#but then if you DID have an interest in those certain languages you were somehow interested in them for the wrong reasons | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

anisespice · 1 year

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“ the fuck-it list ” || hq! pt. 2

one || three || four

synopsis: there’s a list going around consisting of hot guys on campus that are deemed “fuckable” with theories as to what they’d be like in bed. it’s all fun and games until somehow your boyfriend ends up on this list.

pairing: various x gn!reader [ hinata, bokuto, kuroo ]

warnings: cursing, suggestive language, hinata’s is SUPER long lol mild objectification, bo and kuroo’s are criminally the shortest ones i’ve written so far ugh (but they get the point across), and I think that’s it :D

notes: first of all, can i just say THANK Y'ALL SO MUCH ♡♡♡ i did not expect that headcanon to blow up, so i will do my very best to make the following ones just as juicy and entertaining for y'all :))) special thanks to @melanatedkink for helping out with this, she helps bring out my inner whore lol hope you guys enjoy !!

notes ii: didn't want the situations to get too repetitive, so these may take me a little longer for the other characters i do in the future, but i appreciate the love and patience for the series thus far !!! you guys are awesome

tagged: @daedaep69 , @ahahadumbo , @viktoryn , @mdsb , @ourgoddessathena , @ushygushybaby , @hyori2 , @lumpywolf , @fantasycantasy

HINATA knew all about the list. Being the social butterfly he was, it would be impossible for the topic not to come up in conversation, especially since a lot of his friends were on it. He found it interesting, to say the least, but never really took the whole thing too seriously. It was just for shits and giggles after all, right?

During a water break in the gym, Hinata aimed for his mouth while squeezing the bottle. Most made it inside, but the rest dripped down his chin. Thinking nothing of it, the spiker used the bottom of his jersey to wipe his face dry, be it water or sweat. And even though it was for a split second, it was more than enough time for the damage to be done to the hearts of those chilling up by the railing on the first level. Beneath the LEDs, in all their sinful glory, were Shoyo Hinata’s nipple piercings.

The gates of heaven have opened, and the choir sings a hymn. But, along came Satan, as he rubbed his seedy hands together in mischief. The groupies were shellshocked and knew they must alert the masses, eyeing their prey all the way until the end of practice. This caught the attention of a certain blonde setter, who brought it to Hinata’s attention right off the bat as they cleaned up the court.

“Oi. Don’t wanna alarm ya or anythin’, but…those spectators up there been eye-ballin’ you for quite a while. Could be trouble.”

The tangerine gave a confused grin, looking over his shoulder in their direction. Sure enough, their eyes never wavered, not even after being caught. However, he merely shrugged it off. “It’s probably nothing.”

Atsumu hummed, skeptically. Though, he didn’t push it any further.

Once they were dismissed and sent to the showers, by the time Hinata was done he'd be the only one left in the locker room. He had to take his time and be extra careful not to bump his piercings, still kinda sensitive. Kageyama offered to stay behind so they could walk back together, "HINATA-BOKE, HURRY UP BEFORE I LEAVE YOUR SLOW ASS IN HERE."

But, Hinata politely declined. "SUCK A DICK, BAKAYAMA. I'm going over [_____]'s tonight, so go on ahead!"

With a nod, the stoic setter took his leave. "Cool. Tell 'em I said hey. See you tomorrow."

"See ya tomorrow!"

And then, all was quiet.

The only sounds filling the space were the running water, his humming, and the flickering overhead lights. When he stepped out with a towel wrapped snuggly around his waist, Hinata heard the sound of his phone ringing in his bag. His tired expression soon melted into joy at the cheesy love song he used as your ringtone.

Pressing the answer button, Hinata greeted you with his face all in the camera, and a bright, "Hi, [_____]!!~ You here already?"

Your eyes were on the road but you grinned, adoringly. "Hi, Sho. And, no, almost there though. I stopped by the canteen to grab some dinner. Know how hungry you get after practice."

"Mmm, starved. You're an angel, angel."

Staying on the call as he changed, the two of you conversed about each other's day as normal. However, when the topic of those groupies eventually came up, it instantly made you tense. Even though most of his fans were harmless, there were still a few rotten apples in the bunch that made you wary. "God, don’t tell me they asked you to spike their ass like a ball again."

Hinata snorted, throwing on a clean shirt, "That wasn't me, remember? That was Sakusa-san. Never seen him look so horrified." You laughed, having recalled. "But, according to 'tsumu-san, they hardly took their eyes off me tonight.”

“That’s old news, babe. Those vultures are always watching you.”

“Not always-”

"ALWAYS." You affirmed, pulling up to the building. Parking outside the doors, you teasingly said, "We can continue talking about how wrong you are in the car, I’m outside. And hurry, the food's gonna get cold."

"Yes, boss," he chuckled, gathering up his things. Throwing the duffle over his shoulder, Hinata made haste for the lobby, making sure to turn the lights off behind him. “See you in a minute, sunshine.~”

With that he hung up, walking with a spring in his step. He had a surprise for you, and couldn’t wait to finally show them off later. Now that the piercings had healed enough, Hinata couldn’t fight the obscene images clouding his mind of all the things you’d do once you saw them. It made him dizzy just thinking about it…

Unfortunately, someone would beat him to the punch. Or, more specifically, something.

‘Shoyo Hinata. 5’6ft sweetheart, and a ball of energy who’ll light up any room he walks into. He may look all innocent, but clearly, we’ve been underestimating him. Kinda has everyone wondering what other piercings he may be hiding…and where.~ What he may lack in height, he makes up for in girth. Expect to go for several rounds back to back, ‘cause he’s got STAMINA. This man will also be very vocal—Talk you through an orgasm, how good you make him feel, dirty-talk, begging, you name it—He is BIG on communication. He's also a cuddler, after-care will be disgustingly sweet, and pillow talk will be a must. 100/10.’

Wow. You suspected those parasites were up to no good, but never would’ve expected this. The picture attached to the thread was of your boyfriend, mid-air from blocking a ball, with his arms straight up. As he was coming down, his shirt was coming up, exposing his whole torso. It was a little blurry, but whoever took the photo zoomed in enough to where you could easily make out the silver on his nipples.

You pursed your lips, uncertain on how to feel. On one hand, you were kinda annoyed they, let alone the whole campus, got to see them before you even knew about them. But, on the horny hand…

“Hey, gorgeous!” Hinata exclaimed, startling you out of your thoughts. He had opened the back door, and threw his bag on the seat before eagerly joining you in the front. Leaning across the console to give you a kiss, he was taken aback when you stopped him, placing a finger on his lips. “Mmm?”

You gave him a blank look, making him a little nervous. He was just on the phone with you and things were totally fine, what could’ve possibly changed in the five minutes it took him to get to the car? Hinata didn’t have to ponder for long, though. Not when you used that very same finger to hook around his collar, yanking it downward. He yelped, pulling away in the last second, but his reflexes couldn’t save him this time.

You confirmed it with your own eyes now.

“I uh—…T-Those are…,” he spluttered, scratching his cheek. You happily watched him squirm, arms crossed with a knowing grin on your face. Hinata sweat-dropped. “I-I was gonna t-tell you, I swear, but I wanted them to heal a little before I did, so that you could…”

“Could what, Sho?”

His face was pure vermilion. With a huff, Hinata whined, “How’d you even find out? I had a whole thing planned and everything! Was it Bakayama? Did he tell you?? Dammit, I knew I should’ve asked someone else to come with me to the appointment!”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “No, it wasn’t Kageyama. I told you so, those vultures are always watching.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll tell you later. For now,” you reached over again, this time with both hands as lithe fingertips slid underneath the thin cotton of his shirt, trailing up the smooth skin until you brushed against the perked nubs. Hinata twitched, immediately biting back a moan as you began teasing them at once. If he got any redder, he’d surely pass out from all the blood rushing to his head. Luckily, it was also rushing elsewhere. “Let’s hurry and get you back to mine’s, hm?"

"...S-So I uhn," he keened when you lightly tugged on one, hand reflexively grabbing your wrist, but not to stop you. His eyes fluttered as he let you feel him up as much as you pleased, mouth hung open as he began panting like a dog. "...I take it y-you like them, then?"

"Oh, baby, I love 'em. Best investment ever, honestly. Can't wait to put them in my mouth," you sighed dreamily, gently pinching to elicit a moan from the ginger. Music to your ears. From the look on his face, he could probably cum from this feeling alone. You pulled away at the thought, smirking as he instantly began protesting.

"Aht, not so fast, we still gotta eat. But, don't worry. You'll get your dessert."

Homie nodded so quick, you were sure he gave himself whiplash. Adorable.

By the end of a very long night full of debauchery, you eventually told him about the list and how exactly you found out about the piercings. And you know what? He couldn’t even be mad. At least it wasn't Kageyama.

“Oh! He says ‘hey’ by the way.”

Now, BOKUTO thought he knew about the list. But after the whole…misunderstanding with Akaashi, it turned out he knew absolutely nothing. Granted, how he felt about it didn’t really change after his friends spent over an hour explaining it to him. If anything, it fueled his distaste for it even more. When he showed up on your doorstep looking absolutely distraught, fat tears rolling down his face as he proclaimed his unwavering devotion to you, you only needed one guess.

‘Kotaro Bokuto. 6’2ft of GAWD DAMN. He's sweet, confident, and R E S P E C T F U L?? We love a triple threat. Not to mention how MASSIVE he is, and don’t even get me started on his ass. Would literally be unable to keep my hands to myself, just saying. Like how you see him dominate the volleyball court, the same could be said for the bedroom, without a doubt. Bokuto loves to give, but he’s also a taker. Definitely gives off Switch with service Dom tendencies. Plus he’s greedy. He doesn’t care if you already came four times, give him some more!!! ∞/10. He is beyond the standard. Argue with the wall.’

You remembered reading it while taking a break from studying, merely brushing it off. It was only a matter of time he’d end up on their radar, you had prepared for it since the list first started circulating around campus. Frankly, you had completely forgotten about it; up until now.

“Ko, baby, please calm down-”

“I don’t care how many people wanna touch my ass! They can’t have it, it’s for you to touch and nobody else!”

You quickly pulled him into your room before he screamed any more embarrassing stuff in the hallway, knowing your neighbors probably recognized his voice by now. The last thing you wanted was another noise complaint, your RA already despised his visits enough to consider banning him altogether–Whether or not they had the authority, you’d rather not find out today.

Once behind the safety of a closed door, the behemoth of a man came crashing down to his knees, arms circling around your midriff as he buried himself in your stomach. You jumped slightly as your room shook from the sudden action, deeply exhaling in order to reconfigure your thinning patience. Taking a page from Akaashi’s book, you knew getting snippy with Bokuto while he was in this state would only worsen it, so you approached cautiously.

“Ko,” you cooed, reaching down to caress his deflated hair. He sniffled, hugging you closer in response. Gently, you pushed him far enough to see his face, wiping away the tears as you offered him a soft smile. “Look at me, do I look upset to you?”

Bokuto took a moment to search your eyes, then shook his head.

“Exactly. Which means you don’t need to be, you’ve done nothing wrong. Now stand up, I’m sure that drop hurt your knees, didn’t it?”

He sniffled once more, then nodded. Slightly embarrassed, Bokuto stumbled back up to his full height, and sure enough, his knees were red. You tsked, gesturing to your desk chair for him to sit on while you fetched an ice pack from your fridge.

“Although I appreciate the reassurance, I already knew you were on the list, babe.”

Bokuto’s head shot up from looking at the floor, mood instantly doing a one-eighty as he gaped at you in shock. “HUH? Why didn’t you say anything to me about it?”

“I didn’t think you cared,” you replied, chuckling. “It’s been up for weeks. I figured you saw it and just ignored it, or something. Besides, I’ve gotten used to people openly expressing their attraction to you, so it wasn’t anything new.”

“You shouldn’t have to get used to it! People need to respect our relationship, no matter how fantastic I am!”

You snorted, but couldn’t help the chuckle. Returning with an ice pack, you kneeled by his legs and placed the cooling relief upon the irritated skin. “Mm, you are pretty fantastic. But, I don’t mind the attention you get, Ko. Because I know I’m the lucky one who gets you all to myself.”

Bokuto beamed down at you, lower lip quivering at the praise.

Effortlessly, he swooped you up from the floor and held you in his lap, the ice pack long forgotten as it slipped out your hands. With a loving squeeze, Bokuto nuzzled into the side of your neck, forcing soft giggles out of you from the ticklish feeling as you hugged him back. You felt so warm in his embrace, and he smelled like home. Even if you’d never say such corny things out loud, the way you melted in his arms was enough for him to know exactly how you felt; it was mutual.

"Plus, you can get a bit intense. They wouldn't last the night."

"Hey, hey, hey, you got that right," Bokuto grinned, smugly. "No one could ever handle me as well as you do, baby owl..." he purred, warm breath fanning over the skin of your shoulder, signaling goosebumps up your arms. You hummed in thought, snuggling in closer, whilst also not-so-accidentally grinding back against the flag pole in his sweats. He grunted, hips jerking upward in surprise.

"Hm, I dunno. It's been a while, I may have forgotten how."

Bokuto chuckled at the tease, the vibrations deep within his chest as he squeezed you a little tighter. You bit your lip to hold in your giddiness as his large hands began to wander, feeling a different kind of warmth as he began to overwhelm your senses. Trailing wet kisses from your shoulder to the side of your face, he playfully nipped at your cheek, eliciting a tiny squeal from you as you wiggled in his hold. And doing so only made you grind back on him even more.

His breathing grew heavier with each passing second, letting out a guttural groan before he flipped you around, making you straddle him. To anyone else, experiencing his sudden mood changes would've given them whiplash. Just moments prior, he'd been on his knees, crying with his head buried in your stomach like it was the end of the world. Now, he looked about five seconds from being on his knees for a different reason. For you, it was just another Wednesday.

"That so? How 'bout I remind you then?"

KUROO thought the list was the most hilarious thing to ever occur on campus, hands down one of his go-to's for entertainment when he’s bored.

Like right now.

The lecture dragged on for what felt like forever, the professor mumbling about absolutely nothing of value as everyone in the class busied themselves with whatever would keep them awake. Some played games on their laptops pretending to take notes, while others blatantly chatted with their deskmates.

With an airpod in, Kuroo had you on facetime in the corner of his screen so that you could keep each other company while he scrolled through social media, and you put away dishes. You tried to convince him to leave the class early, "Clearly you aren't paying attention, so you might as well."

"Unfortunately, he only counts attendance if you sign your name on the exit sheet at the very end of the lecture. So leaving early's out of the question." He muttered. You hummed in understanding, then chortled.

"Oh. Sucks to be you, then."

Kuroo glared half-heartedly at you, but it completely softened at the sound of your laughter, despite it being at his expense. He kissed his teeth after checking the time, mildly annoyed that he still had less than ten minutes. “Why’d you even take the course if you couldn’t care less about it?”

“I needed another elective. And…Kenma was the one who recommended it. Said it’d be an easy pass.”

“And you believed him?” Cue another round of your laughter.

He grumbled, off-screen for you but clearly pouting as he chose to ignore your question. No matter, his silence was answer enough.

With a mere shake of your head, you continued putting away dishes on your end. Kuroo, on the other hand, found himself stumbling upon something that perked him up instantly. After refreshing the feed for more mindless content, the user-handle he knew all too well showed itself like a beacon of hope, beckoning him with the promise of filling the next ten minutes with something way more interesting than…whatever this class was about.

@/FckIt22.

After the last fiasco with Bokuto, then later on Kenma, the ravenette contemplated blocking them. As golden as those situations were, something told him that deep down he could be next. But, it was days like this he was glad he didn’t. His boredom was becoming unbearable…and it was so tempting. What harm could it do to look at this one little upda—“HAH?!”

‘Tetsurou Kuroo. 6’2ft gentleman that you’d proudly take home to mom, and even get your father’s approval. With his charm and roguish good looks, it's no wonder his reputation screams 'playboy'. But, he can’t fool me. I know what he is. A whole SUB, no sandwich. I’m sure being as tall as he is, and how he carries himself, people automatically assume he’s a Dom. False. If you’re looking to be dominated, keep looking. Kuroo wants to be babied, told he’s a good boy, and edged until he nearly passes out. Definitely a little brat, but his hair defies gravity for a reason, PULL ON IT. Boss him around, take control, and watch him literally melt in your hands. 8/10 because he's also a stubborn mofo. Literally would pay to see this man cry from overstimulation ugh.’

Kuroo shot out of his seat, practically piercing right through the air of humdrum. He not only startled you, but the entire lecture hall including the professor. Comically slapping a hand over his mouth, Kuroo’s face immediately began to burn from not only his outburst but also at the fact that his karma came way sooner than he was prepared for...

He wanted nothing more than for the ceiling to collapse on him and him only.

“Tetsu?? Are you okay, what happened?? Hello??”

"U-Uh, I'll call you back." He squeaked, double-tapping his airpod to end the call.

The professor crossed his arms, "Mr. Tetsurou. I understand that my lecture may not be the most enjoyable part of your day, but I would appreciate it if you endured it for just," the professor checks his watch, "six more minutes. Is that alright with you?"

Before he could even open his mouth to give an excuse, a chorus of vibrations, dings, and whistles from various phones instantly made the business major shrivel up. Next thing he knew, what used to be a room full of the undead was now livelier than ever before. Kuroo could feel every single one of their searing gazes; like being an insect under a microscope.

"Bro, this you?" A student sitting behind him leaned forward, phone in hand as he shoved it in Kuroo's face. The picture stared back at him, smugly grinning and shirtless as he ironically thirst-trapped the camera. Out of all the pictures…

He internally cringed. "U-Uhh..."

"Please, everyone settle down, so we can continue-" The professor attempted to redirect focus, but he had already lost it way before all this happened. A few more students jumped straight into bombarding him with questions, eager to push for more info now that this supposed new side of him had been revealed.

“Whoa, how much of this is true??”

“Kuroo-san, I’ll happily baby you!~”

“Aw man, thought for sure you’d be the type to take control, not give it up. What a bummer. No offense.”

He absolutely took offense to that.

With no help from the professor, as he tried and failed to recollect everyone's attention, Kuroo thought of the next best course of action to get him out of this sticky situation. Jumping out a two-story window didn't sound so bad, and the broken bones would be a great distraction from the suffocating feeling of public humiliation.

In the midst of all the theories and queries being thrown at him from every angle, his phone went off multiple times. Mostly from you, but the rest were no doubt the groupchat clowning him once they caught wind of the news. The guys weren't gonna let him live this one down, that's for certain. And to make matters worse...he still had four long minutes left in the class.

He exhaled, "Should've blocked 'em when I had the chance..."

Gathering up his stuff, Kuroo used his long legs to evade the ever-growing crowd of prodding students, all most likely not even caring about the post itself, but more so just wanting to kill class time; he refused to be a scapegoat.

Marching right up to the professor, who gave up trying to round up the class, the rooster-head mustered up the most pathetic look possible to evoke sympathy outta the wrinkly man. "Hey, so uh… may I please be excused a little early for this one time, sir? I'd really hate to be such a distraction from your insightful lecture-"

"Just go, Mr. Tetsurou." Didn't need to tell him twice.

As soon as he made it to your dorm, you could imagine his shock that his friends were already there, waiting as if they knew he'd come running straight to you. You offered him a teasing grin, shrugging as you said, “They came for…emotional support.”

He didn't know if he was mortified or mortified—Yaku, Yamamoto, Bokuto, Akaashi, hell, even Kenma rolled out of bed, wrapped in a blanket burrito and all, just to see the look on his best friend's face. He grinned, sardonically, then patted the empty spot on the couch right next to him. "Welcome to the club. We've been expecting you."

Oh, he was definitely blocking that godforsaken list now. And finding a new elective.

#🍁wasabi #SHES FINALLY HERE #hq #hq!#hq!!#hq scenarios #hq smut #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu smut #hq hinata #hq bokuto #hq kuroo #the fuck-it list

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lixiesfreckless · 7 months

Text

No Translation Needed | h. h.

➸ synopsis: when the language barrier between you and a stranger becomes too wide, your shared interests bridge the gap for you.

➸ starring: hwang hyunjin x female reader

➸ word count: 2.7k

➸ general content: artist!hyunjin, there is somewhat of a language barrier, both people are complete art nerds and it's way too endearing, takes place in south korea, flufffff(I'm so fond of this man)

➸ warnings: microscopic mention of alcohol

➸ rating: teen+

➸ author’s note: an older fic but I'm still so attached to it. two kinds of people: the type who hear hyunjin speak english and move on, and then me

♫ this fic has a soundtrack! you don’t need to listen to it while reading, but rêverie by the man, the myth, the legend, claude debussy goes SO HARD ON THIS FIC LIKE-

You were never the type to dabble in realism.

A pair of headphones, a wide brush, a blank canvas, and a bucket of red paint; that was your activity of choice on friday nights. Nothing that came from that ever resembled anything in particular, but it was never supposed to. Just looking at it, one could tell what emotions fueled the creative process those nights.

The feelings behind them were real enough, you'd hear people say.

But of course, there's always some people that detest abstract art. They say it takes no talent, no thought, that you're just slathering paint on a canvas and expecting to get recognition for it. Sometimes you think they're right.

Other times you buy a plane ticket out of the country, you know, for fun. If you were a starving artist, maybe you'd think about letting their words get to you.

And while some would argue that booking a spontaneous vacation to Seoul could classify as a form of escapism, the painting in front of you has you wondering whether you could mark this trip in your tax forms as a business expense.

All of your years in art school and not once had you ever learned so much from one piece of canvas.

Art museums are designed to look boring. They are supposed to draw your eye from one acrylic-covered canvas to another, making you forget about your surroundings and immerse you into the various artworks. This one was no different, hues of beige and black and white littering the geometric space.

That being said, you are certain that this painting would have caught your eye even if it was posted in Times Square.

You had made your way across the room, ears picking up on the few Korean phrases you knew as strangers shifted around you. A graphite cityscape. A gouache vase of flowers. A portrait made of ink prints on wood. The exhibit you randomly picked over tonkatsu and soju last night in your hotel room was definitely a good one, no doubt.

And to think you almost walked past this piece.

Bold strokes of blue, tiny specks of white, all on a frame that was wider than your wingspan.

The girl was depicted just off center, in some billowy white dress.

Floating? Drowning?

You settle on suspended as your footsteps slow down, turning to approach the watery scene.

Staring at it feels like staring at a glass of water. You can't definitively say whether it’s half-empty or half-full, whether she’s reaching for the surface or letting herself sink. Her face is covered by wispy brown hair, obstructing her true emotions from view. Somehow you know this was a conscious decision the artist made, to let the viewer come to their own conclusion on the piece.

Even though you know about the negative effects that human oils have on artworks, you still find yourself fighting the urge to reach out and touch it. To feel the ripples of the oil paint and somehow find your own hand soaked, as if you reached through the canvas barrier and felt the cold loneliness yourself.

Impressionist paintings did always have this charm about them, at least to you. They felt abstract upon inspection, just a mess of strange brushstrokes and controversial colors. And yet when viewed from a distance, it feels like a completely different experience. Up close, a dizzying mix of the shades of the sky. A step back, and it's an unspoken thesis on the solitude of limbo, or whatever you've decided to name this piece.

You glance at the info card at the bottom right corner.

Buoyancy- Hwang Hyunjin

You make a mental note to research him later before your eyes get pulled to the subject once again.

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧

You have been staring at his painting for eight minutes.

He had walked around, chatted with other featured artists, talked with a few strangers, but when he came back, you had acted as though you were one of the items on display; still locked in the same position as before. Eyebrows furrowed, one hand resting on your canvas tote bag, the other in the pocket of your trousers.

In the nicest way possible, you looked like a tourist.

But tourists don't have long attention spans, and you could have been roleplaying a statue with how long you'd been standing there.

A strange mix of anxiety and excitement rushed through Hyunjin when he found you still standing there.

No one had ever observed his art for that long before.

At least, not in one sitting. Definitely not like this. Why haven't you moved on? Can you see something that he can't? Are you thinking of buying a print?

He wants to approach you. To leave you alone. To watch you scrutinize his painting. To run screaming to the event coordinator.

Casually, he sticks both hands in his jeans and stands a few feet from your right side, as if he's one of the visitors.

He takes a moment, gaining whatever’s left of his composure before speaking.

“I'm so glad I know how to swim.”

You snap out of your daze, surprised to hear English in the Korean white noise you've been immersed in. You look over and see the gorgeous young man standing near you, looking at the painting you've been so engrossed in.

“Yeah,” you exhale, “I totally get the fear of open water.”

Hyunjin chuckles, strangely drawn in by the sound of your voice.

“Although, she doesn't seem all that scared to me,” you add, shifting your focus back to the canvas.

“You don't think so?”

“I mean, you could argue that she doesn't want to be there, that she's drowning,” you begin, pointing to the girl. “But…the longer I stare at it, the more I feel like she's just hanging there, not reaching for the surface on purpose.” Your finger trails down to the bottom right corner. “I think that's why it was named Buoyancy, at least that's what I got out of it…”

You trail off, realizing that you're rambling to a total stranger about a random piece of artwork. Looking back at him however, you find your face heating up at the amazed expression on his, as if you had just told him his middle name.

“I wish I had thought of that,” he lies. It was almost scary how quickly you had found the meaning he'd tried to convey after months of fighting with the paint.

“Well that's the fun thing about art,” you say, smiling to yourself. “It's all subjective. What were you thinking?”

Hyunjin opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again in mild frustration.

“I'm not…very good with English,” he says, defeated.

He would argue that he's not very good with any language, even his mother tongue.

Art was the only language he felt he could speak easily without hesitation. It was easy to throw himself into that with reckless abandon, because it was the only place where he truly felt understood.

“But I can still understand you,” he quickly amends, glad to see that spark behind your eyes again. He walks past you, stopping at the painting on your left. “What about this one?”

“This one has some really dramatic lighting, which makes me believe…”

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧

Evening sunlight filters in through the exhibit windows as you and Hyunjin examine an organically-shaped vase, admiring its handiwork.

“I’ve always wanted to try pottery but…I don’t really like the feeling of cold clay on my hands,” you chuckle, looking at the tall man next to you. He grins, scrutinizing his hands as he contemplates his answer.

“People tell me I have good fingers- for clay,” he adds quickly, even though the meaning wasn't lost on you, and you fight back a smirk to appear unphased. “But I haven't found a good studio? Is that how you call it?”

“I wouldn't know, I've never been,” you say, walking to the next painting. Which happens to be where you both started.

“Wait, have we been through this whole gallery?” You quickly check your watch, confirming that you have been there for much longer than you had intended. Looking back at the stranger you have spent the evening with, you feel heat start to scatter across your face.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to take up so much of your ti-”

“I liked it,” he blurts, and you feel reassured as his face lights up with panic. “Talking. With you, I mean.” He looks just past you to the art on the wall, ears turning the slightest shade of red. “No one has ever said anything so beautiful about my art before.”

He watches as your face circles through several emotions, before settling on embarrassment.

“You're…you're one of the artists? Which one is yours?” You say, trying to recall what you said about every art piece.

He nods toward the painting that had first caught your attention, the one that practically jumped out at you an hour ago.

“Hyunjin,” he says quietly, extending a hand toward you in a humble introduction, as if that same hand didn't produce the masterpiece in front of you.

“Y/n,” you whisper, trying not to let your mouth hang open in awe. “And to think I was going to Google you later.”

“You were?” The light in his eyes was unmistakable.

“I always research artists that inspire me,” you admit, bashfully dropping his hand.

“I inspired you?”

You meet his eyes and you know then, the weight that your words carry.

To create is a desire that all artists cannot shake; it is what keeps the painter keep coming back to the blank canvas, the sculptor to the slab of clay. But when the process is finished, all they can hope is that someone will see it, and feel a fraction of what they felt whilst creating it.

Moving someone to the point of giving them the desire to create, through their artwork, is a dream many artists never get to see come into fruition.

And maybe that's why Hyunjin stares at you now, wondering which lucky star is shining down on him now.

“Can I…” he pauses, hoping he's saying the line like how they do in the movies, “can I buy you a drink?”

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧

When people say studio apartment, this is what you wish they mean.

Floor-to-ceiling window walls on one side, where several canvases sit propped up against the city skyline, and an apartment on the other, with a cute kitchenette and loft bedroom that doesn't feel cramped. It's perfect for someone who needs enough space to think, without sacrificing their space to live.

You hear Hyunjin click the door shut behind you as you set your bag down on a chair, surveying the studio side of his residence.

Several canvases catch your eye.

You can't even blame him for attempting to paint it because with the view he has, you'd paint it every day.

Different versions of the Seoul skyline are scattered across the room, each depicting a different time of day. Sunrise is leaning against the window. Midday is sitting on a canvas. Twilight is hanging up on the wall, and something akin to golden hour lays unfinished, perhaps even abandoned on the floor. You crouch in front of it to get a better look.

“That one is…not finished,” Hyunjin says from the kitchen, pouring two glasses of soju. You can feel his nervous gaze on you even with your back turned to him.

“It's beautiful,” you whisper, looking at the palette he used to mix the colors. An array of browns and yellows are smeared on the glass, which were no doubt used to put the buildings into the scene.

He doesn't say thank you; his face does that for him when he crouches next to you, cheekbones pink as he sets the soju glasses on the floor.

“I can't get the colors right,” he sighs, staring at the painting in discontent. “It looks…dull.”

“Maybe you should try adding red instead of brown,” you suggest, picking up a palette knife. “May I?”

Hyunjin stares at you in bewilderment, before opening a tube of vermillion and squeezing a bit onto the palette.

“I studied color theory for what felt like forever,” you chuckle, taking the knife and adding red to a few of his previous colors.

“I never went to art school,” he says, as if that makes him a lesser artist. You feel a twinge of jealousy at that statement, knowing that the man next to you was this skilled without coaching, before adding, “You didn't miss much. It killed my creativity.”

Hyunjin goes pale at that as you pass him a clean paintbrush and toss the palette knife aside.

“Did you get it back?” He asks, and when you tilt your head, he adds, “Your creativity?”

“It comes and goes.” Sometimes you wish you didn't stake your livelihood on your ability to create. Inspiration is always a welcome guest but it never stays for long, at least on your side of the ocean.

Watching him add your hues to the painting is like having inspiration fed right into your bloodstream. Immediately the painting comes to life, the reds of the sunset becoming visible at the whim of his paintbrush.

He stops for a minute to admire the changes, and turns to you for feedback, eyes twinkling with joy. Or maybe that's just the soju.

“It was beautiful before,” you say, tracing your finger along the side of the canvas, “but now it looks alive.”

“I love the way you talk,” Hyunjin says quietly after a moment of silence, and the bluntness of the compliment nearly has you choking on your soju. But he just looks at you, no hint of humor in his eyes, sitting entirely too close to your tipsy self, and you feel your body buzz with warmth.

“And I love the way you smile,” you whisper back, unable to look away as he sets down his paintbrush, trying to hide his contagious grin.

He turns back to you, and you wish for several things. You wish you didn't have a plane ticket taking you away from this place in a week. You wish that you had finished your glass of soju. You wish you could poke the mole under his eye, or the dimple in his cheek.

You wish that you were drunk enough to close the gap between you two without a second thought.

But when your foreheads touch, your phone buzzes, so you grin and chuckle to yourself.

“I…I think we've had too much to drink.”

He looks at you through hooded eyes and smiles again.

“Or not enough.” He counters.

You nod in agreement at that and pull back, mentally kicking yourself for losing the only chance at finding out what his smile tastes like. But it's probably better this way. You don't want to be remembered as the girl who sweet talked her way into his bed.

You're halfway to the sink with your glasses when he speaks up suddenly.

“I want to see you again.”

You set the dishes down before turning to face him, and you wish you had brought a change of clothes. And maybe an extra toothbrush.

“I don't want to finish it without you,” he says, nodding to the painting that he had moved to the easel.

“I can come back tomorrow morning,” you promise, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“I can make crepes.”

“I love crepes.”

He picks up your bag from the chair and brings it to you, hating how much it feels like he's rushing you out the door.

“See you tomorrow, y/n.”

“Goodnight, Hyunjin.”

You leave the apartment and close the door behind you, but your feet don't advance down the hallway. Hyunjin's hand hovers over the locking mechanism, unable to click the deadbolt into place as he considers running after you.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you spin around to knock on his door, only to find him throwing the door open and grinning in delight at the sight of you.

“It's past midnight, isn't it?”

His smile tastes like mint and chamomile tea.

#stray kids #stray kids fanfiction #skz #skz fanfic #skz fanfiction #hwang hyunjin fic #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin imagines #stray kids imagines

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batterygarden · 2 years

Text

even more bf Denji hcs

Part 3; F!reader, suggestive moment MDNI, college age, very miscellaneous

m.list , part 1, part 2

One time you were complaining about your lower back aching all day and Denji was sick of it. “I could just crack your back right now and ya wouldn’t have to be hurting.” “Denji you’re not a chiropractor, it’s fine.” “A what? Here, just turn around.” You hesitantly faced the other way and Denji swiftly karate chopped your spine so hard it knocked the wind out of you. Then somehow your back did feel kinda better.

Animals absolutely love this man. Kids too. It kinda hurts your feelings that they seem to forget you’re there the second Denji walks in a room, but there’s just something about his energy that has them gravitating. Even your own kin!! Your own little cousins and family members. Like you’ll show up to a dinner without him and when they see you’re alone it’s all frowns and “Where’s Denji? Why didn’t he come?”

Sometimes Denji’s openness with strangers leads to the wrong idea, and, occasionally, Denji will get hit on despite having a girlfriend. If no one else is there to notice, he honestly just gives a polite yet firm “I have a girlfriend.” in response. But on one occasion it happened while you were standing next to him, and, not wanting you to feel jealous, Denji crossed his arms and scowled. “Can’t ya see my lover standing right here?? Get lost, champ! I’d never be interested in you or anyone but her! >:-(“

The person promptly apologized and left. “Denji.. I’m glad you’re loyal but you didn’t have to do all that.”

Denji has to mumble sorry in between kisses when he accidentally bites you. “No it’s okay, I like a little biting!” “Oh yeah?” He smirks then deliberately chomps hard on your lower lip. ”Ow! Not like that.” “sorry.”

He is a talented sleeper! Before he met you, you could have named any location and Denji would have claimed to be able to nap there. Now that you’re in the picture though, Denji’s gotten a little more high maintenance. He still thinks he could fall asleep anywhere—but now it’s only if you’re there too. Denji feels your absence, he can’t relax the same way he used to be able to without you. So he has to be really tired and in a comfy bed to fall asleep somewhere you’re not.

Speaking of sleep, napping together is one of Denji’s love languages. You have to be cuddling though, or at the very least holding hands, or else it isn’t the same. Denji’s favorite napping position is one where his head’s on your chest, listening to your heartbeat. He’s always happy spooning too.

“Y’smell kinda nice.” Oh yeah? Only kinda? “No no very nice. Like, you smell like uhh.. that freezuh stuff you use.” My freesia perfume?? Thanks.

He’s a sassy texter for certain :(

You text him you won’t be home for another 30 minutes and he thumbs down the message and sends back “ugh! 😒”

“If there was a zombie apocalypse I’d so die cause of you.” “Huh!” “I just know we’d be fucking scavenging in some old supermarket and I’d be getting us food and weapons and you’d be riskin’ it all to try and stock up on your see-rah vay face wash or somethin’” “You mean my Cera Ve cleanser??”

He’d rent one of those electric scooters to ride around town and then immediately crash it. You have to make him wear a helmet next time.

He narrates random things he’s doing. He did it all the time growing up with Pochita, and old habits die hard. You find it endearing! Sometimes it’s just mumbling “okay now I’m gonna get dish soap and put some on the plate… and now we gotta scrub it clean..”

He’s careful as hell when trying out new kinks with you. He doesn’t want to hurt you and he cares so much that you’re comfortable!! Like if you’re asking for some bdsm he’s down to try! He is kinky too! But like… constant check-ins at first. And a safe word for sure.

He will EAT UP some deez nuts jokes 😞. The day you were craving a Wendy’s frosty around him was the day you lost peace.

A mall trip with Denji… oh my god he’d have a ball. Getting Cinnabon and trying on a million pairs of shoes—there’s so much to do! Then you start tugging his hand towards the Victoria’s Secret and his cheeks almost burn off. He pretends like he’s been in there before and it’s no big deal but his brain is on red alert Where am I supposed to look???

Like he’s touched underwear before! While doing laundry and while looking for things in your dresser and most importantly while you were wearing it, but he can’t help but feel like a perv doing it in public. So when you ask him to “feel how soft this bra is,” he has to triple check no one is paying attention to him first.

This man is a board game CHEATER. And he’s never ever as sneaky about it as he thinks he is. He’ll ask you to leave the room to get something for him at the most convenient times and you’ll come back to missing chess pieces or your hand of cards laying in a different position. If Power is there she’s an automatic co-conspirator; you may as well give up and admit defeat the easy way.

He’s convinced you have magic kisses—and maybe it’s a placebo situation but your lips do seem to carry healing properties for him. His headaches will go away. His sinuses will clear. He’ll get a boost of energy. You can always motivate him with them. If he was stuck in the desert for thirty days he’d take a kiss from you before taking water.

kinda short but im thinkin im going to try and post csm stuff at least every csm tuesday! also sorry i've been slow on requests--I appreciate them and am working on them just slow bc im busy! I updated info ab those in masterlist <3

#csm headcanons #denji x you #Denji x reader #chainsaw man drabble #chainsaw man headcannons #Denji fluff #boyfriend Denji #bf Denji #Denji hcs #denji/reader #csm x reader #csm fics

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whatifyoulivelikethat · 3 months

Text

ep 7. let's be happy together | myj, jjk

sugar, spice, and everything nice ep 7. let's be happy together.

pairing(s): yoonji x reader x jungkook

summary: After that faithful? sinful? night, surely Min Yoonji and Jeon Jungkook were cool now. Surely...? Ah, nope. Looks like a certain someone (their girlfriend) needs to talk (and fuck) some sense into them.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; pan!f!reader; pan!Yoonji; internalized homophobia; fluff; f/f/m relationship; threesome smut (mostly wlw focus, fingering, voyeurism, m-receiving oral damn JK is a lucky man, edging, handjob, f-masturbation, nipple play, pussy slapping, face-fucking); non-idol!AU - Yoonji's POV

“Do you always eat like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re starving and gonna die tomorrow.”

Her lunatic swallowed roughly and nodded. “Yeah, kinda. Why?”

Min Yoonji sighed and waved her chopsticks over the steam.

“You remind me of someone, that’s all,” she commented dryly. She tried very hard not to smile. The other woman at the table licked the edge of her lips and smiled back. Yoonji’s resolve cracked a bit.

“Who?”

Speaking of.

The restaurant was noisy and packed full of families. Her partner was wolfing down tteokbokki and sauteed pork as if a food thief was gaining on her fast. Could be likely. A gaggle of elementary-school-age kids was staring at their table intently, although it could have been the black furry cat-head-shaped purse sitting on the table that was catching their interest. Yoonji was fascinated by it too, and fascinated that the woman didn’t seem to mind the stares.

“You’re wearing the first date ‘fit.”

Her cheeks ran hot. It had been a little less than a week since the… incident. She was indeed wearing the sheer aqua top and black dress, figuring the other would notice, or didn’t. Not that it mattered. At all.

“You look cute,” that silky voice remarked with a smirk.

Her heart did a quick pit-a-pat. Yoonji cleared her throat and played it cool. As cool as she could with a bright red face. “And you’re wearing pants for once.”

Surprisingly, somehow their roles had reversed. Loose black t-shirt, grey jeans, black cap. Ink-black nails with silver chrome flames on them. The furry cat bag was the anomaly. Or perfectly suited, depending on if one noticed that the buckles of those black boots were silver cat heads.

Her fellow cat-lover was unfazed. “I wore pants when I met you in the park that time.”

Oh. Yeah. She had almost forgotten. Their first meeting seemed like forever ago. Yoonji had even forgotten about how she wanted that industrial chandelier for her living room. She still had that stupid paper ball pendant light.

“I mean, I wasn’t gonna carry a big heavy box in a miniskirt. You might have liked that though.”

She would have, but she didn’t react to the teasing. One point for Min Yoonji, woohoo. She stared at her noodles, chewing on her lip.

“Can we… talk about Jeon Jungkook?” she hesitantly asked.

“Mhm. Although you can talk to him too, you know. You have a mouth. Talented one too.”

Yoonji was too uncomfortable to relish in the praise. She poked at her food.

“It’s… weird.”

“So weird I got him brooding in my bed after railing me. It was bizarre. Spill it.”

She guiltily glanced up at her. Scrutinizing dark eyes looked back, seemingly bored and scalding her at the same time. Ouch. Those deliciously full lips were dark pink, flushed from the hot meal. Yoonji noted that she was distracting herself again. She sighed. It was true that she hadn’t spoken much yesterday when the group had gathered to go bowling again. Jungkook hadn’t brought her along. Yoonji invited her herself, but the response had been, ah, yeah, not this time, he asked but I figured you two should talk at some point. They didn’t. Instead Yoonji had stuck to a tipsy Kim Taehyung and his off-the-wall conversations. After, she had made up some excuse and quickly gone home.

Jungkook, evidently, had gone and fucked himself to sleep.

Yoonji wished she had thought of that.

With a loud slurp of fish cake, that burning stare told her to get on with it.

“Tch,” Yoonji grumbled. “Ah, I don’t know.”

A cocked eyebrow. “That’s really helpful.”

She glared at the dismissive response. “And what about you, hah? That’s part of my issue too. I don’t get what you two are.”

“That doesn’t really matter,” the other woman replied, taking a sip of water.

“It does.”

“Currently, a lot closer than you are to him, which doesn’t make sense because you’ve known him longer and are in love with him,” was the dry, uninterested response, munching on a piece of lettuce.

It must have been quite hot in the restaurant. Or perhaps the collar of her shirt was too tight.

“I… I-I’m not…” Yoonji sputtered.

The other woman gave her the look.

Shit. She withered. Maybe. Still, Yoonji tapped the air with the end of her chopsticks. “Aren’t you?”

The lettuce disappeared with a crispy crunch. Those lips turned upwards, thoughtful.

“Mmmm. Yes.”

Just like that.

Yoonji stared at her until she turned back.

“What?”

“Are you… Are you being serious?”

The expression Yoonji received was not a withering one, or even one of distrust. It was an analyzing one, searching for her intent. “I know you’re projecting.” Her voice was no longer playful, but calm. “And I can guess why. But I’m going to tell you anyway,” she said, lowering her chopsticks. “As you may have assumed, yes, in the beginning I was hooking up with Jungkook simply because he was hot and obsessed with me. I am not impervious enough to say no to that face. And,” she added, with a half-smile. “Now that you’ve come to know my personality, you know damn well I act the way I act to maintain shallow relationships on purpose. I don’t think I’m a good person. I’m okay with that. But, well, guess who never believed that?”

Her eyes rolled in the fondest of ways.

“I am someone who walks the walk. I gotta put up or shut up. I’ve decided I am not going to deny him simply because I had a bad childhood or a poor self-image. And I’m not going to deny what could potentially make him happy either. I am not conventional. Never was. I do not want to follow the rules, especially unspoken ones that hold no ground. For me, relationships are about honesty and respect. He is honest with me even if it is easier not to be. He respects me over other people’s judgements about me. So, I must be a good judge of character, at the very least. I trust myself. I trust him. And I believe I can trust you, too.”

The other woman shook her head.

“I’ve decided I am not going to deny him simply because I had a bad childhood or a poor self-image. And I’m not going to deny what could potentially make him happy either. I am not conventional. Never was. I do not want to follow the rules, especially unspoken ones that hold no ground. I trust that I am a good judge of character, at the very least. I trust myself. I trust him. And I believe I can trust you, too.”

She raised her head and did not falter as she spoke.

And yet.

And yet, Yoonji balked under that intense gaze, still unable to let go of the unspoken rules that had been alluded to.

“I… I have no right.”

Instead of confirmation, Yoonji received a look of confusion. A tilt of the head even. “Right? No, of course not. There are no rights when it comes to things like this. Just as there are no wrongs – unless I’m mistaken somehow, and you’re planning for the long con, smooth like butter, like a criminal undercover.”

Yoonji blinked blankly at the sudden English phrases.

“… What?”

“Oh, come on. The worldwide number one hit on Billboard Hot 100 for weeks – never mind…”

But even the random jest couldn’t break through years of internalized intrusive thoughts. Despite all of her hard work in becoming a decisive person that vowed to escape the shackles of society, there was more to let go of every day. And, anyway, Yoonji could never prepare for a moment like this. Life was an unpredictable and unforgiving bastard. The possibility of the impossible being possible was a pipe dream.

And yet, now the impossible was waiting for her reply.

The woman in question rested her chin on the back of her hand, narrowing her eyes. Yoonji felt like artwork on display, publicly dissected with sight and mind, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to pull away. After a long ten seconds, her dinner companion exhaled and smiled.

“He is willing to follow our lead, whatever that looks like. He told me so himself. You know he’s got jealousy issues, so that has to mean something.”

Yoonji frowned. “Well, he has also always been a closet pervert.” She puffed her cheeks. “I’m not worried about him.”

Those eyes sparkled with laughter. “Then you’re worried about me? Think I’m gonna stab you in the back over a goofy boy? Rest assured; I would at least have the decency to stab you in the front. And I’d finish the job.”

“Hah, no. Don’t speak nonsense.”

“Then what is it?”

As usual, she got it out of Yoonji too easily.

“It becomes real.”

If she sat Jungkook down and tried to somehow hash out whatever this was, then it was real. It was alive. It was true. All the heart-thumps and cheek flushes and the wanting to hold his hand nonsense. How weird. How thrilling. How complicated and confusing and dangerous such territory was.

Her mind raced with all sorts of thoughts and feelings and complex shit like that.

“All of it becomes real. You. Me. Him. Us. And then what? How do I explain to the rest of my friends? My family? What if I lose you down the line? What if I lose him? What if I lose both of you? I don’t think I could survive that, and that’s selfish and damning to say. It’s also probably the truth. What do we do in the future?”

She felt the sharp poke of the back of chopsticks on her wrist.

“Ow.” Yoonji made a face.

The culprit seemed undeterred.

“You don’t have to explain anything to outside parties for it to be real.”

Yoonji’s brows knitted together. But the other woman simply shook her head, chuckling.

“Share what you want to share. Or don’t. Live life the way you’re comfortable.”

“But you–”

A hand came up to silence her. “Trust me, I don’t need anyone yapping behind my back about how I fucked best friends. Again.” An exasperated eye roll accompanied her words. “Listen to me. I don’t have a family you need to care about. I don’t talk to them and I’m not going to ever again under any circumstance. Jungkook, well, as unhinged as he is, I trust him. I should. I spit in his mouth. As far as I know, he has never told anyone.”

Her panties dampened a bit at the reminder but she ignored it.

Those scorched eyes turned serious.

“Do what you want to do. Yoonji, you have one life. This is your first time. Who cares if it’s messy, confusing, or not understood by others? You have endured hardships and new unknown ones will come. The present is where it’s at. The only promises that are true are the ones that we consciously acknowledge every day. Regardless if you stand still or run forward, time goes on. Do what feels right, now. Trust in you. The future is gonna be okay.”

There was something about that mischievous grin that lit the world with infectious fire and a lust for life.

“Just talk to him. And fuck him, please.”

Yoonji stared at her.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a real piece of work?”

“Feel free to frame a photo of my ass. Oh, and one more thing.”

Her black tote bag had toppled over in the spare chair. Yoonji plucked it upright and then spied the small purple trinket inside. Oh shit. She stuck her hand in, absentmindedly responding with, “Hm?”

“You don’t have to wear girly clothes if you don’t want to. I know you’re only wearing them to flirt with me, which I appreciate.”

The item in her bag was evading her grasp. She tried not to make it too obvious as she looked back up, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

The chopsticks waved in the air. “Just saying that you should wear what you feel comfortable in. Don’t do it for my sake.” That cocky tteokbokki-enthusiast winked. “I won’t forget what all your bits look like. Believe in me.”

Yoonji narrowed her mouth and eyes into lines.

“Tch.”

That was the exact reason but she wasn’t going to admit it so easily. Then Yoonji shook her head, sighing.

“Actually,” she said, releasing the tension in her shoulders. “I was going to wear something else before I saw the tags were still on these clothes.” And recalled how she had felt in them. Pretty. Why am I afraid of being pretty? The reasons were obvious now, even if Yoonji hadn’t known her subconscious avoidance back then. “It seemed like a waste, so I wore them.”

“Hm, ho. Nothin’ to do with me, huh?”

She tried not to balk under that knowing, amused expression. Clothes are just clothes, Yoonji reminded herself stubbornly. But. She thought about it for a moment. Then figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. “I’d like to try your clothes sometime. To try different things and not be intimidated by it.”

The other woman raised her eyebrows. “Uh…? Really?” She tilted her head as if seeing Yoonji in a different light. Grinned again, sending her heart aflutter once more. “Ah, yeah. I would like that. Dunno if you can tell, but I’m pretty proud of my closet.”

This entire time Yoonji had been fiercely clutching and squeezing the soft purple plush keychain in her hand – stress relief, probably – and finally she let go, quickly pulling it out of her tote bag and holding it out. Her dinner companion recognized it instantly.

Her face lit up like fireworks, excitedly exclaiming, “Gengar!”

It was hard to place, and yet Yoonji swore she had seen that wide-eyed joyous expression somewhere before. She impatiently shoved the Pokémon keychain toward her. “I saw it on my way here.”

“For me?”

A simple gift was not supposed to generate this kid-at-a-candy-store exuberance. “Uh, yeah. Who else is here that loves Gengar like you?” Yoonji muttered awkwardly. “Take him.”

“Ah, thanks!”

The little plush Ghost Pokémon jumped off her palm and to his new home. Yoonji had never seen her smile like that. She watched her happily clip the Gengar keychain onto her black sling bag and pet the top of its head with precious, childish innocence. She even gave him a little affectionate squeeze, her shoulders shaking with glee at her new friend. It gave Yoonji a warm, settled feeling for some reason.

And then she realized.

Her reaction reminded Yoonji of Jungkook.

Fuck.

Min Yoonji and Jeon Jungkook stared at each other, wide-eyed, not speaking a damn word.

Yup.

This was totally working out.

Not sure what she expected after sending that text. Can you come over sometime this week? I think we should talk. It made her feel pathetic sending such a message. Wasn’t like her at all. Necessary? Duh. Did she want to? Hell no. Once again, she was reminded of why she chose to be alone. Or thirst from afar. I don’t need this. Sure, she didn’t. Meanwhile, Jungkook was fiddling with the hem of his big white t-shirt and chewing on his lower lip, looking everywhere but her face. Since when had Yoonji become a scaredy cat? Since this dumbass admitted to having feelings for me. He was wearing dark blue jeans and a grey beanie that he seemed tempted to pull over his entire face. Do I like him or not? Yes, she did. But what do I wanna do about it? She didn’t know. Fuckity fuck. Fuckity fuck was right.

She rubbed her fist against the smooth fabric of her black skirt and sighed.

Jungkook stole a look at her.

Yoonji pretended there was a stray fluff coming off her faded charcoal crop top. She had cut an old band t-shirt in half just because. Impulse. And also because she felt that she didn’t have a top that matched with this new black skirt she brought, which had been an impulsive purchase. Just because. It wasn’t that she was attempting to be more accepting her inner femininity in some small way by wearing a single piece of traditional gender-aligning clothing.

Yeah

Sure.

“Is that new?” he asked hesitantly.

She paused and patted her covered thighs. “Y… Yeah. I didn’t have a basic like this, so I figured…” An awkward trail off.

“Cool.”

Silence again.

Yeah, Yoonji didn’t know what the fuck she was supposed to be saying.

Time to call in the big guns.

“Jungkook.”

He sat up, attentive. “Y-Yes?”

She wanted to slap some sense into them both but ultimately violence wasn’t going to solve this. Unfortunately. “Could you please… Could you call her?”

He pulled out his phone from his jeans. Said her name automatically, as if he was thinking it too. Without honorifics. Then he reddened, fake coughing to his own fake rescue. “I mean, noona?”

Yoonji knew they were both gonna get shit for it. She didn’t care. “Yeah. Do it.”

Less than a minute later, they were greeted with a sing-songy, “Helloooo?”

He stuck his cell phone out on his palm, between them, putting the recipient on speaker. That thing is huge. Like his – never mind that, pushing the thought away. Yoonji noticed he had a silver chain bracelet on his right wrist now. He was a gold guy. A gift? Perhaps he borrowed it from a certain someone. The bright silver shone in the light. It looked nice with his dark tattoos.

His forearm was very nicely defined.

“Ah, hey, noona.” Jungkook sounded just as anxious and jittery as Yoonji felt.

The voice on the other side of the phone sounded playfully irate. “Hm, aren’t you supposed to be with Yoonji right now?”

“I–”

“I’m here,” Yoonji spoke up.

A pause. “Uh, why are you calling, then?”

“We can’t talk,” she clarified. Jungkook nodded even though he couldn’t be seen.

An even longer pause.

“Are you two shitting me right now?”

“No,” she replied flatly.

And didn’t elaborate.

There was prolonged silence. Yoonji was sure the person on the other side of the line was in disbelief and staring at her device that it had three heads. What did she expect? It wasn’t like she gave them guidelines or anything. Jungkook tilted his phone to peer at it, probably confused or worried it had disconnected. Yoonji took his wrist and pulled it back to her, scolding him with her eyes. He pouted, but didn’t resist.

At last, an exasperated sigh interrupted the tension.

“Well, did you tell him you wanna suck his dick? That usually gets his jaw moving.”

“N-Noona!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Don’t you?”

The tops of her cheeks felt very warm. Yoonji glanced at him. She cursed the gods and his parents for giving Jeon Jungkook his amazing combination of genetics. The fuck he needs those big, starry, fall-for-you eyes for? He looked a mix between frightened and hopeful.

“Kinda,” she mumbled.

They could practically hear the roll of the eyes over the phone. “Okay, then stick half his dick in your mouth then.”

The aggravation was setting in. “You think I won’t?” Yoonji shot back.

“At the trajectory this is going, no, I don’t.”

She glowered, clenching her jaw. Jungkook started, backing away slightly. She kept the tight grip of his wrist and yanked him back. “Then tell us what we’re supposed to be talking about.”

“The fuck I need to do that for?” Their maybe-kinda girlfriend sounded as irritated as Yoonji felt about this entire situation. “You’re both adults. Sort yourselves out.”

“You started this,” Yoonji snapped stubbornly.

But even this minor squabble was calming her nerves. Just knowing she was there, a phone call close, was a wash of relief.

How strange.

“I started what? A sex cult?” A puff of hot air. “You know what? Fine. Jungkook.” He squeaked, either to confirm his existence or because Yoonji viciously squeezed his hand. “Remember you said you had something to tell her? Go on. Just say it.”

He tried to catch her eye. She deliberately avoided him, staring at her coffee table.

“Yoonji-ah, I really want to try and make this work. Us. Together.”

She felt her hand tremble a bit so she gripped him tighter to make it stop. His voice still trembled, but there was a resolve to it now. Not rehearsed. Simply honest.

“I… No, we. We’re not strangers, you know? I think we could… I get it if you don’t want to, if you only want noona and not me, but…” He stumbled a bit through his words, but the voice on the other side of the phone did not.

“No. We are a package deal. Like I said at dinner the other day, Jungkook is important to me. He’s given me too much for me to disrespect that for someone else.”

Embarrassment quivered in Jungkook’s tone. “I… I know it sounds selfish, and I am… I know.” He cleared his throat, attempting to be more resolute. “Even still, I wanted to ask you. If there’s any chance at all, any chance that I, that we can be…? If there’s any chance that you can accept us.”

She almost let go of his hand.

Didn’t.

The conversations haunted her. Listen to me. If there’s any chance that you can accept us. She heard them, and yet. “I can’t.” Yoonji mumbled, blinking hard. Took in a deep, shaky breath. “I can’t do this.” She didn’t know who she was truly referring to. Maybe them. Maybe herself. Maybe fate itself. “I want this to work so bad. I want to know the right answer so I will never lose you both. But I don’t know. I can’t promise I won’t ruin everything, us, your relationship with each other. And I’m gonna break for real if I fuck this up. Twice the pain? I can’t.” You’re surprisingly stubborn. “I know. And I know I’m running. I have to. I have to run.” Her chest tight, suffocating. That splinter of envy, that knife twisting within. She tried to breathe and it was more difficult than she thought it would be.

A finger brushed against her cheek.

“Don’t cry.”

She backed up a little. Reached up herself and there it was. Clear, sparkling drops glimmered on her fingertips. Slipping down her face. Jungkook was wiping them off her cheek, worry etched on his face. Shaky breath, and the tears continued to fall.

“You… the guys…”

Yoonji grabbed Jungkook’s hand and held it tightly.

“You all s-saved my life.”

His big eyes were full of stars that had lit the darkness and he didn’t even know.

“You helped me believe in me.”

She took in a shivering breath, trying to sniffle back her tears. His gaze softened from surprise to soothing. He carefully turned his hand so he could hold hers too, covering her fingers with warmth. He smiled in that clumsy comforting kind of way and it was perfect.

“I’m just a kid who doesn’t know anything,” Jungkook said ruefully. “All you did was put up with my bullshit.”

She shook her head, strands of her hair sticking to her cheek. “No, I–”

“Yoonji.”

Her refusal was cut off by a soft but firm voice. She glanced down at the phone in their hands. It was still connected. Still there despite this catastrophe of a call. She let go of Jungkook’s hand but only to wipe her face as she wetly mumbled back, “What?”

“If you don’t want this, say it.”

She let Jungkook use his palm to pat away the last of the crying. “I… I don’t…” But Yoonji trailed off, knowing it was false. She missed his smile. His laugh. The way he would lift her up as if she was nothing and carry her around just to piss her off. The way he scooted in close to learn how to cook from her with earnest. The way he was always there, his hand on her back, his head on her shoulder, saying again, wow, Yoonji-ah, you’re so good at music, and making her heart flutter as he said it.

She placed her hand on Jungkook’s arm and stroked his skin with her fingertips.

“But, remember… As a wise woman once said, life is too short to not try.”

Yoonji let out a weak chuckle at those familiar words.

The audacity.

“You’re such a bitch.”

The response was a sinister snicker. “You’re welcome. Now I’m gonna go so you two can fuck and make up. Bye.”

“Hey,” Yoonji called after her.

“What?”

“Have…”

She bit her lip, debating on whether or not she should ask. So, instead, she looked up and stared into those big brown orbs. Trust that I trust you. His lips parted in question, tilting his head in confusion. He proved to me that a body is more than just a body. The answer was right there. Still, she wanted to hear it for herself.

“Have you ever been in love?” Yoonji asked her while staring into Jungkook’s eyes.

A pause.

“I am in love,” was the answer.

A pink flush crept to his cheeks. Relentless, she didn’t break eye contact.

“Come to my apartment so I can tell you, face to face, too?”

“Is…” Whimsical laughter drifted up between them. “Is that a threat, Min Yoonji?”

She tilted her head.

“Yes.”

She pressed the end call button and kissed Jungkook.

Their first kiss had been in the heat of the moment, punctuated by lust burning all over. In the second kiss, she felt him. His two lip rings pressing into the side of her mouth. His gentleness, carefully brushing her hair away from her face. His taste seeping onto her tongue. His thumbs pressed into her cheeks and he cleaned away the residual tears, bringing her closer to him. Jeon Jungkook was a big tough guy, but not to Yoonji.

He handled her with care.

“Oh. You’re not the owner of the home. Never mind. In any case, don’t you look marvelously disheveled–”

Jungkook didn’t let her finish.

He yanked her into Yoonji’s apartment and slammed the front door before pinning the beautiful woman to the wood and kissing her deeply. His shirt was somewhere on the floor. His beanie was behind the sofa. His jeans were partly unbuttoned and it was all Yoonji’s fault.

She lay on the sofa. Lips swollen from rough kisses, her skirt bunched to her waist, her body still tingling from orgasm as she watched them.

Crazy.

Yoonji vaguely recollected taking Jungkook’s hands and placing them onto her waist. Recalled pushing his beanie off and running fingers through his hair, messing it up, lip-locked, drowning in kiss after kiss. They probably should have talked about it or something. Then again, talking was clearly neither of their strong suit. She remembered grabbing the bottom of his shirt and pulling it up and over his head, exposing his chest to her roaming fingertips. And she remembered him pulling her shirt over her head too, whipping it past the coffee table. Remembered how they shared a hungry breath, need and instinct and anticipation, as he turned and covered her body with his larger one, trapping her between the sofa and him.

Her hand on his chest, feeling his racing heartbeat under her palm.

His breathing ragged, staring down at her, his delicate voice quivering.

“I… Sorry… Don’t mean to get carried away–”

And without a word, Yoonji had slid her hand up and covered his mouth, reaching up with the other to touch his inked forearm. His hand. Pulling it towards her, down, between her legs, and she turned her wrist with one swift movement, kissing Jungkook while pressing two of his fingers into her.

Insane.

She had never done that before. Making out while getting fingered. Hadn’t wanted to.

He was good at it.

Probably had a lot of practice.

She had wanted to be the one to open the door, but currently she couldn’t move. And her clothes were fucked by this point. She had motioned Jungkook when the intercom dinged, and he didn’t need any more incentive, giving her a quick kiss before ravishing another. Their guest looked pretty today too. The tight, black velvet dress clung to her curves, barely covering her upper thighs – was that flash of silver a zipper down the center, you rascal – and she gasped as Jungkook cupped their lover’s chin and tipped it to his right hand, sliding his fingers into her soft lips.

She watched the deft pink tongue slide between his fingers.

“Heh, you’ve been busy,” that silken voice slurred. Yoonji could feel her radiating smugness from the damn living room couch. “What a slut you’ve become.”

The desperate groan from him made Yoonji shiver with pleasure. Shit, I’m tainted too. She watched his hips roll into hers, and a slim, sexy leg hooked around him. She was wearing simple black heels. Rush out the door shoes. That nimble tongue licked the air enticingly, beckoning. Even Yoonji was losing her mind at the sight. Jungkook was no better, bending to her will and kissing her again, her name a breathless plea.

“What is it?”

That purr was dangerous.

His other hand was fumbling at her décolletage. The sound of a zipper unravelling, and slowly the velvet slipped away, skin and lingerie exposed to their hungry eyes.

“Use me,” Jungkook begged, his low tone desperate. “P-Please.”

It was insane how down bad he was and it was also insane how much Yoonji reveled in it. Not exactly because she wanted it for herself, no. They had a different, softer dynamic. But seeing this contrast come out of him was…

Hot.

Really fucking hot.

Maybe Yoonji was a slut for duality.

She was definitely a voyeur.

That was probably something to dissect for later. That was future Yoonji’s problem. Present Yoonji was appreciating the curves clad in classic, simple, well-fitted black bra and panties. She watched her squat down, her skin tingling at the sight of those legs, memories of those thighs pressed to her cheeks rising to the surface. Yoonji had witnessed this once. The second time was better. She had a much better angle. Jeans pushed down, followed by boxer briefs. He was pretty damn hard. Not quite full girth though. Yoonji bit her lip, remembering how she had cupped her hand around his growing hardness while he had fingered her.

Now she watched it disappear into another woman’s mouth.

Her pussy throbbed.

She didn’t want to touch herself yet. That probably meant she was a masochist.

Oh well.

The blowjob wasn’t like the pornos. There was nothing obstructing Yoonji’s vision because she didn’t use her hands to assist. She took him all the way to the base with ease. Classy and violently attractive. Her movement was swift, thorough, back and forth, the tip of her tongue moving past her lips in a flickering arc, turning his length glossy with wet friction.

His hand was on her head, his head falling back as he moaned.

Seeing those breasts bounce with every thrust was cracking Yoonji’s resolve not to touch herself. There wasn’t anyone telling her not to. She didn’t because no one told her to and she wasn’t ready to admit just was how down bad she was getting, knowing that in the future this would become one of many witnessed blowjobs.

Her pussy was definitely dripping all over her damn cushions.

And then all of a sudden that evil seductress stopped, pulling back and letting Jungkook’s dick slap her in face.

Yoonji was pretty sure a significant amount gushed out of her right then.

Frustrated, he punched the door and whined, “Noona, fuck, I was so close…”

“I know,” was the gleeful reply. “But someone is waiting for us.”

The hairs on the back of Yoonji’s neck stood on end. She knew what was coming.

Those predator eyes.

Yes, please.

“Well, look at you. Looking so ready to be devoured.”

She had watched her kick off her heels, so devil-may-care and so stylish at the same time, watched her cross the distance, and now the temptress with the burning eyes was descending on Yoonji. There was no time to be embarrassed. Poised arms, hands on the back of the sofa, that wild hair spilling over shoulders. Trapping Yoonji. She looked up as that sensual body covered hers, shrouding her in shadow.

“Miss me?” the other woman teased, licking the edge of her smirk.

She burned under that gaze, the coiling fire searing in her lower belly.

Couldn’t wait.

Say it now.

“Against all my better judgement, I really fucking love you,” Yoonji whispered.

That smirk widened.

“Well, fuck me. You meant what you said, huh?”

Yoonji cocked her head. “Figured I’d steal a page outta your book.”

A tense stare down.

“Take it back.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“No.”

Those darkened eyes glittered.

“Then let’s suck a dick, lovergirl.”

The stubborn earth could tolerate a torrential downpour and blazing wildfire, right?

Jungkook didn’t know what hit him.

“Uh, what–gah!”

In retrospect, Yoonji was glad it happened this way. She was no stranger to desire, yet she recognized that hers was simple, straightforward, and never quite satisfied. She craved creativity, but without drive it seemed too much a struggle to achieve. In short, her libido, personality, and instinctive inspiration-to-action were all at odds. She had figured that she would probably always feel this disconnect, and maybe she would just have to settle in this area. Relationships were about compromise and all that. And, anyway, she didn’t believe in soulmates or the right person. In short, she had good sex, but she had never thought that she had great sex – until that night in her bedroom with Jungkook and their lover.

And now it was happening again.

Well, she had never considered that perhaps her soulmate was unhinged. After all, would the right person for Yoonji drag her to her knees and shove her face into Jungkook’s balls? Probably not. Was this aggression insanely arousing and exciting?

Yeah.

Her lovely aggressor slunk down next to Yoonji, wrapping her hand around Jungkook’s half-hard cock. He might as well have been a prop to this searing showdown below him.

“Noona, what are you–”

And then she rubbed the leaking head into Yoonji’s jaw, smearing pre-cum upwards. Leaned in, bringing close that persistent heat, and licked, trapping his cock between wet tongue and soft cheek. She felt him twitch, getting harder. Felt that tongue wrapping around the shaft and sliding back and forth, curling around the velvety head. Rubbing, floating along the length, kissing the hardness into her face. Yoonji stiffened, able to sense it all, her breathing shallowing, possessed by the wrongness of such performative foreplay. Used as part of it. She could feel saliva and cum dripping onto her skin, creating a slick surface to increase sensitivity, and Jungkook was moaning above them, but all she could hear was a damning whisper by her ear.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

So Yoonji pressed her lips to Jungkook’s balls and got to work.

Cupped her tongue under one and slid it into her mouth, surprised by the smoothness. Then again, he was meticulously clean about his appearance in general. Perhaps she shouldn’t be shocked. How lucky for her. Yoonji had always wanted to do this, but no one had ever deserved it or was patient enough, and so now she let her mouth run wild, sucking, licking, switching from one to another, stretching her tongue out past her closed lips and covering him in spit. She felt the hand above her begin moving back and forth, firm and fast. Yoonji tilted her head back, licking further inward, and watched Jungkook get jacked off by someone else while she sucked his balls.

Damn.

Jungkook was standing in her living room, naked, with two hot women next to his legs in their underwear, getting the best manhandling of his life to date.

Lucky guy.

“A-Ah, h… harder… please…”

Seemed a shame that he was the only one having fun. Yoonji’s hand snaked down between her legs, rubbing herself through her soaked panties with her mouth full. She was vaguely aware that the other woman was very close to her, however she didn’t think much of it until she felt her bra unclasp.

This b–

She didn’t even have time to properly think her insult because a dexterous hand slid around her side, under her hanging bra. Against better judgement, Yoonji glanced down and spied graceful fingers tipped with silver-flamed black nails snake around her breast, gently cupping, the pad of the index rubbing her hardening nipple.

“Don’t stop,” that sublime, dream-like voice purred in her ear.

A muffled whine boiled in her throat, but Yoonji obeyed all the same, tugging down her now-useless undergarment and tossing it aside, before going back to rubbing frantic circles over her panty-covered clit, sucking harder as she felt the teasing of her nipple increase to rapid flicks and tugging pinches. She shut her eyes, knowing Jungkook was watching everything, getting off on it, getting off on me, and her whole body burned, shivered, delighted in that thought, bouncing his wet balls with her tongue, her saliva running down her chin, close, the undeniable fire rising.

Another body – feminine, powerful, dominating – pressed against her back.

“Cum in my mouth, Jungkook.”

Her chest tight, heartbeat like thunder, and Yoonji caved to the pleasure, gasping and slumping to her knees, harsh spasms shooting up from her throbbing, soaked core. Panting. Her eyes cracked open, seeing Jungkook’s hips jerk and their girlfriend leaned over, mouth open, catching the white strings of cum from his twitching cock, covering the head with her lips and swallowing as Yoonji stroked her neglected pussy after orgasm.

She reached over, fumbling for an anchor, gripping the other woman’s thigh.

Watched that expert mouth suck him clean, taking him all the way to the base, even as he squirmed, whined, almost buckled. Stayed there for suspended, spellbound seconds. Yoonji glanced up. His head was tipped back. Sweat beaded over his tense pecs. Clearly something was happening in the depths because Jungkook’s cries were morphing into desperate pleas for more, ah, p-please, again.

No words.

She simply removed her mouth and Yoonji replaced it with hers.

He was bigger than she thought.

Deeper, and Yoonji was still stunned by his hardness and size even though she had already seen it. Well, also amazed that he had continued to be this hard after an orgasm. There is magic in that mouth, though. She didn’t bother with trying to fit the length when she wasn’t used to giving blowjobs – it had been a while, sadly – so instead she focused on pace and steadiness. She felt a hand lightly press between her shoulder blades. With fingertips, she was guided to a rhythm she followed religiously, a-ah, please tighter, like that, oh, I like t-that, and she placed her hands on his sturdy thighs, gripping tightly, savoring him with mouth and hands.

Satisfied, the hand on her back began migrating.

Lips hovered by her ear.

Sweet, warm breath.

“You look good with your mouth full of Jungkook’s cock.”

Yoonji couldn’t respond or retort back. She could only crumble as those efficient hands covered her breasts, playing with them, toying with her hard nipples, all while she tried to keep her composure, moaning in her throat. Pleasure sparked from her chest, simmering through her nerves, feeling the now-uncovered breasts press to her back. Yoonji ran her tongue along the underside of Jungkook’s cock, shivering from the uninhibited low moan above her head. She was aware that he was praising her but unable to fully comprehend it, trapped between bodies. Her nipples were stinging with pleasure. Pinching. Rubbing. Rolling between fingertips. It was probably her stifled moans that were giving her away but Yoonji didn’t care, addicted to the lust, arching her back and spreading her legs more, her greedy pussy aching for punishment.

One hand left her chest.

Pinched her nipple hard as an open palm came smacking down on her exposed thigh.

A starved whine vibrated in Yoonji’s chest and sent Jungkook into a shuddering moan.

“You like that?”

She could only whimper in reply, keeping her mouth filled with hard, twitching cock.

“What about…?”

The hand slid down a little further. Yoonji’s breathing instantly quickened, moaning as she felt one of her nipples being flicked. It started a light pat against saturated fabric first. She made an approving noise and took Jungkook deeper, getting a better angle to bury the swollen head into her throat. Now her knees were on the floor, spread wide, and the pats became harder, more insistent. She encouraged it with renewed enthusiasm and bucking her hips to the hand, until they were damp, sticky slaps radiating throughout the room.

Smack!

Indecent ecstasy rushed up her torso and into her head, making her dizzy.

Jungkook’s strong hand had navigated to the back of her head and tangled in her hair, leading her to increase the speed. He’s watching me, fuck, that’s so hot, gasping with her as two fingers gripped her nipple and pulled, lifting up her breast a little.

“You like getting your pussy slapped, Yoonji?” her husky, devious succubus whispered into her ear.

No chance in hell was she going to admit that.

Not that she could because her mouth was full of cock.

This bitch.

But Yoonji was folding, yielding into the oncoming pleasure, her hips involuntarily flinching towards each slap, further shackled by an arm wrapped around her as her free hand switched to her other ignored nipple, feebly rubbing the abused one, hitting her own high with a gargled moan. She wasn’t moving her head anymore due to the orgasmic bliss. Thankfully Jungkook had gotten the hint and was slowly fucking her mouth, stimulating himself without going too deep. The slaps became fast, determined rubs right on her clit. Yoonji let him use her, tightening her throat as her trembling pussy drenched her panties again.

She came, hard, with Jungkook’s heady, thick orgasm flooding her tongue.

They moaned together, both nonsensical, but inevitably the same name.

Hot, devilish tongue flickered against Yoonji’s ear.

“Still sure you love me after knowing what’s yet to come?”

Yes.

Absolutely yes.

Yoonji received surprised looks when she pulled the box out of her nightstand.

“Uh? How’d you know, Yoonji-ah?”

She pursed her lips and held up the other object behind the box. “You left the spare condom behind. So I figured it was the preferred brand.”

“Oooh, so smart!”

“Clever girl.”

The night had been quite eventful.

Afterward, poor Jungkook was face-down again in a deep sleep. He was a hard worker, but he was no match for them. Especially for the conductor of this sex fest, who happily drained him four condoms later with Yoonji pinned down by her expert mouth. Kissing, touching, shivering from the friction of their bodies rubbing against each other with each thrust. In truth, Yoonji had simply wanted to touch her and be touched rather than orgasm again. She had already worked hard, after all. The tingling still remained, especially on her lips and breasts. Yoonji wiped herself down with a towel in the kitchen, letting her guest use the bathroom. She wasn’t quite sure why she hadn’t asked Jungkook to penetrate her.

Maybe she had enough dick in her lifetime and wanted a different flavor.

Heh.

She ignored her heated ears and took the towel with her, tossing it in the laundry on her way to the bedroom. It would have been silent, if it wasn’t for Jungkook’s heavy breathing. Yoonji pulled the covers up a bit more and patted his back. She noticed the faded bite marks on his shoulders. Freak. But an adorable one, she added fondly. She couldn’t give him that. Not to the degree he wanted. She could acknowledge that without much guilt, because he could get it without her while Yoonji could be satisfied in other ways. It occurred to her that she was beginning to think this dynamic suited her.

Maybe I’m a freak too. But only a little.

She reminded herself that everybody tells themselves lies every once in a while. Nothing wrong with that.

“Waiting for me?”

She turned and scowled at the woman leaning against the doorframe, a white hand towel over her shoulder. Yoonji didn’t know how she did it. Body of a lady, dressed like a lady, and acted like a cocky son-of-a-gun. Emphasis on cock and how much she seemed to be into it.

“No, princess,” Yoonji sarcastically replied.

The response was a light snicker, stepping into the room and closing the distance. She moved to sit next to Yoonji, but Yoonji moved faster, pointing towards the center of the bed. She raised an eyebrow. Yoonji lightly pushed her in between her and dozing Jungkook. It was only then that she obliged.

“Something wrong?”

She kept her face indifferent. “No, just…” She shook her head. “Jimin and Taehyung always said Jungkook likes grabbing onto people when he’s asleep. But I’m a light sleeper. I’m dealing with the snoring, but touching me when I’m asleep makes me jittery and jumpy.”

“Ah, I see.”

Yoonji pulled the towel down and folded it, putting it on her nightstand. The only light on was the lamp by her bedside. “I might scroll on my phone a bit. I’ve always had trouble falling asleep.”

“Me too.”

Even so, Yoonji didn’t pick up her phone. She reached down and pulled up the duvet, covering them both. Her partner tugged a little harder, unraveling Jungkook a bit. He made a disgruntled noise and flopped an arm over her. Didn’t wake up though. Amazing. Although perhaps he was used to it.

“Hey… uh.”

“Mmm?”

The hum settled. Yoonji looked over and found her staring back. She seemed to have expected her inquiry. Her dark pink lips quirked into a half-smile.

“We’re… We’re a thing, right?” she asked those scorching eyes.

A playful head tilt. “Hm, I’d say so. At the very least I’d like to eat your pussy a couple more times before you decide to cut loose.”

She narrowed her eyes and smacked her thigh.

“Be serious.”

It was dark but Yoonji swore she saw something in in her expression shift.

“Ah, why so serious, though?”

She lowered her gaze and grasped the duvet a little tighter.

“Because, I am serious.”

She raised her chin again, and her lover did too.

“I don’t do anything I don’t want to do,” the other woman said quietly, lifting her hand and covering Yoonji’s knuckles. Her touch was warm. “And I don’t think you should either. We will figure it out as long as we’re honest. And talk to each other. Which I guess means I might have to interfere often when it comes to you and loverboy.”

She chewed on her lip. “Aren’t you worried about me fucking up? You fucking up?”

A stifled laugh. “Nope.”

Yoonji frowned.

Her girlfriend smiled.

“Well, obviously depends if it was on purpose or not. But we all fuck up. It’s what you do after that defines you.”

She wondered out loud. “Aren’t you afraid of anything?”

“Afraid?” She pondered the word, as if it was quite peculiar. “I think I gave up on being afraid a long time ago. I get sad, of course. Frustrated. But, afraid? I didn’t think I’d make it this far in the first place. I ended up making choices that a lot of people wouldn’t agree with and will continue to do so,” she added with a scoff, rubbing the back of Yoonji’s hand. “If this ends, I will learn from it and be better. If it doesn’t, then…”

They locked eyes.

“Let’s be happy together.”

She turned her hand and squeezed hers.

“All of us,” Yoonji whispered, unable to raise her voice lest the inner flood break.

Smirk. “Yeah.”

She leaned over and kissed her on the lips ever-so-lightly.

After a breathless moment, Yoonji drew away. They stared at each other, two kindred spirits of the night, and Min Yoonji couldn’t believe that a failed Karrot purchase, multiple awkward situations, and the horny-and-probably-unwise decisions of a certain Jeon Jungkook would put her here, right in front of her almost-angel-mostly-devil person. Plus, the weirdness between her and Jungkook was finally gone.

Yoonji couldn’t ask for anything more.

“I almost threw up in my mouth a little bit at all that sappy shit,” she muttered.

“Yeah… Don’t get used to it, lovergirl.”

They slid down into bed more comfortably. Yoonji reached over and turned off the light.

“Hey, Yoonji.”

“What?”

She felt a hand by her neck. Fingers drew back her hair, patting her head. The warm whisper was teasing, close to her ear. “Remember when you said you loved me?”

“No,” she grumbled.

“Ah, right. Well, then. I won’t say it back.”

She reached back and grabbed the retreating hand, yanking it back roughly. There was a short tug-of-war that nobody was trying to win. Yoonji still put up a valiant effort, but in the end she was pinned down slightly with her wrist by her sternum. The lovely, silken voice lowered, right above her ear.

“I love you,” she whispered to her. “But, more than that, I look forward to loving you in the future.”

Yoonji pressed her hand to her beating heart.

“You tell Jungkook that, too?”

She did not say it enviously. Curiously, because she wondered. Because Yoonji was a little afraid that she wasn’t emotionally available enough for him. Because she knew he needed more, so she hoped, maybe…

“I say I love you.” The cheerful little laugh tickled her ear. “But I always tell him I look forward to fucking him even more in the future. That’s his love language.”

Why was Yoonji not surprised?

“Of course it is.”

“I’m looking forward to further learning your love languages, Yoonji.”

To be honest, she was pretty sure the other woman already knew somehow. But she didn’t press it at the moment. The tiredness was turning into sleepiness faster than she expected. Physical exertion did that. Yoonji woozily mumbled her name, holding onto her pillow tightly.

“And I, yours.”

– some time later –

“Hey.”

“Oh! You…”

She paused at his wide stare, holding tightly onto the strap of her new crossbody bag. Simple and black, matching the black leather of her miniskirt. The skirt wasn’t new. It was borrowed, as was the tight white crop t-shirt and oversized charcoal shirt jacket.

“You look really pretty, Yoonji-ah,” Jeon Jungkook said, taken aback.

Min Yoonji still wore her slouchy long socks and sneakers though. Black-and-white Jordans. She had realized pretty quickly that she still didn’t like heels that much. “Thanks.” There was some self-consciousness about the paleness of her slim legs on such a sunny day. Sunscreen and her black cap were a must today. They would be inside soon, though. “You look the same.”

The blunt remark seemed to knock Jungkook out of his trance.

“Hey!”

White t-shirt, light blue jeans with rips and a hanging silver chain, black sneakers. Sunglasses hanging on the center of his shirt. He still wore the several wooden bead ones on his left wrist and the silver bracelet on his right wrist. Yoonji knew by now that he had stolen it from a certain someone. It was a wonder that he wasn’t blind with how low his black bucket hat was. Then again, Jungkook had big peepers. His cheeks flushed pink.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to dress up.”

“You would probably combust if you dress up for once in your life,” she agreed. The sunscreen he was wearing was making his skin glow and his dark tattoo sleeve stand out. He was getting some looks from passerby, but Jungkook didn’t seem to notice at all. He held onto his phone. Kept looking Yoonji up and down.

“I can look nice,” he was protesting, but then their bickering was interrupted.

“Aiyooo!”

Both she and Jungkook turned to see a certain someone jogging toward them in chunky heeled boots. The blazing sun caught the edges of her dazzling smile and filtered through her wild hair whipping behind her as she ran. Jeez, she’s crazy, but it was a fond thought. Yoonji recognized the Epik High t-shirt and Jungkook seemed to recognize it too, shooting her a quick confused glance before their girlfriend slowed down in front of them. She had paired the t-shirt with a black pleated skirt and a white zip-up hoodie draped over her elbows. Same ol’ black sling bag. The plush Gengar keychain swung to a stop against her chest, grinning in that naughtily cheerful way as all brats did.

“Isn’t that…?”

“Yoonji’s? Uh huh. I borrowed it. Borrowed your hoodie too. Thanks, JK.”

“Ah, I’ve been wondering where that went! Noona!”

“Where’s your hat?” Yoonji chuckled. “You need sun protection.”

A swift hand reached up, patting down that wild hair. “Ah, shit. I knew I forgot something at your place.”

Yoonji realized with a start that the glittery, shimmery nail polish on those five fingers were all different.

Red, yellow, green, blue, purple.

Rainbow nails.

“It’s okay, we’re about to go into the aquarium anyway. Maybe I’ll buy a fish-themed hat in the gift store.” The carefree, warm expression returned. “You two ready to do the Animal Crossing scavenger hunt?”

“Uh?” Jungkook wondered out loud. “Oh, I think I saw something about that on the news. A bunch of fish exhibits with stamp stations.”

“Uh huh, uh huh. And whales and sharks too.”

“I should have known this was really about games,” Yoonji teased. “I was shocked that you wanted to do something outside for once.”

She raised a hand in a defensive manner. “Ey, I brought you two something too, since you agreed to be dragged along by my request.” Before either of them could say otherwise, she swung the sling bag around and pulled out two brightly-colored vouchers. “Here. Waterskiing for you and Jungkook. I won them from work.” She held them out and indeed.

Two water-skiing coupons for an afternoon by the sea.

“Whoa, cool!”

Yoonji took one tentatively as Jungkook accepted his, reading the location and available dates out. “But there’s only two. What about you?”

Their girlfriend shook her head. “No, thanks. I hate physical activity and I hate getting wet.” When Yoonji continued to frown, the other woman smiled and placed an arm around her. “Haha, I’m sure you’ll see me in a bikini sometime this summer,” she snickered, her delicious perfume sugary and spicy against Yoonji’s nose. “I heard you say you wanted to go to the ocean this summer. Thought it would be good for you and Jungkook to go on a date.”

Someday, Yoonji’s cheeks weren’t going to heat up at the sound of that word.

“D… Date?”

“Mhmmm,” was the playful reply, letting go of her to pat Jungkook on the head. “Happy?”

“I’ve always wanted to try waterskiing! Thanks, noona.”

A rainbow-tipped hand grabbed Jungkook’s, shaking him impatiently. “Thank me after I get those stamps. Hopefully they haven’t run out of the cute stamp cards yet. Onward!”

He laughed and tugged on her hand, swinging her arm about and making her twirl on the spot, her pleated skirt flaring out with her playful movement. Two beautiful people smiling at each other, so in love, as it should be.

Those scorching eyes turned back to her.

A rainbow-tipped hand extended out.

Jungkook stuck his head out curiously. Yoonji stared back, clutching the promise of a future date. Then she smiled, tucking the voucher into her purse, and stepped to her girlfriend, reaching for her hand, three people so in love, feeling stupidly warm and fuzzy when their fingers interlocked.

“You’re a nerd.”

“Oh, okay, says the nerdiest music nerd we’ve ever known.”

“Keke, good one, noona.”

hug me unstoppingly fill the moment we met, love it our tempering relationship won't cool unstoppingly you and i tonight tell me, be the sea i keep swimming deep every day – 머리에서 발끝까지 (shutdown) by moonbyul ft. seori

fin.

min yoonji masterpost | masterpost

#min yoonji x reader #yoonji x reader #bts smut #min yoonji #jungkook x reader #yoonji smut #jeon jungkook x reader #gender bend yoongi

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goodtoyous · 1 year

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The Trouble With Tagging

Tagging in fandom is useful, but ultimately detrimental because of how people are using it.

When I shop online for shoes, tagging is what lets me filter my view to white sneakers in size 7.5. But there are other attributes I look for in shoes. Maybe I want shoes with widely-spaced holes so they aren’t too tight when I lace them. Maybe I want to buy soles that aren’t too thick because I think that makes them clunky. And there will be other people who have these preferences too, so that must mean they’re useful classifications to have!

So it should be in a company’s best interest to provide me a way to find white sneakers in size 7.5 with widely-spaced holes, thinner soles, and whatever else I want in my shoes. Because otherwise it’s just a waste of time for me to buy something and return it later when I don’t like it, right?

No. Absolutely not.

I can’t ask for all the shoes that aren’t red to be tagged as #Not Red. I can’t ask for all shoes to be tagged #Loose Around the Ankles, when that isn’t a universal metric. The best way for me to find the shoes I want, and maybe this is still somehow controversial but I can’t imagine how, is to go into the store MYSELF and either try on shoes until I find ones I like, or ask a salesperson to help me.

Yet, somehow, people fail to see how this applies to tagging.

Back in the days of cable television, when a show was about to start, you’d see a rating and a content warning. ‘Viewer discretion is advised’, and maybe a few more words on what kind of content to expect: crude language, sexual situations, or graphic violence. We still use variations of those ratings and contents warnings on AO3 today, and they are very useful, standardized indicators.

Writers would use these indicators, and it was understood certain ratings would contain adult topics. There was nuance there, and room for interpretation, and responsibility on the reader’s side for monitoring their own content consumption.

In fandom, we coined our own terms to help enforce the idea that fanfiction was a free space for everyone to write what they wanted. ‘Don’t like; don’t read’ (DL;DR) is a common term that has perhaps become less common over the years, and has lost some of the meaning it used to have.

DL;DR does not mean ‘we, the writers, will warn for every topic that this work will include so you can avoid it’. What it meant was, if you read a story and came across something you didn’t like, you would stop reading. It did not have to be something triggering, it could just be something you didn’t like. You would hit the back button and that was the end of it.

Using tags became a way to include additional information on a story so that people could avoid certain topics more easily. So that back button didn’t need to be hit quite as often. Nowadays, I feel as though people have begun to see it as a requirement.

People will preach about wanting to avoid content they don't want, but you have always been able to do that from the very beginning. You always have the option to close the tab, to stop reading.

‘I wouldn’t have read this if I had known ___’ is a complaint most writers are not unfamiliar with. Readers complain about having wasted their time on stories that were ‘disappointing’, ‘problematic’, or ‘misleading’, simply because there is an aspect of a story they disagree with.

If a story doesn’t have ‘Unhappy Ending’ slapped on it, readers hold the author responsible for their emotional response. If one topic isn’t tagged, the author is somehow at fault for being ignorant, insensitive, or irresponsible.

It is grossly misleading to approach this by assuming authors are acting incorrectly, or possess malicious intent for not including a tag. Simplifying fiction by categorizing it into tags is exactly what that is, simplifying it. Maybe it isn’t tagged because it's a spoiler. Maybe the author didn't think it was an important aspect of the story. Maybe they just forgot!

If an author is mistagging and misrepresenting their work, that is a different story that is subject to different nuances. But it is not a requirement, unspoken or otherwise, to include a tag, because this isn’t how reading works! There is a reason why 'Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings' exists, and that is because tags are for an author to classify their own work how they see fit. It is their choice!

People have been trained by social media into not curating their own content; they let algorithms and FYPs do it for them, and when they see something they don't like, they blame it on the person who posted it.

"How dare anyone encroach on this public space with something I don't want to see!"

So I ask you this: does an author’s opinions and desires on how their work is presented not matter? Are authors shackled to public opinion irregardless of what they believe is most important about their own creation? Should creative control be fully relinquished because people who had nothing to do with a work's creative process believe they know better?

If your answer to that last question isn’t a firm, resounding NO, then you are admitting you feel more entitled to a creator’s work than the actual creator.

Society has evolved to no longer value art for being art, but value art only if it is able to conform to various labels for commodified consumption. Yet there is no faster way to kill true art than to try and cram it into a billion tiny little boxes.

Fiction is subjective. Tastes are subjective. Tagging is useful, but it isn’t everything. Take responsibility for the content you consume. Stop asking people to pick out your shoes for you, and go try some on for yourself.

#ao3 #writing #meta #fanfiction #fiction

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setokaibapetty · 6 months

Text

5 + 1 Fic Friday Roundup: On Campus

One of the things that April is an awareness month for is community college. So, have some fanfic with student//teacher characters or a school setting.

Mahogany (AO3) - "Shepard and squaddies are students at the elite Galactic Training Academy. (Think Starfleet meets Hogwarts. In space.) Reapers have been dead for hundreds of years, but there are still plenty of baddies out in the galaxy. Shepard-in-training rises to the occasion, with the aid of her squad and a certain snarky flight student. Currently Rated M for language and mature situations."

The Night Will Come but Not to Stay (AO3) - "Jazz is excited about going to Gotham University for college. It's halfway across the country from Amity Park and anyone who knows about her weird family or ghost nonsense. Finally, she can pretend to be a normal woman who just wants to go into psychiatry. She meets a cute guy named Jason, and they seem to be getting along great."

Form 23-C: Application for a New Roommate (AO3) - "After battling ninjas, aliens, madmen, mafiosos, other heroes and death itself, Jason was about to face his most unknown foe yet: a normal life. It's fine. He'd always dreamed of going to college and for once reality sort of lived up to expectations. He loves the classes, he can handle the workload and his cases too. His roommate is a total douche, but whatever. Jason's fine, he's got this. Then he meets his roommate's brother. Jason totally doesn't have this."

Holy Romantic Overtures, Batman! (AO3) - "After the heist of a lifetime, henchman!Jason decides to go legit and enrolls in college. The last person he expected to see there was Robin, and he certainly didn’t expect to fall for him either. But somehow it all works out. Maybe it’s all the labels?"

campus cryptid vs. future valedictorian (AO3) - "Mara Glass did not care about "weird hot guy," the supposed "campus cryptid." She had heard of him her first couple years and had him pointed out to her by a classmate once, but what was there to notice? Okay, he was probably thirty, a nontraditional student, so what? There were a number of those around. Apparently he was hot--well congrats to people who were into people, they could keep him. And if you asked Mara, from her extremely objective perspective, those Disney-green eyes were doing a lot of heavy lifting. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about a thirty-something guy who didn't talk about himself to twenty-year-old classmates. He probably had, like, a real life. There were rumors he was married, although Brittany noted that the only reason people thought that was because one time someone heard him finish a phone call with, "You light the candles, I'll bring dinner. I love you." None of that was remotely interesting to Mara. He sounded like a normal person, and she wished people would shut up about him. Then in third year, she had a history class with weird hot guy."

Bonus: Scholastic Nightmare (AO3) - "Nara Sayuri, a religious studies major from a traditional household, would be hard pressed to come up with a worse nightmare. It was her first time presenting a paper at a conference and apparently her paper was so wrong that one of her ancestors - a deified ancestor, the Shikabane-hime herself - came down from the heavens specifically to point out how off base Sayuri was."

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posi-pan · 3 months

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https://www.tumblr.com/toyherb/748434177303658496/geiser-i-know-pansexuality-is-not-just-going-to?source=share

i saw this and do you know if this is true or not? because it made me sad / feel bad because before i came out (i didn't have plans to, at first) i was thinking long and hard on which labels fit me to the point of having sleepless nights because of it and then i found out about pansexuality due to this blog and that made me feel peaceful inside and that's how i figured out that this label fit me.

and now everyone on that post is like: think long and hard on the labels you use!!!! i don't want to exclude anyone. i don't want to erase anyone. this label just fits me. it fit me then, it fits me now. it's as simple as that.

sorry to dump this into your askbox during pride :((((

that post is absolutely not true. i have many posts on here calling out the idea that pan is somehow damaging bisexuality or whatever. pansexuality is not biphobic, individual people are. if someone is saying something biphobic, it’s because of their own flawed thinking or understanding, not because of whatever their sexuality is. funny how many heterosexuals and gay men and lesbians say horribly biphobic things, yet i don’t see any viral posts about how heterosexuality or gayness or lesbianism are biphobic. that logic only applies to pansexuality, i guess. *eye roll* it’s almost like the goal isn't calling out biphobia, the goal is spreading panphobia.

(and let’s not forget that pansexuality and pan people did not create any of these misconceptions about bisexuality that panphobes always talk about. those existed before pan got any kind of mainstream visibility. and don't believe panphobes when they say pan folks “changed the definition of bisexuality” either, as that’s just another panphobic lie.)

you don’t have anything to worry about. the only people doing damage are the people who make and share those kinds of posts telling people they’re queerphobic and hurting the community because they use a different word. pan has always existed and wasn’t created to be biphobic or transphobic and has always been welcome in the bi community. claiming otherwise is what’s wrong and damaging.

and idk when op posted that, but the earliest replies i saw were from 2020, so it’s interesting that people are sharing a years old post where the go-to example of a pan person being biphobic is even older: miley cyrus in 2016 saying she hates the word bisexual for putting her in a box. which. i remember that and pan folks, including myself, were criticizing her word choice. (even though she simply said she doesn’t like that label for her own sexuality and feels it’s too restrictive for her own sexuality and feelings. which isn’t queerphobic ffs. queer people of all kinds feel certain labels are too restrictive or don’t fully encompass their feelings. like. why is it only bad when a pan person says that about bi? i’m so tired of the double standards. also, where are these people when bi celebs are spreading biphobic narratives? they’re awfully silent then.)

please try not to give panphobes like that the time of day. their words have no weight because they’re rooted in hatred and queerphobia. they do a good job of masking their panphobia in supposed sadness about biphobia or concerns about the community (and sometimes wrap their message in faux intellectualism), but all of that rings false when you know where they’re coming from and what their intentions are. pan people are just trying to live our lives as authentically as we can, with language that feels true to us. panphobes on the other hand are actively spending their free time trying to make other queer people feel bad for *check notes* using different words. as if that isn’t the most ridiculous thing in the world.

i hope this helps make you feel better!!! and no worries about sending this during pride!! 💖💖💖

#asks #anonymous #pan antagonism

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anarchotolkienist · 1 year

Note

do you think extinct gaelic dialects could possibly be revived (saying nothing of the likelihood of that happening) if enough people were to make an effort in learning/speaking them? sometimes i look at old dialects as a learner and wish somehow they could be brought back

Depends on the dialect and how extinct they are. First of all, people like to speak of some dialects as extinct when they're not yet, they're just very threatened. For example, there is a still a native speaker of Perthshire Gaelic alive - she's 104 but she's still kicking. The same for Easter Ross Gaelic - still has one old woman who's a native speaker, a fisherwife in the village of Brora. Her sister passed away last year, making her the last native speaker, but she's still around. One family has kept up Tayside Gaelic for two generations now, and other speakers could learn to speak the local language from them. Other dialects have semi-speakers, aspects of which could still be picked up though it would not be the complete dialect as gained from a fluent speaker - for example, the son of the last native speaker of Aberdeenshire Gaelic is still alive, and he, while not fluent, is competent in the languge and can recite some poems and rhymes from memory that his mother taught him which will be enough to save some vocabulary and phrases, should someone decide to pick it up.

Then there are dialects who's last native speakers have passed away, but where fluent learners actually did what we're discussing here, and learned the dialect to fluency at those last speakers knees - examples just based on people I know at least somewhat personally would include north Argyle, Dùthaich MhicAoidh, Wester Ross, Glens of Loch Aber and Glen Coe. These dialects, then, also have a lease of life, and could be learned and spoken with now living speakers.

A third category would be dialects which, while extinct, were extensively recorded before their death and which could be picked up with a degree of continuity from those recordings. Isle of Arran, for example (which I know at least Alasdair Paul is doing for his historical novels, who's characters speak with a clear Arrannach flavour), or Badenoch, or Lorne (the last native speaker, Iain MacPhàidein nach maireann, passed away not five months ago), among others. All of these I would say could all be revived and be said to be genuinely the same dialect, even though it will of course change and loose some of it's flavour, and certain sayings or words that just simply were never recorded.

However, there is a last category of dialects that are irreparibly lost, that simply were not recorded in time. Loch Lomondside Gaelic, for example, died out in the early 20th century, and the only extensive collection that happened locally, by Dòmhnall Dewar, was not a linguistic but a folkloric study. The same goes for most of the borderlands and the Southern Highlands, (Cowall, Kintyre, Black Isle, South Argyle, Braemor, and Bredalbane, etc) and generally most districts outwith the crofting region, where the languge (as well as more or less the entirety of the people) disappeared with the clearances, without the lease of life granted by crofting and the crofting act. This goes doubly so for the only dialect of Lowland Gaelic that survived into modern day, in the form of that Gaelic which was spoken in the Glens of Galloway into the 17th century. These dialects are all lost completely. But, as you understand from the earlier list, a surprising number of dialects are still alive and to some extent kicking, and could have a fighting chance if things were to turn out differently. I can give you some tips or contacts if the dialect you yourself is interested in is salvageable, just DM me or send another ask if whatever.

#long post

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couldsewyouastitchandsavenine · 4 months

Text

Dancing In The Dark [Javi Peña] 03

summary: Javier Peña knows all the answers to all questions but one... what if?pairing: javier peña x fem!reader word count: 4.4K

warnings: language, canon compliant violence, mentions of traumatic experience, bad spanish, Javier is being an arse

Part 01 Part 02 Part 03

Not even an hour had passed into your first time navigating the landscape of spilled beer and the kind of desperate optimism that clung to the soles of your shoes, when Chema, your new jefe, casually attached a name to your existence with no more than a gentle smile and nudge towards the table of rowdy patrons at the other end of the establishment.

It was a small word. Three letters. And yet for a moment, the name had blinded you just as the word’s meaning.

Sol.

It was only a few weeks later, under the dim light of a quiet morning before the bar had come to life, that Chema found the words to tell you why. With a exhale heavy enough to pull the air tight around you and deliberately avoiding your gaze, he had explained that something about you that night had reminded him of his niece, Marisol.

“Una profesora,” he had said, letting the words linger in the air, his arms sweeping wide as if to embrace the expanse of her dreams, before dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief so threadbare and yellowed, it could have been a torn page of an old, well-loved book.

Marisol, as you would learn later, not from jefe but from Isidro, Chema’s best friend and a bar's regular, had left Medellín at the same time as you had arrived. She packed her aspirations as tightly as her clothes into a suitcase and ventured up north, crossing the border to the States, armed with nothing but drive and dreams bigger than herself.

While others might have felt overwhelmed by being called by a name that had nothing to do with them, you found a certain peace with it. It didn't feel like an ill-fitting jacket, two sizes too large, that you were expected to grow into, nor did it feel like an entirely new identity was being thrust upon you—a mask to wear over the contours of your own face.

And anyway, you had somehow gotten used to people calling you names that weren’t your own, especially in Medellín, where your birth name felt more alien than in any other place you’ve been to before. It felt like a garment left out in the rain, foreign and sodden, barely clinging to your skin. Hanging around you, it floated somewhere in the space, foreign and distant, and seldom used by those around you.

For you were mijita, and carinña, and hermosita and muñequita; sometimes guapita and more often than not, puta. A darling, and a doll; a sweetie, and a sweetheart, a wave of a hand or a tap on a shoulder in passing; a dismissive hey, tossed across the bar like a discarded napkin.

And to one person only, you simply were nena.

Javier calling you nena was as amusing as it was frustrating. It made you think. Made you wonder if your actual name was something he either knew or had any interest in knowing because try as you might, you couldn’t recall a single instance when he had addressed you with it. Just as you couldn’t recall the exact reasoning for it. And the more you dwelled on it, the more it seemed that nena was less of a term of endearment and more of a stopgap—a placeholder—filling the void where your name should slot itself in conversations.

Still, it wasn’t as if your name was hidden, locked away behind some great mystery. And it’s not like there hadn’t been opportunities for him to learn it, to ask about it. But, for reasons unknown, it never passed his lips—not in the casual chats across the bar, not in the brief exchanges during his visits with Steve, and definitely not in those quiet moments that occasionally lingered between the two of you.

Of course, you kinda figured out that the nickname had something to do with your height and the appearance that went against your actual age—not the ‘barely twenty-five’ that Javier had initially assumed. And in a way, it made sense; you had long since stopped being surprised by the disbelief with which people examined your ID card, flipping it back and forth as if expecting the truth to somehow leap off the surface.

You tried to figure it out; figure him out. You were curious at fault, and as such you had nudged, probed, at times even pestered him for some sort of explanation. But, your efforts were usually met with nothing more than a playful twirl of his neatly trimmed moustache, or, on the occasions, if you were luckier, a smirk accompanied by a teasing, almost provocative comeback: "Now, wouldn’t you like to know?"

Eventually, you found yourself in a state of quiet acceptance. The incessant questioning and the mental acrobatics performed in an attempt to unravel what seemed, for lack of a better term, an unsolvable puzzle gradually faded into the recesses of your thoughts. You allowed the entire ordeal to simmer down to a mere whisper in your consciousness, coming to terms with the possibility that the answer might be far simpler than you had anticipated—perhaps there was no profound reason at all.

Maybe nena was simply his way of planting a flag. An anchor in the sea of faces he waded through each day.

And at the end of the day, it didn’t matter.

After all, Javier Peña wasn’t the first to slap a nickname to your face, and he for sure wouldn’t be the last.

—

Over time, you'd slowly come to accept that Javier lived by a unique set of principles only known to him—ones as fickle as the wind itself and changing like the phases of the moon on Medellín skies.

And if there was ever an ideal moment to curse those rules to hell, it was now, amidst his current round of coldness he was showering you with. It might have been days, or even a week since you’d spoken or seen each other; you weren’t exactly tracking the time on a calendar, but each day resonated with the weight of a heavy book falling on the hard floor with a loud thud.

It’s not like you hadn’t argued before—you did—but for some reason, that morning had felt like you’ve scraped a new low as Javier struggled to jam your bicycle into the back of his Jeep as if wrestling a disobeying wild animal into a cage. You hadn’t dared to speak, and he hadn’t bothered with words either as he drove you home, leaving you standing outside your doors without even a muttered goodbye.

And just like any other time the two of you would quarrel, you decided to give it time; give him time. You shook off the awkwardness and harsh words like dust from a jacket, telling yourself he probably needed longer to stew in his anger this time, until it simmered down enough for him to speak to you again.

But after ten days of the silence festival, it began to annoy you—this childish behaviour of his, and the way he seemingly didn’t care or bother to mend things with you. Of course, you weren’t exactly expecting him to apologise; you were smart enough to know that in the grand scheme of things Javier was right and had every right to be angry with you. But still, ignoring you for more than a week somehow felt like a stretch too far.

And as far as you were aware, he hadn’t been showing up at the bar either. Or if he did, it was probably on the rare nights you weren’t there. Then again, perhaps it was for the best that he hadn’t. You had always preferred his visits in the late afternoons, when he'd drop in for a quick drink before the evening rush began. It wasn't just the chance to talk—though it was usually you doing most of the talking—it was also because these encounters didn't follow the predictable pattern of his nighttime appearances: him leaving after midnight, usually with a woman whose name he wouldn’t remember by morning.

When you met Javier, the constant procession of women vying for his attention had been entertaining; almost amusing. You’d watch from behind the bar, pouring drinks and cleaning glasses, a smirk playing on your lips as one hopeful after another approached him. Each woman seemed to think she had just the right thing to become a permanent fixture in his world—a world you knew to be relentlessly transient.

And it was like a merry-go-round of coy smiles and lingering touches—bodies perfumed and primped and laughter a little too loud; glances a little too calculated. And the bastard thrived in it; played his role with a practised charm. Always smooth and always a bit mysterious, his full attention always just slightly out of their grasp.

Sometimes you’d share the sentiments with Steve, who’d be nursing a drink in his usual spot, chatting to you about his wife Connie and the life in the States, and at times the two of you would often find a twisted kind of joy in predicting how long each lady at Javier’s table would last before they realised that their efforts were but temporary entertainment to agente Peña.

But lately, you found yourself not smirking at the sight, but rather grimacing and looking away. For it had started to gnaw at you, this feeling, knowing that you were both everything and nothing to him depending on the day, the hour, the minute.

You weren't supposed to care. Not like that, at least. You weren't meant to feel a sharp pang each time he sauntered off with another woman on his arm. The sight of forgotten lingerie in his apartment shouldn’t have felt like a betrayal. You definitely shouldn’t have caught your breath that night at the sight of his bare back. And under no circumstances were you supposed to feel a warm flutter every time he called you "nena," his smile revealing that rare dimple.

Alas, here you were, despite swearing you wouldn’t do this to yourself—wouldn’t fall into the trap of waiting for something that you couldn't even pinpoint. Wouldn't allow yourself to think and overthink, dissecting every glance and every touch that suggested you might mean more to him than just another name in his crowded little black book.

But you did care. And the feeling scared the shit out of you.

—

It had all started with a nausea.

The kind that coiled like a snake in your stomach and turned your night into a battle of tossing and turning around on your old, single bed. And the same unsettling feeling trailed you into the morning like shadow, lingering persistently as you took a quick shower, checked on Lupe, and then tried to immerse yourself in your routine.

On any other occasion, you probably would’ve listened to your gut; that sixth sense rarely failing you, but for some reason, you went and convinced yourself that everything was fine, blaming it all on the two-day-old arepa you’d eaten for dinner and went on with your day.

However, by midday, the walls of the apartment seemed to close in, tightening around you as you ran circles around your routine. So, you unchained your bicycle from its usual spot against the hallway wall, deciding that a trip to the market across the barrio just might be enough to dispel some of the restlessness and clear your mind.

Pedalling through the streets, you weaved your way between vehicles and pedestrians, and despite the sun, the atmosphere hung heavy and humid, clinging to you like a wet blanket. The morning radio had hinted at rain, but the dampness in the air and the ache in your knee—a steadfast barometer for storms—suggested that something else was brewing.

With deft fingers, you secured your bicycle across the road from the market before stretching your stiff back, observing the way the market was thriving with people. Men, women and children strolled around, their loud voices and laughter mingling with the sound of salsa music coming from inside one of the many cafes and bars located along the street.

Hoisting your backpack higher, you scanned the street before taking a few long strides towards the other side, only to stop in your tracks when your eyes caught the sight of the truck parked brazenly next to the main market entrance, as if staking its claim over the area.

The promise of 'la Guayaba más Deliciosa de Medellín' was scrawled in peeling paint along its side, but the only goods it seemed to be offering today were the suspicious glances from a group of men leaning against its corroded metal—their mouths set either in grim seriousness of wry smirks as if they were the only ones on some kind of joke.

And despite the small voice in your head telling you to turn around and leave, you dismissed it and adjusted the strap of your backpack and patted the front pocket of your denim for the crumpled bills you had picked up from a crystal bowl on your way out. Breathing deeply, you scolded yourself for being so silly before weaving your way through the throngs of people, set on getting your chore done without much fuss. In and out; wouldn’t be the first time.

For the first ten minutes, your hand hovered over different fruit and vegetables and soft petals of flowers in different colours and shapes; fingers tested the firmness of avocados, leaving a thumbprint on a particularly soft one before you moved on to pick up the earthy, rough texture of cassava roots. You then proceeded to smell different bundles of herbs, and bought a few corn cobs, still wrapped in their husk cocoon.

Lastly you stopped at one of the vegetable stands, chitchatting with the vendor about this and that before picking up a few tomatoes. The scene unfolded as countless times before: exchange money, receive goods, all the while quietly giggling at the banter unfolding at the tortilla stand, only a few feet away. Yet, as you handed over a crumpled bill, your attention was caught on the vendor’s eyes—quick, darting glances over your shoulder, pupils wide with skittish fear as his hand hovered over the cash container in front of him.

In hindsight, you should’ve known that something was amiss when you felt yet another shiver crawl up your spine. You should’ve known that something was wrong when you felt your stomach twist and turn. You should’ve, but you didn’t.

Instead, you turned your attention to the nearby stand with an array of desserts displayed, making an impromptu decision to buy some obleas for Lupe, and perhaps some cocadas for Chema—his favourite—or even to offer some to Steve, in case he decided to drop by for a drink later that night.

But you didn’t get to do any of it, for the first gunshot cracked through the air—sharp and singular—freezing the market in a snapshot of confusion. Then, a second shot echoed, closer and louder, followed by a rattle of an automatic rifle, creating the immediate panic as screams sliced through the market.

People dropped their purchases, abandoning baskets and bags as they fled in all directions. Vendors ducked behind their stalls, and children cried out in fear, their parents yanking them to safety. The air buzzed with a sound of terror, a chorus of urgent shouts and the chaotic clatter of overturned goods.

You tried to run too, but your body refused to cooperate, freezing in place. The crowd surged around you, jolting and twisting you until you felt the ground tilt beneath your feet. You were pushed and shoved, stumbling forward, then sideways, until you lost your balance entirely and fell into an overturned stall—your elbows digging into something soft and sticky.

People continued to run, their cries and screams blending with the relentless sound of gunfire. And in that chaotic moment, you decided to finally trust your instincts and do something you haven't done in years.

Closing your eyes, you prayed for the chaos to stop.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed. Minutes might have stretched into hours, each second longer than the previous one. But eventually, a new sound began to cut through the fog—voices, commanding and authoritative, echoing around the debris-strewn market. They were distant but piercingly close as they shouted in both English and Spanish.

”¡Vamos, vamos!" and "Clear over here!” they called out, sharp and urgent, slicing through the aftermath of terror.

For a moment the light felt too harsh against your eyes, but when your gaze adjusted to what was going on and you managed the courage to lift yourself on your elbows, the sight that greeted you was one of chaos; a different kind of chaos. Medics, their faces set in lines of worry and concentration, darted between huddles of people while men and women in DEA vests and muddy brown uniforms moved swiftly, their movements precise as they checked corners, lifted debris, coordinating with each other through clipped radio chatter.

And that’s when you saw him; a figure—familiar and grounding. His eyes caught yours as if drawn by an unseen force, a brief flash of recognition crossing his face before it morphed into concern. There was a beat of a heart. A pause. And then his long legs closed the distance quickly, his radio chatter abandoned as he reached you.

“Damn, you’re the last person I expected to see here,” Steve muttered, his tone mixed with relief and something more serious. Crouching beside you, his hand hesitated in mid-air as if unsure whether to comfort you or to check for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

Managing a shake of a head in response, your answer sounded more like a question than a statement. “I’m fine… I think?”

Steve nodded slowly. “Yeah, you’re alright, at least physically,” he murmured, more to himself than to you as he scanned you for injuries, this time somewhat slower, as if trying to assess if you needed assistance. Then, standing to his full height, he extended his hand. “Come on, let’s get you up, sweetheart. I’ll have someone take a better look. Can you walk?”

You accepted his help with a small nod, but as you tried to rise up, a sharp pain shot through your arm and down your side, causing you to grimace and catch your breath. Steve’s eyes, worried and assessing were back on you, but you quickly shook your head.

“It’s nothing,” you reassured, forcing a small smile. “What’s going on?”

“Shootout caught us by surprise,” Steve replied curtly as he draped an arm around your waist and you leaned into him, the hard surface of his tactical feeling oddly calming. “The area’s not clear yet. We need to keep moving. Stick close to me, alright?”

“Was it the cartel?”

Steve chuckled darkly, scanning the surroundings as he guided you towards the exit and occasionally nodding to other men and women in the same gear as he was wearing. “It always is. Feels like a never ending war.”

You hummed in response, but as soon as the immediate calm faded, a new wave of anxiety washed over you, gripping your heart tighter at the mere thought of it. Because you could already see his stern face, a mix of worry and frustration etched into his features. And you know he'd be angry—not just at the situation, but at the risk you'd been in.

“Steve?" you started quietly, "is Javi around here too?”

Steve didn't stop walking but his pace slowed down as his radio made a crackling noise. “He was supposed to be on paperwork duty, so I don't think so. I was in the area with a team. But knowing him, he could have jumped on the first truck when the call came through."

You nodded, swallowing a lump that was forming inside your throat. "Do you think he'll be pissed with me?" you asked, looking up to meet Steve's gaze. "Because I cycled to this barrio. Should've known that it wasn't the safest."

So, you didn’t.

"He won't," Steve reassured you, giving you a wry smirk. "And if he does, I'll make sure to step in." A sigh of relief pushed past your lips—your gaze drifting to your feet, only to stop when Steve's arm tightened the hold around your waist. "Don't look down, it ain't a pretty sight."

—

The plastic chair beneath you was as hard and cold as the looks you had been receiving from people ever since Steve left you in the corridor of the DEA's offices and left to report to his superiors. And despite asking him if he could just drop you off at work and go his own way, he had chuckled, said something about protocols and urged you to take a seat.

That was almost forty minutes ago, and instead of feeling safe, you felt more exposed and vulnerable than ever. So, in a poor attempt to distract yourself from their hard stares, you began to pick at the remnants of avocados stuck to your skin.

After a few more minutes, where the hall turned a sharp corner, Steve's figure finally emerged from one of the rooms, followed by a middle-aged woman whose sharply tailored suit and poised demeanor exuded authority. She was closing the doors behind her, nodding at whatever Steve was telling her, their faces gravely serious as several other men in police uniforms and civil approached them.

And just as you were about to look away and sigh in a silent frustration at being somewhere where you felt utterly unwelcome, another figure appeared, and your breath caught in your chest.

Javier.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him—tall, imposing, all long legs and lean torso, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he joined in on the conversation. You watched as he nodded, rubbed a hand across his jaw in a nervous gesture—his mouth barely moving but you knew that he was talking. But then, Steve leaned in closer. Whispered something in his ear, and just like that Javier stiffened.

Whatever Steve had said, it hit a nerve.

And if you had any doubts about what made Javier's entire demeanour shift, they disappeared the moment he turned around and pushed past the group—eyes scanning the corridor until they locked onto yours.

“What the hell were you doing there?” Javier demanded, his voice harsh and loud as he stepped in front of you.

You flinched under the weight of his stare, then forced yourself to meet his eyes. “I was just at the market, Javier. I wasn’t doing anything—”

“—Wasn't doing anything?” His voice rose sharply, cutting you off, his hand slicing through the air as if to dispel your words. “You call getting caught in a shootout nothing?”

“I know, I—” you tried again, but had no luck.

“—oh do you, now?” He stepped closer, towering over you. You backed up, feeling suddenly even smaller in front of him. “Because it doesn’t seem like you do. It doesn’t seem like you realise just how serious this is, how serious everything I’ve been telling you is.” His voice was a fierce spat, laden with concern and frustration. “Jesus Christ, nena, why are you so reckless?”

The accusation stung, more so because you knew he was right. His worry was justified—you could have been killed, and the day’s events had brought that terrifyingly close to reality. But instead of saying something, anything, you simply stood there, speechless, his words cutting deep.

"Javi..." you trailed off as his figure loomed closer, his brows knitted together in frustration. You attempted to avert your gaze, seeking to hide from the storm brewing in his eyes, but Javier was having none of it.

"Oh no! Look at me when I'm talking to you!" His command snapped through the air, sharp and unyielding. Reluctantly, you lifted your eyes to meet his, the full force of his anger striking you anew. "You knew how dangerous that area is. I've told you million times, and you go and—fuck."

Trying to lighten the mood, you offered a weak smile, your voice trembling slightly with nervous humor. "At least my bike made it out without a scratch, right? Steve's gonna pick it up later.”

The words hung awkwardly between you, a feeble attempt to deflect from the gravity of the situation.

Javier's reaction was immediate and fiery. "No me jodas, ¿hablas en serio?" he exploded, the Spanish words slicing through the tension. "This isn't a damn joke!" His face was a mask of frustration, the muscles in his jaw working visibly as he fought to control his emotions. "You could've been killed, nena, and you're making jokes about that fucking piece of rust?”

“I was just trying to…,” you trailed off, realising that he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he ran a rough hand through his hair, exhaling. "You're out there, acting like it's just another day at the market, like bullets aren't flying around! Do you even understand the danger you were in?”

“You are talking as if I went willingly into crossfire!” you spat, jumping to your feet and ignoring the sharp pain that ran through you. “Jesus Javi, I am fine!”

You weren’t, but alas.

“This isn’t just about you, nena,” Javier said, his voice lowering to a strained whisper, and for a moment you could swear that you saw a flicker of his own fear at the thought of what might have happened. But as quick as it appeared, it vanished, replaced by another wave of anger. “For fuck's sake, you’re making me so angry! How can you be so stu—”

Steve suddenly stepped in, planting a firm hand on Javier’s shoulder. A clear signal. "Enough, Javi," he stated, his tone brooking no argument. "This isn't helping. She's safe, that's what matters now.”

Javier's response was immediate and visceral. He shook off Steve's hand with a sharp jerk of his shoulder, his eyes still burning with unresolved anger.

“She just doesn’t get it, Murphy! She fucking doesn’t get it!” Javier grumbled before turning around and storming outside—the doors behind him slamming with the force that felt as if the whole building was shaking.

And just like that, the tears from your eyes spilled over.

—

tags: @pedroschka, @mellymbee, @axshadows, @tuquoquebrute

#javi peña #javier peña #javi peña x reader #javi peña x f!reader #javi peña x you #javi peña fanfiction #narcos fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you

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ihavedonenothingright · 6 days

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Captive Prince: Historical References and Naming Conventions

Part 3

Aaand we're back at it for part 3 >:))

If it's your first time, welcome to my ongoing analysis of the historical references and potential interpretations in Captive Prince's names! Today's topics of discussion are Isthima and Artes, and oooh boy these are some fun (if lighter) ones.

Isthima

Etymologically, there isn't much of interest here; I have exactly one interpretation for the name Isthima and it's very succinct. That interpretation, however, ties into some very cool historical references on Pacat's part, and I really want to talk about those, so let's dive in.

There are very few words in Greek or Latin that Isthima could be derived from, and the only really plausible one is ἰσθμός—which we know in English as 'isthmus'. Just as a refresher, an isthmus is a narrow strip of land which links two larger areas of land together across a sea. Given that in the world of Captive Prince, Isthima is an island, not an isthmus, this choice might seem a little odd… at first.

I'll clarify out of the gate that I don't think Isthima is meant to be Corinth. I'm stating that explicitly because in terms of the ancient world, Corinth has by far the most associations with the word ἰσθμός; the Isthmian games or Ἰσθμιά (Isthmia) were held there, and that was one of the Panhellenic Games, so… safe to say they had the isthmus monopoly. The reason I don't think Isthima is Corinth is actually quite simple, and it goes back to Isthima being the birthplace of Isagoras.

If you'll indulge me a little, I have a few quotes from the (now defunct) interactive Captive Prince map that Tumblr user @hasensalat preserved here. We're told that Isthima "has its own dialect that is different to the Akielon language," but that is still celebrated because of its association with epic poetry. It was also, apparently, an independent city-state for most of its history. That immediately made me think of Ionia, a region on the western coast of Anatolia that maintained cultural and political independence from the Greek world at large for most of its own history (until Rome came a-conquering, but it actually maintained a good deal of independence then too). Now if you know a little about epic poetry, you might know that a certain poet was believed to be from the Ionian city-state of Smyrna—which, at the time, was itself located on an isthmus. That's right, folks! Homer was (supposedly) from Ionia: a region with its own distinct dialect that other Greek cultures celebrated in the context of epic poetry!

(I say supposedly because there's a whole debate about whether or not he ever existed, but the Ancient Greeks thought he did and that's all I need to tackle right now.)

I don't think I really need to justify or explain why Isagoras is our in-universe Homer; every Greek-inspired fantasy has its Homer stand-in, and Captive Prince is no exception. I do, however, want to applaud Pacat for giving Isagoras a similar cultural background to Homer. Little details like that give the world a bit more depth (and further demonstrate to me how much Pacat knows their stuff. Seriously, did they major in classics???)

Additional Information: Smyrna's modern name is İzmir, and it's the third most populous city in Turkey!

Artes

This one is nice and simple, which is good because I've somehow managed to bang out almost 3,000 words of Capri name analysis and my hands are starting to hurt.

I've said before I think Artes is heavily inspired by Rome, and that mainly comes from its influence on Vere. The ruins mentioned at various sites in Vere remind me of the Roman ruins we still have in France, and particularly the ones in Arles… but I digress. So naturally, I'm looking at Artes through a Latin lens (oooh alliteration). In Latin, "artes" is the plural form of the noun "ars," which has a few different translations. The most common are "skill," "craft," "art," "conduct," "character," "strategy" and "science." The last one might seem a little odd to a modern audience, but in the ancient world, science was generally considered an art; if you've ever read the Hippocratic Corpus, in particular the text often translated as "The Art of Medicine," you're probably familiar with that usage. This is also where we get English words like art, artisan, artificial, and artillery.

So at a base level, the name evokes this idea of craftsmanship, knowledge, and art: a sort of ancient ideal for Damen and Laurent to emulate when they combine Vere and Akielos. But I think there's also something neat about the way the many meanings of ars are reflected in Damen/Akielos and Laurent/Vere. Science was considered an art, but that didn't preclude it from being the pursuit of truth; it was its practitioners who labeled it an "ars" in order to legitimize it. And when used in reference to one's character and conduct, it really reminds me of Damen, whose changing views and ideals are central to the story. Not to mention its associations with strategy, in particular Odysseian tricks and wiles, which Laurent excels at. In a way, it's a combination of all the good parts of Damen, Laurent, and the countries they come from. And I think that's cool. So yeah.

Anyway, next time (so probably tomorrow or the day after) I'll finally tackle the cities! Tune on in for Ios, Arles, and Delpha/Delfeur (for real this time. prommy).

<< Part 2

#captive prince #capri #language stuff #greek #latin #dex rambles #capri name analysis

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howlsofbloodhounds · 8 months

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TW:

Biting.

Feral and Animalistic Behavior.

Growling, snarling, biting, etc.

Roughhousing.

Subtle attempts at asserting dominance.

Implied dehumanization.

Mentioned violence.

Mentioned blood and possibility of infection.

Deep loneliness.

Badly translated Arabic.

Implied one sided Color x Delta.

If anyone told Color that he would one day be used as a chew toy for his traumatized, crazed, alternate version of himself, mass murdering best friend; he would’ve called you crazy.

But as luck would have it: he was the crazy one. Because he was currently allowing Stage 3 to chew on his arm like it was a fresh piece of bacon.

It was better than the alternative, of Killer attempting to break Color’s neck with his teeth maybe, but by the stars did it hurt.

“okay, buddy,” with a grimace, Color attempted to shake Killer off his arm. Which was a bad move, because the way Killer’s head snapped towards the skeleton, wide and intense gaze pinned straight on him, was a soul stopping moment.

Color could hear the growl building up in Stage 3’s chest, the ribs rattling, and wasn’t that just swell? Sweat dripped down the skeleton’s forehead.

“look, bud,” Color gulped, attempting to keep his voice steady and to maintain a sense of calm. He knew Stage 3 wouldn’t understand what he saying, but it would understand the emotions. He didn’t know how the crazed being would react to signs of pain or fear, but he knew he shouldn’t stare directly in his friend’s (?) eyes. Animals typically took that sort of thing as a sign of being challenged. “i know you think you’re being nice..”

The responding rumble from the skeleton body latched on his arm seemed to confirm that, and Color couldn’t help but find that a bit sad.

What exactly led this part of his friend into thinking not immediately ripping someone to shreds was being kind, and leaving bite marks in flesh and bone was friendship?

It was a rhetorical question. Color knew who made them like this. Not exactly what, but he could guess. Was it really even a surprise that Killer could hardly function in society? People were either threats, lines of code, or interesting toys to play with his friend’s eyes.

Somehow Color managed to worm his way into being something different. But that didn’t mean he was safe, he was aware of that. He was something new, really.

He just hoped his novelty wouldn’t ware off one day. That maybe that bits of Sans that was left over in Killer had enough care for him to not throw him away once he got boring.

Guilt suddenly overtook Color at that thought. It was a cynical way to view things. He knew Killer was trying, he knew his friend was relearning how to care for or trust others.

The fact Color had gotten as far as he has with Killer, to the point that the multi souled creature would proudly proclaim him a friend, already said a lot.

But it was times like this that Color couldn’t help feeling insignificant; very much like a toy. He knew the higher Stages of his friend’s soul certainly weren’t stable or mentally sane, in a way that was different from Stages 1 and 2. At least they could pretend to keep it together.

But not Stage 3, and probably not 4, either. Definitely not Stage 4, actually. Killer had attempted to hide the existence of that one from Color for a while, and he was clear when he said he didn’t understand Stage 4 in the slightest.

Stage 3 was feral. Or..”crazy,” as One has described it. It didn’t take Color long to realize that 3 didn’t think in complex ways, like he or the lower Stages could.

It saw the world in movements and survival. Non verbal cues, body language, the tone of your voice and facial expressions. The creature was unpredictable; one wrong move could have it attacking whoever moved or looked at it a certain way.

Stage 3 twitched sometimes, uncontrollably. When it was excited or nervous, mostly. Those could pretty unnerving to see.

Its movements were very much like a predator, graceful and adaptive, yet it was clear that it was ready to attack at any moment. Look it in the eyes or smile a certain way, and it’ll be on you before you could even blink.

This even applied to..”friendship.” Color couldn’t really say if the feral animal living inside his friend’s broken body knew what friends were, but Stage 3 was the definition of love bites and roughhousing (if leaving teeth marks and bruises during play times counted as that.) Perhaps a better word would probably be more animalistic, like a pack mate.

Or a pup that 3 had to care for. Or a sheep it had to herd, maybe even a resource that needed guarding. Territory.

Color couldn’t say, and Stage 3 couldn’t tell. Out of all the Stages, navigating this one’s world was the most confusing.

“..but, that hurts.” Color reached out, cautiously placing a skeletal hand on his friend’s skull. He hissed when Killer instinctively clamped his teeth down harder, thanking whatever Gods existed that he didn’t hear a bone snap. Stage 3 was tense, shaking with what seemed like excitement (or maybe it was fear? Fear of the unknown?), yet it wasn’t growling and going for the neck yet. “not everyone can endure what you can.”

Slowly, slow enough that the feral thing could stop him if it wanted to, Color began to lightly scratch along the top of its skull. Killer was quiet and unnaturally still, staring with those dark, huge eye sockets at Color. The flame head attempted to avoid staring back, suddenly aware of how awkward it is to be giving your grown adult best friend head scratches.

He couldn’t help but wonder if this was how he was going to die. Killer had warned Color against Stage 3 for a reason, after all. Had even advised using extreme methods such as killing him, putting Killer down as if he was a rabid dog, if that meant Color lived.

Killer wasn’t the type to exaggerate the danger, not while in Stage 1. Stage 2 was all about the flair and the dramatics, pretending he cared about anything more than he actually did. Emotionally fake, in any way that actually mattered. Everything about 2’s acts was..unreal, like watching an alien putting on its human skin and play acting.

(Color couldn’t hold that against him. There was no winning in his situation. Mask and be seen as a creep, don’t mask, and be seen as an emotionless husk that was still a creep.)

Stage 3 was a threat. It can, has, and will brutally kill. Anything resembling friends and allies were temporary things in its world. The only luxury is that it won’t bother to draw out the death. It doesn’t want pain, it wants you out of its way. Away from it.

Color’s soul felt tight, conflicting thoughts pulling him in different directions. Perseverance urged him to cease any potentially life threatening actions immediately, but kindness and patience insisted in giving this a chance.

Bravery suggested taking a bolder action. Maybe Stage 3 would react better if Color could show that he was stronger?

Justice reared its head in disgust at the thought. Hadn’t Killer had enough people forcing dominance over him?

Judging by the way Color still hadn’t pulled away, his fingers even bravely making their way down and underneath Killer’s chin, the decision had already been made. A unanimous one, once Color carefully went over every perspective.

Sudden movements would only scare Stage 3 off, or provoke its temper. Color didn’t want to hurt Killer, even if said friend was currently chomping down on his bones like a tasty meal. Especially when this was just 3’s atypical way of showing affection, despite how bad it hurt.

With a gentle hand, Color was sure he could show Stage 3 a way of love that didn’t have to hurt.

“it’s alright, جرو.” He muttered lowly, watching the way Killer’s body shook in its fear and confusion. It still wasn’t attacking, despite it all. Trust was there. The hold on his arm was present, but certainly not as hard as it was before. “i won’t hurt you. أنت آمن مع—“

Color’s words were cut off by Killer suddenly lurching away from him, and Color leaned back when the skeleton bared his teeth at him. Dark ink slid down the porcelain white face, staining the teeth, and the soul was barely anything resembling a shape. More red than white.

Color tensed, his breath catching, as he stared back; his eye socket blown wide and the eye light a mere pinpoint. Despite his fear, the flames burned a fierce orange, as he stood his ground; raising his chin up at the animal and narrowing his eye.

It wasn’t a challenge, but there was no way he would allow the fear and surprise to show. And he needed Stage 3 to see that he wasn’t going to be pushed around.

The two stared, one attempting to maintain eye contact while the other stared intently at the space between eye sockets. It was quiet, not a sound beside the rumble of the air conditioner in Color’s run down, crappy apartment.

3 suddenly let out what sounded like a chuff, snapping his teeth at Color. Before the cracked skull skeleton could even react to that, Killer was on his feet and rushing out of Color’s bedroom; in what could only be described as his tail between his legs.

Color watched his friend run away in quiet astonishment, slumping against his bed pillows. He knew where the animal was likely running off to; Nightmare. Or to be more accurate, the dark, warm, and quiet closet in Killer’s bedroom.

Which meant Color likely wouldn’t be seeing Killer for another few days. A few weeks, if Nightmare keeps him busy.

Disappointment was a knife in Color’s soul, that ever aching loneliness already making itself known; an empty cavern in his being that he could never seem to keep filled.

Blood dripping on to his shorts demanded his attention, and Color glanced over at his arm. The bite was in a perfect shape of Killer’s teeth, covered in salvia. An infection was likely, if Color didn’t heal it.

Color didn’t want to. He wanted someone else to heal him for once, to feel the warmth of healing magic and intent washing over him. Battling off darkness and bone deep loneliness.

But Killer just ran away. Dream and Ccino were likely busy with their duties, Epic was likely spending the day with Cross. Gaster was still in the Void. Core Frisk..he didn’t want to have to rely on them. They were just a kid, they’d probably freak out if they saw the injury.

..It might reflect badly on Killer. And his chances on getting into the Omega Timeline, once Color managed to help him leave Nightmare.

Which left Delta. Color was overdue in giving his ex roommate the souvenirs he got for him, anyway. With his uninjured arm, Color reached over to grab his phone from the nightstand; immediately pulling up his most recent contacts.

As soon as he caught sight of the profile picture, of Delta’s brazen smile, Color couldn’t help but consider if things had been different. If he had decided to give up on Killer like everyone seemed to want him to, stayed in the Omega Timeline with Delta and tried to live a normal life.

The thought of it caused his non existent stomach to churn. He wasn’t built for staying in one spot. He couldn’t give up on Killer. He knew it was dangerous, possibly even impossible. Maybe it was even pathetic to be chasing after someone as unstable and danger prone as Killer.

Everyone kept insisting the same thing, over and over. He can’t change.

But Color couldn’t believe that, not for a second. Not when he’s seen the way Killer crashes and breaks after each mission. Not when he’s seen the man come apart at the seams over the injuries of a beloved pet, blaming himself for every single thing that goes wrong.

Not when Killer looks at him in that way. Scared, but hopeful. Trusting. Admiring and loving. He can’t be the reason why such a look no longer grazes that face. The reason why his hope up and shatters and flies away in the wind. He won’t be.

But it’s nice to have support, whenever Color is the one left in shambles. He’s grateful for Delta, truly. But he can’t give the man what he wants. He’s just glad that Delta seems to understand that.

Without allowing himself to ponder much more on it, he quickly presses down on that green call button. He’s silent as the rings fill the air, the sounds breaking through the silence in such a way that Color has to resist the immediate urge to hang up. Grating on his non existent ears.

The rings seem to go on for such a long time that Color finds himself holding his breath once again, wondering if perhaps this is the point where Delta finally leaves. Or maybe his friend was busy, and Color will once again have to patch himself up.

Then the soft, welcoming click of a phone call being answered fills the room, and Color heaves a sigh of relief. He can’t stop smiling when he says,

“hey, de. you have a moment?”

—

I had to use Google Translate for the Arabic bits, so it probably isn’t accurate, but here’s what they’re supposed to mean:

‎الجرو = Supposed to mean pup. But translates to puppy.

‎. أنت آمن مع = “You are safe with—.” Supposed to be “you are safe with me,” if he wasn’t cut off.

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smaptain-smerica · 1 year

Text

Female Reader x Rooster

Time: Post-Top gun: Maverick

Y/n Blackwood - L/n, daughter of Charlotte "Charlie" Blackwood. Y/n took a strong interest in planes from a young age. Knowing her father was an esteemed pilot drew her even further into the navy. Quickly, she became one of the best solo pilots and graduating at the top of her class at Top Gun.

Her next mission? Return to Top Gun, Face certain death, romantic interests, and finally, her thought-to-be-dead, father.

This book contains strong language and sexual content that may be sensitive readers under the age of 18

This story was originally posted on Wattpad, follow me on there for faster updates. I have published a non-binary version of this story published there for those who do not identify as female or use she/her pronouns. It will follow the exact same story line. Link to Wattpad Account Link to the Non-Binary version

Master list

Our House

I stood near the doorway as Bradley and Jake stalked confidently into the depths of the bar. This was one of the only times I had seen them get along, seen them willing to work together.

My heart raced with anger and anxiety. I didn't want to have to face my student again, I was angry he thought he could get away with it but being in his presence still brought back that small amount of fear that I felt.

I circled the bar in order to get close enough to hear what the two men were saying. Bradley had hung back to talk to Penny. I assumed he was telling her what happened by the way she glared at my former student.

On the other hand, Jake had made himself comfortable behind the bar, strolling in like he owned the place. His arms collided with the table causing the whole bar top to shake. I watched as Ghost lifted his head to look into the eyes of his teacher.

"Hey there Ghost." Jake said casually as he gripped ghosts beer glass in his hand, sliding it over to himself and taking a drink from it. Ghosts face turned sour with disgust and distaste.

"Lieutenant Commander." Ghost grumbled.

Somehow Jake seemed to lean further into the table, a smirk growing on his face. "Oh man," Jake sucked his teeth. "That sure is a nice shiner you got there. What happened?"

Ghost had seemed to make the connection as to why Jake was choosing to pick on him. He straightened in his seat and squared off his shoulders, glaring daggers into Jakes eyes.

"None of your fucking business." Ghost growled.

Jakes eyebrows widened upward. "Woah! That's no way to talk to your commander." Jake paused, slinking closer to to Ghost over the bar top. "Of course, that's if you were still part of the program. From what I hear, sounds like you're not anymore."

Ghost shot up, the bar stool from underneath him scooting dramatically across the hardwood. Jake straightened his shoulders back and narrowed his gaze. I had never seen Jake look so angry, so intimidating.

Ghost clenched his fists, looking like he was about to connect with Jakes jaw when he suddenly calmed, stretching his fingers back out. "Come on, Jake." Ghosts voice lightened, as though he was trying to convince a friend to make a decision. "I've seen how she is around you. Hell, I thought she was dating to you because of it. She plays around with guys like us' feelings. How was I supposed to know any different?"

I felt my heart tug downward hearing those words. For some reason, I considered whether or not I had done that to Jake, given our conversation we had in the last few weeks. I did have love for Jake but not in that way.

"You we're supposed to know different because your parents should have taught you better." Bradley's voice was now added to the mix. He stood behind Ghost with his arms cross and eyes narrowed. They were nearly the same height, but Bradley had a lot more bulky muscle than Ghost did, making him look bigger than the other male.

"Don't say shit about my family." Ghost growled while trying to size up to Bradley. Ultimately, he failed because Bradley uncrossed his arms and squared away his shoulders. "But you get to say shit about mine?" Bradley nearly growled, I could see the anger growing in him.

Ghost finally looked Bradley up and down, a huff of realization escaping his lips. "So you're the boyfriend, huh?"

"Yeah, I'm the boyfriend."

I smiled a little to myself. I had never heard us use labels before. Truthfully at this age it wasn't as important to me but hearing him say those words made my heart lift. Watching him defend and protect me made me feel safe, seen, and special.

Jake had joined Bradley's side now, that signature Seresin smirk plastered across his face. "You know," he interrupted. "You've managed to disrespect a lady in the last 5 minutes, and the Navy in the last 5 hours." Jake smirked at the confusion on the younger males face then looked behind them towards the bar.

"Do it Penny." Penny was behind the bar, hand on the rope of the bell with a smirk on her face. She swung her arm back and forward, giving it a good and loud ring, which made the bar erupt in cheers.

"What's that, what does that mean?" Ghost asked. "It means you buy a round of drinks for everyone in the bar." Bradley said cooly.

"And we get to kick you out now." Jake countered Bradley's calmness with venom coming from his tone of voice.

I watched them lift ghost up off the ground. My former student thrashed about to try and break loose but ultimately gave up before he was thrown out onto the sand. "Good riddance, dickhead!" Jake shouted before entering back into the bar.

"Don't come back!" Bradley added before turning on heel back into the bar. The room cheered as they made their way back over to me. The crowd at the bar had no idea the context behind it, they just enjoyed seeing someone get kicked out, but it was nice to hear the cheering. Whether it was for me or not.

I hugged Bradley first. A tight and grateful hug that hopefully expressed the appreciation I was feeling towards him. "Thank you." I whispered in his ear. He responded by giving me a tight squeeze.

"Of course, sweetheart."

When I separated from my hug from Bradley, Jakes hands clasped my shoulders and he gave them a gentle squeeze. "We've got your back, Wolf."

I smiled at Jake gratefully and gave his hand that was resting on my shoulder a pat.

"Come on, let's get drunk." Bradley encouraged me, pushing me towards the bar for a night of drinking and karaoke.

To tell the truth, I had significantly more to drink than Bradley had. His arm was looped around me and supporting my weight. Was it a bluff so he could half carry me into the house? Partially.

He shut and locked the front door behind us, hardly having time to turn around before I had pulled him into a loving kiss. I missed him so much while he was gone, it was almost scary.

Our kissing walked us into the bedroom where I was pushed down onto the soft mattress and he slowly crawled on top of me. The kissing was soft and sweet, the slight tang of beer lingered on his lips.

"I was thinking," Bradley mumbled in between kisses.

"That's dangerous." I quipped back.

"Hey now," Bradley warned as he propped up on his elbows to look down at me. He brushed strands of my hair away from me face and smiled as he did so. The world around me started to spin with every slow blink that I took. I was going to regret the hangover tomorrow.

"Why don't we go look at a couple houses tomorrow?" Bradley suggested.

"But I already live here!" My drunken mind protested.

"This is my house, sweetheart. I thought you wanted your own house." Bradley chuckled gently as he kept stroking my head.

"Why can't it be our house?" This was a thought I was considering for a while now. Truthfully I thought I would hate living with another person. And at first I did, but that time I spent away from Bradley made me realize that with him, it's better. Every day will always be better with him.

"You want to live with me?" He asked quietly, almost astonished I was asking.

"What have I been doing here? I tried to offer you rent but you refused!" I shouted playfully, which caused us to Break out into laughter.

When our eyes met after, I saw my entire future. Waking up and going to sleep looking at those brown eyes with flecks of green. I sometimes wondered if our kid would have those eyes. I don't know if it was the liquid courage or my own that led me to what I said next.

"I think I want to marry you."

Bradley just sat there completely still, not saying anything. I felt my heart begin to beat with anxiety. Was that the wrong thing to say? Did he not think the same?

But then he smiled. A slow, crawling smile that turned into a wide and bright one. "Really?" He asked in a voice that was hardly a whisper.

I nodded as an answer. Bradley's hands traveled to each side of my face, the look of joy never leaving his face as his eyes moved over every inch of my face. "I've known from the moment I met you I wanted to marry you."

My emotions got the better of me as I brought my head up to kiss Bradley. His hands held my head as he reciprocated the kiss with just as much passion. The kissing went on for only a few more moments before he pulled away and looked back down at me.

"I love you." He said.

"I love you too." I responded with as much eagerness and enthusiasm as him.

"Come on let's get to bed." Bradley patted the comforter before propping himself up on his arms. I quickly grabbed the collar of his shirt and brought his body back down on top of mine.

"Can we do something else first?" I asked, a mischievous smirk on my face.

A smirk of his own crept across his face, shifting his mustache. He sat up above me and practically tore off his shirt.

"Alright, sex, then bed."

Next Chapter in Progress

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plumsaffron · 9 days

Note

Yooo, lemme keep cooking! I will not hold back at all for this one time! If anyone’s sensitive to vulgar language here, click away! (not counting the fandom side that doesn’t indulge in bashing!)

Why did they fail the IQ tests? Because they didn't study or do their research!

Are you people conspiracy theorists? Cuz y’all have shit evidence and arguments!

Y'all brought this upon yourselves since you couldn't let go your intense hatred of Lila and even several innocent characters who didn’t do anything wrong!

Hold on, why are some of y'all hating Alya? She's actually a good person/friend with some flaws! Are you secretly racist because you keep on portraying her as an angry black woman in your saltfics?

Y’all are the main reason why fanfic crossovers on Wattpad and AO3 either hardly get attention (non bashing) or indulges in (hyper)attentive unhealthy bloodsports (bashing) these days.

I bet the DC, Marvel and other western fiction media folk were wondering why there’s an influx of crossovers in their tumblr and social media feeds. Until they rightfully gave y’all the side eye for making nonsensical shit! No wonder the dark canon content fandoms are more mature than the wholesome canon content fandoms!

The Mari///bat community deadass makes the DP X DC community look good as a whole. Because at least the latter made sense with their dark edgy plots and toned down (actually light bashing compared to that ship) or didn’t do their bashing of certain controversial characters and just wanted to make a well-written AU. And y’all are also giving crossover ships a bad name/reputation!

Well, I’m glad some artists/writers and online groups don’t like your show and refuse to do your commissions/requests! Because they don’t want to get caught up in your bullshit!

If the show didn’t exist at all or had a different canon creator doing things right: 😊

The song that came up in my head is Pink Guy - STFU. For some reason the link share doesn’t work so just copy paste this: https://youtube.com/watch?v=xS3vpBCiL2c

Got some very insulting names here!: miracucunts, miracubitches, miracutards, miracutwats, miracutwits, miracuidiots, miracudumbasses, miracuplague, miracuvirus, miracubozos, miracuhoes, miracuwhores

They probably are when it comes to Alya Cesaire

or mastered the ability of granting their selves, a massive dosage of Miracancer because she didn’t react the way they wanted her to upon their and or Marinette’s behalf or the best drone friend they want her to be. They also forget that Alya hasn’t been Marinette’s friend for that long (it’s been less than a year). They are highly allergic to Alya not feeling like she should remember or care as they or Marinette does. Oh the most offensive thought of all time, which is Alya has a life outside of Marinette. Accept if one doesn’t help or supports Marinette’s cause must be 100% when wanted or they’re awful. Seeing differently of things against Marinette’s interest is abominable (even if Marinette’s obsession is concerning and her health is uh something and she’s making things worse for herself).

It’s probably one of the reasons they battle cry Marinette should have told Alya of the bathroom scene because it would change everything in their mind while ignoring any possibly of it backfiring considering Marinette’s track record and thirst and Alya annoyed earlier of her crap.

Heck episodes in general show how things be backfiring. These Miracuskanks can see all of that all the time but somehow couldn’t bother seeing other routes Alya could also choose that may also work against their favor. I guess they only adore quick fixes (until it backfires).

Those Miracrystal Meth theorists… make me groan usually.

Lila Foamers Logic be like:

Destroy Lila and Everyone That Doesn’t Fulfill our or Marinette’s interests against her. Let's rally up against them.

NOOOOO Lila is not staying in the in the dirt (like other characters we somehow like or ignore seeing in the dirt continously)

NOOOOO She rebounded (despite previous episode existing).

Let me think absolutely the worst of things to become canon because it’s our duty to yearn to put her down what we can’t handle or fathom her by any means, while not accounting for we just doomed basically many characters in a nutshell and made things worse (especially for those that we feel or are aware messed up crap was done to them). I have nothing else better by cause destruction and give miracuwankers free purposeless reasons to rage more than before at characters that just had a different perspectives and innocent characters. If these fools think this is to ensure this idea of she’s worse than Gabriel and Mayura and Tomoe then lol cause they just gave a free add on to make Nathalie and Gabriel and I guess Tomoe worse than before and achieved zilch.

All to ensure a main protagonist is inherently right to not let go of Lila (or anyone like her in the future or Marinette assigns as like such), just like the viewers that absorb and transcend the accursed mantra that, in their face, has been shown causing problems that could have been avoided and kept to their own selves? Whoops they can’t see their own selves being affected but even if they do, they would still destroy themselves and spreading their pollination around. This twisted quench of self righteousness also implies Marinette’s accursed ways against Kagami are inherently justified as Kagami was assigned as Marinette’s 2nd Lila. And whoever else but I rambled too long to go further. Oh when losers hate what happens but some reason seeks even worse.

Miracuroaches surely should https://youtube.com/watch?v=xS3vpBCiL2c

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forasecondtherewedwon · 3 months

Text

The Ladies Whistledown - chapter nine

Pairing: Eloise Bridgerton x Penelope Featherington Rating: T Chapter: 9 / ? Word Count: 3100

“I believe,” Eloise said, tapping her chin, “that we have reached the boundary of our knowledge. We cannot take another step. The ground will fall out from beneath us.”

She was pacing her bedchamber at Aubrey Hall. Penelope, who had been reading a book in the window seat, looked up at her with a laugh.

“What on earth do you mean?”

“We need to learn. Somehow…”

Penelope closed her book, finger stuck between the pages. Eloise glanced at her friend long enough to see the bemused smile on her face.

“We learn with every issue of Whistledown,” Penelope pointed out. “We gather information via observation and intuition. We report it to our readers. This is rather the essential function of a gossip sheet.”

“But we need to understand what it’s all for.” Eloise chewed at the side of her thumb in frustration.

“We have been trying. Though we will change nothing overnight, I have certainly heard disgruntled young ladies discussing why it is they who must work so very hard to catch a husband rather than the inverse.”

“Not that!”

Eloise ceased pacing and confronted Penelope, who looked fairly alarmed by her vehemence. Dash it, Eloise knew she needed to say more, but she never did know just what to say when it came to this particular topic. This was precisely the problem!

“We need,” Eloise said, dropping her voice to something more conspiratorial, “to expand our knowledge of marital relations.”

Penelope was quite wonderful, she thought; Pen did not gasp or shriek or cover her ears and hum a jaunty tune over the sound of Eloise’s words. Instead, she looked rather interested. Eloise grinned at her. Even after the steps they had already taken together, there was still something thrilling about gaining the approval of the original and incomparable Lady Whistledown. Eloise was seized by a keen urge to take Pen’s hand and bow low over it, skimming the knuckles with her lips, or something equally chivalrous, something suitably stalwart that would demonstrate her faithfulness. She did reach for Pen’s hand, and Pen lifted it readily in offering. Eloise clasped it in her own and squeezed. Penelope’s lovely blue eyes sparkled.

Abruptly, Eloise became conscious that they were discussing (what she had gathered were) improper matters in her bedchamber. Of course, this was not so dire as it was Penelope with whom she discussed them, not some suitor—not a gentleman. Horrid. No. The surge of excitement Eloise felt was merely due to the inscrutably taboo subject; it was like the time she had gone to Bloomsbury and attended a gathering on the topic of equal rights for women. Yes, she thought, staring rather dazedly at those blue, blue eyes, it was just like that other time. Trusted, like-minded women… with a common interest…

She blinked. She was not quite sure how long she had stared, but Pen was not looking at her. She was thoughtfully batting her closed book against her knee.

“Perhaps we ought to begin by not thinking of them as marital relations. Recall Marina.”

Pen appeared pained as she said it, and Eloise winced sympathetically. She knew Penelope did recall Marina, often. Eloise herself had made that particular Whistledown announcement impossible for Penelope to forget, chastising her in the harshest language, at the top of her voice, for her treatment of Marina and Colin both in that dreadful affair.

“Of course,” Eloise acknowledged. “Not married. Well then. Simply… relations?”

“I suppose so.”

“Benedict said they are at the heart of every scandal. He had no doubt that relations were familiar territory to Lady Whistledown.”

“From context alone, we can make certain inferences,” Penelope said.

“Yes.”

“Kissing is part of it.”

“Kissing, certainly,” Eloise agreed, nodding vigorously. “Kissing would not be so catastrophically forbidden if not for its relation to… relations.”

“There is kissing,” Penelope summarized, “and there is being with child, and relations are somewhere between the two.”

“And sometimes mean marriage, but not necessarily.”

“And when they do mean marriage, they are interpreted as a duty, as Benedict said.”

“Oh, damn and blast my brother for hoarding his knowledge! And for being so superior about it!” she added.

She violently shoved the window up higher in its casing and began to scout about for her cigarettes. She had stowed them in convenient hiding places, rotating the spot out of fear of discovery. Once she had one tucked into the corner of her mouth, Eloise struck a match and lit the end. Penelope shifted to face her as Eloise leaned her elbows on the windowsill. She drew in the smoke, then sighed it back out, telling Penelope, “If my mother comes in here and inquires about the smell, we shall say it was a candle.”

“The scent is not the same,” Penelope said, but by her tone, it was not a reprimand.

Eloise looked at her. Pen stared back. Plucking the cigarette from her lips, Eloise held it out in offering.

“Would you like to try?”

“It is not ladylike.”

“I do not believe that was my question,” Eloise said with a teasing smile.

Tentatively, Penelope set down her book and took the cigarette. She brought it to her own lips. Eloise watched her—watched her pull the smoke in. But then Pen was coughing like mad and Eloise had to take her cigarette back before Pen swung it into the curtains and set them ablaze.

“I do not,” Pen wheezed, “care for it.”

“Pen, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. God.”

Eloise flapped a hand to join Penelope’s efforts to wave the smoke away from her face. Soon, they were laughing together—one of them through the end of a coughing fit.

“I am glad,” Penelope began, still sounding a bit hoarse, “Lady Whistledown does not need to be knowledgeable about smoking.”

Eloise was about to agree when Penelope’s words of relief revealed something else to her, quite by accident. What Pen implied, perhaps without realizing she did, was that Whistledown learned through experience. This made sense when Eloise considered it; Penelope had never waited for gossip to find her in her bedchamber at Featherington House—she had gone in search of it, listening, participating. Even as a wallflower, Pen had still been in the ballroom, willing to dance a reel or two in between bouts of eavesdropping.

She looked at her best friend and thought of the cigarette perched on Penelope’s bottom lip and did not know what to say. Relations, they had concurred, had something to do with kissing.

Eloise decided this would require more thought.

—

Despite the fog which continued to shroud relations from the girls, they now had the distinct goal of seeing Prudence and Cressida wed. Happily wed would be ideal, Eloise knew, but while both Lady Whistledown’s targets were marriage-minded young ladies, neither inspired an overflow of sympathy from Eloise. Prudence was too bad to Penelope, and Cressida was bad to pretty well everyone. If Lady Whistledown’s interference could find matches for the sour one who mourned her deceitful former fiancé and the bitter one who would probably treat a husband after the fashion of the praying mantis, then that was plenty, to Eloise’s mind. Then they would have done quite a bit.

Unfortunately, it was excruciatingly difficult to hitch up young ladies and respectable gentlemen out of season. It went practically against nature, Eloise supposed; when did the other animals find their partners? Spring-ish? The ton seemed to have based its movements on the world of the pig and the peacock. In spring would society’s feathered young ladies emerge in the parks, in the halls of the galleries. In spring would society’s hopeful suitors begin the rituals of calling cards and sent flowers. Eloise considered that convention, as always, was of the greatest annoyance—nearly unbearable.

And they could not even write!

With all the families of the ton busy doing very little at their family seats and on sprawling, indefinite trips to the seaside, putting out an edition of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers was perfectly impossible. Since Philippa’s little party, there were never enough people together in one place for Whistledown to possibly publish comment upon the occasion. Eloise and Pen would expose themselves at once. How dreadfully naked it felt to be the only sensible voice at a dinner table, the only cross-talking girl on the croquet field, the only possible suspect—if it ever came to that—for Lady Whistledown.

“We do not stop observing,” Penelope advised, regardless.

It would all come in quite handy, she stressed, over the coming months. Little hints of things now might resolve themselves into actions of consequence later. Marriage was not spontaneous. Courtships did not begin nowhere. Relations—perplexing!—might start before ever the first kiss was pressed to a lover’s cheek. There was flirtation and dropped handkerchiefs, and Eloise despised it all. She had decided. It wellnigh sickened her to witness the romantic pantomime during the season; she certainly could not be expected to watch and endure it the rest of the year as well.

Making it ever so much harder to spy with any interest was the fact of Penelope’s nearing departure. Eloise grumbled about the unlikelihood of staying the course without Pen’s guiding hand—and pen.

“I will not be so far,” Pen reminded her, giving Eloise’s chin an affectionate pinch.

Eloise grasped the hand and pressed it to her cheek, though what she really wanted to do was kiss the palm. She felt dismal and peevish and did not want Pen to go. She despised any reminder that they were not truly family; they had always moved about in each other’s gardens and houses and lives as though they were.

She never usually felt quite this unsettled by members of her actual family taking their leave. Of course, it was wrenching to lose Francesca to Bath, Colin to his travels, and Daphne to her duke—the difference was that, on parting, none of them would miss Eloise as she would miss them, and so she missed them less in consequence. They were always going to interesting places or doing interesting things, or, if neither of those, then to submerge themselves in the impenetrable bliss of married life, for which Eloise simply had no interest or evident aptitude, from what her life as a debutante had thus far suggested. Unlike Colin’s grand and grander tour and Anthony’s honeymoon with the charming Kate, Penelope went to her mother and elder sister. And from there, nowhere. To do nothing. She and Eloise watched as Penelope’s things were packed, hating the impending separation.

“No,” Eloise said, “not so far.”

“We will write,” Pen pressed with aggressive cheerfulness.

“I have had my fill of writing these past weeks. I want to talk.”

“We have hardly spoken all the morning,” Pen reminded her. She took Eloise’s hand and dragged her, shuffling disconsolately, from the bedchamber. “You have been too gloomy for conversation.”

“One need not speak when one has every assurance of being perfectly understood.”

“I do understand you.” Penelope sighed heavily. “It is not my preference to leave.”

“Then must you?” Eloise whined.

Penelope laughed at her.

“Yes.” In the hallway, she turned and clasped both Eloise’s hands in hers. “You would grow tired of me.”

Eloise leaned forward, scowling, and touched her forehead to Penelope’s.

“I would not.”

They regarded one another, too close. After a few moments, Eloise’s gaze drifted downward to Pen’s mouth. She felt her scowl softening. Her heart inflated, its beat seeming to reverberate inside her like the sound of a struck drum. In a panic, she dropped her friend’s hands and swung away from her.

“But perhaps you would tire of me. I am too gloomy, as you say.” She offered Penelope a small smile. “You had better take your leave of the lot of us.”

Pen reached out and, with a sigh, Eloise took her hand.

“Not with pleasure,” Pen said.

“No. Not with pleasure.”

But she did go, in the end. Eloise sulked all day long. She selected a book from the library, though none amused her, and walked the grounds in search of a spot to read it, though none appealed. Her family were all wrong too, because not Pen-like. She felt how fortunate she had been to find a best friend right across the street from their home in Mayfair. Penelope was so superior to everyone else Eloise knew, truly the perfect companion. When they fought, the worst disagreement did not last, and when they got along, it was better than being with anyone else, anywhere.

Her mother must have noticed the shift in Eloise’s mood; she sought her out in the drawing room the following day. By this time, Eloise had warmed just enough to the other people she loved to be able to tolerate doing nothing near Francesca, while she trilled away on the pianoforte—an improvement from doing nothing near no one.

“Eloise, dearest. Sit up, would you?”

Eloise had fairly melted into the chaise over the better part of an hour, and it was a trial to pull in her sprawled limbs and force herself up to a sitting position. She managed it for her mother, then looked at her with an expression of dull inquiry.

Her mother stared back expectantly.

“There is nothing to do,” Eloise blurted.

Her mother smiled broadly and declared, “Nonsense!”

“I have read all the books—”

“I do not believe that is true.”

“—and nothing else holds my attention.”

“Perhaps you might entertain Hyacinth and Gregory awhile,” her mother suggested. “Games on the lawn, hmm? Some fresh air?”

“I am fairly choked by fresh air,” Eloise complained. “And I have had too much sun already.” With a calculating glance towards her mother, she added, “I will be as weathered as a farmer and you will never get me married.”

To her amazement, her mother laughed richly.

“You are being perfectly ridiculous. Besides, you know it is not my wish to get you married. I simply seek your best happiness. Have I ever encouraged you to take a husband for a husband’s sake?”

Eloise would not answer. She had made up her mind to be cross. She was aware the topic of marriage had been raised by herself, but she did not want to think of it. She wanted Penelope. It was likely that she really had had too much sun; she felt as ill-tempered as a child, and she could not seem to master herself sufficiently to stop it.

She sat in silence. Her mother reached over and touched her hair with a gentle hand.

“Dear Penelope brings a special brightness to this house,” her mother said. “So do each of you. My children.”

“We are nearly all grown,” Eloise protested.

Her mother shook her head, wearing a far-off smile.

“Not here, my dear. Here, you will always be young.” She glanced away. “Francesca, darling. Join us?”

Mozart was silenced, and moments later, Francesca came to sit on their mother’s other side. Their mother drew both girls in. Eloise was surprised by herself as she allowed herself to be held around the shoulders, pressed close to her mother’s side. It did feel like childhood. She looked across and locked eyes with Fran.

“Our time here, in this house, is so precious,” their mother said.

“I wish it would not change,” Francesca said quietly.

“What do you mean, dearest?”

When Fran would not elaborate, Eloise did so for her, and was not that just like childhood too?

“Daphne has gone,” she said. “Anthony is here but not here. Who is to be next? How are we ever to be—”

“Whole,” Francesca finished. Though her voice was quiet, it was sure. “Or settled, at least. Constant.”

“I do not desire things to be unchanging,” Eloise protested. “I only… or maybe I do…”

She was squeezed, muddled, tighter to her mother’s side.

“You are growing up,” their mother said. “You both are. It is not without difficulty, and even pain.”

Eloise waited for her to continue, and when she did not, Eloise frowned.

“You are meant to say something cheering next,” she prompted.

“Am I?” Their mother smiled fondly at her. “Well, I suppose the comfort is in the fact that you may come to me. I will try to ease your difficulties, and nurse your pain. I will say you are my children and Aubrey Hall is where some part of you might be children forever.”

“If the prospect of marriage seemed half so comfortable, I might consider it,” Eloise said.

“I should not want that,” Fran said. “I should not want my husband to know me as my family knows me. It is not… neat.”

“Hang neat! To be known is all!” Eloise argued, sitting up slightly straighter and gesturing emphatically. “I want to be seen as nothing less than what I am—all of what I am. I do not want someone who speaks around or for me, assuming my thoughts and wants and needs. I require honesty.”

“I certainly do not want dishonesty,” Francesca said, clearly striving to be understood.

“No, but you may get it inadvertently if you do not go in for honesty completely!”

“Girls,” their mother said softly, attempting to soothe them, but Eloise had not finished.

“I must be what I am or else… suffocate!” She thumped a cushion.

“I should never want anything less for you,” their mother assured her. She turned to Fran. “For either of you. My own experience—”

Perhaps she would have told them a story they had heard before but would have been heartened by nonetheless. She did not have the chance, however, because Colin strode into the drawing room in a state.

“Colin!” their mother exclaimed. “I thought…? You were on a hunt today, dearest, has something happened?”

“What’s the matter?” Eloise asked, nearly at the same time.

And Francesca: “What is it, Colin?”

“Forgive me,” Colin said vaguely. “I am terribly sorry to rush in on you all. Only…” He took a breath and his focus sharpened. “I apologize. I have some rather shocking news concerning a person of our acquaintance."

"Goodness me,” their mother muttered, pressing a hand to her stomach and going rather pale. “I do hope no one has been hurt?”

“Not hurt. The man is dead.”

“But, Colin, what man?” Eloise demanded. She was on her feet, though she could not recall rising.

She could not read all of the emotions which played across her brother’s face as he looked her in the eye and replied, “Marina’s husband. Sir Phillip Crane.”

#my writing #The Ladies Whistledown #Bridgerton #Bridgerton fic #peneloise #Penelope Featherington #Eloise Bridgerton #Penelope x Eloise #Violet Bridgerton #Francesca Bridgerton #Colin Bridgerton #peneloise fic

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