Toji.

“... Anyway.” Gojo breaks his silence and pockets his hands as he leans against the door frame. Your sweet smile remains even though your eyes tell a different story, annoyance clipping your friendly demeanor. In his usual style, Gojo holds your gaze of unabashed dismay with one of unshakable confidence.

“Glad to see you’re still painting. Is that creature you’ve got on your Instagram funding this?” Gojo snickers, and is rewarded with another eye roll.

“Is your daddy funding that?” You retort, tiptoeing and batting your eyelashes as you gesture past the two men crowding the doorway. Geto rubs over his face to wipe away the laughter that’s begging to tumble out of his mouth. “Or did that end when he bought you your degree?”

“Woah, is that… hostility? Are there some lingering feelings you’d like some closure for, sweetheart?”

“No time, babe. You’ve probably got an appointment for your biweekly penicillin shot.”

“You wanna call and ask your little boyfriend if he wants to come with me?”

By the time Gojo finishes that sentence, your phone is ringing in your pocket, and Gojo grins. Annoyance has metamorphosed into daggers in your eyes, glaring at the ever so smug bastard standing so coolly before you with your fists balled at your sides. Turning on your heel, you march across the wide hallway to your door, and before it slams shut behind you Geto calls out one more pleasantry.

“Knock for anything!”

—

Gojo forgets about the little white box full of desserts for an impressive eight hours. It definitely helped that the damn thing was hidden in Geto’s room, even then, the box hadn’t crossed his mind since your door slammed shut behind you. Instead, he was thinking about the swish of your hips, the way your stained shirt nearly fell past your tiny denim shorts, the way you totally checked him out before your feigned disgust set in. Sweets don’t have a perfect ass.

But the sweets were still important. Geto returns from his shower with the box in hand, immediately pulling Gojo from his quickly wandering thoughts.

“She said it’s not for you,” Geto reminds, smug and faux-snide as he chastises. Delicately, he tugs a loose end of the silky pink ribbon until the bow it's knotted in is freed. He tosses the ribbon to land awry on top of white hair, and in a huff Gojo snatches the silky pink length of ribbon off of his head. As if to taunt him, Geto oh-so-cautiously pries open the tabs that once kept the box closed, careful to keep the sweet contents obscured from Gojo’s eyes. “Ooh…” Gasp!

“Suguru, I wanna see— what’s in— the box!”

A flurry of hands lurch forward, push away, reach around, until Geto is using his legs to keep Gojo out of the box’s reach. “Oh, wow…”

“What is it? I wanna see!”

“Really, wow. That’s so cute. Is that—?”

“Suguru!”

“Aw, it’s pink! I think it’s strawberry…”

Another flurry of grappling arms, legs, and hands. Geto’s leaning off the side of the couch now, cackling around a fingerful of frosting. Pink sugar sprinkles litter the corner of his grinning mouth, and Gojo gasps in offense. “You must have really pissed her off, Satoru. I think this frosting is homemade. You’d love it.”

“That’s not fair!” Wriggling to climb the length of Geto’s body, Gojo’s hands almost reach the box before Geto rolls out from under him. The box is unscathed when he lands on the floor with a thud, and he sticks a leg out to keep the pouting Gojo away. They're both huffing from their struggle as Geto takes another smug swipe of frosting. So far defeated, Gojo plops himself back on the couch with crossed arms and watches Geto taunt him with your box of prohibited treats.

After a heavily surveilled mouthful of a homemade strawberry cupcake, topped with buttercream frosting and pink sugar sprinkles, Geto hums in amusement. “So what’d you do? Is she someone from college?”

“Nothing. No.” If Gojo pouts any more than he already is, his face might cramp. You used to make those cupcakes all the time, and over half were always devoured in the span of an afternoon by him alone. Not only that, but Gojo knows there’s more than just your strawberry cupcakes in that box. He can smell chocolate.

Gently setting the cupcake down in the box, Geto moves onto the next little dessert. He breaks a piece off of one of the softest chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had the privilege of eating and pops it into his mouth. Does he have the same sweet tooth as Gojo? Absolutely not, but it’s so fun to watch him throw a tantrum. Plus, it’s all really that good. “You had to have done something. These are amazing. I don’t even like chocolate like that.”

Gojo lets out a whine, dramatically wilting over the side of the couch like an unwatered flower, back curved along the arm rest as his head and arms hang. “She’s theatricizing. I want a cupcake.”

“So you did do something? Is she your ex-girlfriend, Satoru?”

He whines again, louder this time, hyperbolically drawn out and frustrated and ragged. Gojo slides along the armrest until he’s on the floor, flat on his back with his legs propped up over the side of the couch. A man of his stature, sprawled out on luxury, dark wooden floors like a toddler is quite the sight. However, Geto wants the details. He doesn’t laugh.

“If you stop pouting and tell me I’ll give you the box.”

“She was a year below me, we dated in my last year of high school and I broke up with her.” Silence. Geto’s waiting for the rest of the story, shoving another piece of soft cookie in his mouth. Gojo throws his hands up in exasperation, but it does nothing to placate his roommate. He pulls his legs down from their position on the couch, propping himself up on one elbow and letting his head rest limply on his shoulder with a huff.

“I broke up with her a week before her birthday so I could be single for college,” Gojo murmurs, hurried and hushed, leaning over to reach for his reward. His fingertips are just a hair shy. “Gimme the box.”

As he promised, Geto slides him the box. It doesn’t come without a disapproving tsk, though, which Gojo ignores in favor of finishing off the bitten strawberry cupcake. Casually gathering the excess frosting off the side of his mouth with his fingertip and casually sticking it out, Geto casually takes Gojo’s frosted middle finger into his mouth to casually suck it clean. Which could mean nothing. Neither of them linger on the action very long; sharing is like a second nature to them, and that’s all that was.

“I mean,” Gojo starts through a mouthful of cupcake. “I don’t think she’s actually upset. It was such a long time ago. If anything,” Another pause for another bite. “It’s a schtick. I let her down pretty gently, if you ask me.”

All he gets in response to that is a raised eyebrow. If Geto knows anything about the sugar fiend sitting adjacent to him, it’s that he has an extremely skewed view of what it means to let someone down gently. A muffled stream of sounds tears his brain away from the secondhand embarrassment of thinking about a less mature version of Gojo “letting someone down easy.”

Gojo’s not privy to the sass packaged in that single quirked eyebrow, nor the noise, too busy on a spiel about your famous strawberry cupcakes through a mouthful of the second one. “I knew these would be in here. She used to make them, like, every week. Did you know that she uses real strawberries to—“

“Shhh.” In the fleeting, stunned moment of silence his hushing offers, Geto can hear the voices slightly clearer than before. It’s an argument, he can tell that much, but he can’t tell which apartment it’s coming from.

“… Um, anyway. As I was saying, can you tell that she uses real strawberries to—“

“Satoru, shut up,” Geto emphasizes, waving a dismissive hand in Gojo’s direction and heaving himself up off of the floor. Watching incredulously as Geto slowly saunters towards the front door, Gojo’s slack jaw opens and shuts around a silent exclamation of offense. But just when Gojo finds the words to constitute a thorough chastisement, he freezes, stiff as a board on the floor. He hears it.

From the living room, it sounds like weird, warbled, distant mumbling, incoherent sounds traveling through thick doors and thicker walls. It’s impossible to decipher even with ears as keen as his own, and for a moment, he allows himself to relax. Whatever it is isn’t his business, and he’s sure Geto is only curious about the hushed sounds because the two of them are the only ones who make such cacophonous noise in such a quiet place. However, the relief he feels is fleeting. He can now distinguish two things about the muffled racket, the first of which being that it’s coming from across the hall—from your apartment— and the second of which being that it’s a man’s raised, agitated voice.

In an instant, Gojo leaps off of the floor, long legs carrying him in determined strides to the front door until his feet are planted firmly at Geto’s side. With an ear pressed against the door, his violet eyes, usually so composed that they’re unreadable, are held wide open, swimming with uncertainty, discomfort, and concern. For Gojo, who’s already dancing on the edge of entering fight or flight, it’s an alarming sight to see. His shoulders are tense, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his lips are worried by sharp teeth, obviously disturbed by something Gojo didn’t quite catch from his place in the living room. From Geto’s perspective, things are not much better. Beside him, Gojo’s reminiscent of a guard dog on high alert, all adrenaline and potential energy and paradoxically controlled instability. He’s got a white knuckle grip on the door handle, his blue eyes flicking back and forth and up and down in a way Geto would describe as erratic if he wasn’t so familiar with him.

Neither of them need to say anything. It’s written in olive, and golden tan, and black, and white, and violet, and cerulean. Gojo stares through the peephole in the door, catching the moment your apartment door swings open.

It’s him. The guy you have littered all over your social media accounts. Not quite as tall as himself or Suguru, but muscular, broad, denotatively handsome in a sharp, steely way. If he didn’t know any better, Gojo might even say that he looks like the dangerous, violent type. That thought doesn’t go away when Gojo watches him lean down, purposefully imposing over your much smaller frame, until he’s eye to eye with you, saying something Gojo can’t make out with either his eyes or his ears but he knows it’s not something good. He hears a mumble, and assumes that’s what prompts the man to scoff and stand up straight again.

“You’re always fuckin’ complaining about something. Fuck’s sake,” He says with a shake of his head, his body language anything but loving or caring or whatever boyfriends are supposed to be. Geto looks down at the floor once your boyfriend’s words to you register in his head, while Gojo looks straight ahead like a laser sight on a sniper rifle, scarily still.

“I’m going home. I’m not staying if you’re going to act like a fucking crazy bitch just because I’m too busy to text you. Some of us have real fuckin’ jobs.” Without a second look at you, the man starts down the hall and disappears into the elevator. It’s cruel. It’s hard to watch.

Your apartment door is left wide open, with you standing pitifully still and shrunken in the doorway, the antithesis of the version of you that gave Gojo’s wit a run for its money just eight hours earlier. Never before has he seen you look so… scared. So stripped. So small. Something about the way that man has left you nothing more than a shivering shell of yourself makes his stomach twist. Gojo watches your bottom lip quiver as you stare at the floor, and the tears that roll freely down your flushed face as you weakly close the door.

Solemn, sobering silence fills the air of their apartment in the aftermath of what they just witnessed. Gojo doubts that, next to him, Geto isn’t also simmering with a nauseating mixture of nasty emotions, but even if neither of them can muster up anything to say in the moment, they both know it’s different. It’s personal for Gojo, it’s visual, it’s visceral, it’s more than something that happened to the sweet new girl across the hall. As if he were on autopilot, Gojo grips the door handle again, waiting for Geto to move out of the way.

“What are you doing, Satoru? I don’t think now is the best time…” Geto whispers, casting an apprehensive gaze to the hand on the doorknob.

“It’s fine,” Gojo whispers back, and although Geto’s unsure of how true that statement is, he steps away from the door. There’s something unfamiliar stirring in his blue eyes. Something bigger than what he’s thinking of.

Shutting the door behind himself, Gojo bridges the gap between his apartment and yours in two slow steps. It feels weird to stand in the same spot as him; it feels weird to stand in the place of someone who spoke to you like that, swearing at you, shouting at you. To Gojo, it almost feels like standing in the wreckage after a disaster, wondering why the earth kept spinning after something so awful.

He can’t get the image of you standing in the doorway out of his head. Gojo sees every version of you he knows flash in and out of that doorway. The version of you that was so happy to wear his hoodie, and the version of you that was so nervous to show him your art for the first time. The version of you that was dressed head to toe in cheesy Christmas pajamas. The version of you that was soaked from the rain at his house. The tiny version of you that was caught in pictures lining every wall of your parent’s house. The version of you that stood in front of his door in shock that he was your neighbor. The versions of you that were all so lively, and witty, and sharp, and strong, all crushed into nothingness by a piece of shit that didn’t care to look back at you as he walked away. A sorry fucking bastard that purposefully towered over you just to scare you, and that yelled at you like you were a kid, and that swore at you, and that called you a fucking bitch.

It isn’t until now that the questions start to roll in. Is he always like that? Is this a common occurrence? Is it worse than what he just witnessed? Does anybody know? Has anybody else witnessed this? Has anybody helped? Has anybody said anything? How long has it been like this? You looked scared, you looked embarrassed, you looked hurt, but you didn’t look surprised. The thought makes his skin burn. Part of him wonders if Geto was right about this not being the best time to bother you, but by the time he finishes that thought he’s already knocking on your door.

You’re just on the other side of the door when he knocks. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, it’s replaced by a type of exhaustion that runs through your veins and seeps into your bones, heavy and achy and sore. You’re tired. You’re embarrassed and ashamed. You want to go to bed.

“It’s me. Open up,” Gojo says through the door, uncharacteristically reserved and gentle. The softness of his voice catches you off guard, juxtaposed against the venomous words spat at you ten minutes before like the merciful coolness of the night after a brutally hot day. Your throat feels tight all over again, choked up from something as simple as someone speaking to you so gently. Tears well up in your burning eyes as you stifle a sob, and you know the sharp inhale can be heard through the hardwood. It’s a nauseatingly sad sound, and Gojo frowns. “Come on.”

It feels impossible to turn the knob, impossible to pull the door open, and impossible to stand once you’re no longer guarded by two and a half inches of mahogany. Right now, standing in front of Gojo feels worse than being naked, like you’re more exposed now than you ever have been when undressed. You want to run away from the vulnerability. You want to slam the door in his face and hide. You don’t want his pity. But you know whatever he’s here to give you is not pity.

“Hey,” He starts, his fidgeting hand rubbing at the back of his neck where his skin meets his undercut. You recognize the action, born from the same fidgeting movement as when you really knew him, when his hair was longer, when he would twirl the hair at the base of his head around his slender finger over and over and over again. It’s not a nervous tic, though. It’s just something to do with his hands. Focusing on that is easier than focusing on the concern in his eyes.

“Hey,” You reply in a whisper, your voice hoarse, warbled from teary eyes and a trachea that feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire. Shame smothers your weak body like a weighted blanket, but you hang onto what’s left of your pride and force yourself to keep your chin high.

For him, it’s easier to focus on the lock of hair left out of your haphazardly tied ponytail than the way your hand shakes against the doorframe. “I’m not here to fuck with you or anything. Suguru wanted to exchange numbers for…”

If you need them. For when you need them. For when you’re feeling unsafe. For when that sorry fucking bastard scares you again.

For when you want to make sure it’s the last time that piece of shit scares you.

Gojo’s steely blue eyes flick down the hallway, tracing the path to the elevator. You watch his jaw clench.

“… Emergencies.”

Swallowing, thick and dry like your throat is coated in a layer of cotton, you nod. If he caught you at any other time, you’d roll your eyes. You’d make a snide remark and squint up at him. You’d tell him you can handle yourself. But there’s a reason he’s caught you now. Gojo wouldn’t have done this at any other time and you want to throw yourself in a heap on the floor and cry.

Wordlessly, the two of you exchange numbers. It’s nothing more than two new contacts, yet Gojo passes your phone back and it feels two tons heavier in your exhausted, shaking hand. You mutter a “thank you” and step back into your apartment, but Gojo catches the door with his hand and makes sure to meet your weary eyes with his own. For a fleeting moment, it feels like you’re seventeen again. His five words of parting linger in the air around you for the rest of the night.

“Just… don’t be a stranger.”

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #satoru gojo #jjk geto #suguru geto #stsg x reader #gojo x reader #geto x reader #gojo x you #geto x you #stsg x you #vallification

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esotericfaerytumbls · 6 days ago

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A question for Americans - what is it that’s unique about TikTok? I’m curious - aside from all the work involved in no longer having it as a revenue source (which people had time to prepare for), what’s the particular problem? Why do so many people seem to be freaking out now that it’s banned in the US? I’m not talking about the politics involving China as I understand the complexities there. Was it a more reliable way for you to make money? Were there certain special features which worked better than any other app? There are so many similar places online, from what I can see, so can anyone explain what it is for you?

I tried making an account to watch stuff a few months ago (from Canada) and it was glitchy, never allowing my follow attempts to take, even though I tried following multiple accounts, multiple times, from multiple devices, so I deleted my account.

[Edit: one thing that gets annoying quickly on every social media app is when people reply after not reading the whole post. This post is not long, so any furher replies from people who skimmed only part to comment instead of actually answer, will go ignored. Please read both the image and the text before commenting. Thanks.]

#tiktok ban #tiktok refugee #tik tok ban #tik tok

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divinemissem13 · 5 months ago

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How Long Has This Been Going On?

Star Trek Femslash Week 2024 Ship: Beverly Crusher/ Kathryn Janeway Word Count: 1,016 Rating: T Prompt: And they were roommates...

This is a much longer text than I would usually post here but since AO3 is still having some outages, take a peek under the cut here....

"Bev? Honey?" Kathryn calls out from the bedroom. She is looking in her closet and maybe it's just that she hasn't had coffee yet, but something seems off. "Why do you have more civilian clothes in my closet than I do?"

Beverly appears at her side and hands her a cup of coffee, which Kathryn gulps down gratefully. "Probably because I've spent a lot more time as a civilian than you," Beverly answers simply, as she wraps an arm loosely around Kathryn's waist and presses a kiss to the smaller woman's temple. "We can go shopping today, if you want."

"But what are they doing here?" Kathryn clarifies, now that the caffeine is beginning to do its job.

Beverly pulls back and holds Kathryn at arm's length, looking at her with a bewildered expression that only serves to confuse Kathryn further. "Where else would they be?" she responds.

"Your place?"

"My pl—? Kathryn, it's just easier to keep things here in San Francisco. But if you really want me to, I guess I can transport to the chateau every time I need a change of clothes," Beverly offers with a bit of an edge to her voice that makes Kathryn wonder if they've had this conversation before.

"You don't have a place in San Francisco?" Kathryn asks.

Beverly sucks in a deep breath through clenched teeth and takes Kathryn's empty mug. "I think you need more coffee. Just, get dressed, please? I don't want to waste our entire day off standing in front of the closet."

Kathryn, who hates to be confused and finds herself absolutely unable to let this go, does not get dressed. She follows Beverly out of the room, intending to demand answers until something else catches her eye: the bookshelf in the living room is more crowded than she remembers. On closer inspection, she realizes that there are medical journals and plays mixed in with her poetry and classic literature. Turning slowly, she takes in the room at large. There is a small greenhouse set up in one corner, a stone figure of dancing woman in the middle of the coffee table, a painting hanging on the wall that Kathryn definitely doesn't remember buying.

Kathryn strides into the kitchen in full admiral mode — despite the fact that her hair is still mussed from sleep and she is wearing only a pink silk robe — and demands, "Beverly Crusher, do you live here?"

Beverly wants to be mad, or at least annoyed, but she looks at Kathryn standing there in the doorway — back straight and hands clenched at her hips, one eyebrow quirked upward in a her most imperious expression, a freckled shoulder peeking out where her robe has started to slip — and all she can do is shake her head and chuckle softly.

Beverly walks over to her admiral (who she outranks, by the way, although now is not the time to bring that up), and straightens her robe, her long slender fingers lingering at the collar for a moment before skimming down silk-clad arms to lace their fingers together. "Technically, no," she finally answers Kathryn's question. "But Kathryn, can you remember the last time you spent a night here without me?"

Kathryn's brow furrows as she thinks back, tries to remember being alone in this apartment, in that big bed. Other than a few notable exceptions of overnight missions or out of town conferences, she can't.

"And you don't have your own place in San Francisco?" Kathryn asks, still trying to wrap her head around the idea.

Beverly sighs. "No more than you have your own place in La Barre," she says, pointedly referencing where they spend most of their weekends. "We did discuss this you know. It's not as though I just sneaked all my things in here bit by bit."

If Kathryn thinks hard enough, she might be able to remember…

An evening, not so long ago, after a particularly exhausting day trying to establish a trade relationship with the Kazon, of all people. Beverly had been sitting on the couch reading when she got home and Kathryn had all but collapsed beside her, resting her head in Beverly's lap while she combed her fingers through Kathryn's hair.

If she tries hard enough, she might even remember Beverly's soothing voice cutting through a haze of exhaustion, saying "I'm thinking of getting rid of my apartment here."

The realization must show on her face because Beverly leans down and kisses the tip of Kathryn's nose. "There it is," she says with a grin. "Now go get dressed, would you? We have a lot to do today." She swats Kathryn on the ass for good measure before she turns back to the breakfast she is preparing for them.

Kathryn rolls her eyes and reaches around Beverly for the fresh mug of coffee sitting on the counter. "Yes ma'am," she smirks, turning back towards the bedroom and sipping at her coffee as she goes. The coffee is good and strong and Kathryn thinks how lucky she is to have someone who will make it fresh for her every morning.

She doubles back to Beverly, using one hand to brush her long hair to one side so that she can kiss the taller woman's shoulder and neck. "Hey Bev?" she murmurs, now with both arms wrapped around her partner's waist.

"Hmm?" Beverly responds noncommittally as she tries to focus on the task in front of her rather than her the distraction behind her.

"Wanna move in with me?"

Beverly drops the knife on the counter and turns in Kathryn's arms to face her. "Oh, I see, you only like it when it's your idea, hmm?" Her expression is one of mock frustration but Kathryn can see from the sparkle in her bright blue eyes that Beverly isn't mad at all.

"I have really good ideas," Kathryn says mischievously.

Before Beverly has a chance to respond, Kathryn is kissing her. As she allows the full-body tingle to take over all of her senses, she decides that Kathryn does have some truly excellent ideas after all.

#star trek femslash week 2024 #i wrote this #fanfic #kathryn janeway #beverly crusher #kathryn janeway/beverly crusher #crushway #star trek voyager #star trek picard #star trek the next generation #femslash #and they were roommates #ao3 link

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doom-dreaming · 1 year ago

Note

Do you think cortana posted chief for national girlfriends day on the unsc's version of Twitter (he didnt even know about it until weeks later)

It had been nearly two weeks by this point and it only seemed to be gaining momentum. Groups of S-IVs would try to hide their snickering as they passed him in the halls. Whispering Marines would quickly shush each other when he walked into the room. He noticed the sidelong glances, the elbows jabbed into ribs, all the little movements that weren't as subtle as they thought. He'd even caught Roland and Captain Lasky in the middle of a hushed but heated conversation that he, apparently, didn't have the clearance for.

This had been normal when he was still a new fixture on Infinity, but several years had smoothed the edges off his reputation - at least enough that people could relax around him. Or so he thought. A backslide like this was...unexpected. And it wasn't even necessarily the principle of being left out of something that had started to bother him, it was more the fact that everyone seemed to be in on something he wasn't. And that it seemed to be about him.

"Mm, kind of rude," was all Cortana had muttered when he'd brought it up a few days prior. She'd been distracted, deep in the middle of analyzing something for Halsey, and he didn't think much of the dismissal at the time.

But by now, the strange conspiratorial energy aboard the ship had all the trademarks of a bomb about to go off and it was making him antsy in a way he didn't appreciate. "Cortana."

It takes a fraction of a second longer than usual for her projection to appear on the holodeck - a detail imperceptible and inconsequential to anyone but him - but she's bright-eyed and smiling as she materializes. "You rang?"

"You have to know something." He cuts right to the chase.

She sighs. "Chief, you know they put me on restricted access. I don't like it either, but I have to play nice. It's Roland's ship, if you want to know what he sees, ask him."

John narrows his eyes. He didn't believe her for a second. And she knew it.

She holds eye contact as her lips twitch into a barely-contained smirk. "Maybe there's something going around on the socials," she continues with a shrug. "Could be worth a look if it's really bothering you."

**********

The suggestion was still sitting in the back of his mind days later, unheeded. He had more important things to be doing than trawling through message boards trying to find a joke that no one had bothered to let him in on. It always felt like tuning into an unsecured comm. channel - lots of chatter with very little substance.

But he knew Cortana. And she was up to something. Besides, he had a few hours to kill before Commander Palmer needed him in the simulation room. He taps his way into his account, remembering his password with a combination of muscle memory and sheer luck. His inbox is overflowing with messages, but he opts to ignore them in favor of hunting down the threads with the heaviest, most recent traffic.

A thread simply titled 'Girlfriend Day' rises to the top of the list. His finger hesitates over it for a second, unsure if this was the lead he should be following. It seemed unlikely, but none of the other contenders had anywhere near the same engagement numbers... Resigning himself to a potential dead end and waste of time, he opens it.

The initial post is a picture of a young couple, both smiling. The man has his arm around the woman's shoulders. They're somewhere sunny, in civilian clothes. John doesn't recognize either of them and doesn't spend much time skimming the accompanying text before moving on.

He doesn't have to go far. Less than a dozen posts into the thread, he finds a photo of himself. It's not a bad photo, all things considered - it's a nice candid shot, he's cleaning a gun, his helmet sits on the bench beside him - but the rose-tinged filter and tiny pink hearts aren't doing it any favors. It'd been posted anonymously without a caption and he only has to read a few of the comments underneath it for things to start falling into place.

"Cortana..."

The holodeck glows a dim blue for three full seconds before she appears, hands on hips, eyebrows raised.

John silently tilts the screen toward her.

"Do you like it? I thought the hearts were a nice touch."

"Pink's not my color."

"Agree to disagree." She settles into a more relaxed stance. "Who knew one picture could get the ship buzzing like this? Infinity's starving for gossip, apparently."

"Everyone wants to know whose girlfriend I am," John sighs, finally setting the datapad down. "Where'd you get the picture?"

"Took it myself. Last month. It was hard picking a favorite, you know. I went through a lot of them."

"...how many do you have?"

"Oh, thousands. I don't show them to anyone. Well, aside from this one exception." She nods toward the datapad, then crosses her arms in response to the face he can feel himself making. "What, a girl can't have a hobby?"

#halo #my writing #master chief #john 117 #cortana #johntana #god this felt good #i love prompt writing #this ended up being more like reddit than twitter #but in my defense i've never had a twitter account #my heart tells me unsc social media would be forum-based #also this got waaay away from me #it just kept getting longer #it's gonna take a while for me to get back into their voices #it's been so long #i can't guarantee every ask will inspire me to write #but this was a cute one :)#this is set somewhere at the beginning of my H4 canon-divergence AU btw #halo fanfic

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bellamyroselia · 3 months ago

Text

Stars somehow aligned and I managed write something Kid Icarus related; it's a sequel to these two ficlets because I lack originality.

...

There were many words Dark Pit would’ve never used to describe himself, one amongst them being ‘dreamer’. And it wasn’t just in a philosophical sense - besides him seeing himself as more of a realist, he rarely had any dreams while he was sleeping. He rarely dreamed and in those few times he did, he simply ended up recounting past events in his head. In general he dreamed of events that had happened to him specifically, but on occasion he got to see things in his dreams that he had never experienced. Those few times gave him an unique window to the past, Pit’s past in particular.

In a way, it made perfect sense for him to dream of these events - as Dark Pit wasn’t an unique product of love but rather a mirror image turned flesh without a real history before early teenage years, any memories he had of a past prior to his creation were those that Pit had actually experienced and lived through.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

Dark Pit disliked being reminded of how he had no unique memories of his mother holding him, of his father helping him to take his first steps or of playdates with other children of his age. He hated the fact that every memory of moments like those he could sometimes glimpse at his dreams were Pit’s first and foremost, and only by technicality his as well. As grim as it sounded, one of the few things that brought Dark Pit solace was that Pit didn’t seem to remember their his mother either.

When Dark Pit had dreamed of the golden-haired man the first time, he thought that he may have seen his image somewhere before. Perhaps in a marble statue that lacked colors or in a mosaic which was devoid of details so he couldn’t be completely sure, but the man in his dream had felt both grand and important. Yet despite all that grandeur and importance, the man had devoted so much his time to take care of this one unassuming child. One would think someone so notable would have better things to do in their lives, but apparently Pit truly did matter that much to the man. So much so that even when he was battle-ready and donning the fanciest armor one could wear, he had first come to the young angel, hugged the toddler as if he was the most precious thing in his life and called himself lucky to have Pit in his life.

(Would anyone call themselves lucky to have me in their lives? Dark Pit wondered.)

He had to find out who the man he was dreaming of was.

For the weeks that followed, Dark Pit had hardly focused on anything else but in his mission. He had been so absorbed on his quest that he had took it upon himself to learn five new different alphabets in hopes of finding new clues of the mysterious man’s identity. The process had been long and painstaking, and lot of it had been for naught at the end - two of the alphabets turned out to be no longer in use, third one was in the verge of extinction and the fourth one was the alphabet of foreigners and therefore useless to him, but the last of them proved useful to him in his research. As Dark Pit skimmed through various texts, his originally hazy vision of the man became much clearer and his suspicions of his identity were starting to rise. Towards the end of his research he had actually wanted to just steal the Lightning Chariot and go directly to the Queen of all gods herself, but he knew better than to do that. The Queen would never listen to him without solid evidence to back his words, and currently all of it existed just in the heads of two angels and maybe one goddess. No, what he needed to do now was to go to Pit and finally set the records straight. If Dark Pit was having dreams like this, surely the other angel must’ve had them as well and for whatever reason was keeping them a secret. And that simply couldn’t be tolerated any longer.

…

Pit was by himself in the temple outskirts, lost in daydreams and in the verge of dozing off when his pleasant time was all the sudden interrupted by someone loudly slamming a door. Shocked, he quickly rose up to look who had caused all that commotion and was surprised to find Dark Pit there; even when he was at his surliest, the other angel tended not to slam doors in this kind of manner. And now he seemed surlier than ever, even to the point of Pit being taken aback by the other angel’s displeased expression.

“Pittoo, what’s wrong?” Pit asked, concern clear in his voice. Just what had happened for Dark Pit to be in such a foul mood today?

“Don’t play coy with me, you know exactly what’s wrong”, Dark Pit spat right back to him, clearly not caring of Pit’s attempts to be polite. “Who is he?”

“Who?” Pit responded to Dark Pit’s question with a question of his own, confused by what the other angel meant.

“You know exactly who I’m talking of! Golden hair, tall as all get out, wings as mighty as those of an eagle, fancy armor. You know who he is, don’t you?”

A lump rose to Pit’s throat. Dark Pit already knew of the dreams he had been having? Of course he knows, Pit resonated with himself, My childhood is technically his childhood as well. If one of us remembers something from it, the other isn’t far behind. There really was no point of hiding anything anymore and there was much that Pit wanted to tell, but at the end only one word found its way out of his mouth.

“Dad”, was all Pit was able to say, but it was enough to make Dark Pit flinch and then back off a little. All he said was what he thought of as truth, so why had the the angel reacted in such a way?

“Dad?” he repeated Pit’s words, oddly unsure of himself. “Is it true? Are you certain?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure of that he is. Who else besides our dad would do anything–”

“Oh, so now he’s OUR dad?”

Pit flinched upon hearing Dark Pit’s words. Only now did he seem to understand how badly he had screwed up by keeping everything under wraps; it wasn’t just about who his father was to him anymore, it was about what he meant to people around him. He had had a life long before Pit was a part of it, and the people who knew his father continued exist long after his disappearance.

“Dark Pit, please listen”, Pit started, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier and it was stupid of me to think that you wouldn’t also know… At first I didn’t even know myself who he was and when I became sure of that it really was dad I wasn’t sure if the time was right, Lady Palutena may think–”

Dark Pit didn’t even give him time to finish his sentence as he grabbed Pit’s wrist, fire burning in his red eyes.

“Lady Palutena this, Lady Palutena that, what of OUR feelings? What of OUR dad? Are you really just letting him rot somewhere while dealing with HER endless list of petty problems first?” he now snarled at Pit, his sense of judgment blurred by the pent up vexation.

“But if Medusa’s attack somehow affected him–”

“No way it could’ve done anything to him!” Dark Pit once again interrupted him, “You really think they would’ve ever allowed an angel to wear that fancy armor? Good grief with you Pit, think for yourself for once! Clearly dad wasn’t all that lucky to have you if you’re just standing here doing nothing to help him!”

That last sentence especially hit a nerve, and in a fit of frustration Pit pulled his hand away from the other angel’s grasp. Just like that time long ago when Palutena had told him that his father wasn’t returning, Pit was starting to become misty-eyed but this time he didn’t let the tears fall. Dark Pit, who at this point had calmed down a bit, seemed to realize how hurtful his words had been and took couple steps back with a remorseful look on his face.

“Don’t put words into dad’s mouth”, was all Pit managed to say back at the other angel. He had come far from that helpless toddler who had cried on Palutena’s arms, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t bothered of what had happened to his father. Of course he wished to find out the truth and finally get some closure but as there always seemed to be new threats lurking just around the corner, timing never felt right.

“Dad wore that armor because he was fighting for a cause. Lady Palutena too was shocked when he didn’t return…”

“Who cares of Palutena’s opinion”, Dark Pit huffed, a hint of bitterness remaining in his voice. Wishing for the calm before storm to be finally over, he grabbed Pit’s hand once again and started to lead the other angel towards the main building of the temple.

“Wait Pittoo, where are we going?” Pit asked.

“To set things straight with Palutena”, Dark Pit replied. “What, would you like us to go to the Queen herself instead?”

Pit blinked slowly when he heard the other angel mention the Queen. There were few things he knew of the Queen, and one of them was that she rarely if ever had time for people other than her family and servants. To hear Dark Pit talk of her in such bold manner was surprising - did he really think that the Queen would ever give a time of day to them?

“But what does the Queen have to do with any of this?” Pit wondered, not understanding why the other angel had even bothered to bring her up.

“Do you think that a mother could ever forget her child’s eyes?” Dark Pit answered to his question with a one of his own. “Do you think she would still recognize them even if another person bore them?”

Whatever fight was still left in Pit fizzled out in an instant as he heard those words, and so did all the questions that he had wanted ask just moment prior. Only one thing was certain now, and it was that Lady Palutena would have lot to explain.

#my writing #kid icarus #kid icarus uprising #ki #kiu #pit #dark pit #in which dark pit doesn't bother to check which alphabets are still in use & ends up wasting time doing pointless things #he's smart enough to know that going to an old lady & saying that she's his granny without evidence is a terrible idea though #happy father's day everyone

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cookingwithroxy · 7 months ago

Note

I found these reviews on this book written by this person under the pseudonym The Last Psychiatrist. The scroll bar makes them look long, but most of the bulk comes from the comment section. One review is longer than the others in a way, but only by half. I highly recommend you read through them all by maybe putting them in a text-to-speech program to run in the background to understand my question's context because I really need an informed opinion. There will be a popup to subscribe to the website but in reality, it isn't really required to read the whole review, so you can just close out the popup:

Article 1 (longest)

Article 2

Article 3 (shortest)

My question is, what do you think of the author's message? Is his message that "all media is porn" have any fruitful meaning or understanding that can be gleaned, alongside his other opinions? I feel like he's very misanthropic and due to my personally stemming distrust of anyone in the psychology field and anyone who reads self-help or "[concept/topic] is mentally destroying you and it's your fault" books, I can't really answer them myself without feeling biased. Everyone is hailing this book as a mirror held up to yourself, but I just don't get it.

TL:DR? I TL:DR'ed the review because the excerpts it used were too painful to read. 'All Media is Porn' is a concept that is nothing new, but it works it's best to note that this is to show there's nothing unnatural or corruptive about porn itself, and any faults it has can be shown in anything else. Using that concept to condemn all media is the mindset of a toddler.

You want to share my suffering, read past.

just reading the first review and honestly having to actually skim at times and I'm stuck with the takeaway of 'this is an intentionally pretentious book by an excessively pretentious narcissist written for extremely pretentious philosophy students'.

And that's before we even get to the concept of 'all media is porn' which... what does that even mean? 'Everything done for enjoyment is of equal value as things consumed for sexual gratification'? Congratulations, dipshit, you've reduced the entirety of the human experience to a binary equation that frames all the good things as form of utilitarian state that even you don't live up to.

Can I see that this book would be seen of as 'a mirror held up to yourself'? Yes, in that from what little I did read is so blatantly and obviously self-important and absolute horseshit that the people who'd actively seek it out are as equally self-important and bullshit.

I mean fuck, let me just excerpt an excerpt and you'll see what I mean:

'"Why so many footnotes???” Which is the same question as, “why are your sentences so long, why so many commas, what the hell is with you and semicolons?” It’s all on purpose, to get rid of readers. You’re stumped by the physical layout? This book is not for you, your brain is already set in concrete, it can never change, only crumble as it ages. Which is fine if your plan was to be a foundation for the next generation, but it isn’t; you’re the rotting walls that they have to knock down while you play the flute and pretend to give freedom to everyone else. If you look forward to TV, if you think “the problem with the youth today is that they’re entitled,” if you think, “damn all the partisanship, I wish someone in government would take charge and do the right thing — you are a true Athenian democrat. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Yeah. I’m not saying you are necessarily a bad person, I’m just saying your kids would benefit from a more hands off approach to parenting. And a math tutor. Most of you should not read this book, the Disclaimer represents all the justification you deserve, I did everything I could to exclude everyone, including adding the porn story at the beginning, a Beware Of Dog sign written in cat.'

Is this pretentious? Oh fuck yes, but here's the thing that puts it further into context: The reviewer explaining what leads to it:

'Because this book is . . . what even is this book? The first page has an eight-page long footnote at the bottom, which covers the Delphic Oracle, the Salem Witch Trials, and the movie Fast Times At Ridgemont High, and ends up concluding that you (yes, you) are incapable of having desires. Immediately afterwards, the narrative breaks off for a thirty page cuckold porn story, which sounds like the sort of thing you do in order to discuss later, except that it never does. Then it’s back to more seemingly-crazy assertions and multi-dozen page footnotes. Footnote 35 is half a page of the author screaming at a hypothetical reader who wants fewer footnotes:'

So that whole screed about how you're some form of stodgy mind-blind stick in the mud...

If you recognize that his shit page layouts and bad annotations are shit and bad.

Seriously, I don't need to go further and this is so fucking stupid I really should put a fucking read more and tldr at the start rather than make you suffer what little I let myself suffer.

More detailed TL:DR? Anyone who hails this book to you needs to be checked out for dark triad traits more like than not.

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wondereads · 3 months ago

Text

September 2024 Monthly Wrap-Up

Reviews under the cut

Foster by Claire Keegan (★★★★☆)

This is an incredibly short read, but I highly recommend it if you're someone who enjoys family dynamics and a simple but evocative story. While I personally enjoy longer works, I still loved the writing of this novella. So much was said with very few words, and I was thoroughly attached to the characters by the end. It's an open ending, but it has more than enough room for hope in my opinion.

Shaman's Crossing by Robin Hobb (★★★☆☆)

A bit unfortunate that this should be my first Hobb book, as it seems to be considered her weakest series, and I can see why. This book has an incredibly interesting beginning and end and an absolute drag of a middle. I found the politics surrounding Gernia's expansion (and its mirroring of frontier America) and the conflicting magic systems, both suppressed by the primary religion, so intriguing, but most of this book is dedicated to the main character's time at a military academy. It was highly detailed—perhaps more than it should have been. While this book had its strong points, if you're looking for an engaging military fantasy series, I recommend Protector of the Small by Tamora Pierce or The Poppy War by R. F. Kuang instead.

Neon Gods by Katee Robert (★★☆☆☆)

I'm being a bit lenient with my rating because I can see the appeal of this to some people, but this book had way too much nothing for my taste. After hitting the 40% mark, most of this story is just the main characters being willfully ignorant to the other person's feelings and insisting they can't stay together because it would be selfish. I won't lie, I skimmed the latter half of this book. I was also quite distracted by worldbuilding questions (the names in particular throw me off), which never really get answered. Perhaps not the best choice of book for a hard fantasy nut like me.

The Flower of the Family by Elizabeth Prentiss (★★☆☆☆)

There is a reason this book has fallen out of favor everywhere but Christian homeschooling circles. This is one of the earliest "girls' books" in the US, so of course there are standards for femininity that don't align with today, but the way Lucy, the main character, is treated is just abhorrent. She is a free babysitting service for her family of ten children, so much so that she is so ill that going to stay with her extended family, away from the hoard of kids that can't do a thing without her, is the only way to improve her health. I doubt anyone will be raring to read this, so I have no guilt in saying that the book ends with one of her brothers and her mother dying, thus leaving her to care for her siblings until they are all grown up, after which she is married to a nameless man with all of one sentence dedicated to it. This poor girl.

Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche (no rating)

This is definitely outside my usual sphere, but it was assigned for my thesis (don't ask why, it'll take forever to explain). It was...a trip. That's really all I can say about it.

Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl by Harriet Jacobs (★★★★☆)

This is a bit of a tough read; Harriet Jacobs' fictional representative, Linda, does not suffer what many would deem the worst of American slavery, but she does not hesitate to explain how severely dehumanized she was. Reading this in conjunction with other children's book of the time (Flower of the Family, Little Women), truly reveals how differently Black and white girls experienced childhood, something that still echoes today, even if it's less extreme. While it's not the most dramatic or easy read, I absolutely recommend this book, especially if you're looking to expand your reading on Black experiences throughout American history.

The Bone Season by Samantha Shannon (★★★★☆)

I read the author's preferred text of this novel, but it still has the hallmarks of being written when Shannon was much younger. While the writing has likely improved, the premise is quite similar to a lot of 2010s YA dystopias. Despite being a dystopia, this book is a fantasy novel, taking place slightly in the future but after history was altered around the turn of the 20th century. I quite liked the main character, and I find the worldbuilding and magic system intriguing, though the romance was lackluster in my opinion. I really want to find out what is happening between the Rephaim and the Emim (it is certainly not just what Paige was told), so I'll definitely be continuing this series in the future.

Vampire Academy by Richelle Mead (★★★☆☆.5)

This was a vaguely interesting book. I think it had the potential to be better, but it's so quick-paced that it misses out on a lot of opportunities for worldbuilding, such as actually explaining how the political system of the vampire world works. Throughout a lot of this book, it honestly felt like Mead did not want to be writing about vampires. The mythology is so different that it feels more akin to fairies or perhaps an entirely new being. The relationship between Rose and Lissa is great, though I cannot believe they aren't each other's love interests with the way they act together, and the romance itself was decent. Yes, there is a crazy age gap, but as a Tamora Pierce stan I don't think I can judge. Overall, this was just a standard YA paranormal novel.

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (★★★★☆)

This was my first time reading Little Women, and I did enjoy myself for the most part. I loved the complexity of the March sisters, both as individual characters and their relationships with one another, even though Jo is much stronger than me and I never would have forgiven Amy. This book is restrained by the time it was written in, but I think Alcott did a pretty decent job giving each of the sisters a happy ending (yes, even Beth, her ending is portrayed as peaceful and a welcome release) while still maintaining their personalities, even if they're a bit more subdued than when they were younger. There is debate over whether Jo underwent a character assassination, but I think Alcott did her best to give her a happy ending when a generally approved ending was antithetical to her character.

Currently Reading

Where Sleeping Girls Lie by Faridah Abike-Iyimide

Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson

October TBR

Babel by R. F. Kuang (rr, thesis)

The Poppy War by R. F. Kuang (rr, thesis)

The Dragon Republic by R. F. Kuang (thesis)

The Burning God by R. F. Kuang (thesis)

Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia (rr, thesis, book club)

Vita Nostra by Marina and Sergey Dyachenko (book club)

The Library at Mount Char by Scott Hawkins (book club)

Shadow Rider by Christine Feehan (book club)

Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery (class)

Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh (class)

Sweet Whispers, Brother Rush by Virginia Hamilton (class)

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight by Anonymous (class)

The City We Became by N. K. Jemisin

#books #monthly wrap up #foster #shaman’s crossing #neon gods #friedrich nietzsche #incidents in the life of a slave girl #the bone season #vampire academy #little women

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sabraeal · 2 years ago

Text

If the Mind Is Willing, Chapter 3

[Read on AO3]

Part three of 500 Follower prizes @bubblesthemonsterartist earned herself years ago! Only two more and I will have fulfilled all those fics...probably just in time to have a 1K follower raffle

Blue light washes her pink sheets pale, until it’s impossible to tell when cotton ends and her skin begins. The shadows pull longer in its glow, turning her own nearly skeletal as she reaches out a finger, hovering over the link.

“U-J-Kyo?” Chizuru’s mouth wraps around each letter, the sound of them tumbling softly into the muted glow. “But that’s just...?”

The university’s homepage. And her laptop’s, technically, now that Yamazaki helped her set it. Not something she’d normally associate with Souji’s interests, not unless he’s started some new hostilities with the provost’s office again. Their last open letter hung on the fridge until just before Thanksgiving, the second paragraph asking for “certain individuals in the student body“ to “show more conduct becoming of an undergraduate of a prestigious institution” highlighted proudly in lime green.

Dean Kondo dropped by the house only a few days later-- for a friendly visit, he’d said, smile as warm as she remembered. He’d stayed for dinner, complimenting the soup she’d made from their leftovers, and then talked with Souji out on the porch until the swing’s chains started to creak. The letter disappeared the next morning, unremarked, though Souji kept glowering at the bare metal every time he passed through the kitchen.

Chizuru swipes tentatively at the screen, messaging app blooming beneath her finger. The link’s innocuous, known, but Souji has a gift for slipping a sting into any handshake. And if he’s calling it a gift, well--

[ToudouDomination] omg holy shit dude nice knowing u hijikatas gonna kill u 4 sure 💀💀

Professor Hijikata’s taught her enough about Trojans to take that kind of present at face value.

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] *skullfuck u mean skullfuck ull b the most beautiful corpse at ur funeral bro

Her lips press tight, clinging to each other as close as the rubber case to her phone. If everyone’s acting like this about it, it’s better that she doesn’t look.

[ToudouDomination] MY funeral???!! what’s this got to do with me??!!

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] nah man im not talking ab YOU im talking ab dead man walking over here

She’d regret it if she did, probably.

[Dr 💖💋🤭] jfc I’ll say somethign nice at you’re disciplinery hearing

[ToudouDomination] Me??

[Dr 💖💋🤭] No one’s talking about you Heisuke

It’s an accident, really. Her thumb skims up the side of the screen-- scrolling past the sudden influx of skull and fire emojis the boys heave into the chat-- and the pad of it just barely brushes the link. It flashes under the pressure, blue then purple, selected, and well...

There’s no harm in just letting it happen, is there? It’s only the university homepage, nothing--

Ah. That’s what it should be at least. But instead of the azure and white, there’s text curling across the screen, a half dozen different hand-written poems in blue bic and college rule, tiled across every inch of the background. There’s coffee stains on them too, some in the corner, and some in rings, like they were more used to being coasters than literature. And in the center of it all--

“Oh.” She blinks, tilting her screen to get a better view. “A video?”

Hogyoku Open Mic, it reads at one corner, reflection on water. A strange choice for Souji; he’s never mentioned an interest in poetry, let alone live readings. Frowning, Chizuru tilts her phone, letting the video fill the screen.

It plays, and oh, several things become clear, all at once.

“My heart is pure,” the man on screen promises, words raking over the gravel of his voice-- how little of it there is marks his age more than the lack of lines on his face-- but Chizuru’s isn’t, not when she can’t do much more than stare, fingers numb around the rubber case. “I use my palm as an inkstone.”

The camera pans closer, and yes, above that black dress shirt-- open to its third button, oh goodness gracious-- is Hijikata. Not the one she knows now, the grizzled professor who kicks his feet up on the desk and uses profanity as punctuation, but--

But a much younger man, not much older than her, considering the last little bastions of baby fat clinging to his cheekbones.

[Dr 💖💋🤭] This muts be a hundred pakcs of cigs ago

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] 💯

[ToudouDomination] do moths feel desire or is that like a poetic thing he talks about rain a lot too whats that all ab

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] its a sex thing

[Dr 💖💋🤭] Shin don’t tell the baby taht

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] hes a growing boy he has to learn sometime better he hears it from us hijikata fucks 🍑🍆🍑

[Saito.Hajime] Can I please be removed from this group? Also, congratulations, Souji, on finding a new, creative way to die

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] no way if we all have to think think about hijikata fucking u have to suffer too

[Saito.Hajime] I am not certain I care for that logic

[Dr 💖💋🤭] Too bad, bud. Your stukc with us

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] yeah bro u signed the housing contract ur here til death comes for u or like u move out or smthn

Chizuru means to stop the video, really she does. It’s not something Hijikata would want them to see-- at least, she assumes so, considering the way he flushes every time Souji brings up his graduate school slam jams, threatening to expel him if he doesn’t ‘shut his damn mouth.’

But the one on the screen smiles as he finishes his set, smouldering out past the stage lights, and she-- she expects snapping, some cool cats with shades and berets nodding their heads to his truth or whatever mood this is supposed to give. A respectful silence, one that gives space to the idea he’s introduced to the space, but instead--

Instead there’s screams. A full audience of women-- and a few particularly enthusiastic men-- loudly voicing their appreciation for what she’s hoping is the poetry.

Ah, maybe Shinpachi is right. It is a sex thing. And she’s watched a full ten minutes of it.

Hijikata can never know. Or worse--

[Susumu Yamazaki] Take this down. Now.

[( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)] eat my ass

Her heart ricochets around her rib cage, panicked, before it lodges itself in her throat. It flutters there, queasily, and-- and there’s no way he could possibly know, but still, guilt seizes her. She shouldn’t have looked, not once she knew. She should have been the first to say it was wrong. Helpers can only help when they know there is a problem, that’s what Father would have said. If you cannot perceive it then you are part of it.

She could say something now. Her hand squeezes tight around the case. No, she should say something now. She has to, because father will ask. She’ll tell him about this frantic midnight showdown, and he’ll say, and what did you say?

And if it is nothing...

[Susumu Yamazaki] Take it down now. Or I will get university IT involved.

[( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)] you don’t have the fucking balls

[Susumu Yamazaki] Try me.

Even with her eyes closed, her failure is inescapable. The words flash behind her eyelids, no longer composed of ones and zeros but scrawled in neon lights instead, reminding her that if she were better she could have fixed this. That if she were good enough, she could have found the magic phrase to get them all to get along. But instead...

Silence, that’s what he’ll give her. A long pause where all his expectations weigh on her, piling on her chest like boulders on a criminal. A cluck of his tongue, and a soft, I thought I raised you better. Any moment now, her phone will ring, and Father will know what a disappointment she is because--

It’s Christmas. Just about everywhere but Hawaii. A couple other islands in the Pacific too, if she’s being fair. It’s Christmas, and he’s supposed to call because that’s the way it’s always been: her staying up late not to catch Santa and his Reindeer but Father emerging from his office. It’s her that would tromp down the hall with all the grace of an elephant, to fling her arms around him and yelp, Merry Christmas!

And it was him who had to be stern, who must put her back down on the carpet and scold her for being out of bed. Who has to wait until she’s nearly shut her door to stop her, to call out, Merry Christmas, Chizuru.

It’s supposed to be her first. The one given moments after midnight, the most real, and-- and--

And she’s spent the whole day waiting for an empty office.

There’s a part of her, one that’s still too short to reach the microwave and can’t bear the kindness next door, that thinks she missed it. That there’s some dead zone in the house that she unwittingly lingered in, or a notification that her phone somehow swallowed whole. That it’s her fault she never presented herself to be loved.

But there’s another part, one that’s growing every day, and that one--

That one’s just tired.

It’s tired that wins out, in the end.

There’s a weight that drags at her, urging her to stay within the cocoon of her covers, to let the night unfurl across her screen, each blow reported in black and white right before her eyes. A passive observer, an active disappointment, but most importantly: unmoving.

Even still, she gets up, throwing the cloud of her comforter back so that she can slide out from underneath it. Her heels hit the floor with a force that chatters her teeth; or maybe that’s just the chill of the air now that her body heat is no longer trapped up against her skin.

Her phone settles on the nightstand, cozening up to the lamp, and for a long moment, she thinks about turning it on. Every muscle complains as she peels her day clothes off and exchanges them for pajamas, her eyes straining to make out what’s a hole and what’s just dead air, and yet--

Yet it’s easier than facing herself.

The same weight drops her back onto the mattress, an anchor sinking into the endless depths of open water. She isn’t sure when she’ll hit bottom, but staring at the blank screen beside her feels entirely too close to it.

It’s with a trembling finger that she guides the volume from full to vibrate. Even that makes her heart race, makes her wonder if she’s just punishing Father for having priorities besides a fully adult daughter, the same one who had so happily told him she would support his sabbatical wherever it took him. What if he needs to get a hold of her? If there’s an emergency on Borneo or San Cistobal or whatever island his research took him? Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just keep it on a little, just in case--

Her fingers flex. She deserves to sleep tonight, what little of it there is left. And if this is on...

Vibrate changes to mute. The phone flips over, screen pressed against the wood.

“Good night, Daddy.” She gives the case one last, small tap. “Merry Christmas.”

“Hey, jailbait.” Something warm nudges her shoulder, not gently. Chizuru has the space of exactly one breath to wonder what, before the same something grips both and shakes. “Get up!”

“Haah?” Her hands flail out, but whatever’s gotten hold of her slithers out of her grip, retreating past her arm’s reach. “What...?”

It’s bright when her eyes peel open, the sun already seeping through the curtain even though it can’t be more than--

“Class!” Her limbs fly out, wild as she tries to turn over, tangled up in the tight embrace of her covers. “I’m late for--”

“Hold up a slice, shortcake.” Souji looms over her, tall enough that his knees barely brush the bed to do it. “No classes today.”

“No...?” It’s not as if she has anything to say, brain moving at a snail’s pace that it is, but her mouth keeps moving anyway, as if just working her jaw might help get the gears moving. Which it does, oddly enough, reminding her it’s not a weekend but a holiday, and not just any holiday but Christmas, and--

And Father never called. Unless it came in the night, after she’d put herself to bed. After she’d not only turned off the ringtone but vibrate too, leaving him no chance to hear her voice, forcing any attempts for him to contact her straight to voicemail, like she didn’t even care--

“Hey.” Souji knees the mattress, jolting her outstretched elbow right into the corner of the nightstand. “Get up already.”

Painful tingles race up her arm, bouncing from elbow to shoulder and back and, oh, why is it called the funny bone when it’s not funny at all? “Souji, why are you--?”

A bleary blink turns the blurred numbers on her clock to something like sense.

“Oh!” She bolts upright on the mattress, sending Souji skittering back a step. No wonder he’s deigned to scratch at her door; Harada might be the oldest, but of the three of them, Chizuru’s the only one that can be trusted with the stove. “It’s late! Are you hungry?”

“No.” This close, it’s easy to see that furrow flash between his brows, the quick reassessment of his opinion. “Well, yeah. But that’s not what I want right now.”

This early, her brain’s as bleary as her vision, but it won’t clear no matter how much she blinks. “Then what...?”

He heaves a sigh; her only warning before long fingers clamp around her wrist, cold as iron. “Just come with me already.”

It’s a feat to get untangled from her blankets; there’s a knit one sandwiched between the top sheet and the comforter, plus another for more weight-- and heat, since she shares her thermostat with Shinpachi and Harada, whose bodies both run at a temperature verging on medically alarming if they think sixty-five degrees is comfortable. It’s harder still with Souji yanking at her the whole time; she’s not certain whether he does it because he’s impatient or because her struggling amuses him. Possibly both, knowing Souji.

Impatience, however, wins out. One foot wins free, planting itself on the bedside braided rug, and he snaps, “Hurry up. We don’t have all day.”

She’d love to, if only the comforter hadn’t swallowed her up to the ankle, cinching tight when she tries to pry it apart. “Ah, I know! Just give me one--”

Unless she’d meant to say second-- which she hadn’t, not at all-- Souji doesn’t give it to her. Instead he tugs, and she stumbles off the mattress, dragging half the blankets with her. “Good,” he huffs, barely glancing back. “Let’s go.”

“Wait!” Souji has a terrible habit of making things worse the longer he’s made to wait, but she digs in her heels anyway. Or, well, the one that isn’t still trapped in Poly-Fil. “Can I at least put on my robe?”

“Why? It’s not like there’s anyone to see your cute little Christmas--” he squints “--raccoons?”

“Tanuki.” She smooths her hand over the fabric, one of their round faces peeking playfully out from between her fingers. “They’re just so fluffy.”

Souji stares at her, stone-faced and silent, and-- and it’s longer than that his teasing typically takes. “Right,” he says, stilted. “Whatever. Just hurry it up, Sleeping Beauty.”

Chizuru is keenly conscious of every second Souji suffers her, all-too aware of how impossible it is to win a race against the limits of his patience, but she’s determined to make the most of what she’s given. It’s hopeless to aspire to Hajime’s cool efficiency, but she tries, keeping her movements sharp and purposeful, as if putting on her robe required the same sweeping grace as his kata, and yet--

Yet she barely cinches the knot tight before he’s grabbed her again. “C’mon, princess. We’ve got things to do.”

It’s a struggle just to keep her feet beneath her, but she manages a very eloquent. “Huh?”

His mouth quirks, too pleased, as he tugs and she stumbles, bare feet barely braced against the jamb. “People to piss off.”

Ah, well that’s hardly promising.

When all is said and done, he doesn’t drag her far. A cold comfort, considering.

“This is Hajime’s room,” she informs him. His grin assures her he already knows. “And, Ya-- ah, I mean, Su-- uh, um. S-susu...?”

The name’s foreign in her mouth, tongue stumbling and stuttering around it, and it’s-- it’s just odd not to use it, when she’s so used to Souji and Hajime and Heisuke and Shinpachi and even Sano, if it feels safe to say, instead of intimate. As if she’s letting all the rest of them close while keeping him at arm’s length.

Which isn’t true. But still, she can’t bring herself to say Yamazaki’s first name so casually, not when even Heisuke, who barely lasted three hours before asking if she was cool with nicknames, hasn’t managed it. With the syllables rolling around in her mouth, it’s almost...

Illicit. That’s it. “Is there a reason you need me here?”

Souji’s mouth curls, so satisfied she’s surprised she can’t see feathers between his teeth. “Yes, definitely.”

“But they went home for the holidays.” She frowns. “Did you need something in there? I’m pretty sure it’s--”

His leg kicks back, and with one smooth swing, he completely bypasses the need for a doorknob, the open door shivering from the force.

“-- locked,” she finishes faintly. “Oh my.”

One hand catches the door, long fingers splayed across the grain. “After you, jailbait.”

She nearly balks-- it’s not as if it’s his room; he hardly has the right to invite her-- but the door swings open, and she--

She’s never seen this before. Yamazaki’s room. Or Hajime’s, of course. A tour down the hallway would be enough to get a glimpse into any of the other rooms; Heisuke hadn’t even waited a day to drag her into his, pointing out all his favorite posters. Harada and Shinpachi took a few weeks longer, though she’d spent most of that visit with her hands clapped over her eyes. Even Souji tolerated her shuffling a step over the threshold, even if it was only to ask for him to help her reach one of the taller cabinets. But Yamazaki and Hajime...

Their door has always been carefully shut, not even the slightest gap for a peek. An easy habit to explain away; the both of them value privacy over accessibility, choosing to socialize in the common areas of the house rather than in their room, but still--

It’s almost surprising how normal it is. Not that Chizuru expected it to be wallpapered floor to ceiling with centerfolds, like Harada and Shinpachi’s room, or crowded with collectibles like Heisuke’s, but maybe white walls and stark sheets, monochrome and neat as a pin. The sort of room that would seem unoccupied, if it wasn’t for the monitors on the desks. Sterile.

Instead there’s posters. Not crowding the walls, so close that the corners overlap, but there’s personality, if not chaos. Enough to know that the boy who sleeps under the navy comforter likes movies with kimonos and swords or computers from the 80s, and that charcoal comforter likes wuxia and vintage medical diagrams. And books too, if the stack teetering on his bedside table is any indication.

Chizuru shuffles a step further into the room. It would be rude to rummage, but surely-- surely it wouldn’t hurt if she just read the titles. If she just stooped down the tiniest bit and--

And tripped over Souji, shoulder-deep beneath Yamazaki’s mattress. “W-what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he grunts, annoyed. “A guy that uptight’s got to be hiding something. And not just the normal stuff. The kind of something that’s gotta be top shelf fucked up.”

She blinks. “Huh?”

“Oh come on, you know what I mean. Whips and chains.” He drags his arm out with a huff. “Autoerotic asphyxiation. Snuff tapes.” Souji reaches up, flipping over his pillows. “Yiffing. Who could say what a small-dicked little turd like him is into?”

Half those words are unrecognizable, and so it’s not until he’s on his feet, poking through desk drawers that Chizuru realizes, “You mean you’re looking for...for...” Her mouth works, cheeks painfully hot as she manages, “Girlie magazines?”

His fingers still, pressed into a sheaf of glossy page edges. “I’m trying to find porn, Chizuru. That’s what we call it this century.”

The book shuts with a snap, joining its friends on the shelf, and when he reaches for another, she blurts out, “Don’t people just watch that online now?”

Souji laughs, not kind, but abandons the bookshelf. “And everyone thinks you’re so innocent, huh, princess?”

Her hands clap to her cheeks. Ah, she hadn’t realized it could be painful to blush. “I, um...only, ah--” Souji flings open the closet “--I don’t think you should really be--!”

“Jackpot.” The hangers rattle as he slips something off the rack; with only the sunlight eking in around the blinds to light the room, it’s hard to see just what. “What do you think? Would it look good on me?”

The fabric’s black, limp and shapeless on its hanger, utterly unrecognizable. “I don’t...?”

“Nah, no way I could fit into that shrimp’s costumes.” The light might be dim, but Souji’s teeth practically glow when he says, “But you could, half pint. C’mon, get over here.”

She doesn’t have much of a choice, not when he grabs her wrist and yanks. “I don’t understand,” she murmurs, watching him separate a smaller piece from the whole, more uncomfortable by the second. “Why did you need me when you were only going to..um...?”

Steal seems a little strong for the moment. Scrounge falls a little short.

“Ahhh, see, kid, last night I left a little gift for the whole student body. Right on the main page, where everyone could appreciate it.” He steps entirely too close, the warmth of his body filling the space between them. “And our favorite little ass-kisser didn’t appreciate it.”

The scrap slips over her head, cool and smooth where it settles around her neck. “So he took it down. Or got some of his nerd friends to do it. Either way...” Souji shrugs. “It’s rude to give back a gift, isn’t it?”

His wrist twists, the cloth pulling tight against her skin. Tight enough that only a twitch guides her into a nod. “See? That’s what I thought too. Kid needs to learn a thing or two about manners. So that’s what I’m doing.” Souji grins, the fabric loosening as he lets it slip from his fingers. “Teaching him a lesson.”

“B-but...” Her focus stumbles as he steps closer, threading his hand beneath the few inches of her hair that don’t clear the fabric and pulling them free. “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“It’s cute that you don’t know.” His smile could cut when he slips the cloth right up over her nose. “This is a hostage situation, jailbait, and you’re going to read from the script. Now look over here.”

She does, blinking right up into the blinding light of flash photography as his arm squeezes her close. “What...?”

“Perfect.” Souji’s lips slant to a smirk, phone pinched delicately between his fingers. “Now I just need to post this in--”

The lights flick on. Neither of them are near the switch.

But Hajime is.

“Just what,” he says, brows drawn down like a storm, “do you think you’re doing in here?”

There have only been three house meetings since Chizuru showed up on their doorstep, hair shorn and all her earthly possessions split between a backpack and a trash bag: the first, called by the professor, to announce that that there would be a new roommate; the second, to decide how exactly to handle the fact that Chizuru wasn’t a boy’s name, nor was she; and the third, well...

I’m not complaining that you invite girls back, Sano, Shinpachi had said, with all the gravitas of a judge, but you can’t let them wander around. She went through our trash, dude!

But this-- it’s different. Not just because of the Christmas lights, festively twinkling through their cycle, or Shinpachi’s sweater blinking through its own.

It’s that they’re all here, Christmas afternoon-- evening really, with how early the sun sets these days-- holidays cut short. Chizuru might not have anyone to spent Christmas with, but Shinpachi did, and Heisuke, and Yamazaki--

And instead they’re all here. Because of her. Not a single one of them is smiling.

It’s too much.

“I’m so sorry!” The words burst out of her, rushed, but it’s important to get them out before anyone else can speak, before they think she’s only sorry because she got caught. “I really didn’t mean to go in! I just...Souji said...”

“Narc.” It’s muffled in his shoulder, just loud enough for her to hear. And maybe others, the way Yamazaki’s brow twitches across the table.

“Chizu, Chizu. Come on.” Shinpachi holds up his hands, as if a half-hearted sweep like that could clear the slate of her worries.. “No one here thinks this is your fault.”

It’s kind of him to say, but that’s...impossible. Not when she’s so clearly transgressed. “I went into Y-Yamazaki and Hajime’s room without permission. That’s against the--”

“No, Yukimura, that’s not--” Yamazaki’s teeth clack down, hard. “I don’t mind if it’s you. Ah, I mean--” his ears flush the same angry pink that licks up the column of his neck “--it’s, er, different.”

“You are respectful of other people’s personal belongings,” Hajime clarifies. “There is no issue with you in our private space. Souji, however...”

“Oh, come on.” Souji kicks his feet up on the coffee table, baring every hole in the bottom of them. “It’s not like I broke anything.”

Yamazaki’s eyes hone onto him-- or rather, the parts of him only inches from Harada’s iced mocha, so close a flex of a toe could touch the coaster. “Right, you only stole something. Not like that’s a big deal.”

“Stole? Like I want--” with a sweep of his palm, Yamazaki clears the surface of appendages, so precise it doesn’t even disrupt the condensation on the cup “--hey!”

He doesn’t smile, but when Yamazaki glances up at the couch, his satisfaction shines just as bright as one.

“Souji.”

Hajime is not like Shinpachi, using his outdoor voice in every room no matter how small, or Heisuke, unable to control his volume once a conversation gets interesting. He’s soft spoken, serious; the sort of person other people lean in to hear, rather than ask him to speak up.

But today, he pitches his voice to be heard. “You cannot enter someone’s assigned private room without express permission.” With even graver inflection, he adds “It is against the rules put forth in the Signed Housing Agreement.”

Souji snorts, sinking further into the couch cushions. “No one pays attention to that crap.”

Air hisses between Yamazaki’s teeth. “That’s--”

“If I am not allowed to leave the group chat unless a member of the house boots me for a pre-agreed upon duration,” Hajime says, mouth pulling thin, “then you are also not allowed in my room.”

His glare is hardly aimed at her, but it comes close enough that she flinches. Souji doesn’t, refusing to acknowledge it that same way a cat declined to be caught on a curtain, as if reality was simply an opinion he did or did not hold. “I didn’t even touch your stuff. I don’t know why you’re trying to--”

“You did touch Yamazaki’s stuff, though.” Harada shifts in his chair, the vee of his sweater dipping deep enough to bare cleavage. It might be distracting, if it wasn’t already a relief that he was wearing all his clothes. “Which is against the rules.”

“Yeah, that’s fucked up, right?” Shinpachi cracks open a tall boy, cold enough that the beer fizzes out, threatening to drip right across the festive moose on his chest; HORNY AND WELL HUNG according to the words knit into his sweater. “There’s no locks on the doors, man. We’ve all got to trust each other.”

Chizuru blinks. “But I have a lock.”

He pauses, mid-sip. “Well, I guess that makes sense. You’re a girl, after all. Can’t have a girl be alone with a bunch of guys if there no--”

“My room also has a lock.” Hajime frowns, considering the socks Souji’s just returned to the table. “Hardly a good one, if Souji was able to bypass it with just his foot, but...”

“Me too,” Heisuke chimes in. “I just don’t really use it.”

“Wait, what?” Shinpachi swivels between them, lost. “Are me and Sano the only ones who don’t--?”

“I think the best course of action is to inform Professor Hijikata about the infraction.” Kneeling on the carpet next to Shinpachi’s luggage, Yamazaki’s hardly an authority figure, but when he raises his voice the room fritters to silence. “I’m sure he can take it from there.”

Harada hums, unconvinced. “I don’t know about that. Souji’s already got two strikes against him. If we report another one, I’m pretty sure Hijikata’s going to toss him out.”

They might be more suggestions than eyebrows, but still, it makes an impression when Yamazaki furrows them. “I don’t see why that’s any of my concern.”

“Aw, c’mon, Yamazaki.” They all might tease her about her pleading eyes, but it’s Heisuke that uses them now, as compelling as any puppy in a pet store window. “You know Souji doesn’t have anywhere else to go. You wouldn’t throw him out in the cold just like that, would you?”

His mouth pinches, bracing the way the rest of him is, squared off and utterly implacable. “Souji is a grown man who can make his own decisions. If those decisions lead to him getting tossed out, that hardly has anything to do with me.”

Souji snorts. “None of the people who complained are even here anymore.”

Yamazaki whips around, eyes so cold they could turn any other man to ice. Souji just smirks. “Yes, because of you.”

“Well, I don’t know...” Heisuke hums, thoughtful. “Ryu left because of that art program. You know, the one that had the scholarship.”

“Only after Okita shoved him off--!”

“Oh, c’mon.” Souji’s shoulder twitch, barely summoning up the energy for a full shrug. “That’s all water under the bridge.”

Yamazaki surges to his feet; only Harada’s hand, keeping him from jumping the table too. “You broke his wrist in three places! The only reason he didn’t press charges was because his foster father is somehow an even bigger asshole than you!”

Souji picks his grins the same way a chef picks his knives from the block: with the intention to cut. “No hard feelings.”

“Hard feelings?” Yamazaki chokes out. “You think this is about hard feelings? When Itou left, he--”

“Itou was a prick.”

Hajime doesn’t so much sigh as hum, raspy and dubious. “That doesn’t mean that what you did was right, Souji.”

His eyes narrow, annoyed. “Don’t pretend you miss him running around the place, acting better than everyone.”

“No, no. He’s got a point.” The easy chair grunts as Shinpachi shifts his weight back, crossing his legs ankle to knee. “They both do. You know I don’t want to kick you out, man, but you’ve got a bad habit of taking stuff way past funny right into, well...”

“An actionable offense?” Harada offers, wry.

A blunt nail taps at his can, uncomfortable. “Yeah, that. It’s not good, bro.”

Something happens with Souji’s mouth. A lot of somethings, actually; subtle ones, hidden in the corners and tucked into the cheeks, the sort that happen between one blink and the next. Missable, save for the fact that Chizuru never looks away.

There’s a jut of his lip first, not a pout but its more serious cousin, the kind that’s like a levee to a deluge: one tremble away from a flood. A scowl next, never quite reaching his eyes; good practice for the smile that follows, curving into a smirk the way steel takes an edge: like it’s meant for it.

“All right, all right.” His hands raise up, too lax for a peace offering. It might stand in for a concession, if she tilted her head and squinted, but only a little. “So you’re all mad at me or whatever.”

“For good reason.” It’s a strong stance for Harada; he’s usually the one who’s quick to compromise, so long as it keeps everyone civil.

“Sure, right.” Souji shrugs, unconcerned. “I get it. But consider--” fabric whips out from behind a pillow, matte and black-- “this.”

Chizuru blinks. “Wasn’t that in...?”

Yamazaki’s closet, she doesn’t say. Not when he shakes it out, turning it from cloth to clothing, a whole jumpsuit with fussy embroidery picked out in an even darker black.

“What’s that?” Shinpachi scoots to the edge of his chair, squinting. He must not have his contacts in. “Some sort of ninja costume?”

She knows better than to turn, to draw attention to the statue suddenly sitting across the table, but Chizuru can’t help it, not when Souji is so quick to say, “It is.” There’s enough relish in his tone that she can taste it. “And it’s Yamazaki’s.”

There’s a pause-- for effect, she’s sure, considering the way Souji grins. Like he’s pulled off some magic trick, making his troubles disappear in one hand and then plucking them out from behind Yamazaki’s ear.

“So?” Harada snorts, unimpressed. “Are you surprised? He’s been a ninja for Halloween like, what? Three years running? Since I’ve been here at least. What next? Gonna pull a sexy firefighter out of Shin’s closet?”

“Hey!” A hand presses right over WELL, leaving HORNY and HUNG peeking out from underneath it. “I’ve branched out! This year I was a sexy soldier.”

“How can you tell?” Heisuke mutters, hunched shoulders making his chest even narrower, more concave. “You’re only wearing like half a costume.”

“We’re not talking about Nagakura.” With all the subtlety of a bomb, Souji drops, “We’re talking about Mr Kiss-Ass and how he has like, five of these tucked away for a rainy day.”

It’s been three months since Chizuru managed to insinuate herself into the house, but not once has it been quiet. Even in the night there’s something: Shinpachi snoring, Harada’s flings trying to find the front door, Heisuke up entirely too late typing up papers or-- more likely-- playing video games. Something. But now--

Now it’s a ringing silence that’s left in Souji’s wake, an awkward air that has every shoulder stiff, every eye finding somewhere else to look besides the place where Yamazaki sits, still as a stone.

Or at least, until Hajime slides forward, dexterous fingers smoothing over the raised stitches of the sleeve. “Oh,” he hums, impressed. “Your skills have really improved since your last attempt. I take it this is for next weekend?”

“Ah...” He swallows, loud enough that even Chizuru can hear. “Y-yeah. The new kunai were too heavy for the belt, so I thought if I remade that, I might as well add a few more quality of life adjustments, and, er...”

“Oh my god,” Heisuke breathes, quivering like a corgi at the end of his leash. “Are you a real ninja?”

A broad hand cuffs him on the back of his head. “C’mon,” Harada mutters. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

If Yamazaki’s ears were painted pink before, they’re crimson now, hot enough to burn from touch alone. The square of his shoulders deflates, rounding with the slow leak of his confidence, but--

But Hajime simply nods, stroking his chin. “Perhaps I should look at my own as well. It hardly feels adequate next to all the work you’ve done.”

“Is this like...a sex thing?” Shinpachi’s eyes dart between the two of them. “It’s a sex thing, right?”

“No,” Yamazaki says, stern, immediately undermined by Hajime’s, “A little.”

It’s with a hefty heaping of betrayal that Yamazaki turns to him, glaring as he grounds out, “Absolutely not.”

Hajime’s mouth gives a dubious twist, and he opens it, perhaps to gainsay him, but--

But there’s no time, not when Heisuke practically explodes. “Are you a ninja too, Hajime?”

He blinks. “No.”

“Oh.” Heisuke deflates. “Okay, I guess...”

“I’m a samurai.”

“What--” Harada’s voice strains beneath the words “--is going on?”

“So let me get this straight.” Harada’s fingers pinch at the bridge of his nose, but by the wrinkle above them, Chizuru doubts it helps. “You two...dress up as samurai...?”

“I’m the samurai,” Hajime explains, so helpful. “Yamazaki is currently playing as a ninja. As he typically does.”

“You don’t have to tell them that,” he mutters. “That’s not really the point--”

“Right, of course, but...” Harada grimaces. “This is what you do on the weekends? For fun?”

A narrow shoulder lifts under Hajime’s tee, the closest he comes to a shrug. “An afternoon a month, to be more specific.”

“Once a month?” Heisuke asks, wide-eyed. “That doesn’t seem like a lot.”

“It takes a large amount of effort and dedication to keep up a long-form Live Action Roleplaying campaign,” he explains gravely. “That the organizers are able to run so often is a testament to their skill. And to run a weekend event--”

“So you mean you go there the whole weekend?” Heisuke blinks. “Like just forty-eight hours of samurai stuff?”

Hajime’s correction comes the same way as all his interactions: swiftly and without any judgment. “Seventy-two hours.”

Shinpachi goggles. “That’s a lot of fucking hours.”

“It is to aid with immersion.” Hajime isn’t a man of many words, but now he does not so much pause as he does breathe. “Unlike other games of its kind, Legend of the Five Rings does not focus so much on combat as it does internal conflict, and the robust worldbuilding--”

“This isn’t what they’re asking.” Yamazaki’s gaze darts wide-eyed around the table, never daring to stay longer than a blink. “You don’t have to--”

“--Is based on Sengoku Era Japan,” he continues, heedless. “As gratifying as it is to play on a regular basis, it really isn’t until a few hours into any session that people truly come to embody their roles. The court politics alone--”

“Saito.” Yamazaki may be seated at the opposite end of the living room, but his stare is enough to make even Hajime hesitate. “I think they get the idea.”

Harada looks between them, pained. “So are there...scripts or something?”

“No. Yes.” Hajime frowns. “It’s complicated. Each scene is improvised in character, but the organizers are present to facilitate the flow of the story. It is a collaborative effort.”

“But that’s it?” Heisuke asks. “You’re just like...samurai for a day? Or, er, three of them?”

“Yes.”

“And you do this--” Harada’s eyebrows furrow, pained “--for fun?”

Hajime doesn’t answer so much as cock his head, hands outspread as if to say, what else?

“That’s so...so cool!” Heisuke leaps to his feet, practically tripping over the table in his excitement. “Can I go? You guys gotta bring me!”

“What?” Harada blinks at him. “You want to go to this?”

“Uh, yeah?” His hands clench, too excited. “You get to be a samurai, Sano! Who wouldn’t want to?”

“Hey, so.” Shinpachi leans in, face pinched in curiosity. “Is this like...D&D or whatever?”

“In spirit,” Yamazaki creaks out, looking like death warmed over.

He nods. “Right, right. So like...a total sausage fest, or...?”

“The numbers on many tabletop games typically skews toward male,” Hajime explains, “but Live Action Roleplaying draws a higher percentage of female participants. Possibly due to the cosplay aspect.”

Shinpachi grins. “Oh, then count me in too, sensei.”

Harada stares at him. “Who are you?”

“What?” Shinpachi shrugs. “It’s math with babes. What’s not to love?”

“Ah...” Yamazaki waving hands don’t do much to hide his grimace. “I don’t really think this will be as interesting to you as you think...”

“He’s right,” Harada presses. “You may think it’s a good place to pick up women who aren’t afraid of, er, theoretical numbers--”

“They’re not theoretical,” Shinpachi huffs. “They’re real, it’s just the equations used to describe them are--“

“See? Already my eyes have glazed over.”

“I don’t know,” Chizuru hums, pitched just loud enough to be heard. “I think it sounds...fun?”

Yamazaki’s stare fixes on her. “Really?”

Even as a girl, Chizuru had never been one to play dress up, never been one to play pretend-- father didn’t approve, for one. Not when there were more direct benefits to be had from drilling flashcards or reading books. A second, her daydreams were vivid enough she hardly needed to act them out, not when Father was so apt to remind her, princesses don’t have to pass their medical exams.

But Yamazaki is as serious as they come, a TA for the dean of the pre-med department even before graduating. His acceptance to the medical school almost assured, and he finds this worth his time. Enough to have made a costume-- with his own hands!-- and sign up for a whole weekend away from his studies...

“Y-yeah.” She ducks her head, hoping to hide the heat that pricks at her cheeks. “I mean, as long as it wouldn’t be a bother for me to, um...”

“Ah, no! I mean, yes. Never.” Yamazaki shakes himself, pink staining the high arch of his cheekbones. “It’s not a problem.”

“Yeah, Chizu!” An arm clamps around her shoulders, dragging her against Shinpachi’s personal light display. “That’s right! Let’s all go. House field trip!”

Yamazaki’s jaw drops. “I don’t, er, know about that--!”

“Fine.” Harada sighs, getting to his feet. “If Chizuru wants to go. Count me in.”

“That’s the spirit!” Shinpachi claps him on the back, hard enough that even Harada has to cough. “Now, that just leaves...?”

“Uh-uh.” Souji’s arms fold over his chest, forbidding. “No way I’m going to your nerd party.”

“Aw, c’mon.” Shinpachi drops between them on the couch, arm pulling tight. “Think of it as a group bonding experience.”

Souji scowls. “What makes you think I care about bonding with any of you--”

“Well, if you’re going to be that way about it.” He squeezes tight enough to eke a squeak out of him. “Think about it as, ‘if you go we won’t tell Hijikata about you stealing shit.”

Souji glowers. “Fine,” he grumbles, shoving him off. “But I won’t like it!”

Shinpachi’s smile is all knives when he replies, “Wouldn’t expect you to.”

It’s dark when Chizuru stumbles out into the hall; there’d been daylight still when they’d piled into the parlor, but now night clings to the the edges of dusk, only enough light to gild the snow in golden shadow. It might bother her more if it wasn’t such a relief, a respite from having to scrape at the last reserve of her smiles. And so she takes it; one big breath and the muscles around her mouth slump, aching from use.

Any other night, she might worry about one of the boys following out behind her, but she can hear the ruckus shift from the parlor toward the kitchen, wheeled baggage and Shinpachi’s booming voice all tromping toward the back stair. Her day may have happened in fits and starts, but everyone else has been on the move, going from Christmas to short notice travel to fraught house meeting all within the space of hours. There’s no one who’s going to be worried about her.

Which suits her just fine. A few minutes lying face down on her comforter and she’ll be right as rain. Just a breath or two to herself, and--

Someone huffs behind her. Right behind her.

She whips around so fast, she nearly tumbles Yamazaki into the wall with her. Or at least his arm, half outstretched, now just hanging there in the air between them.

“Oh!” There’s no reason for her to shy back, but she does, guiltier with every inch. “Ah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

“No, no. It’s my fault.” His hands aren’t large, not like Harada or Shinpachi, but the fingers are long and tapered, digging runnels through the shaggy bristle of his hair. “I should have-- ah, I mean, I just saw you, and er, wanted to make sure that you were all right. After, ah...all that.”

Her first instinct urges her to laugh, to let her nerves giggle out, there’s no need to worry about me--

But Yamazaki stares at her with the same careful intensity as he had in the kitchen-- you’re worth a good meal-- and Chizuru tries deflection instead. “I’m the one who should be asking you that! I went into your room without any permission and all, and Souji--” Yamazaki grimaces at the name “---I just...you have every right to be mad at me!”

“You?” he echoes, incredulous. “It’s not your fault, Yukimura. Okita’s the one who dragged you in there.”

She shakes her head. “I could have chosen to leave any time. I just was too curious to think to question him.”

“Curious?” There’s no inflection to the word, and with the shadows making a muddle of his expressions, there’s only the tilt of his head to tell here there’s a question. “Why would you be curious?”

“Ah, I’d just...never been inside before?” Her palms clap to her cheeks, and oh, she must glow from how hot her cheeks burn. “It’s silly.”

“It’s not! It’s just, ah...unexpected. I...” His mouth opens, as if he might say more, but with a lick of his lips, it closes instead. Or rather, his chin dips down and it follows, gaze dropping from her eyes to somewhere at her neck. As if...

“Oh, did I spill...?” She can’t actually remember what she’s eaten today, whether it could be something that she could walk around wearing, but Yamazaki’s already shaking his head.

“Ah, no, it’s just...you still have...” His fingers curl hesitantly in the air between them. “If you would let me...?”

Every twitching nerve of her stills as he steps close, fingers skimming past her shoulders. Only days ago she’d knotted his scarf, but it feels different now that he’s the one reaching, so close his hand meet behind her neck. He’s not bundled up now, no three layers of wool and thermal and parka to keep her from realizing that he smells nice, like...like something clean with a hint of eucalyptus, and it’s...

It’s a lot.

His fingers knit into the fabric at her nape, too slippery for him to find the end of it by touch. At least, the first time; he gathers it up, hiking it higher and higher until he can slide under it, the flat of his nails smooth and warm against her neck. Her pulse pounds so hard he must feel it, but Yamazaki doesn’t flinch, instead lifting it with surgical precision. The stretchy fabric threads right off her ponytail with no more than that initial brush of fingers, and she--

She stare. It’s the mask. The one Souji put on her. All this time, and she’s-- she’s just been wearing it, like some sort of...scarf. Right over her tanuki pajamas. In front of everyone.

In front of Yamazaki.

If she could melt into the woodwork, it would be a miracle. But as always, reality refuses to oblige her. “Oh, I hadn’t even...ah...”

“Please, don’t worry about it.” His fingers smooth over the fabric, mouth curving into a rueful smile. “It looked better on you than it does on me.”

“Ah!” Her gasp catches in her throat. “That’s not...um...” She hakes her head, hoping that might clear enough room for a sentence or two to compose itself. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Yamazaki glances up at her, amused, and oh-- she hadn’t meant to say that. Not like that.

“You know, I meant to...” He stops himself. Not abruptly, like she does, but a slow, thoughtful halt. Like a train pulling into a station rather than a car braking for a yellow light. “I mean, I don’t think I ever got around to saying it last night, and today, with everything...well”

He hesitates again, a breath hissing between his teeth. But this time his shoulders square, and even though his gaze is lost in the shadow of his brows, she knows he’s looking at her. “Merry Christmas, Yukimura.”

#yamachi #hakuouki #my fic #modern au #college au #If the Mind Is Willing #LARP au #FINALLY THE REVEAL IS HERE #writing a group scene with like six dudes is the absolute worst let me tell you that #and i have so many more of them to go next chapter #while having to explain an obscure tabletop game #BUCKLE UP KIDS IT'S TIME TO LEARN ABOUT BUSHIDO

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